Book 4 of The High History of The Runestaff
The Runestaff
by Michael Moorcock

	Contents

	BOOK ONE

1.	An Episode in King Huon's Throne Room	10

2.	Human Thoughts of the Countess Flana	14

3.	Hawkmoon Alters his Course	16

4.	Orland Frank	22

5.	A City of Glowing Shadows	31

6.	Jehamia Cohnahlias	35

7.	A Well-Known Traveler	38

8.	An Ultimatum	44

9.	The Runestaff	48

10.	Spirit of the Runestaff	51

11.	A Brother Slain	55

	BOOK TWO

1.	Whispering in Secret Rooms	62

2.	Conversation Beside the Mentality Machine	67

3.	Taragorm of the Palace of Time	71

4.	A Mission for Meliadus	74

5.	The Fleet at Deau-Vere	77

6.	The Return to Castle Brass	82

7.	The Beasts Begin to Squabble	86

8.	Taragorm's Invention	89

9.	Huon Confers with his Captains	92

10.	Almost Midnight	94

	BOOK THREE

1.	The Striking of the Clock	98

2.	The Blackened Marsh	104

3.	Dark Empire Carnage	107

4.	New Helms	110

5.	Five Heroes and a Heroine	115

6.	A New Ally	118

7.	The Battle for Huon's Palace	124

8.	Flana Observes the Battle                          128

9.	The Slaying of King Huon	130

10.	The Heroes Ride Out	133

11.	News of Several Sorts	135

12.	The New Queen	137

13.	"What do you see?"	139

14.	The Power Returns	143

15.	The Gates of Londra	146

16.	The Final Flight	152

17.	The Sad Queen                                           155

BOOK ONE

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; the Barons of
Granbretan carried the standard of their King
Emperor Huon across the continent of Eu-
rope and made that continent their property;
carried the banner to West and East to other
continents to which they also laid claim. And
it seemed that no force, either natural or
supernatural, was strong enough to halt the
insane and deadly tide. Indeed, none now
resisted them at all. With chuckling pride
and cold contempt they demanded whole
nations as tribute and the tribute was paid.
In all the subdued lands few hoped. Of those,
fewer dared express hope—and among those
few hardly a single soul possessed the courage
to murmur the name symbolizing that hope.
The name was Castle Brass.
Those who spoke the name understood its
implications, for Castle Brass was the only
stronghold to remain unvanquished by the
warlords of Granbretan, and Castle Brass
housed heroes; men who had fought the Dark
Empire, whose names were loathed and hated
by the brooding Baron Meliadus, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of the Wolf, Commander
of the Army of Conquest, for it was known
that Baron Meliadus fought a private feud
with those heroes, particularly the legendary
Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln who was mar-

ried to the woman Meliadus desired, Yis-
selda, daughter of Count Brass of Castle Brass.
But Castle Brass had not defeated the armies
of Granbretan, it had merely evaded them,
disappearing by means of a strange, ancient
crystal machine into another dimension of
the Earth, where those heroes, Hawkmoon,
Count Brass, Huillam D'Averc, Oladahn of
the Bulgar Mountains and their handful of
Kamargian men-at-arms, now sheltered, and
most folk felt that the heroes of the Kamarg
had deserted them forever. They did not
blame them, but their hope waned fainter
with every day that passed and the heroes
did not return.

In that other Kamarg, sundered from its
original by mysterious dimension of time and
space, Hawkmoon and the rest were faced
with fresh problems, for it seemed that the
sorcerer-scientists of the Dark Empire were
close to discovering means either of breaking
through into their dimension or of recalling
them. The enigmatic Warrior in Jet and
Gold had sent Hawkmoon and D'Averc on a
quest to a strange new land to seek the
legendary Sword of the Dawn, which would
be of aid to them in their struggle, and which
would in turn aid The Runestaff, which, the
Warrior insisted, Hawkmoon, manifestation
of the Champion Eternal, served. Having
won the rosy sword, Hawkmoon was then
informed he must travel by sea around the
coast of Amarehk to the city of Dnark, where
the services of the blade were required. But
Hawkmoon demurred. He was anxious to
return to the Kamarg and see his beautiful
wife Yisselda again. In a ship supplied by
Bewchard of Narleen, Hawkmoon set sail for
Europe, against the dictates of the Warrior
in Jet and Gold who had told him that his
duty to The Runestaff, that mysterious arte-
fact said to control all human destinies, was
greater than his duty to his wife, friends and

adopted homeland. With the foppish Huil-
lam D'Averc by his side, Hawkmoon headed
out to sea.

Meanwhile in Granbretan Baron Meliadus
fumed at what he considered his King-Emper-
or's foolishness in not allowing him to pur-
sue his vendetta against Castle Brass. When
Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex, seemed to
be favoured over him by a King-Emperor
growing steadily more mistrustful of his un-
stable conquistador, Meliadus became rebel-
lious, pursuing his prey to the Wastes of Yel,
losing them, and returning with redoubled
hatred to Londra, there to scheme not only
against the heroes of Castle Brass, but also
against his immortal ruler, Huon, the King
Emperor...

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

An Episode in
King Huon's Throne Room

THE VAST DOORS parted and Baron Meliadus, but
lately returned from Yel, walked into the throne room
of his King-Emperor, to report his failures and his dis-
coveries.

As Meliadus entered the room, whose roof seemed so
tall as to be one with the heavens and whose walls were
so distant as to seem to encompass an entire country, his
way was blocked by a double line of guards. These
guards, members of the King Emperor's own Order of
the Mantis and wearing the great jewelled insect-masks
belonging to that Order, seemed reluctant to let him
pass through.

Meliadus controlled himself with difficulty and waited
while the ranks drew back to admit him.
 Then he strode on into the hall of blazing colour,
whose galleries were hung with the gleaming banners of
Granbretan's five hundred greatest families and whose
walls were encrusted with a mosaic of precious gems de-
picting Granbretan's might and history, along an aisle
made up on either side by a thousand mantis warriors,
each statue-still, towards the Throne Globe more than a
mile distant

Half-way to the Globe, he abased himself in a some-
what peremptory fashion.

The solid black sphere seemed to shudder momentar-
ily as Baron Meliadus rose, then the black became shot
through with veins of scarlet and white which slowly
spread through the darker shade until it had vanished
altogether. The mixture like milk and blood swirled and
cleared to reveal a tiny foetus-like shape curled in the
centre of the sphere. From this twisted figure peered
eyes that were hard, black and sharp, containing an
old—indeed, an immortal—intelligence. This was Huon,
King Emperor of Granbretan and the Dark Empire,
Grand Constable of the Order of the Mantis, wielder of
absolute power over tens of millions of souls, the ruler
who would live forever and in whose name Baron Meli-
adus had conquered the whole of Europe and beyond.

The voice of a golden youth now issued from the
Throne Globe (the golden youth to whom it had be-
longed had been dead a thousand years):

"Ah, our impetuous Baron Meliadus..."

Again Meliadus bowed and murmured. "Your servant.
Prince of All."

"And what have you to report to us, hasty lord?"

"Success, Great Emperor. Proof of my suspicions..."

"You have found the missing emissaries from Asia-
communista?"

"I regret not, Noble Sire..."

Baron Meliadus did not know that it had been in this
disguise that Hawkmoon and D'Averc had penetrated
the capital of the Dark Empire. Only Flana Mikosevaar,
who had helped them escape, knew that.

"Then why are you here, baron?"

"I discovered that Hawkmoon, whom I insist is still
the greatest threat to our security, has been visiting our
island. I went to Yel and there found him and the trai-
tor Huillam D'Averc, as well as the magician Mygan of
Llandar. They know the secret of travelling through the
dimensions." Baron Meliadus did not mention that they
had escaped from him. "Before we could apprehend
them they vanished before our eyes. Mighty Monarch, if

they can come and go from our land at will, surely it is
plain that we can never be safe until they are destroyed.
I would suggest we begin immediately to direct all the
efforts of our scientists—of Taragorm and Kalan in par-
ticular—to finding these renegades and finishing them.
They threaten us from within..."

"Baron Meliadus. What news of the emissaries from
Asiacommunista?"

"None, so far. Mighty King Emperor, but..."

"A few guerillas, Baron Meliadus, this empire may
contend with, but if our shores are threatened by a force
as great, if not greater, than our own, by a force, more-
over that is possessed of scientific secrets unknown to us,
that we may not survive, you see ..." The golden voice
spoke with acid patience.

Meliadus frowned. "We have no proof that such an
invasion is planned, Monarch of the World ..."

"Agreed. Neither have we proof, Baron Meliadus,
that Hawkmoon and his band of terrorists have the
power to do us any great harm." Streaks of ice blue sud-
denly appeared in the Throne Globe's fluid.

"Great King Emperor. Give me the time and the
resources..."

"We are an expanding empire, Baron Meliadus; We
wish to expand still further. It would be pessimistic,
would it not, to stand still? That is not our way. We are
proud of our influence upon the Earth. We wish to ex-
tend it. You seem uneager to carry out the principles of
our ambition which is to spread a great, laughing terror
to the corners of the world. You are becoming small-
minded, we fear ..."

"But by refusing to counter those subtle forces that
might wreck our schemes, Prince of All, we could betray
our destiny also!"

"We resent dissension, Baron Meliadus. Your personal
hatred of Hawkmoon and, we have heard, your desire
for Yisselda of Brass, represent dissension. We have your
self-interest at heart, baron, for if you continue in this
course, we shall be obliged to elect another over you, to

dismiss you from our service—aye, even to dismiss you
from your Order..."

Instinctively, Baron Meliadus's gauntleted hands leapt
fearfully to his mask. To be unmasked! The greatest dis-
grace—the greatest horror of them all! For that was what
the threat implied. To join the ranks of the lowest scum
in Londra—the caste of the unmasked ones! Meliadus
shuddered and could hardly bring himself to speak.

At last he murmured. "I will reflect on your words,
Emperor of the Earth..."

"Do so, Baron Meliadus. We would not wish to see
such a great conqueror destroyed by a few clouded
thoughts. If you would regain all our favour, you will
find for us the means by which the Asiacommunistan
emissaries left."

Baron Meliadus fell to his knees, his great wolf-mask
nodding, his arms outspread. Thus the conqueror of Eu-
rope abased himself before his Lord, but his brain flared
with a dozen rebellious thoughts and he thanked the
spirit of his Order that the mask hid his face so that his
fury did not show.

He backed away from the Throne Globe while the
beady, sardonic eyes of the King Emperor regarded him.
Huon's prehensile tongue darted out to touch a jewel
floating near the shrunken head and the milky fluid
swirled, flashed with rainbow colours, then gradually
turned black once more.

Meliadus wheeled and began the long march back to
the gigantic doors, feeling that every eye behind the un-
moving mantis masks watched him with malevolent hu-
mour.

When he had passed through the doors, he turned to
the left and strode through the corridors of the twisted
palace, seeking the apartments of the Countess Flana
Mikosevaar of Kanbery, widow of Asrovak Mikosevaar,
the Muskovian renegade who had once headed the Vul-
ture Legion. Countess Flana not only was now titular
head of the Vulture Legion, but also cousin to the King
Emperor—his only surviving kin.

Chapter Two

Human Thoughts of
The Countess Flana

THE HERON MASK of spun gold lay on the lacquered
table before her as she stared through the window, over
the curling, crazy spires of the city of Londra, her pale,
beautiful face full of sadness and confusion.

As she moved, the rich silks and jewels of her gown
caught the light from the red sun. She went to a closet
and opened it. There were the strange costumes she had
kept since those two visitors had left her apartments so
many days before. The disguises that Hawkmoon and
D'Averc had used when posing as princes from Asiacom-
munista. Now she wondered where they were—particu-
larly D'Averc whom she knew loved her.

Flana, Countess of Kanbery, had had a dozen hus-
bands and more lovers, had disposed of them in one way
or another as a woman might dispose of a useless pair of
stockings. She had never experienced love, never had
the emotion known to most others, even the rulers of
Granbretan.

But somehow D'Averc, that dandified renegade who
claimed to be permanently ill, had aroused these
feelings in her. Perhaps she had remained so remote
heretofore because she was sane, while those surround-
ing her at court were not, because she was gentle and ca-

pable of selfless love, whereas the lords of the Dark Empire
understood nothing of such feelings. Perhaps D'Averc,
gentle, subtle, sensitive, had awakened her from an
apathy induced not by lack of soul, but by a greatness of
soul—such greatness that it could not bear to exist in the
mad, selfish, perverse world of the Court of King Huon.

But now that the Countess Flana was awake, she
could not ignore the horror of her surroundings, the
despair she felt that her lover of a single night might
never return, that he might even be already dead.

She had taken to her apartments, avoiding contact
with the rest, but while this ruse afforded her some sur-
cease from understanding of her circumstances, it only
allowed her sorrow silence in which to grow.

Tears fell down Flana's perfect cheeks and she
stopped their flow with a scented silken scarf.

A maidservant entered the room and hesitated on the
threshold. Automatically Flana reached for her heron
mask.

"What is it?"

"The Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, my lady. He says
he has to speak with you. A matter of paramount ur-
gency."

Flana slipped her mask over her head and settled it
on her shoulders.

She considered the girl's words for a moment and
then shrugged. What did it matter if she saw Meliadus
for a few moments? Perhaps he had some news of
D'Averc, whom she knew he hated. By subtle means she
might discover what he knew.

But what if Meliadus wished to make love to her, as
he had on previous occasions?

Why, she would turn him away, as she had turned
him away before.

She inclined the lovely heron mask a fraction.

"Admit the baron," she said.

Chapter Three

Hawkmoon Alters
His Course

THE GREAT SAILS curved in the wind as the ship
sped over the surface of the sea. The sky was clear and
the sea was calm, a vast expanse of azure. Oars had been
shipped and the helmsman now looked to the main deck
for his course. The bosun, clad in orange and black,
climbed to the deck where Hawkmoon stood staring
across the ocean.

Hawkmoon's golden hair streamed in the wind and
his cloak of wine-coloured velvet whipped out behind
him. His handsome features were battle-hardened and
weather beaten and were only marred by the existence,
embedded in his forehead, of a dull, black stone. Grave-
ly, he acknowledged the bosun's salute.

"I've given orders to sail around the coast, heading
due East, sir," the bosun said.

"Who gave you that course, bosun?"

"Why, nobody, sir. I just assumed that since we were
heading for Dnark..."

"We are not heading for Dnark, tell the helmsman."

"But that strange warrior—the Warrior in Jet and
Gold you called him—he said..."

"He is not my master, bosun. No—we sail out to sea
now. For Europe."

"For Europe, sir! You know that after you saved Nar-
leen we would take you anywhere, follow you anywhere,
but have you any understanding of the distances we
must sail to reach Europe—the seas we should have to
cross, the storms...?"

"Aye, I understand. But we still sail for Europe."

"As you say, sir." Frowning, the bosun turned away to
give his orders to the helmsman.

From his cabin below the main deck, D'Averc now
emerged and began to climb the ladder. Hawkmoon
grinned at him. "Did you sleep well, friend D'Averc?"

"As well as possible aboard this rocking tub. I am in-
clined to suffer from insomnia at the best of times,
Hawkmoon, but I snatched a few moments. The most, I
suppose, I may expect."

Hawkmoon laughed. "When I looked in on you an
hour ago, you were snoring."

D'Averc raised his eyebrows. "So! You heard me
breathing heavily, eh? I tried to keep as quiet as pos-
sible, but this cold of mine—contracted since coming
aboard—is giving me a certain amount of difficulty." He
raised a tiny square of linen to the tip of his nose.

D'Averc was dressed in silk, with a loose blue shirt,
flowing scarlet breeks, a heavy broad leather belt sup-
porting his sword and a dirk. Around his bronzed throat
was wound a long scarf of purple and his long hair was
held back by a band matching his breeks. His fine, al-
most ascetic features, bore their usual sardonic ex-
pression.

"Did I hear aright below?" D'Averc asked. "Were you
instructing the bosun to head for Europe?"

"I was."

"So you still intend to try to reach Castle Brass and
forget what the Warrior in Jet and Gold said of your
destiny—that it was to take that blade there," D'Averc
pointed to the great red broadsword at Hawkmoon's
side, "to Dnark, thus serving the Runestaff?"

"I owe allegiance to myself and my kin before I will
serve an artefact in whose existence I gravely doubt."

"You would not have believed before in the powers of

the Sword of the Dawn," D'Averc remarked wryly, "yet
you saw it summon warriors from thin air to save our
lives."

An obstinate look passed over Hawkmoon's features.
"Aye," he agreed reluctantly. "But I still intend to re-
turn to Castle Brass, if that is possible."

"There's no telling if it's in this dimension or an-
other."

"I can only hope that it is in this dimension."
Hawkmoon spoke with finality, showing his un-
willingness to discuss the matter further. D'Averc raised
his eyebrows for a second time, then descended to the
deck and strolled along it whistling.

For five days they sailed on through the calm ocean,
every sail unfurled to give them maximum speed.

On the sixth day the bosun came up to Hawkmoon,
who was standing in the prow of the ship, and pointed
ahead.

"See the dark sky on the horizon, sir. We're heading
straight for a storm."

Hawkmoon peered in the direction the bosun indi-
cated. "A storm, you say. Yet it has a peculiar look to
it."

"Aye, sir. Shall I reef the sails?"

"No, bosun. We sail on until we have a better idea of
what we are heading into."

"As you say, sir." The bosun walked back down the
deck, shaking his head.

A few hours later the sky ahead became a lurid wall
across the sea, from horizon to horizon, its predominant
colours, dark red and purple. It towered upwards and
yet the sky above them was as blue as it ever had been
and the sea was perfectly calm. Only the wind had
dropped slightly. It was as if they sailed in a lake, en-
closed on all sides by mountains whose peaks disap-
peared into the heavens. The crew was disconcerted and
there was a note of fear in the bosun's voice when he
next confronted Hawkmoon.

"Do we sail on, sir? I have never heard of such a phe-
nomenon as this before; I've never experienced any-

thing like it. The crew's nervous, sir, and I'll admit that
I am, also."

Hawkmoon nodded sympathetically. "It's peculiar,
right enough, seeming to be more supernatural than
natural."

"That's what the crew's saying, sir."

Hawkmoon's own instinct was to press on and face
whatever it was, but he had a responsibility to the crew,
each member of which had volunteered to sail with him
in gratitude for his ridding their home city, Narleen, of
the power of the Pirate Lords.

Hawkmoon sighed. "Very well, bosun. We'll take in
all sail and wait the night. With luck, the phenomenon
will have passed by morning."

The bosun was relieved. "Thank you, sir."

Hawkmoon acknowledged his salute then turned to
stare up at the huge walls. Were they cloud or were they
something else? A chill had come into the air and al-
though the sun still shone down, its rays did not seem to
touch the massed clouds.

All was still. Hawkmoon wondered if he had made a
wise decision in heading away from Dnark. None, to his
knowledge, save the ancients had ever sailed these
oceans. Who was to tell what uncharted terrors in-
habited them?

Night fell, and in the distance the vast, lurid walls
could still be seen, their dark reds and purples piercing
the blackness of the night. And yet the colours hardly
seemed to have the usual properties of light.

Hawkmoon began to feel perturbed.

In the morning the walls seemed to have drawn in
much closer and the area of blue sea seemed much
smaller. Hawkmoon wondered if they had not been
caught in a trap set by giants.

Clad in a thick cloak that did not keep out much of
the chill, he paced the deck at dawn.

D'Averc was next to emerge, wearing at least three

cloaks and shivering ostentatiously. "A fresh morning,
Hawkmoon."

"Aye," murmured the Duke of Koln. "What do you
make of it, D'Averc?"

The Frenchman shook his head. "It's a grim sort of
stuff, isn't it? Here comes the bosun."

They both turned to greet the bosun. He, too, was
wrapped up heavily in a great leather cloak normally
used for protection when sailing through a storm.

"Any thoughts on this, bosun?" D'Averc asked.

The bosun shook his head and addressed Hawkmoon.
"The men say that whatever happens, sir, they are yours.
They will die in your service if necessary."

"They're in a gloomy mood, I gather," smiled D'Averc.
"Well, who's to blame them?"

"Who indeed, sir." The bosun's round, honest face
looked despairing. "Shall I give the order to sail on,
sir?"

"It would be better than waiting here while the stuff
closes in," Hawkmoon said. "Let go the sails, bosun."

The bosun shouted orders and men began to climb
through the rigging, letting down the sails and securing
their lines. Gradually the sails filled and the ship began
to move, seemingly reluctantly, towards the strange cliffs
of clouds.

Yet even as they moved forward, the cliffs began to
swirl and become agitated. Other, darker colours crept
in and a wailing noise drifted towards the ship from all
sides. The crew could barely contain its panic, many
men standing frozen in the rigging as they watched.
Hawkmoon peered forward anxiously.

Then, instantly, the walls had vanished!

Hawkmoon gasped.

Calm sea lay on all sides. Everything was as before.
The crew began to cheer, but Hawkmoon noticed that
D'Averc's face was bleak. Hawkmoon, too, felt that per-
haps the danger was not past. He waited, poised at the
rail.

Then from the sea erupted a huge beast.

The crew's cheers changed to screams of fear.

Other beasts began to emerge all around them. Gigan-
tic, reptilian monsters with gaping red jaws and triple
rows of teeth, the water streaming from their scales and
their blazing eyes full of mad, rolling evil.

There was a deafening flapping noise and one by one
the giant reptiles climbed into the air.

"We are done for, Hawkmoon," said D'Averc philo-
sophically as he drew his sword. "It's a pity not to have
had one last sight of Castle Brass, nor one last kiss from
the lips of those women we love."

Hawkmoon barely heard him. He was full of bitter-
ness at the fate which had decided he should meet his
end in this wet and lonely place. Now none would know
where or how he had died...

Chapter Four

Orland Fank

THE SHADOWS OF the gigantic beasts swept back and
forth over the deck and the noise of their wings filled
the air. Looking upwards in cold detachment as a mon-
ster dropped towards him, its maw distended the Duke
of Koln knew his life had ended. But then the monster
had soared again, having snapped once at the high mast.

Nerves tense, muscles taut, Dorian Hawkmoon drew
the Sword of the Dawn, the blade which no other man
could wield and live. Even this supernatural broadsword
would be useless against the dreadful beasts; they need
not even attack the crew directly, need only strike the
ship a few blows to send those aboard to the bottom.

The ship rocked in the wind created by the vast wings
and the air stank of their foetid breath.

D'Averc frowned. "Why are they not attacking? Are
they playing a game with us?"

"It seems likely." Hawkmoon spoke between clenched
teeth. "Maybe it pleases them to play with us for a while
before destroying us."

As a great shadow descended, D'Averc leapt up and
slashed at a creature which had flapped into the air
again before D'Averc's feet returned to the deck. He
wrinkled his nose. "Ugh! The stink! It can do my lungs
no good."

Now, one by one, each of the creatures descended and

struck the ship a few thwacks with its leathery wings.
The ship shuddered. Men screamed as they were flung
from the rigging to the deck. Hawkmoon and D'Averc
staggered, clinging to the rail to save themselves from
toppling.

"They're turning the ship!" D'Averc cried in puzzle-
ment. "We're being forced round!"

Hawkmoon stared grimly at the terrifying monsters
and said nothing. Soon the ship had been turned by
about eighty degrees. Then the beasts rose higher into
the sky, wheeling above the ship as if debating their
next action. Hawkmoon looked at their eyes, trying to
discern intelligence there, trying to discover some hint
of their intentions, but it was impossible. The creatures
began to flap away until they were far to sternward. And
then they began to come back.

In formation the beasts flapped their wings until such
a wind was created that Hawkmoon and D'Averc could
no longer keep their footing and they were pressed
down to the planks of the deck.

The sails of the ship bent in this wind and D'Averc
cried out in astonishment. "They're driving the ship the
way they want it to go! It's incredible!"

"We're heading towards Amarehk," Hawkmoon said,
struggling to rise. "I wonder..."

"What can their diet be?" D'Averc shouted. "Cer-
tainly they eat nothing intended to sweeten the breath!
Phew!"

Hawkmoon grinned in spite of their plight.

The crew were now all huddled in the oar-wells, star-
ing up fearfully at the monstrous reptiles as they flapped
overhead, filling the sails with wind.

"Perhaps their nest is in this direction," Hawkmoon
suggested. "Perhaps their young are to be fed and they
prefer live meat?"

D'Averc looked offended. "What you say is likely,
friend Hawkmoon. But it was still tactless of you to sug-
gest it..."

Again Hawkmoon gave a wry grin.

"There's a chance, if their nests are on land, of get-

ting to grips with them," he said. "On the open sea we
had no chance of survival at all."
"You're optimistic, Duke of Koln ..."

For more than an hour the extraordinary reptiles pro-
pelled the ship over the water at breakneck speed. Then
at last Hawkmoon pointed ahead, saying nothing.

