The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  'As long as I could be sure of your destruction, Kalan, I would not care!'

  'You are cruel, Hawkmoon!'

  And Hawkmoon laughed at the note of accusation in Kalan's voice. Kalan—who had implanted the Black Jewel in his skull—who had helped Taragorm destroy the crystal machine which had protected Castle Brass—who had been the greatest and most evil of the geniuses who had supplied the Dark Empire with its scientific power—accusing Hawkmoon of cruelty.

  And the ruby fire continued to play over the pyramid.

  'You are wrecking my controls!' Kalan screamed. 'If I leave now I shan't be able to return until I have made repairs. I will not be able to release these friends of yours . . .'

  'I think we can do without your help, little man!' Count Brass laughed. 'Though I thank you for your concern. You sought to deceive us and now you are paying the price.'

  'I spoke truth—Hawkmoon will lead you to your deaths.'

  'Aye—but they'll be noble deaths and not the fault of Hawkmoon.'

  Kalan's face twisted. He was sweating as the pyramid grew hotter and hotter. 'Very well. I retreat. But I'll take my vengeance on all four of you yet—alive or dead, I'll still reach you all. Now I return . . .'

  'To Londra?' Hawkmoon cried. 'Are you hidden in Londra?'

  Kalan laughed wildly. 'Londra? Aye—but no Londra that you know. Farewell, horrid Hawkmoon.'

  And the pyramid faded and then vanished and left the five standing on the shore in silence, for there seemed nothing to say at that stage.

  A little while later Hawkmoon pointed to the horizon.

  'Look,' he said.

  The sun was beginning to rise.

  Chapter Two

  The Return Of the Pyramid

  For a while, as they breakfasted on the unpalatable food Kalan of Vitall had left for Count Brass and the others, they debated what they must do.

  It had become obvious that the four were stranded, for the present, in Hawkmoon's time-period. How long they could remain there none knew.

  'I spoke of Soryandum and the Wraith-folk,' Hawkmoon told his friends. 'It is our only hope of getting help, for the Runestaff is unlikely to give us aid, even if we could find it to ask for such aid.' He had told them much of the events which were to occur in their futures and had taken place in his past.

  'Then we should make haste,' said Count Brass, 'lest Kalan returns—as return, I'm sure, he will. How shall we reach Soryandum?'

  'I do not know,' Hawkmoon said honestly. "They shifted their city out of our dimensions when the Dark Empire threatened them. I can only hope that they have moved it back to its old location now that the threat had passed.'

  'And where is Soryandum—or where was it?' Oladahn asked.

  'In the Syranian Desert.'

  Count Brass raised his red eyebrows. 'A wide desert, friend Hawkmoon. A vast desert. And harsh.'

  'Aye. All of those things. That is why so few travellers ever came upon Soryandum.'

  'And you expect us to cross such a desert in search of a city which might be there?' D'Averc smiled sourly.

  'Aye. It is our only hope, Sir Huillam.'

  D'Averc shrugged and turned away. 'Perhaps the dry air would be good for my chest.'

  'So we must cross the Middle Sea, then?' said Bowgentle. 'We need a boat.'

  'There is a port not far from here,' said Hawkmoon. 'There we should find a boat to take us on the long journey to the coasts of Syrania—to the port of Hornus, if possible. After that we journey inland, on camels if we can hire them, beyond the Euphrates.'

  'A journey of many weeks,' said Bowgentle thoughtfully. 'Is there no quicker route?'

  'This is the quickest. Ornithopters would fly faster, but they are notoriously capricious and have not the range we need. The riding flamingoes of the Kamarg would have offered us an alternative but, I fear, I do not want to draw attention to us in the Kamarg—it would cause too much confusion and pain to those we all love—or will love. Therefore we must go in disguise to Marshais, the largest port hereabouts, and take passage as ordinary travelers aboard the first available ship.'

  'I see that you have considered this carefully.' Count Brass rose and began to pack his gear into his saddlebags. 'We'll follow your plan, my lord of Koln, and hope that we are not traced by Kalan before we reach Soryandum.'

