The Runestaff Book 2
Sorcerer's Amulet
By Michael Moorcock


	CONTENTS

	BOOK ONE

1	Soryandum	8

2	Huillam d'Averc	         14

3	The Wraith-folk	25

4	The Mechanical Beast	34 

5	The Machine	41

6	Mad God's Ship	51

7	The Ring on the Finger	64

8	Mad God's Man	76

	BOOK TWO

1	The Waiting Warrior	86

2	The Mad God's Castle	93

3	Hawkmoon's Dilemma	102

4	The Power of the Amulet	113

5	The Slaughter in the Hall	119

6	The Mad God's Beasts	124

7	Encounter in a Tavern	131

8	The Dark Empire Camp	146

9	The Journey South	157

10	The Fall of the Kamarg	161

11	Return of the Warrior	174

12	Escape to Limbo	186

BOOK ONE

WE HAVE LEARNED now how Dorian Hawkmoon, last
Duke of Koln, threw off the power of the Black
Jewel and saved the city of Hamadan from conquest
by the Dark Empire of Granbretan. His arch-enemy,
Baron Meliadus, defeated, Hawkmoon set off west-
ward again, bound for the besieged Kamarg, where
his betrothed, Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter,
awaited him. With his boon companion Oladahn, beast-
man of the Bulgar Mountains, Hawkmoon rode from
Persia toward the Cyprian Sea and the port of Tara-
bulus, where they hoped to find a ship brave enough
to bear them back to the Kamarg. But in the Syranian
Desert they lost their way and came close to dying
of thirst and exhaustion before they saw the peace-
ful ruins of Soryandum lying at the foot of a range
of green hills on which wild sheep grazed. .. .

Meanwhile, in Europe, the Dark Empire extended
its terrible rule, while elsewhere the Runestaff pulsed,
exerting its influence over thousands of miles to in-
volve the destinies of some several human souls of
disparate character and ambitions...

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One
SORYANDUM

THE CITY WAS old; begrimed by time. A place of
wind-worn stones and tumbler masonry, its towers
tilting and its walls crumbling. Wild sheep cropped
the grass that grew between cracked paving stones,
bright-plumed birds nested among columns of faded
mosaic. The city had once been splendid and terrible;
now it was beautiful and tranquil. The two travelers
came to it in the mellow haze of morning, when a
melancholy wind blew through the silence of the
ancient streets. The hooves of the horses were hushed
as the travelers led them between towers that were
green with age, passed by ruins bright with blossoms
of orange, ocher and purple. And this was Soryandum,
deserted by its folk.

The men and their horses were turned all one
color by the dust that caked them, making them re-
semble statues that had come to life. They moved
slowly, looking wonderingly about them at the beauty
of the dead city.

The first man was tall and lean, and although weary
he moved with the graceful stride of the trained war-
rior. His long fair hair had been bleached near white

by the sun, and his pale blue eyes had a hint of mad-
ness in them. But the thing most remarkable about
his appearance was the dull black jewel sunk into his
forehead just above and between the eyes, a stigmata
he owed to the perverted miracle workings of the
sorcerer-scientists of Granbretan. His name was Dor-
ian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln, driven from his
hereditary lands by the conquests of the Dark Empire,
which schemed to rule the world. Dorian Hawkmoon,
who had sworn vengeance against the most powerful
nation on his war-tormented planet.

The creature who followed Hawkmoon bore a
large bone bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.
He was clad only in a pair of britches and boots of
soft, floppy leather, but the whole of his body, in-
cluding his face, was covered in red, wiry hair. His
head came to just below Hawkmoon's shoulder. This
was Oladahn, cross-bred offspring of a sorcerer and
a mountain giantess from the Bulgar Mountains.

Oladahn patted sand from his fur and looked per-
plexed. "Never have I seen a city so fair. Why is it
deserted? Who could leave such a place?"

Hawkmoon, as was his habit when puzzled, rubbed
at the dull black jewel in his forehead. "Perhaps
disease—who knows? Let's hope that if it was disease,
none of it lingers on. I'll speculate later, but not now.
I'm sure I hear water somewhere—and that' my first re-
quirement. Food's my second, sleep's my third—and
thought, friend Oladahn, a very distant fourth. . . ."

In one of the city's plazas they found a wall of blue-
gray rock that had been carved with flowing figures.
From the eyes of one stone maiden fell pure spring
water that splashed into a hollow fashioned below.
Hawkmoon stooped and drank, wiping wet hands
over his dusty face. He stepped back for Oladahn to

drink, then led the horses forward to slake their thirst.

Hawkmoon reached into one of his saddlebags and
took out the cracked and crumpled map that had been
given him in Hamadan. His finger crept across the
map until it came to rest on the word "Soryandum."
He smiled with relief. "We are not too far off our
original route," he said. "Beyond these hills the Eu-
phrates flows and Tarabulas lies beyond it by about
a week's journey. We'll rest here for today and to-
night, then continue on our way. Refreshed, we will
travel more rapidly."

Oladahn grinned. "Aye, and you'd explore the city
before we leave, I fancy." He splashed water on his
fur, then bent to pick up his bow and quiver. "Now
to attend to your second requirement—food. I'll not
be gone long. I saw a wild ram in the hills. Tonight
we'll dine off roast mutton." He remounted his horse
and was away, riding for the broken gates of the city
while Hawkmoon stripped off his clothes and plunged
his hands into the cool spring water, gasping with a
sense of utter luxury as he poured the water over his
head and body. Then he took fresh clothing from the
saddlebag, pulling on a silk shirt given him by Queen
Frawbra of Hamadan and a pair of blue cotton brit-
ches with flaring bottoms. Glad to be out of the heav-
ier leather and iron he had worn for protection's sake
while crossing the desert in case any of the Dark
Empire's men were following them, Hawkmoon
donned a pair of sandals to complete his outfit. His
only concession to his earlier fears was the sword he
buckled about him.

It was scarcely possible that he could have been
followed here, and besides, the city was so peaceful
that he could not believe any kind of danger threat-
ened.

Hawkmoon went to his horse and unsaddled it,
then crossed to the shade of a ruined tower to lie with
his back against it and await Oladahn and the mutton.

Noon came and went, and Hawkmoon began to
wonder what had become of his friend. He dozed for
another hour before real trepidation began to stir in
him and he rose to resaddle his horse.

It was highly unlikely, Hawkmoon knew, that an
archer as skilled as Oladahn would take so long in
pursuit of one wild sheep. Yet there seemed to be no
possible danger here. Perhaps Oladahn had grown
weary and decided to sleep for an hour or two before
hauling the carcass back. Even if that were all that
was delaying him, Hawkmoon decided, he might need
assistance.

He mounted his horse and rode through the streets
to the crumbling outer wall of the city and to the hills
beyond. The horse seemed to recover much of its
former energy as its hooves touched grass, and Hawk-
moon had to shorten the rein, riding into the hills at
a light canter.

Ahead was a herd of wild sheep led by a large, wise
looking ram, perhaps the one Oladahn had mentioned,
but there was no sign at all of the little beast-man.

"Oladahn!" Hawkmoon yelled, peering about him.
"Oladahn!" But only muffled echoes answered him.

Hawkmoon frowned, then urged his horse into a
gallop, riding up a hill taller than the rest in the hope
that from this vantage point he would be able to see
his friend. Wild sheep scattered before him as the
horse raced over the springy grass. He reached the top
of the hill and shielded his eyes from the glare of the
sun. He stared in every direction, but there was no
sign of Oladahn.

For some moments he continued to look around

him, hoping to see some trace of his friend; then, as
he gazed toward the city, he saw a movement near the
plaza of the spring. Had his eyes tricked him, or had
he seen a man entering the shadows of the streets that
led off the eastern side of the plaza? Could Oladahn
have returned by another route? If so, why hadn't he
answered Hawkmoon's call?

Hawkmoon had a nagging sense of terror in the
back of his mind now, but he still could not believe
that the city itself offered any menace.

He spurred his horse back down the hillside and
leaped it over a section of ruined wall.

Muffled by the dust, the horse's hooves thudded
through the streets as Hawkmoon headed toward the
plaza, crying Oladahn's name. But again he was an-
swered only by echoes. In the plaza there was no sign
of the little mountain man.

Hawkmoon frowned, almost certain now that he
and Oladahn had not, after all, been alone in the city.
Yet there was no sign of inhabitants.

He turned his horse toward the streets. As he did
so his ears caught a faint sound from above. He
looked upward, his eyes searching the sky, certain that
he recognized the sound. At last he saw it—a distant
black shape in the air overhead. Then sunlight flashed
on metal, and the sound became distinct, a clanking
and whirring of giant bronze wings. Hawkmoon's
heart sank.

The thing descending from the sky was unmistak-
ably an ornate ornithopter, wrought in the shape of a
gigantic condor, enameled in blue, scarlet, and green.
No other nation on Earth possessed such vessels. It
was a flying machine of the Dark Empire of Gran-
bretan.

Now Oladahn's disappearance was fully explained.

The warriors of the Dark Empire were present in
Soryandum. It was more than likely, too, that they
had recognized Oladahn and knew that Hawkmoon
could not be far away. And Hawkmoon was the Dark
Empire's most hated opponent.

Chapter Two
HUILLAM d'AVERC

HAWKMOON MADE for the shadows of the streets, hop-
ing that he had not been seen by the ornithopter.

Could the Granbretanians have followed him all the
way across the dessert? It was unlikely. Yet what else
explained their presence in this remote place? -

Hawkmoon drew his great battle blade from its
scabbard and then dismounted. In his clothes of thin
silk and cotton he felt more than ordinarily vulner-
able as he ran through the streets seeking cover.

Now the ornithopter flew only a few feet above
the tallest towers of Soryandum, almost certainly
searching for Hawkmoon, the man whom the King-
Emperor Huon had sworn must be revenged upon for
his "betrayal" of the Dark Empire. Hawkmoon might
have slain Baron Meliadus at the battle of Hamadan,
but without doubt King Huon had swiftly dispatched
a new emissary upon the task of hunting down the
hated Hawkmoon.

The young Duke of Koln had not expected to jour-
ney without danger, but he had not believed that he
would be found so soon.

He came to a dark building, half in ruins, whose
cool doorway offered shelter. He entered the build-

ing and found himself in a hallway with walls of pale,
carved stone partly overgrown with soft mosses and
blooming lichens. A stairway ran up one side of the
hall, and Hawkmoon, blade in hand, climbed the wind-
ing, moss-carpeted steps for several flights until he
found himself in a small room into which sunlight
streamed through a gap in the wall where the stones
had fallen away. Flattening himself against the wall
and peering around the broken section, Hawkmoon
saw a large part of the city, saw the ornithopter
wheeling and dipping as its vulture-masked pilot
searched the streets.

There was a tower of faded green granite not too
distant. It stood roughly in the center of Soryandum,
dominating the city. The ornithopter circled this for
some time, and at first Hawkmoon guessed that the
pilot believed him to be hidden there, but then the
flying machine settled on the flat, battlement-sur-
rounded roof of the tower. From somewhere below
other figures emerged to join the pilot.

These men were evidently of Granbretan also.
They were all clad in heavy armor and cloaks, with
huge metal masks covering their heads, in spite of the
heat. Such was the twisted nature of Dark Empire
men that they could not rid themselves of their masks
whatever the circumstances. They seemed to have a
deeprooted psychological reliance on them.

The masks were of rust red and murky yellow,
fashioned to resemble rampant wild boars, with fierce,
jeweled eyes that blazed in the sunlight and great
ivory tusks curling from the flaring snouts.

These, then, were men of the Order of the Boar, in-
famous in Europe for its savagery. There were six of
them standing by their leader, a tall, slender man
whose mask was of gold and bronze and much more
delicately wrought—almost to the point of caricatur-

ing the mask of the Order. The man leaned on the
arms of two of his companions—one squat and bulky,
the other virtually a giant, with naked arms and legs
of almost inhuman hairiness. Was the leader ill or
wounded? wondered Hawkmoon. There seemed to
be something almost artificial about the way he leaned
on his men—something theatrical. Hawkmoon thought
then that he knew who the Boar leader was. It was
almost certainly the renegade Frenchman Huillam
d'Averc, once a brilliant painter and architect, who
had joined the cause of Granbretan long before they
has conquered France. An enigma, D'Averc, but a
dangerous man for all that he affected illness.

Now the Boar leader spoke to the vulture-masked
pilot, who shook his head. Evidently he had not seen
Hawkmoon, but he pointed toward the spot where
Hawkmoon had abandoned his horse. D'Averc—if it
was D'Averc—languidly signed to one of his men, who
disappeared below, to reemerge almost at once with
a struggling, snarling Oladahn.

Relieved, Hawkmoon watched as two of the boar-
masked warriors dragged Oladahn close to the battle-
ments. At least his friend was alive.

Then the Boar leader signed again, and the vulture
pilot leaned into the cockpit of his flying machine
and withdrew a bell-shaped megaphone, which he
handed to the giant on whose arm the leader still
rested. The giant placed this close to the snout of his
master's mask.

Suddenly the quiet air of the city was filled with
the bored, world-weary voice of the Boar leader.

"Duke von Koln, we know that you are present in
this city, for we have captured your servant. In an
hour the sun will set. If you have not delivered your-
self to us by that time, we must begin to kill the little
fellow...."

Now Hawkmoon knew for certain that it was
D'Averc. No other man alive could both look and
sound like that. Hawkmoon saw the giant hand the
megaphone back to the pilot and then, with the help
of his squat companion, help his master to the partially
ruined battlement so that D'Averc could lean against
it and look down into the streets.

Hawkmoon controlled his fury and studied the
distance between his building and the tower. By jump-
ing through the gap in the wall he could reach a series
of flat roofs that would take him close to a pile of
fallen masonry heaped against one wall of the tower.
From there he saw that he could easily climb to the
battlements. But he would be seen as soon as he left
his cover. It would be possible to take that route only
at night—and by nightfall they would have begun
torturing Oladahn.

Perplexed, Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel,
sign of his former slavery to Granbretan. He knew
that if he gave himself up he would be killed instantly
or be taken back to Granbretan and there killed with
terrible slowness for the pleasure of the perverted
lords of the Dark Empire. He thought of Yisselda, to
whom he had sworn to return, of Count Brass, whom
he had sworn to aid in the struggle against Granbretan
—and he thought of Oladahn, with whom he had
sworn friendship after the little beast-man had saved
his life.

Could he sacrifice his friend? Could he justify such
an action, even if logic told him that his own life was
of greater worth in the fight against the Dark Empire?
Hawkmoon knew that logic was of no use here. But
he knew, too, that his sacrifice might be useless, for
there was no guarantee that the Boar leader would let
Oladahn go once Hawkmoon had delivered himself
up.

Hawkmoon bit his lips, gripping his sword tightly;
then he came to a decision, squeezed his body through
the gap in the wall, clung to the stonework with one
hand, and waved his bright blade at the tower.
D'Averc looked up slowly.

"You must release Oladahn before I come to you,"
Hawkmoon called. "For I know that all men of Gran-
bretan are liars. You have my word, however, that if
you release Oladahn I will deliver myself into your
hands."

"Liars we may be," came the languid voice, barely
audible, "but we are not fools. How may I trust your
word?"

"I am a Duke of Koln," said Hawkmoon simply.
"We do not lie."

A light, ironic laugh came from within the boar
mask. "You may be naive, Duke of Koln, but Sir
Huillam d'Averc is not. However, may I suggest a
compromise?"

"What is that?" Hawkmoon asked warily.

"I would suggest you come halfway toward us so
that you are well within the range of our ornithopter's
flame-lance, and then I shall release your servant."
D'Averc coughed ostentatiously and leaned heavily
on the battlement. "What say you to that?"

"Hardly a compromise," called Hawkmoon. "For
then you could kill us both with little effort or danger
to yourself."

"My dear duke, the King-Emperor would much
prefer you alive. Surely you know that? My own
interest is at stake. Killing you now would only earn
me a baronetcy at most—delivering you alive for the
King-Emperor's pleasure would almost certainly gain
me a princedom. Have you not heard of me, Duke
Dorian? I am the ambitious Huillam d'Averc."

D'Averc's argument was convincing, but Hawk-

moon could not forget the Frenchman's reputation
for deviousness. Although it was true that he was
worth more to D'Averc alive, the renegade might well
decide it expedient not to risk his gains and might
therefore kill Hawkmoon as soon as he came into
Certain range of the flame-lance.