"An island!" exclaimed D'Averc. "You were right
about that, at any rate!"

It was a small island, apparently bare of vegetation,
its sides rising sharply to a peak, as if the tip of a
drowned mountain had not been entirely engulfed.

It was then that a fresh danger alerted Hawkmoon!

"Rocks! We're heading straight for them! Crew! To
your positions. Helmsman . . ." But Hawkmoon was al-
ready dashing for the helm, had grabbed it, was desper-
ately trying to save the ship from running aground.

D'Averc joined him, lending his own strength to turn
the craft. The island loomed larger and larger and the
sound of the surf boomed in their ears—a drumbeat to
herald disaster.

Slowly the ship turned as the cliffs of the island tow-
ered over them and the spray drenched them, but then
they heard a terrible scraping sound which became a
scream of tortured timbers and they knew that the rocks
were ripping into the starboard side beneath the water-
line.

"Every man for himself!" Hawkmoon cried and ran
for the rail. D'Averc closely behind him. The ship
lurched and reared like a living thing and all were flung
back against the port rails of the craft. Bruised but still
conscious, Hawkmoon and D'Averc pulled themselves to
their feet, hesitated for a moment, then dived into the
black and seething waters of the sea.

Weighted by his great broadsword, Hawkmoon felt
himself being dragged to the bottom. Through the swirl-
ing water he saw other shapes drifting and the noise of
the surf was now dull in his ears. But he would not re-
lease the Sword of the Dawn. Instead he fought to scab-

bard it and then use all his energy to strike up to the
surface, dragging the heavy blade with him.

At last he broke through the waves and got a dim im-
pression of the ship above him. The sea seemed much
Calmer and eventually the wind dropped altogether, the
boom of the surf diminished to a whisper and a strange
silence took the place of the cacophony of a few mo-
ments earlier. Hawkmoon headed for a flat rock,
reached it, and dragged himself on to land.

Then he looked back.

The reptilian monsters were still wheeling in the sky,
but so high they did not disturb the air with their wing
beats. Suddenly they rose still higher, hovered for a mo-
ment, then dived headlong toward the sea.

One by one they struck the waves with a great smash-
ing noise. The ship groaned as the wash hit it and
Hawkmoon was almost sluiced from his place of safety.

Then the monsters were gone.

Hawkmoon wiped water from, his eyes and spat out
the brine from his mouth.

What would they do next? Was it their intention to
keep their prey alive, to pick them off when they needed
fresh meat? There was no way of telling.

Hawkmoon heard a cry and saw D'Averc and half-a-
dozen others come staggering along the rocks toward
him.

D'Averc looked bewildered. "Did you see the beasts
leave, Hawkmoon?"

"Aye. Will they be back, I wonder?"

D'Averc glanced grimly in the direction in which the
beasts had disappeared. He shrugged.

"I suggest we strike inland, saving what we can from
the ship," Hawkmoon said. "How many of us left alive?"
He turned enquiringly to the bosun who stood behind
D'Averc.

"Most of us, I think, sir. We were lucky. Look." The
bosun pointed beyond the ship to where the major part
of the crew was assembling on the shore.

"Send some men back to her before she breaks up,"

Hawkmoon said. "Rig lines to the shore and start get-
ting provisions to dry land."

"As you say, sir. But what if the monsters return?"

"We'll have to deal with them when we see them,"
Hawkmoon said.

For several hours Hawkmoon watched as everything
possible was carried from the ship and piled on the
rocks of the island.

"Can the ship be repaired, do you think?" D'Averc
asked.

"Maybe. Now that the sea is calm, there's little chance
of her breaking up. But it will take time." Hawkmoon
fingered the dull, black stone in his forehead. "Come,
D'Averc, let's explore inland."

They began to climb up over the rocks, heading up
the slope to the summit of the island. The place seemed
completely devoid of life. The best they could hope to
find would be pools of fresh water and there might be
shellfish on the shore. It was a bleak place. Their hopes
of survival, if the ship could not be refloated, seemed
very slight, particularly with the prospect of the mon-
sters returning.

They reached the summit at last and paused, breath-
ing heavily from their exertions.

"The other side's as barren as this," D'Averc said, ges-
turing downward. "I wonder . . ." He broke off and
gasped. "By the Eyes of Berezenath! A man!"

Hawkmoon looked in the direction D'Averc indicated.

Sure enough, a figure was strolling along the shore be-
low. As they stared, he looked up and waved cheerfully,
gesturing them towards him.

Certain they were suffering hallucinations, the two be-
gan slowly to climb down until they were close to the
him. He stood there, fists on his hips, feet wide apart,
grinning at them. They paused.

The man was dressed in a peculiar and archaic fash-
ion. Over his brawny torso was stretched a jerkin of
leather, leaving his arms and chest bare. He wore a
woollen bonnet on his mop of red hair and a pheasant's
tailfeather was stuck jauntily into it. His breeks were of

a strange chequered design and he wore battered
buckled boots on his feet. Secured over his back by a
cord was a gigantic battle-axe, its steel blade streaked
with dirt and battered by much use. His face was bony
and red and his pale blue eyes were sardonic as he
stared at them.

"Well, now—you'd be the Hawkmoon and the D'Averc,"
he said in a strange accent. "I was told you'd likely
come."

"And who are you, sir?" D'Averc asked somewhat
haughtily.

"Why, I'm Orland Fank, didn't you know? Orland
Fank—here at your service, good sirs."

"Do you live on this island?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I have lived on it, but not at the moment, don't you
know." Fank removed his bonnet and wiped his fore-
head with his arm. "I'm a travelling man, these days.
Like yourselves, I understand."

"And who told you of us?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I've a brother. Given to wearing somewhat fancy
metal of black and gold ..."

"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" Hawkmoon ex-
claimed.

"He's called some such foppish title, I gather. He
would not have mentioned his rough and ready brother
to you, I don't doubt."

"He did not. Who are you?"

"I'm called Orland Fank. From Skare Brae—in the
Orkneys, you know..."

"The Orkneys!" Hawkmoon's hand went to his sword.
"Is that not part of Granbretan? Island to the far
north!"

Fank laughed. "Tell an Orkney man that he belongs
to the Dark Empire, and he'll tear the throat from you
with his teeth!" He gestured apologetically, and as if in
explanation said, "It's the favourite way of dealing with
a foe out there, you know. We're not a sophisticated
folk."

"So the Warrior in Jet and Gold is also from the
Orkneys ..." D'Averc began.

"Save you, no man! Him from the Orkneys, with his
fancy suit of armour and his fine manner!" Orland Fank
laughed heartily. "No. He's no Orkney man!" Fank
wiped tears of laughter from his eyes with his battered
bonnet. "Why should you think that?"

"You said he was your brother."

"So he is. Spiritually, you might say. Perhaps even
physically. I've forgotten. It's been many years, you see,
since we first came together."

"What brought you together?"

"A common cause, you might say. A shared ideal."

"And would the Runestaff be the source of that cause?"
Hawkmoon murmured, his voice hardly louder than the
whisper of the surf below them.

"It might."

"You seem close-mouthed, suddenly, friend Fank,"
said D'Averc.

"Aye. In Orkney, we're a close-mouthed folk," smiled
Orland Fank. "Indeed, I'm considered something of a
babbler there." He did not seem offended.

Hawkmoon gestured behind him. "Those monsters.
The strange clouds we saw earlier. Would that be to do
with the Runestaff?"

"I saw no monsters. No clouds. I've but recently ar-
rived here myself."

"We were driven to this island by gigantic reptiles,"
Hawkmoon said. "And now I begin to see why. They,
too, served the Runestaff, I do not doubt."

"That's as may be," Fank replied. "It's not my business
you see, Lord Dorian."

"Was it the Runestaff that caused our boat to be
wrecked?" Hawkmoon asked fiercely.

"I could not say," Fank replied, replacing his bonnet
on his mop of red hair and scratching at his bony chin.
"I only know that I'm here to give you a boat and tell
you where you might find the nearest habitable land."

"You have a boat for us?" D'Averc was astonished.

"Aye. Not a splendid one, but a seaworthy craft none-
theless. It should take the two of you."

"We have a crew of fifty!" Hawkmoon's eyes blazed.

"Oh, if the Runestaff wishes me to serve it, it should ar-
range things better! All it has succeeded in doing so far
is to anger me fiercely!"

"Your anger will only weary you," Orland Fank re-
plied mildly. "I had thought you bound for Dnark in
the Runestaff's service. My brother told me ..."

"Your brother insisted I go to Dnark. But I have
other loyalties, Orland Fank—loyalties to the wife I have
not seen for months, to the father-in-law who awaits my
return, to my friends..."

"The folk of Castle Brass? Aye, I've heard of them.
They are safe, for the moment, if that comforts you."

"You know this for certain?"

"Aye. Their lives are pretty much without event, save
for the trouble with one Elvereza Tozer."

"Tozer! What of the renegade?"

"He has vanished from the Komarg, I gather." Or-
land Fank made a flying gesture with his hand.

"For where?"

"Who knows?"

"They are well rid of Tozer, at any rate."

"I do not know the man."

"A talented playwright," Hawkmoon said, "with the
morals of a—of a ..."

"A Granbretanian?" offered Fank.

"Exactly." Hawkmoon frowned then and stared hard
at Orland Fank. "You would not deceive me? My kin
and friends are safe?"

"Their security is not for the moment threatened."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Where is this boat? And what of
my crew?"

"I have some small skill as a shipwright. I'll help
them mend their ship so that they can return to Nar-
leen."

"Why cannot we go with them?" D'Averc asked.

"I understood you were an impatient pair," Fank said
innocently, "and that you would be off the island as
soon as you could. It will take many days to repair the
large craft."

"We'll take your little boat," Hawkmoon said. "It

seems that if we did not, the Runestaff—or whatever
power it was that really sent us here—would see to it
that we were further inconvenienced."

"I understand that would be likely," Fank agreed,
smiling a little to himself.

"And how will you leave the island if we take your
boat?" D'Averc asked.

"I'll sail with the seamen of Narleen. I have a great
deal of time to spare."

"How far is it to the mainland?" Hawkmoon asked.
"And by what shall we sail? Have you a compass to lend
us?"

Fank shrugged. "It's of no great distance and you'll
not need a compass. You need only wait for the right
sort of wind."

"What do you mean?"

"The winds in these parts are somewhat peculiar. You
will understand what I mean."

Hawkmoon shrugged in resignation.

They followed as Orland Fank led the way around
the shore.

"It would seem that we are not quite as much the
masters of our destinies as we should like," murmured
D'Averc sardonically as the small boat came in sight.

Chapter Five

A City of Glowing Shadows

HAWKMOON LAY SCOWLING in the small boat and
D'Averc whistled a tune as he stood in the prow, the
spray lashing his face. For a whole day now the wind
had guided the craft, blowing them on what was plainly
a particular course.

"Now I understand what Fank meant about the
wind," growled Hawkmoon. "This is no natural breeze.
I resent the feeling of being the puppet of some super-
natural agency."

D'Averc grinned and pointed ahead. "Well, perhaps
we'll have a chance to voice our complaints to the
agency itself. See—land in sight."

Hawkmoon rose reluctantly. There were faint signs of
land on the horizon.

"And so we return to Amarehk!" D'Averc laughed.

"If only it were Europe and Yisselda were there."
Hawkmoon sat down again.

"Or even Londra, and Flana to comfort me." D'Averc
shrugged and began to cough theatrically. "Still, it is
best this way, lest she find herself pledged to a sick and
dying creature..."

Gradually they made out features on the shoreline: ir-
regular cliffs, hills and beaches; some trees. Then, to the
south, they saw a peculiar aura of golden light—light
which throbbed as if in concert to a gigantic heart.

"More disturbing phenomena." D'Averc frowned.

The wind blew harder and the little boat turned
toward the golden light.

"And we're heading directly for it," groaned Hawk-
moon. "I am becoming tired of such things!"

Now it was clear they sailed into a bay formed by the
mainland and a long island jutting out between the two
shores. It was from the far end of this island that the
golden light was pulsing.

The land on either side seemed pleasant, consisting of
beaches and wooded hills, though there were no signs of
habitation.

   As they neared the source of the light, it began to
fade until only a faint glow filled the sky and the boat's
speed diminished. They still sailed directly towards the
light. They saw it, then, and were amazed ...

It was a city of such grace and beauty it robbed them
of speech. As huge as Londra, if not larger, its buildings
were symmetrical spires and domes and turrets, all glow-
ing with the same strange light, but coloured in delicate,
pale shades that lurked behind the gold—pink, yellow,
blue, green, violet and cerise—like a painting created in
light and then washed with gold. Its magnificent beauty
did not seem a proper habitation for human creatures,
but for gods.

Now the ship sailed into a harbour stretching out
from the city, its quays shifting with the same subtle
shades of the buildings.

"It is like a dream..." Hawkmoon murmured.

"A dream of heaven." D'Averc's cynicism had van-
ished before the vision.

The little boat drifted to a set of steps that led down
to the water, which was dappled with the reflections of
the colours, and came to a halt.

D'Averc shrugged. "I suppose this is where we disem-
bark. The boat could have borne us to a less pleasant
place."

Hawkmoon nodded gravely and then said: "Are the
Rings of Myggan still in your pouch, D'Averc?"

D'Averc patted his pouch. "They are safe. Why?"

"I wanted to know that if the danger was too great for
us to face with our swords and there was time to use the
rings, we could use them."

D'Averc nodded his understanding and then his fore-
head creased. "Strange that we did not think of using
them on the island..."

Hawkmoon's face showed his astonishment. "Aye-
aye . . ." And then he pursed his lips in disgust. "Doubt-
less that was the result of supernatural interference with
our brains! How I hate the supernatural!"

D'Averc merrily put his fingers to his lips and put on
an expression of mock disapproval. "What a thing to say
in a city such as this!"

"Aye—well, I hope its inhabitants are as pleasant as its
appearance."

"If it has any inhabitants," replied D'Averc glancing
around him.

Together they climbed the steps and reached the
quayside. The strange buildings were ahead of them and
between the buildings ran wide streets.

"Let's enter the city," Hawkmoon said resolutely,
"and find out why we have been taken here as soon as
we can. Then, perhaps, we shall be allowed to return to
Castle Brass!"

Entering the nearest street, it seemed to them that the
shadows cast by the buildings actually glowed with a life
and a colour of their own. At close hand the tall towers
were hardly tangible and when Hawkmoon reached out
to touch one the substance of it was unlike anything he
had touched before. It was not stone and it was not tim-
ber; not steel even, for it gave slightly under his fingers
and made them tingle. He was also surprised by the
warmth that ran through his arm and suffused his body.

He shook his head. "It is more like flesh than stone!"

D'Averc reached out now and was equally astonished.
"Aye—or like vegetation of some kind. Organic—living
stuff!"

They moved on. Every so often the long streets would
broaden out into squares. They crossed the squares,
choosing another street at random, looking up at the

building which gave the appearance of infinite height,
which disappeared into the strange, golden haze.

Their voices were hushed; they feared to disturb the
silence of the great city.

"Have you noticed," murmured Hawkmoon, "that
there are no windows?"

"And no doors." D'Averc nodded. "I am certain that
this city was not built for human use—and that humans
did not build it!"

"Perhaps some beings created in the Tragic Millen-
nium," Hawkmoon suggested. "Beings like the Wraith
Folk of Soryandum."

D'Averc nodded his head in agreement.

Now ahead of them the strange shadows seemed to
gather closer together and they passed into them, an
impression of great well-being overcoming them.
Hawkmoon smiled in spite of his fears, and D'Averc,
too, answered his smile. The glowing shadows swam
around them. Hawkmoon began to wonder if perhaps
these shadows were, in fact, the inhabitants of the city.

They passed out of the street and stood in a huge
square without doubt the very centre of the city. Rising
from the middle of this square was a cylindrical build-
ing. In spite of being the largest building in the city it
also seemed the most delicate. Its walls moved with
coloured light and Hawkmoon noticed something at its
base.

"Look, D'Averc—steps leading to a door!"

"What should we do, I wonder," whispered his friend.

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Enter, of course. What have
we to lose?"

"Perhaps we shall discover the answer to that question
within. After you, Duke of Koln!"

The two mounted the steps and climbed until they
reached the doorway. It was relatively small—of human
size in fact and within it they could see more of the
glowing shadows.

Hawkmoon stepped bravely forward with D'Averc im-
mediately behind him.

Chapter Six

Jehamia Cohnahlias

THEIR FEET SEEMED to sink into the floor and the
glowing shadows wrapped themselves around them as
they advanced into the scintillating darkness of the
tower.

A sweet sound now filled the corridors—a gentle sound
like an unearthly lullaby. The music increased their
sense of well-being. They pressed deeper into the
strangely organic construction.

And then suddenly they stood in a small room, full of
the same golden, pulsing radiance they had seen earlier
from the boat.

And the radiance came from a child.

He was a boy, of oriental appearance, with a soft,
brown skin, clad in robes on to which jewels had
been stitched so that the fabric was completely hid-
den.

He smiled and his smile matched the gentle radiance
surrounding him. It was impossible not to love him.

"Duke Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln," he said sweetly,
bowing his head, "and Huillam D'Averc. I have ad-
mired both your painting and your buildings, sir."

D'Averc was astonished. "You know of those?"

"They are excellent. Why do you not do more?"

D'Averc coughed in embarrassment. "I—I lost the
knack, I suppose. And then the war..."

"Ah, of course. The Dark Empire. That is why you
are here."

"I would gather so—"

"I am called Jehamia Cohnahlias." The boy smiled
again. "And that is the only direct information about
myself I can offer you, in case you were going to ask me
anything further. This city is called Dnark and its in-
habitants are called in the outer world The Great Good
Ones. You have encountered some of them already, I be-
lieve."

"The glowing shadows?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Is that how you perceive them?"

"Are they sentient?" Hawkmoon queried.

"They are indeed. More than sentient, perhaps."

"And this city, Dnark," Hawkmoon said. "It is the leg-
endary City of the Runestaff."

"It is."

"Strange that all those legends should place its posi-
tion not on the continent of Amarehk, but in Asiacom-
munista, said D'Averc.

"Perhaps it is not a coincidence," smiled the boy. "It
is convenient to have such legends."

"I understand."

Jehamia Cohnahlias smiled quietly.

"You have come to see the Runestaff, I gather?"

"Apparently," said Hawkmoon, unable to feel anger
in the presence of the child. "First the Warrior in Jet
and Gold told us to come here and then when we de-
murred we were introduced to his brother—one Orland
Fank..."

"Ah, yes," smiled Jehamia Cohnahlias. "Orland Fank.
I have a special affection for that particular servant of
the Runestaff. Well, let us go." He frowned slightly.
"Ah, first you will want to refresh yourselves and meet a
fellow traveller. One who preceded you here by only a
matter of hours."

"Do we know him?"

"I believe you have had some contact in the past"

The boy seemed almost to float down from his chair.
"This way."

"Who can it be?" murmured D'Averc to Hawkmoon.
"Who would we know who would come to Dnark?"

Chapter Seven

A Well-Known Traveller

THEY FOLLOWED JEHEMIA Cohnahlias through the
winding, organic corridors of the building. Now they
were lighter, for the glowing shadows—the Great Good
Ones as the boy had described them—had vanished. Pre-
sumably their task had been to help guide Hawkmoon
and D'Averc to the child.

At last they entered a larger hall in which had been
set a long table, presumably made of the same substance
as the walls, and benches, also of the same stuff. Food
had been laid on the table—relatively simple fare: fish,
bread and green vegetables.

But it was the figure at the far end of the hall who
attracted their attention, who made their hands go auto-
matically to their swords while their faces assumed ex-
pressions of angry astonishment.

It was Hawkmoon who got the words out at last, be-
tween clenched teeth.

"Shenegar Trott!"

The fat figure moved heavily towards them, -his plain,
silver mask apparently a parody of the features beneath
it.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Dorian Hawkmoon and
Huillam D'Averc, is it not?"

Hawkmoon turned to the boy. "Do you realise who
this creature is?"

"An explorer from Europe," he said.

"He is the Count of Sussex—one of King Huon's
righthand men. He has raped half Europe! He is second
only to Baron Meliadus in the evil he has wrought!"

"Come now," Trott said, his voice soft and amused.
"Let us not begin by insulting each other. We are on
neutral ground here. The issues of war are another mat-
ter. Since they do not at the moment concern us, then I
suggest we behave in a civilised manner—and not insult
our young host here ..."

Hawkmoon glowered. "How did you come to Dnark,
Count Shenegar?"

"By ship, Duke of Koln. Our Baron Kalan—whom I
understand you have met . . ." Trott chuckled as
Hawkmoon automatically put his hand to the black
jewel Kalan had earlier placed there . . . "he invented a
new kind of engine to propel our ships at great speed
over the sea. Based on the engine that gives power to
our ornithopters, I gather, but more sophisticated. I was
commissioned by our wise King Emperor to journey to
Amarahk, there to make friendly advances to the powers
dwelling here ..."

"To discover their strengths and weaknesses before
you attacked, you mean!" Hawkmoon shouted. "It is im-
possible to trust a servant of the Dark Empire!"

The boy spread his hands and a look of sorrow
crossed his face. "Here in Dnark we seek only equilib-
rium. That, after all, is the goal and reason for existence
of the Runestaff, which we are here to protect. Save
your disputes, I beg you, for the battlefield and join to-
gether to eat the food we have prepared."

"But I must warn you," Huillam D'Averc said in a
lighter tone than Hawkmoon had used, "that Shenegar
Trott is not here to bring peace. Wherever he goes, he
brings evil and disruption. Be prepared—for he is con-
sidered to be the most cunning lord in all Granbretan."

The boy seemed embarrassed and merely gestured
again to the table. "Please be seated."

"And where is your fleet, Count Shenegar?" D'Averc

asked as he sat down on the bench and pulled a plate of
fish towards him.

"Fleet?" Trott replied innocently. "I did not mention
a fleet—only my ship, which is moored with its crew a
few miles away from the city."

"Then it must be a large ship indeed," murmured
Hawkmoon, biting at a hunk of bread, "for it is unlike a
count of the Dark Empire to make a journey un-
prepared for conquest."

"You forget that we are scientists and scholars, too, in
Granbretan," Trott said, as if mildly offended. "We seek
knowledge and truth and reason. Why, our whole inten-
tion in uniting the warring states of Europe was to
bring a rational peace to the world, so that knowledge
could progress the faster."

D'Averc coughed ostentatiously, but said nothing.
Trott now did something that in a Dark Empire
noble was virtually unprecedented, for he cheerfully
pushed back his mask and began to eat. In Granbretan
it was considered gross indecency both to display the
face and to eat in public. Trott, Hawkmoon knew, had
always been thought eccentric in Granbretan, tolerated
by the other nobles only by virtue of his vast private for-
tune, his skill as a general and, in spite of his flabby ap-
pearance, a warrior of considerable personal courage.

The face revealed was the one caricatured on the
mask. It was white, plump and intelligent. The eyes
were without expression, but it was plain Shenegar
Trott could put whatever expression he chose into
them.

They ate in relative silence. Only the boy touched
none of the food, though he sat with them.

At length Hawkmoon gestured to the count's bulky
silver armour. "Why do you travel in such heavy ac-
coutrement, Count Shenegar, if you are on a peaceful
mission of exploration?"

Shenegar Trott smiled. "Why—how was I to anticipate
what dangers I should have to face in this strange city?
Surely it is logical to travel well-prepared?"
D'Averc changed the subject as if he realised they

would receive nothing but smooth answers from the
Granbretanian. "How goes the war in Europe?" he
asked.

"There is no war in Europe," Trott answered.

"No war! Then why should we be here—exiles from
our own lands?" Hawkmoon said.

"There is no war, because all of Europe is now at
peace under the patronage of our good King Huon,"
Shenegar Trott said, and then he gave a faint wink—al-
most a comradely wink—which made it impossible for
Hawkmoon to reply.

"Save for the Kamarg, that is," Trott continued. "And
that, of course, has vanished altogether. My fellow peer
Baron Meliadus was quite enraged by that."

"I'm sure he was," said Hawkmoon. "And does he still
continue his vendetta against us?"

Indeed he does. In fact when I left Londra, he was in
danger of becoming a laughing stock at court."

"You seem to feel little affection for Baron Meliadus,"
D'Averc suggested.

"You understand me well," Count Shenegar told him.
"You see we are not all such insane and greedy men as
you would think. I have many disputes with Baron Meli-
adus. Though I am loyal to my motherland and my
leader, I do not agree with everything done in their
names—indeed, what I myself have done. I follow my or-
ders. I am a patriot." Shenegar Trott shrugged his bulky
shoulders. "I would prefer to stay at home, reading and
writing. I was once thought a promising poet, you
know."

"But now you write only epitaphs—and those in blood
and fire," Hawkmoon said.