  Two days later they came, cloaked and cautious, into the bustling city of Marshais, perhaps the greatest seaport on this coast. In the harbour were over a hundred ships—far-going, tall-masted trading vessels, used to plying all kinds of seas in all kinds of weather. And the men, too, were fit to sail in such ships—bronzed by wind, sun and sea, tough, hard-eyed, harsh-voiced seamen for the most part, who kept their own counsel. Many were stripped to the waist, wearing only divided kilts of silk or cotton, dyed in dozens of different shades, with anklets and wristlets often of precious metal studded with gem-stones. And around their necks and heads were tied long scarves, as brightly coloured as their britches. Many wore weapons at their belts— knives and cutlasses for the most part. And most of these men were worth only what they wore—but what they wore, in the way of bracelets and earrings and the like, was worth a small fortune and might be gambled away in a few hours ashore in any of the scores of taverns, inns, gaming houses and whorehouses which lined all the streets leading down to the quays of Marshals.

  Into all this noise and bustle and colour came the five weary men, their hoods about their faces, for they wanted none to recognise them. And Hawkmoon knew, best of all, that they would be recognised—five heroes whose portraits hung on many an inn-sign, whose statues filled many a square, whose names were used for the swearing of oaths and for the telling of yarns which could never be as incredible as the truth. There was only one danger that Hawkmoon could see—that in their unwillingness to show their faces they might be mistaken for Dark Empire men, unrepentant and still desiring to hide their heads in masks. They found an inn, quieter than most, in the backstreets and asked fora large room in which they might all stay for a night while one of them went down to the quayside to enquire about a ship.

  It was Hawkmoon, who had been growing a beard as they travelled, who elected to make the necessary enquiries and soon after they had eaten he left for the waterfront and returned quite quickly with good news. There was a trader leaving by the first tide of the morning. He was willing to take passengers and charged a reasonable fee. He was not going to Hornus but to Behruk a little further up the coast. This was almost as good and Hawkmoon had decided on the spot to book passages for them all aboard his ship. They all lay down to sleep as soon as this was settled, but none slept well, for there was ever the thought to plague them that the pyramid with Kalan in it would return.

  Hawkmoon realised of what the pyramid had reminded him. It was something like the Throne-Globe of the King-Emperor Huon—the thing which had supported the life of that incredibly ancient homunculus before he had been slain by Baron Meliadus. Perhaps the same science had created both? It was more than likely. Or had Kalan found a cache of old machines, such as were buried in many places upon the planet, and used them? And where was Kalan of Vitall hiding? Not in Londra but in some other Londra? Is that what he meant?

  Hawkmoon slept poorest of all that night as these thoughts and a thousand others sped through his head. And his sword lay, unscabbarded, in his hand when he did sleep.

  On a clear autumn day they set sail in a tall, fast ship call The Romanian Queen (Her home port was on the Black Sea) whose sails and decks gleamed white and clean and who seemed to speed without effort over the water.

  The sailing was good for the first two days, but on the third day the wind dropped and they were becalmed. The captain was reluctant to unship his vessel's oars, for he had a small crew and did not want to overwork them, so he decided to risk a day's wait and hope that the wind would come up. The coast of Kyprus, an island kingdom which, like so many, had once been a vassal state of the Dark Empire, could just be seen off to the east and it was frustrating for th
e five friends to have to peer through the narrow porthole of their cabin and see it. All five had remained below decks for the whole voyage. Hawkmoon had explained this strange behaviour by saying that they were members of a religious cult making a pilgrimage and according to their vows, must spend their whole waking time in prayer. The captain, a decent sailor who wanted only a fair price for the passage and no trouble from his passengers, accepted this explanation without question.

  It was about noon on the next day, when a wind had still not materialised, that Hawkmoon and the others heard a commotion above their heads—shouts and oaths and a running of booted and bare feet to and fro.

  'What can it be?' Hawkmoon said. 'Pirates? We have met with pirates before in near-by waters, have we not Oladahn?'

  But Oladahn merely looked astonished. 'Eh? This is my first sea voyage, Duke Dorian!'

  And Hawkmoon, not for the first time, remembered that Oladahn was still to experience the adventure of the Mad God's ship, and he apologised to the little mountain man.

