The Chronicles of Castle Brass Book 1
Count Brass
by Michael Moorcock

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

OLD FRIENDS

1.	The Haunting of Dorian Hawkmoon	11

2.	The Meeting in the Marsh	35

3.	A Letter from Queen Flana	45

4.	A Company of the Dead	54

BOOK TWO

OLD ENEMIES

1.	A Speaking Pyramid	67

2.	The Return of the Pyramid	77

3.	The Journey to Soryandum	85

4.	A Further Encounter with Another Old Enemy	91

5.	Some Other Londra	98

6.	Another Victim	110

BOOK THREE

OLD DREAMS AND NEW

1.	The World Half-Made	121

2.	A Museum of the Living and the Dead	127

3.	Count Brass Chooses to Live	137

4.	A Great Wind Blowing	145

5.	Something of a Dream	151

EPILOGUE	157

BOOK ONE

OLD FRIENDS

CHAPTER ONE

THE HAUNTING OF DORIAN HAWKMOON

It had taken all these five years to restore the land of
Kamarg, to repopulate its marshes with the giant scar-
let flamingoes, the wild white bulls and the horned
great horses which had once teemed here before the
coming of the Dark Empire's bestial armies. It had
taken all these five years to rebuild the watchtowers of
the borders, to put up the towns and to erect tall Castle
Brass in all its massive, masculine beauty. And, if any-
thing, in these five years of peace, the walls were built
stronger, the watchtowers taller, for, as Dorian Hawk-
moon had said once to Queen Flana of Granbretan, the
world was still wild and there was still little justice in it.

Dorian Hawkmoon, the Duke of Koln, and his bride,
Yisselda, Countess of Brass, old, dead Count Brass's
daughter, were the only two who remained of that
group of heroes who had served the Runestaff against
the Dark Empire and finally defeated Granbretan in the
great Battle of Londra, putting Queen Flana, sad
Queen Flana, upon the throne so that she might guide
her cruel and decadent nation towards humanity and
vitality.

Count Brass had died slaying three barons (Adaz
Promp, Mygel Hoist and Saka Gerden) and in turn was
slain by a spearman of the Order of the Goat.

Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains, beastman and

 loyal friend of Hawkmoon, had been hacked to pieces
by the war axes of the Order of the Pig.

Bowgentle, the unwarlike, the philosophical, had been
savaged and decapitated by Pigs, Goats and Hounds
to the number of twelve.

Huillam D'Averc, mocker of everything, whose only
faith had seemed to be in his own lack of good health,
who had loved and been loved by Queen Flana, had
died most ironically, riding to his love and being slain
by one of her soldiers who thought D'Averc attacked
her.

Four heroes died. Thousands of other heroes, un-
named in the histories, but brave, also died in the
service of the Runestaff, in the destruction of the Dark
Empire tyranny.

And a great villain died. Baron Meliadus of Kroiden,
most ambitious, most ambivalent, most awful of all the
aristocrats of Granbretan, died upon the sword of
Hawkmoon, died beneath the edge of the mystical
Sword of the Dawn.

And the ruined world seemed free.

But that had been five years hence. Much had passed
since then. Two children had been born to Hawkmoon
and the Countess of Brass. They were called Manfred,
who had red hair and his grandfather's voice and health
and stood to be his grandfather's size and strength, and
Yarmila, who had golden hair and her mother's gentle
toughness of will, as well as her beauty. They were
Brass stock, there was little in them of the Dukes of
Koln, and perhaps that was why Dorian Hawkmoon
loved his children so fiercely and so well.

And beyond the walls of Castle Brass stood four
statues to the four dead heroes, to remind the in-
habitants of the castle of what they had fought for and

at what cost. And Dorian Hawkmoon would often take
his children to those statues and tell them of the Dark
Empire and its deeds. And they were pleased to listen.
And Manfred assured his father that when he grew up
his deeds would be as great as those of old Count Brass,
whom he so resembled.

And Hawkmoon would say that he hoped they would
have no need of heroes when Manfred was grown.

Then, seeing disappointment in his son's face, he
would laugh and say there were many kinds of heroes
and if Manfred had his grandfather's wisdom and
diplomacy, his strong sense of justice, that would make
him the best kind of hero—a justice-maker. And Man-
fred would only be somewhat consoled, for there is little
that is romantic about a judge and much that is attrac-
tive to a four-year-old boy about a warrior.

And sometimes Hawkmoon and Yisselda would take
their children riding through the wild marshlands of the
Kamarg, beneath wide skies of pastel colours, of faded
reds and yellows, where the reeds were brown and dark
green and orange and, in the appropriate season, bent
before the mistral. And they would see a herd of white
bulls thunder by, or a herd of horned horses. And they
might see a flock of huge scarlet flamingoes suddenly
take to the air and drift on broad wings over the heads
of the invading human beings, not knowing that it was
Dorian Hawkmoon's responsibility, as it had been that
of Count Brass, to protect the wildlife of the Kamarg
and never to kill it, and only sometimes to tame it to
provide riding beasts for land and sky. Originally this
had been why the great watchtowers had been built
and why the men who occupied those watchtowers
were called Guardians. But now they guarded the
human populace as well as the beasts, guarded them
from any threat from beyond the Kamarg's borders (for

no native-bred Karmargian would consider harming the
animals which were found nowhere else in the world).
The only beasts that were hunted (save for food) in
the marshes were the baragoon, the marsh gibberers, the
things which had once been men themselves before be-
coming the victims of sorcerous experiments conducted
by an evil Lord Guardian who had been done away with
by old Count Brass. But there were only one or two
baragoons left in the Kamarg lands now for hunters
had little difficulty identifying them—they were over
eight feet tall, five feet broad, bile-coloured and they
slithered on their bellies through the swamps, occasion-
ally rising to rush upon whatever prey they could now
find in the marshlands. None the less, on their rides,
Yisselda and Dorian Hawkmoon would take care to
avoid the places still thought to be inhabited by the
baragoon.

Hawkmoon had come to love the Kamarg more than
his own ancestral lands in far-off Germany, had even
renounced his title to those lands now ruled well by an
elected council as indeed were many of the European
lands who had lost their hereditary rulers and chosen,
since the defeat of the Dark Empire, to become re-
publics.

Yet, for all that Hawkmoon was loved and respected
by the people of the Kamarg, he was aware that he did
not replace old Count Brass in their eyes. He could
never do that. They sought Countess Yisselda's advice
as often as they sought his and they looked with great
favour on young Manfred, seeing him almost as a rein-
carnation of their old Lord Guardian.

Another man might have resented all this, but Hawk-
moon, who had loved Count Brass as well as had they,
accepted it with good grace. He had had enough of
command, of heroics. He preferred to live the life of a

simple country gentleman and wherever possible let the
people have control of their own affairs. His ambitions
were simple, too—to love his beautiful wife Yisselda
and to ensure the happiness of his children. His days
of history-making were over. All that he had left to
remind him of his struggles against Granbretan was an
oddly shaped scar in the centre of his forehead—where
once had reposed the dreadful Black Jewel, the Brain-
eater implanted there by Baron Kalan of Vitall when,
years before, Hawkmoon had been recruited against his
will to serve the Dark Empire against Count Brass. Now
the jewel was gone and so was Baron Kalan, who had
committed suicide after the Battle of Londra. A brilliant
scientist, but perhaps the most warped of all the barons
of Granbretan, Kalan had been unable to conceive of
continuing to exist under the new and, in his view, soft
order Imposed by Queen Flana, who had succeeded the
King Emperor Huon after Baron Meliadus had slain
him in a desperate effort to make himself controller of
Granbretan's policies.

Hawkmoon sometimes wondered what would have
happened to Baron Kalan, or, for that matter, Tara-
gorm, Master of the Palace of Time, who had perished
when one of Kalan's fiendish weapons had exploded
during the Battle of Londra, if they had lived on. Could
they have been put into the service of Queen Flana and
their talents used to rebuild the world they had helped
destroy? Probably not, he thought. They were insane.
Their characters had been wholly shaped by the per-
verted and insane philosophies which had led Gran-
bretan to make war upon the world and come close to
conquering it all.

After one of their marshland rides, the family would
return to Aigues-Mortes, the walled and ancient town
which was the principal city of the Kamarg, and to Cas-

tle Brass which stood on a hill in the very centre. Built
of the same white stone as the majority of the town's
houses, Castle Brass was a mixture of architectural
styles which, somehow, did not seem to clash with
each other. Over the centuries there had been additions
and renovations; at the whim of different owners parts
had been torn down and other parts built. Most of the
windows were of intricately detailed stained glass,
though the window frames themselves were as often
round as they were square and as square as they were
oblong or oval. Turrets and towers sprang up from the
main mass of stone in all kinds of surprising places;
there were even one or two minarets in the manner of
Arabian palaces. And Dorian Hawkmoon, following the
fashion of his own German folk, had had many flagstaffs
erected and upon these staffs floated beautiful coloured
banners, including those of the Counts of Brass and
the Dukes of Koln. Gargoyles festooned the gutters of
the castle and many a gable was carved in stone in the
likeness of a Kamargian beast—the bull, the flamingo,
the horned horse and the marsh bear.

There was about Castle Brass, as there had been in
the days of Count Brass himself, something at once im-
pressive and comfortable. The castle had not been built
to impress anyone with either the taste or the power of
its inhabitants. It had hardly been built for strength
(though it had already proven its strength) and aesthetic
considerations, too, had not been made when rebuild-
ing it. It had been built for comfort and this was a rare
thing in a castle. It could be that it was the only
castle in the world that had been built with such con-
siderations in mind! Even the terraced gardens outside
the castle walls had a homely appearance, growing
vegetables and flowers of every sort, supplying not only

the castle but much of the town with its basic require-
ments.

When they returned from their rides the family would
sit down to a good, plain meal which would be shared
with many of its retainers, then the children would be
taken to bed by Yisselda and she would tell them a
story. Sometimes the story would be an ancient one,
from the time before the Tragic Millennium, sometimes
it would be one she would make up herself and some-
times, at the insistence of Manfred and Yarmila, Dorian
Hawkmoon would be called for and he would tell them
of some of his adventures in distant lands when he
served the Runestaff. He would tell them of how he had
met little Oladahn, whose body and face had been cov-
ered in fine, reddish hair, and who had claimed to be the
kin of Mountain Giants. He would tell them of Amarehk
beyond the great sea to the north and the the magical
city of Dnark where he had first seen the Runestaff itself.
Admittedly, Hawkmoon had to modify these tales, for
the truth was darker and more terrible than most adult
minds could conceive. He spoke most often of his dead
friends and their noblest deeds, keeping alive the
memories of Count Brass, Bowgentle, D'Averc and
Oladahn. Already these deeds were legendary through-
out Europe.

And when the stories were done, Yisselda and Dorian
Hawkmoon would sit in deep armchairs on either side
of the great fireplace over which hung Count Brass's
armour of brass and his broadsword, and they would
talk or they would read.

From time to time they would receive letters from
Londra, from Queen Flana telling how her policies
progressed. Londra, that insane roofed city, had been
almost entirely dismantled and fine, open buildings put

up instead on both sides of the River Tayme, which no
longer ran blood red. The wearing of masks had been
abolished and most of the people of Granbretan had,
after a while, become used to revealing their naked
faces, though some die-hards had had to receive mild
punishment for their insistence on clinging to the old,
mad ways of the Dark Empire. The Orders of the
Beasts had also been outlawed and people had been
encouraged to leave the darkness of their cities and re-
turn to the all but deserted and overgrown countryside
of Granbretan, where vast forests of oak, elm or pine
stretched for miles. For centuries Granbretan had lived
on plunder and now she had to feed herself. Therefore
the soldiers who had belonged to the beast orders were
put to farming, to clearing the forests, to raising herds
and planting crops. Local councils were set up to rep-
resent the interests of the people. Queen Flana had
called a parliament and this parliament now advised her
and helped her rule justly. It was strange how swiftly
a warlike nation, a nation of military castes, had been
encouraged to become a nation of farmers and foresters.
The majority of the people of Granbretan had taken
to their new lives with relief once it dawned on them
that they were now free of the madness that had once
infected the whole land—and sought, indeed, to infect
the world.

And so the quiet days passed at Castle Brass.

And so they would have passed for always (until
Manfred and Yarmila grew up and Hawkmoon and
Yisselda became middle-aged and, eventually, old in
their contentment, dying peacefully and cheerfully,
knowing that the Kamarg was secure and that the days
of the Dark Empire could never return) but for some-
thing strange that began to happen towards the close of
the sixth summer since the Battle of Londra when, to his

astonishment, Dorian Hawkmoon found that the people
of Aigues-Mortes were beginning to offer him peculiar
looks when he hailed them in the streets—some refusing
to acknowledge him at all and others scowling and mut-
tering and turning aside as he approached.

It was Dorian Hawkmoon's habit, as it had been
Count Brass's, to attend the great celebrations marking
the end of the summer's work. Then Aigues-Mortes
would be decorated with flowers and banners and the
citizens would put on their most elaborate finery, young
white bulls would be allowed to charge at will through
the streets and the guardians of the watchtowers would
ride about in their polished armour and silk surcoats,
their flame-lances on their hips. And there would be bull
contests in the immeasurably ancient amphitheatre on
the outskirts of the town. Here was where Count Brass
had once saved the life of the great toreador Mahtan
Just when he was being gored to death by a gigantic bull.
Count Brass had leaped into the ring and wrestled the
bull with his bare hands, bringing the beast to its knees
and winning the acclaim of the crowd, for Count Brass
had then been well into middle age.

But nowadays the festival was not a purely local
affair. Ambassadors from all over Europe would come
to honour the surviving hero and heroine of Londra
and Queen Flana herself had visited Castle Brass on two
previous occasions. This year, however, Queen Flana
had been kept at home by affairs of state and one of her
nobles attended in her name. Hawkmoon was pleased
to note that Count Brass's dream of a unified Europe
was beginning to become reality. The wars with Gran-
bretan had helped break down the old boundaries and
had brought the survivors together in a common cause.
Europe still consisted of about a thousand small prov-
inces, each independent of any other, but they worked

in concert on many projects concerning the general
good.

The ambassadors came from Scandia, from Muscovy,
from Arabia, from the lands of the Greeks and the
Bulgars, from Ukrainia, from Nurnberg and Catalania.
They came in carriages, on horseback or in ornithopters
whose design was borrowed from Granbretan. And they
brought gifts and they brought speeches (some long and
some short) and they spoke of Dorian Hawkmoon as if
he were a demigod.

In past years their praise had found enthusiastic re-
sponse in the people of the Kamarg. But for some reason
this year their speeches did not get quite the same qual-
ity of applause as they once had. Few, however, noticed.
Only Hawkmoon and Yisselda noticed and, without be-
ing resentful, they were deeply puzzled.

The most fulsome of all the speeches made in the
ancient bullring of Aigues-Mortes came from Lonson,
Prince of Shkarlan, cousin to Queen Flana, ambassador
from Granbretan. Lonson was young and an enthusias-
tic supporter of the queen's policies. He had been barely
seventeen when the Battle of Londra had robbed his
nation of its evil power and thus he bore no great re-
sentment of Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln—indeed, he
saw Hawkmoon as a saviour, who had brought peace
and sanity to his island kingdom. Prince Lonson's
speech was rich with admiration for the new Lord Pro-
tector of the Kamarg. He recalled great deeds of bat-
tle, great achievements of will and self-discipline, great
cunning in the arts of strategy and diplomacy by which,
he said, future generations would remember Dorian
Hawkmoon. Not only had Hawkmoon saved continental
Europe—he had saved the Dark Empire from itself.

Seated in his traditional box with all his foreign guests
about him, Dorian Hawkmoon listened to the speech

with embarrassment and hoped it would soon end. He
was dressed in ceremonial armour which was as ornate
as it was uncomfortable and the back of his neck itched
horribly. While Prince Lonson spoke it would not be
polite to remove the helmet and scratch. He looked at
the crowd seated on the granite benches of the amphi-
theatre and seated on the ground of the ring itself.
Whereas most of the people were listening with approval
to Prince Lonson's speech, others were muttering to
each other, scowling. One old man, whom Hawkmoon
recognised as an ex-guardian who had fought beside
Count Brass in many of his battles, even spat into the
dust of the arena when Prince Lonson spoke of Dorian
Hawkmoon's unswerving loyalty to his comrades.

Yisselda also noticed this and she frowned, glancing
at Hawkmoon to see if he had noticed. Their eyes met.
Dorian Hawkmoon shrugged and gave her a little
smile. She smiled back, but the frown did not altogether
leave her brow.

And at last the speech was over and applauded and
the people began to leave the arena so that the first of
the bulls might be driven in and the first toreador at-
tempt to remove the colourful ribbons which were tied
to the beast's horns (for it was not the custom of the
folk of the Kamarg to exhibit their courage by slaying
animals—instead skill alone was pitted against the snort-
ing savagery of the very fiercest bulls).

But when the crowd had departed there was one who
remained. Now Hawkmoon recalled his name. It was
Czernik, originally a Bulgar mercenary who had thrown
in his lot with Count Brass and ridden with him through
a dozen campaigns. Czernik's face was flushed, as if he
had been drinking, and his stance was unsteady as he
pointed a finger up at Hawkmoon's box and spat again.
'Loyalty!' the old man croaked. 'I know otherwise.

I know who is Count Brass's murderer—who betrayed
him to his enemies! Coward! Play-actor! False hero!'

Hawkmoon was stunned as he listened to Czernik
rant. What could the old man mean?

Stewards ran into the ring to grasp Czernik's arms and
attempt to hurry him off. But he struggled with them.

'Thus your master tries to silence the truth!' screamed
Czernik. 'But it cannot be silenced! He has been ac-
cused by the only one whose word can be trusted!'

If it had only been Czernik who had shown such
animosity, Hawkmoon would have dismissed his ravings
as senile. But Czernik was not the only one. Czernik
had expressed what Hawkmoon had seen on more than
a score of faces that day—and on previous days.

'Let him be!' Hawkmoon called, standing up and
leaning forward over the balustrade. 'Let him speak!'

For a moment the stewards were at a loss to know
what to do. Then, reluctantly, they released the old
man. Czernik stood there trembling, glaring into Hawk-
moon's eyes.

'Now,' Hawkmoon called. 'Tell me of what you ac-
cuse me, Czernik. I will listen.'

The attention of the whole populace of Aigues-Mortes
was upon Hawkmoon and Czernik now. There was a
stillness, a silence in the air.

Yisselda tugged at her husband's surcoat. 'Do not
listen to him, Dorian. He is drunk. He is mad.'

'Tell me!' Hawkmoon demanded.

Czernik scratched his head of grey, thinning hair. He
stared around him at the crowd. He mumbled some-
thing.

'Speak more clearly!' Hawkmoon said. 'I am eager to
hear, Czernik.'

'I called you murderer and murderer you be!' Czernik
said.

'Who told you that I am a murderer!'

Again Czernik's mumble was inaudible.

'Who told you?'

'The one you murdered!' Czernik screamed. 'The one
you betrayed.'

'A dead man? Whom did I betray?'

'The one we all love. The one I followed across a
hundred provinces. The one who saved my life twice.
The one to whom, living or dead, I would ever give my
loyalty.'

Yisselda's whisper from behind Hawkmoon was in-
credulous. 'He can speak of none other but my
father . ..'

'Do you mean Count Brass?' Hawkmoon called.

'Aye!' cried Czernik defiantly. 'Count Brass, who
came to the Kamarg all those years ago and saved it
from tyranny. Who fought the Dark Empire and saved
the whole world! His deeds are well known. What was
not known was that at Londra he was betrayed by one
who not only coveted his daughter but coveted his cas-
tle, too. And killed him for them!'

'You lie,' and Hawkmoon evenly. 'If you were
younger, Czernik, I would challenge you to defend your
foul words with a sword. How could you believe such
lies?'

'Many believe them!' Czernik gestured to indicate the
crowd. 'Many here have heard what I have heard.'

'Where have you heard this?' Yisselda joined her
husband at the balustrade.

'In the marshlands beyond the town. At night. Some,
like me, journeying home from another town—they
have heard it.'

'And from whose lying lips?' Hawkmoon was trem-
bling with anger. He and Count Brass had fought side
by side, each had been prepared to die for the other—

and now this dreadful lie was being told—a He which in-
sulted Count Brass's memory. And that was why Hawk-
moon was angry.

'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 hollow-
ly. 'Still your tongue, for you go too far!'

'He awaits you in the marshes. He will take his ven-
geance 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 be-
trayed 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 com-
ment 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. Hawk-
moon 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 seated
in 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 resem-
ble my father's.'