Count Shenegar did not seem hurt. Instead he replied
reasonably. "You have your point of view, I have mine.
I believe in the ultimate sanity of our cause—that the
unification of the world is of maximum importance, that
personal ambitions, no matter how noble, must be sacri-
ficed to the larger principles."

"That is the usual bland Granbretanian answer,"
Hawkmoon said, unconvinced. "It is the argument that

Meliadus used to Count Brass shortly before he attempt-
ed to rape and carry off his daughter Yisselda!"

"I have already disassociated myself from Baron Meli-
adus," Count Shenegar said. "Every court must have its
fool, every great ideal must attract some who are mo-
tivated only by self-interest."

Shenegar Trott's answers seemed more directed at the
quietly listening boy than at Hawkmoon and D'Averc
themselves.

The meal finished, Trott pushed back his plate and
resettled his silver mask over his face. He turned to the
boy. "I thank you, sir, for your hospitality. Now—you
promised me I might look upon and admire the
Runestaff. It will give me great joy to stand before that
legendary artefact..."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc glanced warningly at the
boy, but he did not appear to notice.

"It is late, now," said Jehemia Cohnahlias. "We shall
all visit the Hall of the Runestaff tomorrow. Meanwhile
rest here. Through that little door," he gestured across
the room, "you will find sleeping accommodation. I will
call for you in the morning."

"Shenegar Trott rose and bowed. "I thank you for your
offer, but my men will become agitated if I do not re-
turn to my ship tonight. I will rejoin you here tomor-
row."

"As you wish," the boy said.

"We would be grateful to you for your hospitality,"
Hawkmoon said. "But again let us warn you that Shene-
gar Trott may not be what he would have you believe."

"You are admirable in your tenacity," Shenegar Trott
said. He waved a gauntleted hand in a cheerful salute
and strode jauntily from the hall.

"I fear we shall sleep poorly knowing that our enemy
is in Dnark," said D'Averc.

The boy smiled. "Fear not. The Great Good Ones
will help you rest and protect you from any harm.
Goodnight, gentlemen. I shall see you tomorrow."

The boy walked lightly from the room and D'Averc
and Hawkmoon went to inspect the cubicles containing

bunks and bedding that were let into the side of the
walls.

"Shenegar Trott means the boy harm," Hawkmoon
said.

"We had best make it our business to look after him,
if we can," D'Averc replied. "Goodnight, Hawkmoon."

After D'Averc had ducked into his cubicle, Hawkmoon
entered his own. It was full of glowing shadows and the
soft music of the unearthly lullaby he had heard earlier.
Almost immediately he was sound asleep.

Chapter Eight

An Ultimatum

HAWKMOON AWOKE LATE feeling thoroughly rested,
but then he noticed that the glowing shadows seemed
agitated. They had turned to a cold, blue colour and
were swirling around as if in fear!

Hawkmoon rose quickly and buckled on his sword
belt. He frowned. Was the danger he had anticipated
about to come—or had it come already? The Great Good
Ones seemed incapable of human communication.

D'Averc came running into Hawkmoon's cubicle.

"What do you think is the matter, Hawkmoon?"

"I do not know. Is Shenegar Trott scheming invasion?
Is the boy in trouble?"

All at once the glowing shadows had wrapped them-
selves chillingly around the two men and they felt them-
selves whisked from the cubicle, through the room in
which they had eaten, and along the corridors" at incred-
ible speed until they broke out of the building alto-
gether and were whirled upward into the golden light.

Now the speed of the Great Good Ones decreased and
Hawkmoon and D'Averc, still breathless at the sudden
action of the glowing shadows, hovered in the air high
above the main square.

D'Averc looked pale, for his feet were planted on
nothing and the glowing shadows seemed had taken on
even less substance. Yet they did not fall.

Down in the square tiny figures could be seen moving
in towards the cylindrical tower.

"It is an entire army!" Hawkmoon gasped. "There
must be thousands of them. So much for Shenegar
Trott's claims for the peaceful nature of his mission. He
has invaded Dnark! But why?"

"Isn't it obvious to you, my friend," said D'Averc
grimly. "He seeks the Runestaff itself. With that in his
power, he would doubtless rule the world!"

"But he does not know its location!"

"That is probably why he is attacking the tower.
See—there are warriors already inside!"

Surrounded by the flimsy shadows, and with golden
light on all sides, the two men looked at the scene in dis-
may.

"We must descend," Hawkmoon said finally.

"But we are only two against a thousand!" D'Averc
pointed out.

"Aye—but if the Sword of the Dawn will again sum-
mon the Legion of the Dawn, then we might succeed
against them!" Hawkmoon reminded him.

As if they had understood his words, the Great Good
Ones began to descend. Hawkmoon felt his heart enter
his throat as they dropped rapidly towards the square,
now thickly clustered with masked Dark Empire war-
riors—members of the terrible Falcon Legion which, like
the Vulture Legion, was a mercenary force made up of
renegades who were, if anything, more evil than the
native Granbretanians. Had Falcon eyes stared up in an-
ticipation of the feast of blood Hawkmoon and D'Averc
offered; they had beaks ready to tear the flesh of the two
enemies of the Dark Empire, and their swords, maces,
axes and spears were like talons poised to rend.

As the glowing shadows deposited D'Averc and the
Duke of Koln near the entrance to the tower they just
had time to draw their blades before the Falcons at-
tacked.

But then Shenegar Trott appeared at the entrance of
the tower and called to his men.

"Stop, my falcons. There is no need for bloodshed. I
have the boy!"

Hawkmoon and D'Averc saw him lift the child, Jehe-
mia Cohnahlias, by his robes and hold him struggling
before them.

"I know that this city is full of supernatural creatures
who would seek to stop us," the Count announced, "and
thus I have taken the liberty of insuring our safety while
we are here. If we are attacked. If one of us is touched,
I shall slit the little boy's throat from ear to ear." Shene-
gar Trott chuckled. "I take this step only to avoid un-
pleasantness on all sides..."

Hawkmoon made to move, to summon the Legion of
the Dawn, but Trott wagged his finger chidingly.
"Would you be the cause of a child's death, Duke of
Koln?"

Glowering, Hawkmoon dropped his swordarm, ad-
dressing the boy. "I warned you of his perfidy!"

"Aye ..." the boy struggled, half-choking in his robes.
"I fear I should have—paid more—attention to you, sir."

Count Shenegar laughed, his mask flashing in the
golden light "Now—tell me where the Runestaff is
kept."

The boy pointed back into the tower. "The Hall of
the Runestaff is within."

"Show me!" Shenegar Trott turned to his men.
"Watch this pair. I'd rather have them alive, since the
King Emperor will be well-pleased if we can return with
two as well as Heroes of Kamarg the Runestaff. If they
move, shout to me and I'll take off an ear or two." He
drew his dirk and held it near the boy's face. "Most of
you—follow me."

Shenegar Trott disappeared once more into the tower
and six of the Falcon warriors stayed to guard Hawk-
moon and D'Averc while the rest followed their leader.

Hawkmoon scowled. "If only the boy had paid heed
to what we said!" He moved slightly and the Falcons
stirred warningly. "Now how are we to save him—and
the Runestaff—from Trott?"

Suddenly the Falcons looked upward in astonishment
and D'Averc's gaze followed theirs.

"It seems we are to be rescued," smiled D'Averc.

The glowing shadows were returning.

Before the Falcons could move or speak, the shadows
had wrapped themselves around the two men and were
once again lifting them upwards.

Disconcerted, the Falcons slashed at their feet as they
ascended, and then turned to run into the tower, to
warn their leader of what had happened.

Higher and higher rose the Great Good Ones, carry-
ing Hawkmoon and D'Averc with them. Into the golden
haze that became a thick, golden mist so that they could
no longer see each other, let alone the buildings of the
city.

They seemed to travel for hours before they became
aware of the golden mist thinning.

Chapter Nine

The Runestaff

As THE GOLDEN mist diminished, Hawkmoon blinked
his eyes, for they were now assailed by all manner
of colours—waves and rays making strange configurations
in the air—and all emanating from a central source.

Narrowing his eyes against the light, he peered
around him. They hovered near the roof of a hall whose
walls seemed constructed of sheets of translucent emer-
ald and onyx. At the centre of the hall rose a dais,
reached by steps from all sides. It was from the object
on this dais that the configurations of light originated.
The patterns—stars, circles, cones and more complex fig-
ures—shifted constantly, but their source was always the
same. It was a small staff, about the length of a short
sword, of a dense black, dull and apparently discoloured
in a few places. The discolorations were of a deep,
mottled blue.

Could this be the Runestaff? Hawkmoon wondered. It
seemed unimpressive for an object of such legendary
powers. He had imagined it taller than a man, of bril-
liant colours—but that thing he could carry in one
hand!

Suddenly, from the side of the hall, men thrust them-
selves in. It was Shenegar Trott and his Falcon Legion.
The little boy still struggled in Trott's grasp and now

the laughter of the Count of Sussex began to fill the
hall.

"At last! And it is mine! Even the King Emperor will
not dare to deny me anything once the Runestaff itself is
in my hands."

Hawkmoon sniffed. There was a fragrant, bitter-sweet
smell in the air. And now a mellow humming sound
filled the hall. The Great Good Ones began to lower
himself and D'Averc until they stood high on the steps,
just below the Runestaff. And then Count Shenegar saw
them.

"How...?"

Hawkmoon glared down at him, raised his left arm to
point directly at him. "Release the child, Shenegar
Trott!"

The Count of Sussex chuckled again, recovering
quickly from his astonishment. "First tell me how you
arrived here before me."

"By means of the help of the Great Good Ones—those
supernatural creatures you feared. And we have other
friends, Count Shenegar."

Trott's dirk leapt to within a hairsbreadth of the boy's
nose. "I would be a fool, then, to release my only chance
of freedom—not to say success!"

Hawkmoon lifted up the Sword of the Dawn. "I warn
you, Count, this blade I bear is no ordinary instrument!
See how it glows with rosy light!"

"Aye—it is very pretty. But can it stop me before I
pluck one of the boy's eyes from his skull, like a plum
from the jar?"

D'Averc glanced about the strange room, at the con-
stantly changing patterns of light, at the peculiar walls,
and the glowing shadows now high above and seemingly
looking on. "It's stalemate, Hawkmoon," he murmured.
"We can get no further help from the glowing shadows.
Evidently they are powerless to take a part in human af-
fairs."

"If you'd release the boy, I'd consider letting you
leave Dnark unharmed," Hawkmoon said.

Shenegar Trott laughed. "Indeed? And you would
chase an army from the city, you two?"

"We are not without allies," Hawkmoon reminded
him.

"Possibly. But I suggest you lay down your own
swords and let me up to the Runestaff there. When I
have that, you may have the boy."

"Alive?"

"Alive."

"How can we trust Shenegar Trott of all men?"
D'Averc said. "He will kill the boy and then dispose of
us. It is not the way of the nobles of Granbretan to keep
their word."

"If only we had some guarantee," whispered
Hawkmoon desperately.

At that moment a familiar voice spoke from behind
them and they turned in surprise.

"You have no choice but to release the child, Shene-
gar Trott!" The voice boomed from within a helm of
jet and gold.

"Aye, my brother speaks the truth . . ." From the
other side of the dais Orland Fank now emerged, his
gigantic war-axe on his leather-clad shoulder.

"How did you get here?" Hawkmoon asked in aston-
ishment.

"I might ask the same," grinned Fank. "At least you
now have friends with whom to debate this dilemma."

Chapter Ten

Spirit of The Runestaff

SHENEGAR TROTT, COUNT of Sussex, chuckled again
and shook his head. "Well, there are now four of you,
but it does not alter the situation a scrap. I have thou-
sands at my back. I have the boy. You will kindly step
aside, gentlemen, while I take the Runestaff for my
own."

Orland Fank's rawboned face split in a huge grin,
while the Warrior in Jet and Gold merely shifted his ar-
moured feet a little. Hawkmoon and D'Averc look ques-
tioningly at them. "I think there is a weakness in your
argument, my friend," said Orland Fank.

"Oh, no sir—there is none." Shenegar Trott began to
move forward.

"Aye—I'd say that there was."

Trott paused. "What is it, then?"

"You are assuming you can hold yon boy, are you
not?"

"I could kill him before you could take him."

"Aye—but you're assuming the child has no means of
escaping from you, are you not?"

"He can't wriggle free!" Shenegar Trott held the
child up by the slack of his garments and began to
laugh loudly. "See!"

And then the Granbretanian yelled in astonishment as
the boy seemed to flow from his grasp, streaking out

across the hall in a long strip of light, his features still
visible but oddly elongated. The music swelled in the
hall and the odour increased.

Shenegar Trott made ineffectual grabbing motions at
the boy's thinning substance but it was as impossible to
grasp him as it was to grasp the glowing shadows now
pulsing in the air above them.

"By Huon's Globe—he is not human!" screamed Trott
in frustrated anger. "He is not human!"

"He did not claim to be," Orland Fank said mildly
and winked cheerfully at Hawkmoon. "Are you and
your friend ready for a good fight?"

"We are," grinned Hawkmoon. "We are indeed!"

Now the boy—or whatever it was—was stretching out
over their heads to touch the Runestaff. The configura-
tions changed rapidly and many more of them filled the
hall so that all their faces were crossed with shifting bars
of colour.

Orland Fank watched this with great attention and it
seemed that as the boy was actually absorbed into the
Runestaff the Orkneyman's face flooded with regret.

Soon there was no trace of the boy in the hall and the
Runestaff glowed a brighter black, seemed to have sen-
tience.

Hawkmoon gasped. "Who was he, Orland Fank?"

Fank blinked. "Who? Why, the spirit of the Runestaff.
He rarely materialises in human form. You were es-
pecially honoured."

Shenegar Trott was screaming in fury. Then he broke
off as a great voice boomed from the closed helm of the
Warrior in Jet and Gold. "Now you must prepare your-
self for death, Count of Sussex."

Trott laughed crazily. "You are still mistaken. There
are four of you—thousands of us. You shall die, and then
I shall claim the Runestaff!"

The Warrior turned to Hawkmoon. "Duke of Koln,
would you care to summon some aid?"

"With pleasure," grinned Hawkmoon and he raised
the rosy sword high in the air. "I summon the Legion of
the Dawn!"

A rosy light filled the hall, flooding over the colourful
patterns in the air. And there stood a hundred fierce
warriors, framed each in his own scarlet aura.

The warriors had a barbaric appearance, as if they
came from an earlier, more primitive age. They bore
great spiked clubs decorated with ornate carvings, lances
bound with tufts of dyed hair. Their brown bodies and
faces were smeared with paint and clad in loincloths of
bright stuff. On their arms and legs were strapped
wooden discs for protection. Their large black eyes were
full of a remote sorrow and they gave voice to a mourn-
ful, moaning dirge.

These were the Warriors of the Dawn.

Even the hardened members of the Falcon Legion
cried out in horror as the warriors appeared from
nowhere. Shenegar Trott took a step backward.

"I would advise you to lay down your weapons and
make yourselves our prisoners," Hawkmoon advised
grimly.

Trott shook his head. "Never. There are still more of
us than there are of you!"

"Then we must begin our battle," Hawkmoon said,
and he moved down the steps towards his enemies.

Now Shenegar Trott drew his own great battleblade
and dropped to a fighting position. Hawkmoon swung at
him with the Sword of the Dawn, but Trott dodged
aside, swinging at Hawkmoon and barely missing goug-
ing a line across his stomach. Hawkmoon was at a disad-
vantage, for Trott was fully armoured, while Hawkmoon
wore only silk.

The dirge of the Soldiers of the Dawn changed to a
great howl as they rushed down the steps behind
Hawkmoon and began to hack and stab about them
with clubs and lances. The fierce Falcon fighters met
them valiantly, giving as good as they received, but were
plainly demoralised when they discovered that for every
Warrior of the Dawn that they slew another appeared
from nowhere to take his place.

D'Averc, Orland Fank and the Warrior in Jet and
Gold moved more slowly down the steps, swinging their

blades in unison before them and driving back the Fal-
cons with three pendulums of steel.

Shenegar Trott struck again at Hawkmoon and
ripped the sleeve of his shirt. Hawkmoon flung out his
swordarm and the Sword of the Dawn met Trott's mask,
denting it so that the features took on an even more gro-
tesque appearance.

But then, as Hawkmoon leapt backward, poised to
continue the fight, he felt a sudden blow on the back of
his head, half-turned and saw a Falcon warrior had
struck him with the haft of an axe. He tried to recover,
but then began to fall. As he lost his senses, he saw the
Warriors of Dawn fade into oblivion. Desperately he
tried to recover, for the Warriors of Dawn, it seemed,
could not exist unless he had control of his senses.

But it was too late. As he fell to the steps, he heard
Shenegar Trott chuckling.

Chapter Eleven

A Brother Slain

HAWKMOON HEARD THE distant din of battle, shook
his head and peered through a haze of red and black.
He tried to rise, but at least four corpses pinned him
down. His friends had taken good account of themselves.

Struggling up, he saw that Shenegar Trott had
reached the Runestaff. And there stood the Warrior in
Jet and Gold, evidently badly wounded, hacked at by a
hundred blades, attempting to stop the Granbretanian.
But Shenegar Trott raised a huge mace and brought it
down on the Warrior's helm. He staggered and the helm
crumpled.

Hawkmoon gathered his breath to cry hoarsely:
"Legion of the Dawn! Return to me! Legion of the
Dawn!"

At last the barbaric warriors reappeared, lashing
about them at the startled Falcons.

Hawkmoon staggered up the steps to the Warrior's
aid, unable to see if any of the others lived. But then
the huge weight of the jet and gold armour began to
fall towards him, knocking him backwards. He support-
ed it as best he could, but he knew by the feel of it that
there was no life in the body within.

He forced back the visor, weeping for the man he had
never considered a friend until now, curious to see the
features of the one who had guided his destiny for so

long, but the visor would hardly move an inch, Shene-
gar Trott's mace had buckled it so.

"Warrior..."

"The Warrior is dead!" Shenegar Trott had flung off
his mask and was reaching for the Runestaff, tri-
umphantly staring over his shoulder at Hawkmoon. "As
shall you be in a trice, Dorian Hawkmoon!"

With a shout of fury, Hawkmoon dropped the War-
rior's corpse and flew up the steps towards his enemy.
Disconcerted, Trott turned, raising the mace again.

Hawkmoon ducked the blow and closed with Trott,
grappling with him on the topmost step while red car-
nage spread all around them.

As he struggled with the count, he saw D'Averc, half-
way up the steps, his shirt a mass of bloody rags, one
arm limp at his side, tackling five of the Falcon war-
riors—and higher up Orland Fank was still alive, whirl-
ing his battle-axe around his head and giving voice to a
strange, skirling cry.

Trott's breath wheezed from between his fat lips and
Hawkmoon was astonished at his strength. "You will
die, Hawkmoon—you must die if the Runestaff is to be
mine!"

Hawkmoon panted as he wrestled with the Count. "It
will never be yours. It can be possessed by no man!"

With a sudden heave, he broke Trott's guard and
punched him full in the face. The Count screamed and
came forward again, but Hawkmoon raised his booted
foot and kicked him in the chest, sending him reeling
back against the dais. Then Hawkmoon recovered his
sword and when Shenegar Trott ran at him again, blind
with anger, he ran directly on to the point of the Sword
of the Dawn, dying with an obscene curse on his lips
and one last, backward look at the Runestaff.

Hawkmoon tugged the sword free and looked about
him. His Legion of the Dawn were finishing their work,
clubbing down the last of the Falcons, and D'Averc and
Fank were leaning exhaustedly against the dais beneath
the Runestaff.

Soon a few groans were cut short as spiked clubs fell

on heads, and then there was silence save for the faint,
melodic humming and the heavy breathing of the three
survivors.

As the last Granbretanian died, the Legion of the
Dawn vanished.

Hawkmoon stared down at the fat corpse of Shenegar
Trott and he frowned. "We have slain one—but if one
has been sent here, then others will follow. Dnark is no
longer safe from the Dark Empire."

Fank sniffed and wiped his nose with his forearm. "It
is for you to make sure that Dnark is safe—that the rest
of the world is safe."

Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. "And how may I do
that?"

Fank began to speak and then his eyes lighted on the
huge corpse of the Warrior in Jet and Gold and he
gasped: "Brother!" and began to stagger down the steps,
to drop his battle axe and gather the armoured figure in
his arms. "Brother...?"

"He is dead," Hawkmoon said softly. "He died by
Shenegar Trott's hand, defending the Runestaff. I slew
Trott.. ."

Fank wept.

At length they stood together, the three of them, look-
ing about at the carnage. The whole hall of the Rune-
staff was full of corpses. Even the patterns in the air
seemed to have taken on a reddish colouring and the
bitter-sweet odour could not disguise the stink of death.

Hawkmoon scabbarded the Sword of the Dawn.
"What now, I wonder?" he said. "We've done the work
we were asked to do. We've defended the Runestaff suc-
cessfully. Now do we return to Europe."

Then a voice spoke from behind them; it was the
sweet voice of the child, Jehemia Cohnahlias. Turning,
Hawkmoon saw that he stood beside the Runestaff,
holding it in one hand.

"Duke of Koln you take what you have rightfully
earned," said the boy, his slanting eyes full of warm hu-

mour. "You take the Runestaff with you back to Europe,
there to decide the destiny of the Earth."

"To Europe! I thought it could not be removed from
its place."

"You, as the chosen one of the Runestaff, may take
it." The boy stretched out towards Hawkmoon, and in
his hand was the Runestaff. "Defend it. And pray it de-
fends you."

"And how shall we use it?" D'Averc enquired.

"As your standard. Let all men know that the
Runestaff rides with you—that the Runestaff is on your
side. Tell them that it was the Baron Meliadus who
dared swear an oath on the Runestaff and thus set into
motion these events which will destroy completely one
protagonist or the other. Whatever happens, it will be fi-
nal. Carry your invasion to Granbretan if you can, or
else die in the effort. The last great battle between Meli-
adus and Hawkmoon is soon to be fought, and over it
the Runestaff will preside!"

Hawkmoon mutely accepted the staff. It felt cold,
dead and very heavy, though the patterns still blazed
about it.

"Put it inside your shirt, or wrap it in a cloth," ad-
vised the boy, "and none will observe those betraying
forces until you should wish them revealed."

"Thank you," said Hawkmoon quietly.

"The Great Good Ones will help you return to your
home," the boy continued. "Farewell, Hawkmoon."

"Farewell? Where do you go now?"

"Where I belong."

And suddenly the boy began to change again, turning
into a streamer of golden light still bearing some sem-
blance of human shape, pouring itself into the
Runestaff which immediately became warm, vital and
light in Hawkmoon's grasp.

With a slight shudder, Hawkmoon tucked the
Runestaff inside his shirt.

As they walked out of the hall, D'Averc observed that
Orland Fank was still weeping softly.

"What disturbs you, Fank?" D'Averc asked. "Do you
still grieve for the man who was your brother."

"Aye—but I grieve for my son the more."

"Your son? What of him?"

Orland Fank jerked his thumb at Hawkmoon, who
wandered behind, his head bowed in thought. "He has
him."

"What do you mean?"

Fank sighed. "It must be, I know that. But still, I am a
man, I can weep. I speak of Jehemia Cohnahlias."

"The boy! The spirit of the Runestaff?"

"Aye. He was my son—or myself—I have never quite
understood these things..."

BOOK TWO

As it is written: "Those who swear by the
Runestaff must then benefit or suffer from
the consequences of the fixed pattern of
destiny that they set in motion." And Baron
Meliadus of Kroiden had sworn such an oath,
had sworn vengeance against all of Castle
Brass, had sworn that Yisselda, Count Brass's
daughter, would be his. On that day, many
months earlier, he had fixed the pattern of
fate; a pattern that had involved him in
strange, destructive schemes, that had in-
volved Dorian Hawkmoon in wild and un-
canny adventures in distant places, and that
was now nearing its terrible resolution.

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

Whispering in Secret Rooms

THE VERANDAH OVERLOOKED the blood-red river
Tayme making its sluggish way through the very heart
of Londra, between gloomy, crazy towers.

Above them the occasional ornithopter, a bright bird
of metal, clanked past, and on the river the barges of
bronze and ebony carried cargo to and from the coast.
Those cargoes were rich; full of stolen goods and stolen
men, women and children brought as slaves to Londra.
An awning of heavy purple velvet hung with tassels of
scarlet silk protected the occupants of the veranda from
view from above and the awning's shadow made it im-
possible for them to be seen from the river.