  The commotion grew louder and more confused. Staring through the porthole, they could see no sign of an attacking ship and there were no sounds of battle.

  Perhaps some seamonster, some creature left over from the Tragic Millennium, had risen from the waters outside their field of vision?

  Hawkmoon rose and put on his cloak, drawing the cowl over his head. 'I'll investigate,' he said.

  He opened the door of the cabin and climbed the short stairway to the deck. And there, near the stern, was the object of the crew's terror, and from it came the voice of Kalan of Vitall exhorting the men to fall upon their passengers and slay them immediately or the whole ship would go down.

  The pyramid was glowing a brilliant, blinding white and stood out sharply against the blue of the sky and the sea.

  At once Hawkmoon dashed back into the cabin and picked up a flame-lance.

  'The pyramid has come back!' he told them. 'Wait here while I deal with it.'

  He climbed the companionway and rushed across the deck towards the pyramid, his passage encumbered by the frightened crewmen who were backing away rapidly.

  Again a beam of red light darted from the ruby tip of the flame-lance and splashed against the white of the pyramid, like blood mingling with milk. But this time there was no screams from within the pyramid, only laughter.

  'I have taken precautions, Dorian Hawkmoon, against your crude weapons. I have strengthened my machine.'

  'Let us see to what degree,' Hawkmoon said grimly. He had guessed that Kalan was nervous of using his machine's power to manipulate time, that perhaps Kalan was unsure of the results he would achieve.

  And now Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains was beside him, a sword in his furry hand, a scowl on his face.

  'Begone, false oracle!' shouted Oladahn. 'We do not fear you now.'

  'You should have cause to fear me,' said Kalan, his face now just visible through the semi-transparent material of the pyramid. He was sweating. Plainly the flame-lance was having at least some effect. 'For I have the means of controlling all events in this world—and in others!'

  'Then control them!' Hawkmoon challenged, and he turned the beam of his flame-lance to full strength.

  'Aaah! Fools—destroy my machine and you disrupt the fabric of time itself. All will be thrown into flux—chaos will rage throughout the universe. All intelligence shall die!'

  And then Oladahn was running at the pyramid, his sword whirling, trying to cut through the peculiar substance which protected Kalan from the powers of the flame-lance.

  'Get back, Oladahn!' Hawkmoon cried. 'You can do nothing with a sword!'

  But Oladahn hacked twice at the pyramid and he stabbed through it, it seemed, and almost ran Kalan of Vitall through before the sorcerer turned and saw him and adjusted a small pyramid he held in his hand, grinning at Oladahn with horrible malice.

  'Oladahn! Beware!' Hawkmoon yelled, sensing some new danger.

  Again Oladahn drew back his arm for another blow at Kalan.

  Oladahn screamed.

  He looked about him in bewilderment as if he saw something other than the pyramid and the deck of the ship. 'The bear!' he wailed. 'It has me!'

  And then, with a chilling shout, he vanished.

  Hawkmoon dropped the flame-lance and ran forward, but he had only a glimpse of Kalan's chuckling features before the pyramid, too, had disappeared.

  There was nothing of Oladahn to be seen. And Hawkmoon knew that, initially at least, the little man had been thrown back to the moment he had first left his own time. But would he be allowed to remain there?

  Hawkmoon would not have cared so much—for he knew that Oladahn had survived the fight with the bear —if he had not become suddenly aware of the great power which Kalan wielded.

  In spite of himself, Hawkmoon shuddered. He turned and saw that both captain and crew were offering him strange suspicious looks.

  Without speaking to them he went straight back to his cabin.

  Now it had become more urgent than ever that they should find Soryandum and the Wraith-folk.

  Chapter Three

  The Journey to Soryandum

  Soon after the incident on deck the wind sprang up with great force so that it seemed that a storm might be in the offing and the captain ordered all sails on so that he could run before the storm and get into Behruk with all possible speed.

  Hawkmoon suspected that the captain's haste had more to do with his wish to unload his passengers than his cargo, but he sympathised with the man. Another captain, after such an incident, might have been justified in throwing the remaining four overboard.