'That could be,' said Hawkmoon. 'But would not
Czernik of all people have seen through such a decep-
tion? 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 in-
vented such an elaborate deception.'

'Has he not wondered why Count Brass should re-
main 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 go-
ing 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 it-

self The Battle of Cannes. Here were The Fort at Ba-
lancia, 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 com-
pany 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 in-
terest in the contents of his wine-cup.

'Will you join me in a skin of the new wine?' Hawk-
moon asked. 'I hear it is singularly good this year. Per-
haps 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 be-
lieve 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 be-
lieve 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. Peo-
ple 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 dark-

ness 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 stum-
bling 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 ar-
ranged 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 try-
ing 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 stal-
lion 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 rais-
ing 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 Gran-
bretan in the skies, if he had seen beast-masked armies
and grotesque carriages and all the other bizarre para-
phernalia 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 drunk-
ard's ravings seriously.

And, of course, it was at that moment that it ap-
peared to him. It was seated on a hornless chestnut war-
horse and the warhorse was draped with a canopy of
russet silk. The armour shone in the moonlight and it
was all of heavy brass. Burnished brass helmet, very
plain and practical; burnished brass breastplate and
greaves. From head to foot the figure was clad in brass.
The gloves and the boots were of brass links stitched
upon leather. The belt was of brass chain brought to-
gether by a huge brass buckle and the belt supported
a brass scabbard. In the scabbard rested something
which was not of brass but of good steel. A broadsword.
And then there was the face—the golden brown eyes,
steady and stern, the heavy red moustache, the red eye-
brows, the bronze tan.

It could be no other.

'Count Brass!' gasped Hawkmoon. And then he
closed his mouth and studied the figure, for he had
seen Count Brass dead on the battlefield.

There was something different about this man and
it did not take Hawkmoon more than a moment to
realize that Czernik had spoken the literal truth when
he said it was the same Count Brass beside whom he
had fought at the Dnieper Crossing. This Count Brass

was at least twenty years younger than the one whom
Hawkmoon had first met when he visited the Kamarg
seven or eight years previously.

The eyes flickered and the great head, seemingly all
of brazen metal, turned slightly so that those eyes now
peered directly into Hawkmoon's.

'Are you the one?' said the deep voice of Count Brass.
'My nemesis?'

'Nemesis?' Hawkmoon uttered a sharp laugh. 'I
thought you to be mine, Count Brass!'

'I am confused.' The voice was definitely the voice
of Count Brass, but it had a slightly dreamy quality to
it. And Count Brass's eyes did not focus with their old,
familiar clarity upon Hawkmoon's.

'What are you?' Hawkmoon demanded. 'What brings
you to the Kamarg?'

'My death. I am dead, am I not?'

'The Count Brass whom I knew is dead. He died at
Londra more than five years since. I hear that I have
been accused of that death.'

'You are the one called Hawkmoon of Koln?'

'I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln, aye.'

'Then I must slay you, it seems.' This Count Brass
spoke with some reluctance.

For all that his head whirled, Hawkmoon could see
that Count Brass (or whatever the creature was) was
quite as uncertain of himself as was Hawkmoon at that
moment. For one thing, while Hawkmoon had recog-
nized Count Brass, this man had not recognized Hawk-
moon.

'Why must you slay me? Who told you to slay me?'

'The oracle. Though I am dead now, I may live
again. But if I live again I must ensure that I do not die
at the Battle of Londra. Therefore I must kill the one
who would lead me to that battle and betray me to

those against whom I fight. That one is Dorian Hawk-
moon of Koln, who covets my land and—and my daugh-
ter.'

'I have lands of my own and your daughter was
betrothed to me before the Battle of Londra. Someone
deceives you, friend ghost.'

'Why should the oracle deceive me?'

'Because there are such things as false oracles. Where
do you come from?'

'From? Why, from Earth.'

'Where do you believe this place to be, in that case?'

'The netherworld, of course. A place from which few
escape. But I can escape. Only I must slay you first,
Dorian Hawkmoon.'

'Something seeks to destroy me through you, Count
Brass—if Count Brass you be. I cannot begin to ex-
plain this mystery, but I believe that you think you
really are Count Brass and that I am your enemy. Per-
haps all is a lie—perhaps only part.'

A frown passed across the Count's brazen brow. 'You
confuse me. I do not understand. I was not warned of
this.'

Hawkmoon's lips were dry. He was so bewildered that
he could barely think. So many emotions moved in him
at the same time. There was grief for the memory of his
dead friend. There was hatred for whoever it was sought
to mock that memory. There was fear in case this should
be a ghost. There was sympathy, should this really be
Count Brass raised from the dead and turned into an
automaton.

He began to suspect not the Runestaff now, but the
science of the Dark Empire. This whole affair had the
stamp of the perverse genius of the scientists of Gran-
bretan. But how could they have affected it? The two
great sorcerer-scientists of the Dark Empire, Taragorm

and Kalan, were dead. There had been none to equal
them while they lived, and none to replace them when
they died.

And why did Count Brass look so much younger?
Why did he seem unaware that he possessed a daugh-
ter?

'Not warned by whom?' said Hawkmoon insistently.
If it came to a fight he knew that Count Brass could
easily defeat him. Count Brass had ever been the best
fighter in Europe. Even in late middle-age there had
been no one who could begin to match him in a man-
to-man sword engagement.

'By the oracle. And another thing puzzles me, my
enemy to be; why, if you still live, do you, too, dwell
in the netherworld?'

'This is not the netherworld. It is the land of the
Kamarg. Do you not recognize it, then—you, who were
its Lord Guardian for so many years—who helped de-
fend it against the Dark Empire? I do not think you can
be Count Brass.'

The figure raised a gauntleted hand to its brow in
a gesture of puzzlement. "Think you that? Yet we have
never met. . .'

'Not met? We have fought together in many battles.
We have saved each other's lives. I think that you are a
man who bears a resemblance to Count Brass, who has
been trapped by some sorcery or other and taught to
think that he is Count Brass—then despatched to kill
me. Perhaps some remnants of the old Dark Empire
still survive. Perhaps some of Queen Flana's subjects
still hates me. Does that idea mean anything to you?'

'No. But I know that I am Count Brass. Do not con-
fuse me further, Duke of Koln.'

'How do you know you are Count Brass? Because
you resemble him?'

'Because I am him!' The man roared. 'Dead or alive
—I am Count Brass!'

'How can you be, when you do not recognise me?
When you did not even know you had a daughter?
When you confuse this land of the Kamarg for some
supernatural netherworld? When you recall nothing of
what we went through together in the service of the
Runestaff? When you believe that I, of all people, who
loved you, whose life and dignity both were saved by
you, should have betrayed you?'

'I know nothing of the events of which you speak.
But I know of my travellings and of my battles in the
service of a score of princes—in Magyaria, Arabia,
Scandia, Slavia and the lands of the Greeks and Bulgars.
I know of my dream, which is to bring unity to the
squabbling princedoms of Europe. I know of my suc-
cesses—aye, and of my failures, too. I know of the
women I have loved, of the friends I have had—and of
the enemies I have fought. And I know, too, that you
are neither friend nor foe as yet, but will become my
most treacherous enemy. On Earth I lie dying. Here I
travel in search of the one who will finally take all I
possess, including my very life.'

'And say again who has granted you this boon?'

'Gods—supernatural beings—the oracle itself—I
know not.'

'You believe in such things?'

'I did not. Now I must, for the evidence is here.'

'I think not. I am not dead. I do not inhabit a nether-
world. I am flesh and blood and so, by the looks of it,
are you, my friend. I hated you when I first rode out to
seek you. Now I see that you are as much a victim
as am I. Return to your masters. Tell them that it is
Hawkmoon who shall be avenged—upon them!'

'By Narsha's garter, I'll not be given orders!' roared
the man in brass. His gloved right hand fell upon the
hilt of his sword. It was a gesture typical of Count
Brass. The expressions were Count Brass's too. Was
this some terrible simulacrum of the Count, invented
by Dark Empire science?

Hawkmoon was by now almost hysterical with be-
wilderment and grief.

'Very well, then,' he cried, 'let us go to it, you and I.
If you are truly Count Brass you'll have little difficulty
in slaying me. Then you will be content. And so will I,
for I could not live with people suspecting that I had be-
trayed you!'

But then the man's expression changed and became
thoughtful. 'I am Count Brass, be certain of that, Duke
of Koln. But, as for the rest, it is possible that we are
both victims of a plot. I have not merely been a soldier
in my life, but a politician, too. I know of those who
delight in turning friend against friend for their own
ends. There is a slight possibility that you speak
truth . . .'

'Well, then,' said Dorian Hawkmoon in relief, 'return
with me to Castle Brass and we will discuss what we
both know.'

The man shook his head. 'No. I cannot. I have seen
the lights of your walled city and your castle above it. I
would visit it—but there is something that stops me from
so doing—a barrier. I cannot explain what its proper-
ties are. That is why I have been forced to wait for you
in this damned marsh. I had hoped to get this business
over with swiftly, but now . ..' The man frowned again.
'For all that I am a practical man, Duke of Koln, I have
always prided myself on being a just one. I would not
slay you to fulfil some other's end—not unless I knew

what that end was, at any rate. I must consider all that
you have said. Then, if I decide that you are lying to
save your skin, I will kill you.'

'Or,' said Hawkmoon grimly, 'if you are not Count
Brass, there is a good chance that I shall kill you.'

The man smiled a familiar smile—Count Brass's
smile. 'Aye—if I am not Count Brass,' he said.

'I shall come back to the marsh at noon tomorrow,'
said Hawkmoon. 'Where shall we meet?'

'Noon? There is no noon here. No sun at all!'

'In this you do lie,' Hawkmoon laughed. 'In a few
hours it will be morning here.'

Again the man passed a gauntleted hand across his
frowning brow. 'Not for me,' he said. 'Not for me.'

This puzzled Hawkmoon all the more. 'But you have
been here for days, I heard.'

'A night—a long, perpetual night.'

'Does this fact, too, not make you believe you are the
victim of a deception?'

'It might,' said the man. He gave a deep sigh. 'Well,
come when you think. Do you see yonder ruin—on the
hillock?' He pointed with a finger of brass.

In the moonlight Hawkmoon could just make out the
shape of an old ruined building which Bowgentle had
described as being that of a Gothic church of immense
age. It had been one of Count Brass's favourite places.
He had often ridden there when he felt the need to be
alone.

'I know the ruin,' said Hawkmoon.

'Then meet me there. I shall wait as long as my
patience lasts.'

'Very well.'

'And come armed,' said the man, 'for we shall prob-
ably need to fight.'

'You are not convinced of what I have said?'

'You have said nothing very much, friend Hawk-
moon. Vague suppositions. References to people I do
not know. You think the Dark Empire is bothered with
us? It has more important matters to consider, I should
think.'

'The Dark Empire is destroyed. You helped destroy
it.'

And again the man grinned a familiar grin. 'That is
where you are deceived, Duke of Koln.' He turned his
horse and began to ride back into the night.

'Wait!' called Hawkmoon. 'What do you mean?'

But the man had begun to gallop now.

Wildly, Hawkmoon spurred his horse in pursuit.
'What do you mean?'

The horse was reluctant to go at such a pace. It
snorted and tried to pull back, but Hawkmoon spurred
the beast harder. 'Wait!'

He could just see the rider ahead, but his outline
was becoming less well-defined. Surely he could not
truly be a ghost?

'Wait!'

Hawkmoon's horse slipped in the slime. It whinnied in
fear, as if trying to warn Hawkmoon of their mutual
danger. Hawkmoon spurred the horse again. It reared.
Its hind-legs began to slip in the mud.

Hawkmoon tried to control his steed, but it was fall-
ing and taking him with it.

And then they had both plunged off the narrow marsh
road, broken through the reeds at the edge and fallen
heavily into mud which gulped greedily and tugged them
to itself. Hawkmoon tried to struggle back to the bank,
but his feet were still in his stirrups and one of his legs
was trapped beneath the bulk of his horse's floundering
body.

He stretched out and grabbed at a bunch of reeds, try-

ing to drag himself to safety, he moved a few inches
towards the path and then the reeds were wrenched free
and he fell back.

He became calm as he realised that he was being
pulled deeper and deeper into the swamp with every
panicky movement.

He reflected that if he did have enemies who wished
to see him dead he had, in his own stupidity, granted
their wish, after all.

CHAPTER THREE

A LETTER FROM QUEEN FLANA

He could not see his horse, but he could hear it.

The poor beast was snorting as the mud filled its
mouth. Its struggles had grown much weaker.

Hawkmoon had managed to free his feet from the
stirrups and his leg was no longer trapped, but now
only his arms, his head and his shoulders were above
the surface. Little by little he was slipping to his death.

He had had some notion of climbing on to the horse's
back and from there leaping to the path, but his efforts
in that direction had been entirely unsuccessful. All he
had done was push the animal a little further under.
Now the horse's breathing was ugly, muffled, painful.
Hawkmoon knew that his own breathing would soon
sound the same.

He felt completely impotent. By his own foolishness
he had got himself into this position. Far from solving
anything, he had created a further problem. And, if he
died, he knew, too, that many would say that he had
been slain by Count Brass's ghost. This would give
credence to the accusations of Czernik and the others.
It would mean that Yisselda herself would be suspected
of helping him betray her own father. At best she could
leave Castle Brass, perhaps going to live with Queen
Flana, perhaps going to Koln. It would mean that his
son Manfred would not inherit his birthright as Lord

Guardian of the Kamarg. It would mean that his daugh-
ter Yarmila would be ashamed to speak his name.

'I am a fool,' he said aloud. 'And a murderer. For I
have slain a good horse besides myself. Perhaps Czernik
was right—perhaps the Black Jewel made me do acts of
treachery I cannot now remember. Perhaps I deserve to
die.'

And then he thought he heard Count Brass ride by,
mocking him with ghostly laughter. But it was probably
only a marsh goose whose slumber had been disturbed
by a fox.

Now his left arm was being sucked down. Carefully
he raised it. Even the reeds were out of reach now.

He heard his horse give one last sigh as its head sank
beneath the mud. He saw its body heave as it sought
to draw breath. And then it was still. He watched as its
torso slipped from sight.

Now there were more ghostly voices to mock him.
Was that Yisselda's voice? The cry of a gull. And the
deeper voices of his soldiers? The bark of foxes and
marsh bears.

This deception seemed, at that moment, to be the
cruellest of all—for his own brain deceived him.

Again he was filled with a sense of irony. To have
fought for so long and so hard against the Dark Em-
pire. To have survived terrifying adventures on two
continents—only to die in ignominy, alone, in a swamp.
None would know where or how he had died. His grave
would be unmarked. There would be no statue erected
to him outside the walls of Castle Brass. Well, he
thought, it was a quiet way to die, at least.

'Dorian!'

This time the bird's cry seemed to call his name. He
called back at it, echoing it 'Dorian!'

'Dorian!'

'My Lord of Koln,' said the voice of a marsh bear.

'My Lord of Koln,' said Hawkmoon in the same tone.
Now it was completely impossible to free his left arm.
He felt the mud burying his chin. The constricting mud
against his chest made it that much harder for him to
breath. He felt dizzy. He hoped that he might become
unconscious before the mud filled his mouth.

Perhaps if he died he would find that he dwelled in
some netherworld. Perhaps he would meet Count Brass
again. And Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains. And
Huillam D'Averc. And Bowgentle, the philosopher, the
poet.

'Ah,' he said to himself, 'if I could be sure, then I
would welcome this death a little more readily. Yet,
there is still the question of my honour—and that of
Yisselda. Yisselda!'

'Dorian!' Again the bird's cry bore an uncanny re-
semblance to his wife's voice. He had heard that dying
men entertained such fancies. Perhaps for some it made
death easier, but for him it made it that much harder.

'Dorian! I thought I heard you speak. Are you near
by? What has happened.'

Hawkmoon called back to the bird. 'I am in the
marsh, my love, and I am dying. Tell them that Hawk-
moon was not a traitor. Tell them he was not a coward.
Tell them, instead, that he was a fool!'

The reeds near the bank began to rustle. Hawkmoon
looked towards them, expecting to see a fox. That would
be terrible, to be attacked even as the mud dragged him
under. He shuddered.

And then there was a human face peering at him
through the reeds. And it was a face he recognised.

'Captain?'

'My lord,' said Captain Josef Vedla. Then his face
turned away as he spoke to someone behind him. 'You

were right, my lady. He is here. And almost completely
under.' A brand flared as Vedla extended it out as far
as he could stretch, peering at Hawkmoon to see just
how far he was buried. 'Quickly, men—the rope.'

'I am pleased to see you, Captain Vedla. Is my lady
Yisselda with you, too?'

'I am, Dorian.' Her voice was tense. 'I found Captain
Vedla and he took me to the tavern where Czernik was.
It was Czernik who told us that you had ventured into
the marsh. So we gathered what men we could and came
to find you.'

'I am grateful,' said Hawkmoon, 'though I should not
have been if I had not acted so foolishly—ugh!' The
mud had reached his mouth.

A rope was flung towards him. With his free right
hand he just managed to grasp it and stick his wrist
through the loop.

'Pull away,' he said, and groaned as the noose tight-
ened on his wrist and he felt as if his arm were being
dragged from its socket.

Slowly his body emerged from the mud, which was
reluctant to give up its feast, until he was able to sit
gasping on the bank while Yisselda, careless that he
was covered in the slimy, stinking stuff from head to
toe, embraced him, sobbing. 'We thought you dead.'

'I thought myself dead,' he said. 'Instead I have killed
one of my best horses. I deserve to die.'

Captain Vedla was looking nervously about him. Un-
like the guardians who were Kamarg bred, he had never
been much attracted to the marsh, even in daylight.

'I saw the fellow who calls himself Count Brass.'
Hawkmoon addressed Captain Vedla.

'And you killed him, my lord?'

Hawkmoon shook his head. 'I think he's some play-
actor who bears a strong resemblance to Count Brass.

But he is not Count Brass—living or dead—of that I'm
almost certain. He's too young, for one thing. And he
has not been properly educated in his part. He does not
know the name of his daughter. He knows nothing of
the Kamarg. Yet, I think, there is no malice in the fel-
low. He might be mad, but more likely he's been mes-
merised into believing that he is Count Brass. Some
Dark Empire trouble-makers, I'd guess, out to discredit
me and avenge themselves at the same time.'

Vedla looked relieved. 'At least I will have some-
thing to tell the gossip-mongers,' he said. 'But this fellow
must have had a startling resemblance to the old Count
if he deceived Czernik.'

'Aye—he was everything—expressions, gestures and
so on. But there is something a little vague about his
manner—as if he is in a dream. That is what led me to
suspect that he is not, himself, acting maliciously but has
been put up to this by others.' Hawkmoon got up.

'Where is this impostor now?' Yisselda asked.

'He disappeared into the marsh. I was following him
—at too great a speed—when this happened to me.'
Hawkmoon laughed. 'I had become so worried, you
know, that I thought for a moment he really had dis-
appeared—like a ghost.'

Yisselda smiled. 'You can have my horse,' she said. 'I
will ride on your lap, as I have done more than once
before.'

And in a much relaxed mood the small party returned
to Castle Brass.

By the next morning the story of Dorian Hawkmoon's
encounter with the 'play-actor' had spread through-
out the town and among the ambassadorial guests in the
castle. It had become a joke. Everyone was relieved to
be able to laugh, to mention it without danger of giv-

ing offence to Hawkmoon. And the festivities went on,
growing wilder as the wind blew stronger. Hawkmoon,
now that he had nothing to fear for his honour, de-
cided to make the false Count Brass wait for a day or
two and this he did, throwing himself completely into
the merry-making.

But then, one morning at breakfast, while Hawkmoon
and his guests decided on their plans for that day, young
Lonson of Shkarlan came down with a letter in his
hand. The letter bore many seals and looked most im-
pressive. 'I received this today, my lord,' said Lonson.
'It came by ornithopter from Londra. It is from the
queen herself.'

'News from Londra. Splendid.' Hawkmoon accepted
the letter and began to break the seals. 'Now, Prince
Lonson, sit and break your fast while I read.'

Prince Lonson smiled and, at Yisselda's suggestion,
sat beside the lady of the castle, helping himself to a
steak from the platter before him.

Hawkmoon began to read Queen Flana's letter. There
was general news of the progress of her schemes for
farming large areas of her nation. These seemed to be
going well. Indeed, in some cases they had surpluses
which they were able to trade with Normandia and
Hanoveria, whose own farming was going well, too. But
it was towards the end of the letter that Hawkmoon
began to give it more attention.

