The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  'From his own! From Count Brass's lips.'

  'Drunken fool! Count Brass is dead. You said as much yourself.'

  'Aye—but his ghost has returned to the Kamarg. Riding upon the back of his great horned horse in all his armour of gleaming brass, with his hair and his moustache all red as brass and his eyes like burnished brass. He is out there, treacherous Hawkmoon, in the marsh. He haunts you. And those who meet him are told of your treachery, how you deserted him when his enemies beset him, how you let him die in Londra.'

  'It is a lie!' shouted Yisselda. 'I was there. I fought at Londra. Nothing could save my father.'

  'And,' continued Czernik, his voice deepening but still loud, 'I heard from Count Brass how you joined with your lover to deceive him.'

  'Oh!' Yisselda clapped her hands to her ears. This is obscene! Obscene!'

  'Be silent now, Czernik,' warned Hawkmoon hollowly. 'Still your tongue, for you go too far!'

  'He awaits you in the marshes. He will take his vengeance upon you out there at night when next you travel beyond the walls of Aigues-Mortes—if you dare. And his ghost is still more of a hero, more of a man than are you, turncoat. Aye—turncoat you be. First you served Koln, then you served the Empire, then you turned against the Empire, then you aided the Empire in its plot against Count Brass, then once again you betrayed the Empire. Your history speaks for the truth of what I say. I am not mad. I am not drunk. There are others who have seen and heard what I have seen and heard.'

  "Then you have been deceived,' said Yisselda firmly.

  'It is you who have been deceived, my lady!' Czernik growled.

  And then the stewards came forward again and Hawkmoon did not try to stop them as they dragged the old man from the amphitheatre.

  The rest of the proceedings did not go well, after that. Hawkmoon's guests were too embarrassed to comment on the incident and the crowd's interest was not on the bulls or the toreadors who leaped so skilfully the ring, plucking the ribbons from the horns.

  A banquet followed at Castle Brass. To the banquet had been invited all the local dignitaries of the Kamarg, as well as the ambassadors, and it was noticeable that four or five of the local people had not come. Hawkmoon ate little and drank more than was normal for him. He tried hard to rid himself of the gloomy mood into which Czernik's peculiar declarations had put him, but he found it difficult to smile even when his own children came down to greet him and be introduced to his guests. Every sentence he spoke required an effort and there was no flow of conversation, even among the guests. Many of the ambassadors made excuses and went early to their beds. And soon only Hawkmoon and Yisselda were left in the banqueting hall, still seatedin their places at the head of the table, watching the servants clear away the remains of the meal.

  'What could he have seen?' said Yisselda as, at last, the servants, too, left. 'What could he have heard, Dorian?'

  Hawkmoon shrugged. 'He told us. Your father's ghost . . .'

  'A baragoon more articulate than most?'

  'He described your father. His horse. His armour. His face.'

  'But he was drank even today.'

  'He said that others saw Count Brass and heard the same story from his lips.'

  'Then it is a plot. Some enemy of yours—one of the Dark Empire lords who survived unrepentant—dressed up with false whiskers and his face painted to resemble my father's.'

  'That could be,' said Hawkmoon. 'But would not Czernik of all people have seen through such a deception? He knew Count Brass for years.'

  'Aye. And knew him well,' Yisselda admitted.

  Hawkmoon rose slowly from his chair and walked heavily towards the fireplace where Count Brass's war-gear hung. He looked up at it, reached out to finger it. He shook his head. 'I must discover for myself what this "ghost" is. Why should anyone seek to discredit me in this way? Who could my enemy be?'

  'Czernik himself? Could he resent your presence at Castle Brass?'

  'Czernik is old—near senile. He could not have invented such an elaborate deception.'

  'Has he not wondered why Count Brass should remain in the marshes complaining about me? That is not like Count Brass. He would come to his own castle if he were here. If he had a grudge he would tax me with it.'

  'You speak as if you believe Czernik now.'

  Hawkmoon sighed. 'I must know more. I must find Czernik and question him . . .'

  'I will send one of our retainers into the town.'

  'No. I will go into the town and search him out.'

  'Are you sure... ?'

  'It is what I must do.' He kissed her. 'I'll put an end to this tonight. Why should we be plagued by phantoms we have not even seen?'