Hawkmoon deliberated for a moment, then sighed.
"I will do as you suggest, Sir Huillam." He poised
himself to leap across the narrow street separating
him from the rooftops below.

Then Oladahn cried, "No, Duke Dorian! Let them
kill me! My life is worthless!"

Hawkmoon acted as if he had not heard his friend
and sprang out and down, to land on the balls of his
feet on the roof. The old masonry shuddered at the
impact, and for a moment Hawkmoon thought he
would fall as the roof threatened to crack. But it held,
and he began to walk gingerly toward the tower.

Again Oladahn called out and began to struggle in
the hands of his captors.

Hawkmoon ignored him, walking steadily on,
sword still in one hand but held loosely, virtually
forgotten.

Now Oladahn broke free altogether and darted
across the tower, pursued by two cursing warriors.
Hawkmoon saw him dash to the far edge, pause for
a moment, and then fling himself over the parapet.

For a moment Hawkmoon stood frozen in horror,
hardly understanding the nature of his friend's sacri-
fice.

Then he tightened his grip on his sword and raised
his head to glare at D'Averc and his men. Bending
low, he made for the edge of the roof as the flame
cannon began to turn in his direction. There was a
great whoosh of heat over his head as they sought his
range; then he had swung himself over the edge and

hung by his hands, peering down into the street far
below.

There was a series of stone carvings quite close to
him on his left. He inched along until he could grasp
the nearest. They ran down the side of the house at
an angle, almost to street level. But the stone was
plainly rotten. Would the carvings support his
weight?

Hawkmoon did not pause. He swung himself down
on the first carving. It began to creak and crumble,
like a bad tooth. Quickly Hawkmoon dropped to the
next and then the next, bits of stone clattering down
the sides of the building, to crash in the distant street.

Then at last Hawkmoon was able to leap to the
cobbles and land easily in the soft dust that covered
them. Now he began to run, not away from the tower
—but toward it. He had nothing in his mind now but
vengeance on D'Averc for driving Oladahn to suicide.

He found the entrance to the tower and entered in
time to hear the clatter of metal-shod feet as D'Averc
and his warriors descended. He chose a spot on the
staircase (which was enclosed) where he would be
able to take the Granbretanians one at a time. D'Averc
was the first to appear, stopping suddenly as he saw
the glowering Hawkmoon, then reaching with gaunt-
leted hand for his long blade.

"You were foolish not to take the chance of escape
your friend's silly sacrifice gave you," said the boar-
masked mercenary contemptuously. "Now, like it or
not, I suppose we shall have to kill you...." He began
to cough, doubling up in apparent agony, leaning
weakly against the wall. He signed limply to the squat
man behind him—one of those Hawkmoon had seen
helping D'Averc across the battlements. "Oh, my
dear Duke Dorian, I must apologize ... my infirmity

is liable to seize me at the most inconvenient moments.
Ecardo—would you...?"'

The powerfully built Ecardo sprang forward
grunting and pulling a short-hafted battle-axe from his
belt. He tugged out his sword with his free hand and
chuckled with pleasure. "Thanks, master. Now let's
see how the no-mask prances." He moved like a cat
to the attack.

Hawkmoon poised himself, ready to meet Ecardo's
first blow.

Then the man sprang with a great feral howl, the
battle-ax splashing the air to clang against Hawk-
moon's blade. Then Ecardo's short sword ripped up-
ward, and Hawkmoon, already weak from exposure
and hunger, barely managed to turn his body in time.
Even so, the sword slashed through the cotton of his
britches and he felt its cold edge against his flesh.

Hawkmoon's own blade slid from beneath the ax
and crashed down on Ecardo's grinning boar-mask,
wrenching one tusk loose and badly denting the snout.
Ecardo cursed, his sword stabbing again, but Hawk-
moon leaned against the man's sword arm, trapping it
beneath his body and the wall. Then he let go of his
own sword so that it hung by its wrist thong, grasped
Ecardo's arm, and tried to twist the ax from his hand.

Ecardo's armored knee drove into Hawkmoon's
groin, but Hawkmoon held his position in spite of the
pain, tugged Ecardo down the stairs, pushed, and let
him fall to the floor under his own momentum.

Ecardo hit the paving stones with a thud that shook
the whole tower. He did not move.

Hawkmoon looked up at D'Averc. "Well, sir, are
you recovered?"

D'Averc pushed back his ornate mask, to reveal the
pale face and pale eyes of an invalid. His mouth

twisted in a little smile. "I will do my best," he said.
And when he advanced it was swiftly, with the move-
ments of a man more than ordinarily fit.

This time Hawkmoon took the initiative, darting a
thrust at his enemy that almost took him by surprise
but that he parried with amazing speed. His languid
tone belied his reflexes.

Hawkmoon realized that D'Averc was quite as
dangerous, in his own way, as the powerful Ecardo.
He realized, too, that if Ecardo were merely stunned,
he himself might soon be trapped between two op-
ponents.

The swordplay was so swift that the two blades
seemed a single blur of metal as both men held their
ground. With his great mask flung back, D'Averc
was smiling, with an expression of quiet pleasure in
his eyes. He looked for all the world like a man en-
joying a musical performance or some other passive
pastime.

Wearied by his journey through the desert, need-
ing food, Hawkmoon knew that he could not long sus-
tain the fight in this way. Desperately he sought an
opening in D'Averc's splendid defense. Once, his op-
ponent stumbled slightly on a broken stair. Hawk-
moon thrust swiftly but was parried and had his fore-
arm nicked into the bargain.

Behind D'Averc the warriors of the Boar waited
eagerly with swords ready to finish Hawkmoon off
once the opportunity was presented to them.

Hawkmoon was tiring rapidly until he was fighting
a purely defensive style, barely managing to turn the
thrusting steel that drove for his eye, his throat, his
heart, or his belly. He took one step backward, then
another.

As he took the second step, he heard a groan behind

him and knew that Ecardo's senses were returning.
Now it would not be long before the boars butchered
him.

Yet he scarcely cared, now that Oladahn was
dead. Hawkmoon's swordplay became wilder, and
D'Averc's smile grew broader as he sensed his victory
coming closer.

Rather than have Ecardo at his back, Hawkmoon
sprang suddenly down the steps without turning
around. His shoulder bumped against another, and he
whirled, prepared to face the brutish Ecardo.

Then his sword almost dropped from his hand in
astonishment.

"Oladahn!"

The little beast-man was in the act of raising a
sword—the boar warrior's own sword—over the stir-
ring Ecardo's head.

"Aye—I live. But do not ask me how. It's a mystery
to me." And he brought the flat of the blade down on
Ecardo's helmet with a great clang. Ecardo collapsed
again.

There was no more time for talk. Hawkmoon
barely managed to block D'Averc's next thrust. There
was a look of astonishment in D'Averc's eyes too as
he saw the living Oladahn.

Hawkmoon manager to break through the French-
man's guard, piercing his shoulder armor, but again
D'Averc swept the blade aside and resumed the attack.
But now Hawkmoon had lost the advantage of his
position. The savage boar mask grinned at him as
warriors poured down the stairs.

Hawkmoon and Oladahn backed toward the door,
hoping to regain the advantage, but there was little
chance of that. For another ten minutes they held
their own against the overwhelming odds, killing two

Granbretanians, wounding three more. But they were
wearying rapidly. Hawkmoon could barely hold his
sword.

His glazed eyes could hardly see his opponents as
they closed in like brutes for the kill He heard
D'Averc's triumphant 'Take them alive!' and then he
went down beneath a tide of metal.

Chapter Three
THE WRAITH-FOLK

WRAPPED IN CHAINS so that they could barely breathe,
Hawkmoon and Oladahn were borne down innumer-
able flights of stairs into the depths of the great tower,
which seemed to stretch as far belowground as it did
above.

At length the boar warriors reached a chamber that
had evidently been a storeroom but that now served
as an effective dungeon.

There they were flung face down on the coarse
rock. They lay there until a booted foot turned them
over to blink into the light of a guttering torch held
by the squat Ecardo, whose battered mask seemed to
snarl in glee. D'Averc, mask still pushed back to ex-
pose his face, stood between Ecardo and the huge,
hairy warrior Hawkmoon had seen earlier. D'Averc
had a brocade scarf to his lips, and he leaned heavily
on the giant's arm.

D'Averc coughed theatrically and smiled down at
his prisoners. "I fear I must leave you soon, gentlemen.
This subterranean air is not good for me. However,
it should do little harm to two such robust young
fellows as yourselves. You will not have to stay here
more than a day, I assure you. I have sent a request

for a larger ornithopter that will be able to bear the
two of you back to Sicilia, where my main force is
now encamped."

"You have taken Sicilia already?" Hawkmoon
asked tonelessly. "You have conquered the isle?"

"Aye. The Dark Empire wastes little time. I, in
fact"—D'Averc coughed with mock modesty into his
scarf—"am the hero of Sicilia. It was my leadership
that subjugated the island so swiftly. But that triumph
was no special one, for the Dark Empire has many
capable captains like myself. We have made many
gains in Europe these past few months—and in the
East, too."

"But the Kamarg still stands," Hawkmoon said.
"That must irritate the King-Emperor."

"Oh, the Kamarg cannot last long besieged," said
D'Averc airily. "We are concentrating our particular
attention on that little province. Why, it may have
fallen already...."

"Not while Count Brass lives," Hawkmoon smiled.

"Just so," D'Averc said. "I heard he was badly
wounded and his lieutenant von Villach slain in a
recent battle."

Hawkmoon could not tell whether D'Averc was
lying. He let no emotion show on his face, but the
news had shocked him. Was the Kamarg ready to fall
—and if so, what would become of Yisselda?

"Plainly that news disturbs you," D'Averc mur-
mured. "But fear not, Duke, for when the Kamarg
falls it will be in my safekeeping if all goes well I plan
to claim the province as my reward for capturing you.
And these, my boon companions," he continued, indi-
cating his brutish servants, "I will elevate to rule the
Kamarg when I cannot. They share all aspects of my
life—my secrets, my pleasures. It is only fair that they
should share my triumph. Ecardo I will make steward

of my estates, and I think I shall make Peter here a
Count."

From within the giant's mask came an animal grunt.
D'Averc smiled. "Peter has few brains, but his
strength and his loyalty are without question. Perhaps
I'll replace Count Brass with him."

Hawkmoon stirred angrily in his chains. "You are
a wily beast, D'Averc, but I will not let you goad me
to an outburst, if that's what you desire. I'll bide my
time. Perhaps I'll escape you yet. And if I do—you
may live in terror for the day when our roles are
reversed and you are in my power."

"I fear you are too optimistic, Duke. Rest here,
enjoy the peace, for you'll know none when you get
to Granbretan."

With a mocking bow, D'Averc left, his men follow-
ing. The torchlight faded, and Hawkmoon and Ola-
dahn were left in darkness.

"Ah," came Oladahn's voice after a while. "I find
it difficult to take my position seriously after all that
has happened today. I am still not even sure whether
this be dream, death, or reality."

"What did happen to you, Oladahn?" Hawkmoon
asked. "How could you survive that great leap? I had
imagined you dashed to death beneath the tower."

"By rights I should have been," Oladahn agreed.
"If I had not been arrested by ghosts in midfall."

"Ghosts? You jest."

"Nay. These things—like ghosts—appeared from
windows in the tower and bore me gently to earth.
They were the size and shape of men but barely
tangible...."

"You fell and knocked your head and dreamed
this stuff!"

 "You could be right." Suddenly Oladahn paused.
"But if so, I am dreaming still. Look to your left."

Hawkmoon turned his head, gasping in astonish-
ment at what he saw. There, quite plainly, he could
see the figure of a man. Yet, as if through a pool of
milk, he could see beyond the man and make out the
wall behind him.

    "A  ghost  of  a  classic  sort,"  Hawkmoon said.
"Strange to share a dream...."

Faint, musical laughter came from the figure stand-
ing over them. "You do not dream, strangers. We are
men like you. The mass of our bodies is merely altered
a little, that is all. We do not exist in quite the same
dimensions as you. But we are real enough. We are
the men of Soryandum."

"So you have not deserted your city," Oladahn said.
"But how did you attain this . . . peculiar state of
existence."

The wraith-man laughed again. "By control of the
mind, by scientific experiment, by a certain mastery
of time and space. I regret that it would be impossible
to describe how we came to this condition, for we
reached it, among other ways, by the creation of an
entirely new vocabulary, and the language I would
use would mean nothing to you. However, be assured
of one thing—we are still able to judge human charac-
ter well enough and recognize you as potential friends
and those others as actual enemies."

"Enemies of yours? How so?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I will explain later." The wraith-man glided for-
ward until he was leaning over Hawkmoon. The
young Duke of Koln felt a strange pressure on his
body, and then he was lifted up. The man might have
looked intangible, but he seemed far stronger than an
ordinary mortal. From the shadows two more of the
wraith-people drifted, one to pick up Oladahn and
the other to raise his hand and somehow produce a

radiance in the dungeon that was mellow yet ade-
quate to illuminate the whole place. Hawkmoon saw
that the wraith-men were tall and slender, with thin,
handsome faces and blind-seeming eyes.

Hawkmoon had supposed at first that the people
of Soryandum were able to pass through solid walls,
but now he saw that they had entered from above,
for there was a large tunnel about halfway up the
wall. Perhaps in the distant past this tunnel had been
some land of chute down which sacks of stores had
been rolled.

Now the wraith-people rose into the air toward
the tunnel and entered it, drifting up it until light
could be seen far ahead—the light of moon and stars.

"Where are you taking us?" Hawkmoon whis-
pered.

"To a safer place where we shall be able to free you
of your chains," the man who carried him answered.

When they reached the top of the tunnel and felt
the chill of the night air, they paused while the one
who had no burden went ahead to make sure that
there were no Granbretanian warriors about. He
signed to the others to follow, and they drifted out
into the ruined streets of the silent city until they
came to a simple three-storied house that was in better
condition than the rest but seemed to have no means
of entrance at ground level.

The wraith-folk bore Hawkmoon and Oladahn up-
ward again, to the second level, and passed through
a wide window into the house.

In a room bare of any ornamentation they came to
rest, setting the pair down gently.

"What is this place?" Hawkmoon asked, still unable
to trust his senses.

"This is where we live," the wraith-man replied.

"There are not many of us. Though we live for cen-
turies, we are incapable of reproducing ourselves.
That is what we lost when we became as we are."

Now through the door came other figures, several
of them female. All were of the same beautiful and
graceful appearance, all had bodies of milky opaque-
ness; none wore clothes. The faces and bodies were
ageless, scarcely human, but they radiated such a
sense of tranquillity that Hawkmoon immediately felt
relaxed and secure.

One of the newcomers had brought with him a
small instrument, scarcely larger than Hawkmoon's
index finger, which he now applied to the several pad-
locks on the chains. One by one the locks sprang open,
until at last Hawkmoon and then Oladahn were free.

Hawkmoon sat up, rubbing at his aching muscles.
"I thank you," he said. "You have save me from an
unpleasant fate."

"We are happy to have been of use," replied one of
their number, slightly shorter than the rest. "I am
Rinal, once Chief Councilor of Soryandum." He
came forward smiling. "And we wonder if it would
interest you that you could be of help to us, also."

"I would be glad to perform any service in repay-
ment of what you have done for me," Hawkmoon
said earnestly. "What is it?"

"We, too, are in great danger from those strange
warriors with their grotesque beast-masks," Rinal told
him. "For they plan to raze Soryandum."

"Raze it? But why? This city offers no threat to
them—and it is too remote to be worth their annex-
ing."

"Not so," Rinal said. "For we have listened to their
conversations and know that Soryandum is of value
to them. They wish to build a great structure here
that will house scores and hundreds of their flying

machines. The machines can then be sent out to all
the surrounding lands to threaten and defeat them."

"I understand," Hawkmoon murmured. "It makes
sense. And that is why D'Averc, the ex-architect, was
chosen for this particular mission. Building materials
already exist here and could be remodeled to form one
of their ornithopter bases, and the spot is so remote
that few, if any, would note the activity. The Dark
Empire would have surprise on their side right up to
the moment they wished to launch an attack. They
must be stopped!"

"They must be, if only for our sake," Rinal con-
tinued. "You see, we are part of this city perhaps more
than you can understand. It and we exist as the same
thing. If the city were destroyed, we should perish
also."

"But how can we stop them?" Hawkmoon said.
"And how can I be of use? You must have the re-
sources of a sophisticated science at your disposal. I
have only a sword—and even that is in the hands of
D'Averc!"