'And so we come to the only unpleasant detail of
this letter, my dear Dorian. It seems that my
efforts to rid my country of reminders of its dark
past have not been entirely successful. Mask-wear-
ing has sprung up again. There has been some
attempt, I gather, to re-form some of the old Beast
Orders—particularly the Order of the Wolf of

which, you will recall, Baron Meliadus was Grand
Master. Some of my own agents have, upon oc-
casions, been able to disguise themselves as mem-
bers of the cult and gain entry to meetings. An
oath is sworn which might amuse you (I hope, in-
deed, that it will not disturb you!)—as well as
swearing to bring back the Dark Empire in all its
glory, to oust me from my throne and to destroy
all those loyal to me, they also swear vengeance
upon you and your family. Those who survived
the Battle of Londra, they say, must all be wiped
out. In your secure Kamarg, I doubt if you are in
much danger from a few Granbretanian dissidents,
so I advise you to continue to sleep well! I know
for certain that these secret cults are not much pop-
ular and only flourish in those parts of Londra
not yet rebuilt. The great majority of the people
—aristocrats and commoners alike—have taken
happily to rural life and to parliamentary govern-
ment. It was our old way to rule thus, when Gran-
bretan was sane. I hope that we are sane again
and that, soon, even those few pockets of insanity
will be cleansed from our society. One other pecu-
liar rumour, which my agents have been unable to
verify, is that some of the worst of the Dark Em-
pire lords are still alive somewhere and waiting
to resume their "rightful place as rulers of Gran-
bretan". I cannot believe this—it seems to be a
typical legend invented by the disinherited. There
must be a thousand heroes sleeping in caves all
over Granbretan alone, waiting to spring to some-
body's assistance when the time is ripe (why is it
never ripe, I wonder!). To be on the safe side, my
agents are trying to find the source of these ru-
mours, but several, I regret to say, have already

died as the cultists discover their true identities. It
should take several months, but I think we shall
soon be completely rid of the mask-wearers, par-
ticularly since the dark places they prefer to in-
habit are being torn down very rapidly indeed.'

'Is there disturbing news in Flana's letter?' Yisselda
asked her husband as he folded the parchment.

He shook his head. 'Not really. It just fits with some-
thing that I heard recently. She says that mask-wearing
has sprung up again in Londra.'

'But that is bound to happen for a while, surely? Is it
widespread?'

'Apparently not.'

Prince Lonson laughed. 'There is surprisingly little of
it, my lady, I assure you. Most of the ordinary people
were only too pleased to rid themselves of uncomfort-
able masks and heavy clothes. This is true, too, of the
nobility—save for the few who were members of war-
rior-castes and still survived (happily there were not
many).'

'Flana says that there are rumours of some of the
prime movers among them still being alive,' said Hawk-
moon quietly.

'Impossible. You slew Baron Meliadus himself—split,
Duke of Koln, from shoulder to groin!'

One or two of the other guests looked rather put out
by Prince Lonson's remark. He apologised profusely.
'Count Brass,' he continued, 'despatched Adaz Promp
and several more. Shenegar Trott you also slew, in
Dnark, before the Runestaff. And the others—Mikose-
vaar, Nankenseen and the rest—all are dead. Taragorm
died in an explosion and Kalan killed himself. What
others are left?'

Hawkmoon frowned. 'All I can think of are Taragorm

and Kalan,' he said. 'They are the only two whose
deaths were unwitnessed.'

'But Taragorm died in an explosion of Kalan's battle-
machine. None could have survived it.'

'You are right.' Hawkmoon smiled. 'It is silly to
speculate like this. There are better things to do.'

And again he turned his attention to the day's fes-
tivities.

But that night, he knew, he would ride out to the
nun and confront the one who called himself Count
Brass.

CHAPTER FOUR

A COMPANY OF THE DEAD

Thus it was at sunset that Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of
Koln, Lord Guardian of the Kamarg, rode out again
upon the winding marsh roads, deep into his domain,
watching the scarlet flamingoes wheel, seeing the herds
of white bulls and horned horses in the distance, like
clouds of fast-flowing smoke passing through the green
and tawny reeds, seeing the lagoons turned to pools of
blood by the red and sinking sun. Breathing the sharp
air borne by the mistral, and coming at last to a small
hill on which stood a ruin of immense age—a ruin
around which ivy, purple and amber, climbed. And
there, as the last rays of the sun died, Dorian Hawk-
moon dismounted from his horned horse and waited for
a ghost to come.

The wind tugged at his high-collared cloak. It blew
at his face and froze his lips. It made the hairs of his
horse's coat ripple like water. It keened across the
wide, flat marshlands. And, as the day animals began
to compose themselves for slumber, and before the
night animals began to merge, there fell upon the great
Kamarg a terrible stillness.

Even the wind dropped. The reeds no longer rustled.
Nothing moved.

And Hawkmoon waited on.

Much later he heard the sound of a horse's hooves on
the damp marshland ground. A muffled sound. He
reached over to his left hip and loosened his broadsword
in its scabbard. He was in armour now. Steel armour
which had been made to fit every contour of his body.
He brushed hair from his eyes and adjusted his plain
helm—as plain as Count Brass's own. He threw back
the cloak from his shoulders so that it should not en-
cumber his movements.

But there was more than one horseman approaching.
He listened carefully. The moon was full tonight but the
riders came from the other side of the ruin and he could
see nothing of them. He counted. Four horsemen, by the
sound of it. So—the impostor had brought allies. It had
been a trap, after all. Hawkmoon sought cover. The only
cover was in the ruin itself. Cautiously he moved
towards it, clambering over the old, worn stones until he
was certain that he was hidden from anyone who came
from either side of the hill. Only the horse betrayed
his presence.

The riders came up the hill. He could see them now,
in silhouette. They rode their horses straight-backed.
There was a pride in their stance. Who could they be?

Hawkmoon saw a glint of brass and knew that one
of them was the false Count. But the other three wore
no distinctive armour. They reached the top of the
hill and saw his horse.

He heard the voice of Count Brass calling:

'Duke von Koln?'

Hawkmoon did not reply.

He heard another voice. A languid voice. 'Perhaps he
has gone to relieve himself in yonder ruin?'

And, with a shock, Hawkmoon recognised that voice
too.

It was the voice of Huillam D'Averc. Dead D'Averc,
who had died so ironically in Londra.

He saw the figure approach, a handkerchief in one
hand, and he recognised the face, too. It was D'Averc's.
Then Hawkmoon knew, terrifyingly, who the other two
riders were.

'Wait for him. He said he'd come, did he not, Count
Brass?' Bowgentle was speaking now.

'Aye. He said so.'

'Then I hope he hurries, for this wind bites even
through my thick pelt.' Oladahn's voice.

And Hawkmoon knew then that this was a nightmare,
whether he slept or whether he was awake. It was the
most painful experience of his life to see those who so
closely resembled his dead friends walking and talking
as they had walked and talked in each other's company
some five years since. Hawkmoon would have given his
own life if it would have brought them back, but he
knew that it was impossible. No kind of resurrection
drug could revive one who, like Oladahn of the Bulgar
Mountains, had been torn to pieces and those pieces
scattered. And there were no signs of wounds on the
others, either.

'I shall catch a chill, that's certain—and die a second
time, perhaps.' This was D'Averc, typically thoughtful
for his own health, which was as robust as anyone's.
Were these ghosts?

'What has brought us together, I wonder,' mused
Bowgentle. 'And to such a bleak and sunless world?
We met once, I believe, Count Brass—at Rouen, was it
not? At the Court of Hanal the White?'

'I believe so.'

'By the sound of him, this Duke of Koln is worse
than Hanal for indiscriminate bloodletting. The only
thing we have in common, as far as I can tell, is that

we shall all die by his hand if we do not kill him now. Yet, it is hard to believe . . .'

'He suggested that we were the victims of a plot, as
I told you,' said Count Brass. 'It could be true.'

'We are victims of something, that's certain,' said
D'Averc, blowing his nose delicately upon his lacey
handkerchief. 'But I agree that it would be best to dis-
cuss the matter with our murderer before we despatch
him. What if we kill him and nothing comes of it—we
remain in this dreadful, gloomy place for eternity—with
him as a companion, for he'll be dead, too.'

'How did you come to die?' Oladahn asked almost
conversationally.

'A sordid death—a mixture of greed and jealousy
was my undoing. The greed was mine. The jealousy an-
other's.'

'You intrigue us all,' laughed Bowgentle.

'A mistress of mine was, it happened, married to an-
other gentleman. She was a splendid cook—her range of
recipes was incredible, my friends, both at the stove
and in the bed, if you follow me. Well, I was staying
with her for a week while her husband was away at
Court—this was in Hanoveria where I myself had busi-
ness at the time. The week was splendid, but it came to
an end, for her husband was due to return that night.
To console me, my mistress cooked a splendid supper. A
triumph! She never cooked a better. There were snails
and soups and goulashes and little birds in exquisite
sauces and souffles—well, I see I discomfort you and I
apologise . . . The meal, in short, was superb. I had
more than is good for one of my delicate health and
then I begged my mistress while there was still time to
favour me with her company in bed for just one short
hour, since her husband was not due back for two.
With some reluctance she agreed. We fell into bed. We

rounded off the meal in ecstasy. We fell asleep. So fast
asleep, I might add, that we were only awakened by
her husband shaking us awake!'

'And he killed you, eh?' said Oladahn.

'In a manner of speaking. I leapt up. I had no sword.
I had no cause to kill him, either, of course, since he
was the injured party (and I've a strong sense of jus-
tice). Up I jumped and out of the window I dashed.
No clothes. Lots of rain. Five miles back to my own
lodgings. Result, of course, pneumonia.'

Oladahn laughed and the sound of his merriment was
agonising to Hawkmoon. 'Of which you died?'

'Of which, to be accurate, if that peculiar oracle is
correct, I am dying, while my spirit sits on a windy hill
and is no better off, it seems!' D'Averc went to shelter
beside the ruin and was not five feet from where Hawk-
moon crouched. 'How did you come to die, my friend?'

'I fell off a rock.'

'A high one?'

'No—about ten feet.'

'And it killed you?'

'No, it was the bear that killed me. It was waiting
below.'

Again Oladahn laughed.

And again Hawkmoon felt a pang of pain.

'I died of the Scandian plague,' said Bowgentle. 'Or
am to die of it.'

'And I in battle against King Orson's elephants in
Tarkia,' put in the one who believed himself to be Count
Brass.

And Hawkmoon was reminded most strongly of ac-
tors preparing themselves for their parts. He would have
believed they were actors, too, had it not been for their
speech inflections, their gestures, their ways of ex-

pressing themselves. There were slight differences, but
none to make Hawkmoon suspect these were not his
friends. Yet, just as Count Brass had not known him,
so these did not know each other.

Some idea of the possible truth was beginning to
dawn on Hawkmoon as he emerged from hiding and
confronted them.

'Good evening, gentlemen.' He bowed. 'I am Dorian
Hawkmoon von Koln. I know you Oladahn—and you
Bowgentle—and you D'Averc—and we've met already
Count Brass. Are you here to slay me?'

'To discuss if we should,' said Count Brass, seating
himself upon a flat rock. 'Now I regard myself as a
reasonable judge of men. In fact I'm an exceptionally
good judge, or I should not have survived this long.
And I do not believe, Dorian Hawkmoon, that you have
much treachery in you. Even in a situation which might
justify such treachery—or which you would consider
as justifying treachery—I doubt if you would be a
traitor. And that is what disturbs me about this situa-
tion. Secondly, all four of us are known to you but we
do not know you. Thirdly we appear to be the only four
sent to this particular netherworld and that is a coin-
cidence I mistrust. Fourthly we were each told a similar
story—that you would betray us at some future date.
Now, assuming that this, itself, is a future date where all
five of us have met and become friends, what does that
suggest to you?'

'That you are all from my past!' said Hawkmoon.
'That is why you look younger to me, Count Brass—
and you, Bowgentle—and you, Oladahn—and you, too,
D'Averc . . .'

'Thank you,' said D'Averc sardonically.

'Which means that none of us died in the way we

think we died—in battle at Tarkia, in my case—of sick-
ness in the castle of Bowgentle and D'Averc—attacked
by a bear in the case of Oladahn, here . ..'

'Exactly,' said Hawkmoon, 'for I met you all later
and you were all very much alive. But I remember
you telling me, Oladahn, how once you were nearly
killed by a bear—and you told me how close you came
to death in Tarkia, Count Brass—and, Bowgentle, I
remember some mention of the Scandian plague.'

'And I?' asked D'Averc with interest.

'I forget, D'Averc—for your illnesses tended to run
into each other and I never saw you anything but in
the best of health . ..'

'Ah! Am I to be cured, then?'

Hawkmoon ignored D'Averc and continued. 'So this
means you are not going to die—though you, your-
selves, think that you might. Whoever is deceiving us
wants you to think that it is by their efforts that you'll
survive.'

'Much what I worked out.' Count Brass nodded.

'But that's as far as my logic leads me,' said Hawk-
moon, 'for a paradox is involved here—why, when we
did (or do) meet, did we not remember this particular
meeting?'

'We must find our villains and ask them that ques-
tion, I think,' said Bowgentle. 'Of course, I have studied
something of the nature of time. Such paradoxes, ac-
cording to one school of thought, would necessarily re-
solve themselves—memories would be wiped clean of
anything which contradicted the normal experience of
time. The brain, in short, would sponge out anything
which was apparently inconsistent. However, there are
certain aspects of that line of reasoning with which I
am not wholly happy . . .'

'Perhaps we could discuss the philosophical implica-

tions at some other time, Sir Bowgentle,' said Count
Brass gruffly.

'Time and philosophy are but one subject, Count
Brass. And only philosophy may easily discuss the
nature of time.'

'Perhaps. But there is the other matter—the possibil-
ity that we are being manipulated by malicious men
who are somehow able to control time. How do we
reach them and what do we do when we do reach
them?'

'I remember something concerning crystals,' mused
Hawkmoon, 'which transported men through alternate
dimensions of the Earth. I wonder if these crystals, or
something like them, are being used again?'

'I know nothing of crystals,' said Count Brass, and
the other three agreed that they knew nothing, either.

'There are other dimensions, you see,' Hawkmoon
went on. 'And it could be that there are dimensions
where live men almost identical to men living in this
dimension. We found a Kamarg that was not dissimilar
to this. I wonder if that is the answer. Yet, still not
quite the answer.'

'I barely follow you,' growled Count Brass. 'You be-
gin to sound like this sorcerer fellow . . .'

'Philosopher,' corrected Bowgentle, 'and poet.'

'Aye, it's complicated thinking that's involved if we're
to get closer to the truth,' said Hawkmoon. He told them
the story of Elvereza Tozer and the Crystal Rings of
Mygan—how they had been used to transport himself
and D'Averc through the dimensions, across seas—per-
haps through time itself. And since they all had played
parts in this drama, Hawkmoon felt the strangeness of
the situation—for he spoke familiarly of them as his
friends—and he referred to events which were to take
place in their future. And when he was finished they

seemed convinced that he had produced a likely expla-
nation for their present situation. Hawkmoon remem-
bered, too, the Wraith-folk, those gentle people who had
given him a machine which had helped lift Castle Brass
from its own space-time into another, safer space-time
when Baron Meliadus attacked them. Perhaps if he were
to travel to Soryandum in the Syranian Desert he might
again enlist the help of the Wraith-folk. He put this to
his friends.

'Aye, an idea worth trying,' said Count Brass. 'But
in the meantime we're still in the grip of whomever put
us here in the first place—and we've no explanation of
how they've accomplished that or, for that matter, ex-
actly why they have done it.'

'This oracle you spoke of,' said Hawkmoon. 'Where
is it? Can you tell me exactly what happened to you—
after you "died"?'

'I found myself in this land, with all my wounds
healed and my armour repaired . . .'

The others agreed that this was what happened to
them.

'With a horse and with food to last me for a good
while—though unpalatable stuff it is.'

'And the oracle?'

'A sort of speaking pyramid about the height of a
man—glowing—diamond-like—hovering above the
ground. It appears and vanishes at will, it seems. It
told me all that I told you when we first met. I assumed
it to be supernatural in origin—though it went against
all my previous beliefs . . .'

'It is probably of mortal origin,' said Hawkmoon.
'Either the word of some sorcerer-scientist such as those
who once worked for the Dark Empire—or else some-
thing which our ancestors invented before the Tragic
Millennium.'

'I've heard of such,' agreed Count Brass. 'And I pre-
fer that explanation. It suits my temperament more, I
must admit.'

'Did it offer to restore you to life once I was slain?'
Hawkmoon asked.

'Aye—that's it, in short.'

'That's what it told me,' said D'Averc, and the others
nodded.

'Well, perhaps we should confront this machine, if
machine it be, and see what happens?' Bowgentle sug-
gested.

'There is another mystery, however,' Hawkmoon said.
'Why is it that you are in perpetual night in the Kamarg,
whereas, for me, the days pass normally?'

'A splendid conundrum,' said D'Averc in some de-
light. 'Perhaps we should ask it. After all, if this is Dark
Empire work, they could hardly seek to harm me—I am
a friend of Granbretan!'

And Hawkmoon smiled a private smile.

'You are at present, Huillam D'Averc.'

'Let's make a plan,' said Count Brass practically.
'Shall we set off now to see if we can find the diamond
pyramid?'

'Wait for me here,' said Hawkmoon. 'I must return
home first. I will be back before dawn—this is, in a few
hours. Will you trust me?'

'I'd rather trust a man than a crystal pyramid,' smiled Count Brass.

Hawkmoon walked to where his horse grazed. He
lifted himself into his saddle.

As he rode away from the little hill, leaving the four
men behind him, he forced himself to think as clearly
as was possible, trying to avoid considering the para-
doxical implications of what he had learned this night
and to concentrate on what was likely to have created

the situation. There were two possibilities, in his ex-
perience, as to what was at work here—the Runestaff
on the one hand and the Dark Empire on the other. But
it could be neither—some other force. Yet the only
other people with great scientific resources were the
Wraith-folk of Soryandum and it seemed unlikely that
they would concern themselves with the affairs of others.
Besides, only the Dark Empire would want him de-
stroyed—by one or all of his now-dead friends. It was
an irony which would have suited their perverse minds.
Yet—the fact came back to him—all the great leaders
of the old Dark Empire were dead. But then so were
Count Brass, Oladahn, Bowgentle and D'Averc dead.

Hawkmoon drew a deep breath of cold air into his
lungs as the town of Aigues-Mortes came in sight. The
thought had already come to him that perhaps even this
was a complicated trap and that soon he, too, might be
dead.

And that was why he rode back to Castle Brass, to
take his leave of his wife, to kiss his children and to
write a letter which should be opened if he did not
return.

BOOK TWO

OLD ENEMIES

CHAPTER ONE
A SPEAKING PYRAMID

Hawkmoon's heart was heavy as he rode away from
Castle Brass for the third time. The pleasure he felt at
seeing his old friends again was mixed with the painful
knowledge that, in one sense, they were ghosts. He had
seen them dead, all of them. Also these men were
strangers. Whereas he recalled conversations, adventures
and events they had shared, they knew nothing of these
things; they did not know each other, even. Hanging
over everything was the knowledge that they would die,
in their own futures, and that his being reunited with
them might last only a few more hours, whereupon they
might be snatched away again by whomever or what-
ever was manipulating them. It was even possible that
when he returned to the ruin on the hill they would al-
ready be gone.

That was why he had told Yisselda as little of the
night's occurrences as possible, merely letting her know
that he must go away, to seek the source of whatever
it was that threatened him. The rest he had put in the
letter so that, if he did not return, she would learn all
of the truth that he knew at this stage. He had not men-
tioned Bowgentle, D'Averc and Oladahn and had made
it plain to her that he considered Count Brass an im-
postor. He did not want her to share the burden which
now lay upon his shoulders.

There were still several hours to go before dawn when
he at last reached the hill and saw that four men and
four horses waited for him there. He reached the ruin
and dismounted. The four came towards him out of the
shadows and for an instant he believed that he was
really in a netherworld, in the company of the dead,
but he dismissed this morbid thought and said, instead:

'Count Brass, something puzzles me.'

The Count all clad in brass inclined his brazen head.
'And what is that?'

'When we parted—at our first meeting—I told you
that the Dark Empire was destroyed. You told me that
it was not. This puzzled me so much that I attempted
to follow you but, instead, stumbled into the marsh.
What did you mean? Do you know more than you
have told me?'

'I spoke only the simple truth. The Dark Empire
grows in strength. It extends its boundaries.'

And then something became clear to Hawkmoon and
he laughed. 'In what year was the battle of which you
spoke—in Tarkia?'

