Book 3 of The Runestaff
The Sword of The Dawn
by Michael Moorcock

	Contents

	Book One

1	The Last City	9

2	The Flamingoes' Dance	13

3	Elvereza Tozer	19

4	Flana Mikosevaar	27

5	Taragorm	30

6	The Audience	33

7	The Emissaries	39

8	Meliadus at the Palace of Time	48

9	Interlude at Castle Brass	54

10	The Sights of Londra	56

11	Thoughts of the Countess Flana	59

12	A Revelation	60

13	King Huon's Displeasure	66

14	The Wastes of Yel	69

15	The Deserted Cavern	77

16	Mygan of Llandar	86

	Book Two

1	Zhenak-Teng	97

2	The Charki	103

3	The Sayou River	108

4	Valjon of Starvel	114

5	PahlBewchard	127

6	Narleen	132

7	The Blaze	140

8	The Walls of Starvel	146

9	The Temple of Batach Gerandiun	152

10	A Friend from the Shadows	160

11	The Parting	170

BOOK ONE

WHEN THAT ASPECT of the Eternal Champion
called Dorian Hawkmoon, last Duke of Koln, ripped
the Red Amulet from the throat of the Mad God
and made that powerful thing his own, he returned
with Huillam D'Averc and Oladahn of the Mountains
to the Kamarg where Count Brass, his daughter Yis-
selda, his friend Bowgentle the philosopher and all
their people underwent siege from the hordes of the
Dark Empire led by Hawkmoon's old enemy Baron
Meliadus of Kroiden.

So powerful had the Dark Empire grown that it
threatened to destroy even the well-protected province
of the Kamarg. If that happened, it would mean that
Meliadus would take Yisselda for his own and slay
slowly all the rest, turning the Kamarg to a waste of
ash. Only by the mighty force released by the ancient
machine of the wraith-folk which could warp whole
areas of time and space were they saved by shifting
into another dimension of the Earth.

And so they found sanctuary. Sanctuary in some
other Kamarg, where the evil and horror of Granbretan
did not exist; but they knew that if ever the crystal ma-
chine were destroyed, they would be plunged back into
the chaos of their own time and space.

For a while they lived in joyful relief at their es-
cape, but gradually Hawkmoon began to finger his
sword and wonder at the fate of his own world . . .
—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

THE LAST CITY

THE GRIM RIDERS spurred their battle-steeds up
the muddy slopes of the hill, coughing as their lungs
took in the thick black smoke rising from the valley.

It was evening, the sun was setting, and their gro-
tesque shadows were long. In the twilight, it seemed
that gigantic beast-headed creatures rode the horses.

Each rider bore a banner, stained by war, each wore
a huge beast-mask of jewelled metal and heavy armour
of steel, brass and silver, emblazoned with its wearer's
device, battered and bloodied, and each gauntleted
right hand gripped a weapon on which was encrusted
the remains of a hundred innocents.

The six horsemen reached the top of the hill and
dragged their snorting mounts to a halt, stabbing their
banners into the earth where they flapped like the
wings of birds of prey in the hot wind from the valley.

Wolf-mask turned to stare at Fly-mask, Ape glanced
at Goat, Rat seemed to grin at Hound—a grin of
triumph. The Beasts of the Dark Empire, each a War-
lord of thousands, looked beyond the valley and be-
yond the hills to the sea, looked back at the blazing city
below them where, faintly, they could hear the wails
of the slaughtered and the tormented.

The sun set, night fell arid the flames burned bright-
er, reflected in the dark metal of the masks of the
Lords of Granbretan.

"Well, my lords," said Baron Meliadus, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of, the Wolf, Commander of the

Army of Conquest, his deep, vibrant voice booming
from within his great mask, "well, we have conquered
all Europe now."

Mygel Hoist, skeletal Archduke of Londra, head of
which he had barely escaped with his life, laughed,
the Order of the Goat, veteran of the Kamarg, from
"Aye—all Europe. Not an inch of it is not ours. And
now great parts of the East belong to us also." The
Goat helm nodded as if in satisfaction, the ruby eyes
catching the firelight, flashing malignantly.

"Soon," merrily growled Adaz Promp, Master of the
Order of the Hound, "all the world will be ours. All."

The Barons of Granbretan, masters of a continent,
tacticians and warriors of ferocious courage and skill,
careless of their own lives, corrupt of soul and mad of
brain, haters of all that was not in decay, wielders of
power without morality, force without justice, chuckled
with gloomy pleasure as they watched the last Euro-
pean city to withstand them crumble and die. It had
been an old city. It had been called Athena.

"All," said Jerek Nankenseen, Warlord of the Order
of the Fly, "save the hidden Kamarg ..."

And Baron Meliadus lost his humor then, made al-
most as if he would strike his fellow warlord.

Jerek Nankenseen's bejewelled Fly-mask turned a
little to regard Meliadus and the voice from within the
mask was baiting. "Is it not enough that you have
chased them away, my lord Baron?"

"No," snarled the Wolf of Wolves. "Not enough."

"They can offer us no menace," murmured Baron
Brenal Farnu of the Rat helm. "From what our scien-
tists divined, they exist in a dimension beyond Earth,
in some other time or space. We cannot reach them and
they cannot reach us. Let us enjoy our triumph, un-
marred by thoughts of Hawkmoon and Count
Brass..."

"I cannot!"

"Or is it another name that haunts thee, brother

Baron?" Jerek Nankenseen mocked the man who had
been his rival in more than one amorous encounter in
Londra. "The name of the fair one, Yisselda? Is it love
that moves you, my lord? Sweet love?"

For a moment the Wolf did not reply, but the hand
that gripped the sword tightened as if in fury. Then
the rich, musical voice spoke and it had recovered its
composure, was almost light in tone.

"Vengeance, Baron Jerek Nankenseen, is what moti-
vates me..."

"You are a most passionate man, Baron . . ." Jerek
Nankenseen said dryly.

Meliadus sheathed his sword suddenly and reached
out to grasp his banner, wrenching it from the earth.
"They have insulted our King-Emperor, our land—
and myself. I will have the girl for my pleasure, but in
no soft spirit will I take her, no weak emotion will
motivate me..."

"Of course not," murmured Jerek Nankenseen, a
hint of patronage in his voice.

". . . And as for the others, I will have my pleasure
with them, also—in the prison vaults of Londra. Do-
rian Hawkmoon, Count Brass, the philosopher Bow-
gentle, the unhuman one, Oladahn of the Bulgar Moun-
tains, and the traitor Huillam D'Averc—all these shall
suffer for many years. That I have sworn by the Rune-
staff!"

There was a sound behind them. They turned to
peer through the flickering light and saw a canopied lit-
ter being borne up the hill by a dozen Athenan prison-
ers of war who were chained to its poles. In the litter
lounged the unconventional Shenegar Trott, Count of
Sussex. Count Shenegar almost disdained the wearing
of a mask at all, and as it was he wore a silver one
scarcely larger than his head, fashioned to resemble, in
caricature, his own visage. He belonged to no Order
and was tolerated by the King-Emperor and his Court
because of his immense richness and almost superhu-

man courage in battle—yet he gave the appearance, in
his jeweled robes and lazy manner, of a besotted fool.
He, even more than Meliadus, had the confidence (such
as it was) of the King-Emperor Huon, for his advice
was almost always excellent. He had plainly heard the
last part of the exchange and spoke banteringly.

"A dangerous oath to swear, my lord Baron," said he
softly. "One that could, by all counts, have repercus-
sions on he who swears it..."

"I swore the oath with that knowledge," replied Me-
liadus. "I shall find them, Count Shenegar, never fear."

"I came to remind you, my lords," said Shenegar
Trott, "that our King-Emperor grows impatient to see
us and hear our report that all Europe is now his
property."

"I will ride for Londra instantly," Meliadus said.
"For there I may consult our sorcerer-scientists and
discover a means of hunting out my foes. Farewell,
my lords."

He dragged at his horse's reins, turning the beast and
galloping back down the hill, watched by his peers.

The beast-masks moved together in the firelight. "His
singular mentality could destroy us all," whispered one.

"What matter?" chuckled Shenegar Trott, "so long
as all is destroyed with us ..."

The answering laughter was wild, ringing from the
jeweled helms. It was insane laughter, tinged as much
with self-hatred as with hatred of the world.

For this was the great power of the Lords of the
Dark Empire, that they valued nothing on all the Earth,
no human quality, nothing within or without them-
selves. The spreading of conquest and desolation, of
terror and torment, was their staple entertainment, a
means of employing their hours until their spans of life
were ended. For them, warfare was merely the most
satisfactory way of easing their ennui ...

Chapter Two

THE FLAMINGOES
DANCE

AT DAWN, WHEN clouds of giant scarlet flamin-
goes rose from their nests of reeds and wheeled through
the sky in bizarre ritual dances, Count Brass would
stand on the edge of the marsh and stare over the water
at the strange configurations of dark lagoons and tawny
islands that seemed to him like hieroglyphs in some
primeval language.

The ontological revelations that might exist in these
patterns had always intrigued him, and of late he had
taken to studying the birds, reeds and lagoons, attempt-
ing to divine the key to this cryptic landscape.

The landscape, he thought, was coded. In it he might
find the answers to the dilemma of which even he was
only half-conscious; find, perhaps, the revelation that
would tell him what he needed to know of the growing
threat he felt was about to engulf him both psychically
and physically.

The sun rose, brightening the water with its pale
light, and Count Brass heard a sound, turned, and saw
his daughter Yisselda, golden-haired madonna of the
lagoons, an almost preternatural figure in her flowing
blue gown, riding bareback her white horned Kamarg
horse and smiling mysteriously as if she, too, knew
some secret that he could never fully comprehend.

Count Brass sought to avoid the girl by stepping out

briskly along the shore, but already she was riding
close to him and waving.

"Father—you're up early! Not for the first time re-
cently."

Count Brass nodded, turned again to contemplate
the waters and the reeds, looked up suddenly at the
dancing birds as if to catch them by surprise, or by
some instinctive flash of divination learn the secret of
their strange, almost frenetic gyrations.

Yisselda had dismounted and now stood beside him.
"They are not our flamingoes," she said. "And yet
they're so like them. What do you see?"

Count Brass shrugged and smiled at her. "Noth-
ing. Where's Hawkmoon?"

"At the castle. He's still asleep."

Count Brass grunted, clasping his great hands to-
gether as if in desperate prayer, listening to the beat-
ing of the heavy wings overhead. Then he relaxed and
took her by the arm, guiding her along the bank of the
lagoon.

"It's beautiful," she murmured. "The sunrise."

Count Brass made a small gesture of impatience.
"You don't understand . . ." he began, and then
paused. He knew that she would never see the land-
scape as he saw it. He had tried once to describe it to
her, but she had lost interest quickly, had made no
effort to understand the significance of the patterns he
detected everywhere—in the water, the reeds, the trees,
the animal life that filled this Kamarg in abundance,
as it had filled the Kamarg that they had left.

To him it was the quintessence of order, but to her
it was simply pleasurable to look at—something "beau-
tiful," to admire, in fact, for its "wildness."

Only Bowgentle, the philosopher poet, Ms old friend,
had an inkling of what he meant and even then Bow-
gentle believed that it reflected not on the nature of the
landscape but on the particular nature of Count Brass's
mind.

"You're exhausted, disorientated," Bowgentle would
say. "The ordering mechanism of the brain is working
too hard, so you see a pattern to existence that, in fact,
only stems from your own weariness and distur-
bance ..."

Count Brass would dismiss this argument with a
scowl, don his armour of brass and ride away on his
own again, to the discomfort of his family and friends.
He had spent a long while exploring this new Kamarg
that was so much like his own save that there was no
evidence of mankind's ever having existed here.

"He is a man of action, like myself," Dorian Hawk-
moon, Yisselda's husband, would say. "His mind turns
inward, I fear, for want of some real problem with
which to engage itself."

"The real problems seem insoluble," Bowgentle
would reply, and the conversation would end as Hawk-
moon, too, went off by himself, his hand on the hilt of
his sword.

There was tension in Castle Brass, and even in the
village below, the folk were troubled, glad of their es-
cape from the terror of the Dark Empire, but not sure
that they were permanently settled in this new land so
like the one they had left. At first, when they had ar-
rived, the land had seemed a transformed version of the
Kamarg, its colors those of the rainbow, but gradually
those colors had changed to more natural ones, as if
their memories had imposed themselves on the land-
scape, so that now there was little difference. There
were herds of horned horses and white bulls to tame,
scarlet flamingoes that might be trained to bear riders,
but at the back of the villagers' minds was always the
threat of the Dark Empire somehow finding a way
through even to this retreat.

To Hawkmoon and Count Brass—perhaps to
D'Averc, Bowgentle and Oladahn, too—the idea was
not so threatening. There were times when they would

have welcomed an assault from the world they had
left.

While Count Brass studied the landscape and sought
to divine its secrets, Dorian Hawkmoon would ride at
speed along the lagoon trails, scattering herds of bulls
and horses, sending the flamingoes flapping into the
sky, looking for an enemy.

One day, as he rode back on a steaming horse from
one of his many journeys of exploration along the
shores of the violet sea (sea and terrain seemed without
limit), he saw the flamingoes wheeling in the sky,
spiraling upwards on the air currents and then drifting
down again. It was afternoon and the flamingo dance
took place only at dawn. The giant birds seemed dis-
turbed and Hawkmoon decided to investigate.

He spurred his horse along the winding path through
the marsh until he was directly below the flamingoes,
saw that they wheeled above a small island covered in
tall reeds. He peered intently at the island and thought
that he glimpsed something among the reeds, a flash of
red that could be a man's coat.

At first Hawkmoon decided that it was probably a
villager snaring duck, but then he realized that if that
had been so the man would have hailed him—at least
waved him away to ensure he would not disturb the
fowl.

Puzzled, Hawkmoon spurred his horse into the wa-
ter, swimming it across to the island and on to the
marshy ground. The animal's powerful body pushed
back the tough reeds as it moved and again Hawk-
moon saw a flash of red, became convinced that he
had seen a man.

"Ho!" he cried. "Who's there!"

He received no answer. Instead the reeds became
more agitated as the man began to run through them
without caution.

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon cried, and it came to
him then that the Dark Empire had broken through at

last, that there were men hidden everywhere in the
reeds ready to attack Castle Brass.

He thundered through the reeds in pursuit of the
red-jerkined man, saw him clearly now as he flung him-
self into the lagoon and began to swim for the bank.

"Stop!" Hawkmoon called, but the man swam on.

Hawkmoon's horse plunged again into the water and
it foamed white. The man was already wading onto the
opposite bank, glanced back to see that Hawkmoon
was almost upon him, turned right round and drew a
bright, slender sword of extraordinary length.

But it was not the sword that astonished Hawkmoon
most—it was the impression that the man had no face!
The whole of the head beneath the long, fair, dirty hair
was blank. Hawkmoon gasped, drawing his own sword.
Was it some alien inhabitant of this world?

Hawkmoon swung himself from his saddle, sword
ready, as the horse clambered onto the bank, stood
legs astraddle facing his strange antagonist, laughed
suddenly as he realized the truth. The man was wearing
a mask of light leather. The mouth and eye slits were
very thin and could not be distinguished at a distance.

"Why do you laugh?" the masked man asked in a
braying voice, his sword on guard. "You should not
laugh, my friend, for you are about to die."

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "I know you for
a boaster only."

"I am a greater swordsman than you," replied the
man. "You had best surrender now."

"I regret I can't accept your word on the quality of
my swordsmanship or your own," Hawkmoon replied
with a smile. "How is it that such a master of the blade
is so poorly attired, for instance?"

With his sword he indicated the man's patched red
jerkin, his trousers and boots of cracked leather. Even
his bright sword had no scabbard, but had been drawn
from a loop of cord attached to a rope belt on which
also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers

were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of
his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall
but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.

"A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where
did you steal the sword, beggar?"

He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then with-
drew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and
Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to
his face and discovered that it bled.

"Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the
stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make your-
self my prisoner."

Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A
worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much
I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I
heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he
lunged at the masked man.

His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry
that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon bare-
ly managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in
the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his
position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each
recognising in the other a true master of the sword.

They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither
giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon de-
cided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back
down the bank towards the water.

Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked
man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved
even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was
forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.

Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, go-
ing down on one knee. The other sprang forward to
thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat
striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell
from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and
placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the
other's throat.

"Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled
the masked man.

"I am easily bored," Hawkmoon replied. "I was be-
coming impatient with the game."

"Well, what now?"

"Your name?" Hawkmoon said. "I'll know that first
—then see your face—then know your business here-—
then, and perhaps most important, discover how you
came here."

"My name you will know," said the man with undis-
guised pride. "It is Elvereza Tozer."

"I do know it, indeed!" remarked the Duke of Koln
in some surprise.

Chapter Three

ELVEREZA TOZER

ELVEREZA TOZER was not the man Hawkmoon
would have expected to meet if he had been told in
advance that he was to encounter Granbretan's great-
est playwright—a writer whose work was admired
throughout Europe, even by those who in all other
ways loathed Granbretan. The author of King Staleen,
The Tragedy of Katine and Carna, The Last of the
Braldurs, Annala, Chirshil and Adutf, The Comedy of
Steel and many more, had not been heard of of late,
but Hawkmoon had thought this due to the wars. He
would have expected Tozer to have been rich in dress,
confident in every way, poised and full of wit. Instead
he found a man who seemed more at ease with a sword
than with words, a vain man, something of a fool and
a poppinjay, dressed in rags.

As he propelled Tozer with his own sword along the
marsh trails towards Castle Brass, Hawkmoon puzzled
over this apparent paradox. Was the man lying? If so,
why should he claim to be, of all things, an eminent
playmaker?

Tozer walked along, apparently undisturbed by his
change of fortune, whistling a jaunty tune.

Hawkmoon paused. "A moment," he said, and
reached to grasp the reins of his horse, which had been
following him. Tozer turned. He still wore his mask.
Hawkmoon had been so astonished at hearing the name
that he had forgotten to order Tozer to remove the
leather from his face.

"Well," Tozer said, glancing about him. "It is a love-
ly country—though short in audiences, I would gath-
er."

"Aye," replied Hawkmoon, nonplussed. "Aye . . ."
He gestured towards the horse. "We'll ride pillion, I
think. Into the saddle with you, Master Tozer."

Tozer swung up onto the horse and Hawkmoon fol-
lowed him, taking the reins and urging the horse into
a trot.

In this manner they rode until they came to the gates
of the town, passed through them, and proceeded slow-
ly through the winding streets, up the steep road to the
walls of Castle Brass.

Dismounting in the courtyard, Hawkmoon gave the
horse to a groom and indicated the door to the main
hall of the castle. "Through there, if you please," he
told Tozer.

With a small shrug, Tozer sauntered through the
door and bowed to the two men who stood there by the
great fire which blazed in the hall. Hawkmoon nodded
to them. "Good morning, Sir Bowgentle—D'Averc. I
have a prisoner..."

"So I see," D'Averc said, his gaunt, handsome fea-
tures brightening a little with interest. "Are the war-
riors of Granbretan at our gates again?"

"He is the only one, so far as I can judge," Hawk-
moon replied. "He claims to be Elvereza Tozer ..."

"Indeed?" The ascetic Bowgentle's quiet eyes took
on a look of curiosity. "The author of Chirshil and
Adulf? It is hard to believe."

Tozer's thin hand went to the mask and tugged at
the thongs securing it. "I know you, sir," he said. "We
met ten years hence when I came with my play to
Malaga."

"I recall the time. We discussed some poems you had
recently published and which I admired." Bowgentle
shook his head. "You are Elvereza Tozer, but . . ."

The mask came loose and revealed an emaciated,
shifty face sporting a whispy beard which did not hide
a weak, receding chin and which was dominated by a
long, thin nose. The flesh of the face was unhealthy
and bore the marks of a pox.

"And I recall the face—though it was fuller then.
Pray, what has happened to you, sir?" Bowgentle asked
faintly. "Are you a refugee seeking escape from your
countrymen?"

"Ah," Tozer sighed, darting Bowgentle a calculating
look. "Perhaps. Would you have a glass of wine, sir?
My encounter with your military friend here has left
me thirsty, I fear."

"What?" put in D'Averc. "Have you been fighting?"

"Fighting to kill," Hawkmoon said grimly. "I feel
that Master Tozer did not come to our Kamarg on an
errand of goodwill. I found him skulking in the reeds
to the south. I think he comes as a spy."

"And why should Elvereza Tozer, greatest play-
wright of the world, wish to spy?" The words were de-
livered by Tozer in a disdainful tone that yet some-
how lacked conviction.

Bowgentle bit his lip and tugged a bell rope for a
servant.

"That is for you to tell us, sir," Huillam D'Averc said
with some amusement in his voice. He coughed ostenta-

tiously. "Forgive me—a slight chill, I think. The castle
is full of drafts ..."

"And I'd wish the same for myself," Tozer said, "if
a draft could be found." He looked at them expectantly.
"A draft to help us forget the draft, if you understand
me. A draft..."

"Yes, yes," said Bowgentle hastily and turned to the
servant who had entered. "A jug of wine for our guest,"
he requested. "And would you eat, Master Tozer?"

" 'I would eat the bread of Babel and the meat of
Marakhan . . .'", Tozer said dreamily. " Tor all such
fruits as fools supply are merely ...'"

"We can offer some cheese at this hour," D'Averc in-
terrupted sardonically.

"Annala, Act VI, Scene V," Tozer said. "You'll re-
member the scene?"

"I remember," D'Averc nodded. "I always felt that
section somewhat weaker than the rest."

"Subtler," Tozer said airily. "Subtler."

The servant re-entered with the wine and Tozer
helped himself, pouring a generous amount into the
goblet. "The concerns of literature," he said, "are not
always obvious to the common herd. A hundred years
from now and people will see the last act of Annala
not, as some stupid critics have said, as hastily written
and poorly conceived, but as the complex structure it
really is ..."

"I had reckoned myself as something of a writer,"
Bowgentle said, "but I must confess, I did not see
subtleties ... Perhaps you could explain."

"Some other time," Tozer told him, with an in-
souciant wave of the hand. He drank off the wine and
helped himself to another full goblet.

"In the meanwhile," Hawkmoon said firmly, "per-
haps you could explain your presence in the Kamarg.
After all, we had thought ourselves inviolate and
now..."

"You are still inviolate, never fear," Tozer said, "save

to myself, of course. By the power of my brain I pro-
pelled myself hither."

D'Averc sceptically rubbed his chin. "By the power
of your—brain? How so?"

"An ancient discipline taught me by a master phi-
losopher who dwells in the hidden valleys of Yel . . ."
Tozer belched and poured more wine.

"Yel is that south western province of Granbretan is
it not?" Bowgentle asked.

"Aye. A remote, barely inhabited land, peopled by
a few dark-brown barbarians who live in holes in the
ground. After my play Chirshil and Adulf had in-
curred the displeasure of certain elements at Court, I
deemed it wise to retire there for a while, leaving my
enemies to take for themselves all goods, monies, and
mistresses I left behind. What know I of petty poli-
tics? How was I to realize that certain portions of the
play seemed to reflect the intrigues then current at the
Court?"

"So you were disgraced?" Hawkmoon said, looking
narrowly at Tozer. The story could be part of the
man's deception.

"More—I almost lost my life. But the rural exis-
tence near killed me as it was ..."

"You met this philosopher who taught you how to
travel through the dimensions? Then you came here
seeking refuge?" Hawkmoon studied Tozer's reaction
to these questions.

"No—ah, yes . . ." said the playwright. "That is to
say, I did not know exactly where I was coming . . ."

"I think that you were sent here by the King-Em-
peror to destroy us," Hawkmoon said. "I think, Master
Tozer, that you are lying to us."

"Lying? What is a lie? What is truth?" Tozer grinned
glassily up at Hawkmoon and then hiccupped.

"Truth," Hawkmoon replied evenly, "is a coarse
noose about your throat. I think we should hang you."
He fingered the dull black jewel imbedded in his fore-

head. "I am not unfamiliar with the tricks of the Dark
Empire. I have been their victim too often to risk being
deceived again." He looked at the others. "I say we
should hang him now."

"But how do we know if he is really the only one
who can reach us?" D'Averc asked sensibly. "We can-
not be too hasty, Hawkmoon."

"I am the only one, I swear it!" Tozer spoke ner-
vously now. "I admit, good sir, that I was commis-
sioned to come here. It was that or lose my life in the
prison catacombs of the Great Palace. When I had the
old man's secret, I returned to Londra thinking that
my power would enable me to bargain with those at
Court who were displeased with me. I wished only to
be returned to my former status and know that I had an
audience to write for once again. However, when I told
them of my new-found discipline, they instantly threat-
ened my life unless I came here and destroyed that
which enabled you to enter this dimension ... so I
came—glad, I must admit, to escape them. I was not
particularly willing to risk my skin in offending you
good folk but..."

"They did not ensure, in some way, that you would
perform the task they set you?" Hawkmoon asked.
"That is strange."

"To tell you the truth," Tozer said, downcast, "I do
not think they altogether believed in my power. I think
they merely wished to test that I had it. When I agreed
to go and left instantly, they must have been shocked."

"Not like the Dark Empire Lords to allow such an

• oversight," mused D'Averc, his aquiline face frowning.

"Still, if you did not win our confidence, there's no

reason you should have won theirs. Nonetheless, I am

not altogether convinced that you speak the truth."

"You told them of this old man?" Bowgentle said.
"They will be able to learn his secret for themselves!"

"Not so," Tozer said with a leer. "I told them I had

struck upon the power myself, in my months of soli-
tude."

"No wonder they did not take you seriously!"
D'Averc smiled.

Tozer looked hurt and took another draft of wine.

"I find it difficult to believe that you were able to
travel here by exercise of your will alone," Bowgentle
admitted. "Are you sure you employed no other
means...?"

"None."

"I like this not at all," Hawkmoon said darkly.
"Even if he tells the truth, the Lords of Granbretan
will wonder where he found his power by now, will
learn all his movements, will almost certainly discover
the old man—and then they will have the means to
come through in strength and we shall be doomed!"

"Indeed, these are difficult times," Tozer said, filling
his goblet yet again. "Remember your King Staleen,
Act IV, Scene II—'Wild days, wild riders, and the
stink of warfare across the world!' Aha, I was a vi-
sionary and knew it not!" He was now evidently drunk.

Hawkmoon stared hard at the weak-chinned drunk-
ard, still finding it almost impossible to believe that
this was the great playwright Tozer.

"You wonder at my poverty, I see," Tozer said,
speaking with slurred tongue. "The result of a couple
of lines in Chirshil and Adulf, as I told you. Oh, the
wickedness of fate! A couple of lines, penned in good
faith, and here I am today, with the threat of a noose
about my gullet. You remember the scene of course,
and the speech? 'Court and king, alike corrupt . . . ?'
Act I, Scene I? Pity me, sir, and do not hang me. A
great artist destroyed by his own mighty genius."

"This old man," Bowgentle said. "What was he like?
Where exactly did he live?"

"The old man . . ." Tozer. forced more wine down
his throat. "The old man reminded me somewhat of
Ioni in my Comedy of Steel. Act II, Scene VI . . ."

"What was he like?" Hawkmoon asked impatiently.

" 'Machine-devoured, all his hours were given o'er
to that insidious circuitry, and old grew he, unnoticing,
in the service of his engines.' He lived only for his
science, you see. He made the rings . . ." Tozer put his
hand to his mouth.

"Rings? What rings?" D'Averc said swiftly.

"I feel that you must excuse me," Tozer said, rising
in a parody of dignity, "for the wine has proved too
rich for my empty stomach. Your pity, if you
please..."

It was true that Tozer's face had taken on a greenish
tinge.

"Very well," Bowgentle said wearily. "I will show
you."

"Before he leaves," came a new voice from near the
door, "ask him for the ring he wears on the middle
finger of his left hand." The tone was slightly muffled,
a little sardonic. Hawkmoon recognized it at once and
turned.

Tozer gasped and clamped his hand over the ring.

"What do you know of this?" he said. "Who are
you?"

"Duke Dorian here," said the figure with a gesture
towards Hawkmoon, "calls me the Warrior in Jet and
Gold."

Taller than any of them, covered all in armour and
helm of black and gold, the mysterious Warrior raised
an arm and pointed a metal-clad finger at Tozer. "Hand
him that ring."

"The ring is of glass, nothing more. It is of no
value..."

D'Averc said. "He mentioned rings. Is the ring,
then, what actually transported him here?"

Tozer still hesitated, his face stupid with drink and
with anxiety. "I said that it was glass, of no value . . ."

"By the Runestaff, I command thee!" rumbled the
Warrior in a terrible voice.

With a little nervous movement, Elvereza Tozer
drew off the ring and flung it onto the flagstones.
D'Averc stooped and caught it up, inspecting it. "It's
a crystal," he said, "not glass. A familiar kind of
crystal, too..."

"It is of the same substance from which the device
that brought you here was carved," the Warrior in
Jet and Gold told him. He displayed his own gauntleted
hand and there, on the middle finger, reposed an identi-
cal ring. "And it possesses the same properties—can
transport a man through the dimensions."

"As I thought," Hawkmoon said. "It was no mental
discipline that enabled you to come here, but a piece of
crystal. Now I'll hang you assuredly! Where did you
•get the ring?"

"From the man—from Mygan of Llandar. I swear
that is the truth. He has others—can make more!"
Tozer cried. "Do not hang me, I pray you. I will tell
you exactly where to find the old man."

"That we shall have to know," Bowgentle said
thoughtfully, "for we shall have to get to him before
the Dark Empire Lords do. We must have him and his
secrets—for our security."

"What? Must we journey to Granbretan?" D'Averc
said in some astonishment.

"It would seem necessary," Hawkmoon told him.

Chapter Four

FLANA MIKOSEVAAR

AT THE CONCERT, Flana Mikosevaar, Countess
of Kanbery,   adjusted  her mask  of spun  gold  and

glanced absently about her, seeing the rest of the audi-
ence only as a mass of gorgeous colours. The orchestra
in the center of the ballroom played a wild and com-
plex melody, one of the later works of Granbretan's last
great musician, Londen Johne, who had died two cen-
turies earlier.