A table of brass and two golden chairs upholstered in
blue plush stood on the verandah. A richly decorated
platinum tray on the table bore a wine jug of dark
green glass and two matching goblets. On either side of
the door leading on to the verandah stood a naked girl,
with face, breasts and genitals heavily rouged. Anyone
familiar with the Court of Londra would have recog-
nised the slave girls as belonging to Baron Meliadus of
Kroiden, for he had only female slaves and their only
livery was the rouge he insisted they wear. Of the girls,
who stared fixedly out at the river, one was a blonde, al-
most certainly from Koln in Germany, the Baron's pos-
session by right of conquest. The other girl was dark,

doubtless from some province in the Middle East Baron
Meliadus had added, by means of a bloodied sword, to
his estates.

In one golden chair sat a woman, clad from head to
foot in rich brocade and wearing a silver mask, deli-
cately fashioned to resemble a heron. Next to her sat a
figure dressed in bulky black leather, his shoulders
crowned by a huge mask representing a black, snarling
wolf. He inserted a golden tube into his goblet and
stuck the other end through a tiny aperture in the mask,
sucking slowly at the wine.

There was silence between the pair and the only
sound came from beyond the verandah—from the wake
of the barges slapping at the wall, from a distant tower
as someone screamed and laughed at once, from an orni-
thopter high above, its metal wings flapping slowly as it
sought to land on the flat top of one of the towers.

And then, at length, the figure in the wolf mask began
to speak in a low, thrilling voice. The other figure did
not move its head or appear to hear but continued to
stare out over the blood red water whose strange colour
was attributed to the effluvia which poured from outlets
near its bed.

"You are under some slight suspicion yourself, you
know, Flana. King Huon thinks you might have had
something to do with the mysterious madness which
overwhelmed the guards the night the Asiacommu-
nistans escaped. Doubtless I am not helping my own
cause by seeing you thus, but I think only of our be-
loved homeland—only of the glory of Granbretan."

The speaker paused as if expecting a reply. He re-
ceived none.

"It is plain, Flana, that the present situation of the
Court is not in the best interests of the Empire. I delight
in eccentricity, of course, as a true son of Granbretan,
but there is a difference between eccentricity and senil-
ity. You take my meaning?"

Flana Mikosevaar said nothing.

"I am suggesting," continued the other, "that we need
a new ruler—an Empress. There is only one alive who is

a direct blood relative of Huon—only one all would ac-
cept as rightful liege; legal inheritor to the throne of
the Dark Empire."

Again no reply.

The figure in the wolf mask bent forward. "Flana?"

The heron mask turned to regard the snarling wolf
visage.

"Flana—you could be Queen-Empress of Granbretan.
With myself as Regent, we could ensure the security of
our nation and our territories, make Granbretan greater
—make the whole world ours!"

"And what would be done with the world once we
owned it, Meliadus?" For the first time Flana Mikose-
vaar spoke.

"Enjoy it, Flana! Use it!"

"Cannot one tire of rape and murder? Of torture and
destruction?"

Meliadus seemed puzzled by her comment. "One can
become bored by anything, of course, but there are
other things—there are Kalan's experiments—and Tar-
agorm's for that matter. With the resources of the world
at their disposal, our scientists could make anything.
Why, they could build us ships to sail through space, as
the ancients did. We could journey to new worlds and
conquer them—pitting wits and skill against a universe!
Granbretan's adventure could last a million years!"

"And is adventure and sensation all we should seek,
Meliadus?"

"Aye—why not? All is chaos, there is no meaning to
existence, there is only one advantage to living one's life
and that is to discover all the sensations the human
mind and body is capable of feeling. That will take at
least a million years, surely?"

Flana nodded. "That is our creed, true." She ap-
peared to sigh. "Therefore I suppose I can agree to your
plans, Meliadus, for what you suggest I do is doubtless
no more boring than anything else." She shrugged.
"Very well, I will be your Queen when you need me—
and if Huon discovers our perfidy, why, it will be a re-
lief to die."

Slightly unnerved by this, Meliadus rose from the
table. "You will say nothing to anyone until the time
comes, Flana?"

"I will say nothing."

"Good. Now I must visit Kalan. He is attracted to my
scheme, since it means more scope for his experiments if
we succeed. Taragorm, too, is with me..."

"You trust Taragorm? Your rivalry is well-known."

"Aye— I hate Taragorm, it is true, and he hates me,
but it is a mellow sort of hatred now, for you'll remem-
ber that our rivalry began over Taragorm's marriage to
my sister whom I had previously intended to wed my-
self. But my sister compromised herself—with a jackass, I
heard—and Taragorm discovered it. Whereupon, as you
no doubt heard, my sister had her slaves slaughter her
and the ass in some strange manner. Taragorm and I
disposed of the slaves jointly and during that episode we
rediscovered something of our old comradeship. My
brother-in-law may be trusted. He feels Huon hampers
his researches too much."

All this time their voices had not risen above a mur-
mur so that even the slavegirls by the door could not
hear them.

Meliadus bowed to Flana, snapped his fingers at the
girls so that they ran to prepare his litter and carry him
back through the corridors to his own home, and left.

Flana continued to stare out over the water, hardly
thinking of Meliadus's scheme, but dreaming instead of
the handsome D'Averc and of days in the future when
they might meet again and D'Averc would take her
away from Londra and all its intrigues—take her per-
haps to his own rural estates in France which she, if she
were Queen, would be able to give back to him.

Perhaps there would be an advantage to her becom-
ing Queen Empress, then? That way she could choose
her husband and that husband would be, of course,
D'Averc. She could pardon him for his crimes against
Granbretan, perhaps even pardon his companions-
Hawkmoon and the rest.

But no, Meliadus might agree to D'Avrec's reprieve-
he would not agree to sparing all the rest.

Perhaps her scheme was foolish. She sighed. She did
not altogether care. There was even doubt that D'Averc
was still alive. In the meantime she saw no reason for
not taking at least a passive part in Meliadus's treason,
although even she had some inkling of the awful conse-
quences of failure, of the magnitude of Meliadus's
scheme. He must be desperate indeed to consider over-
throwing his hereditary ruler. In all the two thousand
years of his rule, no Granbretanian had previously
dared think of deposing Huon. Flana did not even know
if it were possible.

She shuddered. If she were made Queen, she would
not choose immortality—particularly if it meant becom-
ing a wizened thing like Huon.

Chapter Two

Conversation Beside The
Mentality Machine

KALAN OF VITALL fingered his serpent mask with
pale, old hands on which the veins stood out, resem-
bling, themselves, so many curling blue snakes. Ahead
was the main laboratory—a great, low-ceilinged hall in
which many experiments were being performed by men
dressed in the uniforms and masks of the Order of the
Serpent, of which Baron Kalan was Grand Constable.
Strange machines gave off stranger sounds and stenches
and miniature coloured lightnings flashed and cracked
around them so that the entire area resembled some hell-
ish workshop presided over by devils. Here and there
human beings of both sexes and varying ages had been
strapped out or fitted into machines as the scientists
tested their experiments on the human mind and body.
Most had been silenced in some way, but a few screamed
or moaned or cried out in peculiar insane voices, often
to the annoyance of the distracted scientists who would
stuff rags into the mouths or sever vocal chords or find
some other swift method of achieving a measure of quiet
while they worked.

Kalan  put  one  hand  on  Meliadus's  shoulder  and
pointed to a machine standing unattended nearby.

"You'll remember the mentality machine? The one we
used to test Hawkmoon's mind?"

"Aye," Meliadus grumbled. "That's the one led you to
believe we could trust Hawkmoon."

"We reckoned without factors we could not antici-
pate," Kalan said by way of defence. "Well, that is not
why I mentioned my little invention. I was asked to use
it this morning."

"By whom?"

"By the King Emperor himself. He summoned me to
the Throne Room and told me he wished to test a mem-
ber of the Court."

"Who?"

"Who d'you think, my lord?"

"Myself!" Meliadus spoke with outrage.

"Exactly. I think he suspects your loyalty in some way,
Lord Baron ..."

"How much, do you think?"

"Not much. All that appears to be in Huon's mind is
that you may be concentrating too much on your per-
sonal schemes and not enough on the interests of his
own plans. I think he would merely like to know how
strong your loyalty is and if you have given up your per-
sonal plans..."

"Do you intend to obey his orders, Kalan?"

Kalan shrugged. "Do you suggest I ignore them?"

"No—but what shall we do?"

"I will have to put you in the mentality machine, of
course, but I think I can obtain the results that would
be most in our interest." Kalan chuckled, a hollow whis-
per of sound from within his mask. "Shall we begin, Me-
liadus?"

Meliadus moved reluctantly forward, looking ner-
vously at the gleaming machine of red and blue metal,
with its mysterious projections, its heavy, jointed arms
and attachments of unknown application. Its main fea-
ture, however, was the huge bell hanging above the rest
of the machine, depending from an intricate scaffold.

Kalan threw a switch and gestured apologetically.
"We once kept this machine in a hall of its own, but

space has become so limited of late. That is one of my
chief complaints. We are asked for so much and given so
little room in which to achieve it." From the machine
came a sound like the breathing of some gigantic beast.
Meliadus took a step backward. Kalan chuckled again
and signalled for serpent-masked servitors to come to
help him operate the device.

"If you will kindly stand beneath the bell, Meliadus,
we will lower it at once," Kalan suggested.

Slowly, suspiciously, Meliadus took his place. The bell
began to descend until it had covered him, its fleshy
sides writhing until they had moulded themselves com-
pletely to his body. Then Meliadus felt as if hot wires
had been inserted into his skull and that they were
probing into his brain. He tried to yell, but was muffled.
Hallucinations began—visions and memories of his past
life—mainly of battles and bloodshed, though the hated
face of Dorian Hawkmoon, twisted into a million fearful
shapes, swam often before his eyes, as did the sweetly
beautiful face of the woman he desired above every-
thing, Yisselda of Brass. Gradually, through an eternity,
his whole life began to be built up until he had recalled
all that had ever happened to him, everything he had
ever thought or dreamed of, not sequentially, but in or-
der of importance. Riding over everything was his desire
for Yisselda, his hatred of Hawkmoon and his schemes
for ousting Huon from power.

Then the bell was rising and Meliadus looked once
again upon the mask of Kalan. Meliadus felt mentally
purged and in high spirits.

"Well, Kalan, what did you discover?"

"Nothing, at this stage, that I did not already know.
The full results will take an hour or two to process." He
giggled. "The emperor would be much amused to see
them."

"Aye. He will not see them, I hope."

"He will see something, Meliadus, that will show that
your hatred for Hawkmoon is diminishing and that your
love for the emperor is abiding and deep. Do not they
tell us that love and hate are close together. Therefore

your hatred of Huon will become love, with a little doc-
toring on my part."

"Good. Now let us discuss the rest of our project. First
we must find a way of bringing Castle Brass back to this
dimension—or else of finding a way through ourselves—
secondly we must discover a means of re-activating the
Black Jewel in Hawkmoon's skull and thus getting him
into our power again. Lastly we must devise weapons
and so forth to enable us to overcome Huon's forces."

Kalan nodded. "Of course. There are already the new
engines I invented for the ships..."

"The ships that Trott left with?"

"Aye. The engines drive vessels faster and farther
than anything ever before invented. Trott's ships are the
only ones so far equipped with them. Trott should be
reporting to us soon."

"Where did he go?"

"I am not sure. Only he and King Huon knew—but it
must have been a good distance away—several thousand
miles at the least. Perhaps to Asiacommunista."

"That seems likely," Meliadus agreed. "Still, let us
forget Trott and discuss the details of our plan. Tar-
agorm, also, is working on a device which might help us
reach Castle Brass."

"Perhaps it would be best for Taragorm to concen-
trate on that line of research, since it is his speciality,
while I try to find a means of activating the Black
Jewel," Kalan suggested.

"Perhaps," murmured Meliadus. "First, I think, I will
consult my brother-in-law. I'll leave you now and return
shortly."

With that, Meliadus summoned his slaves who
brought his litter. He climbed into it, waved farewell to
Kalan, and directed the girls to take him to the Palace
of Time.

Chapter Three

Taragorm of The
Palace of Time

IN TARAGORM'S STRANGE palace, shaped like a gigan-
tic clock, the air was full of clanks and whirrs and the
whistling of pendula and balance wheels and Taragorm,
in his huge clock mask which told the time as accurately
as the other clocks in the palace, took Meliadus's arm
and guided him through the Hall of the Pendulum
where, a short distance above Meliadus's head, the huge
brass bob, made to resemble an ornate, blazing sun,
flung its fifty ton weight back and forth across the hall.

"Well, brother," Meliadus shouted above the noise,
"you sent me a message that you said I would be pleased
to hear, but the message only told me to come to see
you."

"Aye. I felt it best to tell you in private. Come." Tar-
agorm led Meliadus through a short passage and into a
small room in which stood only one ancient clock. Tar-
agorm closed the door and there was relative silence. He
indicated the clock. "It is probably the oldest clock in
the world, brother—a 'grandfather' it was called and it
was made by Thomas Tompion."

"I have not heard the name."

"A master craftsman—the greatest of his age. He lived
well before the onset of the Tragic Millennium."

"Indeed? And has this something to do with your
message?"

"Of course not." Taragorm clapped his hands and a
side door opened. A lean, ragged figure stepped
through, his face covered by a cracked, plain leather
mask. He bowed extravagantly to Meliadus.

"Who is this?"

"It is Elvereza Tozer, brother. You remember the
name?"

"Of course! The man who stole Mygan's ring and
then vanished!"

"Exactly. Tell my brother Baron Meliadus where you
have been, Master Tozer..."

Again Tozer bowed and then sat himself down on the
edge of the table, spreading his arms wide. "Why, I've
been to Castle Brass, my lord!"

Suddenly Meliadus sprang across the room to grab the
startled Tozer by the slack of his shirt. "You've been
where!" he growled.

"C-castle B-Brass, your honour..."

Meliadus shook Tozer, lifting him clear of the
ground. "How?"

"I reached the place by accident—I was captured by
Hawkmoon of Koln—I was held prisoner—my ring taken
from me—without ring could not remain—escaped—ar-
rived b-back here..." Tozer gasped in fright.

"He brought some information with him that's more
interesting," Taragorm said. "Tell him, Tozer."

"The machine which protects them—which keeps
them in that other dimension—it's in the dungeons of
the castle—kept carefully protected. A crystal thing they
got from a place called Soryandum. It took them there
and it ensures their safety."

Taragorm laughed. "It is true, Meliadus. I've tested
him a dozen times. I've heard of this crystal machine
but did not suspect it existed still. And with the rest of
the information Tozer has given me, I think I can
achieve some results."

"You can get us through to Castle Brass?"

"Oh,  much  more  convenient   than   that,   brother—

within a short time I am fairly certain that I will bring
Castle Brass back to us."

Meliadus looked silently at Taragorm for a moment
and then began to laugh. His laughter was so great then
that it threatened to drown the noise of the clocks.

"At last! At last! Thank you, brother! Thank you,
Master Tozer! Destiny is patently upon my side!"

Chapter Four

A Mission For Meliadus

IT WAS ON the following day, however, that Melia-
dus was summoned to King Huon's Throne Room.

As he made his way to the palace, Meliadus scowled
in concentration. Had Kalan betrayed him? Had the
scientist told King Huon the true results of the mental-
ity machine's test? Or had King Huon guessed for him-
self? After all, the monarch was immortal. He had lived
for two thousand years and had doubtless learned much.
Were Kalan's faked records too clumsy to deceive Huon?
Meliadus felt panic rise within him. Was this the end of
everything? When he arrived in the Throne Room
would Huon order the Mantis Guard to destroy him?

The great gates swung open. The mantis warriors con-
fronted him. At the far end was the Throne Globe,
black and mysterious.

Meliadus began to walk towards the Throne Globe.

Eventually he reached it and bowed before it, but for
a long while it remained solid, mysterious black. Was
Huon playing with him?

At length it began to swirl dark blue, then green, then
pink and then white, revealing the foetus shape with its
sharp, malevolent eyes staring down at Meliadus.

"Baron..."

"Noblest of Rulers."

"We are pleased with you."

Meliadus looked up in astonishment. "Great Em-
peror?"

"We are pleased with you and we wish to honour
you."

"Noble Prince?"

"You know of course that Shenegar Trott left on a
special expedition."

"I do, Mighty Monarch."

"And you know where he went."

"I do not, Light of the Universe."

"He went to Amarehk, there to discover what he
could about the continent—to see if we should meet
resistance if we landed a force there."

"It would seem, then, that he did meet resistance, Im-
mortal Ruler...?"

"Aye. He should have reported back a week or more
ago. We are concerned."

"You think he is dead, Noble Emperor?"

"We should like to discover that—and also discover
who slew him if that is the case. Baron Meliadus. We
wish to entrust you with the second expedition."

At first Meliadus was filled with fury. Meliadus play
second to that fat buffoon Trott! Meliadus waste time
questing about on the coasts of a continent in the hope
of discovering Trott's droppings! He would have none
of it! He would attack the Throne Globe now, if that
senile fool above him would not be sure to have him cut
down in an instant. He swallowed his temper and a new
scheme began to form in his skull.

"I am honoured, King of All!" he said with mock hu-
mility. "Do I choose my crews?"

"If you wish."

"Then I'll take men who I can be sure of. Members
of the Order of the Wolf and the Order of the Vulture."

"But these are not sailors. They are not even ma-
rines!"

"The Vultures have sailors among them, Emperor of
the World, and those are the men I will select."

"As you say, Baron Meliadus."

Meliadus was astonished to discover Trott had sailed

to Amarehk. It made him even more resentful—Huon
had entrusted the Court of Sussex with an assignment
rightfully his. Another score to settle, he told himself.
He was glad now that he had bided his time and ac-
cepted—or appeared to have accepted—the king's orders.
His opportunity, in fact, seemed to have been handed to
him by the creature he now considered to be his arch
enemy after Hawkmoon.

Meliadus pretended to think for a moment. "If you
believe the Vultures to be untrustworthy, Monarch of
Space and Time, then may I suggest I take with me
their chief...?"

"Their chief? Asrovak Mikosevaar is dead—killed by
Hawkmoon!"

"But his widow inherited the Constabulary ..."

"Flana! A woman!"

"Aye, Great Emperor. She will control them."

"I would not have thought that the Countess of Kan-
bery could control a rabbit, she is so vague, but if that is
your wish, my lord, then so be it."

For a further hour they discussed the details of the
plan and the king gave Meliadus all possible informa-
tion relating to Trott's first expedition.

Then Meliadus left, his hidden eyes full of triumph.

Chapter Five

The Fleet at Deau-vere

OVERLOOKED BY THE turreted city of Deau-Vere,
flanked on three sides by quays of scarlet stone, the
small fleet lay at anchor in a livid sea. On the wide roofs
of the buildings stood thousands of ornithopters, fanci-
fully fashioned to resemble birds and mythical beasts,
their wings folded; and in the streets below their pilots
swaggered in masks of Crow and Owl, mingling with the
sailors in their Fish and Sea Serpent helms and the in-
fantry and cavalry—Pig, Skull, Hound, Goat and Bull—
who were preparing to cross the Channel not by ship
but by the famed Silver Bridge Across The Sea which
could be seen on the other side of the city, its great
curve disappearing into the distance, all delicate and
shining and loaded constantly with traffic coming to and
from the Continent.

The men-o'-war in the harbour were crowded with
soldiers clad in Wolf and Vulture helms and armed to
the teeth with swords, spears, bows, quivers of arrows
and flame lances and the flagship bore the banners both
of the Grand Constable of the Order of the Wolf and of
the Grand Constable of the Order of Vulture which had
once been simply the Vulture Legion but which had
been raised to the status of an Order by King Huon, for
the fighting it had done in Europe and to honour the
death of its bloodthirsty chieftain Asrovak Mikosevaar.

The ships themselves were remarkable in that they
had no sails but were instead mounted with huge pad-
dlewheels at their sterns. They were built of a mixture
of wood and metal—the wood ornately carved and the
metal wrought in baroque designs. There were panels in
their sides, each carrying an intricate painting depicting
some earlier sea victory for Granbretan. Gilded figure-
heads decorated the forward parts of the ships, represent-
ing the terrifying ancient gods of Granbretan—Jhone,
Jhorg, Phowl, Rhunga, who were said to have ruled the
land before the Tragic Millennium—Chirshil, the Howl-
ing God; Bjrin Adass, the Singing God; Jeajee Blad, the
Groaning God; Jh'Im Slas, the Weeping God and Aral
Vilsn, the Roaring God, Supreme God, father of Skvese
and Blansacredid the gods of Doom and Chaos.

The Aral Vilsn was the flagship and on the flagship's
bridge stood the brooding figure of Baron Meliadus,
beside him Countess Flana Mikosevaar. Below the bridge,
in Wolf and Vulture masks, the captains of the ships
began to assemble, having been summoned to the flagship
by Meliadus.

They looked up expectantly as Meliadus cleared his
throat.

"You are doubtless wondering about our destination
gentlemen—and wondering, too, about the nature of
these strange ships we sail in. The ships are no mys-
tery—they are equipped with engines similar to those
powering our ornithopters, and are the invention of
that genius of Granbretan, Baron Kalan of Vitall. They
can bear us swifter than sail across continents of water
and do not need to wait on the will of the wind. As to
our destination, that I will reveal in private. This ship
is the Aral Vilsn, named after the supreme god of an-
cient Granbretan, who made this nation into what she is
today. Her sister ships are the Skvese and the Blan-
sacredid, which are the old words for Doom and for
Chaos. But they are also the sons of Aral Vilsn and
represent the glory of Granbretan, the old dark glory,
the gloomy glory, the bloody and terrible glory of our
land. A glory of which I am sure you are all rightly

proud." Meliadus paused. "Would you see it lost, gentle-
men?"

The answer roared back. No! No! By Aral Vilsn, by
Skvese and Blansacredid—No! NO!"

"And would you do anything to make sure that Gran-
bretan retained her black might and her lunatic glory?"

"AYE! AYE! AYE!"

"And would you all unite with me in an insane ad-
venture such as those embarked upon by Aral Vilsn and
his peers?"

"AYE! Tell us what is it! Tell us!"

"You would not shrink from it? You would follow it
through to the end?"

"AYE!" shouted more than a score of voices.

"Then follow me to my cabin and I will detail the
plan. But be warned, once you have entered that cabin,
you will have to follow me forever. Any who holds back
will not leave the cabin alive."

Then Meliadus swung down from the bridge and
strode into his cabin below it. He was followed by every
one of the captains who stood before him and every one
of them was to leave the cabin alive.

Baron Meliadus stood before them, his dark cabin
lighted only by a dim lamp. There were maps on his
table, but he did not consult them. He spoke in a low,
vibrant voice to his men.

"I shall not waste time further, gentlemen, but will
tell you at once the nature of this adventure. We are
embarking upon treason ..." He cleared his throat. "We
are about to rebel against our hereditary ruler, Huon
the King Emperor."

There were many gasps from around the cabin as the
Wolf and Vulture masks stared intently at Baron Melia-
dus.

"King Huon is insane," Meliadus told them quickly.
"It is not personal ambition drives me to this scheme,
but a love for our nation. Huon is mad—his two thou-
sand years of life, has clouded his brain rather than
given him wisdom. He is trying to make us expand too

rapidly. This expedition, for instance, was to go to
Amarehk to see if the land could be conquered, while
we have barely crushed the whole Middle East and there
are still parts of Muskovia that are not entirely ours."

"And you would rule in Huon's place, eh, baron?" a
Vulture captain suggested cynically.

Meliadus shook his head. "Not at all. Flana Mikose-
vaar would be your Queen. Vulture and Wolf would
take the place of the Mantis in the royal favour. Yours
would be the supreme Orders..."

"But the Vultures are a mercenary Order," a Wolf
captain pointed out.

Meliadus shrugged. "They have proved loyal to Gran-
bretan. And it could be argued that many of our own
Orders are moribund, that fresh blood is needed in the
Dark Empire."

Another Vulture captain spoke thoughtfully. "So
Flana would be our Queen Empress—and you, baron?"

"Regent and Consort. I shall marry Flana and aid her
rule."

"You would be the King Emperor in all but name,"
said the same Vulture captain.

"I would be powerful, it is true—but Flana is of the
Royal blood, not I. She is your Queen Empress by right
of ancestry. I shall be merely Supreme Warlord and
leave the other affairs of state to her—for war's my life,
gentlemen, and I seek only to improve the manner in
which our wars are conducted."

The captains seemed satisfied.

Meliadus continued: "So instead of sailing to Amarehk
on the morning tide, we sail around the coast a little,
biding our time, then make for the Tayme estuary, sail-
ing upriver to Londra and arriving in the heart of the
city before anyone can guess our intent."

"But Huon is well-protected. His palace is impossible
to storm. There will be legions in the city loyal to him,
surely," said another Wolf captain.