'Why, this year. The sixty-seventh Year of the Bull.'

'No, you are wrong,' said Bowgentle. 'This is the
eighty-first Year of the Rat . . .'

'The ninetieth Year of the Frog,' said D'Averc.

'The seventy-fifth Year of the Goat,' Oladahn con-
tradicted.

'You are all wrong,' said Hawkmoon. 'This year—
the year in which we are now as we stand upon this
hillock—is the eighty-ninth Year of the Rat. There-
fore, to you all the Dark Empire still thrives, has not
even begun to show her full strength. But to me, the
Empire is over—pulled down primarily by we four. Now
do you see why I suspect that we are the objects of Dark
Empire vengeance? Either some Dark Empire sorcerer

has looked into the future and seen what we did, or
else some sorcerer has escaped the doom we brought
to the Beast Lords and is now trying to repay us for
the injury we did to them. The five of us came together
some six years ago, to serve the Runestaff, of which
you have all doubtless heard, against the Dark Empire.
We were successful in our mission, but four died to
achieve that success—you four. Save for the Wraith-folk
of Soryandum, who take no interest in human affairs,
the only ones capable of manipulating Time are the
Dark Empire sorcerers.'

'I have often thought that I should like to know how
I was to die,' said Count Brass, 'but now I am not so
sure.'

'We have only your word, friend Hawkmoon,' said
D'Averc. 'There are still many mysteries unsolved—
among them the fact that if all this is taking place in our
future, why did we not recall having met you before
when we did meet?' He raised his eyebrows and then
began to cough into his handkerchief.

Bowgentle smiled. 'I have already explained the
theory concerning this seeming paradox. Time does not
necessarily flow in a linear motion. It is our minds which
perceive it flowing in this way. Pure Time might even
have a random nature . . .'

'Yes, yes,' said Oladahn. 'Somehow, good Sir Bow-
gentle, you have a way of confusing me further with
your explanations.'

'Then let us just say that Time might not be what we
think it to be,' said Count Brass. 'And we've some proof
of that, after all, for we do not need to believe Duke
Dorian—we have certain knowledge that we were all
wrenched from different years and stand together now.
Whether we're in the future or the past, its clear we
are in different time-periods to those we left behind.

And, of course, this does help to support Duke Dorian's
suggestions and to contradict what the pyramid told
us.'

'I support that logic, Count Brass,' Bowgentle agreed.
'Both intellectually and emotionally I am inclined to
throw in my lot, for the moment, with Duke Dorian. I
am not sure what I would have done, anyway, had I
planned to kill him, for it goes against all my beliefs to
take the life of another being.'

'Well, if you two are convinced,' said D'Averc yawn-
ing, 'I am prepared to be. I never was a judge of char-
acter. I rarely knew where my real interests lay. As an
architect my work, grandly ambitious and minutely
paid, was always done for some princeling who was
promptly dethroned. His successor never seemed to
favour my work—and I had usually insulted the fellow,
anyway. As a painter I chose patrons who were in-
clined to die before they could begin seriously to sup-
port me. That is why I became a freelance diplomat—
to learn more of the ways of politics before I returned
to my old professions. As yet I do not feel I have
learned anything like enough . . .'

'Perhaps that is because you prefer to listen to your
own voice,' said Oladahn gently. 'Had not we better
set off to seek the pyramid, gentlemen?' He hefted his
quiver of arrows on his back and unstrung his bow to
loop it over his shoulder. 'After all, we do not know
how much time we have left.'

'You are right. When dawn comes I might see you all
vanish,' Hawkmoon said. 'I should like to know how
the days pass normally for me, in their proper cycle,
while for you it is eternal night.' He returned to his
horse and climbed into the saddle. He had saddle-
panniers now, full of food. And there were two lances
in a scabbard slung at the back of his saddle. The tall

horned stallion he rode was the best horse in the stables
of Castle Brass. It was called Brand because its eyes
flashed like fire.

The others went to their own horses and mounted.
Count Brass pointed down the hillock to the south.
'There's a hellish sea yonder—uncrossable I was told.
It is to its shore we must go and on that shore we shall
see the oracle.'

'The sea is only the sea into which flows the Rhone,'
said Hawkmoon mildly. 'Called by some the Middle
Sea.'

Count Brass laughed. 'A sea I have crossed a hun-
dred times. I hope you are right, friend Hawkmoon—
and I suspect that you are. Oh, I look forward to
matching swords with the ones who deceive us!'

'Let us hope that they give us the opportunity,' drily
said D'Averc. 'For I've a feeling—and, of course, I'm
not the judge of men that you are, Count Brass—that
we shall have little opportunity for swordplay when
dealing with our foes. Their weapons are likely to be a
little more sophisticated.'

Hawkmoon indicated the tall lances protruding from
the rear of his saddle. 'I have two flame-lances here, for
I anticipated the same situation.'

'Well, flame-lances are better than nothing,' agreed
D'Averc, but he still looked sceptical.

'I have never much favoured sorcerous weapons,' said
Oladahn with a suspicious glance at the lances. 'They
are inclined to bring stronger forces against those who
wield them."

'You are superstitious, Oladahn. Flame-lances are not
the products of supernatural sorcery, but of the science
which flourished before the coming of the Tragic Millen-
nium.' Bowgentle spoke kindly.

'Aye,' said Oladahn. 'I think that proves my point,
Master Bowgentle.'

Soon the dark sea could be seen glinting ahead.

Hawkmoon felt his stomach muscles tighten as he
anticipated the encounter with the mysterious pyramid
which had tried to get his friends to kill him.

But the shore, when they reached it, was empty save
for a few clumps of seaweed, some tufts of grass grow-
ing on sandhills, the surf which lapped the beach. Count
Brass took them to where he had erected an awning of
his cloak behind a sandhill. Here was his food and some
of the equipment he had left behind when he set out to
meet Hawkmoon. On the way the four had told Hawk-
moon how they had come to meet, each, at first, mis-
taking another for Hawkmoon and challenging him.

'This is where it appears, when it appears,' Count
Brass said. 'I suggest you hide in yonder patch of reeds,
Duke Dorian. Then I'll tell the pyramid that we have
killed you and we'll see what happens.'

'Very well.' Hawkmoon unshipped the flame-lances
and led his horse into the cover of the tall reeds. From
a distance he saw the four men talking for a while and
then he heard Count Brass's great voice calling out:

'Oracle! Where are you? You may release me now.
The deed is done! Hawkmoon is dead.'

Hawkmoon wondered if the pyramid, or those who
manipulated it, had any means of testing the truth of
Count Brass's words. Did they peer into the whole of
this world or merely a part of it. Did they have human
spies working for them?

'Oracle!' called Count Brass again. 'Hawkmoon is
dead by my hand!'

It seemed to Hawkmoon then that they had entirely
failed to deceive the so-called oracle. The mistral con-

tinued to howl across the lagoons and the marshes. The
sea whipped at the shore. Grass and reeds waved. Dawn
was fast approaching. Soon the first grey light would
begin to appear and then his friends might vanish alto-
gether.

'Oracle! Where are you?'

Something flickered, but it was probably only a
wind-borne firefly. Then it flickered again, in the same
place, in the air just above Count Brass's head.

Hawkmoon slipped a flame-lance into his hand and
felt for the stud which, when pressed, would discharge
ruby fire.

'Oracle!'

An outline appeared, white and tenuous. This was
the source of the flickering light. It was the outline of
a pyramid. And within the pyramid was a fainter
shadow which was gradually obscured as the outline
began to fill in.

And then a diamond-like pyramid about the height of
a man was hovering above Count Brass's head and to
his right.

Hawkmoon strained both ears and eyes as the pyra-
mid began to speak.

'You have done well, Count Brass. For this we will
send you and your companions back to the world of the
living. Where is Hawkmoon's corpse.'

Hawkmoon was astonished. He had recognised the
voice from the pyramid but he could hardly believe it.

'Corpse?' Count Brass was nonplussed. 'You did not
speak of his corpse? Why should you? You work in my
interest, not I in yours. That is what you told me.'

'But the corpse . . .' The voice was almost pettish
now.

'Here is the corpse, Kalan of Vitall!' And Hawkmoon

rose from the reeds and strode towards the pyramid.
'Show yourself to me, coward. So you did not kill your-
self, after all. Well, let me help you now . . .' And, in
his anger, he pressed the stud of the flame-lance and the
red fire leapt out from the ruby tip and splashed against
the pulsing pyramid so that it howled and then it whined
and then it whimpered and became transparent so that
the cringing creature within could be seen by all of
the five who watched.

'Kalan!' Hawkmoon recognised the Dark Empire sci-
entist. 'I guessed it must be you. None saw you die. All
thought that the pool of matter left on the floor of your
laboratory must be your remains. But you deceived us!'

'It is too hot!' screamed Kalan. 'This machine is a
delicate thing. You'll destroy it.'

'Should I care?'

'Aye—the consequences . . . They would be ter-
rible.'

But Hawkmoon continued to play the ruby fire over
the pyramid and Kalan continued to cringe and to
scream.

'How did you make these poor fellows think it was a
netherworld they inhabited. How did you make it per-
petual night for them?'

Kalan wailed: 'How do you think? I merely made a
split-second of their days so that they did not even notice
the sun's passing. I speeded up their days and I slowed
down their nights.'

'And how did you make the barrier which meant
they could not reach Castle Brass or the town?'

'Just as easy. Ah! Ah! Every time they reached the
walls of the city, I shifted them back a few minutes so
that they might never quite reach the walls. These were
crude skills—but I warn you, Hawkmoon, the machine

is not crude—it is hyperdelicate. It could go out of
control and destroy us all.'

'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,' Hawk-
moon 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?' Ola-
dahn 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 Bow-
gentle. '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 thought-
fully. '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 dis-
guise 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 saddle-
bags. '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 sea-
port 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 sea-
men 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 stud-
ded 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 for
a large room in which they might all stay for a night
while one of them went down to the quayside to en-
quire about a ship.

It was Hawkmoon, who had been growing a beard as
they travelled, who elected to make the necessary en-
quiries 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 morn-
ing. He was willing to take passengers and charged a
reasonable fee. He was not going to Hornus but to Beh-
ruk 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 re-
minded him. It was something like the Throne-Globe
of the King-Emperor Huon—the thing which had sup-
ported the life of that incredibly ancient homunculus be-
fore 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 is-
land 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 the 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 re-
ligious 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 passen-
gers, 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. Star-
ing 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 out-
side 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 be-

side 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 ma-
terial 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 sub-
stance 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, grin-
ning 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 Hawk-
moon 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 in-
tense. 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 well-
known. 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, fol-
lowing the Euphrates as it wound through great sand-
dunes, 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 pour-
ing 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 re-
mained there through the night until the next morning
when Hawkmoon dragged himself to his feet 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 Soryan-
dum 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 by
now.'

'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 foot-
hills of the mountains at the foot of which had lain
Soryandum.

But he could not see the ruined city of the Wraith-
folk. 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 be-
hind 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 vio-
lence—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 fac-
tor in the future of Europe. And, as well as being de-
ceived into acting against your better interests, you will
be slain. Kill Hawkmoon now and . . .'

'Kill me, then!' Hawkmoon stood up, impatient with
Kalan's cunning. 'Kill me yourself, Kalan. Why can't
you?'

The pyramid continued to hover over the heads of the
three men as Hawkmoon looked down upon it from
the dune.

'And why would killing me now make all that has
gone before different, Kalan? Your logic is either very
bad, or else you have not told us all that you should!'

'You grow boring, besides,' said Huillam D'Averc.
He drew his slim sword from its scabbard. 'And I am
very thirsty and tired, Baron Kalan. I think I will try
my luck against you, for there's precious little else to do
in this desert!'

And suddenly he had leaped forward, stabbing and
stabbing again with his foil, the steel passing into the
white material of the pyramid.

Kalan screamed as if wounded. 'Look to your own
interest, D'Averc—it lies with me!'

D'Averc laughed and passed his sword again into the
pyramid.

And again Kalan shouted. 'I warn you, D'Averc—
if you make me, I shall rid this world of you!'

'This world has nothing to offer. And it does not want
me haunting it, either. I think I'll find your heart,
Baron Kalan, if I continue to search.'

He stabbed once more.

Kalan shouted once more.

Hawkmoon cried: 'D'Averc, be careful!' He began to
run and slide down the dune, trying to reach the flame-
lance. But D'Averc had vanished, silently, before he
had got halfway to the weapon.

'D'Averc!' Hawkmoon's voice had a baying quality,
a mournful quality. 'D'Averc!'

'Be silent, Hawkmoon,' said Kalan's voice from the
glowing pyramid. 'Listen to me, you others. Kill him
now—or D'Averc's fate shall be yours.'

'It does not seem a particularly terrible fate.' Count
Brass smiled.

Hawkmoon picked up the flame-lance. Kalan could
obviously see through the pyramid for he screamed.
'Oh, you are crude, Hawkmoon. But you shall die yet.'

And the pyramid faded and was gone.

Count Brass looked about him, a sardonic expres-
sion on his bronzed face. 'Should we find Soryandum,'
he said, 'it could come to pass that there'll be nothing
of us to find in Soryandum. Our ranks are reducing
swiftly, friend Hawkmoon.'

Hawkmoon gave a deep sigh. 'To lose good friends
twice over is hard to bear. You cannot understand that.
Oladahn and D'Averc were strangers to you as was I
a stranger to them. But they were old, dear friends to
me.'

Bowgentle put a hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder. 'I
can understand,' he said. 'This business is harder on you
than it is on us, Duke Dorian. For all that we are be-
wildered—tugged from our times, given omens of death
on all sides, discovering peculiar machines which order
us to kill strangers—you are sad. And grief could be
called the most weakening of all the emotions. It robs
you of will when you most need your will.'

'Aye,' Hawkmoon sighed again. He flung down the
flame-lance. 'Well,' he said, 'I have found Soryandum—
or, at least, the hills in which Soryandum lies. We can
get there by nightfall, I'd guess.'

'Then let us hurry on to Soryandum,' said Count
Brass. He brushed sand from his face and his moustache.
'With luck we shall not see Baron Kalan and his
damned pyramid for a few days yet. And by that time
we might have gone a stage or two further towards solv-
ing this mystery.' He slapped Hawkmoon on the back.
'Come, lad. Mount up. You never know—perhaps this
will all end well. Perhaps you'll see your other friends
again.'

Hawkmoon smiled bitterly. 'I have the feeling I'll be
lucky if I ever see my wife and children again, Count
Brass.'

CHAPTER FOUR

A FURTHER ENCOUNTER WITH ANOTHER

OLD ENEMY

But there was no Soryandum in the green foothills bor-
dering the Syranian desert. They found water. They
found the outline which marked the area of the city, but
the city had gone. Hawkmoon had seen it go, when
threatened by the Dark Empire. Plainly the people of
Soryandum had been wise, judging that the threat was
not yet over. Wiser, Hawkmoon thought sardonically,
than he. So, after all, their journey had been for nothing.
There was only one other faint hope—that the cave of
machines from which, years before, he had taken the
crystal machines, was still intact. Miserably he led his
two companions deep into the hills until Soryandum was
several miles behind them.

'It seems that I have led you on a useless quest, my
friends,' Hawkmoon told Bowgentle and Count Brass.
'And, moreover, offered you a false hope.'

'Perhaps not,' said Bowgentle thoughtfully. 'It could
be that the machines remain intact and that I, who have
some slight experience of such things, might be able to
see a use for them.'

Count Brass was ahead of the other two, striding in
his armour of brass, up the steep hill to stand on the
brow and peer into the valley below.

'Is this your cave?' he called.

Hawkmoon and Bowgentle joined him. 'Aye—that's

the cliff,' said Hawkmoon. A cliff which looked as if a
giant sword had sheared a hill in two. And there, some
distance to the south, he saw the cairn of granite,
made from the stone sliced from the hill to make the
cave in which the weapons were stored. And there was
the cave opening, a narrow slit in the cliff face. It
looked undisturbed. Hawkmoon's spirits began to rise a
little.

He went faster down the hill. 'Come, then,' he called,
'let's hope the treasures are intact!'

But there was something that Hawkmoon had for-
gotten in his confusion of thoughts and emotions. He
had forgotten that the ancient technology of the Wraith-
folk had had a guardian. A guardian that he and Ola-
dahn had fought once before and had failed to destroy.
A guardian that D'Averc had only just managed to es-
cape from, A guardian that could not be reasoned with.
And Hawkmoon wished that they had not left their
camels resting at the site of Soryandum, for all he
wished for now was a chance to flee swiftly.

'What is that sound?' asked Count Brass as a pe-
culiar, muted wailing came from the crack in the cliff.
'Do you recognise it, Hawkmoon?'

'Aye,' said Hawkmoon miserably. 'I recognise it. It is
the cry of the machine-beast—the mechanical creature
which guards the caves. I had assumed it destroyed but
now it will destroy us, I fear.'

'We have swords,' said Count Brass.

Hawkmoon laughed wildly. 'We have swords, aye!'

'And there are three of us,' Bowgentle pointed out.
'All cunning men.'

'Aye.'

The wailing increased as the beast scented them.

'We have only one advantage, however,' said Hawk-
moon softly. 'The beast is blind. Our only chance is to

scatter and run, making for Soryandum and our camels.
There my flame-lance might prove effective for a short
while.'

'Run?' Count Brass looked disgruntled. He drew his
great sword and stroked his red moustache. 'I have
never fought a mechanical beast before. I do not care
to run, Hawkmoon.'

'Then die—perhaps for the third time!' Hawkmoon
shouted in frustration. 'Listen to me Count Brass—you
know I am not a coward—if we are to survive, we
must get back to our camels before the beast catches us.
Look!'

And the blind machine-beast emerged from the open-
ing in the cliff, its huge head casting about for the
source of the sounds and the scents it hated.

'Nion!' hissed Count Brass. 'It is a large beast.'

It was at least twice the size of Count Brass. Down
the length of its back was a row of razar-sharp horns.
Its metal scales were multicoloured and half-blinded
them as it began to hop towards them. It had short hind-
legs and long fore-legs which ended in metal talons.
Roughly of the proportions of a large gorilla, it had
multi-faceted eyes which had been broken in a previous
fight with Hawkmoon and Oladahn. As it moved, it
clashed. Its voice was metallic and made their teeth
ache. Its smell, coming to them even from that dis-
tance, was also metallic.

Hawkmoon tugged at Count Brass's arm. 'Please,
Count Brass, I beg you. This is not the right ground on
which to choose to make a stand.'

This logic appealed to Count Brass. 'Aye,' he said, 'I
can see that. Very well, we'll make for the flat ground
again. Will it follow us?'

'Oh, of that you can be certain!'

And then, in three slightly different directions, the

companions began to ran back towards the site of
Soryandum as fast as they could before the beast de-
cided which of them it would follow.

Their camels could smell the machine-beast, that was
evident as they came panting back to where they had
tethered their animals. The camels were tugging at
the ropes which had been pegged to the ground. Their
ugly heads reared, their mouths and nostrils twisted,
their eyes rolled and their hooves thumped nervously
at the barren ground.

Again the wailing shriek of the machine-beast echoed
through the hills behind them.

Hawkmoon handed a flame-lance to Count Brass, 'I
doubt if these will have much effect, but we must try
them.'

Count Brass grumbled. 'I'd have preferred a hand to hand engagement with the thing.'

'That could still happen,' Hawkmoon told him with
grim humour.

Hopping, waddling, running on all fours, the mighty
metal beast emerged over the nearest hill, pausing as,
again, it sought their scent—perhaps it even heard the
sound of their heartbeats.

Bowgentle. positioned himself behind his friends, for
he had no flame-lance. 'I am beginning to become tired
of dying,' he said with a smile. 'Is that the fate of the
dead, then? To die again and again through uncount-
able incarnations? It is not an appealing conception.'

'Now!' Hawkmoon said, and pressed the stud of his
flame-lance. At the same time Count Brass activated his
lance.

Ruby fire struck the mechanical beast and it snorted.
Its scales glowed and in places became white hot, but
the heat did not seem to have any effect upon the beast
at all. It did not notice the flame-lances. Shaking his

head, Hawkmoon switched off his lance and Count
Brass did the same. It would be stupid to use up the
lances' power.

'There is only one way to deal with such a monster,'
said Count Brass.

'And what is that?'

'It would have to be lured into a pit.. .'

'But we do not have a pit,' Bowgentle pointed out,
nervously eyeing the creature as it began to hop nearer.

'Or a cliff,' said Count Brass. 'If it could be tricked
to fall over a cliff . . .'

'There is no cliff near by,' Bowgentle said patiently.