"I told you that we are linked to the city," Rinal
said patiently. "And that is exactly the case. We can-
not move away from the city. Long ago we rid our-
selves of such unsubtle things as machines. They were
buried under a hillside many miles from Soryandum.
Now we have need for one particular machine, and
we cannot ourselves obtain it. You, however, with
your mortal mobility, could get it for us."

"Willingly," said Hawkmoon. "If you give us the
exact location of the machine we shall bring it to you.
Best if we left soon, before D'Averc realizes we have
escaped."

"I agree that the thing should be accomplished as
soon as possible," Rinal nodded, "but I have omitted
to tell you one thing. The machines were placed there

by us while we were still able to move short distances
away from Soryandum. To make sure that they were
not disturbed, we protected them with a beast-ma-
chine—a dreadful contraption designed to frighten off
whoever should discover the store. But the metal
creature can also kill—will kill any not of our race
who dares enter the cavern."

"Then how may we nullify this beast?" Oladahn
asked.

"There is but one way for you," Rinal said with a
sigh. "You must fight it—and destroy it."

"I see." Hawkmoon smiled. "So I escape from one
predicament to face another scarcely less dangerous."

Rinal raised his hand. "No. We make no demands
on you. If you feel that your life would be more use-
ful in the service of some other cause, forget us at
once and go your way."

"I owe you my life," Hawkmoon said. "And my
conscience would not be clear if I rode away from
Soryandum knowing that your city would be de-
stroyed, your race exterminated, and the Dark Empire
given the opportunity to wreak even more havoc in
the East than it has already. No—I will do what I can,
though without weapons it will not be an easy task."

Rinal signed to one of the wraith-folk, who drifted
from the room, to return at length with Hawkmoon's
battered battle-blade and Oladahn's bow, arrows, and
sword. "We found it an easy matter to recover these,"
smiled Rinal. "And we have another weapon, of sorts,
for you." He handed Hawkmoon the tiny device they
had used earlier to open the padlocks. "This we re-
tained when we put most of our other machines in
store. It is capable of opening any lock—all you must
do is point at it. It will help you gain entrance to the
main storeroom where the mechanical beast guards
the old machines of Soryandum."

"And what is the machine you desire us to find?"
Oladahn asked.

"It is a small device, about the size of a man's head.
Its colors are those of the rainbow, and it shines. It
looks like crystal but feels like metal It has a base of
onyx, and from this projects an octagonal object.
There may be two in the storeroom. If you can, bring
both."

"What does it do?" Hawkmoon inquired.

"That you will see when you return with it."

"If we return with it," said Oladahn in a tone of
philosophical gloom.

Chapter Four
THE MECHANICAL BEAST

HAVING REFRESHED THEMSELVES on food and wine
stolen from D'Averc's men by the wraith-folk,
Hawkmoon and Oladahn strapped on their weapons
and prepared to leave the house.

With two of the men of Soryandum supporting
them, they were borne gently down to the ground.

"May the Runestaff protect you," whispered one,
as the pair made for the city wall, "for we have heard
that you serve it." ,

Hawkmoon turned to ask him how he had heard
this. It was the second time he had been told that he
served the Runestaff; yet he had no knowledge that
he did. But before he could speak the wraith-man had
vanished.

Frowning, Hawkmoon led the way from the city.

Deep in the hills several miles from Soryandum,
Hawkmoon paused to get his bearings. Rinal had told
him to look for a cairn out of cut granite, left there
centuries before by Rinal's ancestors. At last he saw
it, old stone turned to silver by the moonlight.

"Now we go north," he said, "and look for the hill
from which the granite was cut."

Another half hour and they made out the hill. It
looked as if at some time a giant sword had sliced its
face sheer. Since that time grass had grown over it
again so that the characteristic seemed a natural one.

Hawkmoon and Oladahn crossed springy turf to a
place where thick shrubs grew against the side of the
hill. Parting these, they discerned a narrow opening in
the cliffside. This was the secret entrance to the ma-
chine stores of the men of Soryandum.

Squeezing through the entrance, the two men found
themselves in a large cave. Oladahn lit the brand they
had brought for the purpose, and the flickering light
revealed a great, square cavern that had evidently
been hewn artificially.

Remembering his instructions, Hawkmoon crossed
to the far wall of the cave and looked for a tiny mark
at shoulder height. At last he saw it—a sign written in
unfamiliar characters, and beneath it a tiny hole.
Hawkmoon took from his shirt the instrument they
had been given and pointed it at the hole.

He felt a tingling sensation in his hand as he ap-
plied slight pressure to the instrument. The rock
before him began to tremble. A powerful gust of air
made the brand flames stream, threatening to blow
them out altogether. The wall began to glow, become
transparent, and then disappear altogether. "It will still
be there," Rinald had told them, "but temporarily
removed to another dimension."

Cautiously, swords in hand, they passed through
into a great tunnel that was full of cool, green light
that came from walls like fused glass.

Ahead of them lay another wall. On it glowed a
single red spot, and it was at this that Hawkmoon now
pointed the instrument.

Again there was a sudden rush of air. This time it

nearly blew them over. Then the wall glowed white,
turning to a milky blue before vanishing altogether.

This section of the tunnel was the same milky-blue
color, but the wall ahead of them was black. When it,
too, had faded, they entered a tunnel of yellow stone
and knew that the main store chamber and its guardian
lay ahead of them.

Hawkmoon paused before applying the instrument
to the white wall they faced.

"We must be cunning and move swiftly," he told
Oladahn, "for the creature beyond this wall will be
activated the moment it senses our presence—"

He broke off as a muffled sound reached their ears—
a fantastic clashing and clattering. The white wall
shuddered as if something on the other side had flung a
huge weight against it.

Oladahn looked dubiously at the wall "Perhaps we
should reconsider. After all, if we wasted our lives
uselessly we..."

But Hawkmoon was already activating the instru-
ment, and the protecting wall had begun to change
color as the strange, cold wind struck their faces.
From behind the wall came an awesome wail of pain
and bewilderment. The wall turned to pink, faded—
and revealed the machine-beast.

The wall's disappearance seemed to have disturbed
it for an instant, for it made no move toward them.
It crouched on metal feet, towering over them, its
multicolored scales half-blinding them. The length of
its back, save for its neck, was a mass of knife-sharp
horns. It had a body fashioned somewhat like an ape's,
with short hind legs and long forelegs ending in hands
of taloned metal. Its eyes were multifaceted like a
fly's, glowing with shifting colors, and its snout was
full of razor-sharp metal teeth.

Beyond the mechanical beast they could see great

heaps of machinery, stacked in orderly rows about the
walls. The room was vast. Somewhere in the middle
of it, on his left, Hawkmoon saw the two crystalline
devices Rinal had described. Silently, he pointed to
them, then made to dash past the monster, into the
storeroom.

Their movements as they ran stirred the beast from
its daze. It screamed and lumbered after them, exuding
a weird metallic smell that was repulsive to Hawk-
moon's nostrils.

From the corner of his eye Hawkmoon saw a gi-
gantic taloned hand clutching at him. He swerved
aside, knocking into a delicate machine that toppled
and smashed to the floor, scattering bits of glass and
broken metal parts. The hand plucked at air an inch
from his face, then grabbed again, but Hawkmoon
had already sidestepped.

An arrow suddenly struck the beast's snout with
a clatter of metal on metal, but it did not scratch the
yellow and black scales.

With a roar, the beast sought its other enemy, saw
Oladahn, and pounced toward him.

Oladahn scampered backward but not fast enough,
for the creature seized him in its paw and drew him
toward its gaping mouth. Hawkmoon yelled and
struck with his sword at the thing's groin. It snorted
and flung its prisoner aside. Oladahn lay supine in a
corner by the door, either stunned or slain.

Hawkmoon backed away as the creature advanced;
then he suddenly changed tactics, ducked, and dashed
between the surprised beast's legs. As it began to turn,
Hawkmoon dashed back again.

The metal monster snorted in fury, its claws thrash-
ing about it. It leaped into the air and came down with
an ear-splitting crash, rushing across the floor of the
gallery at Hawkmoon, who squeezed down between

two machines and, using them for cover, crept closer,
to the machines he had come to take.

Now the monster began to wrench machines aside
in its insensate search for its enemy. Hawkmoon came
to a stop by a machine with a bell-shaped nozzle. At
the end of this nozzle was a lever. The machine
seemed to be some kind of weapon. Without pausing
to think, Hawkmoon pulled the lever. A faint noise
came from the thing, but nothing else seemed to
result.

Now the beast was almost upon him again.

Hawkmoon prepared to make a stand, deciding that
eh would fling his sword at one of the eyes, since they
seemed to be the creature's most vulnerable feature.
Rinal had told him that the mechanical beast could
not be killed in any ordinary sense; but if it were
blinded, he might stand a chance.

But now, as the beast came into the direct line of
the machine, it staggered and grunted. Evidently
some invisible ray was attacking it, possibly interfer-
ing with its complicated mechanism. It staggered, and
Hawkmoon felt triumphant for an instant, judging
the beast defeated. But the creature shook its body and
began to advance again with slow, painful movements.

Hawkmoon saw that it was slowly regaining its
strength. He must strike now if he was to have any
chance at all He ran toward the beast. It turned its
head slowly. But then Hawkmoon had leaped at its
squat neck and was climbing up the scales to seat him-
self on the mechanical beast's shoulders. With a growl
it raised its arm to tear Hawkmoon away.

Desperately Hawkmoon leaned forward and with
the pommel of his sword struck first at one eye and
then at the other. With a sharp, splintering sound,
both eyes were dashed to fragments.

The beast screamed, its paws going not to Hawk-

moon but to its injured eyes, giving the young Duke
time to leap from the creature's back and dash for the
two boxes he sought.

He pulled a sack from where it was looped over his
belt and dropped the two boxes into it.

The mechanical monster was flailing around. Metal
buckled and snapped wherever it struck. Blind it
might now be, but it had lost none of its strength.

Skipping around the screaming beast, Hawkmoon
ran to where Oladahn lay, bundled the little man over
his shoulder, and ran for the exit.

Behind him the metal beast had caught the sound
of his footsteps and had begun to turn in pursuit.
Hawkmoon increased his pace, his heart seeming
about to burst from his ribcage with the effort.

Down the corridors he raced, one after the other,
until he reached the cave and the narrow opening that
led to the outside world. The metal monster would
not be able to follow him through such a tiny crack.

As soon as he squeezed through the opening and
felt the night air in his lungs, he relaxed and studied
Oladahn's face. The little beast-man was breathing
well enough, and there seemed to be nothing broken.
Only a livid bruise on his head seemed serious, ex-
plaining why he was unconscious. Even as he in-
spected Oladahn's body for worse injuries, the beast-
man's eyes began to flutter open. A faint sound came
from his lips.

"Oladahn, are you all right?" Hawkmoon asked
anxiously.

"Ugh—my head's on fire," Oladahn grunted.
"Where are we?"

"Safe. Now try to rise. Dawn is almost here, and
we must get back to Soryandum before morning, or
D'Averc's men will see us."

Painfully Oladahn pulled himself to his feet. From

within the cave came a wild howling and thundering
as the mechanical beast sought to reach them.

"Safe?" Oladahn said, pointing to the hillside
behind Hawkmoon. "Possibly—but for how long?"

Hawkmoon turned. A great fissure had appeared in
the cliff face as the mechanical beast strove to free
itself and follow its enemies.

"All the more need for speed," said Hawkmoon,
picking up his bundle and beginning to run back in
the direction of Soryandum.

They had not gone half a mile before they heard an
enormous crash behind them. Looking back, they saw
the face of the hill split open and the metal beast
emerge, its howling echoing through the hills, threat-
ening to reach all the way to Soryandum.

"The beast is blind," Hawkmoon explained, "so it
may not follow us at once. Perhaps if we can reach
the city we will be safe from it."

They increased their pace and were soon on the
outskirts of Soryandum.

Not much later, as dawn came, they were creeping
through the streets seeking the house of the wraith-
folk.

Chapter Five
THE MACHINE

RINAL AND TWO others met them by the house and
hastily bore them up to the entrance window.

As the sun rose and light fell through the windows,
making the wraith-folk look even less tangible than
before, Rinal eagerly took the boxes from Hawk-
moon's sack.

"They are as I remember," he murmured, his
strange body drifting into the light so that he might
look at the objects better. His ghostly hand stroked
the octagon set in its onyx base. "Now we need have
no fear of the masked strangers. We can escape from
them whenever we please...."

"But I thought there was no way for you to leave
the city," Oladahn said.

"That is true—but with these machines, we can take
the whole city with us, if we are lucky."

Hawkmoon was about to question Rinal further,
when he heard a commotion in the street outside and
sidled to the window to peer cautiously down. There
he saw D'Averc, his two brutish lieutenants, and about
twenty warriors. One of the warriors was pointing up
at the window.

"We must have been seen," Hawkmoon gasped.
"We must all leave. We cannot fight so many."

Rinal frowned. "We cannot leave, either. But if we
use our machine, it will leave you at D'Averc's mercy.
I am in a dilemma."

"Use the machine then," Hawkmoon said, "and let
us worry about D'Averc."

"We cannot let you die for our sakes! Not after
all you have done."

"Use the machine!"

But Rinal still hesitated.

Hawkmoon heard another sound outside and
glanced cautiously through the window. "They've
brought up ladders. They're about to enter. Use the
machine, Rinal."

Another of the wraith-folk, a woman said softly,
"Use the machine, Rinal. If what we heard was true,
then it is unlikely that our friend will come to much
harm at D'Averc's hands—not at this moment, any-
way."

"What do you mean?" Hawkmoon asked. "How
do you know this?"

"We have a friend not of our people," the woman
told him, "who sometimes visits us, bringing us news
of the outside world. He, too, serves the Runestaff—"

"Is he a warrior in armor of jet and gold?" Hawk-
moon interrupted.

"Aye, he told us you—"

"Duke Dorian!" Oladahn cried, pointing to the
window. The first of the boar warriors had reached
the window.

Hawkmoon whipped his sword from the scabbard,
leaped forward, and drove the blade into the throat of
the warrior just below his gorget. The man went back-
ward and down with a gurgling scream. Hawkmoon
seized the ladder, trying to twist it aside, but it was

firmly held below. Another warrior came level with
the window, and Oladahn swung at his head knock-
ing him sideways, but the man clung on. Hawkmoon
relinquished his hold on the ladder and hacked at the
man's gauntleted fingers. With a yell he let go and
crashed to the ground.

"The machine," Hawkmoon called desperately.
"Use it, Rinal. We cannot hold them for long."

From behind him there came a musical thrumming
sound, and Hawkmoon felt slightly dizzy as his sword
met that of the next attacker.

Then everything began to vibrate rapidly, and the
walls of the house turned bright red. Outside in the
street the boar warriors were yelling—not in surprise,
but in outright fear. Hawkmoon could not under-
stand why the sight terrified them so much.

He could see now that the whole city had turned
the same vibrating scarlet and seemed to be shaking
itself to pieces to harmony with the thrumming of the
machine. Then, abruptly, sound and city vanished and
Hawkmoon was falling gently earthward.

He heard the voice of Rinal, faint and disappearing,
say, "We have left you the twin of this machine. It is
our gift to aid you against your enemies. It has the
ability to shift whole areas of the earth into a slightly
different dimension of space-time. Our enemies will
not have Soryandum now...."

Then Hawkmoon landed on rocky ground, Ola-
dahn close by, and saw that there was not a trace of
the city. Instead there was pitted ground that looked
as if it had recently been plowed.

Some distance away were the troops of Gran-
bretan, D'Averc among them, and Hawkmoon could
see now why they had screamed in terror.

The machine beast had come at last to the city and
was attacking the boar warriors. Everywhere were the

battered and bleeding corpses of Granbretanians.
Urged on by D'Averc, who had his own sword drawn
and was joining them in the battle, the Granbretanians
were trying to destroy the monster.

Its metal spines shook in fury, its metal teeth
clashed in its head, and its metal talons ripped and
rended armor and flesh.

"The beast will take care of them," Hawkmoon
said. "Look—our horses." About three hundred yards
away stood the two bewildered steeds. Hawkmoon
and Oladahn ran for them and were soon mounted,
riding away from the site of Soryandum and the
carnage that the mechanical beast was making of
D'Averc's boars.

Now, with the strange gift of the wraith-folk
wrapped carefully and placed in Hawkmoon's saddle-
bag, the two adventurers continued their journey to
the coast.