"We will have allies in the city. Many of the legions
will be with us. Taragorm is on our side and he is he-
reditary commander of several thousand warriors since

his cousin's death. The Order of the Ferret is a small
one, to be sure, but it has many legions in Londra, while
other legions are in Europe, defending our possessions.
All the nobles likely to remain loyal to Huon are abroad
at this moment. It is a perfect time to strike. Baron Ka-
lan is also with us—he can aid us with new weapons and
his Serpents to operate them. If we achieve a swift vic-
tory—or at least make quick gains—then it is likely that
many others will join us, for few will discover love for
King Huon once Flana is on the throne."

"I feel a loyalty for King Huon ..." admitted a Wolf
captain. "It is bred into us."

"And so is a loyalty to the spirit of Aral Vilsn—to all
that Granbretan stands for. Is that not a loyalty even
more deeply bred into us?"

The captain deliberated for a moment before nod-
ding. "Aye—you are right. With a new ruler of the blood
royal on the throne, then perhaps our whole greatness
will come to us."

"Oh, it will, it will!" promised Meliadus fiercely, his
black eyes gleaming from his snarling helm.

Chapter Six

The Return to Castle Brass

IN THE GREAT hall of Castle Brass Yisselda, Count
Brass's daughter, wept and wept.

She wept for joy, hardly able to believe that the man
before her was her husband whom she loved with such
passion, hardly daring to touch him lest he prove a
phantom. Hawkmoon laughed and strode forward, put-
ting his arms around her and kissing at her tears. Then
she, too, began to laugh, her face becoming radiant.

"Oh, Dorian! Dorian! We feared you killed in Gran-
bretan!"

Hawkmoon grinned. "Considering everything, Gran-
bretan was the safest place we saw in our travels! Is that
not so, D'Averc?"

D'Averc coughed into his kerchief. "Aye—and maybe
the healthiest, too."

The thin and kindly-faced Bowgentle shook his head
in mild astonishment. "But how did you return from
Amarekh in that dimension to the Kamarg in this?"

Hawkmoon shrugged his shoulders. "Ask me not, Sir
Bowgentle. The Great Good Ones brought us here, that
is all I know. The journey was swift, taking but a few
minutes."

"The Great Good Ones! Never heard of 'em!" Count
Brass spoke gruffly, stroking his red moustachios and try-

ing to hide the tears in his eyes. "Spirits of some sort,
eh?"

"Aye of some sort, father." Hawkmoon stretched out
his hand to his father-in-law. "You are looking well,
Count Brass. Your hair's as red as ever."

"That's not a sign of youth," Count Brass complained.
"That's rust! I'm rotting here while you enjoy yourself
chasing about the world."

Oladahn, the little son of a giantess of the Bulgar
Mountains, stepped shyly forward. "I'm glad to see you
back, friend Hawkmoon. And in good health, it seems."
He grinned, offering Hawkmoon a goblet of wine.
"Here—drink this as a welcome cup!"

Hawkmoon smiled back and accepted the goblet,
quaffing it in a single draft. "Thanks, friend Oladahn.
How's it with you?"

"Boring. We are all bored—and afraid you would not
return."

"Well, I am back and I think I have enough stories of
my adventures to dispel your boredom for a few hours.
And I have news of a mission for us all which will bring
you relief from the inactivity you have been suffering."

"Tell us!" Count Brass roared. "For all our sakes—tell
us at once!"

Hawkmoon laughed easily. "Aye—but give me a mo-
ment to look at my wife." He turned and stared into Yis-
selda's eyes and he saw that they were now perturbed.

"What is it, Yisselda?"

"I see something in your manner," said she. "Some-
thing that tells me, my lord, that you are soon to risk
your life again."

"Perhaps."

"If it must be, then it must be." She took a deep
breath and smiled at him. "But it will not be tonight, I
hope."

"Nor for several nights. We have many plans to
make."

"Aye," she said softly, glancing at the stones of the
hall. "And I have much to tell you."

Count Brass stepped forward gesturing to the far end

of the hall where the servants were laying the table with
food. "Let's eat. We have saved our best for this home-
coming."

Later as they sat with full bellies by the fire and
Bowgentle had finished recounting now Tozer had sud-
denly vanished, Hawkmoon showed them the Sword of
the Dawn and the Runestaff, which he drew from his
shirt. At once the hall was illuminated with whirling
flames making patterns in the air and the strange bitter-
sweet scent filled the hall.

The others looked at the thing in silent awe until
Hawkmoon replaced it. "That is our standard, my
friends. That is what we now serve when we go out to
fight the whole Dark Empire."

Oladahn scratched at the fur on his face. "The whole
Dark Empire, eh?"

Hawkmoon smiled gently. "Aye."

"Are there not several million warriors on the side of
Granbretan?" Bowgentle asked innocently.

"There are several million, I believe."

"And we have about five hundred Kamargians left at
Castle Brass," murmured Count Brass wiping his lips on
his sleeve and giving a mock frown. "Let me compute
that..."

D'Averc now spoke. "We have more than five hundred.
You forget the Legion of the Dawn." He pointed at
Hawkmoon's sword which lay scabbarded beside his
chair.

"How many in that mysterious legion?" Oladahn asked.

"I do not know—perhaps an infinite number, perhaps
not."

"Say a thousand," Count Brass mused. "To be con-
servative of course. Making fifteen hundred warriors
against—"

"Several million," supplied D'Averc

"Aye, several million, equipped with all the resources
of the Dark Empire, including scientific knowledge we
cannot match..."

"We have the Red Amulet and the Rings of Mygan,"
Hawkmoon reminded him.

"Ah, yes, those ..." Count Brass seemed to scowl. We
have those, too. And we have right on our side—is that an
asset, Duke Dorian?"

"Perhaps. But if we use the Rings of Mygan to take us
back to our own dimension and we fight a couple of
small battles dose to home, freeing the oppressed, we
can begin to raise some kind of peasant army."

"A peasant army, you say. Hm ..."

Hawkmoon sighed. "I know it seems impossible odds,
Count Brass."

Then Count Brass suddenly broke into a beaming,
golden smile. "That's right, lad. You've guessed!"

"What do you mean?"

"They're just the sort of odds I like. I'll get the maps
and we can begin to plan our initial campaigns!"

While Count Brass was away, Oladahn said to
Hawkmoon. "Elvereza Tozer could have returned to
Londra and revealed our plans and our position. We are
very vulnerable at this moment, friend Hawkmoon."

Count Brass came back with the maps. "Now, let's
see..."

An hour later Hawkmoon got up and took Yisselda's
hand, bid goodnight to his friends and followed his wife
to their apartments.

Five hours later they were still awake, lying in each
other's arms. It was then that she told him they were to
have a child.

He accepted the news in silence, merely kissed her
and held her closer. But when she was asleep, he got up
and went to the window, staring out over the reeds and
lagoons of the Kamarg, thinking to himself that now he
had something even more important to fight for than an
ideal.

He hoped he would live to see his child.

He hoped his child would be born even if he did not
live.

Chapter Seven

The Beasts Begin to Squabble

MELIADUS SMILED BEHIND his mask and his hand
tightened on Flana Mikosevaar's shoulder as the towers
of Londra came in sight upriver.

"It is going so well," he murmured. "Soon, my dear,
you will be Queen. They do not suspect. They cannot
suspect. There has been no uprising such as this for
hundreds of centuries! They are unprepared. How they
will curse the architects who sited the barracks on the
waterfront!" He laughed softly.

Flana was tired of the thrumming of the engines and
the rumble of the paddle wheel as it pushed the ship
along. One of the virtues of a sailing ship, she now real-
ised, was that it was silent. These noisy things would not
be allowed in sight of Londra once their purpose was
served and she ruled. But the irritation was slight and
the decision unimportant. Again she turned her
thoughts inward and forgot Meliadus, forgot that the
only reason she had agreed to his plan was because she,
did not care what became of her. She was thinking
again of D'Averc.

The captains on board the leading ships knew what to
do. As well as Kalan's engines, they were now equipped
with Kalan's flame cannon and they knew their tar-
gets—the military barracks of the Orders of the Pig and

the Rat and the Fly and others lining the river close to
the outskirts of Londra.

Softly Baron Meliadus instructed his ship's captain to
raise the appropriate colour, the flag that would give the
signal to begin the bombardment.

Londra was silent and still in the morning, as gloomy
as ever, as darkly bizarre as usual, with her crazy towers
leaning into the sky, like the clutching fingers of a mil-
lion madmen.

It was early. None but the slaves would be awake.
None, that is, save Taragorm and Kalan, waiting for the
sounds of strife so that they could move their men into
position. The intention was to slay as many as possible,
then drive the rest towards the palace, bottling them in,
containing them so that they should have not several ob-
jectives but, by the afternoon, one.

Meliadus knew that even if they succeeded in this
plan the real fighting would begin with the attack on
the palace "and they would be hard put to take it before
reinforcements arrived.

Meliadus's breathing quickened. His eyes gleamed,
from the bronze snouts of the cannon flame spewed,
shrieking towards the unsuspecting barracks. Within the
first few seconds the morning air was split by a tremen-
dous explosion as the first of the buildings blew up.

"What luck!" Meliadus exclaimed. "This is a splendid
omen. I had not thought to have such success so soon!"

A second explosion—a barracks on the other side of
the water—and from the remaining buildings ran terri-
fied men, some so alarmed that they had even left their
masks behind! As they scurried out the flame cannon
caught them, burning them to cinders. Their yells and
screams echoed among the sleeping towers of Londra—
the first warning most of the citizens had had.

Wolf mask turned to Vulture helm in expressions of
silent satisfaction as they witnessed the carnage on the
banks. Pigs and Rats scuttled for cover—Flies flung
themselves behind the nearest buildings and the few

who had managed to bring flame lances with them
opened fire.

The beasts had begun to squabble.

It was part of that pattern of destiny fixed by Melia-
dus when, on leaving Castle Brass in disgrace, he had
called upon the Runestaff.

Yet none could say how finally that pattern would
resolve itself and who would be the ultimate victor—
Huon, Meliadus or Hawkmoon.

Chapter Eight

Taragorm's Invention

BY MID MORNING the barracks had been completely
wiped out and the survivors were fighting in the streets
near the centre of the city. They had been reinforced
with several thousand Mantis warriors. It was probable
that Huon still had no idea of what was really happen-
ing. Perhaps he thought the attack was by Asiacommu-
nistans disguised as Granbretanians. Meliadus smiled as
he disembarked with Flana Mikosevaar and made his
way to the Palace of Time on foot, flanked by a dozen
Vultures and Wolves. The surprise had been complete.
His men had remained in the few open streets and had
not ventured into the maze of corridors linking most of
the towers. As the warriors had emerged, Meliadus's
men had picked them off. Now they were bottling them
in, for there were few windows from which Huon's sol-
diers could fight. Windows were not a feature of Lon-
dra's architecture, for the Granbretanians had little
liking for fresh air or daylight. What windows there were
tended to be placed so high as to be useless to snipers.
Even the ornithopters, unequipped for fighting in a city
such as Londra, were proving to be a smaller threat
than Meliadus had anticipated. He was well pleased as
he entered the Palace of Time and discovered Taragorm
in a small chamber.

"Brother! Our plans go well—better than I had ex-
pected."

"Aye," answered Taragorm with a nod to Flana to
whom, like Meliadus, he had been married for a short
time. "My Ferrets have hardly needed to do anything as
yet. But doubtless they'll be useful in flushing out those
who stay in the tunnels: I plan to use them to come up
on the enemy from behind as soon as we have properly
located the main pockets."

Meliadus nodded his approval. "But you sent a mes-
sage for me to meet you here. Why is that?"

"I believe I have discovered the means of bringing
your friends of Castle Brass back to their natural envi-
ronment," Taragorm murmured, his voice full of quiet
satisfaction.

Meliadus gave a deep groan and it was a moment be-
fore Flana realised he was voicing his extreme pleasure.
"Oh, Taragorm! At last the rabbits are mine!"

Taragorm laughed. "I am not entirely certain that my
machine will work, but I feel it might since it is based
on an old formula I discovered in the same book as the
one which mentioned the crystal machine of Soryan-
dum. Would you care to see it?"

"Aye! Lead me to it, brother, I beg you!"

"This way."

Taragorm led Meliadus and Flana through two short
corridors full of the noise of clocks and arrived at last
outside a low door which he opened with a small key.

"In here." He took a torch from the bracket outside
and used it to light the dungeon he had opened.
"There. It is on roughly the same level as the crystal
machine at Castle Brass. Its voice can carry through the
dimensions."

"I hear nothing," Meliadus said with some disappoint-
ment.

"You hear nothing because there is nothing to hear-
in this dimension. But it makes a goodly sound, I
guarantee, in some other space and time."

Meliadus moved towards the object. It was like a
great brass skeleton clock the size of a man. Its pendu-

lum swung beneath it, working the escapement lever
moving the hands. It had springs and cogs and looked in
every respect like an ordinary clock made huge. On its
back was mounted a gong-like affair with a striking arm.
Even as they watched the hands touched the half-hour
and the arm moved slowly up to fall suddenly upon the
gong. They could see the gong vibrating but did not
hear a whisper of sound.

"Incredible!" whispered Meliadus. "But how does it
work?"

"I have still to adjust it a little to ensure that it is op-
erating in exactly the correct dimension of space and
time which, with the help of Tozer, I have managed to
locate. When midnight comes, our friends at Castle
Brass should experience something of an unwelcome
surprise."

Meliadus sighed with pleasure. "Oh, noble brother!
You shall be the richest and most honoured man in the
Empire!"

Taragorm's weird clock mask bowed slightly in recogni-
tion of Meliadus's promise. "It is only fitting," he mur-
mured, "but I thank you brother."

"You are sure it will work?"

"If it does not, then I shall not be the richest and
most honoured man in the Empire," Taragorm said
with some humour. "Doubtless, in fact, you shall see to
it that I am rewarded in a less pleasant fashion."

Meliadus flung his arms around his brother-in-law's
shoulders. "Do not speak of such a thing, brother! Oh,
do not speak of it!"

Chapter Nine

Huon Confers
With His Captains

"WELL, WELL, GENTLEMEN. Some sort of civil distur-
bance, we gather." The golden voice came from the
wizened throat and the sharp black eyes darted this way
and that at the gathered masks before them.

"It is treason, Noble Monarch," a Mantis mask said.
His uniform was untidy and his mask singed by a flame
lance.

"Civil war, Great Emperor," another emphasised.

"And very nearly a fait accompli," murmured the
man next to him, almost to himself. "We were totally
unprepared, Excellent Ruler."

"Indeed you were, gentlemen. We blame you all—and
ourselves. We were deceived."

The eyes moved more slowly over the assembled cap-
tains. "And is Kalan amongst you?"

"He is not, Grand Sire."

"And Taragorm?" purred the sweet voice.

"Taragorm is not present, King of All."

"So ... And some thought you saw Meliadus on the
flagship..."

"With Countess Flana, Magnificent Emperor."

"That is logical Yes, we have been very much de-

ceived. But no matter—the palace is well defended, we
assume?"

"Only a very large force could possibly hope to take
it, Lord of the World."

"But perhaps they have a very large force? And if
they have Kalan and Taragorm with them, they have
other powers. Were we prepared for siege, captain?"
Huon addressed the Captain of the Mantis Guard who
bowed his head.

"After a fashion, Excellent Prince. But such a thing is
without precedent."

"Indeed it is. Perhaps we should seek reinforcements,
then?"

"From the Continent," said a captain. "All the loyal
barons are there—Adaz Promp, Brenal Farun, Shenegar
Trott..."

"Shenegar Trott is not on the Continent," King Huon
said politely.

". . . Jerek Nankenseen. Mygel Hoist.. ."

"Yes, yes, yes—we know the names of our barons. But
can we be sure that these are loyal?"

"I would assume so, Great King Emperor, for their
men perished today. If they were in league with Melia-
dus, they would have given him those loyal to their Or-
der, surely?"

"Your guess is probably accurate. Very well—recall the
Lords of Granbretan. Tell them to bring all available
troops to squash this uprising as quickly as possible. Tell
them that it is inconvenient to us. The messenger had
best leave from the roof of the palace. We understand
that several ornithopters are available."

From somewhere, muffled and distant, there was a
roar as if from a flame cannon and the Throne Room
seemed to tremble very slightly.

"Extremely inconvenient," sighed the King Emperor.
"What did you estimate as Meliadus's gains in the past
hour?"

"Almost the entire city save the palace, Excellent
Monarch."

"I always knew he was the best of my generals."

Chapter Ten

Almost Midnight

BARON MELIADUS SAT in his own chambers watching
the fires of the city. He especially enjoyed the spectacle
of an ornithopter crashing in flames over the palace.
The night sky was clear and the stars were bright. It was
an exceptionally pleasant evening. To make it perfect
he had a quartette of girl slaves, once well-known musi-
cians in their own lands, play him the music of Londen
Johne, Granbretan's finest composer.

The counterpoint of explosions, of screams and the
clash of metal was exquisite to Meliadus's ear. He sipped
his wine and consulted his maps, humming to the music.

There was a knock on his door and a slave opened it
His Chief of Infantry, Vrasla Beli, entered and bowed.

"Captain Beli?"

"I must report, sir, that we are becoming very short of
men. We have achieved a miracle on very few, sir, but
we cannot ensure our gains without reinforcements. Ei-
ther that, or we must regroup..."

"Or leave the city altogether and choose the ground
on which we fight—is that it, Captain Beli?"

"Exactly, sir."

Meliadus rubbed at his mask. "There are detachments
of Wolves, Vultures and even Ferrets on the mainland.
Perhaps if they were recalled..."

"Would there be time, sir?"

"Well, we should have to make time, captain."

"Aye, sir."

"Offer all prisoners a change of mask," Meliadus sug-
gested. "They can see that we are winning and might
wish to join a new Order."

Beli saluted. "King Huon's palace is superbly defend-
ed, sir."

"And it will be superbly taken, captain, I am sure."

The music of Johne continued and the firing contin-
ued and Meliadus felt sure that all was going perfectly.
It would take time to capture the palace, but he was
confident that it would be taken, Huon destroyed, Flana
put in his place and Meliadus the most powerful man in
the land.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing
eleven o'clock. He got up and clapped his hands, silenc-
ing the girls. "Fetch my litter," he ordered. "I journey to
the Palace of Time."

The same four girls returned with his litter and he
climbed in to sink among the cushions.

As they moved slowly along the corridors, Meliadus
could still hear the music of the flame cannon, the
shouts of men in conflict. Admittedly victory had not yet
been accomplished and even if he slew King Huon there
might be barons who would not accept Flana as Queen
Empress. He would need a few months in which to con-
solidate—but it would help if he could unite them all
into turning then: hatred against the Kamarg and Castle
Brass.

"Hurry," he called to the naked girls. "Faster! We
must not be late!"

If Taragorm's machine worked, then he would have
the double advantage of being able to reach his enemies
and unite his nation.

Meliadus sighed with pleasure. Everything was work-
ing so perfectly.

BOOK THREE

And now the resolution was imminent. The
Heroes of the Kamarg plotted in Castle
Brass—Baron Meliadus plotted in Taragorm's
Palace of Time—the King Emperor Huon
plotted in his Throne Room—and all the
plots that were made began to influence each
other. The Runestaff, too, centrepiece of the
drama, was beginning to exert its influence
upon the players. And now the Dark Empire
was divided—divided because of Meliadus's
hatred of Hawkmoon whom he had planned
to use as his puppet but who had been strong
enough to turn against him. Perhaps it was
then—when Meliadus had chosen Hawkmoon
to use against Castle Brass—that the Rune-
staff had made its first move. It was a tightly
woven drama—so tightly woven that certain
threads were close to snapping . ..

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

The Striking of The Clock

THERE WAS A chill in the air. Hawkmoon drew his
heavy cloak about him and turned his sombre head to
regard his comrades. Each face looked at the table. The
fire in the hall was burning low, but the objects on the
table could be clearly seen.

First there was the Red Amulet, its ruddy light stain-
ing their faces as if with blood. This was Hawkmoon's
strength, giving its owner more than natural energy.
Then there were the crystal Rings of Mygan which
could transport those who wore them through the di-
mensions. These were their passports back to their own
space and time. Beside the rings was the scabbarded
Sword of the Dawn. In this lay Hawkmoon's army. And
finally, wrapped in a length of cloth, there was the
Runestaff, Hawkmoon's standard and his hope.

Count Brass cleared his throat. "Even with all these
powerful objects can we defeat an Empire as great as
Granbretan?"

"We have the security of our castle," Oladahn remind-
ed him. "From it we can go through the dimensions at
will and return at will. By this means we can fight a pro-
longed guerilla action until we have worn down the en-
emy's resistance."

Count Brass nodded. "What you say is true, but I am
still doubtful"

"With respect, sir, you are used to fighting classic bat-
tles," D'Averc reminded him. D'Averc's pale face was
framed by the collar of a dark leather cloak. "And you
would be happier with a direct confrontation, drawn up
in ranks of lancers, archers, cavalry, infantry and so on.
But we have not the men to fight such battles. We must
strike from the dark, therefore—from behind, from cover
—at least initially."

"You are right, I suppose, D'Averc." Count Brass
sighed.

Bowgentle poured wine for them all. "Perhaps we
should get to our beds, my friends. There is more plan-
ning to do and we should be fresh..."

Hawkmoon strode to the far end of the table where
the maps had been laid out. He rubbed at the Black
Jewel in his forehead. "Aye, we must plan our first cam-
paigns carefully." He studied the map of the Kamarg.
"There is a chance there is a permanent camp surround-
ing the place where Castle Brass stood—perhaps waiting
for its return."

"But did you not feel that perhaps Meliadus's power
is waning?" D'Averc said. "Shenegar Trott seemed to
think so."

"If that is the case," Hawkmoon agreed, "then it is
possible that Meliadus's legions are now deployed else-
where, since there seems to be some sort of contention at
the Court of Londra as to whether we are very impor-
tant as a threat or not."

Bowgentle made a movement to speak but then
cocked his head to one side. Now they all felt a slight
tremor run through the floor.

"It's damned cold," Count Brass grumbled and went
to the fire to fling on another log. Sparks flew and the
log caught quickly, the flames sending red shadows skip-
ping through the hall. Count Brass had wrapped his
bull-like body in a simple woollen robe and now he
tugged at this as if regretting he had not worn some-
thing more substantial. He glanced at the rack at the far
end of the hall. The rack contained spears, bows, ar-

rows, maces, swords—and his own broadsword, and his
armour of brass. His great, bronzed face was clouded.

Again a tremor shook the building and the arms deco-
rating the walls rattled.

Hawkmoon glanced at Bowgentle, noticing in the phi-
losopher's eyes the same sense of inexplicable doom he
felt. "A mild earthquake, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," murmured Bowgentle, plainly uncon-
vinced.

Now they heard a sound—a distant sound like the
booming of a gong, so low as to be almost inaudible.
They rushed to the doors of the hall and Count Brass
hesitated for a moment before flinging them open and
looking up at the night.

They sky was black, but the clouds seemed dark blue,
swirling in considerable agitation as if the dome of the
sky were about to crack.

The reverberation came again, this time plainly au-
dible. The voice of a huge, low bell or a gong. It
hummed in their ears.

"It is like being in the bell-tower of the castle as the
clock strikes," Bowgentle said, his eyes full of alarm.

Every face was pale—every face tense. Hawkmoon be-
gan to stride back into the hall, walking with arm out-
stretched towards the Sword of the Dawn. D'Averc
called to him. "What do you suspect, Hawkmoon? Some
kind of attack by the Dark Empire?"

"By the Dark Empire—or by something supernatural,"
Hawkmoon answered.

A third stroke sounded filling the night, echoing over
the flat marshes of the Kamarg, over the lagoons and
the reeds. Flamingoes, disturbed by the noise, began to
squawk from the darkness.

A fourth followed, louder still—a great booming bell
of doom.

A fifth. And Count Brass went to the rack and took
up his broadsword.

A sixth. D'Averc covered his ears as the sound in-
creased. "This is sure to bring on at least a mild mi-
graine," he complained languidly.

A seventh. Yisselda ran down the stairs in her night-
clothes. "What is it, Dorian? Father—what's the sound?
It is like the striking of a clock. It threatens to burst my
eardrums..."

Oladahn looked up gloomily. "It seems to me that it
threatens our very existence," he said. "Though I do not
know why I think that ..." A seventh stroke sounded
and plaster fell from the ceiling as the castle shook to its
foundations.

"We had better close the doors," Count Brass said as
the echo died sufficiently for him to make himself heard.
Slowly they moved inside and Hawkmoon helped Count
Brass push the doors together and replace the heavy
iron bar.

An eighth stroke filled the hall and made them all
press their palms to their ears. A huge shield, there since
time immemorial, clattered from the wall, fell to the
flagstones and rolled about noisily until it crashed to
rest near the table.

In panic, the servants came running into the hall.

A ninth stroke and windows cracked, the glass splin-
tering. This time Hawkmoon felt as if he were on a ship
at sea that had struck suddenly a hidden reef, for the
whole Castle shuddered and they were flung about. Yis-
selda began to fall, but Hawkmoon managed to save
her, hanging on to a pillar to stop himself from top-
pling. The sound made him feel sick and his vision was
blurred.