The Countess's mask was that of an ornate heron,
its eyes facetted with a thousand fragments of rare
jewels. Her heavy gown was of luminous brocade that
changed its many colours as the light varied. She was
Asrovak Mikosevaar's widow, he who had died under
Dorian Hawkmoon's blade at the first Battle of the
Kamarg. The Muskovian renegade, who had formed
the Vulture Legion to fight on the European mainland
and whose slogan had been Death to Life, was not
mourned by Flana of Kanbery and she bore no grudge
against his killer. He had been her twelfth husband, after
all, and the fierce insanity of the bloodlover had served
her pleasure long enough before he had set off to make
war on the Kamarg. Since then she had had several lov-
ers and her memory of Asrovak Mikosevaar was as
cloudy as all her other memories of men, for Flana
was an inturned creature who barely distinguished be-
tween one person and another.

It was her habit, on the whole, to have husbands
and lovers destroyed when they became inconvenient
to her. An instinct, rather than any intellectual con-
sideration, stopped her from murdering the more pow-
erful ones. This was not to say that she was incapable
of love, for she could love passionately, doting entirely
on the object of her love, but she could not sustain the
emotion for long. Hatred was unknown to her, as was
loyalty. She was for the most part a neutral animal, re-
minding some of a cat and others of a spider—though
in her grace and beauty she was more reminiscent of
the former. And there were many who bore her hatred,
who planned vengeance against her for a husband
stolen or a brother poisoned, who would have taken

that vengeance had she not been the Countess of Kan-
bery and cousin to the King-Emperor Huon, that im-
mortal monarch who dwelt eternally in his womblike
Throne Globe in the huge throne room of his palace.
She was the center of other attentions, also, since she
was the only surviving kin of the monarch, and certain
elements at court considered that with Huon destroyed
she could be made Queen-Empress and serve their in-
terests.

Unaware of any plots concerning her, Flana of Kan-
bery would have been unperturbed had she been told
of them, for she had not the faintest curiosity about the
affairs of any one of her species, sought only to satisfy
her own obscure desires, to ease the strange, melan-
choly longing in her soul which she could not define.
Many had wondered about her, sought her favors with
the sole object of unmasking her to see what they could
learn in her face, but her face, fair-skinned, beautiful,
the cheeks slightly flushed always, the eyes large and
golden, held a look remote and mysterious, hiding far
more than could any golden mask.

The music ceased, the audience moved, and the col-
ours became alive as the fabrics swirled and masks
turned, nodded, gestured. The delicate masks of the
ladies could be seen gathering around the warlike helms
of those recently returned captains of Granbretan's
great armies. The Countess rose but did not move to-
wards them. Vaguely she recognised some of the helms
—particularly that of Meliadus of the Wolf Order, who
had been her husband five years earlier and who had
divorced her (an action she had hardly noticed).
There, too, was Shenegar Trott, lounging on heaped
cushions, served by naked mainland slavegirls, his sil-
ver mask a parody of a human face. And she saw the
mask of the Duke of Lakasdeh, Pra Flenn, barely eigh-
teen and with ten great cities fallen to him, his helm a
grinning dragon head. The others she thought she
knew, and she understood that they were all the mighti-

est warlords, back to celebrate their victories, to divide
up the conquered territories between them, to receive
the congratulations of their Emperor. They laughed
considerably, stood proudly as the ladies flattered them,
all but her ex-husband Meliadus, who appeared to
avoid them and conferred instead with his brother-in-
law Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time, and the
serpent-masked Baron Kalan of Vitall, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of the Snake and chief scientist to
the King-Emperor. Behind her mask, Flana frowned,
remembering distantly that Meliadus normally avoided
Taragorm...

Chapter Five

TARAGORM

"AND HOW HAVE you fared, Brother Taragorm?"
asked Meliadus with forced cordiality.

The man who had married his sister replied shortly:
"Well." He wondered why Meliadus should approach
him thus when it was common knowledge that Melia-
dus was profoundly jealous of Taragorm's having won
his sister's affections. The huge mask lifted a little super-
ciliously. It was constructed of a monstrous clock of
gilded and enameled brass, with numerals of inlaid
mother-of-pearl and hands of filigree'd silver, the box
in which hung its pendulum extending to the upper
part of Taragorm's broad chest. The box was of some
transparent material, like glass of a bluish tint, and
through it could be seen the golden pendulum swing-
ing back and forth. The whole clock was balanced by
means of a complex mechanism so as to adjust to Tara-

gorm's every movement. It struck the hour, half-hour
and quarter-hour and at midday and midnight chimed
the first eight bars of Sheneven's Temporal Antipathies,

"And how," continued Meliadus in this same un-
usually ingratiating manner, "do the clocks of your
palace fare? All the ticks ticking and the tocks tocking,
mmm?"

It took Taragorm a moment to understand that his
brother-in-law was, in fact, attempting to joke. He
made no reply.

Meliadus cleared bis throat.

Kalan of the serpent mask said: "I hear you are ex-
perimenting with some machine capable of travelling
through time, Lord Taragorm. As it happens, I, too,
have been experimenting—with an engine ..."

"I wished to ask you, brother, about your experi-
ments," Meliadus said to Taragorm. "How far ad-
vanced are they?"

"Reasonably advanced, brother."

"You have moved through time already?"

"Not personally."

"My engine," Baron Kalan continued implacably,
"is capable of moving ships at enormous speeds across
vast distances. Why, we could invade any land on the
globe, no matter how far away..."

"When will the point be reached," Meliadus asked,
moving closer to Taragorm, "when a man can journey
into the past or future?"

Baron Kalan shrugged and turned away. "I must re-
turn to my laboratories," he said. "The King-Emperor
has commissioned me urgently to complete my work.
Good day, my lords."

"Good day," said Meliadus absently. "Now, brother,
you must tell me more of your work—show me, per-
haps, how far you have progressed."

"I must," Taragorm replied facetiously. "But my
work is secret, brother. I cannot take you to the Palace

of Time without the permission of King Huon. That
you must seek first."

"Surely unnecessary for me to seek such permis-
sion?"

"None is so great that he can act without the bless-
ing of our King-Emperor."

"But the matter is of extraordinary importance,
brother," Meliadus said, his tone almost desperate, al-
most wheedling. "Our enemies have escaped us, prob-
ably to another era of the Earth. They offer a threat to
Granbretan's security!"

"You speak of that handful of ruffians whom you
failed to defeat at the Battle of the Kamarg?"

"They were almost conquered—only science or sor-
cery saved them from our vengeance. No one blames
me for my failure ..."

"Save yourself? You do not blame yourself?"

"No blame to me, at all, from any quarter. I would
finish the matter, that's all. I would rid the Empire of
her enemies. Where's the fault in that?"

"I have heard it whispered that your battle is more
private than public, that you have made foolish com-
promises in order to pursue a personal vendetta against
those who dwell in the Kamarg."

"That is an opinion, brother," Meliadus said, re-
straining with difficulty his chagrin. "But I fear only
for our Empire's well-being."

"Then tell King Huon of this fear and he may then
permit you to visit my palace." Taragorm turned away,
as he did so his mask beginning to boom out the
hour. Further conversation was momentarily impossi-
ble. Meliadus made to follow him, then changed his
mind, walking, fuming, from the hall.

Surrounded now by young lords, each seeking to at-
tract her deadly attentions, Countess Flana Mikosevaar
watched Baron Meliadus depart.

By the impatient manner of his gait, she assumed

him to be in uneven temper. Then she forgot him as
she returned her attention to the flatteries of her at-
tendants, listening not to the words (which were fa-
miliar to her) but to the voices themselves which were
like old, favorite instruments.

Taragorm, now, was conversing with Shenegar Trott.

"I am to present myself to the King-Emperor in the
morning," Trott told the Master of the Palace of Time.
"Some commission, I believe, that is at this moment
a secret known only to himself. We must keep busy,
Lord Taragorm, eh?"

"Indeed, we must, Count Shenegar, lest boredom en-
gulfs us all."

Chapter Six

THE AUDIENCE

NEXT MORNING Meliadus waited impatiently out-
side the King-Emperor's throne room. He had re-
quested an audience the previous evening and had been
told to present himself at eleven o'clock. It was now
twelve and the doors had not yet opened to admit
him. The doors, towering into the dimness of the huge
roof, were encrusted with jewels that made up a mo-
saic of images of ancient things. The fifty mantis-
masked guards who blocked them, stood stock still
with flame-lances ready at a precise angle. Meliadus
strode up and down before them; behind him, the glit-
tering corridors of the King Emperor's hallucinatory
palace.

Meliadus attempted to fight back his feelings of re-
sentment that the King Emperor had not granted him

an immediate audience. After all, was he not paramount
Warlord of Europe? Had it not been under his direction
that the armies of Granbretan had conquered a conti-
nent? Had he not taken those same armies into the Mid-
dle East and added further territories to the domain of
the Dark Empire? Why should the King-Emperor seek
to insult him in this manner? Meliadus, first of Gran-
bretan's warriors, should have priority over all lesser
mortals. He suspected a plot against him. From what
Taragorm and the others had said, they judged him to
be losing his grip. They were fools if they did not realise
the threat that Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Huillam
D'Averc offered. Let them escape their deserved rec-
koning and it would inflame others to rebel, make the
work of conquest less speedy. Surely King Huon had
not listened to those who spoke against him? The King
Emperor was wise, the King Emperor was objective.
If he were not, then he was unfit to rule ...
Meliadus dismissed the thought in horror.

At last the jewelled doors began to move open until
they were wide enough to admit a single man—and
through this crack strode a jaunty, corpulent figure.

"Shenegar Trott!" exclaimed Meliadus. "Is it you
who has kept me waiting so long?"

Trott's silver mask glinted in the light from the cor-
ridors. "My apologies, Baron Meliadus. My deep apolo-
gies. There were many details to discuss. But I am
finished now. A mission, my dear Baron—I have a
mission! Such a mission, ha, ha!"

And before Meliadus could tax him further on the
nature of his mission, he had swept away.

From within the Throne Room now issued a youth-
ful, vibrant voice, the voice of the King Emperor him-
self.

"You may join me now, Baron Meliadus."

The mantis warriors parted their ranks and allowed

the baron to pass through them and into the Throne
Room.

Into that gigantic hall of blazing color, where hung
the bright banners of Granbretan's five hundred noblest
families, which was lined on either side by a thousand
statue-still mantis guards, stepped Baron Meliadus of
Kroiden and abased himself.

Ornate gallery upon ornate gallery stretched up-
wards and upwards to the concave ceiling of the hall.
The armour of the soldiers of the Order of the Mantis
shone black and green and gold, and in the distance,
as he rose to his feet, Baron Meliadus saw his King
Emperor's Throne Globe, a white speck against the
green and purple of the walls behind it.

Walking slowly, it took Meliadus twenty minutes to
reach the globe and once again abase himself. The
globe contained a sluggishly swirling liquid that was
milk-white but which was sometimes streaked with iri-
descent veins of blood-red and blue. At the center of
this fluid was curled King Huon himself, a wrinkled,
ancient, immortal foetus-like creature in which the
only living things seemed the eyes, black, sharp and
malicious.

"Baron Meliadus," came the golden voice that had
been torn from the throat of a beautiful youth to furn-
ish King Huon with speech.

"Great Majesty," murmured Meliadus. "I thank you
for your graciousness in permitting this audience."

"And for what purpose did you desire the audience,
baron?" The tone was sardonic, a trifle impatient. "Do
you seek to hear us praise again your efforts in Eu-
rope on our behalf?"

"The accomplishment is enough, noble sire. I seek to
warn you that danger still threatens us in Europe . . ."

"What? You have not made the continent wholly
ours?"

"You know that I have, Great Emperor, from one
coast to the other, to the very borders of Muskovia and

beyond. Few live who are not totally our slaves. But I
refer to those who fled us ..."

"Hawkmoon and his friends?"

"The same, mighty King Emperor."

"You chased them away. They offer us no threat."

"While they live, they threaten us, noble sire, for
their escape could give others hope, and hope we must
destroy in all we conquer lest we are troubled by risings
against your discipline."

"You have dealt with risings before. You are used to
them. We fear, Baron Meliadus, that you may be for-
saking your King Emperor's interests in favor of per-
sonal interests..."

"My personal interests are your interests, Great King
Emperor, your interests are my personal interests—
they are indivisible. Am I not the most loyal of your
servants?"

"Perhaps you believe yourself to be so, Baron Me-
liadus ..."

"What do you mean, Powerful Monarch?"

"We mean that your obsession with the German
Hawkmoon and that handful of villains he has as
friends could not necessarily be in our interest. They
will not return—and if they should dare return, why,
we can deal with them then. We fear that it is vengeance
alone which motivates you and that you have rational-
ised your thirst for vengeance into a belief that the
whole Dark Empire is threatened by those you would
be avenged upon."

"No! No, Prince of All! I swear that is not so!"

"Let them stay where they are, Meliadus. Deal with
them only if they reappear."

"Great King, they offer a potential threat to the Em-
pire. There are other powers involved who support
them—else where could they have obtained the ma-
chine which plucked them away when we were about
to destroy them? I cannot offer positive evidence now
—but if you would let me work with Taragorm to use

his knowledge to discover the whereabouts of Hawk-
moon and his company—then I will find that evidence
and you will believe me!"

"We are dubious, Meliadus!" There was a grim note
now in the melodious voice. "But if it does not inter-
fere with the other duties at court we intend to give
you, you may visit Lord Taragorm's palace and seek
his assistance in your attempts to locate your ene-
mies ..."

"Our enemies, Prince of All..."
"We shall see, baron, we shall see."
"I thank you for your faith in me, Great Majesty. I
will—"

"The audience is not ended, Baron Meliadus, for we
have not yet told you of those duties we mentioned."
"I shall be honoured to perform them, noble sire."
"You spoke of our security being in peril from the
Kamarg. Well, we believe that we may be threatened
from other quarters. To be precise we are anxious that
the East may promise us a fresh enemy that could be
as powerful as the Dark Empire itself. Now, this could
have something to do with your own suspicions con-
cerning Hawkmoon and his supposed allies, for it is
possible that we entertain representatives of those allies
this day at our court..."

   "Great King Emperor, if that be so ..."
   "Let us continue, Baron Meliadus!"
   "I apologize, noble sire."

"Last night there appeared at the gates of Londra
two strangers who claimed to be emissaries from the
Empire of Asiacommunista. Their arrival was mys-
terious—indicating to us that they have methods of
transport unknown to us, for they told us they had left
their capital not two hours before. It is our opinion that
they have come here, as we would visit others in whose
territories we were interested, to spy out our strength.
We, in turn, must try to gauge their power, for the time
must come, even if it is not soon, when we shall be in

conflict with them. Doubtless our conquests in the Near
and Middle East have become known to them and they
are nervous. We must discover all we can about them,
try to convince them that we mean them no harm, try
to persuade them to let us return emissaries to their
domain. Should that prove possible, we should want
you, Meliadus, to be one of those emissaries, for you
have greater experience of such diplomacy than any
other among our servants."

"This is disturbing news, Great Emperor."

"Aye, but we must take what advantage we can
from the events. You will be their guide, treat them
courteously, try to draw them out, make them expand
upon the extent of their power and the size of their
territories, the number of warriors their monarch com-
mands, the power of their weaponry and the capabilities
of their transports. This visit, Baron Meliadus, offers, .
as you can see, a much more important potential threat
than any which may come from the vanished castle of
Count Brass."

"Perhaps, noble sire..."

"No—certainly, Baron Meliadus!" The prehensible
tongue flickered from the wrinkled mouth. "That is to
be your most important task. If you have any time to
spare, that can be devoted to your vendetta against
Dorian Hawkmoon and the rest."

"But, Mighty King Emperor ..."

"Bide our instructions well, Meliadus. Do not dis-
appoint us." The tone was one of menace. The tongue
touched the tiny jewel that floated near the head and
the globe began to dull until it had the appearance of a
solid, black sphere.

Chapter Seven

THE EMISSARIES

BARON MELIADUS COULD still not rid himself of
the feeling that his King Emperor had lost trust in
him, that King Huon was deliberately finding means of
curtailing his own schemes regarding the inhabitants of
Castle Brass. True the king had made a convincing case
for Meliadus's need to involve himself with the strange
emissaries from Asiacommunista, had even flattered
him by hinting that only Meliadus could deal with the
problem, and would have the opportunity, later, of be-
coming not only the First Warrior of Europe, but
also Paramount Warlord of Asiacommunista. But Me-
liadus's interest in Asiacommunista was not as great
as his interest in Castle Brass—for he felt that there
was evidence for believing Castle Brass to be a con-
siderable threat to the Dark Empire, whereas his mon-
arch had no evidence to suppose that Asiacommunista
threatened them.

Clad in his finest mask and most sumptuous gar-
ments, Meliadus made his way through the shining cor-
ridors of the palace towards the hall where the previous
day he had sought out his brother-in-law Taragorm.
Now the hall was to be used for another reception—to
welcome, with due ceremony, the visitors from the east.

As the King Emperor's deputy, Baron Meliadus
should have considered himself fully honoured, for it
gave him prestige second only to King Huon's; but
even this knowledge did not entirely ease his vengeful
mind.

He entered the hall to the sound of fanfares from the
galleries that ran around the walls. All the noblest of
Granbretan were assembled here, their finery splendid
and dazzling. The emissaries from Asiacommunista
had not yet been announced. Baron Meliadus walked
to the dais on which were placed three golden thrones,
mounted the steps and seated himself on the throne in
the middle. The sea of nobles bowed before him and
the hall was silent in anticipation. Meliadus himself
had not yet met the emissaries. Captain Viel Phong of
the Order of the Mantis had been their escort up to
now.

Meliadus looked about the hall, noting the presence
of Taragorm, of Flana, Countess of Kanbery, of Adaz
Promp and Mygel Hoist, of Jerek Nankenseen and
Brenal Farnu. He was puzzled for a moment, wonder-
ing what was wrong. Then he realised that of all the
great warrior nobles, only Shenegar Trott was missing.
He remembered that the fat count had spoken of a
mission. Had he left to fulfill it already? Why had not
he, Meliadus, been informed of Trott's expedition?
Were they keeping secrets from him? Had he truly lost
the trust of his King Emperor? His brain in turmoil,
Meliadus turned as the fanfares sounded again and the
doors of the hall opened to admit two incredibly garbed
figures.

Automatically Meliadus rose to greet them, aston-
ished at the sight of them, for they were barbaric and
grotesque—giants of over seven feet high, walking
stiffly like automatons. Were they, indeed, human? he
wondered. It had not occurred to him that they would
not be. Were these some monstrous creation of the
Tragic Millenium? Were the folk of Asiacommunista
not men at all?

Like the people of Granbretan, they wore masks
(he assumed those constructions on their shoulders
were masks) so that it was impossible to tell if human
faces were within them. They were tall things, roughly

oblong in shape, of brightly painted leather in blues,
greens, yellows and reds, swirling patterns on which
had been painted devil features—glaring eyes and
teeth-filled mouths. Bulky fur cloaks hung to the
ground and their clothes were leather, painted to trav-
esty human limbs and organs, reminding Meliadus of
the coloured sketches he had once seen in a medical

text.

The herald announced them:

"The Lord Kominsar Kaow Shalang Gatt, Heredi-
tary Representative of the President Emperor long
Mang Shen of Asiacommunista and Prince Elect of the
Hordes of the Sun."

The first of the emissaries stepped forward, his fur
cloak drifting back to reveal shoulders that were at least
four feet in width, the sleeves of his coat of bulky
multi-colored silk, his right hand holding a staff of
gem-encrusted gold that might have been the Rune-
staff itself, the care he took of it.

"The Lord Kominsar Orkai Heong Phoon, Heredi-
tary Representative of the President Emperor Jong
Mang Shen of Asiacommunista and Prince Elect of
the Hordes of the Sun."

  The second man (if man he was) stepped forward,
similarly garbed but without a staff.

"I welcome the noble emissaries of the President Em-
peror Jong Mang Shen and let them know that all
Granbretan is at their disposal to do with as they wish."
Meliadus spread his arms wide.

The man with the staff paused before the dais and
began to speak in a strange, lilting accent as if the
language of Granbretan, and indeed all Europe and
the Near East, was not native to him.

"We thank you most graciously for your welcome
and would beg to know what mighty man addresses us."

"I am the Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of the Wolf, Paramount Warlord of
Europe, Deputy to the Immortal King Emperor Huon

the Eighteenth, Ruler of Granbretan, of Europe and
all the Realms of the Middle Sea, Grand Constable of
the Order of the Mantis, Controller of Destinies, Mold-
er of Histories, Feared and Powerful Prince of All. I
greet you as he would greet you, speak as he would
speak, act in accord with all his wishes, for you must
know that, being immortal, he cannot leave the mystic
Throne Globe which preserves him and which is pro-
tected by the Thousand who guard him night and
day." Meliadus thought it best to dwell for a moment
upon the invulnerability of the King Emperor, to im-
press the visitors, should it have occurred to them, that
an attempt on King Huon's life was impossible. Me-
liadus indicated the twin thrones on either side of
him. "I ask you—be seated, be entertained."

The two grotesque creatures mounted the steps and,
with some difficulty, placed themselves in the golden
chairs. There would be no banquet, for the people of
Granbretan regarded eating, on the whole, as a per-
sonal matter, for it could necessitate the removal of
their masks and the horror of displaying their naked
faces. Only thrice a year did they shed in public their
masks and garments in the security of the Throne
Room itself where they would indulge in a week-long
orgy before the greedy eyes of King Huon, taking part
in disgusting and bloody ceremonies with names exist-
ing only in the languages of their various Orders and
which were never referred to save upon those three
occasions.

Baron Meliadus clapped his hands for the entertain-
ments to begin, the courtiers parted like a curtain and
took their places on the two sides of the hall, then on
came the acrobats and the tumblers, the Harlequins,
Pierrots and Columbines, while wild music sounded
from the gallery above. Human pyramids swayed, bent
and suddenly collapsed to reform again in even more
complex assemblages, clowns capered and played upon
one another the dangerous jokes that were expected of

them, while the acrobats and tumblers cavorted around
them at incredible speeds, walking on wires stretched
between the galleries, performing on trapezes sus-
pended high above all the heads of the audience.

Flana of Kanbery did not watch the tumblers and
failed to see any humour in the actions of the clowns.
Instead she turned her beautiful heron mask in the di-
rection of the strangers and regarded them with what
was for her unusual curiosity, thinking dimly that she
would like to know them better, for they offered the
possibility of a unique diversion, particularly if, as she
suspected, they were not entirely manlike.

Meliadus, who could not rid himself of the suspicion
that he was being prejudiced against by his king and
plotted against by his fellow nobles, made a mighty at-
tempt to be civil to the visitors. When he wished, he
could impress strangers (as he had once impressed
Count Brass) with his dignity, his wit and his manli-
ness, but this night it was an effort and he feared that
the effort could be detected in his tone.

"Do you find the entertainment to your liking, my
lords of Asiacommunista?" he would say—and be met
with a slight inclination of the huge heads. "Are the
clowns not amusing?"—and there would be a movement
of the hand from Kaow Shalang Gatt, who bore the
golden staff—or: "Such skill! We brought those con-
jurers from our territories in Italia—and those tumblers
were once the property of a Duke of Krahkov—you
must have entertainers of equal skill at your own Em-
peror's court . . ." and the other, called Orkai Heong
Phoon, would move his body in its seat, as if in dis-
comfort. The result was to increase Baron Meliadus's
sense of impatience, make him feel that these peculiar
creatures somehow judged themselves above him or
were bored by his attempts at civility, and it became
more and more difficult for him to continue the light
conversation that was the only conversation possible
while the music played.

At length he rose and clapped his hands. "Enough
of this. Dismiss these entertainers. Let us have more
exotic sport." And he relaxed a trifle as the sexual gym-
nasts entered the hall and began to perform for the
delight of the depraved appetites of the Dark Empire.
He chuckled, recognizing some of the performers,
pointing them out to his guests. "There's one who was a
Prince of Magyaria—and those two, the twins, were the
sisters of a king in Turkia. I captured the blonde one
there myself—and the stallion you see—in a Bulgarian
stable. Many of them I personally trained." But though
the entertainment relaxed the tortured nerves of Baron
Meliadus of Kroiden, the emissaries of the President
Emperor Jong Mang Shen seemed as unmoved and as
taciturn as ever.

At last the performance was over and the entertain-
ers retired (to the emissaries' relief, it seemed). Baron
Meliadus, much refreshed, wondering if the creatures
were of flesh and blood at all, gave the order for the ball
to commence.

"Now gentlemen," said he rising, "shall we circulate
about the floor so that you may meet those who have
assembled to honour you and be honoured by you."

Moving stiffly,  the emissaries  of Asiacommunista
followed Baron Meliadus, towering over the heads of
even the tallest in the hall.
   "Would you dance?" asked the baron.

"We do not dance, I regret," said Kaow Shalang Gatt
tonelessly, and since etiquette demanded that the guests
dance before the others could, no dancing was done.
Meliadus fumed. What did King Huon expect of him?
How could he deal with these automata?

"Do you not have dances in Asiacommunista?" he
said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger.

"Not of the sort I suppose you to prefer," replied Or-
kai Heong Phoon, and though there was no inflection in
his voice, again Baron Meliadus was given to think
that such activities were beneath the dignity of the

Asiacommunistan nobles. It was becoming, he thought
grimly, exceedingly difficult to remain polite toward
these proud strangers. Meliadus was not used to sup-
pressing his feelings where mere foreigners were con-
cerned and he promised himself the pleasure of dealing
with these two in particular should he be given the
privilege of leading any army that conquered the "Far
East.

Baron Meliadus paused before Adaz Promp who
bowed to the two guests. "May I present one of our
mightiest warlords, the Count Adaz Promp, Grand
Constable of the Order of the Hound, Prince of Parye
and Protector of Munchein, Commander of Ten Thou-
sand." The ornate dog-mask inclined itself again.

"Count Adaz led the force that helped us conquer
all the European mainland in two years when we had
allowed for twenty," Meliadus said. "His hounds are in-
vincible."

"The baron flatters me," said Adaz Promp, "I am
sure you have mightier legions in Asiacommunista, my
lords."

"Perhaps, I do not know. Your army sounds as
fierce as our dragon-hounds," Kaow Shalang Gatt said.

"Dragon-hounds? And what are they?" Meliadus en-
quired, remembering at last what his king had desired
him to do.

"You have none in Granbretan?"

"Perhaps we call them by another name? Could you
describe them?"

Kaow Shalang Gatt made a movement with his staff.
"They are about twice the height of a man—one of
our men—with seventy teeth that are like ivory razors.
They are very hairy and have claws like a cat's. We
use them to hunt those reptiles we have not yet trained
for war."

"I see," Meliadus murmured, thinking that such war-
beasts would require special tactics to defeat. "And

how many such dragon-hounds have you trained for
battle?"

"A good number," said his guest.

They moved on, meeting other nobles and their lad-
ies, and each was prepared with a question such as
Adaz Promp had asked, to give Meliadus the oppor-
tunity of extracting information from the emissaries.
But it became plain that although they were willing to
indicate that their forces and weaponry were mighty,
they were too cautious to provide details as to numbers
and capacity. Meliadus realised that it would take more
than one evening to gather that sort of information,
and he had the feeling that it would be hard to get it
at all.

"Your science must be very sophisticated," he said
as they moved through the throng. "More advanced
than ours, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," said Orkai Heong Phoon, "but I know
so little of your science. It would be interesting to
compare such things."

"Indeed it would," agreed Meliadus. "I heard, for in-
stance, that your flying machine brought you several
thousand miles in a very short space of time."

"It was not a flying machine," said Orkai Heong
Phoon.

"No? Then how...?"

"We call it an Earth Chariot—it moves through the
ground..."

"And how is it propelled? What moves the earth
away from it?"

"We are not scientists," put in Kaow Shalang Gatt.
"We do not pretend to understand the workings of our
machines. We leave such things to the lowlier castes."

Baron Meliadus, feeling slighted again, came to a
halt before the beautiful heron mask of the Countess
Flana Mikosevaar. He announced her and she curtsied.

"You are very tall," she said in her throaty murmur.
"Yes, very tall."

Baron Meliadus attempted to move on, embarrassed
by the countess as he had half-suspected he would be.
He had only introduced her to fill the silence following
the visitor's last remark. But Flana reached and
touched Orkai Heong Phoon's shoulder. "And your
shoulders are very broad," she said. The emissary made
no reply, but stood stock still. Had she insulted him?
Meliadus wondered. He would have felt some satisfac-
tion if she had. He did not expect the Asiacommunistan
to complain, for he realised it was as much in the
man's interests to remain on good terms with Gran-
bretan's nobles as it was in Granbretan's interests, at
this stage, to remain on good terms with them. "May I
entertain you in some way?" asked Flana, gesturing
vaguely.

"Thank you, but I can think of nothing at this mo-
ment," said the man, and they moved on.

Astonished, Flana watched them continue their
progress. She had never been rejected thus before and
she was intrigued. She decided to explore these pos-
sibilities further, when she could find a suitable time.
They were odd, these taciturn creatures, with their stiff
movements. They were like men of metal, she thought.
Could anything, she wondered, produce a human emo-
tion in them?

Their great masks of painted leather swayed above
the heads of the crowd as Meliadus introduced them to
Jerek Nankenseen and his lady, the Duchess Falmoliva
Nankenseen who, in her youth, had ridden to battle
with her husband.

And when the tour was completed, Baron Meliadus
returned to his golden throne wondering, with increased
frustration, where his rival, Shenegar Trott, had disap-
peared to, and why King Huon should have deigned
not to trust him with the information of Trott's move-
ments. He wanted urgently to rid himself of his charges
and hurry to Taragorm's laboratories to discover what
progress the Master of the Palace of Time had made

and whether there was any possibility of discovering
the whereabouts in time or space of the hated Castle
Brass.

Chapter Eight

MELIADUS AT THE
PALACE OF TIME

EARLY NEXT MORNING, after an unsatisfactory
night in which he had given up sleep and failed to find
pleasure, Baron Meliadus left to visit Taragorm at the
Palace of Time.

In Londra there were few open streets. Houses, pal-
aces, warehouses and barracks were all connected by
enclosed passages which, in the richer sections of the
city, were of bright colours as if the walls were made of
enamelled glass or, in the poorer sections, of oily, dark
stone.