  He wrapped a thick cloak of dark blue silk about his shoulders and kissed Yisselda once more before going out into the courtyard and ordering his horned horse saddled and harnessed. Some minutes later he rode out from the castle and down the winding road to the town. Few lights burned in Aigues-Mortes, for all that there was supposed to be a festival in the town. Evidently the townspeople had been as affected by the scene in the bullring as had Hawkmoon and his guests. The wind was beginning to blow as Hawkmoon reached the streets; the harsh mistral wind of the Kamarg, which the people hereabouts called the Life Wind, for it was supposed to have saved their land during the Tragic Millennium.

  If Czernik was to be found anywhere it was in one of the taverns on the north side of town. Hawkmoon rode to the district, letting his horse make its own speed, for in many ways he was reluctant to repeat the earlier scene. He did not want to hear Czernik's lies again; they were lies which dishonoured all, even Count Brass, whom Czernik claimed to love.

  The old taverns on the north side were primarily of wood, with only their foundations being made of the white stone of the Kamarg. The wood was painted in many different colours and some of the most ambitious of the taverns had even painted whole scenes across the frontages—several of the scenes commemorating the deeds of Hawkmoon himself and others recalling earlier exploits of Count Brass before he came to save the Kamarg, for Count Brass had fought (and often been a prime mover) in almost every famous battle of his day. Indeed, not a few of the taverns were named for Count Brass's battles, as well as those of the four heroes who had served the Runestaff. One tavern was called The Magyarian Campaign while another proclaimed itself The Battle of Cannes. Here were The Fort at Balancia, Nine Left Standing and The Banner Dipped in Blood—all recalling Count Brass's exploits. Czernik, if he had not fallen on his face in some gutter by now, would be bound to be in one of them.

  Hawkmoon entered the nearest door, that of The Red Amulet (named for that mystic jewel he had once worn around his own neck), and found the place packed with old soldiers, many of whom he recognised. They were all pretty drunk, with big mugs of wine and ale in their hands. There was hardly a man among them who did not have scars on his face or limbs. Their laughter was harsh but not noisy—only their singing was loud. Hawkmoon felt pleased to be in such company and greeted many whom he knew. He went up to a one-armed Slavian—another of Count Brass's men—and greeted him with genuine pleasure.

  'Josef Vedla! Good evening, Captain. How goes it with you?'

  Vedla blinked and tried to smile. 'A good evening to you, my lord. We have not seen you in our taverns for many a month.' He lowered his eyes and took an interest in the contents of his wine-cup.

  'Will you join me in a skin of the new wine?' Hawkmoon asked. 'I hear it is singularly good this year. Perhaps some of our other old friends will—?'

  'No thanks, my lord.' Vedla rose. 'I've had too much as it is.' Awkwardly he pulled his cloak around him with his single hand.

  Hawkmoon spoke directly. 'Josef Vedla. Do you believe Czernik's tale of meeting Count Brass in the marsh?'

  'I must go.' Vedla walked towards the low doorway.

  'Captain Vedla. Stop.'

  Reluctantly, Vedla stopped and slowly he turned to look at Hawkmoon.

  'Do you believe that Count Brass told him I betrayed our
cause? That I led Count Brass himself into a trap?'

  Vedla scowled. 'Czernik alone I would not believe. He grows old and remembers only his youth when he rode with Count Brass. Maybe I wouldn't believe any veteran, no matter what he told me—for we all still mourn for Court Brass and would have him come back to us.'

  'As would I.'

  Vedla sighed. 'I believe you, my lord. Though few would, these days. At least—most are simply not sure...'

  'Who else has seen this ghost?'

  'Several merchants, journeying back late at night through the marsh roads. A young bull-catcher. Even one guardian on duty in an eastern tower claims to have seen the figure in the distance. A figure that was unmistakably Count Brass.'

  'Do you know where Czernik is now?'

  'Probably in The Dnieper Crossing at the end of this alley. That's where he spends his pension these days.'

  They went out into the cobbled street.

  Hawkmoon said: 'Captain Vedla, can you believe that I would betray Count Brass?'