For the tenth time the great gong reverberated, as if
the whole world shook, as if the universe itself were
filled with the sound signalling the end of everything.

Bowgentle keeled over and fell upon the flagstones in
a faint. Oladahn reeled about, his palms pressing at his
head. He collapsed to the floor. Hawkmoon clung to Yis-
selda grimly, barely able to retain his grip. He was filled
with nausea and his head pounded. Count Brass and
D'Averc had staggered across the room to the table and
were hanging on to it as it shook. The stroke died.
Hawkmoon heard D'Averc call: "Hawkmoon—look at
this!"

Supporting Yisselda, Hawkmoon managed to reach
the table and stared down at the Rings of Mygan. He
gasped. Every one of the crystals had shattered.

"So much for our scheme of guerilla raids," D'Averc
said hoarsely. "So much, perhaps, for all our schemes..."

The eleventh stroke sounded. It was deeper and
louder than the one before and the whole castle shud-
dered and flung them to the floor. Hawkmoon screamed
in pain as the sound roared in his skull and seemed to
sear his brain, but he could not hear his scream above
the noise. Everything, was shaking and he rolled about
on the floor at the mercy of whatever force it was mak-
ing the castle quake.

As it faded, he crawled on his hands and knees
towards Yisselda, desperately trying to reach her. Tears
of pain streamed down his face and he knew by the
warmth that his ears were bleeding. Dimly he saw Count
Brass trying to rise by clutching at the table. The
count's ears gouted gore that matched his hair. "We are
destroyed," he heard the old man say: "Destroyed by
some cowardly enemy we cannot even see! Destroyed by
a force against which our swords are useless!"

Hawkmoon continued to crawl towards Yisselda who
lay prone on the floor.

Now the twelfth stroke sounded, louder and more ter-
rible than the rest. The stones of the castle threatened
to crack. The wood of the table split and the thing col-
lapsed with a crash. Flagstones suddenly broke in twain
or shattered to fragments. The castle was tossed like a
cork in a gale and Hawkmoon roared with pain as the
tears in his eyes were now replaced with blood, as the
veins in his body threatened to burst.

Then the deep note was counterpointed by another—a
high-pitched scream—and colours began to flood the
hall. First came violet, then purple, then black. A mil-
lion tiny bells seemed to ring in unison and this time it
was possible to locate the sound as it came from below
them, from the dungeons.

Weakly, Hawkmoon attempted to rise and then fell

face down on the stones. The note boomed gradually
away, the colours began to fade, the ringing sound sub-
sided quite suddenly.
So there was silence.

Chapter Two

The Blackened Marsh

"THE CRYSTAL is destroyed..."

Hawkmoon shook his head and blinked his eyes.
"Eh?"

"The crystal is destroyed, "D'Averc knelt beside him
trying to help him to his feet.

"Yisselda?" Hawkmoon said. "How is she?"

"No worse than you. We have put her to bed. The
crystal is destroyed."

Hawkmoon dug dried blood from ears and nostrils.
"You mean the Rings of Mygan?"

"D'Averc—tell him more clearly." It was Bowgentle's
voice. "Tell him that the machine of the wraith folk is
broken."

"Broken?" Hawkmoon heaved himself to his feet.
"Was that the final shattering sound I heard?"

"That was it." Now Count Brass stood nearby, leaning
wearily on a table and mopping at his face. "The vibra-
tions destroyed the crystals."

"Then—?" Hawkmoon glanced questioningly at Count
Brass who nodded.

"Aye—we're back in our own dimension."

"And not under attack?"

"It does not seem so."

Hawkmoon took a deep breath and began to walk

slowly to the main doors of the hall. Painfully he drew
back the iron bar and tugged the doors open.

It was still night. The stars in the sky remained the
same but the swirling blue clouds had vanished and
there was an uncanny silence hanging over the area, a
strange smell in the air. But no flamingoes squawked, no
wind sighed through the reeds.

Slowly, thoughtfully, Hawkmoon closed the doors
again.

"Where are the legions?" D'Averc asked. "One would
have thought they were waiting for us—at least a few!"

Hawkmoon frowned. "We'll have to wait until morn-
ing before we can guess the answer to that. Perhaps they
are out there, planning to take us by surprise."

"Do you think that sound was sent by the Dark Em-
pire?" Oladahn asked.

"Without doubt," Count Brass answered. "They have
succeeded in their object. They have brought us back to
our own dimension." He sniffed the air. "I wish I could
identify that smell."

D'Averc was sorting things from the wreckage of the
table. "It is a miracle that we are alive," he said.

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "That noise seemed to affect
inanimate things worse than us."

"Two of the older servants are dead," Count Brass
said quietly. "Their hearts could not stand it, I suppose.
They are being buried now, in case it is not possible in
the morning. In the inner courtyard."

"What of the castle?" Oladahn asked.

Count Brass shrugged. "It's hard to tell. I've been
down to the dungeons. The crystal machine is com-
pletely smashed and some of the stonework is cracked.
But this is a strong old castle. She seems to have fared
not too badly. No window glass, of course. No glass of
any sort intact. Otherwise . . ." He shrugged as if his be-
loved castle had ceased to matter to him, "... otherwise
we are still standing as firm as we did before."

"Let's hope so," murmured D'Averc. He held the
Sword of the Dawn by its scabbard and the Red Amulet
by its chain. He offered them to Hawkmoon. "You'd

best don these for it is certain that you will soon have
need of them."

Hawkmoon put the amulet around his neck and
buckled the scabbard to his belt. Then he stopped and
picked up the swaddled Runestaff.

"This does not seem to be bringing us the luck I had
hoped," he said and sighed.

Dawn came at last. It came slowly and it came grey
and chill, the horizon white as an old corpse and the
clouds the colour of bone.

Five heroes watched it rise. They stood outside the
gates of Castle Brass, on the hill, and their hands were
On their swords, their grips tightening as they saw the
scene below.

It was the Kamarg they had left, but it was a Kamarg
wasted by war. The smell they had spoken of earlier was
the smell of carnage, of a burnt land. For as far as they
could see, all was black ruin. The marshes and lagoons
had all been dried up by the fire of the flame cannon.
The flamingoes, the horses and the bulls had been de-
stroyed or fled. The watchtowers which had guarded the
borders were flattened. It seemed as if the whole world
were a sea of grey ash.

"It is all gone," said Count Brass in a low voice. "All
gone, my beloved Kamarg, my people, my animals. I was
their elected Lord Guardian and I failed in my task.
Now there is nothing to live for save vengeance. Let me
reach the gates of Londra and see the city taken. Then I
will die. But not before."

Chapter Three

Dark Empire Carnage

BY THE TIME they reached the borders of the Ka-
marg, Hawkmoon and Oladahn were covered from head
to foot in clinging ash which stung their nostrils and
was harsh in their throats. Their horses, too, were cov-
ered in the stuff and their eyes were as red as their
riders'.

Now the sea of ash gave way to sparse, yellow
grassland and still they had found no sign of the legions
of the Dark Empire.

A little watery sunshine broke through the layers of
cloud as Hawkmoon drew his horse to a halt and consult-
ed his map. He pointed due East. "The village of Verlin
lies yonder. Let's ride cautiously and see if Granbre-
tanian troops still occupy it."

The village came in sight at last and when he saw it
Hawkmoon began to gallop faster. Oladahn called from,
behind him:

"What is it, Duke Dorian? What has happened?"

Hawkmoon did not reply for, as they neared the vil-
lage, it could be seen that half the buildings lay in ruins,
that corpses choked the streets. And still no sign of
the Dark Empire troops.

Many of the buildings had been blackened by flame
lance fire and some of the corpses had been slain by
Same lances. Here and there lay the body of a Granbre-

tanian, an armoured figure with its mask tilting skyward.

"They were all Wolves here, by the look of it,"
Hawkmoon murmured. "Meliadus's men. It seems they
fell upon the villagers and the villagers attacked them
back. See—that Wolf was stabbed by a reaping hook-
that one died from the blow of the spade still in his
neck..."

"Maybe the villagers rose up against them," Oladahn
suggested, "and the Wolves retaliated."

"Then why did they leave the village?" Hawkmoon
pointed out. "They were garrisoned here."

They guided their horses over the bodies of the fallen.
The stink of death was still heavy in the air. It was
plain that this carnage had been wreaked only recently.
Hawkmoon pointed out gutted stores and the corpses of
cattle, horses, even dogs.

"They left nothing alive. Nothing which could be
used for food. It is as if they were in retreat from some
more powerful enemy!"

"Who is more powerful than the Dark Empire?"
Oladahn said with a shudder. "Have we some new en-
emy to face, friend Hawkmoon?"

"I hope not. Yet this sight is puzzling."

"And disgusting," Oladahn added. There were not
only men dead in the streets, but children too and every
woman, young or old, bore signs of having been raped
before she had been slain, mostly by means of a cut
throat, for the Granbretanian soldiery liked to slay their
victims as they raped them.

Hawkmoon sighed. "It is the sign of the Dark Empire,
everywhere you venture."

He looked up, bending his head to catch a small
sound carried on the chill wind. "A cry! Someone still
lives, perhaps."

He turned his horse and followed the sound until he
entered a sidestreet. Here a door had been broken open
and a girl's body lay half in the doorway, half in the
street. The cry was stronger. Hawkmoon dismounted
and walked cautiously towards the house. It came from
the girl. Quickly he knelt down and raised her in his

arms. She was almost naked, her body covered with a
few strips of torn clothing. There was a red line across
her throat as if a blunt dagger had been drawn across it.
She was about fifteen, with tangled fair hair and glazed
blue eyes. Her body was a mass of blue-black bruises.
She gasped as Hawkmoon lifted her.

Hawkmoon lowered her gently and went to his
saddle, returning with a flask of wine. He put the flask
to her lips and she drank, gasping, her eyes suddenly
widening in alarm.

"Do not fear," Hawkmoon said softly. "I am an en-
emy of the Dark Empire."

"And you live?"

Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. "Aye—I live. I am
Dorian Hawkmoon, the Duke of Koln."

"Hawkmoon von Koln? But we thought you dead—or
flown forever..."

"Well I have returned and your village shall be re-
venged, I swear. What happened here?"

"I am not altogether sure, my lord, save that the
beasts of the Dark Empire intended to leave none
alive." She looked up suddenly. "My father and mother—
my sister..."

Hawkmoon glanced inside the house and shuddered.
"Dead," he said. It had been an understatement. They
had been disgustingly mutilated. He picked up the girl
as she sobbed and took her to his horse. "I will carry
you back to Castle Brass," he said.

Chapter Four

New Helms

SHE LAY IN the softest bed in Castle Brass, tended by
Bowgentle, comforted by Yisselda and Hawkmoon who
sat beside her bed. But she was dying. She was dying not
from her injuries but from sorrow. She wished to die.
They respected that wish.

"For several months," she murmured, "the Wolf
troops occupied our village. They took everything while
we starved. We heard that they were part of an army
left to guard the Kamarg, though we could not think
what there was to guard of that wasteland ..."

"They were awaiting our return most likely," Hawk-
moon told her.

"That would seem likely," the girl said gravely.

She continued: "Then yesterday an ornithopter ar-
rived at the village and its pilot went straight to the
commander of the garrison. We heard it rumoured that
the soldiers were being recalled to Londra and we were
overjoyed. An hour later the soldiers of the garrison fell
upon the village, killing, looting, raping. They had or-
ders to leave nothing alive so that when they returned
they would not meet resistance, so that any others who
came upon the village should not find food. An hour af-
terwards, they were gone."

"So they plan to return," Hawkmoon mused. "But I
wonder why they left..."

"Some invading enemy, perhaps?" Bowgentle suggest-
ed, bathing the girl's brow.

"That was my guess—and yet it does not seem to fit."
Hawkmoon sighed. "It is puzzling—frightening that we
know so little."

There came a knock upon the door and D'Averc en-
tered. "An old friend is here, Hawkmoon."

"An old friend? Who?"

"The Orkneyman-Orland Fank."

Hawkmoon rose. "Perhaps he can enlighten us."

As he walked towards the door Bowgentle spoke qui-
etly. "The girl is dead, Duke Dorian."

"She knows she will be avenged," Hawkmoon said
flatly and he left to descend the stairs to the hall.

"Something is in the wind, I agree, friend," Orland
Fank was saying to Count Brass as they stood together
beside the fire. He waved his hand as Hawkmoon joined
them. "And how d'you fare, Duke Dorian?"

"Well enough, in the circumstances. Do you know
why the legions are leaving, Master Fank?"

"I was telling the good Count Brass here that I do
not..."

"Ah, and I thought you omniscient, Master Fank."

Fank grinned sheepishly, tugging off his bonnet to
wipe his face with it. "I still need time to gather in-
formation and I've been busy the while since you left
Dnark. I've brought gifts for all the heroes of Castle
Brass."

"You are kind."

"They're not from me, you understand, but from—
well, the Runestaff, I suppose. I'll give you them later.
They've little practical use, you might think, but then
it's hard to say what is practical and what is not in the
fight against the Dark Empire.

Hawkmoon turned to D'Averc. "What did you dis-
cover on your ride?"

"Much the same as you," D'Averc replied. "Razed vil-
lages, all the inhabitants hastily slain. Signs of an over-
swift departure on the part of the troops. I gather that

there are still some garrisons in the large towns, but
they are skeleton staffed—mainly artillery and no cavalry
at all."

"This seems insane," murmured Count Brass.

"If they are insane, then we may yet take advantage of
their lack of rationality," Hawkmoon said with a grim
smile.

"Well spoken, Duke Dorian," Fank clapped his red,
brawny hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder. "Now can I
bring in the gifts."

"By all means, Master Fank."

"Lend me a couple of servants to help, if you will, for
there's six of 'em and they're powerful heavy. I brought
them on two horses."

A few moments later the servants came in, each hold-
ing two wrapped objects, one in each hand. Fank him-
self brought in the remaining two. He laid them on the
flagstones at their feet. "Open them, gentlemen."

Hawkmoon bent and pulled back the cloth that
wrapped one of the gifts. He blinked as the light struck
his eyes and he saw his own face reflected perfectly back
at him. He was puzzled, dragging off the rest of the
cloth to stare in astonishment at the object before him.
The others, too, were murmuring in surprise.

The objects were battle helmets designed to cover the
whole head and rest on the shoulders. The metal of
their manufacture was unfamiliar, but it was polished
more finely than the finest mirror Hawkmoon had ever
seen. With the exception of two eye slits the fronts of
the helms were completely smooth, without decoration
of any sort so that whoever stared at them saw a com-
plete image of himself. The backs were crested in the
same metal, with clean, simple decoration. It struck
Hawkmoon how useful they could be in battle, for the
enemy would be confused by his own reflection, would
have the impression that he was fighting himself!

Hawkmoon laughed aloud. "Why, whoever invented
these must be a genius! They are the finest helms I have
ever seen."

"Try them on," Fank said, grinning back. "You'll find

they fit well. They are the Runestaffs answer to the
beast masks of the Dark Empire."

"How do we know which is ours," Count Brass said.

"You will know," Fank told him. "The one you have
opened. The one with the crest the colour of brass."

Count Brass smiled and lifted the helm to place it
upon his shoulders. Hawkmoon looked at him and saw
his own face, the dull black jewel in the centre of his
forehead, staring back in amused surprise. Hawkmoon
lifted his helm over his head. His had a golden crest.
Now when he turned to regard Count Brass it seemed at
first that the count's helm gave no reflection, until
Hawkmoon realised that there were an infinity of reflec-
tions.

The others had put their helms on their shoulders.
D'Averc's had a blue crest and Oladahn's a scarlet one.
They laughed with pleasure.

"A goodly gift, Master Fank," Hawkmoon said, remov-
ing his helmet. "An excellent gift. But what of the other
two helms?"

Fank smiled mysteriously. "Ah—ah, yes—they would
be for those who would desire them."

"For yourself?"

"Not for myself, no—I must admit I tend to disdain
armour. It is cumbersome stuff and it makes it harder
for me to wield my old battle-axe here." He jerked his
thumb behind him at the axe secured by a cord on his
back.

"Then who are the other two helms for?" Count Brass
said, removing his own helm.

"You will know when you know," Fank said. "And
then it will seem obvious to you. How are the folk of
Castle Brass faring?"

"You mean the villagers of the hill?" Hawkmoon said.
"Well, some of them were slain by the striking of the
great gong recalling us to our own dimension. A few
buildings fell, but all in all they survived well enough.
The remaining Kamargian cavalry has survived."

"About five hundred men," said D'Averc. "Our army."

"Aye,"   Fank   said  with   a  sidelong  glance   at   the

Frenchman. "Aye. Well, I must be away about my
business."

"And what business would that be, Master Fank?"
Oladahn asked.

Fank paused. "In the Orkneys, my friend, we are not
asking of each other's business," he said chidingly.

"Thank you for the gifts," Oladahn said with a bow,
"and forgive my curiosity."

"I accept your apology," Fank said.

"Before you leave, Master Fank, I thank you on be-
half of us all for these welcome gifts," Count Brass told
him. "And could we bother you with a final question?"

"You are all prone to too much questioning in my
own opinion," Fank said. "But then we're close-mouthed
in the Orkneys. Ask away, friend, and I'll do my level
best to answer, if the question is not too personal."

"Do you know how the crystal machine came to be
shattered?" Count Brass asked. "What caused it?"

"I would gather that Lord Taragorm, Master of the
Palace of Time in Londra, discovered the means of
breaking your machine once he understood its source.
He has many old texts which would tell him such
things. Doubtless he built a clock whose striking would
travel through the dimensions and be of such a pitch
and volume as to shatter the crystal. It was, I believe,
the one remedy of the enemies of the folk of Soryandum
who gave you the machine."

"So it was the Dark Empire brought us back," Hawk-
moon said. "But if that was so, then why were they not
waiting for us?"

"Perhaps a domestic crisis of some sort," Orland Fank
said. "We shall see. Farewell, my friends. I have the
feeling we will meet again shortly."

Chapter Five

Five Heroes and A Heroine

As THE GATES closed behind Fank, Bowgentle de-
scended the stairs and there was an odd expression on
his kindly features. He walked stiffly, and his eyes had a
distant look.

"What is it, Bowgentle," Count Brass said in concern,
moving forward to grip his old friend by the arm. "You
seem disturbed."

Bowgentle shook his head. "Not disturbed—resolute. I
have reached a decision. It is many years since I have
wielded a weapon larger than a pen, borne anything
weightier than a difficult problem in philosophy. Now I
will bear arms against Londra. I will ride with you
when you set out against the Dark Empire."

"But Bowgentle," Hawkmoon said, "you are not a
warrior. You comfort us, sustain us with your kindness
and your wisdom. All these things give us strength and
are as useful as any comrade in arms."

"Aye—but this fight will be the last fight, win or lose,"
Bowgentle reminded him. "If you do not return, then
you'll have no need of wisdom—and if you do return,
you'll have but little inclination to seek my advice, for
you'll be the men who broke the Dark Empire. So I will
take up a blade. One of yonder mirror helms will fit me,
I know. The one with the black crest"

He stood aside as Bowgentle went to the helm and

picked it up. Slowly he lowered it over his head. It fitted
perfectly. Reflected in the helm they could see what
Bowgentle saw—their own faces at once admiring and
grim.

D'Averc was the first to step forward with his hand
outstretched. "Very well, Bowgentle. It will be a pleasure
to ride with someone of sophisticated wit for a change!"

Hawkmoon frowned. "It is agreed. If you wish to,
Bowgentle, we shall all be happier for your riding with
us. But who is the other helm for, I wonder?"

"It is for me."

The voice was low, firm, sweet. Hawkmoon turned
slowly to stare at his wife.

"No, it is not for you, Yisselda..."

"How can you be sure?"

"Well. ..."

"Look at it—the helm with the white crest. Is it not
smaller than the others. Suitable for a boy—or a woman."

"Aye," Hawkmoon answered reluctantly.

"And am I not Count Brass's daughter?"

"You are."

"And cannot I ride as well as any of you?"

"You can."

"And did I not fight in the bullring as a girl—and win
honour there? And did I not train with the guardians of
the Kamarg in the arts of the axe, the sword and the
Same lance? Father?"

"It is true, she was proficient in all these arts," Count
Brass said soberly. "But proficiency is not all that is re-
quired of a warrior..."

"Am I not strong?"

"Aye—for a woman . . ." answered the Lord of Castle
Brass. "Soft and as strong as silk, I believe a local poet
said," he glanced sardonically at Bowgentle, who
blushed.

"Is it stamina, then, that I lack?" Yisselda asked, her
eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and humour.

"No—you have more than enough stamina," Hawk-
moon said.

"Courage? Do I lack courage?"

"There is none more courageous than you, my child,"
Count Brass agreed.

"Then what quality do I lack that a warrior has?"

Hawkmoon shrugged his shoulders. "None, Yisselda—
save that you are a woman and—and..."

"And women do not fight. They merely remain at the
fireside to mourn their lost kin, is that it?"

"Or welcome them back..."

"Or welcome them back. Well, I have no patience
with that scheme of things. Why should I remain behind
at Castle Brass. Who will protect me?"

"We will leave guards."

"A few guards—guards you will need in your battle.
You know very well that you will want every man with
you."

"Aye, that's true," Hawkmoon said. "But there is one
other factor, Yisselda. Do you forget that you carry our
child?"

"I do not forget. I carry our child. Aye, and I'll carry
it into battle—for if we are defeated there will be noth-
ing for it to inherit save disaster—and if we win then it
will know the thrill of victory even before it comes into
the world. But if we are all slain—then we shall die to-
gether. I'll not be Hawkmoon's widow and I'll not bear
Hawkmoon's orphan. I will not be safe at Castle Brass
alone, Dorian, I'll ride with you." She went to the mir-
ror helm with the white crest and she picked it up. She
drew it over her head and spread her soft arms tri-
umphantly.

"See—it fits perfectly. It was plainly made for me. We
will ride together, the six of us, and lead the Kamar-
gians against the massed might of the Dark Empire—five
heroes—and, I hope, one heroine!"

"So be it," murmured Hawkmoon moving forward to
embrace his wife. "So be it"

Chapter Six

A New Ally

THE WOLVES AND the Vultures had fought their way
back from the Continent and were now pouring into Lon-
dra. Coming into Londra, too, were the Flies, the Rats,
the Goats and the Hounds and all the other bloodthirsty
beasts of Granbretan.

From a high tower, now his command headquarters,
Meliadus of Kroiden watched them arrive, flooding in
by every gate and battling as they came. One group
puzzled him and he strained his eyes to see it better. It
was a large detachment of troops riding under a black
and white striped banner signifying neutrality. The ban-
ner carried beside it now became easier to see.

Meliadus frowned.

The banner was that of Adaz Promp, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of the Hound. Did the neutral flag
mean that he had not yet decided on whose side to
fight? Or did it mean he planned a complicated trick?
Meliadus rubbed his lips thoughtfully. With Adaz
Promp on his side he could begin an assault on the
palace itself. He reached for his wolf helm and stroked
the metal head.

For the past few days as the battle for Londra had
reached deadlock Meliadus had become pensive—the
more so because he did not know if Taragorm's device
had succeeded and brought Castle Brass back to its own

dimension. His earlier good humour, based on his
success in the initial fighting, had been replaced by a
nervousness resulting from several uncertainties.

The door opened. Automatically Meliadus reached
for his helm, donning it as he turned.

"Ah, it's you, Flana. What do you want?"

"Taragorm is here."

"Taragorm, eh? Has he something positive to tell
me."

The clock mask appeared behind Flana's heron mask.

"I had hoped that you would have some positive
news, brother," Taragorm said acidly. "After all, we
have made no great gains for the past few days."

"The reinforcements are arriving," Meliadus said pet-
ulantly, waving his gauntletted hand at the window.
"Wolves and Vultures pouring in—and even some Fer-
rets."

"Aye—reinforcements for Huon, too—and seemingly in
larger numbers than ours."

"Kalan should have his new weapons ready soon,"
Meliadus said defensively. "They will give us an ad-
vantage."

"If they work." Taragorm spoke sardonically. "I am
beginning to wonder if I have not made a mistake, join-
ing you. You struck too impetuously..."

"Brother! We must not quarrel, or we're finished.
There is no time now!"

"Aye, that I'll grant you. If Huon wins we're all
doomed."

"Huon will not win."

"We need a million men to attack the palace and
succeed."

"We'll find a million men. If only we can make a
little headway, others will come over to our side."

Taragorm ignored this statement and turned instead
to Flana. "It is a shame, Flana. You would have made a
beautiful queen ..."

"She will still make a queen," Meliadus said savagely,
restraining himself from striking Taragorm. "Your
pessimism amounts to treachery, Taragorm!"