Meliadus was borne through these passages in a
curtained litter by a dozen girl slaves, all naked and
with rouged bodies (the only kind of slaves Meliadus
would have to serve him). His intention was to visit
Taragorm before those boorish nobles of Asiacommu-
nista were awake. It could be, of course, that they did
represent a nation helping Hawkmoon and the rest, but
he had no proof. If his hopes of Taragorm's discov-
eries were realised, he might gain that proof, present it
to King Huon, vindicate himself and perhaps, too, rid
himself of the troublesome task of playing host to the
emissaries.

The passages widened and strange sounds began to

be heard—dull booms and regular, mechanical noises.
Meliadus knew that he heard Taragorm's clocks.

As he neared the entrance to the Palace of Time, the
noise became deafening as a thousand gigantic pendu-
lums swung at a thousand different rates, as machinery
whirred and shifted, as jacks struck bells and gongs
and cymbals, mechanical birds cried and mechanical
voices spoke. It was an incredibly confusing din for, al-
though the palace contained some several thousand
clocks of differing sizes, it was itself a gigantic clock,
the chief regulator for the rest, and above all the other
sounds came the slow, ponderous, echoing clack of
the massive escapement lever, far above near the roof,
and the hissing of the monstrous pendulum as it swung
through the air in the Hall of the Pendulum where
Taragorm conducted most of his experiments.

Meliadus's litter arrived at last before a relatively
small set of bronze doors and mechanical men sprang
forward to block the way, a mechanical voice cutting
through the din of the clocks to demand:

"Who visits Lord Taragorm at the Palace of Tune?"

"Baron Meliadus, his brother-in-law, with the per-
mission of the King Emperor," replied the baron,
forced to shout.

The doors remained closed for a good deal longer,
Meliadus thought, than they should have done, then
opened slowly to admit the litter.

Now they passed into a hall with curved walls of
metal, like the base of a clock, and the noise increased.
The hall was full of ticks and clacks and whirrs and
booms and thumps and swishes and clangs and, had
not the baron's head been encased in its wolf-helm, he
would have pressed his hands to his ears. As it was he
began to be convinced that shortly he would become
deaf.

They passed through this hall into another swathed
in tapestries (inevitably representing in highly formal-
ised design a hundred different time-keeping devices)

which muffled the worst of the noise. Here the girl
slaves lowered the litter and Baron Meliadus pushed
back the curtains with gauntleted hands and stood there
to await the coming of his brother-in-law.

Again (he felt) he had to wait an unconscionable
time before the man appeared, stepping sedately
through the doors at the far end of the hall, his huge
clock mask nodding.

"It is early, brother," said Taragorm. "I regret I kept
you waiting, but I had not breakfasted."

Meliadus reflected that Taragorm had never had a
decent regard for the niceties of etiquette, then he
snapped: "My apologies, brother, but I was anxious to
see your work."

"I am flattered. This way, brother."

Taragorm turned and left through the door he had
entered, Meliadus close on his heels.

Through more tapestried passages they moved until
at last Taragorm pressed his weight against the bar
locking a huge door. The door opened and the air was
suddenly full of the sound of a great wind; the noise of
a gigantic drum sounding a painfully slow beat.

Automatically Meliadus looked up and saw the pen-
dulum hurtling through the air above him—its bob
fifty tons of brass fashioned in the form of an ornate,
blazing sun, creating a draft that fluttered all the tap-
estries in the halls behind them and raised Meliadus's
cloak like a pair of heavy silken wings. The pendulum
supplied the wind and the hidden escapement lever,
high above, supplied the sound like a drum. Across
the vast Hall of the Pendulum was stretched an array
of machines in various stages of construction, of bench-
es containing laboratory equipment, of instruments of
brass and bronze and silver, of clouds of fine golden
wires, of webs of jewelled thread, of time-keeping in-
struments—water-clocks, pendulum movements, lever
movements, ball movements, watches, chronometers,
orreries, astrolabes, leaf-clocks, skeleton clocks, table

clocks, sun dials—and working on all these were Tara-
gorm's slaves, scientists and engineers captured from a
score of nations, many of them the finest of their lands.

Even as Meliadus watched, there would come a
flash of purple light from one part of the hall, a shower
of green sparks from another, a gout of scarlet smoke
from elsewhere. He saw a black machine crumble to
dust and its attendant cough, tumble forward into the
dust and vanish.

"And what was that?" came a laconic voice from
nearby. Meliadus turned to see that Kalan of Vitall,
Chief Scientist to the King-Emperor, was also visiting
Taragorm.

"An experiment in accelerated time," said Taragorm.
"We can create the process, but we cannot control it.
Nothing, so far, has worked. See there . . ." he pointed
to a large ovoid machine of yellow, glassy substance . . .
"that creates the opposite effect and again, unfortu-
nately, cannot be controlled as yet. The man you see
beside it," he indicated what Meliadus had taken to be
a lifelike statue (some mechanical figure from a clock
being repaired), "has been frozen thus for weeks!"

"And what of travelling through time?" Meliadus
said.

"Over there," Taragorm replied. "You see the set of
silver boxes? Each of those houses an instrument we
have created that can hurl an object through tune,
either back or forth—we are not sure for what dis-
tances. Living things, however, suffer much when
undergoing the same journey. Few of the slaves or
animals we have used have lived, and none have not
suffered considerable agonies and deformities."

"If only we had believed Tozer," Kalan said, "per-
haps then we might have discovered the secret of trav-
elling through time. We should not have made such a
joke of him—but, really, I could not believe that that
scribbling buffoon had truly discovered the secret!"

"What's that? What?" Meliadus had heard nothing

of Tozer. "Tozer the playwright. I thought him dead!
What did he know of time travel?"

"He reappeared, trying to reinstate himself in the
King Emperor's graces with a story that he had learned
how to journey through time from an old man in the
West—a mental trick, he said. We brought him here,
laughingly asked him to prove the truth of his words
by travelling through time. Whereupon, Baron Melia-
dus, he vanished!"

"You—you made no effort to hold him ... ?"

"It was impossible to believe him," Taragorm put
in. "Would you have?"

"I would have been more careful in testing him."

"It was in his interest to return, we thought. Besides,
brother, we were not clutching at straws."

"What do you mean by that—brother?" retorted Me-
liadus.

"I mean that we are working in the spirit of pure
scientific research, whereas you require immediate re-
sults in order to continue your vendetta against Castle
Brass."

"I, brother, am a warrior—a man of action. It does
not suit me to sit about and play with toys or brood
over books." Honour satisfied, Baron Meliadus re-
turned his attention to the subject of Tozer.

"You say the playwright learned the secret from an
old man in the West?"

"So he said," replied Kalan. "But I think he was
lying. He told us it was a mental trick he had devel-
oped, but we did not think him capable of such disci-
pline. Still, the fact remains, he faded and vanished be-
fore our eyes."

"Why was I not told of this?" Meliadus moaned in
frustration.

"You were still on the mainland when it took place,"
Taragorm pointed out. "Besides, we did not think it
was of interest to a man of action like yourself."

"But his knowledge could have clarified your work,"

Meliadus said. "You seem so casual about having lost
the opportunity."

Taragorm shrugged. "What can we do about it now?
We are progressing little by little . . ." somewhere there
was a bang, a man screamed and a mauve and orange
flash illuminated the room . . . "and we shall soon
have tamed time as we are taming space."

"In a thousand years, perhaps!" snorted Meliadus.
"The West—an old man in the West? We must lo-
cate him. What is his name?"

"Tozer told us only that he was called Mygan—a
sorcerer of considerable wisdom. But, as I said, I be-
lieve he was lying. After all, what's in the West save
desolation? Nothing has lived there but malformed
creatures since the Tragic Millenium."

"We must go there," Meliadus said. "We must leave
no stone unturned, no chance overlooked ..."

"I'll not journey to those bleak mountains on a wild
goose chase," said Kalan with a shudder. "I have my
work to do here, fitting my new engines into ships; ships
to enable us to conquer the rest of the world as swiftly
as we conquered Europe. Besides, I thought you, too,
had responsibilities at home, Baron Meliadus—our visi-
tors ..."

"Damn the visitors. They cost me precious time."

"Soon I shall be able to offer you all the time you
require, brother," Taragorm told him. "Give us a little
while..."

"Bah! I can learn nothing here. Your crumbling
boxes and exploding machines make spectacular sights,
but they are useless to me. Play your games, brother,
as you please. I'll bid you good morning!"

Feeling relieved that he no longer had to be polite
to his hated brother-in-law, Meliadus turned and
stalked out of the Hall of the Pendulum, through the
tapestried corridors and halls, back to his litter.

He flung himself into it, grunted for the girls to bear
him away.

As he was borne back to Ms own palace, Meliadus
considered the new information.

At the first opportunity he would rid himself of his
charges and journey to the West, to see if he could re-
trace Tozer's steps and discover the old man who held
not only the secret of time, but also the means of his at
last exacting his full vengeance upon Castle Brass.

Chapter Nine

INTERLUDE AT
CASTLE BRASS

AT CASTLE BRASS, in the courtyard, Count Brass
and Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains, straddled their
horned horses and rode out, through the red-roofed
town, and away to the fens, as was their habit now
every morning.

Count Brass had lost some of his brooding manner
and had begun to desire company again since the visit
of the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

Elvereza Tozer was held captive in a suite of rooms
in one of the towers and had seemed content when
Bowgentle had given him supplies of paper, pens and
ink and told him to earn his keep with a play, promis-
ing him an appreciative, if small audience.

"I wonder how Hawkmoon fares," he said, as they
rode together in pleasurable companionship. "I regret
that I did not draw the straw which would have en-
abled me to accompany him."

"I, too," said Oladahn. "D'Averc was lucky. A shame
there were only two rings that could be used—Tozer's

and the Warrior's. If they return with the rest, then
we'll all be able to make war on the Dark Empire . . ."

"It was a dangerous idea, friend Oladahn, to sug-
gest, as the Warrior suggested, they visit Granbretan
itself and try to discover Mygan of Llandar in Yel."

"I have heard it said that it is often safer to dwell in
the lion's lair than outside it," Oladahn said.

"Safer still to live in a land where there are no
lions," Count Brass retorted with a small quirk of his
lips.

"Well, I hope the lion does not devour them, that is
all, Count Brass," said Oladahn frowning. "It may be
perverse of me, but I still envy him his opportunity."

"I have a feeling that we shall not long have to put
up with this inaction," Count Brass said, guiding his
horse along the narrow track between the reeds, "for it
seems to me that our security is threatened from not one
quarter but many..."

"It is not a possibility that worries me overmuch,"
said Oladahn, "but I fear for Yisselda, Bowgentle and
the ordinary folk of the town, for they have no relish
for the sort of activity we enjoy."

The two men rode on to the sea, enjoying the soli-
tude and at the same tune yearning for the din and the
action of battle.

Count Brass began to wonder if it .were not worth
smashing the crystal device that was their security,
plunging Castle Brass back into the world they had
left, and making a fight of it, even though there was
no chance of defeating the hordes of the Dark Empire.

Chapter Ten
THE SIGHTS OF LONDRA

THE ORNITHOPTER'S WINGS thrashed at the air as
the flying machine hovered over the spires of Londra.

It was a large machine, built to carry four or five
people, and its metal bulk gleamed with scrollwork
and baroque designs.

Meliadus bent his head over the side and pointed
downward. His guests leaned forward also, barely po-
lite. It seemed that their tall, heavy masks would fall
from their shoulders if they leaned any further.

"There you see the palace of King Huon where you
are staying," Meliadus said, indicating the crazy mag-
nificence of his King Emperor's domicile. It towered
above all the other buildings and was set apart from
them, in the very center of the city. Unlike most other
buildings, it could not be reached by a series of corri-
dors. Its four towers, glowing with a light of deep gold,
were even now above their heads, though they sat in
the ornithopter, well above the tops of the other build-
ings. Its tiers were thick with bas-reliefs depicting all
manner of dark activities beloved of the Empire. Gi-
gantic and grotesque statues were placed on corners
of parapets, seeming about to topple into the courtyards
far, far below. The palace was blotched with every
imaginable colour and all the colours clashed in such
a way as to make the eye ache in a matter of seconds.

"The Palace of Time," said Meliadus, indicating the
superbly ornamented palace that was also a giant clock,
and then: "My own palace." This was brooding black,

faced with silver. "The river you see is, of course, the
River Tayme." The river was thick with traffic. Its
blood-red waters bore barges of bronze, ebony and
teak ships emblazoned with precious metal and semi-
precious jewels, with huge white sails on which designs
had been sewn or printed.

    "Further to your left," said Baron Meliadus, deeply
resenting this silly task, "is our Hanging Tower. You
will see that it appears to hang from the sky and is not
rooted upon the ground. This was the result of an ex-
periment of one of our sorcerers who managed to raise
the tower a few feet but could raise it no further. Then,
it appeared, he could not recall it to Earth—so it has
remained thus ever since."

He showed them the quays where the great, garnet-
burnished battleships of Granbretan dispensed their
stolen goods; the Quarter of the Unmasked where lived
the scum of the city; the dome of the huge theatre
where once Tozer's plays had been performed; the
Temple of the Wolf, headquarters of his own order,
with a monstrous and grotesque stone wolf head domi-
nating the curve of the roof, and the various other tem-
ples with similarly grotesque beast heads carved in
stone and weighing many tons.

For a dull day they flew over the city, stopping only
to refuel the ornithopter and change pilots, with Melia-
dus growing hourly impatient. He showed them all the
wonders that filled that ancient and unpleasant city,
seeking, as his King Emperor had demanded, to im-
press the visitors with the Dark Empire's might.

As evening came and the setting sun stained the city
with unhealthy shades, Baron Meliadus sighed with re-
lief and instructed the pilot to direct the ornithopter to
the landing stage on the roof of the palace.

It landed with a great flurry of metal wings, a
wheezing and a clattering and the two emissaries
climbed stiffly out; like the machine, they remained
semblances of natural life.

They walked to the hooded entrance of the palace
and moved down the winding ramp until they were at
last again in the corridors of shifting light, to be met
by their guard of honor, six high-ranking warriors of
the Order of the Mantis, their insect masks reflecting
the brightness from the walls, who escorted them back
to their own chambers where they would rest and eat.

Leaving them at the door of their apartments, Baron
Meliadus bowed and hurried away, having promised
that tomorrow they should discuss matters of science,
and compare the progress of Asiacommunista with the
achievements of Granbretan.

Flinging himself through the hallucinatory passages
he almost bowled over the King Emperor's relative,
Flana, Countess of Kanbery.

"My lord!"

He paused, made to pass her, stopped. "My lady—
my apologies."

"You are in a hurry, my lord!"

"I am, Flana."
, "You are in uneven temper, it seems."

"My temper is poor."

"You would console yourself?"

"I have business to attend to ..."

"Business should be conducted with a cool head, my
lord?"

"Perhaps."

"If you would cool your passion ..."

He started to continue his progress, then stopped
again. He had experienced Flana's methods of consola-
tion before. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he did
need her. On the other hand he needed to make prep-
arations for his expedition to the West as soon as the
emissaries had departed. Still, they would be here for
some days at least. Also, the previous night had proved
unsatisfactory and his morale was low. At least he
could prove himself a lover.

"Perhaps . . ." he said again, this time more thought-
fully.

"Then let us make haste to my apartments, my lord,"
said she with a trace of eagerness.

With mounting interest, Meliadus took her arm.

"Ah, Flana," he murmured. "Ah, Flana."

Chapter Eleven

THOUGHTS OF
THE COUNTESS FLANA

FLANA'S MOTIVES in seeking the company of Me-
liadus had been mixed, for it was not the baron in
whom she was chiefly interested, but in his charges, the
two stiff-limbed giants from the East.

She asked him about them as they lay in their sweat
in her enormous bed and he confided his frustrations,
his hatred of his task and his hatred of the emis-
saries, told her of his real ambition, which was to
avenge himself of his enemies, the slayers of her hus-
band, the inhabitants of Castle Brass, told her of his
discovery that Tozer had found an old man in the
West, in the forgotten province of Yel, who might
have the secret of reaching his foes.

And he murmured of his fears that he was losing his
power, his prestige (though he knew he should not
speak such secret thoughts to Flana of all women) and
that the King Emperor was these days trusting others,
such as Shenegar Trott, with the knowledge that he
once only gave to Meliadus.

"Oh, Flana," he said, shortly before he fell into a

moody sleep, "if you were Queen, together we could
fulfill our Empire's mightiest destiny."

But Flana scarcely heard him, was scarcely think-
ing, merely lay there and moved her heavy body from
time to time, for Meliadus had failed to ease the aching
in her soul, had barely eased the craving in her loins
and her mind was on the emissaries who lay sleeping
only two tiers above her head.

At length she rose from the bed, leaving Meliadus
snoring and moaning in his sleep, and dressed herself
again in gown and mask, and slipped from her room
to glide along the corridors, up the ramps, until she
came at last to the doors that were guarded by the Man-
tis warriors. The insect masks turned questioningly.

"You know who I am," said she.

They did know and they withdrew from the doors.
She chose one and pressed it open, entering the excit-
ing darkness of the emissaries' apartments.

ft

Chapter Twelve

A REVELATION

MOONLIGHT ALONE ILLUMINATED the room, fall-
ing on a bed in which a figure stirred, showing her the
discarded ornaments, armor and mask of the man who
lay there.

She moved closer.

"My lord?" she whispered.

Suddenly the figure shot up in the bed and she saw
his startled face, saw his hands fly up to cover his fea-
tures, and she gasped in recognition.

"I know you!"

"Who are you?" He leapt from beneath the silken
sheets, naked in the moonlight, ran forward to seize
her. "A woman!"

"Aye . . ." purred she. "And you are a man." She
laughed softly. "Not a giant at all, though of goodly
height. Your mask and armor made you seem more
than a foot taller."

"What do you want?"

"I sought to entertain you, sir—and be entertained.
But I am disappointed, for I believed you to be other
than human. Now I know you to be the man I saw in
the Throne Room two years ago—the man Meliadus
brought before the King-Emperor."

"So you were there that day." His grip tightened on
her and his hand rose to yank off her mask and cover
her mouth. She nibbled the fingers; stroked the muscles
of the other arm. The hand on her mouth relaxed.

"Who are you?" he whispered. "Do others know?"

"I am Flana Mikosevaar, Countess of Kanbery.
None suspects you, daring German. And I will not call
in the guards, if that is what you expect, for I have no
interest in politics and no sympathy with Meliadus.
Indeed, I am grateful to you, for you rid me of a trou-
blesome spouse."

"You are Mikosevaar's widow?"

"I am. And you I knew immediately by the black
jewel in your forehead which you sought to hide when
I entered. You are Duke Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln,
here in disguise, no doubt, to learn the secrets of your
enemies."

"I believe I shall have to kill you, madam."

"I have no intention of betraying you, Duke Dorian.
At least, not at once. I came to offer myself for your
pleasure, that is all. You have rid me of my mask."
She turned her golden eyes upward to regard his hand-
some face. "Now you may rid me of the rest of my
garb ..."

"Madam," he said hoarsely. "I cannot. I am mar-
ried."

She laughed. "As am I—I have been married count-
less times."

There was sweat on his forehead as he returned her
gaze and his muscles tensed. "Madam—I—I can-
not .. ."

There was a sound and they both turned.

The door separating the apartments opened and
there stood a gaunt, good-looking man who coughed a
little ostentatiously and then bowed. He, too, was com-
pletely naked.

"My friend, madam," said Huillam D'Averc, "is of
a somewhat rigid moral disposition. However, if I can
assist..."

She moved toward him, looking him up and down.
"You seem a healthy fellow," she said.

He turned his eyes away. "Ah, madam, it is kind of
you to say so. But I am not, not a well man. On the
other hand," he reached out and took her shoulder,
guiding her into his chamber, "I will do what little I
can to please you before this failing heart gives up on
me..."

The door closed, leaving Hawkmoon trembling.

He sat on the edge of his bed, cursing himself for
not having slept in his cumbersome disguise, but the
exhausting tour of the day had made him dispense with
caution of that kind. When the Warrior in Jet and
Gold had put the plan to them, it had seemed un-
necessarily dangerous. The logic had been sound
enough—they must discover if the old man from Yel
had been found before they went off searching for him
in Western Granbretan. But now it seemed their
chances of getting such information were dashed.

The guards must have seen the countess enter. Even
if they killed her or imprisoned her, the guards would
suspect something. They were in a city that was, to a
man, totally dedicated to their destruction. They had

no allies and there was no possible hope of escape
once their real identities became known.

Hawkmoon racked his brains for a plan that would
at least enable them to flee the city before it became
alerted, but all seemed hopeless.

Hawkmoon began to pile on his heavy robes and ar-
mour. The only weapon he had was the golden baton
which the Warrior had given him to complete the im-
pression of a noble dignitary from Asiacommunista.
He hefted it, wishing he had a sword.

Pacing the room, he continued to try to think of a
feasible plan of escape, but nothing came.

He was still pacing when morning came and Huillam
D'Averc put his head through the door and grinned.
"Good morning, Hawkmoon? Have you had no rest,
man? I sympathize. Neither have I. The countess is a
demanding creature. However I am glad to see you
ready for a journey. We must hurry."

"What do you mean, D'Averc? I have tried all night
to conceive a plan, but I can think of nothing . . ."

"I have been questioning Flana of Kanbery and she
has told me everything we need to know, for Meliadus,
apparently, has confided much in her. She has also
agreed to help us escape."

"How?"

"Her private ornithopter. It is ours for the taking."

"Can you trust her?"

"We must. Listen—Meliadus has not yet had time to
seek out Mygan of Llandar. By good fortune, it was
our arrival kept him here. But he knows of him—
knows, at least, that Tozer learned his secret from an
old man in the West—and means to find him. We
have the chance to find Mygan first. We can go part
of the way by Flana's ornithopter which I will fly and
continue the rest of the journey on foot."

"But we are weaponless—without proper clothes!"

"Weapons and clothes I can obtain from Flana—

masks also. She has a thousand trophies of past con-
quests in her chambers."

"We must go to her chambers now!"

"No. We must wait for her to return here."

"Why?"

"Because, my friend, Meliadus may still be sleeping
in her apartments. Have patience. We are in luck.
Pray that it will hold!"

Not much later Flana returned, took off her mask
and kissed D'Averc almost hesitantly, as a young girl
might kiss a lover. Her features seemed softer and her
eyes less haunted, as if she had found some quality in
D'Averc's lovemaking that she had not experienced be-
fore—possibly gentleness, which was not a quality of
the men of Granbretan.

"He is gone," she said. "And I have half a mind,
Huillam, to keep you here, for myself. For many years
I have contained a need which I could not express,
never satisfy. You have come close to satisfying it . . ."

He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips and his
voice seemed sincere when he said: "And you, too,
Flana, have given me something . . ." He straightened
stiffly, having donned his heavy, built-up garments.
He placed his tall mask upon his head. "Come, we
must hurry, before the palace wakes."

Hawkmoon followed D'Averc's example, donning
his own helmet, and once again the two resembled
strange, half-human creatures, the emissaries from
Asiacommunista.

Now Flana led them from the apartments, past the
Mantis guards, who fell in behind them, and through
the twisting, shining corridors until her own apartments
were reached. They ordered the guards to remain out-
side.

"They will report that they followed us here,"
D'Averc said. "You will be suspected, Flana!"

She doffed her heron mask and smiled. "No," she
said and crossed the deep carpet to a polished chest set

with diamonds. She raised the lid and took out a long
pipe, at the end of which was a soft bulb. "This bulb
contains a poison spray," she said. "Once inhaled, the
poison turns the victim mad so that he runs wild and
berserk before dying. The guards will run through
many corridors before they perish. I have used it be-
fore. It always works."

She spoke so sweetly of murder that Hawkmoon was
forced to shudder.

"All I need do, you see," she continued, "is to push
the hollow rod through the keyhole and squeeze the
bulb."

She placed the apparatus on the lid of the chest and
led them through several splendid, eccentrically fur-
nished rooms, until they came to a chamber with a
huge window that looked out onto a broad balcony.
There on the balcony, its wings neatly folded, fash-
ioned to resemble a beautiful scarlet and silver heron,
was Flana's ornithopter.

She hurried to another part of the room and drew
back a curtain. There, in a great pile, was her booty—
clothes, masks and weapons of all her departed lovers
and husbands.

"Take what you need," she murmured, "and hurry."

Hawkmoon selected a doublet of blue velvet, hose
of black doe-skin, a sword-belt of brocaded leather
which held a long, beautifully balanced blade and a
poignard. For his mask he took one of his slain ene-
my's—Asrovaak Mikosevaar's—glowering vulture
masks.

D'Averc dressed himself in a suit of deep yellow
with a cloak of lustrous blue, boots of deerhide and a
blade similar to Hawkmoon's. He, too, took a vulture
mask, reasoning that two of the same Order would be
likely to be travelling together. Now they looked truly
great nobles of Granbretan.

Flana opened the window and they stepped out into
the cold, foggy morning.

"Farewell," whispered Flana. "I must get back to the
guards. Farewell, Huillam D'Averc. I hope we shall
meet again."

"I hope so, also, Flana," replied D'Averc with un-
usual gentleness of tone. "Farewell."

He climbed into the cockpit of the ornithopter and
started the motor. Hawkmoon hastily got in behind
him.

The thing's wings began to beat at the air and with
a clatter of metal it rose into the gloomy sky of Londra,
turning West.

Chapter Thirteen

KING HUON'S
DISPLEASURE

MANY EMOTIONS CONFLICTED in Baron Melia-
dus as he entered the Throne Room of his King Em-
peror, abased himself and began the long trudge toward
the Throne Globe.

The white fluid of the globe surged more agitatedly
than usual, alarming the Baron. He was at once furious
that the emissaries had disappeared, nervous of his
monarch's wrath, anxious to pursue his quest for the
old man who could give him the means of reaching
Castle Brass. Also he feared lest he lose his power and
his pride and (the king had been known to do it be-
fore) be banished to the Quarter of the Unmasked. His
nervous fingers brushed his wolf-helm and his step fal-
tered as he neared the Throne Globe and looked anx-
iously up at the foetus-like shape of his monarch.

"Great King Emperor. It is your servant Meliadus."

He fell to his knees and bowed to the ground.

"Servant? You have not served us very well, Melia-
dus!"

"I am sorry, Noble Majesty, but..."

"But?"

"But I could have no knowledge that they planned
to leave last night, returning by the means with which
they came..."

"It should have been your business to sense their
plans, Meliadus."

"Sense? Sense their plans, Mighty Monarch... ?"

"Your instinct is failing you, Meliadus. Once it was
exact—you acted according to its dictates. Now your
silly plans for vengeance fill your brain and being
and make you blind to all else. Meliadus, those emis-
saries slew six of my best guards. How they killed
them, I know not—perhaps a mental spell of some
land—but kill them they did, somehow leaving the
palace and returning to whatever machine brought
them here. They have discovered much about us—
and we, Meliadus, have discovered virtually nothing
about them."

"We know a little of their military equipment..."

"Do we? Men can lie, you know, Meliadus. We are
displeased with you. We charged you to perform a
duty and you performed it only partially and without
your full attention. You spent time at Taragorm's pal-
ace, left the emissaries to their own devices when you
should have been entertaining them. You are a fool,
Meliadus. A fool!"

"Sire, I—"

"It is your stupid obsession with that handful of
outlaws who dwell in Castle Brass. Is it the girl you de-
sire? Is that why you seek them with such single-minded-
ness?"

"I fear they threaten the Empire, noble sire ..."

"So  does  Asiacommunista  threaten   our  Empire,

Baron Meliadus—with real swords and real armies and
real ships that can travel through the earth. Baron,
you must forget your vendetta against Castle Brass or,
we warn you, you had best be wary of our displeasure."

"But, sire..."

"We have warned you, Baron Meliadus. Put Castle
Brass from your mind. Instead, try to learn all you can
of the emissaries, discover where their machine met
them, how they managed to leave the city. Redeem
yourself in our eyes, Baron Meliadus—restore your-
self to your old prestige ..."

"Aye, sire," Baron Meliadus said through gritted
teeth, controlling his anger and chagrin.

"The audience is at an end, Meliadus."

"Thank you," said Meliadus, blood pounding in his
head, "sire."

He backed away from the Throne Globe.

He turned on his heel and began to pace the long
hall.

He reached the jewelled doors, pushed past the
guards and strode down the gleaming corridors of shift-
ing light.

On he marched, and on, his pace rapid and his
movements stiff, his hand white on the hilt of his sword
which it gripped tightly.

He paced until he had reached the great reception
hall of the palace where waited the nobles craving
audience with the King Emperor; descended the steps
that led to the gates opening on the outer worlds,
signed for his girls to come forward with his litter,
clambered into it and dumped himself heavily on its
cushions, and allowed himself to be borne back to his
black and silver palace.

Now he hated his King Emperor. Now he loathed
the creature who had humiliated him so, thwarted him
so, insulted him so. King Huon was a fool not to realise
the potential danger offered by Castle Brass. Such a
fool was not fit to reign, not fit to command slaves, let

alone Baron Meliadus, Grand Constable of the Order of
the Wolf.

Meliadus would not listen to King Huon's stupid
orders, would do what he thought best and, if the King
Emperor objected, then he would defy him.

A little later, Meliadus left his palace on horseback.
He rode at the head of twenty men. Twenty hand-
picked men whom he could trust to follow him any-
where—even to Yel.

Chapter Fourteen

THE WASTES OF YEL

THE COUNTESS FLANA'S ornithopter dropped
closer and closer to the ground, its belly brushing the
tops of tall pines, its wings narrowly missing becom-
ing entangled with the branches of birches, until at last
it landed on the wiry heather beyond the forest.

The day was cold and a sharp wind whistled across
the heath, biting through their flimsy costumes.

Shivering, they clambered from the flying machine
and looked warily about them. No one was in sight.

D'Averc reached into his jerkin and produced a
scrap of thin leather on which a map was scrawled.

He pointed. "We go in that direction. Now we must
get the ornithopter into the woods and hide it."

"Why cannot we leave it? The chances of anyone
finding it for a day or so are slim," Hawkmoon said.

But D'Averc spoke seriously. "I do not wish any
harm to come to Countess Flana, Hawkmoon. If the
machine were discovered, it could be ill for her. Come."

And so they tugged and shoved at the metal ma-

chine until it was in the pinewood and thickly covered
with brash. It had borne them as far as it could until
its fuel gave out. They had not expected it to carry
them the whole way to Yel.

Now they must continue on foot.

For four days they walked through woods and across
heaths, the terrain gradually becoming less and less
fertile as they neared the borders of Yel.