'Then we shall perish, I suppose,' said Count Brass
with a shrug of his brazen shoulders. And then, before
they could guess at what he planned, he had drawn his
great broadsword and with a wild battle-yell was rush-
ing upon the machine-beast—seemingly a man of metal
attacking a monster of metal.

The monster roared. It stopped and it reared upon
its hindquarters, its taloned paws slashing here and
there at random, making the very air whistle.

Count Brass ducked beneath the claws and aimed a
blow at the thing's midriff. His sword clanged on its
scales and clanged again. Then Count Brass had jumped
back, out of the reach of those slashing talons, bringing
his sword down upon the great wrist as it passed him.

Hawkmoon joined him now, battering at one of the
creature's legs with his own sword. And Bowgentle, able
to forget his dislike of killing where this mechanical
thing was concerned, tried to drive his blade up into
the machine-beast's face, only to have the metal jaws
close on the sword and snap it off cleanly.

'Get back, Bowgentle,' Hawkmoon said. 'You can do
nothing now.'

And the beast's head turned at the sound and the

talons slashed again so that, in avoiding them, Hawk-
moon stumbled and fell.

In again came Count Brass, roaring almost as loudly
as his adversary. Again the blade clanged on the scales.
And again the beast turned to seek the source of this
new irritation.

But all three were tiring. Their journeys across the
desert had weakened them. Their run from the hills had
tired them further. Hawkmoon knew that it was in-
evitable that they should perish here in the desert and
that none should know the manner of their passing.

He saw Count Brass shout as he was flung back-
wards several feet by a sideswipe of the beast's paw. The
Count, encumbered by his heavy armour, fell help-
lessly upon the barren ground, winded and, for the
moment, unable to rise.

The metal beast sensed its opponent's weakness and
lumbered forward to crush Count Brass beneath its huge
feet.

Hawkmoon shouted wordlessly and ran at the thing,
bringing his sword down upon its back. But it did not
pause. Closer and closer it came to where Count Brass
lay.

Hawkmoon darted around to put himself between
the creature and his friend. He struck at its whirling
talons, at its torso. His bones ached horribly as his
sword shuddered with every blow he struck.

And still the beast refused to alter its course, its
blind eyes staring ahead of it.

Then Hawkmoon, too, was flung aside and lay bruised
and dazed, watching in horror as Count Brass strug-
gled to rise. He saw one of the monstrous feet rise up
above Count Brass's head, saw Count Brass raise an
arm as if it would protect him from being crushed.
Somehow he managed to get to his feet and began to

stumble forward, knowing that he would be too late
to save Count Brass, even if he could get to the machine-
beast in time. And as he moved, so did Bowgentle—
Bowgentle who had no weapon save the stump of a
sword—rushing at the beast as if he thought he could
turn it aside with his bare hands.

And Hawkmoon thought: 'I have brought my friends
to yet another death. It is true what Kalan told them. I
am their nemesis, it seems.'

CHAPTER FIVE

SOME OTHER LONDRA

And then the metal beast hesitated.

It whined almost plaintively.

Count Brass was not one to miss such an opportu-
nity. Swiftly he rolled from under the great foot. He
still did not have the strength to rise to his feet, but he
began to crawl away, his sword still in his hand.

Both Bowgentle and Hawkmoon paused, wondering
what had caused the beast to stop.

The machine-creature cringed. Its whine became
placatory, fearful. It turned its head on one side as if it
heard a voice which none of the others could hear.

Count Brass rose, at last, to his feet and wearily pre-
pared himself again to fight the monster.

Then, with an enormous crash which made the earth
shake, the beast fell and the bright colours of its scales
became dull as if suddenly rusted. It did not move.

'What?' Count Brass's deep voice was puzzled. 'Did
we will it to death?'

Hawkmoon began to laugh as he noticed the faintest
of outlines begin to appear against the clear, desert sky.
'Someone might have done,' he said.

Bowgentle gasped as he, too, noticed the outlines.
'What is it? The ghost of a city?'

'Almost.'

Count Brass growled. He sniffed and hefted his sword.
'I like this new danger no better.'

'It should not be a danger—to us,' said Hawkmoon.
'Soryandum is returning.'

Slowly they saw the outlines grow firmer until soon
a whole city lay spread across the desert. An ancient
city. A ruined city.

Count Brass cursed and stroked his red moustache,
his stance still that of one prepared for an attack.

'Sheath your sword, Count Brass,' Hawkmoon said.
'This is Soryandum that we sought. The Wraith-folk,
those ancient immortals of whom I told you, have come
to our rescue. This is lovely Soryandum. Look.'

And Soryandum was lovely, for all that she lay in
ruins. Her moss-grown walls, her fountains, her tall,
broken towers, her blossoms of ochre, orange and pur-
ple, her cracked, marble pavements, her columns of
granite and obsidian—all were beautiful. And there was
an air of tranquillity about the city, even about the birds
which nested in her time-worn houses, the dust which
blew through her deserted streets.

'This is Soryandum,' said Hawkmoon again, almost
in a whisper.

They stood in a square, beside the dead beast of
metal.

Count Brass was the first to move, crossing the weed-
grown pavement and touching a column. 'It is solid
enough,' he grunted. 'How can this be?'

'I have ever rejected the more sensational claims of
those who believe in the supernatural,' said Bowgentle.
'But now I begin to wonder . . .'

'This is science that has brought Soryandum here,'
Hawkmoon said. 'And it is science that took her away.
I know. I supplied the machine the Wraith-folk needed,

for it is impossible for them to leave their city now.
These folk were like us once, but over the centuries,
according to a process I cannot begin to understand,
they have rid themselves of physical form and have be-
come creatures of mind alone. They can take physical
shape when they desire it and they have greater strength
than most mortals. They are a peaceful people—and as
beautiful as this city of theirs.'

'You are most flattering, old friend,' said a voice from
the air.

'Rinal?' said Hawkmoon, recognising the voice. 'Is
that you?'

'It is I. But who are your companions? Our instru-
ments are confused by them. It is for this reason that
we were reluctant to reveal either ourselves or our
city, in case they should have deceived you in some
way into leading them to Soryandum when they had evil
designs against our city.'

'They are good friends,' said Hawkmoon, 'but not of
this time. Is that what confuses your instruments,
Rinal?'

'It could be. Well, I shall trust you Hawkmoon, for I
have reason to. You are a welcome guest in Soryandum,
for it is thanks to you that we still survive.'

'And it is thanks to you that I survive.' Hawkmoon
smiled. 'Where are you Rinal?'

The figure of Rinal, tall, ethereal, appeared suddenly
beside him. His body was naked and without ornament
and it had a kind of milky opaque quality. His face was
thin and his eyes seemed blind—as blind as those of the
machine-beast—yet looked clearly at Hawkmoon.

'Ghosts of cities, ghosts of men,' said Count Brass
sheathing his sword. 'Still, if you saved our lives from
that thing,' he pointed at the dead machine-beast, 'I

must thank you.' He recovered his grace and bowed. 'I
thank you most humbly, Sir Ghost.'

'I regret that our beast caused you so much trouble,'
said Rinal of Soryandum. 'We created it to protect our
treasures, many centuries ago. We would have destroyed
it, save that we feared the Dark Empire folk would re-
turn to take our machines and put them to evil use—and
also, we could do nothing until it came into the environs
of our city, for, as you know, Dorian Hawkmoon, we
have no power beyond Soryandum now. Our existence
is completely linked with the existence of the city. It
was an easy matter to tell the beast to die, however,
once it was here.'

'It was as well for us, Duke Dorian, that you advised
us to flee back here,' said Bowgentle feelingly. 'Other-
wise we should all three be dead by now.'

'Where is your other friend,' said Rinal. 'The one who
came with you first to Soryandum!'

'Oladahn is twice-dead,' said Hawkmoon in a low
voice.

'Twice?'

'Aye—just as these other friends of mine came close
to dying for at least a second time.'

'You intrigue me,' said Rinal. 'Come, we'll find you
something with which to sustain yourselves as you ex-
plain all these mysteries to myself and the few others of
my folk who remain.'

Rinal led the three companions through the broken
streets of Soryandum until they came to a three-storied
house which had no entrance at ground level. Hawk-
moon had visited the house before. Although super-
ficially no different to the other ruins of Soryandum,
this was where the Wraith-folk lived when they needed
to take material form.

And now two others emerged from above, drifting
down towards Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Bowgentle
and lifting them effortlessly, bearing them upward to
the second level and a wide window which was the
entrance to the house.

In a bare, clean room food was brought to them,
though Rinal's folk had no need of food themselves. The
food was delicious, though unfamiliar. Count Brass at-
tacked it with vigour, speaking hardly at all as he
listened to Hawkmoon tell Rinal of why they sought
the assistance of the Wraith-folk of Soryandum.

And when Hawkmoon had finished his tale, Count
Brass continued to eat, to Bowgentle's quiet amusement.
Bowgentle himself was more interested in learning more
about Soryandum and its inhabitants, its history and its
science and Rinal told him much, between listening to
Hawkmoon. He told Bowgentle how, during the Tragic
Millennium, most of the great cities and nations had
concentrated their energies on producing more and
more powerful weapons of war. But Soryandum had
been able to remain neutral, thanks to her remote
geographical position. She had concentrated on under-
standing more of the nature of space, of matter and of
time. Thus she had survived the Tragic Millennium and
remembered all her knowledge while elsewhere knowl-
edge died and superstition replaced it, as was ever the
case in such situations.

'And that is why we now seek your help,' said Hawk-
moon. 'We wish to find out how Baron Kalan escaped
and to where he fled. We wish to discover how he
manages to manipulate the stuff of time, to bring Count
Brass and Bowgentle—and the others I mentioned—
from one age to another and still not create a paradox
in our minds at least.'

'That sounds the simplest of the problems,' said

Rinal. 'This Kalan seems to have got control of enor-
mous power. Is he the one who destroyed your crystal
machine—the one we gave you which allowed you to
shift your own castle and city out of this space-time?'

'No, that was Taragorm I believe,' Hawkmoon told
Rinal. 'But Kalan is just as clever as the old Master of
the Palace of Time. However, I suspect that he is un-
sure of the nature of his power. He is reluctant to test
it to its fullest extent. And, also, he seems to think that
my death now might change past history. Is that pos-
sible?'

Rinal looked thoughtful. 'It could be,' he said. 'This
Baron Kalan must have a very subtle understanding of
time. Objectively, of course, there is no such thing as
past, present or future. Yet Baron Kalan's plot seems
unnecessarily complicated. If he can manipulate time
to that extent, could he not merely seek to destroy you
before—subjectively speaking—you could be of service
to the Runestaff?'

'That would change all the events concerning our de-
feat of the Dark Empire?'

'That is one of the paradoxes. Events are events.
They occur. They are truth. But truth varies in different
dimensions. It is just possible that there is some dimen-
sion of Earth so like your own, that similar events are
about to take place in it...' Rinal smiled. Count Brass's
bronzed forehead had furrowed and he was plucking at
his moustache and shaking his head from side to side
as if he thought Rinal mad.

'You have another suggestion, Count Brass?'

'Politics are my interest,' said Count Brass. 'I've
never cared overmuch for the more abstract areas of
philosophy. My mind is not trained to follow your
reasoning.'

Hawkmoon laughed. 'Mine, neither. Only Bowgen-
tle appears to know of what Rinal speaks.'

'Something,' Bowgentle admitted. 'Something. You
think that Kalan might be in some other dimension of
the Earth where a Count Brass, say, exists who is not
quite the same as the Count Brass who sits beside me
now?'

'What?' Count Brass growled. 'Have I a doppel-
ganger?'

Hawkmoon laughed again. But Bowgentle's face was
serious as he said: 'Not quite, Count Brass. It occurs
to me that, in this world, you would be the doppelganger
—and I, for that matter. I believe that this is not our
world—that the past we recall would not be quite the
same, in detail, as that which friend Hawkmoon recalls.
We are interlopers, through no fault of our own.
Brought here to kill Duke Dorian. Yet, save for reasons
of perverse vengeance, why could not Baron Kalan kill
Duke Dorian himself? Why must he use us?'

'Because of the repercussions—if your theory is cor-
rect———' put in Rinal. 'His action must conflict with
some other action which is against his interests. If he
slays Hawkmoon, something will happen to him—a
chain of events will come to pass which would be just
that much different to the chain of events which will
take place if one of you kills him.'

'Yet he must have allowed for the possibility that we
would not be deceived into killing Hawkmoon?'

'I think not,' said Rinal. 'I think things have gone
awry for Baron Kalan. That is why he continued to try
to force you to kill Hawkmoon even when it became ob-
vious that you were suspicious of the situation. He must
have based some plan on the expectation of Hawk-
moon's being slain in the Kamarg. That is why he grows
more and more hysterical. Doubtless he has other

schemes afoot and sees them all endangered by Hawk-
moon's continuing to live. That, too, is why he has only
despatched those of you who have directly attacked him.
He is somehow vulnerable. You would be well ad-
vised to discover the nature of that vulnerability.'

Hawkmoon shrugged. 'What chance have we of mak-
ing such a discovery, when we do not even know where
Baron Kalan is hiding?'

'It might be possible to find him,' mused Rinal. 'There
are certain devices we invented when we were learning
to shift our city through the dimensions—sensors and
the like which can probe the various layers of the
multiverse. We shall have to prepare them. We have
used only one probe, to watch this area of our own
Earth while we remained hidden in the other dimen-
sion. To activate the others will take a short while.
Would this be helpful to you?'

'It would,' said Hawkmoon.

'Does it mean we'll be given a chance to get our
hands on Kalan?' growled Count Brass.

Bowgentle placed a hand on the shoulder of the man
who would become, in later years, his closest friend.
'You are impetuous, Count. Rinal's machines can only
see into these dimensions. It will be another matter al-
together, I am sure, to travel into them.'

Rinal inclined his thin-skulled head. 'That is true.
However, let us see if we can find Baron Kalan of the
Dark Empire. There is a good chance that we shall fail
—for there are an infinity of dimensions, of this Earth
alone.'

Through most of the following day, while Rinal and
his people worked on their machines, Hawkmoon, Bow-
gentle and Count Brass slept, recouping the strength
they had expended in travelling to Soryandum and fight-
ing the metal beast

And then, in the evening, Rinal floated through the
window so that the rays of the setting sun seemed to
radiate from his opaque body.

'They are ready, the devices,' he said. 'Will you come
now? We are beginning to scan the dimensions.'

Count Brass leapt up. 'Aye, we'll come.'

The others rose as two of Rinal's fellows entered
the room and, in strong arms, lifted them up, through
the window and to the floor above where were assem-
bled an array of machines unlike any machines they had
ever seen before. Like the crystal device which had
shifted Castle Brass through the dimensions, these were
more like jewels than machines—some of the jewels
nearly the height of a man. At each of the machines
floated one of the Wraith-folk, manipulating smaller
jewels, not dissimilar to that small pyramid which
Hawkmoon had seen in the hands of Baron Kalan.

A thousand pictures flashed upon the screens as the
probes delved the dimensions of the multiverse, show-
ing peculiar, alien scenes, many of which seemed to
bear little relation to any Earth Hawkmoon knew.

And then, hours later, Hawkmoon cried: 'There! A
beast-mask! I saw it.'

The operator stroked a series of crystals, trying to fix
on the image which had flashed on to the screen so brief-
ly. But it was gone.

Again the probes began their search. Twice more
Hawkmoon thought he saw scenes providing evidence
of Kalan's whereabouts, but twice more they lost the
scene.

And then, at last, by the purest chance, they saw a
white, glowing pyramid and it was unmistakably the
pyramid in which Baron Kalan travelled.

The sensors received a particularly strong signal, for

the pyramid was in the process of completing a journey
of its own, returning, Hawkmoon hoped, to its base.

'We can follow it easily enough. Watch.'

Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Bowgentle gathered
round the screen as it shadowed the milky pyramid
until at last it came to a stop and began to turn trans-
parent, revealing the hateful face of Baron Kalan of
Vitall. Unaware that he was being observed by those he
sought to destroy, he climbed from his pyramid into a
large, dark, untidy room that might have been a copy
of his old laboratory in Londra. He was frowning, con-
sulting notes he had made. Another figure appeared and
spoke to him, though the three friends heard no sound.
The figure was clad in the old manner of the folk of the
Dark Empire—a huge, cumbersome mask was on his
head, completely covering it. The mask was of metal,
enamelled in a score of colours, and had been fashioned
to resemble the head of a hissing serpent.

Hawkmoon recognised it as the mask of the Order
of the Snake—the order to which all sorcerers and
scientists of old Granbretan had had to belong. Even
as they watched, the snake-masked one handed an-
other mask to Kalan who donned it hurriedly, for no
Granbretanian of his kind could bear to be seen un-
masked by any of his fellows.

Kalan's mask was also in the form of a serpent's
head, but more ornate than his servant's.

Hawkmoon rubbed at his jaw, wondering why he felt
something was wrong about the scene. He wished that
D'Averc, more familiar with the intimate ways of the
Dark Empire, was with him now, for D'Averc would
have noticed.

And then it dawned on Hawkmoon that these masks
were cruder than any he had seen in Londra, even those

worn by the humblest servants. The finish of the masks,
their design, was not of the same quality. But why
should this be?

Now the probes followed Kalan from his laboratory
and through winding passages very like those which
had once connected buildings in Londra. Superficially
this place could have been Londra. But, again, these
passages were subtly different. The stone was poorly
faced, the carvings and murals were by inferior artists.
None of this would have been tolerated in Londra
where, for all their perverse tastes, the Lords of the
Dark Empire had demanded the highest standards of
craftsmanship, down to the smallest detail.

Here, detail was lacking. The whole thing resembled a
bad copy of a painting.

The scene flickered as Kalan entered another cham-
ber where more masked ones met. This chamber also
looked familiar, but crude, like everything else.

Count Brass was fuming. 'When can we get there?
That's our enemy. Let's deal with him at once!'

'It is not easy to travel through the dimensions,' Rinal
said mildly. 'Moreover, we have not yet traced exactly
where it is that we are watching.'

Hawkmoon smiled at Count Brass. 'Have patience,
sir.'

This Count Brass was more impetuous than the man
Hawkmoon had known. Doubtless it was because he
was some twenty years younger. Or perhaps, as Rinal
had suggested, he was not the same man—only a man
very nearly the same, from another dimension. Still,
Hawkmoon thought, he was satisfied with this Count
Brass, wherever he came from.

'Our probe falters,' said the Wraith-man operating
the screen. 'The dimension we study must be many
layers away.'

Rinal nodded. 'Aye, many. Somewhere even our old
adventuring ancestors never explored. It will be hard
to find a doorway through.'

'Kalan found one,' Hawkmoon pointed out.

Rinal smiled faintly. 'By accident or by design, friend
Hawkmoon?'

'By design, surely? Where else would he have dis-
covered some other Londra?'

'New cities can be built,' said Rinal.

'Aye,' said Bowgentle. 'And so can new realities.'

CHAPTER SIX

ANOTHER VICTIM

The three men waited anxiously while Rinal and his
people considered the possibility of journeying into the
dimension where Baron Kalan of Vitall was hiding.

'Since this new cult has grown up in the real Londra,
I would assume that Kalan is visiting his supporters
secretly. That explains the rumour that some of the
Dark Empire Lords are still alive in Londra,' Hawk-
moon mused. 'Our only other chance would be to go to
Londra and seek Kalan out there, when he makes his
next visit. But would we have the time?'

Count Brass shook his head. 'That Kalan—he is
desperate to accomplish his scheme. Why he should be
so hysterical, with all the dimensions of space and time
to play with, I cannot guess. Yet, though he can pre-
sumably manipulate us at will, he does not. I wonder
why we should be so crucial to his plans?'

Hawkmoon shrugged. 'Perhaps we are not. He would
not be the first Dark Empire Lord to let a thirst for
vengeance get in the way of his own self-interest.' He
told them the story of Baron Meliadus.

Bowgentle had been pacing among the crystalline in-
struments, trying to understand the principles by which
they worked, but they defeated him. Now they were all
dormant as the Wraith-folk busied themselves in an-

other part of the building with the problem of designing
a machine which could shift through the dimensions.
They would adapt the crystal engine which moved their
city, but the actual engine they must retain, in case
further danger threatened them.

'Well,' said Bowgentle, scratching his head, 'I can
make nothing of the things. All I can say for certain is
that they work!'

Count Brass stirred in his armour. He went to the
window and looked out into cool night. 'I'm becoming
impatient with being cooped up here,' he said. 'I could
do with some fresh air. What about you two?'

Hawkmoon shook his head. 'I'll rest.'