  Vedla rubbed his pitted nose. 'No. Nor can most. It is hard to think of you as a traitor, Duke of Koln. But the stories are so consistent. Everyone who has met this—this ghost—tells the same tale.'

  'But Count Brass—alive or dead—is not one to hover on the edges of the town complaining. If he wanted—if he wanted vengeance on me, do you not think he would come and claim it?'

  'Aye. Count Brass was not a man to be indecisive. Yet,' Captain Vedla smiled wanly, 'we also know that ghosts are supposed to act according to the customs of ghosts.'

  'You believe in ghosts, then?'

  'I believe in nothing. I believe in everything. This world has taught me that lesson. What of the events concerning the Runestaff—would an ordinary man believe that they really took place?'

  Hawkmoon could not help but return Vedla's smile. 'I take your point. Well, good night to you, Captain.'

  'Good night, my lord.'

  Josef Vedla strode off in the opposite direction while Hawkmoon led his horse down the street to where he could see the sign of the tavern called The Dnieper Crossing. The paint was peeling on the sign and the tavern itself sagged as if one of its central beams had been removed. It looked an unsavoury place and the smell which came out of it was a mixture of sour wine, animal dung, grease and vomit. It was evident why a drunkard would choose it, for more oblivion could be bought here at the cheapest price.

  The place was almost empty as Hawkmoon ducked his head through the door and went inside. A few brands and candles illuminated the room. The unclean floor and the filthy benches and tables, the cracked leather of the wineskins strewn here and there, the chipped wooden and clay beakers, the ill-clothed men and women who sat hunched or lay sprawled in corners, all gave credence to Hawkmoon's original impression. People did not come to The Dnieper Crossing for social reasons. They came here to get drunk as quickly as was possible.

  A small, dirty man with a fringe of black, greasy hair around his bald pate, slid from a patch of darkness and smiled up at Hawkmoon. 'Ale, my lord? Good wine?'

  'Czernik,' said Hawkmoon. 'Is he here?'

  'Aye.' The small man jerked a thumb towards the corner and a door marked Privy. 'He's in there making space for more. He'll be out shortly. Shall I call him?'

  'No.' Hawkmoon looked around and then sat down on a bench he judged to be somewhat cleaner than the rest. 'I'll wait for him.'

  'And a cup of wine while you wait?'

  'Very well.'

  Hawkmoon left the wine untouched as he waited for Czernik to emerge. At last the old veteran came stumbling out and went straight to the bar. 'Another flagon,' he mumbled. He patted at his clothes, looking for his purse. He had not seen Hawkmoon.

  Hawkmoon rose. 'Czernik?'

  Czernik whirled around and almost fell over. He fumbled for a sword he had long since pawned to buy more drink. 'Have you come to kill me, traitor?' His bleary eyes slowly sharpened with hatred and fear. 'Must I die for telling the truth. If Count Brass were here .. . You know what this place is called?'

  'The Dnieper Crossing.'

  'Aye. We fought side by side, Count Brass and I, at The Dnieper Crossing. Against Prince Ruchtof's armies, against his cossaki. And the river was dammed with their bodies so that its course was changed for all time. And at the end of it all Prince Ruchtof's armies were dead and Count Brass and I were the only two of our side left alive.'

  'I know the tale.'

  'Then know that I am brave. That I do not fear you. Kill me, if you wish. But you shall not silence Count Brass himself.'

  'I did not come to silence you, Czernik, but to listen. Tell me again what you saw and what you heard.'

  Czernik glared suspiciously at Hawkmoon. 'I told you this afternoon.'

  'I wish to hear it once more. Without any of your own accusations. Tell me, as you remember them, Count Brass's words to you.'

  Czernik shrugged. 'He said that you had coveted his lands and his daughter ever since you first came to the Kamarg. He said that you had proved yourself a traitor several times over before you ever met him. He said that you fought the Dark Empire at Koln, then joined with the Beast Lords, even though they had slain your own father. Then you turned against the Empire when you thought you were strong enough, but they defeated you and took you back in chains of gilded iron to Londra where, in exchange for your own life you agreed to help them in a plot to betray Count Brass. Once out of their hands you came to the Kamarg and thought it easier to betray your Empire masters once again. This you did. Then you used your friends—Count Brass, Oladahn, Bowgentle and D'Averc—to beat the Empire and when they were no longer useful to you, you arranged things so that they should die in the Battle of Londra.'