Then one day Hawkmoon paused and pointed.
"Look, D'Averc—the Mountains of Yel."

And there they were in the distance, their purple
peaks in cloud, the plain and the foothills beneath
them all tawny yellow rock.

It was a wild, beautiful landscape, such as Hawk-
moon had never seen before.

He gasped. "So there are some sights in Granbre-
tan not entirely offensive to the eye, D'Averc."

"Aye, it is pretty," D'Averc agreed. "But daunting
also. We have to find Mygan there somewhere. Judging
by the map, Llandar is still many miles into those
mountains."

"Then let us press on." Hawkmoon adjusted his
sword belt. "We had a small advantage over Meliadus
to begin with, but it is possible that even now he is on
his way to Yel in hot quest of Mygan."

D'Averc stood on one leg and ruefully rubbed his
foot. "True, but I fear these boots will not, last the
distance. I picked them from pride, for their prettiness,
not for their sturdiness. I am learning my mistake."

Hawkmoon clapped him on the shoulder. "I've heard
wild ponies roam these parts. Pray we find a couple we
can tame."

But no wild ponies could be found and the yellow
ground was hard and rocky and the sky above became
full of a livid radiance. Hawkmoon and D'Averc began
to realise why the folk of Granbretan were so super-
stitious of this region, for there did seem to be some-
thing unnatural about both land and sky.

At last the mountains were entered.

Seen close to, these were also of a yellowish color,
though with streaks of dark red and green, all glassy
and grim. Strange-looking beasts skittered away from
their path as they clambered on over jagged rocks and
peculiar man-like creatures, with hairy bodies topped
by completely hairless heads, measuring less than a
foot high, regarded them from cover.

"They were once men, those creatures," D'Averc
said. "Their ancestors dwelt in these parts. But the
Tragic Millenium did its work here well."

"How do you know this?" Hawkmoon asked him.

"I have read my books. It was in Yel, worse than any
other part of Granbretan, that the Tragic Millennium's
effects were felt. That is why it is so desolate, for peo-
ple will not come here any longer."

"Save Tozer—and the old man, Mygan of Llandar."

"Aye—if Tozer spoke the truth. We could still be
on a wild goose chase, Hawkmoon."

"But Meliadus had the same story."

"Perhaps Tozer is merely a consistent liar?"

It was close to nightfall when the mountain creatures
came scuttling from their caves high above and at-
tacked Hawkmoon and D'Averc.

They were covered in oily fur, with the beaks of
birds and the claws of cats, huge eyes blazing, beaks
parting to reveal teeth, emitting a horrible hissing
sound. There were three females and about six males as
far as they could tell In the semi-darkness.

Hawkmoon drew his sword, adjusting his vulture
mask as he would adjust an ordinary helm, and set his
back to a wall of rock.

D'Averc took up a position beside him. Then the
•beasts were on them.

Hawkmoon slashed at the first, carving a long, bloody
scar across its chest. It recoiled with a shriek.

A second was taken by D'Averc, stabbed through
the heart. Hawkmoon neatly slit the throat of a third,

but a fourth's claws were gripping his left arm. He
struggled, muscles straining as he tried to turn his
dagger upward to stab the creature's wrist, while mean-
while he slashed at one trying to take him from the
other side.

Hawkmoon coughed and felt nauseous, for the beasts
stank horribly. He at last wrenched his hand round and
dug the point of his dagger into its forearm. It grunted
and let go.

Instantly Hawkmoon drove the blade of the dagger
deep into one staring eye and left the weapon there as
he turned to deal with the next creature.

It was dark now and hard to make out how many of
the beasts were left. D'Averc was holding his own,
shouting filthy insults at the creatures as his blade
moved rapidly this way and that.

Hawkmoon's foot slipped on blood and he staggered,
catching the small of his back on a spur of rock. With
a hiss another beaked beast was on him, clutching him
in a bearlike grip, pinning both arms to his sides, the
beak snapping at his face and closing with a snap on
the vulture visor.

Hawkmoon sweated to break the grip, tore his head
from the mask, leaving it in the creature's beak,
wrenched the thing's arms apart and punched it heavily
in the chest. It staggered in surprise, not realising that
the vulture mask had not been part of Hawkmoon's
body.

Quickly Hawkmoon drove Ms sword into its heart
and turned to assist D'Averc, who had two of the
things on him.

Hawkmoon lopped one's head completely from its
shoulders and was about to attack the next when it re-
leased D'Averc and screamed, rushing off into the
night, clutching part of his jerkin.

They had accounted for all but one of their disgust-
ing attackers.

D'Averc was panting, wounded slightly in the chest

where the claws had ripped his jerkin away. Hawkmoon
ripped up a piece of his cloak and padded the wound.

"No great harm done," said D'Averc. He yanked off
his battered vulture mask and flung it away. "Those
came in useful, but I'll wear mine no longer since I see
you've discarded yours. That jewel in your forehead is
unmistakable, so there's no point in my continuing
to disguise myself!" He grinned. "I told you the Tragic
Millenium had produced some ugly creatures, friend
Hawkmoon."

"I believe you," smiled Hawkmoon. "Come, we had
best find a place to camp for the night. Tozer marked a
safe resting spot on his map. Bring it out into the star-
light so we can read it."

D'Averc reached into his jerkin and then his jaw
dropped in horror. "Oh, Hawkmoon! We are not so
lucky!"

"Why so, my friend?"

"That section of my jerkin the creature carried off
contained the pocket in which I had the map supplied
by Tozer. We are lost, Hawkmoon!"

Hawkmoon cursed, sheathed his sword and frowned.

"There's nothing for it," he said. "We must trail the
beast. It was slightly wounded and might have left a
trail of blood. Perhaps it has dropped the map on its
way back to its lair. Failing that we shall have to follow
it all the way to where it lives and find a means of
getting back our map when we arrive!"

D'Averc frowned. "Is it worth it? Can we not remem-
ber where we are bound?"

"Not well enough. Come, D'Averc."

Hawkmoon began to clamber over the sharp rocks
in the direction in which the creature had disappeared
and D'Averc came reluctantly after him.

Luckily the sky was clear and the moon bright and
Hawkmoon at last saw some gleaming patches on the
rocks that must have been blood. A bit further on he
saw more patches.

"This way, D'Averc," he called.

His Mend sighed, shrugged and followed.

The search went on until dawn, when Hawkmoon lost
the trail and shook his head. They were high up on
a mountain slope, with a good view of two valleys be-
low them. He ran his hand through his blond hair and
he sighed.

"No sign of the thing. And yet I was sure..."

"Now we are worse off," D'Averc said absently,
rubbing his weary eyes. "No map—and no longer,
even, on our original trail..."

"I am sorry, D'Averc. I thought it the best plan."
Hawkmoon's shoulders sagged. Then suddenly he
brightened and pointed.

"There! I saw something moving. Come on." And
he was sprinting along the shelf of rock to disappear
from D'Averc's sight.

D'Averc heard a shout of surprise and then a sud-
den silence.

The Frenchman drew his sword and followed after
his friend, wondering what he had met with.

Then he saw the source of Hawkmoon's amaze-
ment. There, far below in a valley, was a city all made
of metal, with shiny surfaces of red, gold, orange, blue
and green, with curving metal roadways and sharp
metal towers. It was plain to see, even from here, that
the city was deserted and falling to pieces, with rusting
walls and adornments.

Hawkmoon stood looking down at it. He pointed.
There was their remaining antagonist of the night be-
fore, sliding down the rocky sides of the mountain to-
ward the city.

"That must be where he lives," Hawkmoon said.

"I like not to follow him down there," D'Averc
murmured. "There could be poison air—the air that
makes your flesh crumple from your face, that causes
vomiting and death..."

"The poison air does not exist any more, D'Averc,

and you know it. It only lasts for a while and then
disappears. Surely there has been no poison air here for
centuries." He began to clamber down the mountain in
pursuit of his foe who still clutched the piece of jerkin
containing Tozer's map.

"Oh, very well," groaned D'Averc. "Let's seek death
together!" And once again he began to follow in his
friend's wake. "You are a wild, impatient gentleman,
Duke von Koln!"

While loose stones rattled down and made the crea-
ture they pursued run all the faster towards the city,
Hawkmoon and D'Averc gave chase as best they could,
for they were unused to mountainous terrain and
D'Averc's boots were almost in shreds.

They saw the beast enter the shadows of the metal
"city and disappear.

A few moments later they, too, had reached the city
and looked up, in some trepidation, at the huge metal
structures that loomed into the sky, creating menac-
ing shadows below.

Hawkmoon noticed some more bloodstains and
threaded his way between the struts and pylons of the
city, peering with difficulty in the murky light.

And then suddenly there was a clicking sound, a
hissing sound, a peculiar land of subdued growl—

—and the creature was upon him, its claws about
his throat, digging deeper and deeper. He felt one
pierce, then another. He whipped up his own hands
and tried to prise the clawed fingers away, felt the
beak snap at the back of his neck.

Then there was a wild shriek and a yell and the
claws released his throat.

Hawkmoon staggered round to see D'Averc, sword in
hand, looking down at the body of the beaked beast.

"The disgusting creature had no brains," said
D'Averc lightly. "What a fool it was to attack you and
leave me free to slay it from behind." He extended his
arm and delicately skewered the missing piece of cloth

that had fallen from the dead thing's claw. "Here's
our map, as good as ever!"

Hawkmoon wiped blood from his throat. The claws

had not pierced too deeply. "The poor thing," he said.

"No softness now, Hawkmoon! You know how it

alarms me to hear you speaking thus. Remember the

creatures attacked us."

"I wonder why. There should be no shortage of
their natural prey in these mountains—there are all
kinds of edible creatures. Why feast on us?"

"Either we were the nearest meat they saw,"
D'Averc suggested, looking about him at the lattice of
metal everywhere, "or else they have learned to hate
men."

D'Averc re-sheathed his sword with a flourish and
began to make his way through the forest of metal
struts that supported the towers and streets of the city
above them. Refuse lay everywhere and there were bits
of dead animals, offal; rotting, unidentifiable stuff.

"Let's explore this city while we're here," D'Averc
said, climbing up one girder. "We could sleep here."

Hawkmoon consulted the map. "It's marked," he
said. "Halapandur's its name. Not too far to the east of
where our mysterious philosopher has his cavern."
"How far?"

"About a day's march in these mountains."
"Let's rest here and press on tomorrow," D'Averc
suggested.

Hawkmoon frowned for a moment. Then he shrugged.
"Very well." He, too, began to clamber up through the
girders until they reached one of the strange, curving
metal streets.

"We'll strike out for yonder tower," suggested
D'Averc.

They began to walk along the gently sloping ramp
towards a tower that gleamed turquoise and sultry
scarlet in the sunshine.

Chapter Fifteen
THE DESERTED CAVERN

AT THE BASE of the tower was a small door that
had been driven inwards as if by the punching of a
giant fist. Clambering through the aperture, Hawk-
moon and D'Averc tried to peer through the gloom to
see what the tower contained.

"There," said Hawkmoon. "A stairway—or some-
thing very like one."

They stumbled over rubble and discovered that it
was not a stairway leading up into the higher parts of
the tower, but a ramp, not unlike the ramps that con-
nected one building to another in the city itself.

"From what I've read this place was built only
shortly before the Tragic Millenium," D'Averc told
Hawkmoon as they continued up the ramp. "It was a
city wholly given over to scientists—a Research City,
I believe they called it. Every kind of scientist came
here from all parts of the world. The idea was that
new discoveries would be made by cross-fertilisation.
If my memory serves me, the legends say that many
strange inventions were created here, though most of
their secrets are now completely lost."

Up they went until the ramp led them onto a wide
platform which was completely surrounded by win-
dows of glass. Most of the windows were cracked or
completely blown out, but from this platform it was
possible to see the whole of the rest of the city.

"Almost certainly this was used to view the goings off
all over Halapandur," Hawkmoon said. He looked

about him. Everywhere were the remains of instru-
ments whose function he could not recognize. They
bore the stamp of things prehistoric; all in dull, plain
cases with austere characters engraved on them, to-
tally unlike the baroque decoration and flowing num-
erals and letters of modern times. "Some sort of room
controlling the functions of the rest of Halapandur."

D'Averc pursed his lips and pointed. "Ay—you can
observe its uses at once. Look, Hawkmoon."

Some distance away, on the opposite side of the city
from the one they had entered, could be seen a line of
horsemen in the helmets and armour of Dark Empire
troops. They could make out no details from this
height.

"My guess is that Meliadus leads them," Hawkmoon
said, fingering his sword. "He cannot know exactly
where Mygan is, but he can have discovered that
Tozer was in this city at some time, and he'll have
trackers with him who'll soon discover Mygan's cave.
We cannot afford to rest here now, D'Averc. We must
press on at once."

D'Averc nodded. "A shame." He stooped and
picked up a small object he had seen on the floor, plac-
ing it in his tattered jerkin. "I think I recognise this."

"What is it?"

"It could be one of the charges used for the old guns
they used," D'Averc said. "If so, it will be useful."

"But you have no old gun!"

"One does not always need one!" said D'Averc
mysteriously.

They ran back down the ramp to the entrance of
the tower. Risking being seen by the Dark Empire war-
riors, they dashed along the large, outer ramps as fast
as they could, then swung back again down the girders
and out of sight.

"I don't think we were seen," D'Averc said. "Come
on—we go this way for Mygan's lair."

They began to race up the side of the mountain,

slithering and sliding in their anxiety to reach the old
sorcerer before Meliadus.

Night came, but they moved on.

They were starving, for they had eaten practically
nothing since they had set out for Llandar Valley, and
they were beginning to weaken.

But they struggled on and just before dawn came to
the valley marked on the map. The valley where the
sorcerer Mygan was said to live.
 Hawkmoon began to smile. "Those Dark Empire
riders will have camped for the night, almost certainly.
We'll have time to see Mygan, get his crystals, and be
away before they ever arrive!"

"Let's hope so," said D'Averc, thinking privately that
Hawkmoon needed rest, for his eyes were a little fever-
ish. But he followed him down to the valley and con-
sulted the map. "Up there," he said. "That's where
Mygan's cave's supposed to be, but I see nothing."

"The map has it halfway up yonder cliff," said
Hawkmoon. "Let us climb up and see."

They crossed the floor of the valley, leaping over a
small, clear stream that ran down a fissure in the rock
the length of the valley. Here there were, indeed, signs
of Man, for there was a path down to the river and a
wooden apparatus that had evidently been used for
drawing up water from the stream.

They followed the path to the side of the cliff. Now
they found old, worn handholds in the rock. They
had not been carved recently, but had been there, it
appeared, for ages, well before Mygan had been born.

They began to climb.

The going was difficult, but at last they reached a
ledge of rock on which a huge boulder stood, and there,
behind the boulder, was the dark entrance to a cavern!

Hawkmoon went forward, eager to enter, but
D'Averc put a cautionary hand on his shoulder.
"Best take care," he said and drew his sword.

"An old man cannot harm us," Hawkmoon said.

"You are tired, my friend, and exhausted, other-
wise you would realise that an old man of the wisdom
Tozer claimed for him will possibly have weapons
which could harm us. He has no liking for men, from
what Tozer said, and there is no reason why he should
think us anything more than enemies."

Hawkmoon nodded, drew his own blade, and then
advanced.

The cavern was dark and seemingly empty, but then
they saw a glimmer of light from the back. Approach-
ing the source of this light, they discovered a sharp
bend in the cavern.

Rounding the bend they saw that the first cavern
led on to a second, much larger. This was fitted up with
all sorts of things, instruments of the kind they had
seen in Halapandur, a couple of cots, cooking mate-
rials, chemical equipment and much more. The source
of the light was a globe in the center of the cave.

"Mygan!" called D'Averc, but there was no reply.

They searched the cave, wondering if there was yet
another extension, but found nothing.

"He has gone!" Hawkmoon said in desperation, his
nervous fingers rubbing at the black jewel in his fore-
head. "Gone, D'Averc, and who knows where. Per-
haps after Tozer left him, he decided that it was no
longer safe to remain and has moved on."

"I think not," D'Averc said. "He would have taken
some of this stuff with him, would he not?" He looked
around the cave. "And that cot looks recently slept in.
There is no dust anywhere. Mygan has probably gone
off on some local expedition and will be back soon.
We must wait for him."

"And what of Meliadus—if that was Meliadus we
saw?"

"We must simply hope he moves slowly on the trail
and takes some time to discover this cave!"

"If he's as eager as you said Flana told you, then

he'll not be far behind us," Hawkmoon pointed out. He
went to a bench on which there were various dishes of
meat, vegetables and herbs, helping himself greedily.
D'Averc followed his example.

"We'll rest here and wait," D'Averc said. "It is all
we can do now, my friend."

A day passed, and a night, and Hawkmoon hourly
grew impatient as the old man did not return.

"Suppose he has been captured," he suggested to
D'Averc. "Suppose Meliadus found him wandering
in the mountains."

"If so, then Meliadus is bound to bring him back
here and we shall win the old man's gratitude by res-
cuing him from the baron," D'Averc replied with
forced cheerfulness.

"There were twenty men we saw, armed with flame-
lances if I was not mistaken. We cannot take twenty,
D'Averc."

"You are in low spirits, Hawkmoon. We have taken
twenty before—more!"

"Aye," Hawkmoon agreed, but it was plain that the
journey had taken much out of him. Perhaps, too, the
deception at the Court of King Huon had been a great-
er strain on him than on D'Averc, for D'Averc ap-
peared to relish deception of that kind.

At length, Hawkmoon strode to the outer cave and
onto the ledge beyond. Some instinct seemed to draw
him out, for he looked into the valley and saw them.

Now it was close enough to be sure.

The leader of the men was, indeed, Baron Meliadus.
His ornate wolf mask glinted ferociously as it turned
up and saw Hawkmoon at the instant Hawkmoon
looked down.

The great, roaring voice echoed through the moun-
tains. It was a voice full of mingled rage and triumph,
the voice of a wolf that has scented its prey.

"Hawkmoon!," came the cry. "Hawkmoon!"

Meliadus flung himself from Ms saddle and began to
scale the cliff. "Hawkmoon!"

Behind him came his well-armed men and Hawk-
moon knew there was little chance of fighting them all
off. He called back into the cavern. "D'Averc—Melia-
dus is here. Quickly man, he'll trap us in these caves.
We must reach the top of the cliff."

D'Averc came running from the cavern, buckling on
his sword belt, glanced down, thought for a moment,
then nodded. Hawkmoon ran to the face of the cliff,
seeking handholds on the rough surface, hauling him-
self upward.

A flame-lance beam splashed against the rock close
to his hand, singeing the hairs on his wrist. Another
landed beneath him, but he climbed on.

Perhaps at the top of the cliff he could stand and
make a fight, but he needed to protect his life and
D'Averc's for as long as possible, for the security of
Castle Brass could depend on it.

"Haaawkmoooon!" came the echoing cry of the
vengeful Meliadus. "Haaaawkmoooooon!"

Hawkmoon climbed on, scraping his hands on the
rock, gashing his leg, but not pausing, taking incredi-
ble risks as he clambered up the cliff face, D'Averc
close behind him.

At last they reached the top and saw a plateau
stretching away from them. If they attempted to cross
it, the flame-lances were bound to cut them down.

"Now," Hawkmoon said grimly, drawing his sword,
"we stand and fight."

D'Averc grinned. "At last. I thought you were los-
ing your nerve, my friend."

They glanced over the edge of the cliff and saw that
Baron Meliadus had reached the ledge by Mygan's
cavern and was darting in, sending his men on ahead in
pursuit of his two hated foes. Doubtless he hoped to
find some of the others there—Oladahn, Count Brass
—or even, perhaps Yisselda, whom Hawkmoon knew

was loved by the baron, however much he refused to
admit it.

Soon the first of the wolf warriors had reached the
cliff and Hawkmoon delivered a jarring kick to his
helmet. He did not fall, however, but reached out and
clutched Hawkmoon's foot, either trying to drag him-
self back to safety or drag Hawkmoon with him over
the cliff.

D'Averc sprang forward, stabbing the man in the
shoulder. He grunted, released the grip on Hawkmoon,
sought to grasp a spur of rock on the cliff edge, missed
and tumbled backwards, arms flailing, to yell one long
yell all the way to the floor of the valley, far, far be-
low.

But now others were clambering over the edge.
D'Averc engaged one, while Hawkmoon suddenly found
himself with two to contend with.

Back and forth along the edge of the cliff they
fought, the valley hundreds of feet below them.

Hawkmoon took one in the throat, between helm and
gorget, neatly skewered another through the belly,
where his armour did not reach, but two more quickly
took their place.

They fought for an hour thus, keeping back as many
as they could from gaining the top of the cliff, engaging
with their swords those they could not dissuade from
getting to the top.

Then they were surrounded, the swords pressing in
on them like the teeth of some gigantic shark, until
their throats were threatened by a band of blades and
Meliadus's voice came from somewhere, full of gloat-
ing malice. "Surrender, gentlemen, or you'll be butch-
ered, I promise."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc lowered their swords,
glancing hopelessly at each other.

They both knew that Meliadus hated them with a
terrible, consuming hatred. Now they were his prison-
ers in his own land. There was no possibility of escape.

Meliadus seemed to realize this, too, for he cocked
his wolf mask on one side and chuckled.

"I do not know how you came to Granbretan, Hawk-
moon and D'Averc, but I do know you now for a pair
of fools! Were you too seeking the old man? Why, I
wonder? You already have what he has."

"Perhaps he has other things," said Hawkmoon,
deliberately attempting to obscure the matter as much
as possible, for the less Meliadus knew, the more chance
they had of deceiving him.

"Other things? You mean he has other devices use-
ful to the Empire? Thanks for telling me, Hawkmoon.
The old man himself will doubtless be more specific."

"The old man has left, Meliadus," said D'Averc
smoothly. "We warned him you might be coming."

"Left, eh? If that's the case, you'll know where he
has gone, Sir Huillam."

"Not I," said D'Averc, looking peeved as the war-
riors bound him and Hawkmoon together and tied a
noose under their arms.

"We'll see." Meliadus chuckled again. "I appreciate
the excuse you offer me to begin a little torture here
and now. A soupcon of vengeance for the moment.
We'll explore the full possibilities when we return to
my palace. Then, too, perhaps I'll have the old man
and his secret of travelling through the dimensions . . ."
Privately he told himself that he was bound, in this
way, to reinstate himself with the King Emperor and
achieve Huon's forgiveness for leaving the city without
permission.

His gauntleted hand reached out to stroke Hawk-
moon's face almost lovingly. "Ah, Hawkmoon—soon
you shall feel my punishment; soon ..."

Hawkmoon shuddered to the roots of his being, then
spat full into the grinning wolf mask.

Meliadus recoiled, hand going up to mask, then
sweeping out and striking Hawkmoon across the mouth.
He growled in rage. "Another moment of anguish for

that, Hawkmoon. And those moments, I promise you,
will seem to last for aeons!"

Hawkmoon turned his head away in disgust and
pain, was thrust roughly forward by the guards and
pushed, together with Sir Huillam D'Averc, over the
edge of the cliff.

The rope around their bodies stopped them from
falling far, but they were lowered un-gently to the
ledge and Meliadus joined them shortly.

"I must still find the old man," said the baron. "I
suspect he's lurking somewhere hereabouts. We'll leave
you well bound in the cavern, put a couple of guards at
the entrance just in case you somehow free yourselves
from your bonds, and set off to look for him. There is
no escape for you now, Hawkmoon, none for you
either, D'Averc. You are both mine at last! Drag
them inside. Bind them with all the rope you can find.
Remember—guard them well, for they are Meliadus's
playthings!"

He watched as they were trussed and dragged into the
nearer cavern. Meliadus placed three men at the en-
trance of the cavern and began to clamber back down
the cliff in high spirits.

It would not be much longer, he promised himself,
before all his enemies were in his power, all their
secrets had been tortured from them, and then the King
Emperor would know that he had spoken the truth.

And if the King Emperor did not think well of him
—what matter?

Meliadus had plans to right that error, also.

Chapter Sixteen

MYGAN OF LLANDAR

NIGHT FELL OUTSIDE the cavern and Hawkmoon
and D'Averc lay in the shadow cast by the light from
the second cave.

The broad backs of the guards filled the entrance
and the ropes of their bonds were tight-bound and con-
siderable.

Hawkmoon tried to struggle, but his movements
were virtually restricted to moving his mouth, his eyes
and his neck a little. D'Averc was in a similar posi-
tion.

"Well, my friend, we were not cautious enough,"
D'Averc said with as light a tone as he could muster.

"No," Hawkmoon agreed. "Starvation and weariness
makes fools of even the wisest of men. We have only
ourselves to blame ..."

"We deserve our suffering," D'Averc said, somewhat
doubtfully. "But do our friends? We must think of
escape, Hawkmoon, no matter how hopeless it seems."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Aye, If Meliadus should suc-
ceed in reaching Castle Brass ..."

He shuddered.

It seemed to him from his brief encounter with the
Granbretanian nobleman, that Meliadus was even more
deranged than previously. Was it his defeat, several
times, by Hawkmoon and the folk of Castle Brass? Was
it the thwarting of his victory when Castle Brass had
been spirited away? Hawkmoon could not guess. He
only knew that his old enemy seemed less in control of

his mind than earlier. There was no telling what he
would do in such an unbalanced condition.

Hawkmoon turned his head, frowning, thinking he
had heard a noise from within the far cavern. From
where he lay, he could see a little of the lighted cave.

He craned his neck, hearing the sound again.
D'Averc murmured, very softly so that the guards
should not hear, "There is someone in there, I'll
swear..."

And then a shadow fell across them and they stared
up into the face of a tall, old man with a great, rugged
face that seemed carved from stone and a mane of
white hair that helped his leonine appearance.

The old man frowned, looking the bound men up
and down. He pursed his lips and looked out to
where the three guards stood at attention, looked back
at Hawkmoon and D'Averc. He said nothing, simply
folded his arms across his chest. Hawkmoon saw that
there were crystal rings on his fingers—all but the little
finger of the left hand bore rings, even the thumbs.
This must be Mygan of Llandar! But how had he got
into the cave? A secret entrance?

Hawkmoon looked at him desperately, mouthing his
pleas for help.

The giant smiled again and bent forward a little so
that he could hear Hawkmoon's whisper.

"Please, sir, if you be Mygan of Llandar, know that
we are friends to you—prisoners of your enemies."

"And how do I know you speak truth?" said Mygan,
also in a whisper.

One of the guards stirred outside, beginning to turn,
doubtless sensing something. Mygan withdrew into the
cavern. The guard grunted.

"What are you two muttering about? Discussing
what the baron will do with ye, eh? Well, you can't
imagine what entertainments he's got fixed up for you,
Hawkmoon."

Hawkmoon made no reply.

When the guard had turned back, chuckling, Mygan
bent closer again.

"You're Hawkmoon?"
"You've heard of me?"

"Something. If you're Hawkmoon, you may be speak-
ing the truth, for though I be of Granbretan, I hold no
brief for the Lords who rule in Londra. But how do
you know who my enemies are?"

"Baron Meliadus of Kroiden has learned of the
secret you imparted to Tozer who was your guest here
not long ago ..."

"Imparted! He wheedled it from me, stole one of
my rings when I slept, used it to escape. Wanted to
ingratiate himself with his masters in Londra, I gath-
er ..."

"You are right. Tozer told them of a power, boasted
that it was a mental attribute, demonstrated his power
and turned up in the Kamarg..."

"Doubtless by accident. He had no conception of
how to use the ring properly."

"So we gathered."

"I believe you, Hawkmoon, and I fear this Melia-
dus."

"You'll free us so that we can attempt to escape
from here, protect you against him?"

"I doubt if I need your protection."

Mygan disappeared from Hawkmoon's view.

"What does he plan, I wonder," said D'Averc, who
had deliberately remained silent until now.

Hawkmoon shook his head.

Mygan reappeared with a long knife in his hand. He
stretched out and began slicing through Hawkmoon's
bonds until at last the Duke von Koln was able to free
himself, keeping a wary eye on the guards outside.

"Hand me the knife," he whispered, and took it
from Mygan's hand. He began cutting away D'Averc's
ropes.

From outside they heard voices.

"Baron Meliadus is returning," one of the guards
said. "He sounds in an evil temper."

Hawkmoon darted an anxious glance at D'Averc
and they sprang up.

Alerted by the movement, one of the guards turned,
crying out in surprise.

The two men darted forward. Hawkmoon's hand
stopped the guard from drawing his sword. D'Averc's
arm went round another's throat and drew his sword
for him. The sword rose and fell even before the guard
could scream.

While Hawkmoon wrestled with the first guard,
D'Averc engaged the third. The clang of swords be-
gan to sound in the air and they heard Meliadus's
shout of surprise.

Hawkmoon threw his opponent to the ground and
placed a knee in his groin, drew the dagger that was
still sheathed at his side, prised back the mask and
struck the man in the throat.

Meanwhile, D'Averc had despatched his man, stood
panting over the corpse.

Mygan called from the back of the cavern. "I see
you wear crystal rings, like those I have. Do you know
how to control them?"

"We know only how to return to the Kamarg! A
turn to the left. .."

"Aye. Well, Hawkmoon, I would help you. You
must turn the crystals first to the right and then to the
left. Repeat the movement six times and then ..."

The great bulk of Meliadus loomed in the entrance
to the cavern.

"Oh, Hawkmoon—you plague me still. The old
man! Seize him!"

The rest of Meliadus's warriors began to surge into
the cavern. D'Averc and Hawkmoon fell back before
them, desperately fighting.

The old man shouted in fury: "Trespassers. Back!"
He rushed forward with his long knife raised.

"No!" cried Hawkmoon. "Mygan—let us do the
blade work. Keep away. You are defenceless against
such as these!"

But Mygan did not retreat. Hawkmoon tried to
reach him, saw him go down before a blow from a wolf
sword, struck out at the one who had struck Mygan.

The cavern was in confusion as they retreated back
into the inner cave. The sound of the swords echoed,
counterpointed by Meliadus's enraged shouts.

Hawkmoon dragged the wounded Mygan back to
the second cave, warding off the blows that fell upon
them both.

Now Hawkmoon faced the singing blade of Meliadus
himself, who swung his sword two-handed.

Hawkmoon felt a numbing shock in his left shoul-
der, felt blood begin to soak his sleeve. He parried a
further blow, then struck back, taking Meliadus in the
arm.