The coarse turf was easier on the horses hooves,
and they made rapid progress over the hills until they
came at last to the wide valley where the Euphrates
flowed.

By the banks of the broad river they made their
camp and debated how best to cross, for the water
was fast-flowing at this stretch, and according to
Hawkmoon's map, they would have to journey sev-
eral miles south before they came to a likely fording
place.

Hawkmoon stared across the water as the setting
sun stained it the color of blood. A long, almost silent
sigh escaped him, and Oladahn looked up curiously
from where he was laying the fire.

"What troubles you, Duke Dorian? One would
have thought you in good spirits after our escape."

"It is the future that troubles me, Oladahn. If

D'Averc was right and Count Brass lies wounded,
with von Villach dead and the Kamarg under power-
ful siege, then I fear we shall return to find nothing
but the ashes and mud Baron Meliadus once promised
he would make of the Kamarg."

"Let us wait until we get there," Oladahn said with
attempted cheerfulness, "for it is likely that D'Averc
only sought to make you gloomy. Almost certainly
your Kamarg still stands. From all you have told me
of the great defenses and the mighty valor of the
province, I do not doubt that they still hold against
the Dark Empire. You will see...."

"But will I?" Hawkmoon's gaze dropped to the
darkening ground. "Will I, Oladahn? D'Averc was
almost certainly right when he spoke of Granbretan's
other conquests. If Sicilia is theirs, then so must be
parts of Italia and Espanyia. Don't you see what that
means?"

"Outside of the Bulgar mountains, my geography
is weak," Oladahn said embarrassedly.

"It means that all routes to the Kamarg—by both
land and sea—are blocked by the Dark Empire's
hordes. Even if we reach the sea and find a ship, what
chance will we have of passing unharmed through
the Sicilian channel? The waters there must be thick
with Dark Empire ships."

"But do we have to travel that way? What about
the route you used to reach the East?"

Hawkmoon frowned. "Much of that territory I
flew across, and it would take twice the time to go
back that way. Also Granbretan has already made
extra gains there."

"But the territories under their control could be
circumnavigated," Oladahn said. "At least on land we
should stand some chance, while on sea, from what
you say, no chance at all"

"Aye," said Hawkmoon thoughtfully. "But it
would mean crossing Turkia—a journey of several
weeks. But then, perhaps, we could use the Black Sea,
which, I hear, is fairly free of Dark Empire ships still."
He consulted the map. "Aye—the Black Sea across to
Romania—but then it would become increasingly dan-
gerous as we neared France, for the Dark Empire's
forces are everywhere thereabouts. Still, you are right
—we would have a better chance by that route; might
even slay a couple of Granbretanians and use their
masks as disguises. One disadvantage that they have
is that their faces cannot be recognized as those of
friend or foe. If it were not for the secret languages
of the various orders, we could travel safely enough
if tricked out in beast masks and armor."

"Then we change our route," Oladahn said.

"Yes. We go north in the morning."

For a number of long days they followed the Eu-
phrates north, crossing the borders between Syria and
Turkia and coming at length to the quiet white town
of Birachek, where the Euphrates became the Firat
River.

In Birachek a wary innkeeper, suspecting them as
servants of the Dark Empire, told them at first that
there were no rooms, but then Hawkmoon pointed
to the black jewel in his forehead and said, "My name
Dorian, last Duke of Koln, sworn enemy of Gran-
bretan," and the innkeeper, even in this remote town,
had heard of him and let them in.

Later that night they sat in the public room of the
inn, drinking sweet wine and talking to the members
of a trading caravan that had arrived in Birachek
shortly before them.

The traders were swarthy men with blue-black
hair and beards that gleamed with oil. They were

dressed in leather shirts and brightly colored divided
kilts of wool; over these clothes they wore woven
cloaks, also of wool, in geometric designs of purple,
red, and yellow. These cloaks, they told the travelers,
showed that they were the men of Yenahan, merchant
of Ankara. At their waists were curved sabers with
richly decorated hilts and engraved blades, worn un-
scabbarded. These traders were as used to fighting as
they were to bartering.

Their leader, Saleem, hawk-nosed and with piercing
blue eyes, leaned forward over the table to speak
slowly to the Duke of Koln and Oladahn.

"You have heard that emissaries of the Dark Em-
pire pay court to the Calif of Istanbul and pay that
thriftless monarch to let them station a large force of
bull-masked warriors within the city walls?"

Hawkmoon shook his head. "I have little news of
the world. But I believe you. It is the way of Gran-
bretan to take with gold rather than take with force.
Only if gold is no longer of use will they produce
their weapons and armies."

Saleem nodded. "As I thought. You would not,
then, think Turkia safe from the Western wolves?"

"Not any part of the world, even Amarehk, is safe
from their ambition. They dream of conquering lands
that might not even exist, save in fables. They plan
to take Asiacommunista, though they must find it first.
Arabia and the East are mere camping grounds for
their armies."

"But could they have such power?" Saleem asked,
astonished.

"They have the power," Hawkmoon said with con-
fidence. "They have a madness, too, which makes
them savage, cunning—and inventive. I have seen Lon-
dra, capital of Granbretan, and its vast architecture is
that of brilliant nightmares made solid. I have seen the

King-Emperor himself, in his throne globe of milky
fluid—a wizened immortal with the golden voice of a
youth. I have seen the laboratories of the sorcerer-
scientists—innumerable caverns of bizarre machines,
many whose functions have yet to be rediscovered by
the Granbretanians themselves. And I have talked
with their nobles, learned of their ambitions, know
them to be more insane than anything you or any
other normal man could imagine. They are without
humanity, have little feeling for each other and none
at all for those they regard as lower species—that is,
all those not of Granbretan. They crucify men, wo-
men, children, and animals to decorate and mark the
roads to and from their conquests. . . ."

Saleem leaned back with a wave of his hand. "Ah,
come now, Duke Dorian, you exaggerate. ..."

Hawkmoon said forcefully, glaring into Saleem's
eyes, "I tell you this, trader of Turkia—I cannot ex-
aggerate the evil of Granbretan!"

Saleem frowned then and shuddered. "I—I believe
you," he said. "But I wish that I could not. For how
can the little nation of Turkia withstand such might
and cruelty?"

Hawkmoon sighed. "I can offer no solution. I would
say that you should band together, do not let them
weaken you with gold and gradual encroachment in
your lands—but I would waste my rhetoric if I tried,
for men are greedy and will not see the truth for the
gleam of coin. Resist them, I would say, with honor
and honest courage, with wisdom and with idealism.
Yet those who resist them are vanquished and tor-
tured, see their wives raped and torn apart before their
eyes, their children become playthings of warriors and
heaped on fires lit to burn whole cities. But if you do
not resist, if you escape death in battle, then the same
could still happen to you, or you and yours become

cringing things, less than human, willing to perform
any indignity, any act of evil, to save your skins. I
spoke of honesty—and honesty forbids me to encour-
age you with brave talk of noble battle and warriors'
deaths. I seek to destroy them—I am their declared en-
emy—but I have great allies and considerable luck,
and even I feel that I cannot forever escape their ven-
geance, though I have done so several times. I can only
advise those who would save something to resist the
minions of King Huon—use cunning. Use cunning,
my friend. It is the only weapon we have against the
Dark Empire."

"Pretend to serve them, you mean?" Saleem said
thoughtfully.

"I did so. I am alive now and comparatively free..."

"I will remember your words, westerner."

"Remember them all" Hawkmoon warned him.
"For the hardest compromise to make is when you
decide to appear to compromise. Often the deception
becomes the reality long before you realize it."

Saleem fingered his beard. "I understand you." He
glanced about the room. The flickering shadows of
the torches seemed to take on a sudden menace. "How
long, I wonder, will it be? ... So much of Europe
is already theirs."

"Have you heard anything of the province called
the Kamarg?" asked Hawkmoon.

"The Kamarg. A land of horned werebeasts, is it
not, and half-human monsters with mighty powers,
who have somehow managed to stand against the Dark
Empire. They are led by a metal giant, the Brass
Count..."

Hawkmoon smiled. "You have heard much that is
legend. Count Brass is flesh and blood, and there are
few monsters in the Kamarg. The only horned beasts
are the bulls of the marshlands and the horses, too.

And have they still resisted the Dark Empire? Heard
you of how Count Brass fares, or his lieutenant von
Villach—or Count Brass's daughter, Yisselda?"

"I heard Count Brass dead and his lieutenant, too.
But of a girl I heard nothing—and as far as I know the
Kamarg still stands."

Hawkmoon rubbed at the black jewel. "Your infor-
mation is not certain enough. I cannot believe that if
Count Brass is dead the Kamarg still stands. If Count
Brass goes down, so does the province."

"Well, I speak only of rumors surrounding other
rumors," Saleem said. "We traders are sure of local
gossip, but most of what we hear of the West is vague
and obscure. You come from the Kamarg, do you
not?"

"It is my adopted home," Hawkmoon agreed. "If it
still exists."

Oladahn put his hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder.
"Do not be depressed, Duke Dorian. You said your-
self that Trader Saleem's information is barely cred-
ible. Wait until we are nearer our goal before you lose
hope."

Hawkmoon made an effort to rid himself of the
mood, calling for more wine and plates of broiled
pieces of mutton and hot unleavened bread. And al-
though he was able to appear more cheerful, his mind
was not at rest for fear that all those he loved were in-
deed dead and the wild beauty of the Kamarg marsh-
lands now turned to a burning waste.

Chapter Six
MAD GOD'S SHIP

TRAVELING WITH SALEEM and his traders to Ankara
and thence to the port of Zonguldak on the Black Sea,
Hawkmoon and Oladahn were able, with the help of
papers supplied by Saleem's master, to get passage on
board the Smiling Girl, the only ship ready to take
them with it to Simferopol on the coast of a land
called Crimia. Smiling Girl was not a pretty vessel,
and neither did she seem happy. Captain and crew
were filthy, and the decks below stank of a thousand
different kinds of rot. Yet they were forced to pay
heavily for the privilege of passage on the tub, and
their quarters were little less noxious than the bilges
over which they were positioned. Captain Mouso,
with his long, greasy mustachios and shifty eyes, did
not inspire their confidence, and neither did the bottle
of strong wine that seemed permanently in the mate's
hairy paw.

Philosophically, Hawkmoon decided that at least
the ship would hardly be worth a pirate's attention—
and, for the same reason, a Dark Empire ship's atten-
tion—and went aboard with Oladahn shortly before
she sailed.

Smiling Girl lumbered away from the quayside on
the early-morning ride. As her patched sails caught
the wind, every timber in her groaned and creaked;
she turned sluggishly north northeast under a darken-
ing sky that was full of rain. The morning was cool
and gray, with a peculiar muted quality to it that
dampened sounds and made seeing an effort.

Huddled in his cloak, Hawkmoon stood in the
fo'c'sle and watched as Zonguldak disappeared behind
them.

Rain had begun to fall in heavy drops by the time
the port was out of sight and Oladahn came up from
below to move along the heaving deck toward Hawk-
moon.

"I've cleaned up our quarters as best I can, Duke
Dorian, though we'll not be free of the smell from the
rest of the ship—and there's little, I'd guess, that
would scare away such fat rats as I saw."

"We'll bear it," Hawkmoon said stoically. "We've
borne worse, and the voyage is only for two days." He
glanced at the mate, who was reeling out of the wheel-
house. "Though I'd be happier if I thought the ship's
officers and crew were a trifle more capable." He
smiled. "If the mate drinks any more and the captain
lies snoring much longer, we may find ourselves with
a command!"

Rather than go below, the two men stood together
in the rain, looking to the north and wondering what
might befall them on their long journey to the Ka-
marg.

The miserable ship sailed on through the miserable
day, tossed on the rough sea, blown by a treacherous
wind that ever threatened to become a storm but al-
ways stopped just short. The captain stumbled onto
the bridge from time to time, to shout at his men, to

curse them and beat them into the rigging to reef that
sail or loose another. To Hawkmoon and Oladahn,
Captain Mouso's orders seemed entirely arbitrary.

Toward evening, Hawkmoon went to join the Cap-
tain on the bridge. Mouso looked up at him with a
shifty expression.

"Good evening, sir," he said, sniffing and wiping
his long nose with his sleeve. "I hope the voyage's to
your satisfaction."

"Reasonably, thank you. What time have we made
—good or bad?"

"Good enough, sir," replied the skipper, turning so
that he did not have to look at Hawkmoon directly.
"Good enough. Shall I have the galley prepare you
some supper?"

Hawkmoon nodded. "Aye."

The mate appeared from below the bridge, singing
softly to himself and evidently blind drunk.

Now a sudden squall hit the ship side on, and the
ship wallowed over alarmingly. Hawkmoon clung to
the rail, feeling that at any moment it would crumble
away in his hand. Captain Mouso seemed oblivious of
any danger, and the mate was flat on his face, bottle
falling from his hand as his body slid nearer and nearer
to the side.

"Better help him," Hawkmoon said.

Captain Mouso laughed. "He's all right—he's got
a drunkard's luck."

But now the mate's body was against the starboard
rail, his head and one shoulder already through.
Hawkmoon leaped down the companionway to grab
the man and haul him back to safety as the ship
heaved again, this time in the other direction, and salt
waves washed the deck.

Hawkmoon looked down at the man he had res-

cued. The mate lay on his back, eyes closed, lips mov-
ing in the words of the song he'd been singing.

Hawkmoon laughed, shaking his head, calling up to
the skipper, "You're right—he has a drunkard's luck."
Then, as he turned his head to port, he thought he saw
something in the water. The light was fading fast, but
he was sure he had seen a vessel of some kind not too
far away.

"Captain—do you see anything yonder?" he yelled,
going to the rail and peering into the mass of heaving
water.

"Looks like a raft of some kind," Mouso called
back.

Hawkmoon was soon able too see the thing more
closely as a wave swept it nearer. It was a raft, with
three men clinging to it.

"Shipwrecked by the look of 'em," Mouso called
casually. "Poor bastards." He shrugged, his shoulders.
"Ah, well, not our affairs ..."

"Captain, we must save them," Hawkmoon said.

"We'll never do it in this light. Besides, we're wast-
ing time. I'm carrying no cargo save yourself on this
trip and have to be in Simferopol on time to pick up
my cargo before someone else does."

"We must save them," Hawkmoon said firmly. "Ol-
adhan—a rope."

The Bulgar beast-man found a coil of rope in the
wheelhouse and came hurrying down with it. The
raft was still in sight, its burden flat on their faces,
clinging to it for dear life. Sometimes it vanished in a
great trough of water, reappearing after several sec-
onds, a fair distance from the boat. The gap between
them was widening all the time, and Hawkmoon knew
that there was very little time before the raft would
be too far away for them to reach it. Lashing one end

of the rope to the rail and looping the other about his
waist, he stripped off cloak and sword and dived into
the foaming ocean.

At once, Hawkmoon realized the danger he was in.
The great waves were almost impossible to swim
against, and there was every chance of his being dashed
against the side of the ship, stunned, and drowned.
But he struggled on through the water, fighting to
keep it out of his mouth and eyes as he searched about
for the raft.

There it was! And now its occupants had seen the
ship and were standing up, waving and shouting. They
had not seen Hawkmoon swimming toward them.

As he swam, Hawkmoon caught glimpses of the
men from time to time, but he could not distinguish
them clearly. Two now seemed to be struggling,
while the third seemed to be sitting upright watching
them.

"Hold on!" Hawkmoon called above the crash of
the sea and the moan of the wind. Exerting all his
strength, he swam even harder and was soon nearly
upon the raft as it was tossed on a wild chaos of black-
and white water.

Then Hawkmoon caught the edge of the raft and
saw that indeed two of the men were fighting in earn-
est. He saw, too, that they wore the snouted masks of
the Order of the Boar. The men were warriors of
Granbretan.

For an instant Hawkmoon debated leaving them to
their fate. But if he did that, he reasoned, he would
be no better than they. He must do his best to save
them, then decide what to do with them.

He called up to the fighting pair, but they did not
seem to hear him. They grunted and cursed in their

struggle, and Hawkmoon wondered if they had not
been demented by their ordeal.

Hawkmoon tried to heave himself onto the raft, but
the water and the rope around his body dragged him
down. He saw the seated figure look up and sign to
him almost casually.

"Help me," Hawkmoon gasped, "or I'll not be able
to help you."

The figure rose and swayed across the raft until his
way was blocked by the fighting men. With a shrug
he seized their necks, paused for an instant until the
raft dipped in the water, then pushed them into the
sea.