  Hawkmoon's hatred for Kalan of Vitall grew more intense. This was the second time that he had been robbed of his friend by a Dark Empire lord and, if anything, he felt this second loss more painfully than he did the first, for all that he had been, in some ways, more prepared for it. He became determined, no matter what befell, to seek out Kalan and destroy him.

  Disembarking on the white quayside of Behruk, the four took fewer precautions to hide their identities here. Their legends were familiar to the folk who dwelt along the Arabian Sea but their descriptions were not so wellknown. None the less they lost no time in going speedily to the market-place and there purchasing four sturdy camels for their expedition into the hinterland.

  Four days riding saw them used to the lolloping beasts and most of their aches gone. Four days riding also saw them on the edge of the Syranian desert, following the Euphrates as it wound through great sanddunes, while Hawkmoon looked often at the map and wished that Oladahn, the Oladahn who had fought at his side against D'Averc in Soryandum, when they were still enemies, was here to help him recall their route.

  The huge, hot sun had turned Count Brass's armour into glaring gold. He dazzled the eyes of his companions almost as much as the pyramid of Kalan of Vitall had dazzled them. And Dorian Hawkmoon's steel armour shone, in contrast, like silver. Bowgentle and Huillam D'Averc, who wore no armour at all, made one or two acid comments about this effect, though he stopped when it became evident that the armoured men were suffering considerably more discomfort in the heat and, while waterholes and the river were close, took to pouring whole helmets-full of water through the necks of their breastplates.

  The fifth day's riding saw them passed beyond the river and into the desert proper. Dull yellow sand stretched in all directions. It rippled sometimes, when a faint breeze blew across the desert, reminding them, intolerably, of the water they had left behind.

  The sixth day's riding saw them leaning wearily over the pommels of their high saddles, their eyes glazed and their lips cracked as they preserved their water, not knowing when next they might find a waterhole.

  The seventh day's riding saw Bowgentle fall from his saddle and lie spreadeagled upon the sand and it took half their remaining water to revive him. After he had fallen they sought the scant shade of a dune and remained there through the night until the next morning when Hawkmoon dragged himself to his fe
et and said he would continue alone.

  'Alone? Why is that?' Count Brass got up, the straps of his brass armour were creaking. 'For what reason, Duke of Koln?'

  'I will scout while you rest. I could swear that Soryandum was near here. I will circle about until I find it— or find the site on which it stood. Whatever else, there is bound to be a source of water there.'

  'I can see sense in that,' Count Brass agreed. 'And if you grow weary, then one of us can relieve you, and so on. Are you certain that we are close to Soryandum?'

  'I am. I shall look for the hills which mark the end of the desert. They should be near. If only these dunes were not so high, I am sure we should see the hills bynow.'

  'Very well,' said Count Brass. 'We shall wait.'

  And Hawkmoon goaded his camel to its feet and rode away from where his friends still sat.

  But it was not until the afternoon that he climbed the twentieth dune of the day and saw at last the green foothills of the mountains at the foot of which had lain Soryandum.

  But he could not see the ruined city of the Wraithfolk. He had marked his way carefully on his map and now he retraced his journey.

  He was almost back at the spot where he had left his friends when he saw the pyramid again. Foolishly he had decided to leave his encumbering flame-lances behind and he was not sure if any of the others knew how to work the lances, or whether they would care to, after what had happened to Oladahn.

  He dismounted from the camel and proceeded as cautiously as he could, using the little cover available to him. Automatically he had drawn his sword.

  Now words reached him from the pyramid. Kalan of Vitall was once again trying to convince his three friends that they should kill him when he returned.

  'He is your enemy. Whatever else I might have told you, I spoke truth when I said that he will lead you to your deaths. You know Huillam D'Averc that you are a friend of Granbretan—Hawkmoon will turn you against the Dark Empire. And you, Bowgentle, you hate violence—Hawkmoon will make you a man of violence. And you, Count Brass, who has always been neutral where the affairs of Granbretan are concerned, he will set you upon a course which will make you fight against that very force which now you regard as a unifying factor in the future of Europe. And, as well as being deceived into acting against your better interests, you will be slain. Kill Hawkmoon now and . . .'