The baron groaned and staggered.

"Now, D'Averc!" called Hawkmoon. "Now, Mygan!
Turn the crystals! It is our only hope of escape!"

He turned the crystal in his ring first to the right and
then to the left, then six times more to right and left.
Meliadus growled and came at him again. Hawkmoon
raised his sword to block the blow.

And then Meliadus had vanished.

So had the cavern, so had his friends.

He stood alone upon a plain that stretched flat in all
directions. It was noon, for a huge sun hung in the sky.
The plain was of turf of a kind that grew close to the
ground and the smell it gave off reminded Hawkmoon
of spring.

Where was he? Had Mygan tricked him? Where
were the others?

Then the figure of Mygan of Llandar began to
materialize close by lying on the turf and clutching at
his worst wound. He was covered in a dozen sword
cuts, his leonine face pale and twisted with pain. Hawk-

moon sheathed his sword and sprang towards him.
"Mygan..."

"Ah, I'm dying, I fear, Hawkmoon. But at least I've
served in the shaping of your destiny. The Rune-
staff ..."

"My destiny? What do you mean? And what of the
Runestaff? I've heard so much of that mysterious
artifact, and yet no one will tell me exactly how it
concerns me ..."

"You'll learn when it's time. Meanwhile ..."

Suddenly D'Averc appeared, staring around him in
astonishment. "The things work! Thank the Runestaff
for that. I'd thought us all surely slain."

"You—you must seek . . ." Mygan began to cough.
Blood spurted from between his teeth, falling down his
chin.

Hawkmoon cradled his head in his arms. "Do not
try to speak, Mygan. You are badly wounded. We
must find help. Perhaps if we returned to Castle
Brass..."

Mygan shook his head. "You cannot."

"Cannot return? But why? The rings worked to
bring us here. A turn to the left..."

"No. Once you have shifted in this way, the rings
must be re-set."

"How shall we set them?"

"I will not tell you!"

"Will not? You mean cannot?"

"No. It was my intention to bring you through space
to this land where you must fulfill part of your destiny.
You must seek—ah, ah! The pain!"

"You have tricked us, old man," said D'Averc.
"You wish us to play some role in a scheme of your
own. But you are dying. We cannot help you now.
Tell us how to return to Castle Brass and we shall get
someone to doctor you."

"It was no selfish whim that instructed me to bring
you here. It was knowledge of history. I have travelled

to many places, visited many eras, by means of the
rings. I know much. I know what you serve, Hawk-
moon, and I know that the time has come for you to
venture here."

"Where?" Hawkmoon said desperately. "In what
time have you deposited us? What is the land called?
It seems to consist entirely of this flat plain!"

But Mygan was coughing blood again and it was
plain that death was close.

"Take my rings," he said, breathing with difficulty.
"They could be useful. But seek first Narleen and the
Sword of the Dawn—that lies to your south. Then turn
north, when that's done, and seek the city of Dnark—
and the Runestaff." He coughed again, then his body
shook with a great spasm and life fled him.

Hawkmoon looked up at D'Averc.

"The Runestaff? Are we then in Asiacommunista
where the thing is supposed to dwell?"

"It would be ironic, considering our earlier ruse,"
said D'Averc, dabbing with his kerchief at a wound on
his leg. "Perhaps that is where we are. I care not. We
are away from that boorish Meliadus and his blood-
thirsty pack. The sun above is warm. Save for our
wounds, we are considerably better off than we might
have been."

Looking about him, Hawkmoon sighed. "I am not
sure. If Taragorm's experiments are successful, he
could find a way through to our Kamarg. I would rather
be there than here." He fingered his ring. "I won-
der ..."

D'Averc put out his hand. "No, Hawkmoon. Do not
tamper with it. I'm inclined to believe the old man.
Besides, he seemed well-disposed toward you. He must
have meant you well. Probably he intended to tell you
where this was, give you more explicit directions as
to how to reach the places—presuming they were
places—he spoke of. If we try to work the rings now,
there's no telling where we'll find ourselves—possibly

even back in that unpleasant company we left in
Mygan's cave!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "Perhaps you're wise, D'Averc.
But what do we do now?"

"First we do as Mygan said, and remove his rings.
Then we head south—to that place—what did he call
it?"

"Narleen. It could be a person. A thing."

"South, at any rate, we go, to find out if this Narleen
be place, person or thing. Come." He bent beside the
corpse of Mygan of Llandar and began to strip the
crystal rings from his fingers. "From what I saw of his
cavern, it's almost certain that he found these in the
city of Halapandur. That equipment he had in his cave
evidently came from there. These must have been one
of the inventions of those people before the onset of
the Tragic Millenium ..."

But Hawkmoon was barely listening to him. Instead
he was pointing out across the plain.

"Look!"

The wind was blowing up.

In the distance something gigantic and reddish pur-
ple came rolling, emitting lightnings.

BOOK TWO

As THE CHAMPION ETERNAL served the Rune-
staff, so had Mygan of Llandar (though knowingly)
and the philosopher of Yel had seen fit to deposit
Hawkmoon in a strange, unfriendly land, giving him
little information, in order, as he saw it, to further the
Runestaff's cause. So many destinies were interlinked
now—the Kamarg's with Granbretan's, Granbretan's
with Asiacommunista, Asiacommunistas's with Ama-
rehk—Hawkmoon's with D'Averc's, D'Averc's with
Flana's, Flana's with Meliadus's, Meliadus's with King
Huon's, King Huon's with Shenegar Trott's, Shenegar
Trott's with Hawkmoon's; and all this on only one of
Earth's many planes—so many destinies weaving to-
gether to do the Runestaff's work which was begun
when Meliadus swore upon the Runestaff his great oath
of vengeance against the inhabitants of Castle Brass
and thus set the pattern of events. Paradoxes and iro-
nies were all apparent in the fabric, would become in-
creasingly clearer to those whose fates were woven into
it. And while Hawkmoon wondered where he was
placed in time or space, King Huon's scientists per-
fected more powerful war machines that helped the
armies of the Dark Empire spread faster and further
across the globe, to stain the map with blood ...

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

ZHENAK-TENG

HAWKMOON AND D'AVERC watched the strange
sphere approach and then wearily drew their swords.

They were in rags, their bodies all bloody, their
faces pale with the strain of the fight, and there was
little hope in their eyes.

"Ah, I could do with the amulet's power now," said
Hawkmoon of the Red Amulet which, on the War-
rior's advice, he had left behind at Castle Brass.

D'Averc smiled wanly. "I could do with some ordin-
ary mortal energy," he said. "Still, we must do our
best, Duke Dorian." He straightened his shoulders.

The thundering sphere came closer, bouncing over
the turf. It was a huge thing, full of flashing colors and
there was no question of swords being useful against it.

It rolled to a halt with a dying, growling noise and
stopped close by, towering over them.

Then it began to hum and a split appeared at its
centre, widening out until it seemed the sphere would
split in two. From it appeared white, delicate smoke
drifting in a cloud to the ground.

The cloud now began to disperse and a tall, well-
proportioned figure was revealed, his long fair hair held
from his eyes by a silver coronet, his bronzed body
clad in a short divided kilt of light brown color. He
appeared to have no weapons.

Hawkmoon looked at him warily.

"Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

The occupant of the sphere smiled. "That's a ques-

tion I should ask you," he said in a peculiar accent.
"You have been in a fight, I see—and one of your
number is dead. He seems old to have been a war-
rior."

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked again.

"You are single-minded, warrior. I am Zhenak-Teng
of the family of Teng. Tell me who you fought here.
Was it the Charki?"

"The name means nothing. We fought no one here,"
D'Averc said. "We are travellers. Those we fought are
a great distance away now. We came here fleeing
them..."

"And yet your wounds look fresh. You will ac-
company me back to Teng-Kampp?"

"That is your city?"

"We do not have cities. Come. We can help you—
dress your wounds, perhaps even revive your friend."

"Impossible. He is dead."

"We can revive the dead as often as not," the hand-
some man said airily. "Will you come with me?"

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Why not?" He and D'Averc
lifted the body of Mygan between them and advanced
towards the sphere, Zhenak-Teng leading the way.

They saw that the interior of the sphere was, in
fact, a cabin in which several men could sit comfort-
ably. Doubtless the thing was a familiar form of trans-
port here, for Zhenak-Teng made no effort to help
them, leaving them to work out for themselves where
they should sit and how they should position them-
selves.

He waved his hand over the control board of the
sphere and the crack in the side began to seal itself.
Then they were off, rolling smoothly over the turf at a
fantastic speed, seeing dimly the landscape they passed.

The plain stretched on and on. Never once did they
see trees or rocks or hills or rivers. Hawkmoon began
to wonder if it were not, in fact, artificial—or had been
artificially levelled at some time in the past.

Zhenak-Teng had his eyes pressed close to an in-
strument through which, presumably, he could see his
way. His hands were on a lever attached to a wheel
which he swung in one direction or another from time
to time, doubtless steering the strange vehicle.

Once they passed at a distance a group of moving
objects that they could not define through the shifting
walls of the sphere. Hawkmoon pointed them out.

"Charki," Zhenak-Teng said. "With luck, they will
not attack."

They seemed to be grey things, the color of dark
stone, but with many legs and waving protuberances.
Hawkmoon could not decide whether they were crea-
tures or machines, or neither.

An hour passed and at last the sphere began to slow.
"We are nearing Teng-Kampp," Zhenak-Teng said.

A little later the sphere rolled to a halt and the
bronzed man leant back, sighing with relief. "Good,"
he said. "I found what I set out looking for. That force
of Charki is feeding in a south-westerly direction and
should not come too close to Teng-Kampp."

"What are the Charki?" D'Averc asked, gasping as
he moved and his wounds began to hurt again.

"The Charki are our enemies, creatures created to
destroy human life," Zhenak-Teng replied. "They feed
from above ground, sucking up energy from the hidden
Kampps of our people."

He touched a lever and with a jolt the globe began to
descend into the ground.

The earth seemed to swallow them up and then close
above them. The globe continued to descend for a few
moments and then stopped. A bright light came on
suddenly and they saw they were in a small under-
ground chamber, barely large enough to hold the sphere.

"Teng-Kampp," said Zhenak-Teng laconically, touch-
ing a stud in the control panel which caused the sphere
to split again.

They descended to the floor of the chamber, carry-

ing Mygan with them, ducking to pass tinder an arch-
way and emerge in another chamber where men dressed
similarly to Zhenak-Teng hurried forward, presumably
to service the sphere.

"This way," the tall man said, leading them into a
cubicle which began to spin slowly. Hawkmoon and
D'Averc leant against the sides of the cubicle, feeling
dizzy, but at last the experience was over and Zhenak-
Teng led them out into a richly carpeted room full of
simple, comfortable looking furniture.

"These are my apartments," he said. "I'll send now
for the medical members of my family who may be
able to help your friend. Excuse me." He disappeared
into another room.

A little later he came back smiling. "My brothers
will be here soon."

"I hope so," said D'Averc fastidiously. "I've never
been greatly fond of the company of corpses..."

"It will not be long. Come, let us go into another
room where refreshment awaits you."

They left the body of Mygan behind and entered a
room where trays of food and drink seemed to drift,
unsupported, in the air above piled cushions.

Following Zhenak-Teng's example, they seated them-
selves on the cushions and helped themselves to the
food. It was delicious and they found themselves eat-
ing tremendous quantities of it.

As they ate, two men, of a similar appearance to
Zhenak-Teng, entered the room.

"It is too late," said one of them to Zhenak-Teng.
"I am sorry, brother, but we cannot revive the old
man. The wounds, and the time involved ..."

Zhenak-Teng looked apologetically at D'Averc and
Hawkmoon. "There—you have lost your comrade for
good, I fear."

"Then perhaps you can give him a good departure,"
said D'Averc, almost relieved.

"Of course. We shall do what is necessary."

The other two withdrew for about half-an-hour and
then returned just as Hawkmoon and D'Averc finished
eating. The first man introduced himself as Bralan-Teng
and the second announced himself as Polad-Teng. They
were both brothers to Zhenak-Teng and practitioners
of medicine. They inspected Hawkmoon's and
D'Averc's wounds and applied dressings. Very short-
ly the two men began to feel improved.

"Now you must tell me how you came to the land of
the Kampps," Zhenak-Teng said. "We have few strang-
ers on our plain, because of the Charki. You must tell
me of events in the other parts of the world..."

"I am not sure that you would understand the an-
swer to your first enquiry," Hawkmoon told him, "or
that we can help you with news of our world." And he
explained, as best he could, how they had come here
and where their world was. Zhenak-Teng listened with
careful attention.

"Aye," he said, "you are right. I can understand little
of what you tell me. I have never heard of any
'Europe' or 'Granbretan' and the device you describe is
not known to our science. But I believe you. How else
could you have turned up so suddenly in the land of
Kampps?"

"What are the Kampps?" D'Averc asked. "You said
they were not cities."

"So they are not. They are family houses, belonging
to one clan. In our case, the underground house be-
longs to the Teng family. Other nearby families are
the Ohn, the Sek and the Neng. Years ago there were
more—many more—but the Charki found them and
destroyed them ..."

"And what are the Charki?" Hawkmoon put it.

"The Charki are our age-old enemies. They were
created by those who once sought to destroy the houses
of the plain. That enemy destroyed himself, ultimately,
with some kind of explosive experiment, but his crea-
tures—the Charki—continue to wander the plain. They

have unwholesome means of defeating us so that they
may feed off our life-energy." Zhenak-Teng shuddered.

"They feed off your life-energy?" D'Averc said with
a frown. "What is that?"

"Whatever gives us life—whatever life is, they take
it and leave us drained, useless, dying slowly, unable
to move ..."

Hawkmoon began another question, then changed
his mind. Evidently the subject was painful to Zhenak-
Teng. Instead he asked, "And what is this plain? It
does not seem natural to me."

"It is not. It was the site of our landing fields, for
we of the One Hundred Families were once mighty and
powerful—until the coming of he who created the
Charki. He wanted our artifacts and our sources of
power for himself. He was called Zhenadar-vron-Ken-
sai and he brought the Charki with him from the east,
their vocation being entirely to destroy the Families.
And destroy them they did, save for the handful that
still survives. But gradually, through the centuries, the
Charki sniff them out..."

"You seem to have no hope," said D'Averc, almost
accusingly.

"We are merely realistic," Zhenak-Teng replied with-
out rancour.

"Tomorrow we should like to be on our way," said
Hawkmoon. "Have you maps—something that will help
us reach Narleen?"

"I have a map—though it is crude. Narleen used to
be a great trading city on the coast. That was centuries
ago. I do not know what it might be today."

Zhenak-Teng rose. "I will show you to the room I
have had prepared for you. There you may sleep to-
night and begin your long journey in the morning."

Chapter Two

THE  CHARKI

HAWKMOON AWOKE to the sounds of battle.

He wondered for a moment if he had dreamed and he
was back in the cave and D'Averc was still engaged
with Baron Meliadus. He sprang from his bed reaching
for the sword that lay on a nearby stool with his tat-
tered clothes. He was in the room where Zhenak-Teng
had left them the previous night, and on the other bed
D'Averc was awake, his features startled.

Hawkmoon began to struggle into his clothes. From
behind the door came yells, the clash of swords, strange
whining sounds and moans. When he was dressed, he
went swiftly to the door and opened it a crack.

He was astonished. The bronzed, handsome folk of
Teng-Kampp were busily at work trying to destroy one
another—and it was not swords, after all, that were
making the clashing sound, but meat cleavers, iron bars
and a weird collection of domestic and scientific tools
utilised as weapons. Snarls, bestial and alarming, were
on all faces, and foam flecked lips, while eyes stared
madly. The same insanity possessed them all!

Dark blue smoke began to pour along the corridor;
there was a stink Hawkmoon could not define, the
sound of smashing glass and torn metal.

"By the Runestaff, D'Averc," he gasped. "They seem
possessed!"

A knot of battling men suddenly pressed against the
door, pushing it inwards and Hawkmoon found himself
in the middle of them. He pushed them back, sprang

aside. None attacked him or D'Averc. They continued
to butcher one another as if unaware of the spectators.

"This way," Hawkmoon said, and left the room,
sword in hand. He coughed as the blue smoke entered
his lungs and stung his eyes. Everywhere was ruin.
Corpses lay thick in the corridor.

Together they struggled along the passages until they
reached Zhenak-Teng's apartments. The door was
locked. Frantically, Hawkmoon beat upon it with the
pommel of his blade.

"Zhenak-Teng, it is Hawkmoon and D'Averc! Are
you within?"

There was a movement from the other side of the
door, then it sprang open and Zhenak-Teng, his eyes
wild with terror, beckoned them in, then hastily closed
and locked the door again.

"The Charki," he said. "There must have been an-
other pack roaming elsewhere. I have failed in my duty.
They took us by surprise. We are doomed."

"I see no monsters," D'Averc said. "Your kinsmen
fight among themselves."

"Aye—that's the Charki's way of defeating us. They
emit waves—mental rays of some description—that
turn us mad, make us see enemies in our closest friends
and brothers. And while we fight, they enter our
Kampp. They will soon be here!"

"The blue smoke—what is that?" D'Averc asked.

"Nothing to do with the Charki. It comes from our
smashed generators. We have no power now, even if
we could rally."

From somewhere above came terrible thumps and
crashes that shook the room.

"The Charki," murmured Zhenak-Teng. "Soon their
rays will reach me, even me ..."

"Why have they not reached you already?" Hawk-
moon demanded.

"Some of us are more able to resist them. You, plain-

ly, do not suffer from them at all. Others are quickly
overcome."

"Can we not escape?" Hawkmoon glanced about the
room. "The Sphere we came in ... ?"

"Too late, too late ..."

D'Averc grasped Zhenak-Teng by the shoulder.
"Come man, we can escape if we're quick. You can
drive the sphere!"

"I must die with my family—the family I helped
destroy." Zhenak-Teng was barely recognisable as the
self-contained, civilised man they had spoken to the
day before. All the spirit had left him. Already his eyes
were glazed and it seemed to Hawkmoon that soon the
man would succumb to the strange power of the Charki.

He came to a decision, raised his sword and struck
swiftly. The pommel connected with the base of
Zhenak-Teng's skull and he collapsed.

"Now, D'Averc," Hawkmoon said grimly. "Let's get
him to the sphere. Hurry!"

Coughing as the blue smoke grew thicker, they
stumbled from the room and into the passages, carry-
ing Zhenak-Teng's unconscious body between them.
Hawkmoon remembered the way to the place where
they had left the sphere and directed D'Averc.

Now the whole passage shook alarmingly until they
were forced to stop to keep their balance. Then ...

"The wall! It's crumbling!" howled D'Averc, stag-
gering back. "Quickly, Hawkmoon—the other way!"

"We must get to the sphere!" Hawkmoon called back.
"We must go on!"

Now pieces of the ceiling began to fall and a grey,
stonelike creature crept through the crack in the wall
and into the passage. On the end of the creature was
what resembled a sucker such as an octopus would
possess, moving like a mouth seeking to kiss them.

Hawkmoon shuddered in horror and stabbed at the
thing with his sword. It recoiled; then, pouting a little,

as if only a trifle offended by his gesture and willing to
make friends, it advanced again.

This time Hawkmoon chopped at it and there was a
grunt and a shrill hiss from the other side of the room.
The creature seemed surprised that something was re-
sisting it. Heaving Zhenak-Teng onto his shoulder,
Hawkmoon struck another blow at the tentacle, then
leapt over it and began to race down the crumbling
passage.

"Come on, D'Averc! To the sphere!"

D'Averc skipped over the wounded tentacle and
followed. Now the wall gave way altogether, and it re-
vealed a mass of waving arms, a pulsing head and a
face that was a parody of human features, grinning a
placatory, idiot's grin.

"It wants us to pet it!" D'Averc cried with grim
humor as he avoided a reaching tentacle. "Would you
hurt its feelings so, Hawkmoon?"

Hawkmoon was busily opening the door that led to
the chamber of the sphere. Zhenak-Teng, who lay on
the floor near him, was beginning to moan and clutch
his head.

Hawkmoon got the door open, hefted Zhenak-Teng
onto his shoulder again, and passed through into the
chamber where the sphere lay.

No noise came from it now and its colours were
muted, but it was opened sufficient to admit them.
Hawkmoon climbed the ladder and dumped Zhenak-
Teng in the control seat as D'Averc joined him.

"Get this thing moving," he told Zhenak-Teng, "or
we'll all be devoured by the Charki you see there . . ."
He pointed with his sword to the giant thing that was
squeezing its way through the door of the chamber.

Several tentacles crept up the sides of the sphere
towards them. One touched Zhenak-Teng lightly on
the shoulder and he moaned. Hawkmoon yelled and
chopped at it. It flopped to the floor. But others were
now waving all around him and had fastened on the

bronzed man who seemed to accept the touch with
complete passivity. Hawkmoon and D'Averc screamed
at him to get the sphere moving while they hacked
desperately at the dozens of waving limbs.

Hawkmoon reached out with his left hand to grasp
the back of Zhenak-Teng's neck. "Close the sphere,
Zhenak-Teng! Close the sphere."

With a jerky movement, Zhenak-Teng obeyed, de-
pressing a stud which made the sphere murmur and
hum and begin to glow with all kinds of colours.

The tentacles tried to resist the steady motion of the
walls as the aperture closed. Three leapt through
D'Averc's defense and fastened themselves on Zhenak-
Teng who groaned and went limp. Again Hawkmoon
slashed at the tentacles as the sphere finally closed and
began to rise upwards.

One by one the tentacles disappeared as the sphere
rose and Hawkmoon sighed in relief. He turned to the
bronzed man. "We are free!"

But Zhenak-Teng stared dully ahead of him, his
arms limp at his sides.

"It is no good," he said slowly. "It has taken my
life . . ." And he slumped to one side, falling to the
floor.

Hawkmoon bent beside him, putting his hand to the
man's chest to feel his heartbeat. He shuddered in hor-
ror.

"He's cold, D'Averc—incredibly cold!"

"And does he live?" the Frenchman asked.

Hawkmoon shook his head. "He is entirely dead."

The sphere was still rising rapidly and Hawkmoon
sprang to the controls, looking at them in despair, not
knowing one instrument from another, not daring to
touch anything lest they descend again to where the
Charki feasted on the life energy of the people of
Teng-Kampp.

Suddenly they were in the open air and bounding

over the turf. Hawkmoon seated himself in the control
seat and took the lever as he had seen Zhenak-Teng
take it the day before. Gingerly he pushed it to one
side, and had the satisfaction of seeing the sphere be-
gin to roll in that direction.

"I think I can steer it," he told his friend. "But how
one stops it or opens it, that I cannot guess!"

"As long as we are leaving those monsters behind,
I am not entirely depressed," D'Averc said with a smile.
"Turn the thing to the south, Hawkmoon. At least we
will be going in the direction we intended."

Hawkmoon did as D'Averc suggested and for hours
they rolled over the flat plain until, at length, a forest
came in sight.

"It will be interesting," said D'Averc, when Hawk-
moon pointed out the trees to him, "to see how the
sphere behaves when it reaches the trees. It was plainly
not designed for such terrain."

Chapter Three

THE SAYOU RIVER

THE SPHERE STRUCK the trees with a great sound
of snapping wood and tortured metal.

D'Averc and Hawkmoon found themselves flung to
the far side of the control chamber, keeping company
with the unpleasantly cold corpse of Zhenak-Teng.

Next they were flung upwards, then sideways, and
had not the walls of the sphere been well padded, they
would have died of broken bones.

At last the sphere rolled to a halt, rocked for a few

moments, then suddenly split apart, tumbling Hawk-
moon and D'Averc to the ground.

D'Averc groaned. "What an unnecessary experience
for one as weak as myself."

Hawkmoon grinned, partly at his friend's drollery,
partly in relief.

"Well," he said, "we have escaped more easily than
I'd dared hope. Rise up, D'Averc, we must strike on—
strike for the South!"

"I think a rest is called for," D'Averc said, stretching
and looking up at the green branches of the trees. Sun
slanted through them, turning the forest to emerald and
gold. There was the sharp scent of pine and the earthier
scent of the birch and from a branch above them a
squirrel looked down, its bright black eyes sardonic.
Behind them the wreckage of the sphere lay amongst
tangled roots and branches. Several small trees had
been torn up and others snapped. Hawkmoon realised
that their escape had been very lucky indeed. He be-
gan to shake, now, with reaction, and understood the
sense of D'Averc's words. He sat down on a grassy hill-
ock, averting his eyes from the wreck and the corpse
of Zhenak-Teng that could just be seen to one side of
the sphere.

D'Averc lay down nearby and rolled over onto
his back. From within his tattered jerkin he drew a
tightly wadded piece of parchment, the map that
Zhenak-Teng had given him shortly before they retired
the night before.

D'Averc opened the parchment and studied it. It
showed the plain in considerable detail, marked the
various Kampps of Zhenak-Teng's people and what
appeared to be the hunting trails of the Charki. Against
most of the sites of the underground dwellings were
crosses, presumably showing which the Charki had
destroyed.

He pointed to a spot near the corner of the map.
"Here," he said. "Here's the forest—and just to the

north here is marked a river—the Sayou. This arrow
points south to Narleen. From what I can gather, the
river will lead us to the city."

Hawkmoon nodded. "Then let's head for the river
when we're recovered. The sooner we reach Narleen,
the better—for there at least we may discover where we
are in space and time. It was unlucky that the Charki
should have attacked when they did. By questioning
Zhenak-Teng longer, we might have been able to learn
from him where we were."

They slept in the peace of the forest for an hour or
more, then rose up, adjusted their worn gear and
ragged clothes, and set off towards the north and the
river.

As they progressed, the undergrowth grew thicker
and the trees more dense, and the hills on which the
trees clung became steeper, so that by evening they
were weary and in ill-temper, barely speaking to one
another.

Hawkmoon sorted through the few objects in the
purse on his belt, found a tinder box of ornate design.
They walked on for another half-hour until they came
to a stream that fed a pool set between high banks on
three sides. Beside this was a small clearing and Hawk-
moon said: "We'll spend the night here, D'Averc, for I
cannot continue any longer."

D'Averc nodded and flung himself down beside the
pool, drinking greedily the clear water. "It looks deep,"
he said, rising and wiping his lips.

Hawkmoon was building a fire and did not reply.

Soon he had a good blaze going.

"We should, perhaps, hunt for game," D'Averc said
lazily. "I am becoming hungry. Do you know anything
of forest lore, Hawkmoon?"

"Some," said Hawkmoon, "but I am not hungry,
D'Averc."

And with that he lay down and went to sleep.

It was night, it was cold, and Hawkmoon was sud-
denly awakened by a terrified yell from Ms friend.

He was up instantly, staring in the direction D'Averc
pointed, sword leaping from his scabbard. He gasped in
horror at what he saw.

Rising from the waters of the pool, water rushing
from its huge sides, was a reptilian creature with blaz-
ing eyes and scales as black as the night. Only its
mouth, which now gaped wide, contained the white-
ness of pointed teeth. With a great slopping sound it
was heaving itself through the water toward them.

Hawkmoon staggered back, feeling dwarfed by the
monster. Its head darted down and forward, its jaws
snapping inches from his face, its loathsome breath al-
most asphyxiating him.

"Run, Hawkmoon, run!" yelled D'Averc, and to-
gether they began to stumble back into the woods.

But the creature was out of the water now and giv-
ing chase. From its throat came a terrible croaking
noise that seemed to fill the forest. Hawkmoon and
D'Averc clutched at one another's hands to keep to-
gether as they stumbled through the undergrowth, al-
most blind in the blackness of the night.

Again the croaking noise and this tune a long, soft
tongue whistled like a whip through the air and en-
circled D'Averc's waist.

D'Averc screamed. He slashed at the tongue with his
blade. Hawkmoon yelled and sprang forward, stabbing
out at the black thing with all his might, while hang-
ing to D'Averc's hand and holding his ground as best
he could.

Inexorably, the tongue drew them towards the gap-
ing mouth of the water-beast. Hawkmoon could see
that it was hopeless to try to save D'Averc in this way.
He let go of D'Averc's hand and leapt to one side, slash-
ing at the thick, black tongue.

Then he took his sword in both hands, raised it
above his head and chopped down with all his strength.

The beast croaked again and the ground shook, but
the tongue parted slowly and foul blood gushed from
it. Then there came a hideous cry and the trees began
to part and snap as the water-thing lumbered at them.
Hawkmoon grabbed D'Averc and hauled him to his
feet, pushing aside the sticky flesh of the severed
tongue.

"Thanks," D'Averc panted as they ran. "I'm begin-
ning to dislike this land, Hawkmoon—it seems more
full of perils than our own!"

Crunching and croaking and crying out with in-
sensate rage, the thing from the pool pursued them.

"It's nearly on us again!" shouted Hawkmoon. "We
can't escape it!"

They turned, peering through the blackness. All they
could see now were the two blazing black eyes of the
creature. Hawkmoon hefted his sword in his hand, get-
ting its balance. "There's only one chance," he called,
and flung his sword straight at the malevolent orbs.

There was another croaking scream and a great
threshing sound amongst the trees, then the blazing
orbs disappeared and they heard the beast crashing
away, back to the pool.

Hawkmoon gasped with relief. "I didn't kill it, but
it doubtless decided we were not the easy prey it
originally took us for. Come, D'Averc, let's get to that
river as soon as we can. I want to leave this forest be-
hind!"

"And what makes you think the river is any less
perilous?" D'Averc asked him sardonically as they be-
gan to move through the forest again, taking their di-
rection from the side of the trees on which moss grew.

Two days later they broke out of the forest and
stood on the sides of a hill that went steeply down to a
valley through which a broad river flowed. It was with-
out doubt the River Sayou.

They were covered in filth, unshaven, their clothes

ragged to the point of disintegration. Hawkmoon had
only a dagger for a weapon, and D'Averc, at last rid of
his torn jerkin, was naked to the waist.

They ran down the hill, stumbling over roots, struck
by branches, careless of any discomfort in their haste to
reach the river.

Where the river would take them, they knew not.
They wished only to leave the forest and its dangers.
Though they had encountered nothing as dreadful as
the creature from the pool, they had seen other mon-
sters from a distance, discovered the spoor of more.

They flung themselves into the water and began to
wash the mud and filth from their bodies, grinning at
one another.