  'A convincing story,' said Hawkmoon grimly. 'It fits the facts well enough, though it leaves out details which would vindicate my actions. A clever fabrication, indeed.'

  'You say Count Brass lies?'

  'I say that what you saw in the marshes—the ghost or mortal—is not Count Brass. I know I speak the truth, Czernik, for I have no betrayals on my conscience. Count Brass knew the truth. Why should he lie after death?'

  'I know Count Brass and I know you. I know that Count Brass would not tell such a lie. In diplomacy he was cunning—we all know that. But to his friends he spoke only the truth.'

  'Then what you saw was not Count Brass.'

  'What I saw was Count Brass. His ghost. Count Brass as he was when I rode at his side holding his banner for him when we went against the League of Eight to Italia, two years before we came to the Kamarg. I know Count Brass . . .'

  Hawkmoon frowned. 'And what was his message?'

  'He waits for you in the marshes every night, there to take his vengeance upon you.'

  Hawkmoon drew a deep breath. He adjusted his sword-belt on his hip. 'Then I will go to him tonight.'

  Czernik looked curiously at Hawkmoon. 'You are not afraid?'

  'I am not. I know that whoever you saw cannot be Count Brass. Why should I fear a fraud?'

  'Perhaps you do not remember betraying him?' Czernik suggested vaguely. 'Perhaps it was all done by the jewel you once wore in your forehead? Could it be the jewel which forced you to such actions, so that when it was removed you forgot all that you had planned?'

  Hawkmoon offered Czernik a bleak smile. 'I thank you for that, Czernik. But I doubt if the jewel controlled me to that extent. Its nature was somewhat different.' He frowned. For a moment he had begun to wonder if Czernik were right. It would be horrifying if it were true . . . But no, it could not be true. Yisselda would have known the truth, however much he might have tried to hide it. Yisselda knew he was no traitor.

  Yet something was haunting the marshlands and trying to turn the folk of the Kamarg against him and therefore he must get to grips with it once and for all—lay the ghost and prove to people like Czernik that he had betrayed no one.

  He said nothing more to Czernik but turned and strode from the tavern, mounting his heavy black stallion and turning its
head towards the town gates.

  Through the gates he went and out into the moonlit marsh, hearing the first distant, keening notes of the mistral, feeling its cold breath on his cheek, seeing the surface of the lagoons ripple and the reeds perform an agitated dance in anticipation of the wind's full force which would come a few days later.

  Again he let his horse find its own route, for it knew the marsh better than did he. And meanwhile he peered through the gloom, looking this way and that; looking for a ghost.

  Chapter Two

  The Meeting in the Marsh

  The marsh was full of small sounds—scuttlings and slitherings, coughs, barks and hoots as the night animals went about their business. Sometimes a larger beast would emerge from the darkness and blunder past Hawkmoon. Sometimes there would be a heavy splash from a lagoon as a large fish-eating owl plunged upon its prey. But no human figure—ghost or mortal—was seen by the Duke of Koln as he rode deeper and deeper into the darkness.

  Dorian Hawkmoon was confused. He was bitter. He had looked forward to a life of rural tranquillity. The only problems he had anticipated were the problems of breeding and planting, of the ordinary business of raising children.

  And now this damned mystery had emerged. Not even a threat of war would have disturbed him half as much. War, albeit with the Dark Empire, was clean compared to this. If he had seen the brazen ornithopters of Granbretan in the skies, if he had seen beast-masked armies and grotesque carriages and all the other bizarre paraphernalia of the Dark Empire in the distance, he would have known how to deal with it. Or if the Runestaff had called him, he would have known how to respond.

  But this was insidious. How could he cope with rumours, with ghosts, with old friends being turned against him?

  Still the horned stallion plodded on through the marsh paths. Still there was no sign that the marsh was occupied by anyone other than Hawkmoon himself. He began to feel tired, for he had risen much earlier than usual in order to prepare himself for the festival. He began to suspect that there was nothing out here, that Czernik and the others had imagined it all, after all. He smiled to himself. He had been a fool to take a drunkard's ravings seriously.