"Hawkmoon, my dear friend!" came a voice from
within the boar mask. "How happy I am to see you.
There—I've helped you. I've lightened our load . . ."

Hawkmoon made a grab at one of the drowning
men who still struggled with his companion. In the
heavy masks and armor, they were bound to be
dragged down in seconds. But he could not reach
them. He watched in fascination as, with seeming
gradualness, the masks sank below the waves.

He glared up at the survivor, who was leaning down
to offer him a hand. "You have murdered your friends,
D'Averc! I've a good mind to let you go down with
them."

"Friends? My dear Hawkmoon, they were no such
thing. Servants, aye, but not friends." D'Averc braced
himself as another wave tossed the raft, nearly forcing
Hawkmoon to lose his grasp. "Not friends. They were
loyal enough—but dreadfully boring. And they made
fools of themselves. I cannot tolerate that. Come along
let me help you aboard my little vessel. It is not much,
but. .."

Hawkmoon allowed D'Averc to help him onto the
raft, then turned and waved toward the ship, just vis-

ible through the darkness. He felt the rope tighten as
Oladahn began to haul on it.

"It was fortunate that you were passing," D'Averc
said coolly as slowly they were drawn toward the
ship. "I had thought myself as good as drowned and
all my glorious promise barely fulfilled—and then who
should come by in his splendid ship but the noble
Duke of Koln. Fate flings us together once again,
Duke."

"Aye, but I'll readily fling you away again as you
flung your friends, if you do not hold tongue and help
me with this rope," growled Hawkmoon.

The raft plunged through the sea and at last bumped
against Smiling Girl's half-rotten side. A rope ladder
sanked down, and Hawkmoon began to climb, finally
hauling himself with relief over the rail, gasping for
breath.

When Oladahn saw the next man's head emerge
over the side, he cursed and made to draw his sword,
but Hawkmoon stopped him. "He's our prisoner, and
we might as well keep him alive, for he could be a
useful bargaining counter if we are in trouble later."

"How sensible!" D'Averc exclaimed admiringly,
then began coughing. "Forgive me—my ordeal has
desperately weakened me, I fear. A change of clothes,
some hot grog, a good night's rest, and I'll be myself
again."

"You'll be lucky if we let you rot in the bilges,"
Hawkmoon said. "Take him below to our cabin,
Oladahn."

Huddled in the tiny cabin that was dimly lit by a
small lantern hanging from the roof, Hawkmoon and
Oladahn watched D'Averc strip himself of his mask,
armor and sodden undergarments.

"How did you come to be on the raft, D'Averc?"

Hawkmoon asked as the Frenchman fussily dried
himself. Even he was slightly nonplussed by the man's
apparent coolness. He admired the quality and even
wondered if he did not actually like D'Averc in some
strange way. Perhaps it was D'Averc's honesty in ad-
mitting his ambition, his unwillingness to justify his
actions, even if, as recently, they involved casual mur-
der.

"A long story, my dear friend. The three of us—
Ecardo, Peter, and I—left the men to deal with that
blind monster you released upon us and managed to
reach the safety of the hills. A little later the ornithop-
ter we had sent to collect you arrived and began to
circle, evidently puzzled by the disappearance of an
entire city—as we were, I must admit; you must explain
that to me later. Well, we signaled to the pilot, and
he came down. We had already realized the somewhat
difficult position we found ourselves in. . . ." D'Av-
erc paused. "Is there any food to be had?"

"The skipper has ordered some supper from the
galley," Oladahn said. "Continue."

"We were three men without horses in a rather
barren part of the world. As well, we had failed to
keep you when we had captured you, and as far as
we knew, the pilot was the only living man left who
knew that we had done that...."

"You killed the pilot?" Hawkmoon said.

"Just so. It was necessary. Then we boarded his
machine with the intention of reaching the nearest
base."

"What happened?" Hawkmoon asked. "Did you
know how to control the ornithopter?"

D'Averc smiled. "You have guessed correctly. My
knowledge of the things is limited. We managed to
gain the air, but then the wretched thing would not

be steered. Before we knew it, it was carrying us off
to the Runestaff knows where. I feared for my safety,
I must admit. The monster behaved increasingly er-
ratically, until at last it began to fall. I managed to
guide it so that it landed on a soft riverbank, and we
were barely hurt. Ecardo and Peter had become hys-
terical, quarreling among themselves, becoming un-
bearable in their manners and most hard to control.
However, we somehow managed to build a raft with
the intention of floating down the river until we came
to a town...."

"That same raft?" Hawkmoon asked.

"The same, aye."

"Then how did you come to be at sea?"

"Tides, my good friend." D'Averc said with an
airy wave of his hand. "Currents. I had not realized
we were so close to an estuary. We were swept along
at a most appalling rate, carried far beyond land. On
that raft—that damnable raft—we spent the next sev-
eral days, with Peter and Ecardo whining at one an-
other, blaming one another for their predicament
when they should have blamed me. Oh, I cannot tell
you what an ordeal it was, Duke Dorian."

"You deserved worse," Hawkmoon said.

There came a knock on the cabin door. Oladahn
answered it and admitted a scruffy cabin boy carrying
a tray on which were three bowls containing some
kind of gray stew.

Hawkmoon accepted the tray and handed D'Averc
a bowl and a spoon. For a moment D'Averc hesitated;
then he took a mouthful. He seemed to eat with great
control. He finished the dish and replaced the empty
bowl on the tray. "Delicious," he said. "Quite perfect,
for ship's cooking."

Hawkmoon, who had been nauseated by the mess,

handed D'Averc his own bowl, and Oladahn, too
preferred his.

"I thank you," said D'Averc. "I believe in modera-
tion. Enough is as good as a feast."

Hawkmoon smiled slightly, once again admiring the
Frenchman's coolness. Evidently the food had tasted
as foul to him as it had to them, but his hunger had
been so great that he had eaten the stuff anyway, and
with panache.

Now D'Averc stretched, his rippling muscles be-
lying his claim to invalidism. "Ah," he yawned. "If
you will forgive me, gentlemen, I will sleep now. I
have had a trying and tiring few days."

"Take my bed," Hawkmoon said, indicating his
cramped bunk. He did not mention that earlier he had
noticed what had seemed to be a whole tribe of bugs
nesting in it. I'll see if the skipper has a hammock."

"I am grateful," D'Averc said, and there seemed to
be a surprising seriousness about his tone that made
Hawkmoon wheel away from the door.

"For what?"

D'Averc began to cough ostentatiously, then looked
up and said in his old, mocking tone, "Why, my dear
Duke, for saving my life, of course."

In the morning the storm had died down, and though
the sea was still rough it was much calmer than the
previous day.

Hawkmoon met D'Averc on deck. The man was
dressed in coat and britches of green velvet but was
without his armor. He bowed when he saw Hawk-
moon.

"You slept well?" asked Hawkmoon.

"Excellently." D'Averc's eyes were full of humor,
and Hawkmoon guessed that he had been bitten a
good many times.

"Tonight we should make port," Hawkmoon told
him. "You will be my prisoner—my hostage, if you
like."

"Hostage? Do you think the Dark Empire cares if
I live or die once I have lost my usefulness?"

"We shall see," said Hawkmoon, fingering the
jewel in his skull. "If you attempt to escape, I shall
certainly kill you—as coolly as you killed your men."

D'Averc coughed into the handkerchief he carried.
"I owe you my life," he said. "So it is yours to take if
you would."

Hawkmoon frowned. D'Averc was far too devious
for him to understand properly. He was beginning to
regret his decision. The Frenchman might prove more
of a liability than he had bargained for.

Oladahn came hurrying along the deck. "Duke
Dorian," he panted, pointing forward. "A sail—and it's
heading directly toward us."

"We're in little danger,"   Hawkmoon smiled.
"We're no prize for a pirate."

But moments later Hawkmoon noticed signs of
panic among the crew, and as the captain stumbled
past, he caught his arm. "Captain Mouso—what is it?"

"Danger, sir," rasped the skipper. "Great danger.
Did you not read the sail?"

Hawkmoon peered toward the horizon and saw
that the ship carried a single black sail. On it was
painted an emblem of some kind, but he could not
make out what it was. "Surely they'll not trouble us,"
he said. "Why should they risk a fight for a tub like
this—and you said yourself we're carrying no cargo."

"They care not what we carry or don't carry, sir.
They attack anything on the ocean on sight. They're
like killer whales, Duke Dorian—their pleasure is not
in taking treasure but in destruction!"

"Who are they? Not a Granbretanian ship by the
look of it," D'Averc said.

"Even one of those would probably not bother to
attack us," stuttered Captain Mouso. "No—that is a
ship crewed by those belonging to the Cult of the Mad
God. They are from Muskovia and in recent months
have begun to terrorize these waters."

"They definitely seem to have the intention of at-
tacking," D'Averc said lightly. "With your permis-
sion, Duke Dorian, I'll go below and don my sword
and armor."

"I'll get my weapons, too," Oladahn said. "I'll
bring your sword for you."

"No point in fighting!" It was the mate, gesticulat-
ing with his bottle. "Best throw ourselves in the sea
now."

"Aye," Captain Mouso nodded, looking after
D'Averc and Oladahn as they went to fetch their
weapons. "He's right. We'll be outnumbered, and
they'll tear us to pieces. If we're captured, they'll
torture us for days."

Hawkmoon started to say something to the captain,
then turned as he heard a splash. The mate had gone
—as good as his word. Hawkmoon rushed to the side
but could see nothing.

"Don't bother to help him—follow him," the skip-
per said, "for he's the wisest of us all."

The ship was bearing down on them now, its black
sail painted with a pair of great red wings, and in the
center of them was a huge, bestial face, howling as if
in the throes of maniacal laughter. Crowding the
decks were scores of naked men wearing nothing but
sword belts and metal-studded collars. Drifting across
the water came a weird sound that Hawkmoon could

not at first make out. Then he glanced at the sail again
and knew what it was.

It was the sound of wild, insane laughter, a sound
as if the damned of hell were moved to merriment.

"The Mad God's ship," said Captain Mouso, his
eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Now we die."

Chapter Seven
THE RING ON THE FINGER

HAWKMOON, OLADAHN, and D'Averc stood shoulder
to shoulder by the port rail of the ship as the weird
vessel sped closer and closer.

The members of the crew had all clustered around
their captain, as far as possible away from the attack-
ers.

Looking at the rolling eyes and foaming mouths of
the madmen in the ship, Hawkmoon decided that their
chances were all but hopeless. Grappling irons snaked
out from the Mad God's ship and bit into the soft
wood of Smiling Girl's rail. Instantly the three men
began to hack at the ropes, severing most of them.

Hawkmoon yelled to the captain, "Get your men
aloft—try to turn the ship." But the frightened men
did not move. "You'll be safer in the rigging!" Hawk-
moon shouted. They began to stir but still did
nothing.

Hawkmoon was forced to return his attention to
the attacking ship and was horrified to see it looming
over them, its insane crew clustering against the rail,
some already beginning to climb over, ready to leap
onto Smiling Girl's deck, cutlasses drawn. Their

laughter filled the air, and bloodlust shone on their
twisted faces.

The first came flying down on Hawkmoon, naked
body gleaming, sword raised. Hawkmoon's own blade
came up to skewer the man as he fell; another twist
of the sword and the corpse dropped down through
the narrow gap between the ships, into the sea. Within
moments the air was full of naked warriors swinging
on ropes, jumping wildly, clambering hand over hand
across the grappling lines. The three men stopped the
first wave, hacking about them until everything
seemed bloodred, but gradually they were forced
away from the rail as the madmen swarmed onto the
deck, fighting without skill but with a chilling dis-
regard for their own lives.

Hawkmoon became separated from his comrades,
did not know if they lived or had been killed. The
prancing warriors flung themselves at him, but he
clutched his battle blade in both hands and swung it
about him in a great arc, this way and that, surround-
ing himself with a blur of bright steel. He was covered
in blood from head to foot; only his eyes gleamed,
blue and steady, from the visor of his helmet.

And all the while the Mad God's men laughed—
laughed even as their heads were chopped from their
necks, their limbs from their bodies.

Hawkmoon knew that eventually weariness would
overcome him. Already the sword felt heavy in his
hands and his knees shook. His back against a bulk-
head, he hacked and stabbed at the seemingly cease-
less wave of giggling madmen whose swords sought
to slash the life from him.

Here a man was decapitated, there another dis-
membered, but every blow drained more energy from
Hawkmoon.

Then, as he blocked two swords that struck at him
at once, his leg buckled and he went down to one
knee. The laughter grew louder, triumphant, as the
Mad God's men moved in for the kill.

He hacked upward desperately, gripping the wrist
of one of his attackers and wrenching the sword
away from him so that now he had two blades. Using
the madman's sword to thrust and his own to swing,
he managed to regain his footing, kicked out at
another man, and scrambled away, to rush up the com-
panionway to the bridge. At the top of the compan-
ionway he turned to fight again, this time with an
increased advantage over the howling madmen who
crowded up the steps toward him. He saw now that
both D'Averc and Oladahn were in the rigging, man-
aging to keep their attackers at bay. He glanced to-
ward the Man God's ship. It was still held fast by
grappling ropes, but it was deserted. Its entire crew
was on board the Smiling Girl. Hawkmoon at once
had an idea.

He wheeled about, running from the warriors,
leaped to the rail, and grabbed a rope that trailed
from the crosstrees. Then he flung himself into space.

He prayed that the rope would be long enough as
he hurtled through the air, then let go, diving, it ap-
peared, over the side of the ship. His grasping hands
just managed to catch the rail of the enemy ship as he
fell. He hauled himself onto the deck and began
slashing at the grappling ropes, yelling, "Oladahn—
D'Averc! Quickly—follow me!"

From the rigging of the other ship the two men
saw him and began climbing higher, to walk pre-
cariously along the mainmast's yardarm while the
men of the Mad God swarmed behind them.

The Mad God's ship was already beginning to slide

away, the gap between it and Smiling Girl widening
rapidly.

D'Averc jumped first, diving for the black-sailed
ship's rigging arid clutching a rope one-handed, to
swing for an instant, threatening to drop to his death.

Oladahn followed him, cutting loose a rope and
swinging across the gap, to slide down the rope and
land on the deck, where he fell spread-eagled on his
face.

Several of the insane warriors tried to follow, and
a number actually managed to reach the deck of their
own ship. Still laughing, they came at Hawkmoon in
a bunch, doubtless judging Oladahn dead.

Hawkmoon was hard put to defend himself. A
blade slashed his arm, another caught his face below
the visor. Then suddenly, from above, a body dropped
into the center of the naked warriors and began hew-
ing around him, almost as much a maniac as they.

It was D'Averc in his boar-headed armor, streaming
with the blood of those he had slain. And now, at the
back of their attackers came Oladahn, evidently only
winded by his fall, yelling a wild mountain battle cry.

Soon every one of the madmen who had managed
to reach the ship was dead. The others were leaping
from the deck of Smiling Girl into the water, still
laughing weirdly, trying to swim after the ship.

Looking back at Smiling Girl, Hawkmoon saw that
miraculously most of her crew had apparently sur-
vived—at the last minute they had climbed to the
safety of the mizzen mast.

D'Averc raced forward and took the wheel of the
Mad God's ship, cutting the lashings and steering
from the vainly swimming men.

"Well," breathed Oladahn, sheathing his sword
and inspecting his cuts, "we seem to have escaped
lightly—and with a better ship."

"With luck we'll beat Smiling Girl into port,"
Hawkmoon grinned. "I hope she's still bound for
Crimia, for she has all our possessions on board."

Skillfully, D'Averc was turning the ship about,
toward the north. The single sail bulged as it caught
the wind and the boat left the swimming madmen be-
hind. Even as they drowned, they continued to laugh.

After they had helped D'Averc relash the wheel so
that the ship continued roughly on course, they began
to explore the ship. It was crammed with treasure
evidently pillaged from a score of ships, but also there
were all kinds of useless things—broken weapons and
ships' instruments, bundles of clothing—and here and
there a rotting corpse or a dismembered body, all piled
together in the holds.

The three men decided to get rid of the corpses
first, wrapping them in cloaks or bundling up the
various limbs in rags and tossing them overboard. It
was disgusting work and took a long time, for some
of the remains were hidden under mounds of other
things.

Suddenly Oladahn paused as he worked, his eyes
fixed on a severed human hand that had become mum-
mified in some way. Reluctantly, he picked it up, in-
specting a ring on the little finger. He glanced at
Hawkmoon.