"And will you slay me for my treachery, brother?
With all my knowledge. Only I know all the secrets of
Time."

Meliadus shrugged. "Of course I will not slay you. Let
us cease this arguing and concentrate instead on win-
ning the palace."

Bored by the quarrel, Flana left the room.

"I must see Kalan," Meliadus said. "He has suffered a
setback, having to remove all his equipment to a new
site so hastily. Come, Taragorm, we'll visit him to-
gether."

They summoned their litters, climbed in and had
their slaves carry them through the dimly lit corridors of
the tower, down twisting ramps to the rooms Kalan had
adapted as laboratories. A door opened and foul-smell-
ing heat struck their bodies. Meliadus could feel it
through his mask. He coughed as he left his litter and
walked into the chamber where Kalan stood, his
scrawny body naked to the waist and only his mask on
his head, supervising the serpent-masked scientists who
toiled for him.

Kalan greeted them impatiently. "What do you want?
I have no time for conversation!"

"We wondered what progress you were making,
Baron." Meliadus yelled over the boiling sound.

"Good progress, I hope. The facilities are ridiculously
primitive. The weapon is almost ready."

Taragorm glanced at the tangle of tubes and wires
from which all the noise and heat and stink was issuing.
"That's a weapon?"

"It will be, it will be."

"What will it do?"

"Bring me men to mount it on our roof and I'll show
you in a few hours."

Meliadus nodded. "Very well. You realise what de-
pends on your success, Kalan?"

"Aye, that I do. I'm beginning to curse myself for
joining you, Meliadus, but I'm in with you now and can
only continue. Please leave—I'll send word when the
weapon's ready."

Meliadus and Taragorm walked back through the cor-
ridors, their litters following behind.

"I hope Kalan has not lost all sanity," Taragorm said
icily. "For if he has, that thing might destroy us."

"Or destroy nothing," Meliadus said gloomily.

"Now who is the pessimist, brother?"

Returning to his apartments, Meliadus discovered
that he had a visitor. A fat visitor clad in gaudy silk-cov-
ered armour with a brightly painted helm representing
a savage and grinning hound.

"Baron Adaz Promp," said Flana Mikosevaar, emerg-
ing from another room. "He arrived shortly after you
left, Meliadus."

"Baron," Meliadus said, bowing formally. "I am
honoured."

Adaz Promp's smooth tones came from the helm.
"What are the issues, Meliadus? What are the goals?"

"The issues—our plans of conquest. The goals—to put
a more rational monarch on the throne of Granbretan.
One who will respect the advice of experienced warriors
such as ourselves."

"Respect your advice, you mean!" Promp chuckled.
"Well, I have to admit that I thought you insane, my
lord, not Huon. Your pursuing this wild vendetta
against Hawkmoon and Castle Brass, for instance. I sus-
pected that it was motivated only by your private lust
and vengeance."

"You no longer believe that?"

"I do not care. I am beginning to share your opinion
that they represent the greatest danger to Granbretan
and that they should be exterminated before we think of
anything else."

"Why have you changed your mind, Adaz?" Meliadus
leaned forward eagerly. "Why? You have some evidence
not known to me?"

"More a suspicion or two," Adaz Promp said slowly,
fatly. "A hint of this, a hint of that."

"What sort of hints?"

"A ship we encountered and boarded in the northern

seas as we were returning from Scandia to answer our
emperor's call. A rumour from France. Nothing more."

"What of the ship? What ship was it?"

"One like those anchored on the river, only much
larger—with the strange contraption on its arse and no
sails. It was battered, drifting and had two men aboard,
both wounded. They died before we could transfer them
to our own vessel."

"Shenegar Trott's ship. From Amarehk."

"Aye—that's what they told us."

"But what has it to do with Hawkmoon?"

"It appears they met Hawkmoon in Amarehk. It
seems they received their wounds from Hawkmoon in
some bloody battle in a city called Dnark. According to
these men—and they were raving—the issue of the dis-
pute was the Runestaff itself."

"And Hawkmoon won the dispute."

"Indeed he did. There were two thousand of them, we
were told—Trott's men, that is—and only four, including
Hawkmoon, against them."

"And Hawkmoon won!"

"Aye—aided by supernatural warriors according to he
who lived long enough to babble the tale. It all sounds
like truth mixed with fantasy, but it is plain that
Hawkmoon defeated a force much larger than his own
and that he personally slew Shenegar Trott. It does
seem, also, that he has certain scientific powers at his
disposal of which we know little. This is confirmed by
the manner in which they managed to escape from us
the last time. Which brings me to my second tale, picked
up from one of your own Wolves as we marched to Lon-
dra."

"What's that,"

"He had heard that Castle Brass has reappeared, that
Hawkmoon and the rest took a town to the north of the
Kamarg and destroyed every man of ours occupying it.
It's a rumour and hard to believe. Where could Hawk-
moon have raised an army at such short notice?"

"Such rumours are common in times of war," Melia-

dus mused, "but it is possible. You believe Hawkmoon a
larger threat than Huon thought?"

"It's a guess—but I feel it's an informed one. I'm mo-
tivated by other considerations, Meliadus. I think that
the sooner we end this fight the better, for if Hawkmoon
has an army—recruited, perhaps, in Amarehk—then the
sooner we should clear it up. I'm with you, Meliadus. I
can put half a million Hounds at your disposal within
the next day."

"Have you enough now to take the palace with those
that I command?"

"Possibly, with artillery cover."

"That you shall have."

Meliadus pumped Promp's hand. "Oh, Baron Adaz, I
believe we shall have victory by the morrow!"

"But how many of us will be alive to see it, I wonder,"
Promp said. "To take the palace will cost a few thousand
lives—perhaps even a few hundred thousand."

"It will be worth it, Baron. Believe me.

Meliadus's spirits were rising at the prospect of victory
over Huon, but mainly he gloated that he might soon
have Hawkmoon in his power again—particularly if Ka-
lan could really find a way of re-activating the Black
Jewel as he had promised he would.

Chapter Seven

The Battle for Huon's

Palace

MELIADUS WATCHED THEM mount the contraption on
the roof of his headquarters. They were high above the
streets and close to the palace where the fighting raged.
Promp had not yet brought up his Hounds but was wait-
ing to see what Kalan's machine would do before he
made an open attack on the palace gates. The huge
building seemed capable of withstanding any attack—it
looked as if it could survive the end of the world. It
rose, tier upon magnificent tier, into the lowering sky.
Flanked by four vast towers glowing with a peculiar
golden light, encrusted with grotesque bas-reliefs depict-
ing Granbretan's ancient glory, shining with a million
clashing colours, protected by gigantic gates of steel
thirty foot thick, the palace appeared to look down con-
temptuously at the embattled factions.

Even Meliadus felt momentary doubt as he stared at
it, then returned his attention to Kalan's weapon. From
the mass of wires and tubes projected a great funnel,
like the bell of a monstrous trumpet and this was turned
toward the palace walls crowded with hosts of soldiers,
primarily of the Orders of the Mantis, the Pig and the
Fly. Outside the city the ranks of other Orders were
preparing to assault Meliadus's forces from the rear and

he knew the time element was crucial, that if he won a
victory at the palace gates others would come over to his
side.

"It is ready," Kalan told him.

"Then use it," Meliadus growled. "Use it on the
troops manning the walls."

Kalan nodded and his Serpents trained the weapon.
Kalan stepped forward and seized a great lever. He
turned his masked face to the lurid skies as if in prayer,
then he pulled the lever down.

The machine trembled. Steam rose from it. It rum-
bled and quivered and roared and from the trumpet
grew a gigantic, pulsing green bubble that gave off in-
tense heat. The thing broke loose from the muzzle of the
weapon and began to move slowly down towards the
walls.

Fascinated, Meliadus watched it drift, watched it
reach the wall and settle upon a score of warriors. With
satisfaction he heard their screams break off as they
writhed in the hot, green stuff and then vanished com-
pletely. The ball of green heat began to roll along the
wall, gobbling its human prey until suddenly it burst
and green liquid boiled down the sides of the wall in
viscous streamers.

"It has broken. It does not work!" Meliadus yelled in
rage.

"Patience, Meliadus," Kalan shouted. His men were
repositioning the weapon by a few degrees. "Watch!"
Again he pulled down the lever, again the machine
shook and hissed and slowly another gigantic green
bubble formed at its snout. The bubble drifted to the
wall, rolled over another group of men and rolled again.
This one rolled longer until there was hardly a warrior
left on the wall when it eventually burst.

"Now we send them over the wall," Kalan chuckled
and pulled the lever once more. This time he did not
wait. As one boiling green bubble left the muzzle, he
would bring another into being until at least a score of
the things had drifted over the walls and into the court-
yard beyond. He worked furiously, totally absorbed in

his work, as the machine shuddered and hissed and
threw off almost unbearable heat.

"That mixture will corrode anything!" Kalan yelled
excitedly. "Anything!" He paused for a moment to
point. "Look what it is doing to the walls!"

Sure enough the viscous stuff was eating its way into
the stone. Huge pieces of highly decorated rock fell into
the street below, forcing the attackers to back off. The
mixture ate through the stone as boiling oil might eat
through ice, leaving huge jagged gaps in the defences.

"But how will our men get through?" Meliadus com-
plained. "That stuff will not care what it eats!"

"Have no fear," Kalan chuckled. "The mixture only
has a potency of a few minutes." Again he pulled the
lever, sending another huge green bubble of heat over
the wall. As he did so, a whole section of the wall near
the gates collapsed completely and when the smoke from
the rubble cleared, Meliadus could see that there was
now a way through. He was elated.

A sudden whine now came from Kalan's machine and
Kalan began to fiddle with the improved controls-
leaping about from part to part giving hasty directions
to his men.

Taragorm emerged on the roof and saluted Meliadus.
"I underestimated Kalan, I see." He moved towards the
Serpent scientist. "Congratulations, Kalan."

Kalan was waving his arms and screaming with
pleasure. "You see, Taragorm! You see! Here—why don't
you try it. You merely depress this lever."

Taragorm gripped the lever in both hands, his clock
mask turning to look at the wall through which it was
now possible to see Huon's troops retreating into the
palace itself, pursued by the rolling spheres of death.
But then suddenly from the palace a flame cannon
roared. Huon's men had at last succeeded in positioning
their artillery within the palace itself. Several bolts of
fire shot over their heads and others splashed harmlessly
on the walls below. Kalan chuckled in triumph. "Those
things are useless against my weapon. Aim it at them.

Taragorm. Send a bubble—there!"— and his finger stabbed
towards the windows where the guns were positioned.

Taragorm seemed as absorbed in the machine as Ka-
lan and it amused Meliadus to watch the two scientists
playing like schoolboys with a new toy. He felt in a
tolerant mood now. It was obvious Kalan's weapon was
turning the battle in his favour. It was time to join Adaz
Promp and lead in the troops.

He descended the steps that took him to the interior
of the tower and called for his litter. Once in it, he
leaned back comfortably, feeling already a certain sweet
triumph.

Then overhead he heard a mighty explosion that
shook the whole tower. He leapt from his litter and be-
gan to run back the way he had come. As he neared the
roof he was driven back by an intense heat and saw Ka-
lan, his mask twisted and buckled, staggering through
the steam towards him. "Get back!" Kalan screamed.
"The machine exploded. I was near the entrance or I
should have been killed. It's spilling my mixture all over
the tower. Get away or we'll all be eaten by the stuff."

"Taragorm!" Meliadus said. "What of Taragorm?"

"There can be nothing left of him," Kalan said.
"Quickly—we'll have to leave the tower as fast as we can.
Hurry, Meliadus!"

"Taragorm dead? And so soon after he had served my
purpose?" Meliadus followed Kalan down the ramps. "I
had known he would give me trouble after Huon was
defeated. I had wondered how to cope with him. But
now my problem is solved! My poor brother!"

Meliadus roared with laughter as he ran.

Chapter Eight

Flana Observes The Battle

FROM THE SAFETY of her own tower, Flana Mikose-
vaar watched the soldiers pour through the breached
wall of the palace as the tower which had lately been
Meliadus's headquarters toppled, tilted and fell with a
crash upon the lower sections of the city.

For a moment she had thought Meliadus destroyed
when the tower fell, but now she could see his banner
leading the warriors into battle. She also saw the banner
of Adaz Promp beside it and knew that Wolf and Hound,
traditional rivals, attacked King Huon together.

She sighed. The noise of the battle had intensified
and she could find no escape from it. The flame-cannon
vainly attempted to shorten range, to fire down into the
courtyard at the warriors as they rushed towards the
great gates of the palace in which the green bubbles had
eaten gaping holes. But the artillery was useless. It had
been positioned anticipating a long siege and now it
could not be moved down in time. A few flame lances
fired from the broken gates, but no large artillery.

The sound of the battle seemed to fade, as did the
sight of it, as Flana thought again of D'Averc and won-
dered if he would come. Adaz Promp's news had raised
her hopes, for if Hawkmoon were alive then D'Averc
was likely to be, also.

But would she ever see D'Averc Would he die in

some skirmish, vainly attempting to resist the might of
Granbretan? Even if he did not die at once he was des-
tined to live the life of a hunted bandit, for none could
ever hope to do battle with the Dark Empire and
succeed. She supposed that Hawkmoon, D'Averc and the
rest would die on some distant battlefield. They might
reach the coast before they were destroyed, but they
could not possibly come close to her, for the sea sep-
arated them and the Silver Bridge Across the Sea would
not be open to the Kamargian guerillas.

Flana considered taking her own life, but it did not
seem worth it at present. When all hope was gone, then
she would kill herself, but not before. And if she were
Queen, she would have some power. There was a slight
chance that Meliadus would spare D'Averc, for D'Averc
in some ways was the least of Meliadus's hates, though
the Frenchman was considered a traitor.

She heard a great shout go up and looked again
towards the palace.

Meliadus and Adaz Promp were riding into Castle
Huon. Victory was clearly in sight.

Chapter Nine

The Slaying of King Hum

BARON MELIADUS RODE his black charger full tilt
through the echoing corridors of King Huon's palace.
He had been here many times before and always in hu-
mility or apparent humility. Now his snarling wolf visor
was proud and a battle-cry roared from Meliadus's
throat as he drove his way through the Mantis Guards
whom once he had been forced to fear. He struck about
him with the great black broadsword he had wielded so
Well in Huon's service. He made his horse rear and its
hooves, which had trampled the ground of a score of
conquered lands, struck down on insect helms and made
long necks snap.

Meliadus laughed. Meliadus roared. Meliadus gal-
loped for the Throne Room where the remnants of the
defenders were gathering. He saw them at the far end of
the corridor attempting to bring up a flame cannon.
With a dozen mounted Wolves behind him he did not
pause but struck directly at the cannon before its sur-
prised operators could move. Six heads flew from their
necks in as many seconds and all the artillerymen were
dead. Flame lance beams shrieked around the black wolf
helm, but Meliadus ignored them. The eyes of his horse
were red with battle-madness and it plunged forward at
the foe.

Meliadus pressed back the Mantis Guards, hacking
them down. They died convinced that he had supernat-
ural powers.

But it was wild energy, the elation of war, driving Me-
liadus of Kroiden through the massive gates of the
Throne Room to find the few remaining guards in con-
fusion. All possible men had been used to defend the
gates. Now as the Mantis warriors advanced cautiously,
spears outraised, Meliadus shouted his laughter at them
and rode through them before they could move, gal-
loping towards the Throne Globe where earlier he had
crawled.

The black globe shimmered and gradually the
wizened shape of the immortal King Emperor became
visible. The little foetus shape wriggled like a mal-
formed fish, dashing back and forth across the confining
bowl that was its life. It was undefended. It was helpless.
It had never believed that it would need to protect itself
against such treachery. Even it, in all its two thousand
years of wisdom, had not been able to conceive that a
Granbretanian noble would turn against his hereditary
ruler.

"Meliadus . . ." There was fear in the golden voice.
"Meliadus—you are insane. Listen—it is your King Em-
peror speaking to you. I order you to leave this place, to
withdraw your troops, to swear your loyalty to me. Meli-
adus!"

The black eyes, once so sardonic, were now full of ani-
mal fear. The prehensile tongue flickered like that of a
snake, the enfeebled, useless hands and feet flapped.

"Meliadus!"

Shaking with triumphant laughter Meliadus drew
back his great broadsword and struck at the Throne
Globe. He felt a shock run the length of his body as the
blade crashed into the globe. There was a white ex-
plosion, a wailing cry, a sound of shards falling to the
floor and the splattering of fluid against Meliadus's
body.

He blinked his eyes, expecting to look down upon the

twisted, tiny frame of his slain King Emperor. He says
nothing but deep blackness.

His laughter changed to a scream of terror.

"By Huon's Teeth! I AM BLIND!"

Chapter Ten

The Heroes Ride Out

"THE FORT BURNS well," said Oladahn, turning back
in his saddle to look for the last time upon the garrison.
It had contained a force of Rat infantry but now not
one lived save the commander who would take his time
in dying for the citizens of the town had crucified him
on the scaffold where he had crucified so many of their
husbands, wives and children.

Six mirror helms now looked forward to the horizon
as Hawkmoon, Yisselda, Count Brass, D'Averc, Oladahn
and Bowgentle rode away from the town at the head of
five hundred Kamargian name lancers.

Their first encounter since leaving Kamarg had been
a complete victory. With surprise on their side they had
wiped out the skeleton garrison in less than half an
hour.

Feeling little elation, but with no sense of exhaustion,
Hawkmoon led his comrades on towards the next town
where they had heard they might find more Granbre-
tanians to kill.

But then he reined his horse as he saw a rider gal-
loping towards them and realised that it was Orland
Fank, his battle-axe bouncing on his brawny back.

"Greetings, friends! I have some news for you—an ex-
planation. The beasts have fallen upon each other.
There is civil war in Granbretan. Londra itself is the

main battleground with Baron Meliadus in arms against
King Huon. Thousands have been slain so far."

"So that is why there are so few here," Hawkmoon
said, removing his mirror helm and wiping his forehead
with a silken kerchief. He had worn armour rarely in
the past months and he had not yet got used to the dis-
comfort. "They have all been recalled to defend King
Huon."

"Or to fight with Meliadus. It is to our advantage,
don't you think?"

"I do," Count Brass broke in gruffly, his voice more
excited than usual, "for that means they are killing each
other and improving the odds a little in our favour.
While they battle, we move swiftly to the Silver Bridge,
crossing it and reaching the very shores of Granbretan
herself! Luck is with us, Master Fank."

"Luck—or fate—or destiny," Fank said lightly, "call it
what you will."

"Then had we best not ride swiftly to the sea?" Yis-
selda said.

"Aye," Hawkmoon said. "Swiftly—to take advantage of
their confusion."

"A sensible idea," Fank nodded. "And being a sensi-
ble man myself, I believe I will ride with you."

"You are most welcome, Master Fank."

Chapter Eleven

News of Several Sorts

MELIADUS LAY GASPING on the stretcher as Kalan
bent over him probing at his blind eyes with his instru-
ments. His voice was a mixture of pain and fury. "What
is it, Kalan?" he groaned. "Why am I blind?"

"Simply the intensity of the light released during the
explosion," Kalan said. "Your sight should be restored
in a day or so."

"In a day or so! I need to see. I need to consolidate
my gains. I need to make sure that there are no counter-
plots hatched against me. I need to convince the other
barons to swear loyalty to Flana now and then to find
out what Hawkmoon is up to. My plans—my plans—are
they to be all destroyed!"

"Most of the barons have decided to support your
Cause," Kalan told him. "There is little they can do.
Only Jerek Nankenseen and the Flies represent a serious
threat and Brenal Farnu is with him—but Farnu virtu-
ally has no Order left. Most of the Rats died in the early
fighting. Adaz Promp is even now chasing Rats and Flies
from the city."

"No Rats left," said Meliadus, suddenly thoughtful.
"How many dead in all, d'you think, Kalan?"

"About half the fighting men of Granbretan."

"Half? Have I destroyed half our warriors? Half our
strength?"

"Was it not worth it for the victory you have won?"

Meliadus's blind face stared up at the ceiling. "Aye—I
suppose so..."

Now he sat upright on the stretcher. "But I must jus-
tify the deaths of those who fell, Kalan. I did it for
Granbretan—to rid the world of Hawkmoon and the
scum from Castle Brass. I must succeed or, Kalan, I can-
not justify weakening the Dark Empire's fighting force
to such a degree!"

"Have no fear on that score," Kalan told him with a
faint smile, "for I have been working on another of my
machines."

"A new weapon?"

"An old one, made to function again."

"What is that?"

Kalan chuckled. "The Machine of the Black Jewel,
Baron Meliadus. Hawkmoon shall soon feel the power
of the Black Jewel as it begins to eat his brain."

A slow, satisfied smile crossed Meliadus's lips. "Oh,
Kalan—at last!"

Kalan pressed Meliadus back against the stretcher. He
began to rub ointment on the baron's blind eyes. "Rest
now and dream of your revenge, old friend. We shall en-
joy it together."

Kalan looked up suddenly. A courier had entered the
small room. "What is it? What news?"

The courier was panting. "I have come from the
mainland, your excellency. I have news of Hawkmoon
and his men."

"What of them?" Again Meliadus rose up from the
stretcher, the ointment dripping down his cheeks, care-
less that a minion should see him unmasked. "What of
Hawkmoon?"

"They ride for the Silver Bridge, my lord."

"They plan to invade Granbretan?" Meliadus was in-
credulous. "How many men have they? What is the size
of their army?"

"Five hundred horsemen, my lord."

Meliadus began to laugh.

Chapter Twelve

The New Queen

KALAN LED MELIADUS up the steps towards a throne
now replacing the sinister Globe. On the throne sat
Flana Mikosevaar in a jewelled heron mask, a crown
upon her head, the robes of state upon her body. And
before Flana Mikosevaar kneeled all those nobles loyal
to her.

"Behold," Meliadus said in a voice booming coarse
and proud through the vast hall, "your new Queen. Un-
der Queen Flana you will be great—greater than you
have dreamed. Under Queen Flana a new age will
bloom—an age of laughing madness and roaring plea-
sure, the sort of pleasure we of Granbretan hold dear.
The world shall be our toy!"

The ceremony progressed, with each noble in turn
swearing his allegiance to Queen Flana. And when at
length it was finished, Baron Meliadus spoke again.
"Where is Adaz Promp, Chief Warlord of the Armies of
Granbretan?"

Promp spoke up. "Here I am, my lord, and I thank
you for the honour you do me." This was the first time
Meliadus had mentioned Promp's reward—command
over all other commanders, save Meliadus himself.

"Will you report how the rebels fare, Adaz Promp?"

"There are few left, my lord. Those Flies we have not
swatted are dispersed and their Grand Constable, Jerek

Nankenseen, is dead. I slew him myself. Brenal Farnu
and the few remaining Rats have bolted into holes
somewhere in Sussex and will soon be flushed out. All
others have united in their loyalty to Queen Flana."

"That is satisfactory, Adaz Promp, and I am pleased.
And what of Hawkmoon's laughable force. Does it still
progress towards us?"

"So our ornithopter scouts report, my lord. They will
soon be ready to cross the Silver Bridge."

Meliadus chuckled. "Let them cross. Let them come at
least half the distance, then we shall wipe them out. Ka-
lan, how do you manage with the machine?"

"It is almost ready, my lord."

"Good. Now we must set off for Deau-Vere to wel-
come Hawkmoon and his friends. Come, my captains,
come."

And Meliadus was led back down the steps by Kalan
and along the hall until he came to the great gates—the
gates guarded not by Mantis warriors, but by Wolves
and Vultures. Meliadus regretted he could not see them
and thus savour his triumph the more.

After the doors had closed behind him, Flana sat
frozen on her throne and thought of D'Averc. She had
tried to speak of him to Meliadus, but he had not heard
her. Would he be killed? she wondered.

She thought, also, of what had befallen her. Alone
among the nobles of Granbretan, save Shenegar Trott,
she had read many old texts, some of which were
legends and alleged histories of the years before the
Tragic Millennium, She believed, whatever became of
herself and Meliadus, that she now presided over a court
entering its last stages of decadence. The wars of expan-
sion, the internal strife—all were signs of a nation in its
death throes, and though that death might not come for
another two hundred years, or five hundred, or a thou-
sand, she knew that the Dark Empire was doomed.

She prayed that something better would emerge to
take its place.

Chapter Thirteen

''What Do You See?"

MELIADUS HELD THE reins of his herald's horse. "You
must not leave me, boy. You must tell me what you see
and I must plan the battle accordingly."

"I will tell you, my lord."

"Good. Are the troops all assembled?"

"They are, my lord. They await your signal."

"And is that cur Hawkmoon in sight yet?"

"Figures have been seen riding towards us across the
Silver Bridge. They will ride directly into our ranks,
unless they flee."