'I'll come with you,' said Bowgentle to Count Brass.
'But how do we leave?'

'Call Rinal,' Hawkmoon said. 'He'll hear you.'

And this they did, looking slightly uncomfortable
as the Wraith-folk, seemingly so frail, bore them
through the window and down to the earth. Hawkmoon
settled himself in a corner of the room and slept

But strange, disquieting dreams, in which his friends
changed into enemies and his enemies into friends, the
living became the dead and the dead became the living,
while some became the unborn, disturbed him and he
forced himself awake, sweating, to find Rinal standing
over him.

"The machine is ready,' said the Wraith-man. 'But it is
not perfect, I fear. All it can do is pursue your pyramid.
Once the pyramid materialises in this world again, our
sphere will follow it, wherever it goes—but it has no
navigating power of its own—it can only follow the
pyramid. Therefore there is a strong danger of your
being trapped in some other dimension for all time.'

'It is a risk I'm prepared to take, for one,' Hawkmoon

said. 'It will be better than the nightmares I experience,
awake or dreaming. Where are Count Brass and Bow-
gentle?'

'Somewhere near by, walking and talking through the
streets of Soryandum. Shall I tell them you wish to see
them?'

'Aye,' said Hawkmoon, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
'We had best make our plans as soon as possible. I have
a feeling we shall see Kalan again before long.' He
stretched and yawned. The sleep had not really helped
him. Rather it appeared to have made him feel wearier
than before.

He changed his mind. 'No, perhaps I had better speak
with them myself. The air might refresh me.'

'As you will. I'll take you down.' Rinal floated
towards Hawkmoon.

As Rinal began to lift him towards the window,
Hawkmoon asked: 'Where is the machine you men-
tioned?'

'The dimension-travelling sphere? Below in our lab-
oratory. Would you like to see it tonight?'

'I think I had better. I have a feeling Kalan could
reappear at any time.'

'Very well. I shall bring it to you shortly. The con-
trols are simple—indeed they are scarcely controls at
all since the purpose of the sphere is to make itself the
slave of another machine. However, I understand your
eagerness to see it. Go now and speak with your
friends.'

The Wraith-man, virtually invisible in the moonlit
street, drifted away, leaving Hawkmoon to find Bow-
gentle and Count Brass by himself.

He walked through overgrown streets, between ruined
buildings through which the moonlight glared, enjoying

the peace of the night and feeling his head begin to
clear. The air was very sweet and cool.

At length he heard voices ahead of him and was about
to call out when he realised that he heard the tones of
three voices, not two. He began to run softly towards
the source of the voices, keeping to the shadows, until
he stood in the cover of a ruined colonnade and looked
into a small square where stood Count Brass and Bow-
gentle. Count Brass stood frozen, as if mesmerised, and
Bowgentle was remonstrating in a low voice with a man
who sat cross-legged in the air above him, the outline
of the pyramid glowing only very faintly, as if Kalan
had deliberately tried to escape attention. Kalan was
glaring at Bowgentle.

'What do you know of such matters?' Baron Kalan
demanded. 'Why—you are barely real yourself!'

'That's as may be. I suspect that your own reality
is also at stake, is it not? Why can you not kill Hawk-
moon yourself? Because of the repercussions, eh? Have
you plotted the possibilities following such an action?
Are they not very palatable?'

'Be silent, puppet!' Baron Kalan demanded. 'Or you,
too, will return to limbo. I offer you full life if you
destroy Hawkmoon—or can convince Count Brass to
do it!'

'Why did you not send Count Brass to limbo just now
when he attacked you? Is it because you must have
Hawkmoon killed by one of us and now there are only
two left who can do your work?'

'I told you to be silent!' Kalan snarled. 'You should
have worked with the Dark Empire, Sir Bowgentle. Such
wit as yours is wasted among the barbarians.'

Bowgentle smiled. 'Barbarians? I have heard some-
thing of what, in my future, the Dark Empire will do

to its enemies. Your choice of words is poor, Baron
Kalan.'

'I warned you,' Kalan said menacingly. 'You go too
far. I am still a Lord of Granbretan. I cannot tolerate
such familiarity!'

'Your lack of tolerance has been your downfall once
—or will be. We are beginning to understand what it is
you try to do in your imitation Londra . . .'

'You know?' Kalan looked almost frightened. His
lips pursed and his brows drew together. 'You know, eh?
I think we made a mistake in bringing a pawn of your
perception on to the board, Sir Bowgentle.'

'Aye, perhaps you did.'

Kalan began to fiddle with the small pyramid he held
in his hand. 'Then it would be wise to sacrifice that
pawn now,' he muttered.

Bowgentle seemed to realise what was in Kalan's
mind. He took a step backward. 'Is that really wise? Are
you not manipulating forces you barely understand?'

'Perhaps.' Baron Kalan chuckled. 'But that is no com-
fort to you, eh?'

Bowgentle grew pale.

Hawkmoon made to move forward, wondering at the
manner in which Count Brass still remained frozen,
seemingly unaware of what was taking place. Then he
felt a light touch on his shoulder and he started, turn-
ing and reaching for his sword. But it was the almost in-
visible Wraith-man, Rinal, who stood behind him. Rinal
whispered:

'The sphere comes. This is your chance to follow
the pyramid.'

'But Bowgentle is in danger . . .' Hawkmoon mur-
mured. 'I must try to save him.'

'You will not be able to save him. It is unlikely that
he will be harmed, that he will retain anything but the

dimmest memory of these events—as you recall a fad-
ing dream.'

'But he is my friend . . .'

'You will serve him better if you can find a way of
stopping Kalan's activities forever.' Rinal pointed.
Several of his folk were drifting down the street towards
them. They were carrying a large sphere of glowing
yellow. 'There will be a few moments after the pyramid
has gone when you'll be able to follow it.'

'But Count Brass—he has been mesmerised by
Kalan.'

'The power will fade when Kalan leaves.'

Bowgentle was speaking hurriedly. 'Why should you
fear my knowledge, Baron Kalan? You are strong. I
am weak. It is you who manipulates me!'

'The more you know the less I can predict,' said
Kalan. 'It is simple, Sir Bowgentle. Farewell.'

And Bowgentle cried out, whirled as if trying to es-
cape. He began to run and as he ran he faded, faded
until he had disappeared altogether.

Hawkmoon heard Baron Kalan laugh. It was a famil-
iar laugh. A laugh he had grown to hate. Only Rinal's
hand on his shoulder stopped him from attacking Kalan
who, still unaware that he was observed, addressed
Count Brass:

'You will gain much, Count Brass, by serving my
purpose—and gain nothing if you do not. Why should
it be Hawkmoon who plagues me always? I had thought
it a simple matter to eliminate him and yet in every
probability I investigate he emerges again. He is eter-
nal, I sometimes think—perhaps immortal. Only if he
is slain by another hero, another champion of that
damned Runestaff, can events progress along the
course I choose. So slay him, Count Brass. Earn life for
yourself and for me!'

Count Brass moved his head. He blinked. He looked
around him as if he did not see the pyramid, or its oc-
cupant.

The pyramid began to glow with a milky whiteness.
The whiteness became brilliant, blinding. Count Brass
cursed and threw his arm up to protect his eyes.

And then the brilliance faded and there was only a
dim outline against the night.

'Quickly,' said Rinal. 'Into the sphere.'

As Hawkmoon passed through an entrance that was
like a flimsy curtain which instantly reformed behind
him, he saw Rinal drift over to Count Brass, seize him
and bear him to the sphere, flinging him in after
Hawkmoon so that he sprawled, sword still in hand,
at Hawkmoon's feet.

'The sapphire,' Rinal said urgently. 'Touch the sap-
phire. It is all you must do. And I wish you success,
Dorian Hawkmoon, in that other Londra!'

Hawkmoon reached out and touched the sapphire
stone suspended in the air before him.

At once the sphere seemed to spin around them, while
he and Count Brass remained motionless. They were in
complete blackness now and the white pyramid could
be seen through the walls of the sphere.

Suddenly there was sunshine and a landscape of
green rocks. This faded almost as quickly as it had ap-
peared. More images followed rapidly.

Megaliths of light, lakes of boiling metal, cities of
glass and steel, battlefields on which thousands fought,
forests through which strode shadowy giants, frozen
seas—and always the pyramid was ahead of them as
if shifted through plane after plane of the Earth, through
worlds which seemed totally alien and worlds which
seemed absolutely identical to Hawkmoon's.

Once before had Hawkmoon travelled through the

dimensions. But then he had been escaping from dan-
ger. Now he went towards it.

Count Brass spoke for the first time. 'What happened
back there? I remember trying to attack Baron Kalan,
deciding that even if he sent me to limbo I should have
his life first. Next I was in this—this chariot. Where is
Bowgentle?'

'Bowgentle had begun to understand Kalan's plot,'
Hawkmoon said grimly, keeping his eyes fixed on the
pyramid ahead. 'And so Kalan banished him back to
wherever it was he came from. But Kalan also gave
something away. He said that, for some reason, I
could only be slain by a friend—by some other who
had served the Runestaff. And that, he said, would en-
sure the friend's life.'

Count Brass shrugged. 'It still has the smell of a
perverse plot to me. Why should it matter who slays
you?'

'Well, Count Brass,' said Hawkmoon soberly. 'I have
often said that I would give anything for you not to
have died on that battlefield at Londra. I would give my
life, even. So, if the time ever comes when you wish to
be done with all this—you can always kill me.'

Count Brass laughed. 'If you want to die, Dorian
Hawkmoon, I am sure you can find one more used to
cold-blooded assassination in Londra, or wherever it is
we journey to now.' He sheathed his great brass-hilted
sword. 'I'll save my own strength for dealing with Baron
Kalan and his servants when we get there!'

'If they are not prepared for us,' said Hawkmoon, as
wild scenes continued to come and go at even greater
speed. He felt dizzy and he closed his eyes. 'This
journey through infinity appears to take an infinity!
Once I cursed the Runestaff for meddling in my af-
fairs, but now I wish greatly that Orland Fank was

here to advise me. Still, it is plain by now that the
Runestaff plays no part in this.'

'Just as well,' growled Count Brass. 'There is already
too much sorcery and science involved for my taste!
I'll be happier when all this is finished, even should it
mean my own death!'

Hawkmoon nodded his agreement. He was remem-
bering Yisselda and his children, Manfred and Yarmila.
He was remembering the quiet life of the Kamarg and
the satisfactions he had got from seeing the marsh-
lands restocked, the harvests brought in. And he was
regretting bitterly that he had ever allowed himself to
fall into the trap Baron Kalan had evidently set for
him when he had sent Count Brass through time to
haunt the Kamarg.

And at that, another thought occurred to him. Had
all this been a trap?

Did Baron Kalan actually want to be followed? Were
they being lured, even now, to their doom?

BOOK THREE

OLD DREAMS
AND NEW

CHAPTER ONE

THE WORLD HALF-MADE

Count Brass, lying uncomfortably along the curve of
the sphere's interior, groaned and shifted his brass-clad
bulk again. He peered through the misty yellow wall and
watched the landscape outside change forty times in as
many seconds. The pyramid was still ahead of them.
Sometimes the outline of Baron Kalan could be seen
within. Sometimes the vessel's surface turned to that
familiar, blinding white.

'Ah, my eyes ache!' grumbled Count Brass. 'They
grow weary of so many variegated sights. And my head
aches when I strive to consider exactly what is happen-
ing to us. If I should ever tell of this adventure I shall
never have my word believed again!'

And then Hawkmoon cautioned him to silence, for
the scenes came and went much more slowly until at
last they ceased to change. They hung in darkness. All
they could see beyond the sphere was the white pyramid.

Light came from somewhere.

Hawkmoon recognised Baron Kalan's laboratory. He
acted swiftly, instinctively. 'Quickly, Count Brass, we
must leave the sphere.'

They dived through the curtain and onto the dirty
flagstones of the floor. By chance they were behind sev-
eral large and crazily shaped machines at the back of
the laboratory.

Hawkmoon saw the sphere shudder and vanish. Now
only Kalan's pyramid offered an escape from this dimen-
sion. Familiar smells and sounds came to Hawkmoon.
He remembered when he had first visited Kalan's lab-
oratories, as a prisoner of Baron Meliadus, to have the
Black Jewel implanted in his skull. He felt a strange
coldness in his bones. Their arrival had been unnoticed
it seemed, for Kalan's serpent-masked servants had
their attention on the pyramid, standing ready to hand
their master his own mask when he emerged. The
pyramid sank slowly to the ground and Kalan stepped
out of it, accepting the mask without a word and don-
ning it. There was something hasty about his move-
ments. He said something to his servants and they all
followed him as he left the laboratory.

Cautiously Hawkmoon and Count Brass emerged.
Both had unsheathed their swords.

Assured that the laboratory was, indeed, completely
deserted, they debated their next action.

'Perhaps we should wait until Kalan returns and slay
him on the spot,' Count Brass suggested, 'using his own
machine for our escape.'

'We do not know how to operate the machine,'
Hawkmoon reminded his friend. 'No, I think we should
learn more of this world and Kalan's plans before we
consider killing him. For all we know he has other allies,
more powerful than himself, who would continue to put
his schemes into effect.'

'That's fair enough,' Count Brass agreed. 'But this
place makes me nervous. I've never been one to enjoy
being underground. I prefer the open spaces. That's why
I could never remain in one city for long.'

Hawkmoon began to inspect Baron Kalan's machines.
Many of them were familiar to him in appearance, but
he could make out little of their functions. He won-

dered if he should destroy the machines first, but then
he decided it would be wiser to learn for what purpose
they were intended. They could produce a disaster by
tampering with the kind of forces with which Kalan was
experimenting.

'With the right masks and clothes,' Hawkmoon said,
as they both padded towards the door, 'we would have
an improved chance of exploring this place undiscov-
ered. I think we should make that objective our first
priority.'

Count Brass agreed.

They opened the door of the laboratory and found
themselves in a low-ceilinged passage. The smell was
musty, the air stale. Once the whole of Londra had
reeked of the same stink. But, now that he was able to
inspect the murals and carvings on the walls more
closely, Hawkmoon was certain this was not Londra.
The absence of detail was most noticeable. Paintings
were done in outline and then filled in with solid colours,.
not the subtle shades of the clever Granbretanian artists.
And whereas colours had been clashed in old Londra
with the intention of making an effect, these colours
were merely poorly selected. It was as if someone who
had only seen Londra for half-an-hour or so had tried
to recreate it.

Even Count Brass, who had only visited Granbretan
once, on some diplomatic errand, noticed the contrast.
On they crept, without encountering anyone, trying to
determine which way Baron Kalan had gone, when all at
once they had turned a corner in the passage and come
face to face with two soldiers of the Mantis Order—
King Huon's old Order—armed with long pikes and
swords.

Immediately, Count Brass and Hawkmoon took up a
fighting stance, expecting the two soldiers to attack. The

mantis-masks nodded on the men's shoulders, but they
only stared at Count Brass and his companion, as if
puzzled.

One of the soldiers spoke in a vague, muffled voice
from within his mantis-helm. 'Why do you go un-
masked?' he said. 'Should this be?'

His voice had a distant, dreamlike quality, not unlike
that of Count Brass when Hawkmoon had first en-
countered him in the Kamarg.

'Aye. It is correct,' said Hawkmoon. 'You are to give
us your masks.'

'But unmasking is forbidden in the passages!' said the
second soldier in horror. His gauntleted hands went to
his great-insect helm as if to protect it. Mantis eyes
seemed to stare sardonically into Hawkmoon's.

'Then we must fight you for them,' growled Count
Brass. 'Draw your swords.'

Slowly the two drew their swords. Slowly they as-
sumed defensive positions.

It was horrible work, killing those two, for they did
not make any more than a token effort to defend them-
selves. They went down in the space of half-a-minute
and Hawkmoon and Count Brass began immediately to
strip them of their masks and their outer clothes of
green silk and green velvet.

They stripped the pair just in time. Hawkmoon was
wondering what to do with the bodies when, suddenly,
they vanished.

Count Brass snorted suspiciously. 'More sorcery?'

'Or an explanation of why they behaved so strange-
ly,' said Hawkmoon thoughtfully. 'They vanished as
Bowgentle, Oladahn and D'Averc vanished. The Man-
tis Order was ever the fiercest in Granbretan and those
who belonged to it were arrogant, proud and quick to
strike. Either those fellows were not really of Gran-

bretan, but playing parts for Baron Kalan's benefit—
or else they were from Granbretan, but in some kind
of trance.'

'They seemed to be in a dream, right enough,' agreed
Count Brass.

Hawkmoon adjusted his stolen mask upon his head.
'Best behave the same, if challenged,' he said. 'That, too,
will be to our advantage.'

Together they continued to make their way through
the passages, moving at a measured pace, like that of
patrolling soldiers.

'At least,' said Count Brass in a low voice, 'we shall
have little trouble with corpses if all those we slay disap-
pear with such fortunate alacrity!'

They paused at several doors and tried them, but all
were secured. They passed many other masked men,
from all the main orders—Pig, Vulture, Dragon, Wolf
and the like—but saw no other members of the Order
of the Snake. Members of this Order, they were sure,
would lead them eventually to Kalan. It would also be
useful to exchange mantis-masks for serpent masks at
some stage. Finally they found themselves at a door lar-
ger than the others and this was guarded by two men
who wore the same masks now worn by Hawkmoon
and Count Brass. A guarded door was an important
door, thought Hawkmoon. Behind it might lie some-
thing which would help answer the questions he had
followed Kalan to solve. He thought quickly, saying in
as dreamy a voice as he could manage:

'We have orders to relieve you. You may return to
your quarters now.'

One of the guards spoke. 'Relieve us? Have we been
here for a full period of duty, then? I thought it was but
an hour. But then time . . .' He paused. 'It is all so
strange.'

'You are relieved,' said Count Brass, guessing Hawk-
moon's plan. 'That is all we know.'

Sluggishly the two guards saluted and marched away,
leaving Hawkmoon and Count Brass to take up their
positions.

As soon as the guards were gone, Hawkmoon turned
and tried the latch of the door. It was locked.

Count Brass glanced around him, shuddering. 'This
seems more of a true netherworld than the one I first
found myself in,' he said.

'I think you could be close to the truth,' Hawkmoon
told him as he bent to inspect the lock. Like so many of
the other artefacts here it was crude. He took out the
emerald-pommelled poignard which he had got off the
mantis-warrior. He inserted the point in the lock and
shifted it about for several seconds before twisting it
sharply. There was a click and the door swung open.

The two companions stepped through.

And both gasped in unison at what they saw.

CHAPTER TWO

A MUSEUM OF THE LIVING AND
THE DEAD

'King Huon!' Hawkmoon murmured. Quickly he closed
the door behind him, looking up at the great globe
suspended above his head. In the globe swam the wiz-
ened figure of the ancient king who had once spoken
with the voice of a golden youth. 'I thought you slain by
Meliadus!'

A tiny whisper escaped the globe. It was almost a
thought, so tenuous was it. 'Meliadus,' it said. 'Melia-
dus.'

'The king dreams,' said the voice of Flana, Queen of
Granbretan.

And there she was, in her heron-mask, made up of
fragments of a thousand jewels, in her lush brocade
gown, coming slowly towards them.

'Flana?'

Hawkmoon moved towards her. 'How did you come
to be here?'

'I was born in Londra. Who are you? Though you be
of the King-Emperor's own Order, you speak insolently
to Flana, Countess of Kanbery.'

'Queen Flana now,' said Hawkmoon.

'Queen . . . queen . . . queen . . .' said the distant
voice of King Huon from behind them.

'King . . .' Another figure moved blindly past them.
'King Meliadus . . .'

And Hawkmoon knew that if he tore off that wolf-
helm from the figure he would see the face of Baron
Meliadus, his old foe. And he knew that the eyes would
be glazed, as Flana's eyes would be glazed. There were
others in this room—all Dark Empire folk. Flana's old
husband, Asrovak Mikosevaar; Shenegar Trott in his
silver mask; Pra Flenn, Duke of Lakasdeh, in his grin-
ning dragon-helm, who had died before his nineteenth
birthday and had personally slain over a hundred men
and women before his eighteenth. Yet, for all that this
was an assembly of the fiercest of the Granbretanian
warlords, none attacked. They hardly lived at all. Only
Flana—who still lived in Hawkmoon's world—seemed
to be able to frame a coherent sentence. The rest were
like sleep-walkers, mumbling one or two words, but no
more. And Hawkmoon's and Count Brass's entrance
into this weird museum of the living and the dead had
set them to babbling, like birds in an aviary.