"Duke Dorian...."

"What is it? Do not bother to save the ring. Just
get rid of the thing."

"No—it is the ring itself. Look—it has a peculiar
design...."

Impatiently Hawkmoon crossed the dimly lit hold
and peered at the thing, gasping as he recognized it.
"No! It cannot be!"

The ring was Yisselda's. It was the ring Count

Brass had placed on her finger to mark her betrothal
to Dorian Hawkmoon.

Numbed with horror, Hawkmoon took the mum-
mified hand, a look of incomprehension on his face.

"What is it?" Oladahn whispered. "What is it that
so disturbs you?"

"It is hers. It is Yisselda's."

"But how could she have come to be sailing this
ocean so many hundreds of miles from the Kamarg?
It is not possible, Duke Dorian."

"The ring is hers." Hawkmoon gazed at the hand,
inspecting it eagerly as realization struck him. "But—
the hand is not. See, the ring barely fits the little fin-
ger. Count Brass placed it on the middle finger, and
even then it was a loose fit. This is the hand of some
thief." He wrenched the precious ring from the finger
and threw the hand down. "Someone who was in the
Kamarg, perhaps, and stole the ring...." He shook his
head. "It's unlikely. But what is the explanation?"

"Perhaps she journeyed this way—seeking you,
maybe," Oladahn suggested.

"She'd be foolish if she did. But it is just possible.
However, if that's the case, where is Yisselda now?"

Oladahn was about to speak, when there came a
low, terrifying chuckling sound from above. They
looked up at the entrance to the hold.

A mad, grinning face looked down at them. Some-
how one of the insane warriors had managed to catch
the ship. Now he prepared to leap down on them.

Hawkmoon just managed to draw his sword as the
madman attacked, sword slashing. Metal hit metal.

Oladahn drew his own blade, and D'Averc came
rushing up, but Hawkmoon shouted, "Take him
alive! We must take him alive!"

As Hawkmoon engaged the madman, D'Averc and
Oladahn resheathed their swords and fell on the war-

rior's back, grasping his arms. Twice he shook them
off, but then he went down kicking as they wound
length after length of rope around him. And then he
lay still, chuckling up at them, his eyes unseeing, his
mouth foam-flecked.

"What use is he alive?" D'Averc asked with polite
curiosity. "Why not cut his throat and have done
with him?"

"This," Hawkmoon said, "is a ring I found just
now." He held it up. "It belongs to Yisselda, Count
Brass's daughter. I want to know how these men got
it."

"Strange," D'Averc said frowning. "I believe the
girl still in the Kamarg, nursing her father."

"So Count Brass is wounded?"

D'Averc smiled. "Aye. But the Kamarg still holds
against us. I'd sought to disturb you, Duke Dorian. I
do not know how badly Count Brass is hurt, but he
still lives. And that wise man of his, Bowgentle, helps
him command his troops. The last I heard, it was stale-
mate between the Dark Empire and the Kamarg."

"And you heard nothing of Yisselda? Nothing of
her leaving the Kamarg?"

"No," said D'Averc, frowning. "But I seem to re-
member. . . As, yes—a man serving in Count Brass's
army. I believe he was approached and persuaded to
try to kidnap the girl, but the attempt was unsuc-
cessful."

"How do you know?"

"Juan Zhinaga—the man—disappeared. Presumably
Count Brass discovered his perfidy and slew him."

"I find it hard to believe that Zhinaga should be a
traitor. I knew the man slightly—a captain of cavalry,
he was."

"Captured by us in the second battle against the
Kamarg." D'Averc smiled. "I believe he was a Ger-

man, and we had some of his family in our safekeep-
ing. ..."

"You blackmailed him!"

"He was blackmailed, though do not give me the
credit. I merely heard of the plan during a conference
in Londra between the various commanders who had
been summoned by King Huon to inform him of
developments in the campaigns we are waging in
Europe."

Hawkmoon's brow furrowed. "But suppose Zhin-
aga was successful—somehow not managing to reach
your people with Yisselda, being stopped on the way
by the Mad God's men...."

D'Averc shook his head. "They would never range
as far as southern France. We should have heard of
them if they had."

"Then what is the explanation?"

"Let us ask this gentleman," D'Averc suggested,
prodding at the madman, whose chuckles had died
down now so that they were almost inaudible.

"Let us hope we can get sense from him," Oladahn
said dubiously.

"Would pain do the trick, do you thing?" D'Averc
asked.

"I doubt it," Hawkmoon said. "They know no
fear. We must try another method." He looked in
disgust at the madman. "We'll leave him for a while
and hope he calms a little."

They went up on deck, closing the hatch cover.
The sun was beginning to set, and the coastline of
Crimia was now in sight—black crags sharp against
the purple sky. The water was calm and dappled with
the fading sunlight, and the wind blew steadily north-
ward.

"I'd best correct our course," D'Averc suggested.
"We seem to be sailing a little too far to the north."

He moved along the deck to unbind the wheel and
spin it several points south.

Hawkmoon nodded absently, watching D'Averc,
his great mask flung back from his head, expertly con-
trolling the course of the ship.

"We'll have to anchor offshore tonight," Oladahn
said, "and sail in in the morning."

Hawkmoon did not reply. His head was full of un-
answered questions. The exertions of the past twenty-
four hours had brought him close to exhaustion, and
the fear in his mind threatened to drive him to a mad-
ness fully as dreadful as that of the man in the hold.

Later that night, by the light of lamps suspended
from the ceiling, they studied the sleeping face of the
man they had captured. The lamps swung as the ship
rocked at anchor, casting shifting shadows on the sides
of the hold and over the great piles of booty heaped
everywhere. A rat chittered, but the men ignored the
sound. They had all slept a little and felt more relaxed.

Hawkmoon knelt down beside the bound man and
touched his face. Instantly the eyes opened, staring
around dully, no longer mad. They even seemed a
little puzzled.

"What is your name?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Coryanthum of Kerch—who are you? Where am
I?"

"You should know," Oladahn said. "On board your
own ship. Do you not remember? You and your fel-
lows attacked our vessel. There was a fight. We es-
caped from you, and you swam after us and tried to
kill us."

"I remember setting sail," Coryanthum said, his
voice bewildered, "but nothing else." Then he tried
to struggle up. "Why am I bound?"

"Because you are dangerous," D'Averc said lightly.
"You are mad."

Coryanthum laughed, a purely natural laugh. "I,
-mad? Nonsense!"

The three looked at one another, puzzled. It was
true that the man seemed to have no hint of madness
about him now.

Understanding began to dawn on Hawkmoon's
face. "What is the very last thing you remember?"

"The captain addressing us."

"What did he say?"

"That we were to take part in a ceremony—drink-
ing a special drink. . . . Nothing much more." Cory-
anthum frowned. "We drank the drink...."

"Describe your sail," Hawkmoon said.

"Our sail? Why?"

"Is there anything special about it?"

"Not that I remember. It's canvas—a dark blue.
That's all."

"You are a merchant seaman?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Aye."

"And this is your first voyage on this ship?"

"Aye."

"When did you sign on?"

Coryanthum looked impatient. "Last night, my
friend—on the Day of the Horse by Kerch reckon-
ing."

"And in universal reckoning?"

The sailor wrinkled his brow. "Oh—the eleventh
of the third month."

"Three months ago," said D'Averc.

"Eh?" Coryanthum peered through the gloom at
the Frenchman. "Three months? What d'you mean?"

"You were drugged," Hawkmoon explained.
"Drugged and then used to commit the foulest acts

of piracy ever heard of. Do you know anything of
the Cult of the Mad God?"

"A little. I heard that it is situated somewhere in
Ukrania and that its adherents have been venturing
out lately—even onto the high seas."

"Did you know that your sail now bears the sign
of the Mad God? That a few hours ago, you raved
and giggled in mad bloodlust? Look at your body.
. . ." Hawkmoon bent down to cut the bonds. "Feel
your neck."

Coryanthum of Kerch stood up slowly, wondering
at his own nakedness, his fingers going slowly to his
neck and touching the collar there. "I—I don't under-
stand. Is this a trick?"

"An evil trick, and one we did not commit," Ola-
dahn said. "You were drugged until you went insane,
then ordered to kill and collect all the loot you could.
Doubtless your 'merchant captain' was the only man
who knew what would happen to you, and it's almost
certain he's not aboard now. Do you remember any-
thing? Any instructions about where you should go?"

"None."

"Without doubt the captain meant to rejoin the
ship later and guide it to whatever port he uses,"
D'Averc said. "Maybe there is a ship in regular con-
tact with the others, if they are all full of such fools
as this one."

"There must be a large supply of the drug some-
where aboard," Oladahn said. "Doubtless they fed
off it regularly. It was only because we bound this
fellow that he did not get the chance to replenish
himself."

"How do you feel?" Hawkmoon asked the sailor.

"Weak—drained of all life and feeling."

"Understandable," said Oladahn. "It's sure that
drug kills you in the end. A monstrous plan! Take

innocent men, feed them a drug that turns them mad
and ultimately destroys them, use them to murder
and loot, then collect the proceeds. I've heard of
nothing like it before. I'd thought the Cult of the
Mad God to be comprised of honest fanatics, but it
seems a cooler intelligence controls it."

"On the seas, at any rate," Hawkmoon said. "How-
ever, I'd like to find the man responsible for all this.
He alone may know where Yisselda is."

"First, I'd suggest we take up the sail," D'Averc
said. "We'll drift into the harbor on the tide. Our
reception would not be pleasant if they saw our sail.
Also, we can make use of this treasure. Why, we are
rich men!"

"You are still my prisoner, D'Averc," Hawkmoon
reminded him. "But it is true we could dispose of
some of the treasure, since the poor souls who owned
it are all dead now, and give the rest into the safekeep-
ing of some honest man, to compensate those who
have lost relatives and fortunes at the hands of the
mad sailors."

"Then what?" asked Oladahn.

"Then we set sail again—and wait for this ship's
master to seek her out."

"Can we be sure he will? What if he hears of our
visit to Simferopol?" Oladahn asked.

Hawkmoon smiled grimly. "Then doubtless he will
still wish to seek us out."

Chapter Eight
MAD GOD'S MAN

AND So THE loot was sold in Simferopol, some of it
used to provision the craft and buy new equipment
and horses, and the rest given into the safekeeping of
a merchant whom all recommended as the most honest
in the whole of Crimia. Not much behind the cap-
tured ship, Smiling Girl limped in, and Hawkmoon
hastily bought the captain's silence regarding the na-
ture of the black-sailed ship. He recovered his posses-
sions, including the saddlebag containing Rinal's gift,
and, with Oladahn and D'Averc, reboarded the ship,
sailing on the evening tide. They left Coryanthum
with the merchant to recover.

For more than a week the black ship drifted, usually
becalmed, for the wind had dropped to almost noth-
ing. By Hawkmoon's reckoning they were drifting
close to the channel that separated the Black Sea from
the Azov Sea, near to Kerch, where Coryanthum had
been recruited.

D'Averc lounged in a hammock he had hung for
himself amidships, occasionally coughing theatrically
and remarking on his boredom. Oladahn sat often in

the crownest, scanning the sea, while Hawkmoon
paced the decks, beginning to wonder if his plan had
had any substance to it other than his need to know
what had become of Yisselda. He was even beginning
to doubt that the ring had been hers, deciding that
perhaps several such rings had been made in the Ka-
marg over the years.

Then, one morning, a sail appeared on the horizon,
coming from the northwest. Oladahn saw it first and
called to Hawkmoon to come on deck. Hawkmoon
rushed up and peered ahead. It might be the ship they
awaited.

"Get below," he called. "Everybody get below."

Oladahn scrambled down the rigging, while D'Av-
erc, suddenly active, swung out of his hammock and
strolled to the ladder that led belowdecks. They met
in the darkness of the central hold and waited. . . .

An hour seemed to pass before they heard timber
bump against timber and knew that the other ship had
drawn alongside. It might still be an innocent vessel
curious about a ship drifting apparently unmanned.

Not much later Hawkmoon heard the sound of
booted feet on the deck above; a slow, measured tread
that went the length of the whole deck and back again.
Then there was silence as the man above either entered
a cabin or climbed to the bridge.

Tension grew as the sound of the footsteps came
again, this time walking directly toward the central
hold.

Hawkmoon saw a silhouette above, peering down
into the darkness where they crouched. The figure
paused, then began to descend the ladder. As he did
so, Hawkmoon crept forward.

When the newcomer had reached the bottom,

Hawkmoon sprang, his arm encircling the man's
throat. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet
tall, with a huge black bushy beard and plaited hair,
wearing a brass breastplate over his shirt of black silk.
He growled in surprise and swung around, carrying
Hawkmoon with him. The giant was incredibly
strong. His huge fingers went up to Hawkmoon's arm
and began to prise it loose.

"Quick—help me hold him," Hawkmoon cried, and
his friends rushed forward to fling themselves on the
giant and bear him down.

D'Averc drew his sword. Wearing his boar mask
and the metal finery of Granbretan, he looked danger-
ous and terrible as he delicately placed the tip of his
sword against the giant's throat.

"Your name?" D'Averc demanded, his voice boom-
ing in his helmet.

"Captain Shagarov. Where is my crew?"

The black-bearded giant glared up at them, un-
abashed by his capture. "Where is my crew?"

"You mean the madmen you sent akilling?" Olad-
ahn said. "They are drowned, all but one, and he told
us of your evil treachery."

"Fools!" Shagarov cursed. "You are three men. Did
you think to trap me—when I have a shipful of fighters
aboard my other ship?"

"We have disposed of one shipload, as you'll note,"
D'Averc told him with a chuckle. "Now that we are
used to the work, doubtless we can dispose of an-
other."

For a moment fear crept into Shagarov's eyes; then
his expression hardened. "I do not believe you. Those
who sailed this ship lived only to kill. How could
you ... ?"

"Well, we did," D'Averc said. He turned his great,

helmeted head toward Hawkmoon. "Shall we go on
deck and put the rest of our plan into operation?"

"A moment." Hawkmoon bent close to Shagarov.
"I want to question him. Shagarov—did your men cap-
ture a girl at any time?"

"They had orders not to kill any girl but to bring
them to me."

"Why?"

"I know not—I was ordered to send girls to him—
and girls I sent him." Shagarov laughed. "You'll not
keep me for long, you know. You'll all three be dead
within an hour. The men will get suspicious."

"Why didn't you bring any of them aboard with
you? Perhaps because they are not madmen—because
even they might be disgusted by what they found?"

Shagarov shrugged. "They'll come when I yell."

"Possibly," said D'Averc. "Rise, please."

"These girls," Hawkmoon continued. "Where did
you send them—and to whom?"

"Inland, of course, to my master—the Mad God."

"So you do serve the Mad God—you are not de-
ceiving people into believing these acts of piracy are
committed by his followers."

"Aye—I serve him, though I'm no cult member. His
agents pay me well to raid the seas and send the booty
to him."

"Why this way?"

Shagarov sneered. "The cult has no sailing men.
Some one of them hit this plan to raise money—though
I know not the purpose for the loot—and approached
me." He rose to his feet, towering over them. "Come
—let's go up. It will amuse me to see what you do."

D'Averc nodded to the other two, who went back
into the shadows and produced long, unlit brands,
one for each of them. D'Averc prodded at Shagarov
to follow Oladahn up the companionway.

Slowly they climbed to the deck, to emerge at last
in the sunlight and see a big, handsome three-master
anchored beside them.

The men on board the other ship understood at
once what had happened and made to move forward,
but Hawkmoon dug his sword into Shagarov's ribs
and called, "Do not move, or we will kill your cap-
tain."

"Kill me—and they kill you," Shagarov rumbled.
Who gains?"

"Silence," said Hawkmoon. "Oladahn, light the
brands."

Oladahn applied flint and tinder to the first brand.
It flared into life. He lit the others off it and handed
one each to his companions.

"Now," Hawkmoon said. "This ship is covered in
oil. Once we touch our brands to it, the whole vessel
goes up in flames—and most likely your ship too. So
we advise you to make no move toward rescuing your
captain."

"So we all burn," Shagarov said. "You're as mad as
the ones you slew."

Hawkmoon shook his head. "Oladahn, ready the
skiff."

Oladahn went aft to the furthermost hatch, swing-
ing a derrick over it, hauling back the hatch cover,
and then disappearing below, taking the cable with
him.