Meliadus grunted. "They will not flee—not Hawk-
moon—not now. Can you see them yet?"

"I see a flash like silver—like a heliograph signal-
one—two—three, four—five—six. The sun makes them
shine so. Six silver mirrors. I wonder what it can mean?"

"The sun on polished spears?"

"I think not, my lord."

"Well, we shall soon know."

"Yes, my lord."

"What now?"

"Now I see six riders, my lord, at the head of a mass
of cavalry. Each rider is crowned with flashing silver.
Why, my lord, it is their helmets that shine!"

"Are they well-polished, then?"

"They are helms. They cover their faces. I—I can
hardly bear to look upon them, they are so bright."

"Strange. Still, doubtless the helmets will break
quickly enough beneath our weapons. You have told
them that Hawkmoon must be taken alive but they can
kill the rest?"

"I have, my lord."

"Good."

"And I told them what you said—that if Hawkmoon
should clutch at his head and begin to act strangely they
should tell you at once."

"Excellent." Meliadus chuckled. "Excellent. I shall
have my vengeance, either way."

"They have almost reached the end of the bridge, my
lord. They have seen us but they are not stopping."

"Then give the signal to charge," Meliadus said.
"Blow your trumpet, herald.

"Are they charging, herald?"

"They are, my lord."

"And what now? Have the armies met?"

"They have engaged, my lord,"

"And what is happening?"

"I am—I am uncertain, my lord—what with the flash-
ing of those helmets and some—there is a peculiar red
light spreading over the scene—there seem to be more
men in Hawkmoon's army than we at first thought. In-
fantry—and some cavalry. By Huon's Teeth—I beg your
pardon, my lord—by Flana's Breasts! They are the
strangest warriors I have ever seen!"

"What do they look like?"

"Barbaric—primitive—and yet so fierce! They are driv-
ing into our forces like a coals through cream!"

"What? It cannot be. We have five thousand troops
and they have five hundred. All the reports confirmed
that number."

"There are more than five hundred, my lord. Many
more."

"Have all the scouts lied, then? Or are we all going
mad. These barbarian warriors, they must have come

with Hawkmoon from Amarehk. What now? What now?
Are our forces rallying?"

"They are not, my lord."

"What are they doing, then?"

"They are falling back, my lord."

"Retreating? Impossible!"

"They appear to be falling back rapidly, my lord.
Those that live."

"What do you mean? How many remain of our five
thousand?"

"I would say about five hundred infantry, my lord,
and a scattered hundred of cavalry."

"Tell the pilot of my ornithopter to prepare his
machine herald."

"I will, my lord."

"Is the pilot ready to fly, herald?"

"He is, my lord."

"And what of Hawkmoon and his band? What of the
men in the silver helms?"

"They are pursuing the remains of our force, my
lord."

"I have been deceived in some way, herald."

"As you say, my lord. There are many dead. But now
the barbarian warriors slaughter the infantry. Only the
cavalry escape."

"I cannot believe it. O, curse this blindness! I feel as
if I dreamt"

"I will lead you to the ornithopter, my lord."

"Thank you, herald. No, pilot—to Londra. Hurry. I
must consider fresh plans!"

As the ornithopter beat its way up into the pale blue
sky, Meliadus felt a great silver flash pass across his eyes
and he blinked, looking down. And he could see. He
could see the six flashing helmets the herald had men-
tioned, he could see the slaughtered legions he had
known would destroy Hawkmoon's force, he saw the re-
mains of his cavalry scurrying wildly for their lives. And
he heard distant laughter he recognised as belonging to
his most hated enemy.

He shook his fist. "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

Silver flashed as a helmet turned to look upward.

"No matter what tricks you use, Hawkmoon, you will
perish by the night. I know you will. I know!"

He looked again, seething as Hawkmoon laughed on.
He looked for the barbarians who had routed his sol-
diers. They had vanished.

It was a nightmare, he thought. Or had the herald
been in league with Hawkmoon? Or were Hawkmoon's
barbarians invisible to his eyes?

Meliadus rubbed at his face. Perhaps the blindness, so
recently left him, was still troubling him in some ob-
scure form. Perhaps the barbarians were on another
part of the field.

But no, there were no barbarians.

"Hurry, pilot," he called through the sound of the
metallic wings flapping at the air. "Hurry—we must re-
turn to Londra as fast as we can!"

Meliadus began to think that Hawkmoon's defeat was
not going to be as easy as he had guessed. But then he
remembered Kalan and the Machine of the Black Jewel,
and he smiled.

Chapter Fourteen

The Power Returns

SLIGHTLY OVERAWED BY a victory in which they had
lost only twelve killed and twenty slightly wounded, the
six removed their mirror helms and stared after the re-
treating horsemen.

"They were not expecting the Legion of the Dawn!"
Count Brass smiled. "Unprepared, they were startled
and could hardly resist. But they will be better prepared
by the time we reach Londra."

"Aye," Hawkmoon said, "and Meliadus will put a
good many more warriors in the field next time." He
fingered the Red Amulet about his throat and glanced
at Yisselda who was shaking out her blonde hair.

"You fought well, my lord," she said. "You fought like
a hundred men."

"That is because this amulet gives me the strength of
fifty men and your love gives me the strength of another
fifty," he smiled.

She laughed lightly. "You never flattered me so dur-
ing our courtship."

"Perhaps it is because I have come to love you even
more than before," he replied.

D'Averc cleared his throat. "We'd best camp a mile or
two on, away from all this death."

"I'll tend to the wounded," Bowgentle said and
turned his horse back to where the Kamargian cavalry

were grouped, squatting beside their horses and talking
among themselves.

"You did well, lads," Count Brass called back. "It is
like the old days, eh? When we fought across Europe!
Now we fight to save Europe."

Hawkmoon started to speak and then gave a terrible
shriek. The helmet fell from his grasp and he pressed
both hands to his head, his eyes rolling in pain and hor-
ror. He swayed in his shadow and would have fallen had
not Oladahn caught him.

"What is it, Duke Dorian?" Oladahn asked in alarm.

"Why do you cry, my love?" Yisselda dismounted
swiftly, helping Oladahn support him.

Through clenched teeth and pale lips Hawkmoon
managed to utter a few words. "The jewel . . . The
Black Jewel—it is gnawing at my brain again I The
power has returned I" He swayed and fell into their
arms, his limbs swinging loosely and his face a terrible
white. As his hands dropped from his head they saw he
spoke truth. The Black Jewel was crawling with life. It
had regained its malevolent lustre.

"Oladahn, is he dead?" Yisselda cried in panic.

The little man shook his head. "No—he lives. But for
how long, I cannot tell. Bowgentle! Sir Bowgentle!
Come quickly."

Bowgentle hurried up and took Hawkmoon in his
arms. This was not the first time he had seen the Duke
of Koln thus. He shook his head. "I can try to work a
temporary remedy, but I have not the materials that I
had at Castle Brass."

In panic, Yisselda and Oladahn, and later Count
Brass and D'Averc watched Bowgentle work. And at last
Hawkmoon stirred, opening his eyes.

"The jewel," he said. "I dreamt it was eating my brain
again..."

"So it will if we cannot find a way of blocking it
soon," murmured Bowgentle. "The power has gone for
the moment, but we do not know when it will return
again and in what force."

Hawkmoon hauled himself to his feet. He was pale
and could hardly stand. "We must press on, then—to
Londra while there is time. If there is time."

"Aye, if there is time."

Chapter Fifteen

The Gates of Londra

THE TROOPS WERE massed outside the gates of Lon-
dra as the six riders mounted the crest of the hill at the
head of their cavalry.

Hawkmoon, ill with pain, fingered the Red Amulet.
This alone was keeping him alive, helping him fight the
power of the Black Jewel. Somewhere in the city Kalan
was operating the machine that fed life to the jewel. To
reach Kalan he had to take the city, had to beat the
multitude of warriors that, with Meliadus at their had,
now awaited them.

Hawkmoon did not hesitate. He knew he could not
hesitate, for every second of his life was precious. He
drew the rosy Sword of the Dawn and gave the order to
charge.

Gradually the Kamargian cavalry topped the hill and
began to thunder down on a force many times their
number.

Flame lances spat from the Granbretanian ranks and
were answered by the fire of the Kamargians. Hawkmoon
judged the moment right and flung his swordarm sky-
ward. "The Legion of the Dawn! I summon the Legion
of the Dawn!" and then he groaned as the pain filled
his skull and he felt the heat of the jewel in his forehead.
Yisselda beside him had time to cry out, "Are you all
right, my love?" but he could not give an answer.

And then they were in the thick of the battle.
Hawkmoon's eyes were so glazed with pain he could
hardly see the enemy, could not tell at first if the Legion
of the Dawn had materialised. But there they were now,
their rosy auras lighting the sky. He felt the power of
the Red Amulet fill him as it fought the power of the
Black Jewel and he felt his strength gradually returning.
But how long would it last?

Now he was in the middle of a mass of fear-crazed
horses, striking about him at Vulture helmeted warriors
who bore long-handled maces with heads like the
stretched claws of hunting birds. He blocked a blow and
struck back, his great sword cutting through the war-
rior's armour and into his chest. He swung in the saddle
to take another foe in the neck, ducked a whistling mace
and stabbed its owner in the groin.

The fight was noisy and the fighting hot and hysteri-
cal. The air stank of fear and Hawkmoon had soon de-
cided that this was the worst battle he had ever fought
for, in their shock at the appearance of the Legion of
the Dawn, the Dark Empire warriors had lost their
nerve and were fighting wildly, had broken their ranks,
had abandoned their commanders.

Hawkmoon knew that it was to be a messy fight and
one in which there would be few left alive at the end.
He began to suspect that he would not see the finish, for
the pain in his skull was growing stronger again.

Oladahn died unseen by his comrades, lonely and
without dignity, hacked to pieces by a dozen war axes
wielded by Pig infantry.

But Count Brass died in this manner:

He encountered three barons. Adaz Promp, Mygel
Hoist and Saka Gerden (the latter of the Order of the
Bull). They recognised him not by his helm, which was
plain save for its crest, but by his body and his armour
of brass. And they rode at him in a pack—Hound, Goat
and Bull—with their swords raised to chop him down.

But Count Brass, looking up from the body of his last
opponent (who had slain his steed and thus left the

Count on foot), saw the three barons riding down on
him and took his broadsword in both hands and, as
their horses reached him he swung the sword, cutting
the legs of the horses from under them so that each baron
was flung forward over his horse's head and landed in
the churned mud of the battlefield, whereupon Count
Brass dispatched Adaz Promo in a very undignified posi-
tion in the rear, lopped off the head of Mygel Hoist
(whom he had almost slain once before) as the Goat
Baron begged to be spared, and by this time had only
the Bull, Saka Gerden, to deal with. Baron Saka had
time to get to his feet and assume a decent fighting
stance though he shook his head several times as Count
Brass's mirror mask blinded him. Upon seeing this,
Count Brass ripped off his silver helm and threw it to
one side, displaying his bristling red hair and moustache
in all its pride and battle-anger. "I took two in an un-
fair manner," growled the Count, "so it is only fair to
give you the chance to slay me.".

Saka Gerden charged like the fierce Bull of his Order
and Count Brass sidestepped him, bringing his sword
around in a swing to split Saka Gerden's helm down the
middle and split Saka Gerden's skull, also. As the Baron
fell, the Count smiled and a spear was driven completely
through his neck by a Goat rider. Even then Count
Brass turned, wrenching the spear from his assailant's
grasp, and flung his broadsword to catch the Goat in the
throat, thus giving as good as he had received. That was
how Count Brass died.

Orland Fank saw it happen. He had left the party be-
fore the battle but had joined them later and had done
considerable damage with his battle-axe. He saw how
Count Brass died. It was at about the moment when the
Dark Empire forces, lacking three of their leaders, began
to regroup closer to the gates and were only stopped
from retreating behind the gates by Baron Meliadus
who was most fearsome in his black armour, his black
Wolf helm and his great black broadsword.

But then even Baron Meliadus was pressed back as
Hawkmoon, Yisselda, D'Averc, Bowgentle and Orland

Fank led their few surviving Kamargians and the strange,
dirge-calling Legion of the Dawn, against the beasts of
Granbretan.

There was no time to close the gates before the heroes
of the Kamarg had entered the city and Baron Meliadus
realised he had always estimated Hawkmoon's power cor-
rectly and only now, over-confident, had under-estimated
it. There was nothing for it but to bring up as many
reinforcements as possible and get Kalan to increase the
power of the Black Jewel.

Then his heart lifted. He saw Hawkmoon sway in his
saddle, his hands going to the silver helm, saw the
strange man in the bonnet and the chequered breeks,
grasp him and then reach behind him for the roll of
cloth attached to his saddle.

Fank murmured to Hawkmoon. "Try to listen, man,
will you? It is time to use the Runestaff. Time to bring
out our standard. Do it now, Hawkmoon, or you'll live
less than a minute morel"

Hawkmoon felt the power gnawing at his brain like a
rat in a cage, but he grasped the Runestaff as Fank
handed it to him, raised it high in his left hand and saw
the waves and rays begin to fill the air around him.

Fank yelled: "The Runestaff I The Runestaff! We fight
for the Runestaff!" And Fank laughed and laughed as
the Granbretanians fell back in fear, so demoralised now
in spite of their numbers, that Hawkmoon already felt
the victor.

But Baron Meliadus was not prepared to be the con-
quered. He screamed at his men. "That is nothing! It is
only an object! It cannot harm you! You fools—take
them."

Then the heroes of the Kamarg rode forward with
Hawkmoon swaying in his saddle, managing to bear the
Runestaff aloft, through the gates of Londra and into
the city where still there were a million men to stop
them.

Now, as if in a dream, Hawkmoon led his supernatu-
ral legion against the enemy, the Sword of the Dawn in

one hand and the Runestaff in the other, guiding his
horse with his knees.

The press was so solid, as Pig and Goat infantry tried
to tear them from their saddles, they could hardly move
at all. Hawkmoon saw one of the mirror-helmed figures
fighting valiantly as a dozen beasts dragged it from its
horse and he feared it was Yisselda. Energy flooded into
him and he turned, trying to reach his comrade, but an-
other mirror-helmed horseman was already there, hack-
ing about it, and he realised it had not been Yisselda in
peril but Bowgentle and that Yisselda had come to his
rescue.

To no avail. Bowgentle disappeared and the weapons
of the beasts, of the Coats and the Pigs and the Hounds,
rose and fell above his body until eventually one held
aloft a bloodied silver helm—held it aloft only for a mo-
ment, for then Yisselda's slim sword had sliced off the
wrist so that blood fountained from the arm.

Another searing charge of pain. Kalan was increasing
the power. Hawkmoon gasped and his vision dimmed,
but he managed to protect himself from the weapons
whistling around him, managed to hold up the Runestaff
still.

As his vision cleared for the moment, he saw that
D'Averc was leaping his horse through the Granbretan-
ians, his sword whirling in all directions as he cut a road
through them. Then Hawkmoon realised where D'Averc
was going. To the palace—to reach the woman he loved,
Queen Flana.

And this is how D'Averc died:

D'Averc managed somehow to reach the palace which
was still in the half-ruined condition it had been in after
Meliadus had taken it, so he was able to ride through
the breach in the wall and dismount at the outer steps
to run at the guards on the door. They had flame lances.
He had only a sword. He flung himself flat as the flames
shrieked past his head, rolled over to take cover in a
ditch cut by the green fluid from one of Kalan's bubbles
and found a flame lance there which he poked over the

edge and used to cut down all the guards before they
could know what had happened.

D'Averc sprang up. He began to run through the tall
corridors, his boots echoing loudly. He ran until at last
he came to the doors of the Throne Room where a score
of guards saw him and turned their weapons upon him,
but he used his own flame lance again and cut them
down, being singed only slightly in his right shoulder.
He pushed open the doors a crack and looked into the
Throne Room. A mile away was the dais, but he could
not see if Flana sat on it. Otherwise the hall was empty.

D'Averc began to run towards the distant throne.

And he shouted her name as he ran. "Flana! Flana!"

Flana had been day-dreaming on her throne and
looked up to see the tiny figure advancing. She heard
her name taken up by a thousand echoes in the huge
hall. "Flana! Flana! Flana!"

And she recognised the voice but thought that she
had probably not yet woken up.

The figure came closer and it had a helmet that shone
like polished silver, like a mirror, But the body—was the
body not recognisable?

"Huillam?" she murmured uncertainly. "Huillam
D'Averc."

"Flana!" The figure wrenched off its mask and flung
it from him so that it clattered across the great marble
floor. "Flana!"

"Huillam!" She stood up and began to descend the
steps towards him.

He opened his arms, smiling with joy.

But they never touched in life again, for a flame beam
descended like a stroke of lightning from a gallery high
above and burned off his face so that he screamed in ag-
ony and fell to his knees; burned into his back so that
he slumped forward and died at her feet while she
sobbed great, strangled sobs that shook her body.

And a voice of a guard from the gallery called in
great self-approval. "You are safe now, madam."

Chapter Sixteen

The Final Fight

THE DARK EMPIRE forces were still swarming from
every rathole in their maze city and Hawkmoon noted
with despair that the Legion of the Dawn was getting
thinner. Now when a warrior was slain another did not
always take his place. Around him the air was full of the
bitter-sweet scent of the Runestaff and strange patterns
in the air.

Then, as Hawkmoon saw Meliadus, a wave of pain
gnawed again at his brain and he fell from his horse.

Meliadus dismounted from his black charger and
walked slowly towards Hawkmoon. The Runestaff had
fallen from his hand and the Sword of the Dawn was
only loosely held.

Hawkmoon stirred, groaning. Around him the battle
still raged, but it did not seem to be anything to do with
him. He felt the energy leaving him, felt the pain in-
creasing, opened his eyes and saw Meliadus ap-
proaching, the helm snarling as if in triumph. Hawk-
moon's throat was dry and he tried to move, tried to
reach the Runestaff which lay on the cobbles of the
street.

Meliadus said softly. "Ah, Hawkmoon, at last And
you are in pain, I see. You are weak, I see. My only dis-
appointment is that you will not live to witness your
ultimate defeat and Yisselda in my power." Meliadus

spoke almost with pity, with concern. "Can you not rise,
Hawkmoon? Is the jewel eating your brain behind that
silver mask of yours? Shall I let it finish you, or shall I
give myself the pleasure? Can you answer, Hawkmoon?
Would you care to beg for mercy?"

Hawkmoon grabbed convulsively for the Runestaff.
His hand went around it and tightened. Almost immedi-
ately power seemed to flow into him—not much, but
enough to enable him to stagger to his feet and stand
there swaying His body was bowed. His breathing came
in great panting sobs. He stared blearily at Meliadus as
the Baron lifted his sword to finish him.

Hawkmoon tried to raise his own sword, but failed.

Meliadus hesitated. "So you cannot fight. I grieve for
you, Hawkmoon." He reached forward. "Give me that
little staff, Hawkmoon. It was upon it I swore my oath
of vengeance upon Castle Brass. And my vengeance is al-
most complete now. Let me hold it, Hawkmoon."

Hawkmoon took two staggering paces backward, shak-
ing his head, unable to speak for the weakness in his
body.

"Hawkmoon—give it to me."

"You—shall—not—have—it . . ." croaked the Duke of
Koln.

"Then I shall have to kill you first." Meliadus raised
his battle blade. The Runestaff suddenly pulsed with
brighter light and Meliadus stared full into his own
Wolf-helmed eyes as Hawkmoon's mask reflected his
image back. It startled Meliadus. He hesitated.

And Hawkmoon, drawing further energy from the
Runestaff, raised his sword knowing he had only enough
strength for one blow and that blow must slay the man
who stood transfixed before him, mesmerised by his own
image.

And Hawkmoon brought up the Sword of the Dawn
and he brought it down again and Meliadus gave a
great, agonised cry as the blade bit through his shoulder
bone and down into his heart. And his last words, which
came with his last painful breath, were:

"Curse the Runestaff I It has brought ruin upon Gran-
bretan!"

And Hawkmoon collapsed to the ground knowing
that now he would die: That Yisselda would die and
that Orland Fank would die; for there were few Kamarg
warriors left and the Dark Empire soldiers were many.

Chapter Seventeen

The Sad Queen

HAWKMOON AWOKE IN alarm, staring full into the
Serpent mask of Baron Kalan of Vitall. He sprang up-
right on the bench, groping for a weapon.

Kalan shrugged, turning to the group of people who
stood in the shadows. "I told you I could do it. His
brain is restored, his energy is restored, his whole foolish
personality is restored and now, Queen Flana, I would
beg your permission to continue with what I was doing
when you interrupted me."

Hawkmoon recognised the heron mask. It nodded
once and Kalan shuffled into the next room and care-
fully closed the door. The figures stepped forward and
Hawkmoon saw with joy that one of them was Yis-
selda. He hugged her in his arms and kissed her soft
cheek.

"Oh, I feared that Kalan would trick us," she said. "It
was Queen Flana who found you, after she had ordered
her troops to cease fighting. We were the last alive, Or-
land Fank and I, and we thought you dead. But Kalan
brought you back to life, removed the jewel from your
skull and dismantled the machine so that none may ever
fear the power of the Black Jewel again."

"And what business did you interrupt him in, Queen
Flana?" Hawkmoon asked. "Why was he so disgruntled?"

"He was about to kill himself," Flana said flatly. "I
threatened to keep him alive forever if he did not do
what he did."

"D'Averc?" Hawkmoon said, puzzled. "Where is
D'Averc?"

"Dead," said the sad queen in the same flat voice.
"Slain in the Throne Room by an over-zealous guard."

Hawkmoon's joy turned to gloom. "And are they all
dead, then—Count Brass, Oladahn, Bowgentle?"

"Aye," said Orland Fank, "but they died for a great
cause and they freed millions from slavery. Until this
day Europe has known only strife. Now perhaps people
will seek peace, for they can see where strife leads."

"Count Brass wished for peace in Europe more than
anything," Hawkmoon said. "But I wish he could have
lived to see it."

"Perhaps his grandson will see it," Yisselda said.

"You need fear nothing from Granbretan as long as I
am queen," Flana told them, "I intend to leave Londra
dismantled and meanwhile make my own town of Kan-
bery the capital. The wealth of Londra—which is almost
certainly greater than all the wealth of the rest of the
world—shall be used in rebuilding the towns of Europe,
in restocking the farms, of making good, as best we can,
the evil we have done." She drew off her mask, revealing
that great, sad, beautiful head. "And, also, I shall abol-
ish the wearing of masks."

Orland Fank seemed sceptical, but he said nothing.
"The power of Granbretan is broken for ever," he said,
"and the Runestaffs work is done." He patted the bun-
dle under his arm. "I'm taking the Sword of the Dawn,
the Red Amulet and the Runestaff itself into safe-keep-
ing, but if there should ever come a time, friend Hawk-
moon, when you have a mutual need to rejoin each other,
then you shall rejoin each other, I promise."

"I hope the time does not come, Orland Fank."

Fank sighed. "The world does not change, Dorian
Hawkmoon. There is merely the occasional shift in equi-

librium and if that shift goes too far in one direction,
then the Runestaff attempts to right it. Perhaps the days
of extremes are over for a century or two? I do not
know."

Hawkmoon laughed. "But you should—you are omni-
scient."

Fank smiled. "Not I, my friend, but that which I
serve—the Runestaff."

"Your son—Jehemiah Cohnahlias..."

"Ah, there's the mystery even the Runestaff will not
answer." Fank rubbed his long nose and looked at them,
over it. "Well, I'll say farewell, what's left of you. You
fought well and you fought for justice."

"Justice?" Hawkmoon called after him as he left the
room. "Is there such a thing?"

"It can be manufactured in small quantities," Fank
told him. "But we have to work hard, fight well and use
great wisdom to produce just a tiny amount."

"Aye," Hawkmoon nodded. "Perhaps you are right."

Fank laughed. "I know I am right." And then he was
gone. And his voice came back to Hawkmoon with just
one last observation. "Justice is not The Law, it is not
Order, as human beings normally speak of it; it is Equi-
librium, the Correction of the Balance. Remember that,
Sir Champion Eternal!"

Hawkmoon put his arm around Yisselda's shoulders.
"Aye, I will," he murmured. "And now we return to
Castle Brass, to make the springs flow again, to bring
back the reeds and the lagoons, to bring back the bulls
and the horses and the flamingoes. To make it our Ka-
marg once more."

"And the power of the Dark Empire will never
threaten it again." Queen Flana smiled.

Hawkmoon nodded. "I am sure of that. But if some
other evil should come to Castle Brass, I shall be ready
for it, no matter how powerful it shall be, or in what
form it will come. The world is still wild. The justice
Fank spoke of has hardly been manufactured at all. We

must try to see that we can make a little more. Farewell,
Flana."
Flana watched them leave and she was weeping.

THE END

of the High History of the
Runestaff