It was unnerving, particularly to Dorian Hawkmoon,
who had slain many of these people himself. He seized
upon Flana, ripping off his own mask so that she could
see his face.

'Flana! Do you not recognise me? Hawkmoon? How
came you here?'

'Remove your hand from me, warrior!' she said auto-
matically, though it was plain she did not really care.
Flana had never understood much concerning protocol.
'I do not know you. Put your mask back on!'

'Then you, too, must have been drawn from a time
before we met—or else from some other world alto-
gether,' Hawkmoon said.

'Meliadus . . . Meliadus . . .' said the whispering
voice of King Huon in the Throne Globe above their
heads.

'Kong... king...' said wolf-masked Meliadus.

And: 'The Runestaff . . .' murmured fat Shenegar
Trott, who had died trying to possess that mystic
wand ... The Runestaff .. .'

It was all they could speak of—their fears or their
ambitions. The chief fears or ambitions which had
driven them through their lives and brought about their
ruin.

'You are right,' said Hawkmoon to Count Brass. 'This
is the world of the dead. But who keeps these poor
creatures here? For what purpose have they been resur-
rected? It is like an obscene treasure-house—human
loot—the loot of time—all crowded together!'

'Aye,' sniffed Count Brass. 'I wonder if, until recent-
ly, I was part of this collection. Could that not be pos-
sible, Dorian Hawkmoon?'

These are all Dark Empire folk,' said Hawkmoon.
'No, I think you were seized from a time before all these
died. Your youth speaks for that—and your own recol-
lection of the Battle of Tarkia.'

'I thank you for that reassurance,' said Count Brass.

Hawkmoon put a finger to his lips. 'Do you hear
something? In the passage?'

'Aye.'

'Into the shadows,' said Hawkmoon. 'I think someone
approaches. They might notice the guard gone.'

Not one of the people in the room, even Flana, tried
to stop them as they squeezed through the company and
hid in the darkest corner, sheltered by the bulk of Adaz
Promp and Jherek Nankenseen, who had ever enjoyed
each other's company, even in life.

The door opened and there was Baron Kalan of
Vitall, Grand Master of the Order of the Serpent, all
rage and bewilderment.

The door open and the guards gone!' he raved. He
glared at the company of living-dead. 'Which of you did

this? Is there one who does more than dream—who
plots to rob me of my power? Who seeks that power
for himself? You, Meliadus—do you wake?' He pulled
the wolf-helm free, but Meliadus's face was blank.

Kalan slapped the face, but Meliadus did not react.
He grunted.

'You, Huon? Even you are no longer as powerful as
am I? Do you resent that?'

But Huon merely whispered the name of the one who
would kill him. 'Meliadus . . .' he whispered. 'Melia-
dus

'Shenegar Trott? You, cunning one?' Kalan shook the
unresponsive shoulder of the Count of Sussex. 'Did you
unlock the door and dismiss the guards. And why?' He
frowned. 'No, it could only be Flana . . .' He searched
for the heron mask of Flana Mikosevaar, Countess of
Kanbery, among those many masks (whose workman-
ship was noticeably superior to Kalan's). 'Flana is the
only one who suspects . . .'

'What do you want with me now, Baron Kalan?'
said Flana, drifting forward. 'I am tired. You must not
disturb me.'

'You cannot deceive me, traitress-to-be. If I have an
enemy here, it is you. Who else could it be? It is in
everyone's interest, save yours, for the old Empire to be
restored.'

'As usual, I fail to understand you, Kalan.'

'Aye, it's true that you should not understand—but I
wonder . . .'

'Your guards came in here,' Flana went on. 'They
were impolite fellows, but one was handsome enough.'

'Handsome? They removed their masks?'

'One did, aye.'

Kalan's eyes darted this way and that as he con-
sidered the implications of her remark. 'How . . .?' he

muttered. 'How . . .?' He looked hard at Flana. 'I still
think this is your doing!'

'I do not know of what you accuse me, Kalan, and I
do not care, for this nightmare will end soon, as night-
mares must.'

Kalan's eyes glinted sardonically in his snake mask.
'Think you, Madam?' He turned away to inspect the
lock. 'My plans go constantly awry. Every action I take
leads to further complications. There must be a single
action which will wipe out the complexities at a stroke.
Oh, Hawkmoon, Hawkmoon, I wish you would die.'

At this Hawkmoon stepped out swiftly and tapped
Kalan upon the shoulder with the flat of his sword.
Kalan turned and the tip of the sword slipped under the
mask and rested against the throat.

'If the request had been couched more politely, in the
first place,' Hawkmoon said with grim humour, 'I might
have complied. But now you have offended me, Baron
Kalan. Too often have you shown yourself unfriendly
to me.'

'Hawkmoon . . .' Kalan's voice sounded like those of
the living-dead around him. 'Hawkmoon . . .' He took
a deep breath. 'How did you come here?'

'Don't you know, Kalan?' Count Brass emerged,
drawing off his own mask. He was grinning a big, wide
grin—the first Hawkmoon had seen on his face since
they had met in the Kamarg.

'Is this a counterplot—did he bring you——? No ...
He would not betray me. We have too much at stake.'

'Who is that?'

But Kalan had become cautious. 'Killing me at this
point could easily bring disaster upon us all,' he said.

'Aye—and not killing you, that could produce a
similar effect!' Count Brass laughed. 'Have we anything
to lose, Baron Kalan?'

'You have your life to lose, Count Brass,' Kalan said
savagely. 'At best you could become like these others. Is
that an attractive thought?'

'No.' Count Brass began to strip off the mantis-
clothing which had covered his brass armour.

'Then do not be a fool!' Kalan hissed. 'Kill Hawk-
moon now!'

'What did you try to do, Kalan?' Hawkmoon inter-
rupted. 'Resurrect the whole Dark Empire? Did you
hope to restore it here to its former glory—in a world
where Count Brass and myself and the others never
existed? But you found that when you went back into
the past and brought them here to rebuild Londra, that
their memories were poor. It was as if they all dreamed.
They had too many conflicting experiences in their
minds and this confused them—made their brains dor-
mant. They could not remember details—that is why all
your murals and your artefacts are so crude, is it not?
Why your guards are so ineffectual, why they do not
fight. And when they are killed here, they vanish—for
even you cannot control time to the extent that it tol-
erates the paradox of the twice-dead. You began to
realise that if you altered history—even if you were
successful in re-establishing the Dark Empire—all
would suffer from this mental confusion. Everything
would break down as swiftly as you built it. Any
triumph you had would turn to ashes. You would rule
over unreal creatures in an unreal world.'

Kalan shrugged. 'But we have taken steps to adjust
matters. There are solutions, Hawkmoon. Perhaps our
ambitions have become a little less grandiose, but the
result could be much the same.'

'What do you intend to do?' Count Brass growled.

Kalan gave a humourless laugh. 'Ah, that now de-
pends on what you do to me. Surely you can see that?

Already there are eddies of confusion in the time-
streams. One dimension becomes clogged with the con-
stituents of another. Originally my scheme was simply
to get vengeance on Hawkmoon by having him killed
by one of his friends. I'll admit I was foolish to think it
could be so simple. And also, instead of remaining in
your dreamlike state, you began to wake, to reason, to
refuse to listen to what I told you. That is not what
should have happened and I do not know why.'

'By bringing my friends out of a time before any of
us had met, you created an entirely new stream of possi-
bilities,' said Hawkmoon. 'And from these sprang doz-
ens more—half-worlds which you can't control, which
become confused with the one from which we all orig-
inally came...'

'Aye.' Kalan nodded his great mask. 'But there is still
hope, if you, Count Brass, slay this Hawkmoon. Surely
you realise that your friendship with him led directly
to your own death—or will lead to it in your future ...'

'So Oladahn and the others were merely returned to
their own time, believing themselves to have dreamed
what happened here?' said Hawkmoon.

'Even that dream will fade,' said Kalan. 'They will
never know that I tried to help them save their own
lives.'

'And why do you not kill me, Kalan? You have had
the opportunity. Is it, as I suspect, that if you do, then
the logic resulting from such an action leads inexorably
to your own destruction?'

Kalan was silent. But his silence confirmed the truth
of what Hawkmoon had said.

'And only if I am killed by one of my already dead
friends will it be possible to remove my unwanted
presence from all those possible worlds you have ex-
plored, those half-worlds your instruments have de-

tected, where you hope to restore the Dark Empire? Is
that why you are so insistent on Count Brass killing me?
And do you intend, once he had done that, to restore
the Dark Empire, unchallenged, to its original world—
with yourselves ruling behind these puppets of yours?'
Hawkmoon spread his hand to indicate the living-dead.
Even Queen Flana was quiescent now as her brain shut
off the information which might easily turn it insane.
'These shadows will appear to be the great warlords
come back from the dead, to hold sway over Granbretan
again. You will even have a new Queen Flana to re-
nounce the throne in favour of this Shadow Huon.'

'You are an intelligent young man, for a savage.' A
languid voice came from the doorway. Hawkmoon kept
the tip of his sword against Kalan's throat as he looked
towards the source of the voice.

A bizarre figure stood there, between two mantis-
masked guards who bore flame-lances and looked any-
thing but indecisive. There were, it now seemed, others
in this world who were more than shadows. Hawkmoon
recognised the figure, clad in a gigantic mask which
was also a working clock and was, even as its wearer
spoke, chiming the first eight bars of Sheneven's Temp-
oral Antipathies, all of gilded and enamelled brass, with
numerals of inlaid mother-of-pearl and hands of filigree
silver, balanced by a golden pendulum in a box worn
upon his chest.

'I thought you might be here, too, My Lord Tara-
gorm,' said Hawkmoon. He lowered his sword as the
flame-lances nudged his midriff.

Taragorm of the Palace of Time voiced his golden
laughter.

'Greetings, Duke Dorian. You will note, I hope, that
these two guards are not of the company of the Dream-
ing Ones. These escaped with me at the Siege of Londra,

when it became obvious to Kalan and myself that the
battle was lost to us. Even then we could probe a little
way into the future. My sad accident was arranged—
an explosion produced to cause my apparent death.
And Kalan's suicide, as you already know, was in
reality the occasion of his first jump through the dimen-
sions. We have worked so well together, since then.
But there have been a few complications, as you've
guessed.'

Kalan moved forward and took the swords of Count
Brass and Hawkmoon. Count Brass was scowling but
seemed too astonished to resist at that moment. He had
never seen Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time,
before.

Taragorm continued, his voice of full of amusement.
'Now that you have been gracious enough to visit us, I
hope those complications can be dispensed with, at long
last. I had not hoped for such a stroke of luck! You were
ever headstrong, Hawkmoon.'

'And how will you achieve it—freeing yourselves of
the complications you have created?' Hawkmoon folded
his arms on his chest.

The clock face inclined itself slightly to one side,
the pendulum beneath continued to swing, balanced as
it was by complicated machinery, allowing for every
movement of Taragorm's body.

'You will know when we return to Londra shortly. I
speak, of course, of the true Londra, where we are
soon expected, not this poor imitation. Kalan's idea, not
mine.'

'You supported me!' said Kalan in an aggrieved tone.
'And it is I who take all the risks, travelling back and
forth through a thousand dimensions . . .'

'Let us not have our guests think us petty, Baron
Kalan,' Taragorm chided. There had always been some-

thing of a rivalry between the two of them. He bowed
slightly to Count Brass and Hawkmoon. 'Please come
with us while we make the final preparations for our
journey back to our old home.'

Hawkmoon stood his ground. 'If we refuse?'

'You will be stranded here forever. You know we
cannot, ourselves, kill you. You bank on that, do you?
Well, alive in this place or dead in another, it's all much
of a muchness, friend Hawkmoon. And now, please
cover up your naked face. I know it might seem rude,
but I am dreadfully old-fashioned about such things.'

'I regret that, in this too, I must give offence,' said
Hawkmoon with a small bow. He let the guards lead
him through the door. He saluted the dull-eyed Flana
and the others, who had even stopped breathing, it
seemed. 'Farewell, sad shades. I hope I shall, at length,
be the cause of your release.'

'I hope so, also,' said Taragorm. And the hands on the
face of his mask moved a fraction and this bell began
to strike the hour.

CHAPTER THREE

COUNT BRASS CHOOSES TO LIVE

They were back in Baron Kalan's laboratory.

Hawkmoon considered the two guards who now had
their swords. He could tell that Count Brass was also
wondering whether it would be possible to rush the
flame-lances.

Kalan was already in the white pyramid, making ad-
justments to the smaller pyramids which were suspended
before him. Because he was still wearing his serpent-
mask, he had greater difficulty in manipulating the ob-
jects and arranging them to his satisfaction. It seemed
to Hawkmoon, as he watched, that somehow this scene
symbolised a salient aspect of the Dark Empire cul-
ture.

For some reason Hawkmoon felt singularly calm as
he considered his situation. Instinct told him to bide his
time, that the crucial moment of action would come
quite soon. And for this reason he relaxed his body
and took no notice of the guards with their flame-lances,
concentrating on what Kalan and Taragorm were saying.

'The pyramid is almost ready,' Kalan told Taragorm.
'But we must leave swiftly.'

'Are we all to crowd into that thing?'. Count Brass
said, and he laughed. Hawkmoon realised that Count
Brass, too, was biding his time.

'Aye,' said Taragorm. 'All.'

And, as they watched, the pyramid began to expand
until it was twice its size, then three times, then four
and at last it filled the entire cleared space in the centre
of the laboratory and suddenly Count Brass, Hawk-
moon, Taragorm and the two mantis-masked guards
were engulfed by the pyramid and stood within it while
Kalan, suspended above their heads, continued to play
with his odd controls.

'You see,' said Taragorm. His voice was amused.
'Kalan's talents always lay in his understanding of the
nature of space. Whereas mine, of course, lie in my
understanding of time. That is why together we can
produce such whimsicalities as this pyramid!'

And now the pyramid was travelling again, shunt-
ing through the myriad dimensions of Earth. Once more
Hawkmoon saw bizarre scenery and peculiar mirror-
images of his own world and many of them were not
the same as those he had witnessed on his journey to
Kalan's and Taragorm's half-world.

And then it seemed they were in the darkness of
limbo again. Beyond the flickering walls of the pyramid
Hawkmoon could see nothing but solid blackness.

'We are there,' said Kalan, and he turned a crystal
control. The vessel began to shrink again, growing
smaller and smaller until it could barely contain Kalan's
body. The sides of the pyramid clouded and turned
to the familiar brilliant white. Hanging in the black-
ness over their heads it seemed to provide no illumina-
tion beyond its immediate area. Hawkmoon could see
nothing of his own body, let alone those of the others.
He knew only that his feet stood upon smooth and solid
ground and that his nostrils picked up a damp, stale
smell. He stamped his foot upon the ground and the
sound echoed and echoed. It seemed that they were in a
cavern of some kind.

Now Kalan's voice boomed from the pyramid.

'The moment has come. The resurrection of our great
Empire is at hand. We, who can bring life to the dead
and death to the living, who have remained faithful to
the old ways of Granbretan, who are pledged to restore
her greatness and her domination over the whole world,
bring the faithful ones the creature they most desire to
see. Behold!'

And suddenly Hawkmoon was engulfed in light. The
source was a mystery, but the light blinded him and
made him cover his eyes. He cursed as he turned this
way and that, trying to avoid it.

'See how he wriggles,' said Kalan of Vitall. 'See how
he cringes, this, our arch-enemy!'

Hawkmoon forced himself to stand still and open his
eyes to the terrible light.

A dreadful whispering was coming from all around
him now, and a slithering, and a hissing. He peered
about him, but could still see nothing beyond the light.
The whispering grew to a murmur and the murmur to
a muttering and the muttering to a roar and the roar be-
came a single word, voiced by what must have been a
thousand throats.

'Granbretan! Granbretan! Granbretan!'

And then there was silence.

'Enough of this!' came the voice of Count Brass.
'Have done with—aah!'

And now Count Brass, too, was surrounded with the
same strange radiance.

'And here is the other,' said Kalan's voice. 'Faithful,
look upon him and hate him, for this is Count Brass.
Without his help, Hawkmoon would never have been
able to destroy that which we love. By treachery, by
stealth, by cowardice, by begging the assistance of those
more powerful than themselves, they thought they could

destroy the Dark Empire. But the Dark Empire is not
destroyed. She will grow stronger and greater still! Be-
hold, Count Brass!'

And Hawkmoon saw the white light surrounding
Count Brass grow a peculiar blue colour and Count
Brass's armour of brass glowed blue, too, and Count
Brass clapped his gauntleted hands to his helmeted head
and he opened his mouth and let out a scream of pain.

'Stop!' cried Hawkmoon. 'Why torture him?'

Lord Taragorm's voice came from near by, soft and
pleased. 'Surely you know why, Hawkmoon?'

And now brands flared and Hawkmoon saw that, in-
deed, they stood in a great cavern. And the five of them
—Count Brass, Lord Taragorm, the two guards and
himself—stood upon the top of a ziggurat raised in the
centre of the cavern, while Baron Kalan in his pyramid
hovered above their heads.

And below there were at least a thousand masked
figures, travesties of beasts, with heads of Pig and Wolf
and Bear and Vulture, swarming below and screaming
out now as Count Brass screamed and fell to his knees,
still surrounded by the awful blue flame.

And the leaping light of the brands showed murals
and carvings and bas-reliefs which were, in the details
of their obscenity, evidently of true Dark Empire work-
manship. And Hawkmoon knew that they must be in
Londra proper, probably in some cavern beneath a
cavern, far below the foundations of the city.

He tried to reach Count Brass, but the light around
his own body stopped him.

'Torture me!' cried Hawkmoon. 'Leave Count Brass
and torture me!'

And again came Taragorm's soft, sardonic voice. 'But
we do torture you, Hawkmoon, do we not?'

'Here is the one who brought us to the edge of an-
nihilation!' came Kalan's voice from above. 'Here is the
one who, in his pride, thought he had destroyed us. But
we shall destroy him. And with his destruction will
come an end to all restraint upon us. We shall emerge,
we shall conquer. The dead shall return and lead us—
King Huon . ..'

'King Huon!' roared the masked crowd.

'Baron Meliadus!' cried Kalan.

'Baron Meliadus!' roared the crowd.

'Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex!'

'Shenegar Trott!'

'And all the great heroes and demigods of Gran-
bretan shall return!'

'All! All!'

'Aye—all shall return. And they shall have vengeance
upon this world!'

'Vengeance!'

'The Beasts shall have vengeance!'

And again, quite suddenly, the crowd fell silent.

And again Count Brass screamed and tried to rise on
his knees and beat at his body as the blue flame brought
pain.

Hawkmoon saw that Count Brass was sweating, that
his eyes burned as if with fever, that his lips writhed.

'Stop!' he cried. He tried to break through the light
which held him, but again without success. 'Stop!'

But now the beasts were laughing. Pigs giggled, dogs
cackled, wolves barked and insects hissed. They laughed
to see Count Brass in such pain and his friend in such
helpless misery.

And Hawkmoon realised they were trapped in a ritual
—a ritual which had been promised these mask-wearers
in return for their loyalty to the unregenerate lords of
the Dark Empire.

And what would the ritual lead to?
He began to guess.

Count Brass rolled upon the floor now, nearly falling
over the edge of the ziggurat. And, every time he came
close to the edge, something rolled him back to the
centre. The blue flame ate at his nerves and his screams
came louder and louder. He had lost all dignity, all
identity, in that pain.

Hawkmoon wept as he begged Kalan and Taragorm
to desist.

At last it stopped. Count Brass got shakily to his
feet. The blue light faded to white and then the white
light faded, too. Count Brass's face was taut. His lips
were all bloody. His eyes had horror in them.

'Would you kill yourself, Hawkmoon, to end your
friend's agony?' Taragorm's taunting voice came from
beside the Duke of Koln. 'Would you do that?'

'So that is the alternative. Did your prognosis show
you that your cause would triumph if I slew myself?'

'It improves our chances. It would be best if Count
Brass could be prevailed upon to kill you but, if he will
not . . .' Taragorm shrugged. 'This is the next best
thing.'

Hawkmoon looked towards Count Brass. For an in-
stant their eyes met and he stared into yellow orbs that
were full of agony. Hawkmoon nodded. 'I will do it.
But first you must release Count Brass.'

'Your own death will release Count Brass,' said Kalan
from above. 'Be sure of that.'

'I do not trust you,' Hawkmoon said.

The beasts below watched on with bated breath as
they waited for their enemy to die.

'Will this be sufficient evidence of our faith?' The
white light faded from around Hawkmoon, too. Tara-

gorm took Hawkmoon's sword from the soldier who
still held it. He handed it to Hawkmoon. 'There. Now
you can kill me or kill yourself. Only be assured that if
you kill me, Count Brass's torture will continue. If
you kill yourself, it will cease.'