Hawkmoon saw the men on the other ship begin to
stir and he moved the brand menacingly. The heat
from it turned his face dark red, and the flames re-
flected fiercely in his eyes.

Now Oladahn reemerged and began to work the
specially geared winch with one hand while holding
his brand with the other. Slowly something began to

appear in the hatch, something that barely cleared the
wide opening.

Shagarov grunted in surprise as he saw that it was
a large skiff in which three horses were harnessed,
looking frightened and bewildered as the were hauled
to the deck and then swung out over the sea.

Oladahn stopped his work and leaned back on the
winch, panting and sweating, but made sure to keep
the brand well away from the timber of the deck.

Shagarov scowled. "An elaborate plan—but you
are still only three men. What do you intend to do
now?"

"Hang you," said Hawkmoon. "Before the eyes of
your crew. Two things motivated me in laying this
trap for you. One—I needed information. Two—I de-
termined to give you justice."

"Whose justice?" Shagarov bellowed, his eyes full
of fear. "Why involve yourselves in the affairs of
others? We did no harm to you. Whose justice?"

"Hawkmoon's justice," said the pale-faced Duke of
Koln. Caught by the rays of the sun, the sinister black
jewel in his forehead seemed to glow with life.

"Men!" Shagarov screamed across the water. "Men
—rescue me. Attack them."

D'Averc called back, "If you move toward him, we
kill him and set the ship ablaze. You gain nothing. If
you'd save your own lives and your ship, you'll shove
off and leave us. Our quarrel is with Shagarov."

As they had expected, the crew commanded by the
pirate did not feel any great loyalty to him and, when
their own skins were threatened, felt no great com-
pulsion to come to his help. Yet they did not cast off
the grappling irons but waited to see what the three
men would do next.

Now Hawkmoon swung up into the crosstrees. He

carried a rope with a noose already knotted. When he
reached the top, he flung the rope over the arm so that
it hung over the water, tied it firmly, and came down
again to the deck.

Now there was silence as Shagarov slowly realized
that he could expect no assistance from his men.

Up aft, the skiff with its burden of horses and pro-
visions swung slightly in the still air, the davits creak-
ing. The brands flared and sputtered in the hands of
the three companions.

Shagarov shouted and tried to break away, but
three swords stopped him, points at his throat, chest,
and belly.

"You cannot . . ." Shagarov began, but then
trailed off as he saw the determination on the faces of
the three.

Oladahn reached out and hooked the dangling rope
with is sword, bringing it to the rail. D'Averc pushed
Shagarov forward. Hawkmoon took the noose and
widened it to place it over Shagarov's neck. Then, as
the noose settled around his neck, Shagarov bellowed
and struck out at Oladahn, who was perched on the
rail. With a shout of surprise, the little man toppled
and plunged into the water. Hawkmoon gasped and
rushed to see how Oladahn fared. Shagarov turned on
D'Averc, knocking the brand from his hand, but
D'Averc stepped back and flourished his sword under
Shagarov's nose.

The pirate captain spat in his face and leaped to
the rail, kicked out at Hawkmoon, who tried to stop
him; then the captain leaped into space.

The noose tightened, the yardarm bent, then
straightened, and Captain Shagarov's body danced
wildly up and down. His neck snapped, and he died.

D'Averc dashed for the fallen brand, but it had al-

ready ignited the oil-soaked deck. He began stamping
on the flames.

Hawkmoon rushed to fling a rope to Oladahn, who,
dripping, began to climb up the side of the ship, look-
ing none the worse for his swim.

Now the crew on the other boat began to mutter
and move about, and Hawkmoon wondered why they
did not cast off.

"Shove off!" he called, as Oladahn regained the
deck. "You cannot save your captain now—and you're
in danger from the fire!"

But they did not move.

"The fire, you fools!" Oladahn pointed to where
D'Averc was retreating from the flames, which were
now leaping high, touching the mast and superstruc-
ture.

D'Averc laughed. "Let's to our little boat."

Hawkmoon flung his own brand after D'Averc's
and turned. "But why don't they get away?"

"The treasure," said D'Averc as they lowered the
skiff to the water, the frightened horses snorting as
they sniffed the fire. "They think the treasure's still
aboard."

As soon as the skiff was afloat, they clambered
down the lines into the boat and cut themselves adrift.
Now the black ship was a mass of flame and oily
smoke. Outlined against the fire, the body of Shagarov
swung, twisting this way and that as if trying to avoid
the hellish heat.

They let loose the skiff's sail, and the breeze filled
it, bearing them away from the blazing vessel. Now,
beyond it, they could see the pirate's ship, a sail smold-
ering as sparks from the other ship caught it. Some of
the crew were busy putting it out while others were
reluctantly casting off the grappling lines. But now it

was touch and go whether the fire would spread
through their own ship.

Soon the skiff was too far away for them to see
whether the pirate ship was safe or not, and in the
other direction, land was in sight. The land of Crimia
and beyond it, Ukrania.

And somewhere in Ukrania they would find the
Mad God, his followers, and possibly Yisselda....

BOOK TWO

Now, WHILE Dorian Hawkmoon and his companions
sailed for Crimia's mountainous shore, the armies of
the Dark Empire pressed in upon the little land of the
Kamarg, ordered by Huon, the King-Emperor, to
spare no life, energy, and inspiration in the effort to
crush and utterly destroy those upstarts who dared re-
sist Granbretan. Across the Silver Bridge that spanned
thirty miles of sea came the hordes of the Dark Em-
pire, pigs and wolves, vultures and dogs, mantises and
frogs, with armor of strange design and weapons of
bright metal. And in his throne globe, curled fetus-
like in the fluid that preserved his immortality, King
Huon burned with hatred for Hawkmoon, Count
Brass, and the rest who, somehow, he could not con-
trive to manipulate as he manipulated the rest of the
world. It was as if some counterforce aided them—
perhaps manipulated them as he could not—and this
thought the King-Emperor could not tolerate. . . .

But much depended on those few beyond the pow-
er of King Huon's influence, those few free souls-
Hawkmoon, Oladahn, perhaps D'Averc, the mysteri-
ous Warrior in Jet and Gold, Yisselda, Count Brass,
and a handful of others. For on these the Runestaff re-
lied to work its own pattern of destiny....

—The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One
THE WAITING WARRIOR

As THEY NEARED the bleak crags that marked the
shore, Hawkmoon glanced curiously at D'Averc, who
had flung back his boar-masked helm and was staring
out to sea, a slight smile on his lips. D'Averc seemed
to sense Hawkmoon's attention and glanced at him.

"You seem puzzled, Duke Dorian," he said. "Are
you not a little pleased by the outcome of our plan?"

"Aye," Hawkmoon nodded. "But I wonder about
you, D'Averc. You joined in this venture spontane-
ously; yet there is no gain in it for you. I am sure you
felt no great interest in bringing Shagarov his deserts,
and you certainly do not share my desperation in
wanting to know Yisselda's fate. Also, you have not,
to my knowledge, made any attempt to escape."

D'Averc's smile broadened a little. "Why should I?
You do not threaten my life. In fact, you saved my
life. At this point, my fortunes seem linked closer to
yours than the Dark Empire's."

"But your loyalty is not to me and my cause."

"My loyalty, my dear Duke, as I have already ex-
plained, is to the cause most likely to further my own
ambition. I must admit I've changed my views about
the hopelessness of your cause—you seem endowed

with such monstrous good luck I am sometimes even
inclined to think you might win against the Dark Em-
pire. If that seems possible, I might well join you, and
with great enthusiasm."

"You do not bide your time, perhaps, hoping to re-
verse our roles again and capture me for your mas-
ters?"

"No denial would convince you," D'Averc smiled,
"so I will not offer you one."

The enigmatic answer set Hawkmoon to frowning
again.

As if to change the topic of conversation, D'Averc
suddenly doubled up with a coughing fit and lay
down, panting, in the boat.

Oladahn called out now from the prow. "Duke
Dorian! Look—on the beach!"

Hawkmoon peered ahead. Now, under the looming
cliffs, he could make out a narrow strip of shingle. A
horseman could be seen on the beach, motionless,
looking towards them as if he awaited them with some
particular message.

The keel of the skiff scraped the shingle of the
beach, and Hawkmoon recognized the horseman who
waited in the shadow of the cliff.

Hawkmoon sprang from the boat and approached
him. He was clad from head to foot in plate armor, his
helmeted head bowed as if in brooding thought.

"Did you know I would be here?" Hawkmoon
asked.

"It seemed that you might beach in this particular
place," replied the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "So I
waited."

"I see." Hawkmoon looked up at him, uncertain
what to do or say next. "I see...."

D'Averc and Oladahn came crunching up the beach
towards them.

"You know this gentleman?" D'Averc asked lightly.

"An old acquaintance," Hawkmoon said.

"You are Sir Huillam d'Averc," said the Warrior in
Jet and Gold sonorously. "I see you still wear the garb
of Granbretan."

"It suits my taste," D'Averc replied. "I did not hear
you introduce yourself."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold ignored D'Averc,
raising a heavy, gauntleted hand to point at Hawk-
moon. "This is the one I must speak with. You seek
your betrothed, Yisselda, Duke Dorian, and you quest
for the Mad God."

"Is Yisselda a prisoner of the Mad God?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. But you must seek
the Mad God for another reason."

"Yisselda lives? Does she live?" Hawkmoon said in-
sistently.

"She lives."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold shifted in his saddle.
"But you must destroy the Mad God before she can
be yours again. You must destroy the Mad God and
rip the Red Amulet from his throat—for the Red Am-
ulet is rightfully yours. Two things the Mad God has
stolen, and both those things are yours—the girl and
the amulet."

"Yisselda is mine, certainly—but I know of no am-
ulet. I have never owned one."

"This is the Red Amulet, and it is yours. The Mad
God has no right to wear it, and thus it turned him
mad."

Hawkmoon smiled. "If that is the Red Amulet's
property, then the Mad God is welcome to it."

"This is not a matter for humor, Duke Dorian. The
Red Amulet has turned the Mad God mad because he
stole it from a servant of the Runestaff. But if the
Runestaff's servant wears the Red Amulet, then he is

able to derive great power transmitted from the Rune-
staff through the amulet. Only a wrongful wearer is
turned mad—only the rightful wearer may regain it
once another wears it. Therefore, I could not take it
from him, nor could any man save Dorian Hawkmoon
von Koln, servant of the Runestaff."

"Again you call me servant of the Runestaff; yet I
know of no duties I must perform, do not even know
if this is all a fabric of imaginings and you are some
madman yourself."

"Think what you wish. However, there is no doubt,
is there, that you seek the Mad God—that you desire
nothing greater than to find him?"

"To find Yisselda, his prisoner..."

"If you like. Well, then, I need not convince you of
your mission."

Hawkmoon frowned. "There has been a strange
series of coincidences since I embarked on the journey
from Hamadan. Barely credible."

"There are no coincidences where the Runestaff is
concerned. Sometimes the pattern is noticed, some-
times it is not." The Warrior in Jet and Gold turned
in his saddle and pointed to a winding path cut into
the cliff side. "We can ascend there. Camp and rest
above. In the morning we shall begin the journey to
the the Mad God's castle."

"You know where it lies?" Hawkmoon asked ea-
gerly, forgetting his other doubts.

"Aye."

Then another thought occurred to Hawkmoon.
"You did not . . . did not engineer Yisselda's cap-
ture? To force me to seek the Mad God?"

"Yisselda was captured by a traitor in her father's
army—Juan Zhinaga, who planned to take her to
Granbretan. But he was diverted on the way by war-
riors of the Dark Empire who wished to claim the

credit for kidnapping her. While they fought, Yis-
selda escaped and fled, joining, at length, a refugee
caravan through Italia, managing to get passage, some-
time later, on a ship sailing the Adriatic Sea, bound,
she was told, ultimately for Provence. But the ship
was a slaver, running girls to Arabia, and in the Gulf
of Sidra was attacked by a pirate vessel from Karp-
athos."

"It is a hard story to believe. What then?"

"Then the Karpathians decided to ransom her, not
knowing that the Kamarg was under siege but learn-
ing only later of the impossibility of getting money
from that quarter. They decided to take her to Istan-
bul to sell her, but arrived to find the harbor full of
Dark Empire ships. Fearing these, they sailed on into
the Black Sea, where the ship was attacked by the one
you have just burned...."

"I know the rest. That hand I found must have be-
longed to a pirate who stole Yisselda's ring. But it is a
wild tale, Warrior, and barely has the sound of truth.
Coincidence ..."

"I told you—there are no coincidences where the
Runestaff is involved. Sometimes the pattern seems
simpler than at other times."

Hawkmoon sighed. "She is unharmed?"

"Relatively."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait until you come to the Mad God's castle."

Hawkmoon tried to question the Warrior in Jet
and Gold further, but the enigmatic man remained
entirely silent. He sat on his horse, apparently deep in
thought, while Hawkmoon went to help D'Averc and
Oladahn get the nervous horses out of the boat and
unload the rest of the provisions they had brought.
Hawkmoon found his battered saddlebag still safe and

marveled at his being able to hold on to it through all
their adventures.

When they were ready, the Warrior in Jet and
Gold silently turned his horse and led the way to the
steep cliff path, beginning to climb it without pause.

The three companions, however, were forced to
dismount and follow after him at a much slower pace.
Several times both men and horses stumbled and
seemed about to fall, loose stones dropping away
beneath their feet, to hurtle to the shingle that was
now far below them. But at last they gained the top
of the cliff and looked over a hilly plain that seemed
to stretch away forever.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed to the west.
"In the morning, we go that way, to the Throbbing
Bridge. Beyond that lies Ukrania, and the Mad God's
castle lies many days' journey into the interior. Be
wary, for Dark Empire troops roam thereabouts."

He watched as they made camp. D'Averc looked
up at him. "Won't you join us in our meal, sir?" he
said almost sardonically.

But the great, helmeted head remained bowed, and
both warrior and horse stood stock still, like a statue,
remaining thus all night, as if watching over them—
or possibly watching them to make sure they did not
leave on their own.

Hawkmoon lay in his tent looking out at the sil-
houette of the Warrior in Jet and Gold, wondering if
the creature were in any way human, wondering if
his interest in Hawkmoon was ultimately friendly or
malign. He sighed. He wanted only to find Yisselda,
save her, and take her back to the Kamarg, there to
satisfy himself that the province still stood against the
Dark Empire. But his life was complicated by this
strange mystery of the Runestaff and some destiny

he must work out that fitted with the Runestaff's
"scheme." Yet the Runestaff was a thing, not an intel-
ligence. Or was it an intelligence? It was the greatest
power one could call upon when oath making. It was
believed to control all human history. Why, then, he
wondered, should it need "servants" if, in effect, all
men served it?

But perhaps not all men did. Perhaps there emerged
forces from time to time—like the Dark Empire—that
were opposed to the Runestaff's scheme for human
destiny. Then, perhaps, the Runestaff needed servants.

Hawkmoon became confused. His was not the head
for profundity of that sort, nor speculative philoso-
phy. Not much later he fell asleep.

Chapter Two
THE MAD GOD'S CASTLE

FOR TWO DAYS they rode until they came to the
Throbbing Bridge, which spanned a stretch of sea
that ran between two high cliffs some miles apart.

The Throbbing Bridge was an astonishing sight,
for it did not seem made of any kind of solid sub-
stance at all, but of a vast number of criss-crossed
beams of colored light that seemed somehow to have
been plaited. Gold and shining blue were there, and
bright, gleaming scarlet and green and pulsing yellow.
All the bridge throbbed like some living organ, and
below, the sea foamed on sharp rocks.

"What is it?" Hawkmoon asked the Warrior in Jet
and Gold. "Surely no natural thing?"

"An ancient artifact," said the warrior, "wrought
by a forgotten science and a forgotten race who
sprang up sometime between the fall of the Death
Rain and the rise of the Princedoms. Who they were
and how they were brought into being and died, we
do not know."

"Surely you know," D'Averc said cheerfully. "You
disappoint me. I had judged you omniscient."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold made no reply. The
light from the Throbbing Bridge was reflected on

their skins and armor, staining them a variety of hues.
The horses began to prance and became difficult to
control as they directed them closer to the great
bridge of light.

Hawkmoon's horse bucked and snorted, and he
tightened its reins, forcing it forward. At last its hooves
touched the throbbing light of the bridge and it
became calmer as it realized that the bridge would
actually bear its weight.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold was already crossing
the bridge, his whole body seeming to be ablaze with
a multicolored aura, and Hawkmoon, too, saw the
strange light creep around the body of his horse and
then immerse him in a weird radiance. Looking back
he saw D'Averc and Oladahn shining like beings from
another star as they moved slowly over the bridge of
throbbing light.