"Ah, sweet water!" exclaimed D'Averc. "You lead
to towns and cities and civilisation. I care not what that
civilisation offers us—it will be more familiar and even
more welcome than the worst this dirty natural place
presents to us!"

Hawkmoon smiled, not entirely sharing D'Averc's
sentiments, but understanding his feelings.

"We'll build a raft," he said. "We're lucky that the
current flows south. All we need do, D'Averc, is let
the current bear us to our goal!"

"And you can fish, Hawkmoon—get us tasty meals.
I'm not used to the simple fare we've lived on the past
two days—berries and roots, ugh!"

"I'll teach you how to fish, too, D'Averc. The ex-
perience might be useful to you if you find yourself in
a similar situation in the future!" And Hawkmoon
laughed, slapping his friend on the back.

Chapter Four

VALJON OF STARVEL

FOUR DAYS LATER the raft had borne them many
miles down the great river. Forests no longer lined the
banks, but instead there were gentle hills and seas of
wild corn on both sides of them.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc lived off the fat fish they
caught in the river, together with corn and fruit found
on the banks, and they became more relaxed as the
raft drifted on toward Narleen.

They had the appearance of shipwrecked sailors,
with their ragged clothes and beards that grew thicker
daily, but their eyes no longer had the wild look of
hunger and exposure and they were in better spirits
than they had been.

It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day that
they saw the ship coming up behind them and leapt to
their feet, waving to attract its attention.

"Perhaps the ship is from Narleen!" cried Hawk-
moon. "Perhaps they'll let us work a passage to the
city!"

The ship was high-prowed, made of wood painted
with rich colours. Principally it was red, with gold,
yellow and blue scroll-work along its sides. Although
rigged like a two-masted schooner it also possessed oars
which were now being used to propel it toward them.
It flew a hundred brightly colored flags and the men
on its decks wore clothes to match.

The ship struck her oars and pulled alongside. A

heavily bearded face peered down at them. "Who are
you?"

"Travellers—strangers in these parts—can we sign
aboard to work our passage to Narleen?" D'Averc
asked.

The bearded man laughed. "Aye, that you can.
Come up, gentlemen."

A rope ladder was thrown down and Hawkmoon
and D'Averc climbed gratefully up it to stand on the
ornamental deck of the ship.

"This is the River Wind," the bearded man told
them. "Heard of her?"

"I told you—we're strangers," said Hawkmoon.

"Aye . . . Well, she's owned by Valjon of Starvel
—you've heard of him no doubt."

"No," said D'Averc. "But we're grateful to him for
sending a ship our way," he smiled. "Now, my friend,
what do you say to our working our passage to Nar-
leen?"

"Well, if you've no money ..."

"None..."

"We'd best find out from Valjon himself what he
wants done with you."

The bearded man escorted them up the deck to the
poop where a thin man, pale and in black, stood
brooding, not looking at them.

"Lord Valjon?" said the bearded man.

"What is it, Ganak?"

"The two we took aboard. They've no money—
wish to work their passage, they say."

"Why, then let them, Ganak, if that's what they de-
sire." Valjon smiled wanly.

He did not look directly at Hawkmoon and D'Averc
and his melancholy eyes continued to stare out over the
river. With a wave of his hand he dismissed them.

Hawkmoon felt uncomfortable, looked about him.
All the crew were looking on silently, faint smiles on
their faces. "What's the joke?"

"Joke?" Ganak said. "There's none. Now, gentle-
men, would you pull an oar to get you to Narleen?"

"If that's the work that will get us to the city," said
D'Averc with some reluctance.

"It looks somewhat strenuous work," Hawkmoon
said. "But it's not too far to Narleen, if our map was in
order. Show us to our oars, friend Ganak."

Ganak took them along the deck until they reached
the catwalk between the rowers. Here Hawkmoon was
shocked when he saw the condition of the oarsmen. All
looked half-starved and filthy. "I don't understand . . ."
he began.

Ganak laughed. "Why, you will soon,"

"What are these rowers?" D'Averc asked in dismay.

"They are slaves, gentlemen—and slaves you are,
too. We take nothing aboard the River Wind that will
not profit us and, since you have no money, and ran-
som seems unlikely, why we'll make you slaves to work
our oars for us. Get down there!"

D'Averc drew his sword and Hawkmoon his dagger,
but Ganak sprang back signalling to his crewmen.
"Come, lads. Teach them new tricks, for they seem
not to understand what slaves must do."

Behind them, along the catwalk, clambered a great
weight of sailors, all with bright blades in their hands,
while another mass of men came at their front.

D'Averc and Hawkmoon prepared to die taking a
good quantity of the sailors with them, but then from
above a figure came hurtling, down a rope from the
crosstrees, to strike once, twice upon their heads with a
hardwood club and knock them into the oarpits.

The figure grinned and bounced on the catwalk,
putting away his club. Ganak laughed and clapped
him on the shoulder. "Good work, Orindo. That
trick's always the best one and saves much spilt blood."

Others sprang down to relieve the stunned men of
their weapons and rope their wrists to an oar.

When Hawkmoon awoke, he and D'Averc sat side

by side on a hard bench and Orindo was swinging his
legs from the catwalk above them. He was a boy of
perhaps sixteen, a cocky smile on his face.

He called back to someone above whom they could
not see. "They're awake. We can start moving now—
back to Narleen."

He winked at Hawkmoon and D'Averc. "Commence,
gentlemen," he said. "Commence rowing, if you please."
He seemed to be imitating a voice he had heard. "You're
lucky," he added. "We're going downstream. Your
first work will be easy."

Hawkmoon gave a mock bow over his oar. "Thank
you, young man. We appreciate your concern."

"I'll give you further advice from time to time, for
that's my kindly nature," said Orindo springing up,
gathering his red and blue coat about him and bounc-
ing along the catwalk.

Ganak's face peered down next. He prodded at
Hawkmoon's shoulder with a sharp boathook. "Pull
well, friend, or you'll feel the bite of this in your
bowels." Ganak disappeared. The other rowers bent to
their task and Hawkmoon and D'Averc were forced to
follow suit.

For the best part of a day they pulled, with the stink
of their own and others' bodies in their nostrils, with a
bowl of slops to eat at midday. The work was back-
breaking, though it was a sign of what upstream row-
ing was like when the other slaves murmured with
gratitude for the ease of their task!

At night, they lay over their oars, barely able to eat
their second bowl of nauseating mess which was, if
anything, worse than the first.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc were too weary to talk,
but made some attempt to rid themselves of their
bonds. It was impossible for they were too weak to get
free of such tightly knotted ropes.

Next morning Ganak's voice awoke them. "All port
rowers get pulling. Come on you, scum! That means

you, gentlemen! Pull! Pull! There's a prize in sight and
if we miss it, you'll suffer the Lord Valjon's wrath!"

The emaciated bodies of the other rowers instantly
became active at this threat and Hawkmoon and
D'Averc bent their backs with them, hauling the huge
boat round against the current.

From above were the sounds of footfalls as men
rushed about, preparing the ship for battle. Ganak's
voice roared from the poop as he issued instructions in
the name of his master, the Lord Valjon.

Hawkmoon thought he would die with the effort of
rowing, felt his heart pound and his muscles creak with
the agony of the exertion. Fit he might be, but this ef-
fort was unusual, placing strain on parts of his body
that had never had to take such strain before. He was
covered in sweat and his hair was pasted to his face, his
mouth open as he gasped for breath.

"Oh, Hawkmoon . . ." panted D'Averc. "This—was
—not—meant to—be—my role—in life ..."

But Hawkmoon could not reply for the pain in his
chest and arms.

There was now a sharp jarring as the boat met an-
other and Ganak yelled: "Port rowers, drop oars!"

Hawkmoon and the others obeyed instantly and
slumped over their oars as the sounds of battle com-
menced above. There was the noise of swords, of men
in agony, of killing and of dying, but it seemed only
like a distant dream to Hawkmoon. He felt that if he
continued to row in Lord Valjon's galley, he would
shortly perish.

Then suddenly he heard a guttural cry above him
and felt a great weight fall upon him. The thing strug-
gled, crawled over his head and fell in front of him.
It was a brutish looking sailor, his body covered in red
hair. There was a large cutlass sticking from the mid-
dle of his body. He gasped, quivered, then died, the
knife falling from his hand.

Hawkmoon stared at the corpse dully for a while

until Ms brain began to work. He extended his feet
and found he could touch the fallen knife. Gradually,
with several pauses, he drew it towards him until it was
under his bench. Exhausted, he again fell over his oar.

Meanwhile the sounds of fighting died down and
Hawkmoon was recalled to reality by the smell of
burning timber, looked about him in panic, then real-
ised the truth.

"It's the other ship that's burning," D'Averc told
him. "We're aboard a pirate, friend Hawkmoon." He
smiled sardonically. "What an unworthy occupation—
and my health so frail..."

Hawkmoon reflected, with some self-judgement, that
D'Averc seemed to be reacting better to their situation
than was he.

He drew a deep breath and straightened bis shoul-
ders as best he could.

"I have a knife . . ." he began in a whisper. But
D'Averc nodded rapidly.

"I know. I saw you. You're not in such bad condi-
tion, after all."

Hawkmoon said: "Rest tonight, until just before
dawn. Then we'll escape."

"Aye," agreed D'Averc. "Save as much strength as
we can. Courage, Hawkmoon—we'll soon be free men
again!"

For the rest of the day they pulled rapidly down-
river, pausing only at noon for their bowl of slops.
Once Ganak squatted on the catwalk and tickled
Hawkmoon's shoulder with his boathook.

"Another day and you'll have your desire. We'll be
docking at Starvel tomorrow."

"And what's Starvel?'" croaked Hawkmoon.

Ganak looked at him astonished. "You must be
from far away if you've not heard of Starvel. It's part
of Narleen—the most favored part. The walled city
where the great princes of the river dwell—and of
whom Lord Valjon is the greatest."

"Are they all pirates?" asked D'Averc.

"Careful, stranger," Ganak said frowning. "We help
ourselves by right to whatever's on the river. The river
belongs to Lord Valjon and his peers."

He straightened up and strode away. They rowed on
until nightfall and then, at Ganak's order, ceased their
work. Hawkmoon had found the work easier, now that
his muscles and body had become used to it, but he
was still tired.

"We must sleep in shifts," he murmured to D'Averc
as they ate their slops. "You first, then I."

D'Averc nodded and slumped down almost instant-
ly.

The night grew cold, and Hawkmoon could barely
stop from falling asleep. He heard the first watch
sounded, then the second. With relief, he nudged at
D'Averc until he was awake.

D'Averc grunted and Hawkmoon was instantly
asleep, remembering D'Averc's words. By dawn, with
luck, they would be free. Then would come the difficult
part—of leaving the ship unseen.

He awoke feeling strangely light in the body and
realised with mounting spirits that his hands were free
of the oars. D'Averc must have worked in the night.
It was almost dawn.

He turned to his friend who grinned at him and
winked. "Ready?" D'Averc murmured.

"Aye . . ." replied Hawkmoon with a great sigh. He
looked with envy at the long knife D'Averc held.

"If I had a weapon," he said, "I would repay Ganak
for a few indignities..."

"No time for that now," D'Averc pointed out. "We
must escape as silently as possible."

Cautiously they rose up from the benches and poked
their heads up over the catwalk. At the far end, a sailor
stood on watch; and on the poop deck above this man,
stood Lord Valjon, his posture brooding and ab-

stracted, his pale face staring into the darkness of the
river night.

The sailor's back was towards them. Valjon did not
seem about to turn. The two men heaved themselves
onto the catwalk, making stealthily for the prow.

But it was then that Valjon's sepulchral voice
sounded:

"What's this? Two slaves escaping?"

Hawkmoon shuddered. The man's instinct was un-
canny, for it was plain he had not seen them, perhaps
had only heard them for a moment. His voice, though
deep and quiet, somehow carried the length of the ship.
The sailor on watch wheeled and yelled. Lord Valjon's
deathly pale face also glared at them.

From below decks several sailors appeared, blocking
their way to the side. They wheeled and Hawkmoon
ran toward the poop and Lord Valjon. The sailor drew
his cutlass, struck at him, but Hawkmoon was desper-
ate and could not be stopped. He ducked beneath the
blow, grasped the man by the waist and heaved him
up, hurling him to the deck where he lay winded. Hawk-
moon picked up the unwieldy blade and struck off
the man's head. Then he turned to stare at Lord Val-
jon.

The pirate lord seemed undisturbed by the closeness
of danger. He continued to glare back at Hawkmoon
from his pale, bleak eyes.

"You are a fool," he said slowly. "For I am the
Lord Valjon."

"And I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln! I
have fought and defeated the Dark Lords of Granbre-
tan. I have resisted their most powerful magic as this
stone in my skull testifies. I do not fear you, Lord Val-
jon, the pirate!"

"Then fear those," murmured Valjon, pointing a
bony finger behind Hawkmoon.

Hawkmoon spun on his heel and saw a great num-

ber of sailors bearing down on him and D'Averc. And
D'Averc was armed only with a knife.

Hawkmoon flung him the cutlass. "Hold them off,
D'Averc!" And he leapt for the poop, grasped the rail
and hauled himself over it as Lord Valjon, an expres-
sion of mild surprise on his face, took a step or two
backward.

Hawkmoon advanced toward him, hands out-
stretched. From under his loose robe Valjon drew a
slim blade which he pointed at Hawkmoon, making
no attempt to attack but continuing to back away.

"Slave," murmured Lord Valjon, his grim features
baffled. "Slave."

"I'm no slave, as you'll discover." Hawkmoon
ducked past the blade and tried to grab the strange
pirate captain. Valjon stepped aside swiftly, still keep-
ing the long sword before him.

Evidently Hawkmoon's attack on him was unpre-
cedented, for Valjon hardly knew what to do. He had
been disturbed from some brooding trance and stared
at Hawkmoon as if he were not real.

Hawkmoon leapt again, avoiding the extended
sword. Again Valjon sidestepped.

Below, D'Averc had his back to the poop deck, was
just able to hold off the sailors who crammed the nar-
row catwalk. He called to Hawkmoon:

"Hurry up with your business, friend Hawkmoon—
or I'll have a dozen skewers in me before long!"

Hawkmoon aimed a blow at Valjon's face, felt his
fist connect with cold, dry flesh, saw the man's head
snap back and the sword fall from his hand. Hawk-
moon swept up the sword, admiring its balance, and
heaved the unconscious Valjon to his feet, directing
the sword at his vitals.

"Back, scum, or your master dies!"

In astonishment the sailors began to move away,
leaving three of their number dead at D'Averc's feet.
Ganak came hurrying up behind them. He was wear-

ing only a kilt, a naked cutlass in his hand. His jaw
dropped when he saw Hawkmoon.

"Now, D'Averc, perhaps you'd care to join me."
Hawkmoon spoke almost merrily.

D'Averc circled the poop and climbed the ladder to
the deck. He grinned at Hawkmoon. "Good work,
friend."

"We'll wait until dawn!" Hawkmoon called. "And
then you'll guide this ship to the shore. When that's
done, and we're free, perhaps I'll let your master live."

Ganak scowled. "You are a fool to handle Lord
Valjon thus. Know you not that he is the most powerful
river prince in Starvel."

"I know nothing of your Starvel, friend, but I have
dared the dangers of Granbretan, have ventured into
the Dark Empire's very heart, and I doubt if you can
offer dangers more sophisticated than theirs. Fear is an
emotion I rarely feel, Ganak. But mark you this—I
would be revenged on you. Your days are numbered."

Ganak laughed. "Your luck makes you stupid, slave!
Vengeance-taking will be the Lord Valjon's preroga-
tive!"

Dawn was already beginning to lighten the horizon.
Hawkmoon ignored Ganak's jibe.

It seemed a century before the sun finally rose and
began to dapple the distant trees of the riverbank. They
were anchored close to the left bank of the river, not
far from a small cove that could just be made out
about half a mile away.

"Give the order to row, Ganak!" Hawkmoon called.
"Make for the left shore."

Ganak scowled and made no effort to obey.

Hawkmoon's arm encircled Valjon's throat. The man
was beginning to blink awake. Hawkmoon tapped his
stomach with his sword. "Ganak! I could make Valjon
die slowly!"

Suddenly, from the throat of the pirate lord there

came a tiny, ironic chuckle. "Die slowly . . ." he said.
"Die slowly..."

Hawkmoon stared at him, puzzled. "Aye—I know
where best to strike to give you the maximum time and
maximum pain a-dying."

Valjon made no other sound, merely stood passive-
ly with his throat still gripped by Hawkmoon's arm.

"Now, Ganak! Give the instructions!" D'Averc
called.

Ganak took a deep breath. "Rowers!" he cried, and
began to issue orders. The oars creaked, the backs of
the oarsmen bent, and slowly the ship began to ride
toward the left bank of the wide Sayou River.

Hawkmoon watched Ganak closely, for fear the
man would attempt to trick them, but Ganak did not
move, merely scowled.

As the bank came closer and closer, Hawkmoon be-
gan to relax. They were almost free. On land they
could avoid any pursuit by the sailors who would, any-
way, be reluctant to leave their ship.

Then he heard D'Averc yell and point upward. He
stared up to see a figure come whizzing down a rope
above his head.

It was the boy Orindo, a hardwood club in his
hand, a wild grin on his lips.

Hawkmoon released Valjon and raised his arms to
protect himself, unable to do the obvious thing which
was to use his blade to strike Orindo as he descended.
The club fell heavily on his arm and he staggered
back. D'Averc rushed forward and grasped Orindo
round the waist, imprisoning his arms.

Valjon, suddenly swift-footed, darted down the com-
panionway screaming a strange, wordless scream.

D'Averc pushed Orindo after him with an oath.

"Taken by the same trick twice, Hawkmoon. We
deserve to die for that!"

Growling sailors led by Ganak were coming up the
companionway now. Hawkmoon struck out at Ganak,

but the bearded sailor blocked the blow, aiming a huge
swing at Hawkmoon's legs. Hawkmoon was forced to
leap back and then Ganak scuttled up to the poop and
faced him, a sneering grin on his lips.

"Now, slave, we'll see how you fight a man!" Ganak
said.

"I do not see a man," Hawkmoon replied. "Only
some kind of beast." He laughed as Ganak struck at
him again. He thrust swiftly with the marvellously
balanced sword he had taken from Valjon.

Back and forth across the deck they fought, while
D'Averc managed to hold the others at bay. Ganak was
a master swordsman, but his cutlass was no match for
the shining sword of the pirate lord.

Hawkmoon took him in the shoulder with a darting
thrust, reeled back as the cutlass collided with the hilt
of his blade, feeling the weapon almost fall from his
hand, recovered himself to thrust again and wound
Ganak in the left arm.

The bearded man howled like an animal and came
on with renewed ferocity.

Hawkmoon thrust again, this time piercing Ganak's
right arm. Blood drenched both brawny arms and
Hawkmoon was unwounded. Ganak flung himself at
Hawkmoon again, now in a kind of fierce panic.

Hawkmoon's next thrust was to the heart, to put
Ganak out of further misery. The point of the blade bit
through flesh, scraped against bone, and the life was
gone from Ganak.

But now the other sailors had forced D'Averc back
and he was surrounded, hacking about him with the
cutlass. Hawkmoon left the corpse of Ganak and leapt
forward, taking one in the throat and another under the
ribs before they were aware of his presence.

Back to back now, Hawkmoon and D'Averc held
off the sailors, but it seemed they must soon expire for
more were running to join their comrades.

Soon the poop was heaped with corpses and Hawk-

moon and D'Averc were covered with cuts from a
dozen blades, their bodies all bloody. Still they fought.
Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of the Lord Valjon stand-
ing by the mainmast watching from out of his deepset
eyes, staring fixedly at him as if he wished to have a
clear impression of his face for the rest of his life if
need be.

Hawkmoon shuddered, then returned his full atten-
tion to the attacking seamen. The flat of a cutlass
caught him a blow on the head and he reeled against
D'Averc, sending his friend off-balance. Together they
collapsed to the deck, struggled to rise up, still fight-
ing. Hawkmoon took one man in the stomach, struck
another's lowering face with his fist, heaved himself to
his knees.

Then suddenly the sailors stepped back, their eyes
fixed to port. Hawkmoon sprang up, D'Averc with him.

The sailors were watching in concern as a new ship
came swimming from the cove, its white, schooner-
rigged sails billowing with the fresh breeze from the
south, its rich black and deep blue paint, trimmed with
gold, all agleaming in the early morning sunshine, its
sides lined with armed men.

"A rival pirate, no doubt," D'Averc said, and used
his advantage to cut down the nearest sailor and run
for the rail of the poop. Hawkmoon followed his ex-
ample and, with backs pressed against the rail they
fought on, though half their enemies were running
down the companionway to present themselves to
Lord Valjon for his orders.

A voice called across the water, but it was too far
away for the words to be clear.

Somehow in the confusion, Hawkmoon heard Val-
jon's deep, world-weary voice speak a single word, a
word containing much loathing.

The word was "Bewchard!"

Then the sailors were upon them again and Hawk-
moon felt a cutlass nick his face, turned blazing eyes

on his attacker and thrust out his sword to catch him
through the mouth, driving the sharp blade upwards
for the brain, hearing the man scream a long, horrible
scream as he died.

Hawkmoon felt no mercy, yanked his sword back
and stabbed another in the heart.

And thus they fought, while the black and midnight
blue schooner sailed closer and closer.

For a moment, Hawkmoon wondered if the 'ship
would be friend or foe. Then there was no more time
for wondering as the vengeful sailors pressed in, their
heavy cutlasses rising and falling.

Chapter Five

PAHL BEWCHARD

As THE BLACK and blue ship crashed alongside,
Hawkmoon heard Valjon's voice calling.

"Forget the slaves! Forget them! Stand by to hold
off Bewchard's dogs!"

The remaining sailors backed warily away from the
panting Hawkmoon and D'Averc. Hawkmoon made a
thrust at them that sent them away faster, but he had
not the energy to pursue them for the moment.

They watched as sailors, all dressed in jerkins and
hose that matched the paint of the ship, came sailing
on ropes to land on the deck of the River Wind. They
were armed with heavy war-axes and sabres and fought
with a precision that the pirates could not imitate,
though they did their best to rally.

Hawkmoon looked for Lord Valjon, but he had dis-
appeared—probably below decks.

He turned to D'Averc. "Well, we've done our share
of blood-letting this day, my friend. What say you to a
less lethal action—we could free the poor wretches at
the oars!" And with that he leapt the poop rail to land
on the catwalk and lean down to slash the knotted
ropes binding the slaves to their oars.

They looked up in surprise, not realising, most of
them, what Hawkmoon and D'Averc were doing for
them.

"You're free," Hawkmoon told them.

"Free," D'Averc repeated. "Take our advice and
leave the ship while you can, for there's no knowing
how the battle will go."

The slaves stood up, stretching their aching limbs,
and then, one by one, they hauled themselves to the
side of the ship and began to slide into the water.

D'Averc watched them go with a grin.

"A shame we can't help those on the other side," he
said.

"Why not?" asked Hawkmoon indicating a hatch
let into the side under the catwalk. "If I'm not mis-
taken, this leads under the deck."

He put his back to the side of the ship and kicked at
the hatch. Several kicks and it sprang open. They
entered the darkness and crept under the boards, hear-
ing the sounds of fighting immediately above them.

D'Averc paused, slicing open a bundle with his
much-blunted blade. Jewels poured out of the bundle.
"Their loot," he said.

"No time for that now," Hawkmoon warned, but
D'Averc was grinning.

"I didn't plan to keep it," he told his friend, "but
I'd hate Valjon to escape with it if the fight goes well
for him. Look . . ." and he indicated a large circular
object set into the bottom of the hold. "If I'm not mis-
taken, this will let a little of the river into the ship!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "While you work on that, I'll
make haste to free the slaves."

He left D'Averc to his task and reached the far
hatch, stripping out the pegs holding it in position.

The hatch burst inwards, bringing two struggling
men with it. One wore the uniform of the attacking
ship, the other was a pirate. With a quick movement,
Hawkmoon despatched the pirate. The uniformed man
looked at him in surprise. "You're one of the men we
saw fighting on the poop deck!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "What's your ship?"

"It's Bewchard's ship," replied the man wiping his
forehead, he spoke as if the name were sufficient ex-
planation.

"And who is Bewchard?"

The uniformed man laughed. "Why, he's Valjon's
sworn enemy, if that's what you need to know. He
saw you fighting. He was impressed by your swords-
manship."

"So he should have been," grinned Hawkmoon, "for
I fought my best today. And why not? I was fighting
for my life!"

"That often makes excellent swordsmen of us all,"
agreed the man. "I'm Culard—and your friend if
you're Valjon's foe."

"Best warn your comrades, then," said Hawkmoon.
"We're sinking the ship—look." He pointed through the
dimness to where D'Averc was wrestling with the cir-
cular bung.

Culard nodded swiftly and ducked out into the slave
pit again. "I'll see you after this is over, friend," he
called as he left. "If we live!"

Hawkmoon followed him, creeping along the aisle to
cut the slaves' bonds.

Above him the men of Bewchard's ship seemed to
be driving Valjon's pirates back. Hawkmoon felt the
ship move suddenly, saw D'Averc come hastily out of
the hatch.

"I think we'd best make for the shore," said the
Frenchman with a smile, jerking his "thumb at the

slaves who were disappearing over the side. "Follow
our friends' example."

Hawkmoon nodded. "I've warned Bewchard's men of
what's happening. We've repaid Valjon now, I think."
He tucked Valjon's sword under his arm. "I'll try not
to lose this blade—it's the finest I've ever used. Such a
blade would make an outstanding swordsman of any-
one!"

He clambered up to the side and saw that Bewchard's
men had driven the pirate sailors back to the other
side of the ship but were now withdrawing.

Culard had evidently spread the news.

Water was bubbling through the hatch. The ship
would not last long afloat. Hawkmoon turned and
looked back. There was barely space between the ships
to swim. The best method of escape would be to cross
the deck of Bewchard's schooner.

He informed D'Averc of his plan. His friend nodded
and they poised themselves on the rail, leaping out to
land on the deck of the other ship.

There were no rowers present and Hawkmoon real-
ized that Bewchard's oarsmen must be free men, part
of the fighting complement of the ship. This, it
seemed to him, was a more sensible scheme—less waste-
ful than the use of slaves. It also gave him cause to
pause and, as he paused, a voice called from the River
Wind.

"Hey, my friend. You with the black gem in your
forehead. Have you plans for scuttling my ship, too?"

Hawkmoon turned and saw a good looking young
man, dressed all in black leather with a high-collared
bloodstained blue cloak thrown back from his shoul-
ders, a sword in one hand and an axe in the other,
raising his sword to him from the rail of the doomed
galley.

"We're on our way," called Hawkmoon. "Your ship's
safe from us ..."

"Stay a moment!" The black-clad man leapt up

and balanced himself on the River Wind's rail. "I'd
like to thank you for doing half our work for us."

Reluctantly Hawkmoon waited until the man had
leapt back to his own ship and approached them along
the deck.

"I'm Pahl Bewchard and the ship's mine," he said.
"I've waited many weeks to catch the River Wind—
might not have done so, had you not taken on the best
part of the crew and given me tune to sneak out of the
cove..."

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "Well, I want no further
part in a quarrel between pirates ..."

"You do me a disservice sir," Bewchard replied
easily. "For I'm sworn to rid the river of the Pirate
Lords of Starvel. I am their fiercest enemy."

Bewchard's men were swarming back into their own
ship, cutting loose the mooring ropes as they came.
The River Wind swung round in the current, her stern
now below the water-line. Some of the pirates leapt
overboard, but there was no sign of Valjon.

"Where did their leader escape to!" D'Averc asked,
studying the ship.

"He's like a rat," Bewchard answered. "Doubtless he
slipped away as soon as it was plain the day was lost
for him. You have helped me greatly, gentlemen, for
Valjon is the worst of the pirates. I am grateful."

And D'Averc, never at a loss where courtesy and his
own interests were concerned, replied, "And we are
grateful to you, Captain Bewchard—for arriving when
things were lost for us. The debt is settled." He smiled
pleasantly.

Bewchard inclined his head. "Thank you. However,
if I may make a somewhat direct statement, you seem
in need of something to aid your recovery. Both of you
are wounded, your clothes are plainly not what you, as
gentlemen, would normally choose to wear ... I mean,
in short, that I would be honoured if you would ac-

cept the hospitality of my ship's galley, such as it is,
and the hospitality of my mansion when we dock."

Hawkmoon frowned thoughtfully. He had taken a
liking to the young captain. "And where do you plan
to dock, sir?"

"In Narleen," replied Bewchard. "Where I live."

"We were, in fact, travelling to Narleen before we
were trapped by Valjon," Hawkmoon began.

"Then you must certainly travel with me. If I can be
of assistance ..."

"Thank you, Captain Bewchard," Hawkmoon said.
"We should appreciate your aid in reaching Narleen.
And perhaps on the way you would be able to supply
us with some information which we lack."

"Willingly." Bewchard gestured toward a door set
beneath the poop deck. "My cabin is this way, gentle-
men."

Chapter Six

NARLEEN

THROUGH THE PORTHOLES of Captain Bewchard's
cabin, they saw the spray fly as the ship flung itself
downriver under full sail.

"If we should meet a couple of pirates," Bewchard
told them, "we should have little chance. That is why
we make such speed."

The cook brought in the last of the dishes and laid
it before them. There were several kinds of meat, fish
and vegetables, fruit and wine. Hawkmoon ate as spar-
ingly as possible, unable to resist at least a sample of

everything on the table, but aware that his stomach
might not yet be ready for such rich food.

"This is a celebration meal," Bewchard told them
cheerfully, "for I have been hunting Valjon for months."

"Who is Valjon?" Hawkmoon asked between
munches. "He seems a strange individual."

"Unlike any pirate I ever imagined," D'Averc put
in.

"He is a pirate by tradition," Bewchard told them.
"His ancestors have always been pirates, preying on
the river traffic for centuries. For a long time the mer-
chants paid huge taxes to the Lords of Starvel, but
some years ago they began to resist and Valjon re-
taliated. Then a group of us decided to build fighting
ships, like the pirates', and attack them on the water.
I command such a ship. A merchant by trade, I have
turned to more military pursuits until Narleen is free
of Valjon and his like."

"And how are you faring?" asked Hawkmoon.