Hawkmoon licked his dry lips. He looked from Count
Brass to Taragorm to Kalan and to the blood-hungry
crowd. To kill himself for the pleasure of these de-
generates was loathsome. And yet, it was the only way
to save Count Brass. But what of the rest of the world?
He was too dazed to think of anything more, to con-
sider any further possibilities.

Slowly he shifted his sword in his hand until the
pommel was upon the flagstones and the tip under his
breastplate, resting against his flesh.

'You will still perish,' Hawkmoon said. His smile was
bitter as he contemplated the frightful crowd. 'Whether
I live or die. You will perish because of the rot that is
in your souls. You perished before because you turned
inward upon each other as a response to the great dan-
ger which threatened you. You squabbled, beast against
beast, as we attacked Londra. Could we have succeeded
without your help? I think not.'

'Be silent!' Kalan cried from his pyramid. 'Do what
you have agreed to do, Hawkmoon, or Count Brass
begins to dance again!'

But then Count Brass's voice, deep and huge and
weary, came from behind Hawkmoon.

Count Brass said:

'No!'

'If Hawkmoon goes back on his word, Count Brass,
then back comes flame and pain ...' said Taragorm, as
one might address a child.

'No,' said Count Brass. 'I'll suffer no more.'

'You wish to kill yourself, too?'

'My life means very little at this moment. It was be-
cause of Hawkmoon that I have suffered so. If he is to
die, at least give me the pleasure of despatching him!
I'll do what you wanted me to do in the first place. I see
now that I have bore many ordeals for the sake of one
who is, indeed, my enemy. Aye—let me kill him. Then
I shall die. And I shall have died avenged.'

The pain had plainly turned Count Brass mad. His
yellow eyes rolled. His lips twisted back to reveal ivory
teeth. 'I shall have died avenged!'

Taragorm was surprised. 'This is more than I hoped
for. Our faith in you, Count Brass, was justified, after
all.' Taragorm's voice was gleeful as he took the brass-
hilted broadsword from the mantis-guard and handed
it to Count Brass.

Count Brass took his sword in both his great hands.
His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Hawkmoon.

'I shall feel better, taking an enemy with me,' said
Count Brass.

And he raised the long sword above his head. And his
brass armour picked up the light from the brands and
made his whole head and his whole body shine as if with
fire.

And Hawkmoon peered into those yellow eyes and
knew that he saw death there.

CHAPTER FOUR

A GREAT WIND BLOWING

But it was not his own death that Hawkmoon saw.

It was Taragorm's death.

In an instant Count Brass had shifted his stance,
shouted to Hawkmoon to take the guards, and brought
the massive sword down upon the ornate clock-mask.

There came a howl from below as the crowd under-
stood what was happening. Beast-masks tossed from
side to side as the Dark Empire creatures began to
climb the steps of the ziggurat.

Kalan cried out from above. Hawkmoon, reversing
his sword swiftly, swept it round to knock the flame-
lances from the hands of the guards. They fell back.
Kalan's voice continued to wail hysterically from the
pyramid. 'Fools! Fools!'

Taragorm was staggering. It was evidently Taragorm
who controlled the white fire, for it flickered around
Count Brass as he raised his sword for a second blow.
Taragorm's clock was split, the hands buckled, but the-
head beneath was evidently still intact.

The sword smashed into the ruined mask and the two
sides fell away.

And there was revealed a head far smaller, in propor-
tion, than the body on which it sat. A round, ugly head
—the head of something which might have thrived dur-
ing the Tragic Millennium.

And then that tiny, round, white thing was lopped
from its stalk by a sideswipe of Count Brass's sword.
Taragorm was now most certainly dead.

Beasts began to clamber onto the platform from all
sides.

Count Brass roared with battle-joy as his sword took
lives, as blood splashed in the flame-light, as men
screamed and fell.

Hawkmoon was still engaged on the far side of the
ziggurat with the two mantis-guards who had drawn
their own swords.

And now a great wind seemed to be blowing through
the cavern, a whistling wind, a wailing wind.

Hawkmoon drove his sword point first through the
eyeslit of the nearest mantis-warrior. He tugged the
sword free and slashed at the other, driving the edge into
the neck so hard that it smashed through the metal and
severed the jugular. Now he could try to reach Count
Brass.

'Count Brass!' he called. 'Count Brass!'

Kalan was cackling in panic above. 'The wind!' he
cried. 'The time-wind!'

But Hawkmoon ignored him. He was bent on reach-
ing his friend's side and dying with his friend if need be.

But the wind blew still more strongly. It buffeted
Hawkmoon. He found that he could barely move against
it. And now beast-masked warriors of Granbretan were
falling back, plunging over the sides of the ziggurat as
the wind blew them, too.

Hawkmoon saw Count Brass swinging his broad-
sword two-handed. The count's armour still shone like
the sun itself. He had planted his feet upon a pile of
those he had already slain and he was roaring with
gigantic good humour as beasts came at him, slashing
with swords and pikes and spears, his own blade mov-

ing with the regularity with which Taragorm's pendulum
had once moved.

And Hawkmoon laughed, too. This would be the way
to die, if die they must. Again he fought against the
wind, wondering from where it came as he struggled to
reach Count Brass.

But then he was picked up by it. He struggled as the
ziggurat fell away below him and the scene became
smaller and smaller, the figure of Count Brass himself
so tiny that he could barely be seen now—and Kalan's
white pyramid seemed to shatter as he passed it and
Kalan screamed as he went tumbling down towards the
fight.

Hawkmoon tried to see what held him. But nothing
visible held him at all. Only the wind.

What had he heard Kalan call it? The time-wind?

Had they, then, in slaying Taragorm, released other
forces of space and time—perhaps created the chaos
which Kalan's and Taragorm's experiments had brought
so close?

Chaos. Would he be blown forever upon this wind of
time?

But no—he had left the cavern and was in Londra
itself. Yet this was not the reformed Londra. This was
the Londra of the old, bad days—the crazy towers and
minarets, the jewelled domes, built upon both sides of
the blood-red River Thayme. The wind had blown him
into the past. Metal wings clashed as ornate ornithop-
ters flew by. There seemed to be much activity in this
Londra. For what did they prepare?

And again the scene shifted.

Again Hawkmoon looked down upon Londra. But
now a battle raged. Explosions. Flame. The shouts of
the dying. He recognised it. This was the Battle of
Londra.

Down he began to tumble. Down and down until he
could barely think and hardly knew who he was.

And then he was Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln,
a flashing mirror-helm upon his head, the Sword of the
Dawn in his hand, the Red Amulet about his throat and
a Black Jewel embedded in his skull.

Again he was at the Battle of Londra.

And he thought his new thoughts and his old together
as he spurred his horse into the fray. And there was a
great pain in his head and he knew the Black Jewel
gnawed at his brain.

All about him men were fighting. The strange Legion
of the Dawn, emitting its rosy aura, was driving through
warriors who wore fierce wolf and vulture helms. All
was confusion. Through his pain-glazed eyes Hawk-
moon could hardly see what was happening. He
glimpsed one or two of his Kamargian warriors. He saw
two or three other mirror-helms flashing in the thick of
the battle. He realised that his own sword arm was ris-
ing and falling, rising and falling as he beat off the
Dark Empire warriors who were on all sides of him.

'Count Brass,' he murmured. 'Count Brass.' He re-
membered that he sought to be at the side of his old
friend, though he hardly knew why. He saw the barbaric
Warriors of the Dawn, with their painted bodies, their
spiked clubs and their barbed lances decorated with tufts
of dyed hair, slicing through the massed ranks of the
Dark Empire warriors. He looked about him, trying to
see which of those who wore the mirror-helms was
Count Brass.

And still the pain in his skull grew and grew. And
he gasped and wished that he could tear the mirror-
helm free from his own head. But his hands were al-
ready occupied with fending off those warriors who
pressed about him.

And then he saw something flash like gold and he
knew it was the brazen hilt of Count Brass's sword and
he spurred his horse through the throng.

The man in the mirror-helm and the armour of brass
was fighting three great Dark Empire lords. Hawk-
moon saw him standing there in the mud, horseless and
brave, while the three—Hound, Goat and Bull—rode
down on him. He saw Count Brass swing his broad-
sword and cut at the legs of his opponents' horses so
that Adaz Promp was thrown forward to land at Count
Brass's feet and be swiftly slain. He saw Mygel Hoist
trying to get his feet, his arms widespread as he begged
for mercy. He saw Mygel Hoist's head fly from its
shoulders. Now only one of the lords remained alive,
Saka Gerden in his massive bull-helm, rising to his feet
and shaking his head as the mirror-mask blinded him.

Hawkmoon ploughed on, still crying out: 'Count
Brass! Count Brass!'

Though he knew this was a dream, a distorted mem-
ory of the Battle of Londra, he still felt that he must
reach his old friend's side. But before he could reach
Count Brass, he saw the count wrench off his mirror-
mask and face Saka Gerden bareheaded. Then the two
closed.

Hawkmoon was nearly there by now, fighting wildly
with his only object being to reach Count Brass.

And then Hawkmoon saw a rider of the Order of the
Goat, a spear poised in his hand, riding down on Count
Brass from behind. Hawkmoon yelled, spurred his horse
forward and drove the Sword of the Dawn deep into the
throat of the Goat rider just as Count Brass split the
skull of Saka Gerden.

Hawkmoon kicked the corpse of the Goat Rider free
from its saddle and called:

'A horse for you, Count Brass.'

Count Brass offered Hawkmoon a quick grin of
thanks and swung up into the saddle, his mirror-helm
forgotten on the ground.

'Thanks!' shouted Count Brass above the din of the
battle. 'Now we'd best try to re-group our forces for the
final assault.'

His voice had a peculiar echo to it. Hawkmoon
swayed in his saddle as the pain from the Black Jewel
grew still more intense. He tried to reply, but he could
not He looked for Yisselda in the ranks of his own
forces, but could not see her.

The horse seemed to gallop faster and faster as the
battle-noise began to fade. Then he was no longer astride
a horse at all. A wind blew him on. A strong, cold
wind, like the wind that blew across the Kamarg.

The sky was darkening. The battle was behind him.
He began to fall through the night. He saw swaying
reeds where he had seen fighting men. He saw glistening
lagoons and marshes. He heard the lonely bark of a
marsh fox and he mistook it for Count Brass's voice.

And suddenly the wind no longer blew.

He tried to move of his own accord, but something
tugged at his body. He no longer wore the mirror-helm.
His sword was no longer in his hand. His vision cleared
as the terrible pain fled from his skull.

He lay immersed in marsh mud. It was night-time.
He was sinking slowly into the greedy earth. He saw part
of the body of a horse just in front of him. He reached
towards it, but only one arm was free from the mud
now. He heard his name being called and he mistook
it for the cry of a bird.

'Yisselda,' he murmured. 'Oh, Yisselda!'

CHAPTER FIVE

SOMETHING OF A DREAM

He felt as if he had already died. Fantasies and mem-
ories became confused as he waited for the marsh to
swallow him. Faces appeared before him. He saw the
face of Count Brass which shifted from relative youth
to relative age even as he watched. He saw the face of
Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains. He saw Bowgentle
and he saw D'Averc. He saw Yisselda. He saw Kalan
of Vitall and Taragorm of the Palace of Time. Beast
faces loomed on all sides. He saw Rinal of the Wraith-
folk, Orland Fank of the Runestaff and his brother The
Warrior in Jet and Gold. He saw Yisselda again. But
weren't there other faces, too? Children's faces. Why
did he not see them. And why did he confuse them
with the face of Count Brass? Count Brass as a child?
He had not known him then. He had not been born
then.

Count Brass's face was concerned. It opened its lips.
It spoke.

'Is that you, young Hawkmoon?'

'Aye, Count Brass. It is Hawkmoon. Shall we die to-
gether?'

He smiled at the vision.

'He still raves,' said a sad voice which was not that
of Count Brass. 'I am sorry, my lord. I should have
tried to stop him.'

Hawkmoon recognised the voice of Captain Josef
Vedla.

'Captain Vedla? Have you come to pull me from the
marsh for a second time?'

A rope fell near Hawkmoon's free hand. Automatical-
ly he passed his wrist through the loop. Someone began
to pull at the rope. Slowly he was tugged free of the
marsh.

His head was still aching, as if the Black Jewel had
never been removed. But the ache was fading now and
his brain was clearing. Why should he be reliving what
was, after all, a fairly mundane incident in his life?—
though he had come very close to death.

'Yisselda?' He looked for her face among those bend-
ing over him. But his fantasy remained. He still saw
Count Brass, surrounded by his old Kamargian soldiers.
There was no woman here at all.

'Yisselda?' he said again.

Count Brass said softly. 'Come, lad, we'll take you
back to Castle Brass.'

Hawkmoon felt himself lifted in the count's massive
arms and carried to a waiting horse.

'Can you ride yourself?' Count Brass asked.

'Aye.' Hawkmoon clambered into the saddle of the
horned stallion and straightened his back, swaying
slightly as his feet sought the stirrups. He smiled. 'Are
you a ghost still, Count Brass? Or have you truly been
restored to life. I said I would give anything for you to
be brought back to us.'

'Restored to life? You should know that I am not
dead!' Count Brass laughed. 'And these fresh terrors
come to haunt you, Hawkmoon?'

'You did not die at Londra?'

'Thanks to you, aye. You saved my life. If that Goat

rider had got his spear into me, the chances are I'd be
dead now.'

Hawkmoon smiled to himself. 'So events can be
changed. And without repercussion, it seems. But where
are Kalan and Taragorm now? And the others . . .' He
turned to Count Brass as they rode together along the
familiar marsh trails. 'And Bowgentle, and Oladahn,
and D'Averc?'

Count Brass frowned. 'Dead these five years. Do you
not remember? Poor lad, we all suffered after the Battle
of Londra.' He cleared his throat. 'We lost much in our
service of the Runestaff. And you lost your sanity.'

'My sanity?'

The lights of Aigues-Mortes were coming in sight.
Hawkmoon could see the outline of Castle Brass on the
hill.

Again Count Brass cleared his throat. Hawkmoon
stared at him, 'My sanity, Count Brass?'

'I should not have mentioned it. We'll soon be home.'
Count Brass would not meet his gaze.

They rode through the gates of the town and began
to ascend the winding streets. Some of the soldiers rode
their horses in other directions as they neared the cas-
tle, for they had quarters in the town itself.

'Good night to you!' called Captain Vedla.

Soon only Count Brass and Hawkmoon were left.
They entered the courtyard of the castle and dis-
mounted.

The hall of the castle looked little different from
when Hawkmoon had last seen it Yet it had an empty
feel to it.

'Is Yisselda sleeping?' Hawkmoon asked.

'Aye,' said Count Brass wearily. 'Sleeping.'

Hawkmoon looked down at his mud-caked clothes.

He no longer wore armour. 'I'd best bathe and get to
bed myself,' he said. He looked hard at Count Brass and
then he smiled. 'I thought you slain, you know, at the
Battle of Londra.'

'Aye,' said Count Brass in the same troubled voice. 'I
know. But now you know I'm no ghost, eh?'

'Just so!' Hawkmoon laughed with joy. 'Kalan's
schemes served us much better than they served him,
eh?'

Count Brass frowned. 'I suppose so,' he said uncer-
tainly, as if he was not sure what Hawkmoon meant.

'Yet he escaped,' Hawkmoon went on. 'We could
have trouble from him again.'

'Escaped? No. He committed suicide after taking that
jewel from your head. That is what disturbed your brain
so much.'

Hawkmoon began to feel afraid.

'You remember nothing of our most recent adven-
tures then?' He moved to where Count Brass warmed
himself at the fire.

'Adventures? You mean the marsh? You rode off in
a trance, mumbling something of having seen me out
there. Vedla saw you leave and came to warn me. That
is why we went in search of you and just managed to
find you before you died . ..'

Hawkmoon stared hard at Count Brass and then he
turned away. Had he dreamed all the rest. Had he truly
been mad?

'How long have I—have I been in this trance you
mention, Count Brass?'

'Why, since Londra. You seemed rational enough for
a little while after the jewel was removed. But then you
began to speak of Yisselda as if she still lived. And
there were other references to some you thought dead—

such as myself. It is not surprising that you should have
suffered such strain, for the jewel was . . .'

'Yisselda!' Hawkmoon cried out in sudden grief. 'You
say she is dead?'

'Aye—at the Battle of Londra, fighting as well as
any other warrior—she went down . . .'

'But the children—the children . . .' Hawkmoon
struggled to remember the names of his children. 'What
were they called? I cannot quite recall . . .'

Count Brass sighed a deep sigh and put his gaunt-
leted hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder. 'You spoke of
children, too. But there were no children. How could
there be?'

'No children.'

Hawkmoon felt strangely empty. He strove to remind
himself of something he had said quite recently. 'I would
give anything if Count Brass could live again . . .'

And now Count Brass lived again and his love, his
beautiful Yisselda, his children, they were gone to limbo
—they had never existed in all those five years since the
Battle of Londra.

'You seem more rational,' said Count Brass. 'I had
begun to hope that your brain was healing. Now, per-
haps, it has healed.'

'Healed?' The word was a mockery. Hawkmoon
turned again to confront his old friend. 'Have all in
Castle Brass—in the whole Kamarg—thought me mad?'

'Madness might be too strong a word,' said Count
Brass gruffly. 'You were in a kind of trance, as if you
dreamed of events slightly different to those which were
actually taking place . . . that is the best way I can
describe it. If Bowgentle were here, perhaps he could
have explained it better. Perhaps he could have helped
you more than we could.' The count in brass shook his
heavy, red head. 'I do not know, Hawkmoon.'

'And now I am sane,' said Hawkmoon bitterly.

'Aye, it seems so.'

'Then perhaps my madness was preferable to this
reality.' Hawkmoon walked heavily towards the stairs.
'Oh, this is so hard to bear.'

Surely it could not all have been a graphic dream.
Surely Yisselda had lived and the children had lived?

But already the memories were fading, as a dream
fades. At the foot of the stairs he turned again to where
Count Brass still stood, looking into the fire, his old
head heavy and sad.

'We live—you and I? And our friends are dead. Your
daughter is dead. You were right, Count Brass—much
was lost at the Battle of Londra. Your grandchildren
were lost, also.'

'Aye,' said Count Brass almost inaudibly. 'The future
was lost, you could say.'

EPILOGUE

Nearly seven years had passed since the great Battle of
Londra, when the power of the Dark Empire had been
broken. And much had taken place in those seven years.
For five of them Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln, had
suffered the tragedy of madness. Even now, two years
since he had recovered, he was not the same man who
had ridden so bravely on the Runestaff's business. He
had become grim, withdrawn and lonely. Even his old
friend, Count Brass, the only other survivor of the con-
flict, hardly knew him now.

'It is the loss of his companions—the loss of his
Yisselda,' whispered the sympathetic townspeople of the
restored Aigues-Mortes. And they would pity Dorian
Hawkmoon as he rode, alone, through the town and out
of the gates and across the wide Kamarg, across the
marshlands where the giant scarlet flamingoes wheeled
and the white bulls galloped.

And Dorian Hawkmoon would ride to a small hill
which rose from the middle of the marsh and he would
dismount and lead his horse up to the top where stood
the ruin of an ancient church, built before the onset
of the Tragic Millennium.

And he would look out across the waving reeds and
the rippling lagoons as the mistral keened and its mel-
ancholy voice would echo the misery in his eyes.

And he would try to recall a dream.

A dream of Yisselda and two children whose names
he could not remember. Had they ever had names in his
dream?

A foolish dream, of what might have been, if Yisselda
had survived the Battle of Londra.

And sometimes, when the sun began to set across
the broad marshlands and the rain began to fall, per-
haps, into the lagoons, he would stand upon the high-
est part of the ruin and raise his arms out to the ragged
clouds which raced across the darkening sky and call
her name into the wind.

'Yisselda! Yisselda!'

And his cry would be taken up by the birds which
sailed upon that wind.

'Yisselda!'

And later Hawkmoon would lower his head and he
would weep and he would wonder why he still felt, in
spite of all the evident truth, that he might one day
find his lost love again.

Why did he wonder if there were still some place—
some other Earth perhaps—where the dead still lived?
Surely such an obsession showed that there was a trace
of madness left in his skull?

Then he would sigh and arrange his features so that
none who saw him would know that he had mourned
and he would climb upon his horse and, as the dusk
fell, ride back to Castle Brass where his old friend
waited for him.

Where Count Brass waited for him.

This ends the first of the Chronicles of Castle Brass