"It is hard to say. Valjon and the other Lords are
still impregnable in their walled city—Starvel is a city
within a city, within Narleen—and so far we have only
been able to curb their piracy a little. As yet there has
been no major test of strength for either side."

"You say Valjon is a pirate by tradition . . ."
D'Averc began.

"Aye, his ancestors came to Narleen many hundreds
of years ago. They were powerful and we were rela-
tively weak. Legend says that Valjon's ancestor, Batach
Gerandiun, had sorcery to aid him. They built the wall
around Starvel, the quarter of the city they took for
themselves, and have been there ever since."

"And how does Valjon answer you when you attack
his ships as we saw today?" Hawkmoon took a long
draft of wine.

"He retaliates with every possible means, but we are
beginning to make them warier of venturing onto the
river these days. There is still much to do. I would slay

Valjon if I could. That would break the power of the
whole pirate community, I am sure, but he always
escapes. He has an instinct for danger—is always able
to avoid it even before it threatens."

"I wish you luck in finding him," Hawkmoon said.
"Captain Bewchard, know you anything of a blade
called 'The Sword of the Dawn'—we were told that we
should find it in Narleen?"

Bewchard looked surprised. "Aye, I've heard of it.
It is connected with the legend I told you of—con-
cerning Valjon's ancestor Batach Gerandiun. Batach's
sorcerous power was said to be contained in the blade.
Batach has become a god since—the pirates have
deified him and worship him at their temple which is
named after him—the Temple of Batach Gerandiun.
They are a superstitious breed, those pirates. Their
minds and manners are often unfathomable to the prac-
tical merchant kind, like myself."

"And where is the blade?" D'Averc asked.

"Why, it is the sword the pirates worship in the
Temple. It represents their power to them, as well as
Batach's. Do you seek to make the blade your own,
then, gentlemen?"

"I do not . . ." began Hawkmoon, but D'Averc
interrupted smoothly.

"We do, captain. We have a relative—a very wise
scholar from the north—who heard of the blade and
wished to inspect it. He sent us here to see if it could
be bought..."

Bewchard laughed heartily. "It could be bought,
my friends,—with the blood of half a million fighting
men. The pirates would fight to the last man to defend
The Sword of the Dawn. They value it above all other
things."

Hawkmoon felt his spirits sink. Had the dying My-
gan sent them on an impossible quest?

"Ah,   well."   D'Averc    shrugged   philosophically.

"Then we must hope that you eventually defeat Valjon
and the others and put their property up for auction."

Bewchard smiled. "That day will not come in my life-
time. It will take many years before Valjon is finally
defeated." He rose from his table. "Excuse me for a few
moments, I must see how things are on deck."

He left the cabin with a brief, courteous bow.

When he had gone Hawkmoon frowned. "What now,
D'Averc? We are stranded in this strange land, unable
to get that which we sought." He took Mygan's rings
from his pouch and jingled them on the palm of his
hand. There were eleven there now, for he and D'Averc
had taken their own off. "We are lucky to have these
still. Perhaps we should use them—leap at random into
the dimensions in the hope of finding a way back to
our Kamarg?"

D'Averc snorted. "We might find ourselves suddenly
at King Huon's court, or in peril of our lives from some
monster. I say we go to Narleen and spend some time
there—see just how difficult it will be to obtain the
pirate sword." He took something from his own pouch.
"Until you spoke I had forgotten that I possessed this
little thing." He held it up. It was the charge from one
of the guns used in the city of Halapandur.

"And what significance has that, D'Averc?" Hawk-
moon asked.

"As I told you, Hawkmoon—it could prove useful
to us."

"Without a gun?"

"Without a gun," nodded D'Averc.

As the Frenchman replaced the charge in his pouch
Pahl Bewchard came back through the door. He was
smiling.

"Less than an hour, my friends—and we shall be
berthing in Narleen," he told them. "I think you will
like our city." Then he added with a grin: "At least,
that part which is not inhabited by the Pirate Lords."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc stood on the deck of Bew-
chard's ship and watched as it was skillfully brought
into harbor. The sun was hot in a clear, blue sky, mak-
ing the city shine. The buildings were for the most part
quite low, rarely more than four stories, but they were
richly decorated with rococo designs that seemed very
old. All the colours were muted, weathered, but none-
theless still clear. Much wood was used in the construc-
tion of the houses—pillars, balconies and frontages
were all of carved wood—but some had painted metal
railings and even doors.

The quayside was crowded with crates and bales
which were being loaded or unloaded onto the myriad
ships crowding the harbor. Men worked with derricks
to swing them into hatches or onto the quays, hauled
them along gangplanks, sweating in the heat of the day,
stripped to the waist.

Everywhere was noise and bustle which Bewchard
seemed to relish as he escorted Hawkmoon and
D'Averc down the gangplank of his schooner and
through the crowd which had begun to gather.

Bewchard was greeted on all sides.

"How did you fare, captain?"

"Did you find Valjon?"

"Have you lost many men?"

At last Bewchard paused, laughing good-humoured-

ly.

"Well, fellow citizens of Narleen," he shouted. "I
must tell you, I see, or you shall not let us pass. Aye,
we sank Valjon's ship ..."

There was a gasp from the crowd and then silence.
Bewchard sprang up onto a packing case and raised his
arms.

"We sank Valjon's ship, the River Wind—but it
would have likely escaped us altogether had it not
been for my two companions here."

D'Averc glanced at Hawkmoon in embarrassment.
The citizens stared at the two in surprise, as if unable

to believe that two such ragged starvelings could be
anything but lowly slaves.

"These two are your heroes, not I," Bewchard con-
tinued. "Single-handed they resisted the whole pirate
crew, killed Ganak, Valjon's lieutenant, and made the
ship easy prey to our attack. Then they scuttled the
River Wind!"

There was a great cheer now from the crowd.

"Know their names, citizens of Narleen. Remember
them as friends of this city and deny them nothing.
They are Dorian Hawkmoon of the Black Jewel and
Huillam D'Averc. You have not seen braver souls nor
finer swordsmen!"

Hawkmoon was genuinely embarrassed by all this
and frowned up at Bewchard, trying to signal that he
should stop.

"And what of Valjon?" called a member of the
crowd. "Is he dead?"

"He escaped us," Bewchard replied regretfully. "He
ran like a rat. But we shall have his head one day."

"Or he yours, Bewchard!" The speaker was a richly
dressed man who had pushed forward. "All you have
done is anger him! For years I paid my river taxes to
Valjon's men and they let me ply the river in peace.
Now you and your like say 'Pay no taxes' and I do not
—but I know no peace these days, cannot sleep with-
out fear of what Valjon will do. Valjon is bound to
retaliate. And it might not be only you on whom he
takes his vengeance! What of the rest of us—those who
want peace of mind and not glory? You endanger us
all!"

Bewchard laughed. "It was you, Veroneeg, if I'm not
mistaken, who first began to complain about the pi-
rates, said you could not stand the high levies they
demanded, supported us when we formed the league to
fight Valjon. Well, Veroneeg, we are fighting him, and
it is hard, but we shall win, never fear!"

The crowd cheered again, but this time the cheer was

a little more ragged and the people were beginning to
disperse.

"Valjon will take his vengeance, Bewchard," Vero-
neeg repeated. "Your days are numbered. There are
rumours that the Pirate Lords are gathering their
strength, that they have only been playing with us up
to now. They could raze Narleen if they wished!"

"Destroy the source of their livelihood! That would
be foolish of them!" Bewchard shrugged as if to dis-
miss the middle-aged merchant.

"Foolish, perhaps—as foolish as your actions,"
wheezed Veroneeg. "But make them hate us enough
and their hatred might cause them to forget that it is
we who feed them!"

Bewchard smiled and shook his head. "You should
retire, Veroneeg. The rigours of merchant life are too
much for you."

The crowd had almost completely vanished now and
there were looks of anxiety on many of the faces which
only lately had been cheering the heroes.

Bewchard jumped down from the box and put his
arms around his companions' shoulders. "Come, my
friends, let's listen no longer to poor old Veroneeg. He
would make any triumph sour with his gloomy prat-
tling. Let's to my mansion and see if we can find you
raiment more befitting gentlemen—then, tomorrow, we
can go about the city and buy new outfits for you
both!"

He led them through the teeming streets of Narleen,
streets that wound an apparently logic-less course, that
were narrow and smelling of a million mingled odors,
that were crowded with sailors and swordsmen and
merchants and quay workers, old women, pretty girls,
stallkeepers selling their wares and riders picking their
way among those on foot. He led them over the cob-
bles, up a steep hill and out into a square with one side
clear of houses. And there was the sea.

Bewchard paused for a moment to stare at the sea;
It sparkled in the sunlight.

D'Averc gestured toward it. "You trade beyond that
ocean?"

Bewchard unpinned his heavy cloak and threw it
over his arm. He opened the collar of his shirt and shook
his head, smiling. "Nobody knows what lies beyond
the sea—probably nothing. No, we trade along the
coast for about two or three hundred miles in each
direction. This area is thick with rich cities that did
not suffer too badly the effects of the Tragic Mil-
lenium."

"I see. And what do you call this continent? Is it, as
we suspect, Asiacommunista?"

Bewchard frowned. "I have not heard it called that,
though I'm no scholar. I have heard it called variously
'Yarshai', 'Amarehk' and 'Nishtay'." He shrugged. "I
am not even sure where it lies in relation to the
legendary continents said to exist elsewhere in the
world..."

"Amarehk!" Hawkmoon exclaimed. "But I had al-
ways thought it the legendary home of superhuman
creatures ..."

"And I had thought the Runestaff in Asiacommunis-
ta!" D'Averc laughed. "It does not do, friend Hawk-
moon, to place too much faith in legends! Perhaps,
after all, the Runestaff does not exist!"
Hawkmoon nodded. "Perhaps."
Bewchard was frowning. "The Runestaff—legends
—what do you speak of, gentlemen?"

"A point this scholar we mentioned made," D'Averc
said hastily. "It would be boring to explain."

Bewchard shrugged. "I hate to be bored, my friends,"
he said diplomatically, and led them on through the
streets.

They were now beyond the trading part of the city
and on a hill in which the houses were much richer
and less crowded together. High walls surrounded gar-

dens that could be seen to contain flowering trees and
fountains.

It was outside the gates of one such walled house that
Bewchard at last stopped.

"Welcome to my mansion, my good friends." He
rapped on the gate.

A covered grille was opened and eyes peered at
them. Then the gate was pulled wide and a servant
bowed to Bewchard. "Welcome home, master. Was the
voyage successful? Your sister awaits you."

"Very successful, Per! Aha—so Jeleana is here to
greet us. You will like Jeleana, my friends!"

Chapter Severn
                	THE BLAZE

JELEANA WAS BEAUTIFUL, a young, raven-haired
girl with a vivacious manner that instantly captivated
D'Averc. At dinner that night he fluted with her and
was delighted when she cheerfully responded.

Bewchard smiled to see them play so wittily, but
Hawkmoon found it hard to watch them, for he was
reminded painfully of his own Yisselda, his wife who
waited for him thousands of miles across the sea and
perhaps hundreds of years across tune (for he had no
way of knowing if the crystal rings had brought him
only through space).

Bewchard seemed to detect a melancholy look in
Hawkmoon's eye and sought to cheer him up with
jokes and anecdotes concerning some of his lighter and
more amusing encounters while fighting the pirates of
Starvel.

Hawkmoon responded bravely, but he still could not
rid his mind of thoughts of his beloved girl, Count
Brass's daughter, and how she fared.

Had Taragorm perfected his machines for travelling
through time? Had Meliadus found another means of
reaching Castle Brass?

The more the evening wore on, the less able Hawk-
moon was to continue a light conversation. At length
he rose and bowed politely. "I do apologise, Captain
Bewchard," he murmured, "but I am very weary. The
time spent in the galley—the fighting today ..."

Jeleana Bewchard and Huillam D'Averc did not
notice him rise, for they were engrossed with one an-
other.

Bewchard stood up quickly, a look of concern on his
handsome face. "Of course. I apologise, Master Hawk-
moon, for my thoughtlessness ..."

Hawkmoon smiled wanly. "You have not been
thoughtless, captain. Your hospitality is magnificent.
However..."

Bewchard's hand made a movement toward the bell
pull, but before he could summon a servant there
came a sudden banging on the door. "Enter!" Bewchard
commanded.

The servant who had admitted them to the garden
earlier that day stood panting in the doorway. "Cap-
tain Bewchard! There is a fire at the quayside—a ship
is burning."

"A ship? Which ship?"

"Your ship, captain—the one you came home in to-
day!"

Instantly Bewchard was making for the door, Hawk-
moon and D'Averc following rapidly behind him, Je-
leana behind them.

"A carriage, Per," he ordered. "Hurry, man!"

Within moments an enclosed carriage drawn by four
horses was brought round to the front of the house
and Bewchard climbed in, waiting impatiently for

Hawkmoon and D'Averc to join Mm. Jeleana tried to
enter, but he shook his head. "No, Jeleana. We do not
know what is happening on the quays. Wait here!"

Then they were off, bumping over the cobbles at an
alarming rate, making for the dockside.

The narrow streets were lit with torches stuck in
brackets attached to the sides of houses and the car-
riage flung a black shadow on the walls as it passed,
bumping and crashing through the streets.

At last the quayside was reached, illuminated by
more than torches, for in the harbour a schooner
blazed. Everywhere was confusion as masters of ves-
sels arrived to bully their men aboard their own craft
and move them away from Bewchard's schooner, for
fear that they, too, would be set afire.

Bewchard leapt from the carriage, closely followed
by Hawkmoon and D'Averc. He ran for the quayside,
elbowing his way through the crowd, but once by the
water he paused and hung his head.

"It's hopeless," he murmured in despair. "She's
gone. This could only have been Valjon's work . . ."

Veroneeg, his face sweating and red in the glare
from the burning ship, burst from the crowd. "You see,
Bewchard—Valjon is taking his vengeance! I warned
you!"

They turned at the sound of galloping hooves, saw a
rider rein in his horse close by. "Bewchard!" the man
cried. "Pahl Bewchard who claims to have sunk the
River Wind!"

Bewchard looked up. "I am Bewchard. Who are
you?"

The rider was clad in bizarre finery and in his left
hand he clutched a scroll which he brandished. "I am
Valjon's man—his messenger!" He threw the scroll
toward Bewchard who let it lie where it had fallen.

"What is it?" Bewchard said between gritted teeth.

"It is a bill, Bewchard. A bill for fifty men and forty
slaves, for a ship and all furnishings, plus twenty-five

thousand smaygars' worth of treasure. Valjon, too, can
play the merchant game!"

Bewchard glared at the messenger. The light from the
blazing ship sent shadows flickering across his face. He
spurned the scroll with his foot, kicking it into the
debris-filled water.

"You seek to frighten me with this melodrama, I
see!" he said firmly. "Well, tell Valjon I do not intend
to pay his bill and that I am not frightened. Tell him
—if he wishes to 'play the merchant game'—that he
and his greedy ancestors owe the people of Narleen con-
siderably more than the amount on his bill. I will con-
tinue to reclaim that debt."

The rider opened his mouth as if to speak, then
changed his mind, spat on the cobbles and wheeled
his horse about, galloping away into the darkness.

"He will kill you now, Bewchard," said Veroneeg
almost triumphantly. "He will kill you. I hope he real-
ises that not all of us are as foolish as you!"

"And I hope that we are not all as foolish as you,
Veroneeg," answered Bewchard contemptuously. "If
Valjon is threatening me, it means that I have suc-
ceeded—partially at least—in unnerving him!"

He stalked toward his carriage and stood aside while
Hawkmoon and D'Averc climbed in. Then he entered,
slammed the door and tapped with the hilt of his sword
on the roof, signalling the driver to return to the man-
sion.

"Are you sure that Valjon is as weak as you sug-
gest?" Hawkmoon asked hesitantly.

Bewchard smiled at him grimly.

"I am sure that he is stronger than I suggest—
stronger perhaps than Veroneeg thinks. My own opin-
ion is that Valjon is still somewhat surprised that we
have had the temerity to attack his ship as we did today,
that he has not yet marshalled all his resources. But it
would not do to tell Veroneeg that, would it, my
friend."

Hawkmoon looked at Bewchard admiringly. "You
have much courage, captain."

"Desperation, possibly, friend Hawkmoon."

Hawkmoon nodded. "I know what you mean I
think.".

The rest of the return journey was made in thought-
ful silence.

At the mansion the garden gate was open and they
drove straight into the drive. At the mam door, to the
house Jeleana awaited them pale-faced.

"Are you unharmed, Pahl?" she asked as he de-
scended from the carriage.

"Of course," replied Bewchard. "You seem unduly
frightened, Jeleana."

She turned and walked back into the house, back in-
to the dining room where their supper still lay on the
table.

"It—it was not the burning ship that made me thus,"
she told him trembling. She looked at her brother, then
at D'Averc, lastly at Hawkmoon. Her eyes were wide.
"We had a visitor while you were gone."

"A visitor? Who was it?" Bewchard asked, putting
his arm around her shaking shoulders.

"He—he came alone..." she began.

"And what is so remarkable about a visitor coming
alone? Where is he now?"

"It was Valjon, Pahl—Lord Valjon of Starvel him-
self. He . .." she put her hand to her face. "He stroked
my face—he looked at me from those bleak, inhuman
eyes of his, he spoke in that voice ..."

"And what did he say?" Hawkmoon asked sudden-
ly, his tone grim. "What did he say, Lady Jeleana?"

Again her eyes went from one to the other, to re-
turn to Hawkmoon.

"He said that he is merely playing with Pahl, that he
is too proud to spend all his time and strength in
pursuing a vendetta against him, that, unless Pahl pro-
claims in the city square tomorrow that he will cease

bothering the Pirate Lords, Pahl will be punished in a
way that will be suitable to his particular misdemeanor.
He said that he expects to hear that the proclamation
has been made by midday tomorrow."

Bewchard frowned. "He came here, to my own house,
to display his contempt for me, I suppose. The burning
of the ship was just a demonstration—and a diversion
to get me to the quayside. He spoke to you, Jeleana, to
show that he can reach my nearest and most beloved
whenever he chooses." Bewchard sighed. "There is no
question now that he not only threatens my life, but
the lives of those close to me. It is a trick that I should
have expected—did half-expect, yet..."

He looked up at Hawkmoon, his eyes suddenly tired.

"Perhaps I have been a fool, after all, Master Hawk-
moon. Perhaps Veroneeg was right. I cannot fight
Valjon—not while he fights from the security of
Starvel. I have no weapons such as those he employs
against me!"

"I cannot advise you," said Hawkmoon quietly. "But
I can offer you my services—and D'Averc's here—in
your struggle, should you wish to continue it."

Bewchard looked directly into Hawkmoon's face then
and he laughed, straightening his shoulders.

"You do not advise me, Dorian Hawkmoon of the
Black Jewel, but you do indicate to me what I should
think of myself if I refused the aid of two such swords-
men as yourself. Aye—I'll fight on. Indeed, tomorrow
I shall spend relaxing, ignoring Valjon's warning. You,
Jeleana, I will have guarded here. I will send for our
father and ask him to bring his guards to protect you.
Hawkmoon, D'Averc and myself—why—we'll shop
tomorrow." He indicated the borrowed clothes that the
two men wore. "I promised you new suits—and a good
sheath, I think, Master Hawkmoon, for your borrowed
sword—Valjon's sword. We will be casual tomorrow.
We will show Valjon—and, more important, the people

of this city—that we are not frightened by Valjon's
threats."

D'Averc nodded soberly. "It is the only way, I think,
if the spirit of your fellow citizens is not to be de-
stroyed," he said. "Then, even if you die, you die a
hero—and inspire those who follow you."

"I hope I do not die," Bewchard smiled, "for I
have a great love for life. Still, we shall see, my
friends."

Chapter Eight
THE WALLS OF STARVEL

NEXT DAY DAWNED as hot as the previous day
and Pahl Bewchard sauntered out with his friends.

As they moved through the streets of Narleen, it was
plain that many already knew of Valjon's ultimatum
and were wondering what Bewchard would do.

Bewchard did nothing. Nothing but smile at all he
met, kiss the hands of a few ladies, greet a couple of
acquaintances, leading Hawkmoon and D'Averc toward
the centre of the town where he had recommended a
good outfitter.

That the outfitter's shop was barely a stone's throw
from the walls of Starvel suited Bewchard's purpose.

"After midday," he said, "we shall visit the out-
fitter's. But before then we will take lunch at a tavern
I can vouch for. It lies close to the central square and
many of our leading citizens drink there. We shall be
seen to be relaxed and untroubled. We will talk of
small things and not mention Valjon's threats at all, no

matter how many efforts are made to bring the subject
up."

"You are asking a great deal, Captain Bewchard,"
D'Averc pointed out.

"Perhaps," Bewchard answered, "but I have a feel-
ing that much hangs on this day's events—more than
I understand at this moment. I am gambling on those
events—for it could be that the day could mean victory
or defeat for me."

Hawkmoon nodded but made no comment. He too,
sensed something in the air and could not question
Bewchard's instinct.

The tavern was visited, food eaten, wine drunk, and
they pretended not to notice that they were the centre
of attention, cleverly avoiding all attempts to quiz
them on what they intended to do about Valjon's ulti-
matum.

The hour of noon came and went and Bewchard sat
and chatted with his friends for a further hour before
rising, putting down his wine cup and saying, "Now,
gentlemen, this outfitter I mentioned ..."

The streets were unusually lacking in crowds as
they walked casually through them, getting closer and
closer to the middle of the city. But there were many
curtains that moved as they passed, many faces seen at
windows, and Bewchard grinned, as if relishing the sit-
uation.

"We are the only actors on the stage today, my
friends," he said. "We must play our parts well."

Then at last Hawkmoon saw his first glimpse of the
walls of Starvel. They rose above the rooftops, white
and proud and enigmatic, seemingly without gates.

"There are a few small gates," Bewchard told Hawk-
moon, "but they are rarely used. Instead they have
huge underground waterways and docks. These, of
course, lead directly to the river."

Bewchard led them into a sidestreet and indicated a

sign about halfway down. "There, my friends—there's
our outfitter."

They entered the shop crammed with bales of cloth,
with heaps of cloaks and jerkins and britches, swords
and daggers of all description, fine harness, helmets,
hats, boots, belts and everything else that a man could
possibly want to wear. The owner of the shop was
serving another customer as they entered. The owner
was a middle-aged man, well-built and genial, with
a red face and pure white hair. He smiled at Bewchard
and the customer turned—a youth whose eyes widened
when he saw the three standing in the doorway of the
shop. The youth muttered something and made to
leave.

"You do not want the sword, master?" the outfitter
asked in surprise. "I would drop my price by half a
smaygar, but not more."

"Another time, Pyahr, another time," answered
the youth hurriedly, bowed swiftly to Bewchard and
left the shop.

"Who was that?" asked Hawkmoon with a smile.

"Veroneeg's son, if I remember right," Bewchard re-
plied. He laughed. "He has inherited his father's
cowardice!"

Pyahr came up. "Good afternoon, Captain Bewchard.
I had not expected to see you here today. You did
not make the announcement?"

"No, Pyahr, I did not."

Pyahr smiled. "I had a feeling you wouldn't, cap-
tain. However, you are in considerable danger now.
Valjon will have to pursue the matter, will he not?"

"He will have to try, Pyahr."

"He will try soon, captain. He will waste no tune.
Are you sure it is wise to come so close to the walls
of Starvel?"

"I have to show that I am not afraid of Valjon,"
Bewchard answered. "Besides, why should I change my
plans for him? I promised my friends here that they

could choose clothing from the finest outfitter in Nar-
leen and I am not a man to forget a promise like
that!"

Pyahr smiled and made a dismissive gesture with
his hand. "I wish you luck, captain. Now, gentleman,
what do you see that you like?"

Hawkmoon picked up a cloak of rich scarlet, finger-
ing its golden clasp. "I see much that I like. You have
a fine shop, Master Pyahr."

While Bewchard chatted with the shopkeeper, Hawk-
moon and D'Averc wandered slowly around the shop,
picking out a shirt here and a pair of boots there.
Two hours passed before they had finally made up
their minds.

"Why do you not go into my dressing rooms and
try on the clothes?" Pyahr suggested. "I think you have
chosen well, gentlemen."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc retired into the dressing
rooms. Hawkmoon had a shirt of silk in a deep laven-
der shade, a jerkin of soft, light-colored brushed leath-
er, a scarf of purple and fine, flaring britches that were
also of silk and a purple that matched the scarf, which
he knotted about his neck. These britches he tucked
into boots of the same leather as the jerkin, which he
left unbuttoned. He drew a wide leather belt about his
waist and then clasped a cloak of deep blue over his
shoulders.

D'Averc had taken for himself a scarlet shut and
matching britches, a jerkin of shining black leather
and boots that were also of black leather and reached
almost to his knees. Over this he drew a cloak of stiff
silk, colored deep purple. He was reaching for his sword
belt when there came a shout from the shop.

Hawkmoon parted the curtains of the dressing
room.

The shop was suddenly full of men—evidently pi-
rates from Starvel. They had surrounded Bewchard
who had not had time to draw his sword.

Hawkmoon wheeled and picked up his sword from
the pile of discarded clothing, rushing into the shop to
collide with Pyahr who was staggering back, blood
pumping from his throat.

Even now the pirates were backing out of the shop
and Bewchard could not even be seen.

Hawkmoon stabbed a pirate directly in the heart,
defended himself from another's thrust.

"Do not try to fight us," snarled the pirate who had
tried to stab him, "we want only Bewchard!"

"Then you must kill us before you take him," cried
D'Averc who had joined Hawkmoon.

"Bewchard goes to find his punishment for insulting
our Lord Valjon," the pirate told him and slashed at
him.

D'Averc leapt back, bringing his sword up in a
flickering movement that knocked the pirate's blade
from his hand. The man snarled, hurling the dagger
that was in his other hand, but D'Averc deflected this,
also, thrusting out to take the man in the throat.

Now half the pirates had detached themselves from
their fellows and advanced on Hawkmoon and D'Averc
who were pressed backward into the shop.

"They're escaping with Bewchard," Hawkmoon said
desperately. "We must aid him."

He thrust savagely at his attackers, trying to cut his
way through them to go to Bewchard's assistance, but
then he heard D'Averc yell from behind him.

"More of them—coming through the back exit!"

That was the last he heard before he felt a sword
hilt slam against the base of his skull and he fell for-
ward onto a heap of shirts.

He awoke feeling smothered and rolled over onto his
back. It was getting dark inside the shop and it was
strangely silent now.

He staggered up, his sword still in his hand. The first

thing he saw was Pyahr's corpse sprawled near the cur-
tains of the dressing room.

The second thing he saw was what seemed to be
D'Averc's corpse lying stretched across the bale of
orange cloth, blood covering most of his features.

Hawkmoon went to his friend, put his hand inside
his jerkin and with relief heard his heart beating. Like
him, it seemed, D'Averc had only been stunned. Doubt-
less the pirates had left them behind intentionally, want-
ing someone to tell the citizens of Narleen what befell
those who, like Pahl Bewchard, offended the Lord Val-
jon.

Hawkmoon stumbled to the back of the shop and
found a pitcher of water. He carried it back to where
his friend lay and put the pitcher to D'Averc's lips,
then he tore off a strip from the bale of cloth and
bathed the face. The blood had come from a broad but
shallow cut across the temple.

D'Averc began to stir, opened his eyes and looked
directly into Hawkmoon's.

"Bewchard," he said. "We must rescue him, Hawk-
moon."

Hawkmoon nodded bleakly. "Aye. But he is in Star-
vel by now."

"No one knows that but us," D'Averc said rising
stiffly to a sitting position. "If we could rescue him
and bring him back, then tell the city the story, think
what that would do for the citizens' morale."

"Very well," said Hawkmoon. "We shall pay a visit
to Starvel—and pray that Bewchard still lives." He
sheathed his sword. "We must climb those walls some-
how, D'Averc. We shall need equipment."

"Doubtless we'll find all we want in this shop,"
D'Averc replied. "Come, let us move swiftly. It is
already nightfall."

Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel set in his fore-
head. His thoughts went again to Yisselda, to Count
Brass, Oladahn and Bowgentle, wondering about their

fate. His whole impulse was to forget about Bewchard,
forget about Mygan's instructions, the legendary Sword
of the Dawn and the equally legendary Runestaff, to
steal one of the ships from the harbour and set off
across the sea to try to find his beloved. But then he
sighed and straightened his back. They could not leave
Bewchard to his fate. They must try to rescue him or
die.

He thought of the walls of Starvel that lay so close.
Perhaps no one had tried to scale them before, for
they were very steep and doubtless well-guarded. Per-
haps it could be done, however. They would have to
try.

Chapter Nine

THE TEMPLE OF
BATACH GERANDIUN

EACH WITH MORE than a score of daggers stuck
in their belts, Hawkmoon and D'Averc began to scale
the walls of Starvel.

Hawkmoon went first, wrapping cloth around the
hilt of a dagger and then searching for a crack in the
stone into which to insert the point, tap it gently into
place, praying that no one above would hear him
and that the dagger would hold.

Slowly they ascended the wall, testing the daggers as
they went. Once Hawkmoon felt a blade begin to give
beneath his foot, clung to the dagger he had just in-
serted above his head as he felt that too begin to work
loose. A hundred feet below was the street. Desperate-

ly he took another dagger from his belt and hunted for
a crack in the stone, found one and plunged the blade
in. It held, while the dagger supporting his foot fell
away. He heard a thin clatter as it landed in the
street. Now he hung, unable to move up or down, as
D'Averc tried to insert another dagger into the crack.
At last he succeeded and Hawkmoon breathed with
relief. They were near the top of the wall now. Only a
few more feet to go—and no idea what awaited either
on the wall or beyond it.

Perhaps their efforts were useless? Perhaps Bewchard
was already dead? There was no point in thinking such
thoughts now.

Hawkmoon went even more cautiously as he reached
the top. He heard a footfall above him and knew that
a guard was passing. He paused in his work. Only one
more dagger and he would be able to gain the top of
the wall. He glanced down, saw D'Averc's face grim in
the moonlight. The footfalls died away and he con-
tinued tapping in the dagger.

Then, just as he was heaving himself upwards the
footsteps came back, moving much more rapidly than
before. Hawkmoon looked up—directly into the face
of a startled pirate.

Instantly Hawkmoon risked everything, sprang for
the top of the wall, grasped it as the man drew his
blade, flung himself upwards and struck with all his
might at the man's legs.

The pirate gasped, tried to regain his balance, and
then fell soundlessly.

Breathing rapidly, Hawkmoon reached down and
helped D'Averc to the top of the wall. Running along
it now came two more guards.

Hawkmoon rose, drew his sword and prepared to
meet them.

Metal clashed on metal as D'Averc and Hawkmoon
engaged the two pirates. The exchange was short, for
the two companions had little time to waste and were

desperate. Almost as one their blades struck for the
hearts of the pirate guards, sank into flesh and were
withdrawn. Almost as one the guards collapsed and
lay still.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc glanced up and down the
length of the wall. It seemed that they had not yet been
detected by others. Hawkmoon pointed to a stairway
leading down to the ground. D'Averc nodded and they
made their way toward it, descending softly and as
rapidly as they dared, hoping no one would come up.

It was dark and quiet below. It seemed a city of the
dead. Far away, in the center of Starvel, a beacon
gleamed, but—elsewhere all was in darkness, save for
a little light that escaped from the shutters of windows
or through cracks in doors.

As they drew nearer to the ground they heard a few
sounds from the houses—of coarse laughter and roister-
ing. Once a door opened showing a crowded, drunken
scene inside, and a pirate staggered drunkenly out curs-
ing something, falling flat on his face on the cobbles.
The door closed, the pirate did not stir.

The buildings of Starvel were simpler than those be-
yond the wall. They did not have the rich decoration of
Narleen and, if Hawkmoon had not known better, he
would have thought that Starvel was the poorer city.
But Bewchard had told him that the pirates only dis-
played their wealth on their ships, their backs and in
the mysterious Temple of Batach Gerandiun where the
Sword of the Dawn was said to hang.

They crept into the streets, swords ready. Even as-
suming Bewchard was still alive, they had no idea
where he was being held prisoner, but something drew
them towards the beacon in the center of the city.

Then, when they were quite close to the light, the
sonorous boom of a drum suddenly filled the air, echo-
ing through the dark, empty streets. Then they heard
the tramp of feet, the clatter of horses' hooves nearby.

"What's that?" hissed D'Averc. He peered cautiously

around a building and then rapidly withdrew his head.
"They're coming towards us," he said. "Get back!"

Torchlight began to flicker and huge shadows swam
into the street ahead of them. Hawkmoon and D'Averc
backed away into the darkness, watching as a proces-
sion began to file past.

It was led by Valjon himself, his pale face stark and
rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead of him as he rode
a black horse through the streets towards the place
where the beacon burned. Behind him were drummers,
beating out a slow, monotonous rhythm, and behind
them another group of armed horsemen, all richly clad.
These must be the other Lords of Starvel. Their faces,
too, were set and they sat in their saddles as stiffly as
statues. But it was that which came behind these pirate
lords which caught the watchers' main attention.

It was Bewchard.

His arms and legs were stretched out on a great
frame of whalebone fixed upright upon a wheeled plat-
form drawn by six horses led by liveried pirates. He
was pale and his naked body was covered in sweat. He
was evidently in great pain, but his lips were pressed
grimly together. On his torso strange symbols had been
painted and there were similar markings on his cheeks.
His muscles strained as he struggled to free himself
from the cords biting into his ankles and wrists; but he
was securely bound.

As D'Averc made a movement to spring forward
Hawkmoon restrained him. "No," he whispered. "Fol-
low them. We might have a better chance to save him
later."

They let the rest of the procession pass and then
crept after it. It moved slowly on until it entered a wide
square lit by a great beacon glowing over the doorway
of a tall building of strange, asymmetrical architecture
which seemed to have been formed naturally out of
some glassy, volcanic stuff. It was an ominous con-
struction.

"The Temple of Batach Gerandiun without ques-
tion," Hawkmoon murmured. "I wonder why they take
him there?"

"Let us find out," D'Averc said as the procession
filed into the temple.

Together, they darted across the square and
crouched in the shadows near the door. It was half-
open. Apparently no attempt had been made to guard
it. Perhaps the pirates believed that no one would dare
enter such a place unless it was their right.

Looking about him to see if they were observed,
Hawkmoon crept toward the door and pushed it slowly
open. He was in a dark passage. From round a corner
came a reddish glow and the sound of chanting. D'Averc
close behind him, Hawkmoon began to move down the
corridor.

Hawkmoon paused before he reached the corner. A
strange smell was in his nostrils, a disgusting smell
that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. He shuddered
and took a step back. D'Averc's face wrinkled in nau-
sea. "Ugh—what is it?"

Hawkmoon shook his head. "Something about it—
the smell of blood, perhaps. Yet not just blood . . ."

D'Averc's eyes were wide as he looked at Hawk-
moon. It seemed that he was about to suggest that they
go no further; then he squared his shoulders and took a
stronger grip on his sword. He pulled off the scarf
around his throat and pressed it to nose and lips in an
ostentatious gesture reminding Hawkmoon much more
of D'Averc's normal self, and making him grin, but
he followed D'Averc's action and unwound his own
scarf and placed it to his face.

Then they moved forward again, turning the corner
of the passage.

The light grew brighter, a rosy radiance not unlike
the color of fresh blood. It emanated from a doorway at
the far end of the corridor, seeming to pulse to the
rhythm of the chanting which now grew louder and

held a note of terrible menace. The stench, too, grew
worse as they advanced.

Once a figure crossed the space from which the
pulsing radiance poured. Hawkmoon and D'Averc
stood stock still but were unseen. The silhouette van-
ished and they continued to advance.

Just as the stench assailed their nostrils, so the chant-
ing began to offend their ears. There was something
weirdly off-key about it, something that grated on their
nerves. With their eyes half-blinded by the rosy light,
it seemed that all their senses were under attack at
once. But still they pressed on until they stood only a
foot or two from the entrance.

They stared and they shuddered.

The hall was roughly circular, but with a roof whose
height varied enormously. In this it resembled the out-
ward appearance of the building, seeming to be less
artificial than organic, rising and falling in a purely
arbitrary way as far as Hawkmoon could tell. All the
glassy walls reflected the rosy radiance so that the
whole scene was stained red.

The light came from a place high in the roof and it
drew Hawkmoon's wincing gaze upward.

He recognised it immediately, recognised the thing
hanging there, dominating the hall. It was without
doubt the thing that, with his dying breath, Mygan had
sent him here to find.

"The Sword of the Dawn," whispered D'Averc. "The
foul thing can have no part in our destinies, surely!"

Hawkmoon's face was grim. He shrugged. "That is
not what we are here to take. He is what we have
come for ..." and he pointed.

Below the sword were stretched a dozen figures, all
on the whalebone frames, arranged in a semi-circle.
Not all the men and women on the frames were alive,
but most were dying.

D'Averc turned his face away from the sight but

then, his expression one of purest horror, forced him-
self to look back again.

"By the Runestaff!" he gasped. "It's barbaric!"

Veins had been cut in the naked bodies and from
those veins the lifeblood pumped slowly.

The wretched on the bone frames were being bled to
death. Those who lived had faces twisted in anguish
and their struggles weakened gradually as their blood
dripped, dripped into the pit below them, a pit that had
been carved from the obsidian rock.

It was a pit, too, in which things moved, rising to the
surface to lap at the fresh blood as it fell, then darting
down again. Dark shapes moving in the deep pool of
blood.

How deep was the pool? How many thousands had
died to fill it? What peculiar properties did the pool
contain so that the blood did not congeal?

Around the pool were clustered the Pirate Lords of
Starvel, chanting and swaying, their faces lifted up to
the Sword of the Dawn. Immediately below the sword,
his body straining on the frame, Bewchard hung.

There was a knife in Valjon's hand and there could
be no doubting the use he intended to make of it. Bew-
chard stared down at him with loathing and said some-
thing Hawkmoon could not hear. The knife glistened
as if already wet with blood, the chanting grew louder
and Valjon's hollow tones could be heard through it.

"Sword of the Dawn, in which the spirit of our god
and ancestor dwells; Sword of the Dawn, which made
Batach Gerandiun invincible and won us all we have;
Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead come alive,
causes the living to remain living, which draws its light
from the lifeblood of Men; Sword of the Dawn, ac-
cept this, our latest sacrifice, and continue to know that
you shall be worshipped for all time while you stay in
the Temple of Batach Gerandiun; then Starvel shall
never fall! Take this thing, this enemy of ours, this up-

start, take this Pahl Bewchard of that coarse caste who
call themselves merchants!"

Bewchard spoke again, his lips writhing, but his voice
could not be heard above the hysterical chanting of the
other Pirate Lords.

The knife began to move toward Bewchard's body
and Hawkmoon could not restrain himself. The battle-
cry of his ancestors came automatically to his lips and
he screamed the wild bird-cry and voiced the words:

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

And he dashed forward at the gathered ghouls, at the
noisome pit and its terrible denizens, the frames on
which the dead and dying were stretched below the
shining, awesome sword.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

The Pirate Lords turned, their chanting over. Val-
jon's eyes widened in rage and he cast back his robe to
reveal a sword that was the twin to the one Hawkmoon
carried. He cast the knife into the pit of blood and drew
his blade.

"Fool! It is a truth that no stranger who enters
Batach's temple ever leaves until his body is drained
of its blood!"

"It is your body will bleed tonight, Valjon!" cried
Hawkmoon, and he struck at his enemy. But suddenly
there were twenty men blocking his way to Valjon,
twenty blades against his one.

He lashed at them in fury, his throat clogged with the
dreadful stench, his eyes dazzled by the light from the
sword, catching glimpses of Bewchard struggling in
his bonds. He stabbed and a man died, he slashed and
another staggered back into the pit to be dragged down
by whatever dwelt there, he hacked and another pi-
rate lost a hand. D'Averc, too, did well and they held
the pirates at bay.

For a while it seemed their fury would carry them
through all the pirates to Bewchard and save him.
Hawkmoon hacked his way into the group and man-

aged to reach the edge of the terrible bloodfilled pit,
tried to cut Bewchard's bonds while he fought off the
pirates at the same time. But then his foot slipped on
the edge of the pool and he sank into it up to his ankle.
He felt something touch his foot, something sinuous and
disgusting, withdrew as fast as he could and found his
arms clutched by pirates.

He flung back his head and called: "I am sorry,
Bewchard—I was impetuous—but there was no time,
no time!"

"You should not have followed me!" Bewchard cried
in misery. "Now you, too, shall suffer my fate and feed
the monsters of the pit! Oh, you should not have fol-
lowed me, Hawkmoon!"

Chapter Ten

A FRIEND FROM
THE SHADOWS

"I AM AFRAID, friend Bewchard, that your gener-
osity was wasted on us!"

Even in this predicament D'Averc could not resist
the irony.

He and Hawkmoon were spread-eagled on either side
of Bewchard. Two of the dead sacrificial victims had
been cut down and they had replaced them. Below the
black things rose and dived restlessly in the pool of
blood. Above the light from the Sword of the Dawn
cast a red glow throughout the hall, cast a glow upon
the upturned, expectant faces of the Pirate Lords,
upon Valjon's face as his brooding eyes stared with a

kind of triumph at their stripped bodies which, like
Bewchard's, had been daubed with peculiar symbols.

There were strange plopping noises below as the
creatures in the pit swam about in the blood, waiting,
no doubt, for the fresh blood to fall into their pool.
Hawkmoon shuddered and barely restrained himself
from vomiting. His head ached and his limbs felt weak
and incredibly painful. He thought of Yisselda, of his
home and his efforts to wage war on the Dark Empire.
Now he would never see his wife again, never breathe
the air of the Kamarg, never aid in the downfall of
Granbretan, should that time ever come. And he had
lost all that in a vain effort to save a stranger, a man he
hardly knew, whose fight was remote and unimportant
compared with the fight against the Dark Empire.

Now it was too late to consider those things, for he
was going to die. He would die in a terrible way, bled
like a pig, feeling his strength ebbing from him with
every pulse of his heart.

Valjon smiled.

"You do not call out a bold battle-cry now, my slave
friend. You seem silent. Have you nothing to ask me?
Would you not beg for your life—beg to be made my
slave again? Would you not apologise for sinking my
ship, for killing my men, for insulting me?"

Hawkmoon spat at him.

Valjon gave a slight shrug. "I wait for a new knife.
When that is brought and properly blessed, then I
shall slit your veins here and there, making sure that
you die very slowly, that you will be able to see your
blood feeding the ones below. Your bloodless corpses
will be sent to the Mayor of Narleen—Bewchard's
uncle if I'm not mistaken—as evidence that we of Star-
vel do not expect to be disobeyed."

A pirate came through the hall and kneeled at Val-
jon's feet, offering him a long, sharp knife. Valjon ac-
cepted it and the pirate backed away.

Valjon now murmured words over the knife, looking

often up at the Sword of the Dawn, then he took the
knife in his right hand and raised it until its tip was al-
most touching Hawkmoon's groin.

"Now we shall begin again," said Valjon, and slowly
he started to chant the litany Hawkmoon had heard
earlier.

Hawkmoon tasted bile in his mouth as he tried to
break free of the cords that bound him. The words
droned on, the chanting rose in volume and in hysteri-
cal pitch,

". . . Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead
come alive, causes the living to remain living ..."

The tip of the knife stroked Hawkmoon's thigh.

". . . which draws its light from the lifeblood of
Men..."

Absently, Hawkmoon wondered if, indeed, the rosy
sword did derive its light, in some peculiar way, from
blood. The knife touched his knee and he shuddered
again, cursing at Valjon, struggling wildly in the bonds.

". . . know that you shall be worshipped for all
time...".

Suddenly Valjon paused in his chanting and gasped,
looking beyond Hawkmoon to a spot above his head.
Hawkmoon craned his neck back and gasped, too.

The Sword of the Dawn was descending from the
roof!

It came slowly and then Hawkmoon could see that
it hung in a land of web of metallic ropes—and there
was something else in the web, now—the figure of a
man.

The man wore a long helmet that hid all his face. His
armour and trappings were all black and golden and at
his side he bore a huge broadsword.

Hawkmoon could not believe it. He recognised the
man—if man it was.

"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" he cried.

"At your service," said a sardonic voice from within
the helm.

Valjon snarled with rage and flung the knife at the
Warrior in Jet and Gold. It clattered on his armour and
fell into the pool.

The Warrior hung by one gauntleted hand to the
pommel of the Sword of the Dawn and carefully cut
at the thongs holding Hawkmoon's wrists.

"You—you desecrate our most holy object," Valjon
said unbelievingly. "Why are you not punished? Our
god, Batach Gerandiun, will have his vengeance. The
sword is his, it contains his spirit."

"I know better," said the Warrior. "The sword is
Hawkmoon's. The Runestaff saw fit, once, to use your
ancestor Batach Gerandiun for its purposes, giving him
power over this rosy blade, but now you have lost the
power and Hawkmoon here has it!"

"I do not understand you?" Valjon said baffled.
"And who are you? Where do you come from? Are
you—could you be—Batach Gerandiun?"

"I could be," murmured the Warrior. "I could be
many things, many men."

Hawkmoon prayed that the Warrior would be fin-
ished in time. Valjon would not remain so dazed for-
ever. He clung to the frame as his wrists came free, took
the knife the Warrior handed him, began gingerly to
cut at the thongs binding his ankles.

Valjon shook his head.

"This is impossible. A nightmare." He turned to his
fellow pirates. "Do you see it, too—the man who hangs
from our sword?"

They nodded dumbly. One of them began to run
back towards the entrance of the hall. "I'll fetch men.
Men to aid us..."

Hawkmoon sprang then—sprang for the nearest pi-
rate lord and grasped him by the throat. The man cried
out, tried to wrench Hawkmoon's hands away, but
Hawkmoon bent back his head until the neck snapped,
swiftly drew the sword from the corpse's scabbard and
let the body drop.

There he stood, naked in the glow from the great
sword, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold cut at the
bonds of his friends.

Valjon backed away, his eyes disbelieving. "It can-
not be. It cannot be..."

Now D'Averc swung down to stand beside Hawk-
moon, then Bewchard joined him. Both were unarmed
and naked.

Nonplussed by their leader's indecision, the other pi-
rates made no move. Behind the naked trio, the War-
rior in Jet and Gold swung on the great sword, drag-
ging it nearer to the floor.

Valjon screamed and grabbed for the blade, wrench-
ing it from its web of metal. "It is mine! It is mine by
right!"

The Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head. "It is
Hawkmoon's by right!"

Valjon clutched the sword to him. "He shall not have
it! Destroy them!"

Now men were rushing into the hall, bearing brands,
and the pirate lords drew their swords, began to ad-
vance on the four who stood by the pool. The Warrior
in Jet and Gold drew his own great blade and swept it
before him like a scythe, driving the pirates back, kill-
ing several.

"Take up their swords," he told Bewchard and
D'Averc. "Now we must fight."

Bewchard and D'Averc did as the Warrior instructed
and, following behind him, pushed forward.

But now it seemed that a thousand men filled the
hall. They had gleaming eyes which lusted for their
lives.

"You must take that sword from Valjon, Hawk-
moon," shouted the Warrior above the din of battle.
"Take it—or we shall all perish!"

Again they were pressed back to the edge of the
bloody pit and behind them there came a slobbering

sound. Hawkmoon darted a look into the pit and cried
out in horror. "They are rising from the pool!"

And now the creatures swam toward the edge and
Hawkmoon saw that they were like the tentacled crea-
ture they had encountered in the forest, but smaller.
Evidently they were of the same breed, brought here
centuries before by Valjon's ancestors, gradually adapt-
ing from an environment of water to an environment of
human blood!

He felt a tentacle touch his naked flesh and he shud-
dered in cold terror. The peril at his back gave him
extra strength and he drove with all his might at the
pirates, seeking out Valjon who stood nearby, clutching
at the Sword of the Dawn which engulfed him in its
weird, red radiance.

Seeing his danger, Valjon moved his hand to the hilt
of the sword, called out something and waited expec-
tantly. But what he expected to happen did not occur
and he gasped, running at Hawkmoon with the sword
raised high.

Hawkmoon sidestepped, blocked the blow and stag-
gered, half-blinded by the light. Valjon screamed and
swung the rosy sword again. Hawkmoon ducked be-
neath the swing and brought his own blade in, catch-
ing Valjon in the shoulder. With a great, bewildered
cry Valjon struck again and again his blow was avoided
by the naked man.

Valjon paused, studying Hawkmoon's face, his ex-
pression one of mingled terror and astonishment. "How
can it be?" he murmured. "How can it be?"

Hawkmoon laughed then. "Do not ask me, Valjon,
for all this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.
But I was told to take your sword, and take it I shall!"
And with that he aimed another thrust at Valjon which
the Pirate Lord deflected with a sweeping motion of
the Sword of the Dawn.

Now Valjon's back was toward the pit and Hawk-
moon saw that the things, blood streaming down their

scaly sides, were beginning to crawl onto the floor.
Hawkmoon drove the Pirate Lord further and further
toward the dreadful creatures. He saw a tentacle reach
out and catch Valjon's leg, heard the man scream in
fear and try to hack at the tentacle with his blade.

Hawkmoon stepped forward then, aimed a blow at
Valjon's face with his fist and, with his other hand,
wrenched the sword from the Pirate Lord's hand.

Then he watched grimly as Valjon was dragged slow-
ly into the pool.

Valjon stretched out his hands to Hawkmoon. "Save
me—please save me, Hawkmoon."

But Hawkmoon's eyes were bleak and he did noth-
ing, simply stood with his hands on the pommel of the
Sword of the Dawn as Valjon was dragged closer and
closer to the pit of blood.

Valjon said nothing further but covered his face
with his hands as first one leg and then the other was
drawn into the pool.

There came a long, despairing scream and Valjon
disappeared beneath the surface of the pool.

Hawkmoon turned now, hefting the heavy sword and
marvelling at the light which shone from it. He took it
in both hands and looked to see how his friends were
faring. They stood in a tight group, fighting off scores
of enemies and it was plain that they would have been
overwhelmed by now had it not been for the fact that
the pool was disgorging its terrible contents.

The Warrior saw that he had the blade and cried
out something, but Hawkmoon could not hear it. He
was forced to bring the sword up to defend himself as
a knot of pirates came at him, drove them back and cut
through them in an effort to join his friends.

The things from the pit were crowding the edge
now, slithering over the floor, and Hawkmoon realised
that their position was virtually hopeless, for they were
trapped between a horde of swordsmen on one hand
and the creatures of the pool on the other.

Again the Warrior in Jet and Gold tried to cry out,

but still Hawkmoon could not hear him. He battled on,
desperately trying to reach the Warrior, hacking off
a head here, a limb there and slowly coming closer and
closer to his mysterious ally.

The Warrior's voice sounded again and this time
Hawkmoon heard the words.

"Call for them!" he boomed. "Call for the Legion of
the Dawn, Hawkmoon, or we're lost!"

Hawkmoon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It is your right to command the Legion. Summon
them. In the name of the Runestaff, man, summon
them!"

Hawkmoon parried a thrust and cut down the man
who attacked him. The blade's light seemed to be fad-
ing, but it could have been that it was now in competi-
tion with the scores of torches blazing in the hall.

"Call for your men, Hawkmoon!" cried the Warrior
in Jet and Gold desperately.

Hawkmoon shrugged and disbelievingly cried out:
"I summon the Legion of the Dawn!"

Nothing happened. Hawkmoon had expected noth-
ing. He had no faith in legends, as he had said before.

But then he noticed that the pirates were screaming
and that new figures had appeared from nowhere—
strange figures who blazed with rosy light, who struck
about them ferociously, chopping down the pirates.

Hawkmoon drew a deep breath and wondered at the
sight.

The newcomers were dressed in highly ornamental
armor somehow reminiscent of a past age. They were
armed with lances decorated with tufts of dyed hair,
with huge notched clubs covered with ornate carvings
and they howled and shouted and killed with incredi-
ble ferocity, driving many pirates from the hall within
moments.

Their bodies were brown, their faces covered in paint
from which huge black eyes stared, and from their
throats came a strange, moaning dirge.

The pirates fought back desperately, striking down

the shining warriors. But as a man died, his body
would vanish and a new warrior would appear from no-
where. Hawkmoon tried to see where they came
from, but he was never able to do so—he would turn
his head and when he looked back a new warrior would
be standing there.

Panting, Hawkmoon joined his friends. The naked
bodies of Bewchard and D'Averc were cut in a dozen
places, but not badly. They stood and watched as the
Legion of the Dawn slaughtered the pirates.

"These are the soldiers who serve the sword," said
the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "With them, because it
then suited the Runestaff's scheme of things, Valjon's
ancestor made himself feared throughout Narleen and
its surrounds. But now the sword turns against Val-
jon's people, to take from them what it gave them!"

Hawkmoon felt something touch his ankle, turned
and shouted in horror. "The things from the pit! I
had forgotten them!" He hacked at the tentacle.

Instantly there were a dozen of the shining warriors
between him and the monsters. The tufted lances rose
and fell, the clubs battered and the monsters tried to re-
treat. But the Soldiers of the Dawn would not let them
retreat. They surrounded them, stabbing and hacking
until all that remained was a black mess staining the
floor of the hall.

"It is done," Bewchard said incredulously. "We are
the victors. The power of Starvel is broken at last." He
stooped and picked up a brand. "Come, friend Hawk-
moon, let us lead your ghostly warriors forward into
the city. Let us kill all we find. Let us burn."

"Aye . . ." Hawkmoon began, but the Warrior in
Jet and Gold shook his head.

"No—it is not for killing pirates that the Legion is
yours, Hawkmoon. It is yours so that you may do the
Runestaff's work."

Hawkmoon hesitated.

The Warrior placed a hand on Bewchard's shoulder.
"Now that most of the pirate lords are dead and Valjon

destroyed, there will be nothing to stop you and your
men returning to Starvel to finish the work we began
tonight. But Hawkmoon and his blade are needed for
greater things. He must leave soon."

Hawkmoon felt anger come then. "I am grateful to
you, Warrior in Jet and Gold, for what you have done
to aid me. But I would remind you that I would not
be here at all had it not been for your schemings and
those of dead Mygan of Llandar. I need to return
home—to Castle Brass and my beloved. I am my own
man, Warrior. I will decide my fate."

And then the Warrior in Jet and Gold laughed. "You
are still an innocent, Dorian Hawkmoon. You are the
Runestaff's man, believe me. You thought you came to
this temple merely to help a friend who needed you.
But it is the Runestaff's way to work thus! You would
not have dared the Pirate Lords had you simply been
trying to get the Sword of the Dawn, in whose legend
you did not believe, but you did dare them to rescue
Bewchard here. The web the Runestaff weaves is a
complicated web. Men are never aware of the pur-
poses of their actions where the Runestaff is concerned.
Now you must continue on the second part of your
mission in Amarehk. You must journey north—you
can go round the coast, for Bewchard, I am sure, will
lend you a ship—and find Dnark, the City of the Great
Good Ones who will need your aid. There you will
find proof that the Runestaff exists."

"I am not interested in mysteries, Warrior. I want to
know what has become of my wife and friends. Tell
me—do we exist in the same era?"

"Aye," said the Warrior. "This time is concurrent
with the time you left in Europe. But as you know,
Castle Brass exists elsewhere ..."

"I know that." Hawkmoon frowned thoughtfully.
"Well, Warrior, perhaps I will agree to take Bewchard's
ship and go on to Dnark. Perhaps ..."

The Warrior nodded. "Come," he said, "let us leave
this unclean place and make our way back to Narleen.

There we can discuss with Bewchard the matter of a
ship."

Bewchard smiled. "Anything, Hawkmoon, that I
have is yours, for you have done much for me and the
whole of my city. You saved my life and you were
responsible for destroying Narleen's age-old enemies—
you may have twenty ships if you wish them."

Hawkmoon was thinking deeply. He had it in mind
to deceive the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

Chapter Eleven

THE PARTING

BEWCHARD ESCORTED THEM next afternoon to
the quayside. The citizens were celebrating. A force of
soldiers had invaded Starvel and routed out every last
pirate.

Bewchard put his hand on Hawkmoon's arm. "I
wish that you would stay, friend Hawkmoon. We shall
be having celebrations for a week yet—and you and
your friends should be here. It will be sad for me, cele-
brating without your company—for you are the true
heroes of Narleen, not I."

"We were lucky, Captain Bewchard. It was our good
fortune that our fates were linked. You are rid of your
enemies—and we have obtained that which we sought."
Hawkmoon smiled. "We must leave now."

Bewchard nodded. "If you must, you must." He
looked frankly at Hawkmoon and grinned. "I do not
suppose that you still believe I am entirely convinced
by your story of a 'scholar relative' interested in that
sword you now wear?"

Hawkmoon laughed. "No—but on the other hand,

captain, I can give you no better story. I do not know
why I had to find the sword . . ." He patted the scab-
bard that now held the Sword of the Dawn. "The War-
rior in Jet and Gold here says that it is all part of a
larger destiny. Yet I am an unwilling slave to that
destiny. All I seek is a little love, a little peace, and to
be revenged upon those who have ravaged my home-
land. Yet here I am, on a continent thousands of miles
away from where I desire to be, off to seek another
legendary object—and reluctantly. Perhaps we shall all
understand these matters in time."

Bewchard looked at him seriously. "I think you
serve a great purpose, Hawkmoon. I think your destiny
is a noble one."

Hawkmoon laughed. "And yet I do not pine for a
noble destiny—merely a secure one."

"Perhaps," said Bewchard. "My friend, my best ship
is prepared for you and well-provisioned. Narleen's
finest sailors have begged to sail with you and now
man her. Good luck in your quest, Hawkmoon—and
you, too, D'Averc."

D'Averc coughed into his hand. "If Hawkmoon is an
unwilling servant of this 'greater destiny,' then what
does that make me? A great fool, perhaps? I am unwell,
I have a chronically poor constitution, and yet find my-
self dragged about the world in the service of this
mythical Runestaff. Still, it kills time, I suppose."

Hawkmoon smiled, then turned almost anxiously to
mount the gangplank of the ship. The Warrior in Jet
and Gold moved impatiently.

"Dnark, Hawkmoon," he said. "You must seek the
Runestaff itself in Dnark."

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "I heard you, Warrior."

"The Sword of the Dawn is needed in Dnark," con-
tinued the Warrior in Jet and Gold, "and you are
needed to wield it."

"Then I shall do as you desire, Warrior," Hawkmoon
replied lightly. "Do you sail with us?"

"I have other matters to attend to."

"We shall meet again, doubtless."

"Doubtless."

D'Averc coughed and raised his hand. "Then, fare-
well, Warrior. Thanks for your aid."

"Thank you for yours," replied the Warrior enig-
matically.

Hawkmoon gave the order for the gangplank to be
raised and the oars to be unshipped.

Soon the ship was pulling out of the bay and into
the open sea. Hawkmoon watched the figures of Bew-
chard and the Warrior in Jet and Gold become smaller
and smaller and smaller and then he turned and smiled
at D'Averc.

"Well, D'Averc, do you know where we are going?"

"To Dnark, I take it," D'Averc replied innocently.

"To Europe, D'Averc. I care not for this destiny. I
wish to see my wife again. We are going to sail across
the sea, D'Averc—for Europe. There we may use our
rings to take us back to Castle Brass. I would see Yis-
selda again."

D'Averc said nothing, merely turned his head to look
upward as the white sails billowed and the ship began
to gather speed.

"What do you say to that, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon
asked with a grin, slapping his friend on the back.

D'Averc shrugged. "I say that it would be a welcome
rest to spend some time in Castle Brass again."

"There is something about your tone, friend. Some-
thing a trifle sardonic .. ." Hawkmoon frowned. "What
is it?"

D'Averc gave him a sidelong glance that matched
his tone. "Maybe I am not as sure as you, Hawkmoon,
that this ship will find its way to Europe. Perhaps I
have a greater respect for the Runestaff."

"You believe in such legends? Why, Amarehk was
supposed to be a place of godlike people. It was far
from that, eh?"

"I think you insist on the Runestaff's non-existence

too much. I think your anxiety to see Yisselda must in-
fluence you considerably."

"Possibly."

D'Averc stared out to sea. "Time will tell us how
strong the Runestaff is."

Hawkmoon gave him a puzzled -look before he
shrugged, walking away down the deck.

D'Averc smiled, shaking his head as he watched his
friend.

Then he turned his attention to the sails, wondering
privately if he would ever see Castle Brass again.

(This ends the third volume in the High
History of the Runestaff)