Below, faintly seen through the criss-cross of
beams, were the gray sea and the foam-encircled
rocks. And in Hawkmoon's ears there grew a hum-
ming sound that was musical and pleasant, yet seemed
to set his whole frame vibrating gently in time with
the bridge itself.

At length they were across, and Hawkmoon felt
fresh, as if he had had several days' rest. He mentioned
this to the Warrior in Jet and Gold who said, "Aye,
that's another property of the Throbbing Bridge, I'm
told."

Then they rode on, with only land now between
them and the Mad God's lair.

On the third day of their journey it had begun to
rain, a fine drizzle that chilled them and lowered their
spirits. Their horses plodded across the vast, sodden
Ukranian plains, and it seemed that there was no end
to the gray world.

On the sixth day of their journey, the Warrior in
Jet and Gold raised his head and brought his horse to
a halt, signaling for the other three to stop. He ap-
peared to be listening.

Soon Hawkmoon heard the sound too—the drum-
ming of horses' hooves. Then, breasting a slight rise
to their left, came some score of riders in sheepskin
hats and cloaks, long spears and sabers on their backs.

They seemed in a panic, and not noticing the four
onlookers, they rode past at fantastic speed, lashing
the rumps of their steeds until blood flew in the air.

"What is it?" Hawkmoon called. "What do you
flee from?"

One of the riders turned in his saddle, not lessening
his speed. "Dark Empire army!" he called, and dashed
on.

Hawkmoon frowned. "Should we continue in this
direction?" he asked the warrior. "Or should we find
another route?"

"No route is safe," replied the Warrior in Jet and
Gold. "We might just as well take this one."

Within half an hour they saw smoke in the distance.
It was thick, oily smoke that crept close to the
ground, and it stank. Hawkmoon knew what the
smoke signified but said nothing until, later, they came
to the town that was burning and saw, piled in the
square, a huge pyramid of corpses, every one naked-
men, women, children, and animals heaped indiscrim-
inately upon one another and burning.

It was this pyre of flesh that gave off the evil-
smelling smoke, and there was only one race Hawk-
moon knew of who would indulge in such an act as
this. The riders had been right, Dark Empire soldiers
were nearby. There were signs that a whole battalion
of troops had taken the town and razed it.

They skirted around the town, for there was noth-

ing they could do, and in even more sober spirits con-
tinued on their journey, wary now for any sign of
Granbretanian troops.

Oladahn, who had not witnessed so many of the
Dark Empire's atrocities, was the one most visibly
moved by the sight they had witnessed.

"Surely," he said, "ordinary mortals could not . . .
could not . . ."

"They do not regard themselves as ordinary mor-
tals," D'Averc said. "They regard themselves as demi-
gods and their rulers as gods."

"It excuses their every immoral action in their
eyes," Hawkmoon said. "And besides, they love to
wreak destruction, spread terror, torture and kill.
Just as in some beasts, like the wolverine, the urge to
kill is stronger even than the urge to live, so it is with
those of the Dark Empire. The island has bred a race
of madmen whose every thought and action is alien
to those not born on Granbretan."

The depressing drizzle continued to fall as they left
the town and its blazing pyramid behind.

"It is not far now to the Mad God's castle," said the
Warrior in Jet and Gold.

By the next morning they had come to a wide,
shallow valley and a small lake on which a gray mist
moved. Beyond the lake they saw a black, gloomy
shape, a building of rough-hewn stone that lay on the
far side of the water.

About midway between the castle and themselves,
they could see a collection of rotting hovels clustered
on the shore and a few boats drawn up nearby. Nets
had been hung out to dry, but there was no sign of
the fishers who used them.

The whole day was dark, cold, and oppressive, and

there was an ominous atmosphere about lake, village,
and castle. The three men followed reluctantly behind
the Warrior in Jet and Gold as he made his way
around the shore toward the castle.

"What of this Mad God's cult?" Oladahn whis-
pered. "How many men does he command? And are
they as ferocious as those we fought on the ship? Does
the warrior underestimate their strength or overesti-
mate our prowess?"

Hawkmoon shrugged, his only thought for Yis-
selda. He scanned the great black castle, wondering
where she was imprisoned.

As they came to the fisherfolk's village they saw
why it was so silent. Every last villager had been slain,
hacked down by swords or axes. Some of the blades
were still buried in skulls of men and women alike.

"The Dark Empire!" said Hawkmoon.

But the Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head.
"Not their work. Not their weapons. Not their way."

"Then . . . what?" murmured Oladahn, shivering.
"The cult?"

The warrior did not answer. Instead, he reined in
his horse and dismounted, walking heavily toward the
nearest corpse. The others dismounted also, looking
warily about them. The mist from the lake curled
around them like some malign force that sought to
trap them.

The warrior pointed at the corpse. "All these were
members of the cult. Some served by fishing to pro-
vide the castle with its food. Others lived in the castle
itself. Some of these are from the castle."

"They have been fighting among themselves?"
D'Averc suggested.

"In a sense, perhaps," replied the warrior.

"How do you mean—?" Hawkmoon began, but

then whirled as a chilling shriek came from behind the
hovels. All drew their weapons, standing in a hollow
circle, prepared for an attack from any side.

But when the attack did come, the nature of the
attackers caused Hawkmoon to lower his sword mo-
mentarily in astonishment.

They came running between the houses, swords
and axes raised. They were dressed in breastplates and
kilts of leather, and a ferocious light burned in their
eyes. Their lips were drawn back in bestial snarls.
Their white teeth gleamed, and foam flecked their
mouths.

But this was not what astonished Hawkmoon and
his companions. It was their sex that caught them by
surprise, for all the maniacally shrieking warriors rush-
ing at them were women of incredible beauty.

As he slowly recovered his defensive stance, Hawk-
moon desperately sought among the faces for that of
Yisselda and was relieved that he did not find it.

"So this is why the Mad God demanded women be
sent to him," D'Averc gasped. "But why?"

"He is a perverse god I understand," said the War-
rior in Jet and Gold as he brought up his blade to meet
the attack of the first warrior woman.

Though he defended himself desperately against
the blades of the mad-faced women, Hawkmoon
found it impossible to counterattack. They left many
openings for his sword, and he could have slain several,
but every time he had the opportunity to strike, he
held back. And it seemed to be the same with his com-
panions. In a moment's respite he glanced around him,
and an idea came.

"Retreat slowly," he said to his friends. "Follow
me. I've a plan to make this our victory—and a blood-
less one."

Gradually the four fell back until they were stopped

by the poles on which the stout nets of the fishermen
had been hung out to dry. Hawkmoon stepped around
the first and seized one end of the net, still battling.
Oladahn guessed his scheme and grabbed the other
end; then Hawkmoon cried, "Now!" and they flung
the thing out over the heads of the women.

The net settled over most of them, entangling them.
But some slashed free and came on.

Now D'Averc and the Warrior in Jet and Gold had
understood Hawkmoon's intention, and they, too,
flung a net to trap those who had escaped. Hawkmoon
and Oladahn hurled a third net over the group they
had originally ensnared. Eventually the women were
completely trapped in the folds of several strong nets,
and the companions were able to approach them gin-
gerly, grabbing at their weapons and gradually dis-
arming them.

Hawkmoon panted as he raised a sword and flung
it into the lake. "Perhaps the Mad God is not so insane.
Train women to fight and they'll always have a certain
momentary advantage over male soldiers. Doubtless
this was part of some larger scheme...."

"You mean his raising money by piracy was to
finance a conquering army of women?" Oladahn said,
joining him in hurling weapons into the water while
the struggles of the women subsided behind them.

"It seems likely," D'Averc agreed, watching them
work. "But why did the women kill the others?"

"That we may find out when we reach the castle,"
said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "We-" He broke
off as part of one of the nets burst and a howling
warrior woman came rushing at them, fingers out-
stretched like claws. D'Averc seized her, encircling
her waist with his arms as she kicked and shrieked.
Oladahn stepped up, reversed his sword, and struck
her on the base of the skull with the pommel.

"Much as it offends my sense of chivalry," D'Averc
said, lowering the prone girl to the ground, "I think
that you have presented the best scheme for dealing
with these pretty murderesses," Oladahn," and he
crossed to the nets, to begin languidly and system-
atically knocking out the struggling women fighters.
"At least," he said, "we have not killed them—and
they have not killed us. An excellent equilibrium."

"I wonder if they are the only ones," Hawkmoon
said broodingly.

"You are thinking of Yisselda?" Oladahn asked.

"Aye, I'm thinking of Yisselda. Come." Hawkmoon
swung into his saddle. "Let's to the Mad God's castle."
He began to gallop rapidly along the beach toward
the great black pile. The others were slower in follow-
ing, straggling behind him. First came Oladahn, then
the Warrior in Jet and Gold, and finally Huillam
d'Averc at a leisurely canter, looking for all the world
like a carefree youth out for a morning ride.

The castle came closer, and Hawkmoon slowed his
mad dash, hauling on his horse's reins and bringing it
to a skidding halt as they reached the drawbridge.

Within the castle all was quiet. A little mist curled
about its towers. The drawbridge was down, and on it
lay the corpses of the guards.

Somewhere, from the tops of one of the highest
towers, a raven squawked and flapped away over the
water of the lake.

No sun shone through those gray clouds. It was as
if no sun had ever shone here, as if no sun ever would
shine. It was as if they had left the world for some
other plane where hopelessness and death prevailed
throughout eternity.

The dark entrance to the castle courtyard gaped at
Hawkmoon.

The mist formed grotesque shapes, and there was
an oppressive silence everywhere. Hawkmoon took a
deep breath of the chill, damp air, drew his blade,
kicked at the flanks of his horse, and charged across
the drawbridge, leaping the corpses, to enter the Mad
God's lair.

Chapter Three
HAWKMOON'S DILEMMA

THE GREAT COURTYARD of the castle was clogged with
bodies. Some were of the warrior women, but most
were of men wearing the collar of the Mad God. Dried
blood caked the cobbles not occupied by corpses in
the grotesque attitudes of death.

Hawkmoon's horse snorted in fear as the stench
of decaying flesh filled its nostrils, but he urged it on,
dreading that he would see Yisselda's face among the
dead.

He dismounted, turning over stiff bodies of women,
peering at them closely, but none was Yisselda.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold entered the court-
yard, Oladahn and D'Averc behind him. "She is not
here," said the warrior. "She is alive—within."

Hawkmoon's bleak face rose. His hand trembled as
it took the bridle of his horse. "Has—has he done
ought to her, Warrior?"

"That you must see for yourself, Duke Dorian."
The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed at the castle's
main doorway. "Through there lies the court of the
Mad God. A short passage leads to the main hall, and
there he sits awaiting you. . . ."

"He knows of me?"

"He knows that one day the Red Amulet's rightful
wearer must arrive to claim what is his. . . ."

"I care nothing for the amulet, only for Yisselda.
Where is she, Warrior?"

"Within. She is within. Go claim both your rights—
your woman and your amulet. Both are important in
the Runestaff's scheme."

Hawkmoon turned and ran for the doorway, dis-
appearing into the darkness of the castle.

The interior of the castle was incredibly chill. Cold
water dripped from the roof of the passage, and moss
grew on the walls. Blade in hand, Hawkmoon crept
along it, half-expecting an attack.

But none came. He reached a large wooden door,
stretching twenty feet above his head, and paused.

From behind the door came a strange rumbling
sound, a deep-voiced murmuring that seemed to fill the
hall beyond. Cautiously Hawkmoon pushed against
the door, and it yielded. He put his head through the
gap and peered in upon a bizarre scene.

The hall was of strangely distorted proportions. In
some parts the ceilings were very low, in others they
soared upward for fifty feet. There were no windows,
and the light came from brands stuck at random in
the walls.

In the center of the hall, on a floor on which one or
two corpses lay as they had been cut down earlier, was
a great chair of black wood, studded with inlaid
plaques of brass. In front of this, swinging from a part
of the ceiling that was relatively low, was a large cage,
such as would be used for a tame bird, save that this
was much bigger. In it, Hawkmoon saw huddled a
human figure.

Otherwise, the weird hall was deserted, and Hawk-
moon entered, creeping across the floor toward the
cage.

It was from this, he realized, that the distressed
muttering sound was coming; yet it seemed impossible,
for the noise was so great. Hawkmoon decided that
it was because the sound was amplified by the peculiar
acoustics of the hall.

He reached the cage and could see the huddled
figure only dimly, for the light was poor.

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "A prisoner
of the Mad God?"

The moaning ceased, and the figure stirred. From
it then came a deep, echoing melancholy voice. "Aye
—you could say so. The unhappiest prisoner of all."

Now Hawkmoon could make out the creature
better. It had a long, stringy neck, and its body was
tall and very thin. Its head was covered in long,
straggling gray hair that was matted with filth, and it
had a pointed beard, also filthy, that jutted from its
chin for about a foot. Its nose was large and aquiline,
and its deepset eyes held the light of a melancholy
madness.

"Can I save you?" Hawkmoon said. "Can I prise
apart the bars?"

The figure shrugged. "The door of the cage is not
locked. Bars are not my prison. I have been trapped
within my groaning skull. Ah, pity me."

"Who are you?"

"I was once known as Stalnikov, of the great family
of Stalnikov."

"And the Mad God usurped you?"

"Aye. Usurped me. Aye, exactly." The prisoner
in the unlocked cage turned his huge, sad head to stare
at Hawkmoon. "Who are you?"

"I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln."

"A German?"

"Koln was once part of the country called Ger-
mania."

"I have a fear of Germans." Stalnikov slid back in
the cage, farther away from Hawkmoon.

"You need not fear me."

"No?" Stalnikov chuckled, and the mad sound
filled the hall. "No?" He reached into his jerkin and
pulled something forth that was attached to a thong
about his neck. The thing glowed with a deep red
light, like a huge ruby, illuminated from within, and
Hawkmoon saw that it bore the sign of the Runestaff.
"No? Then you are not the German who has come to
steal my power?"

Hawkmoon gasped. "The Red Amulet! How did
you obtain it?"

"Why," said Stalnikov, rising and grinning horribly
at Hawkmoon, "I obtained it thirty years ago from
the corpse of a warrior my retainers set upon and slew
as he rode this way." He fondled the amulet, and its
light struck Hawkmoon in the eyes so that he could
barely see. "This is the Mad God. This is the source
of my madness and my power. This is what imprisons
me!"

"You are the Mad God! Where is my Yisselda?"

"Yisselda? The girl? The new girl with the blonde
hair and the white, soft skin? Why do you ask?"

"She is mine."

"You do not want the amulet? "

"I want Yisselda."

The Mad God laughed, and his laughter filled the
hall and reverberated through every cranny of the
distorted place. "Then you shall have her, German!"

He clapped his clawlike hands, his whole body

moving like a loose-limbed puppet's, the cage swing-
ing wildly. "Yisselda, my girl! Yisselda, come forth
to serve your master!"

From the depths of one part of the hall where the
ceiling almost touched the floor, a girl emerged.
Hawkmoon saw her outlined but could not be fully
sure it was Yisselda. He sheathed his sword and moved
forward. Yes . . . the movements, the stance—they
were Yisselda's.

A smile of relief began to form on his lips as he
stretched out his arms to embrace her.

Then there came a wild animal shriek, and the girl
rushed at him, metal-taloned fingers reaching for his
eyes, face distorted with blood-lust, every part of her
body enclosed on a garment studded with outward-
jutting spikes.

"Kill him, pretty Yisselda," chuckled the Mad God.
"Kill him, my flower, and we shall reward you with
his offal."

Hawkmoon put up his hands to fend off the claws,
and the back of one of them was slashed badly. He
backed away hastily. "Yisselda, no—it is your be-
trothed, Dorian. . . ."

But the mad eyes showed no sign of recognition,
and the mouth slavered as the girl slashed again with
the talons of metal. Hawkmoon leaped away, plead-
ing with his eyes that she might recognize him.
"Yisselda . . ."

The Mad God chuckled, grasping the bars of his
cage and looking on eagerly. "Slay him, my chicken.
Rip his throat."

Hawkmoon was almost weeping now as he leaped
this way and that to avoid Yisselda's gleaming talons.

He called to Stalnikov. "What power is it she obeys
that conquers her love for me?"

"She obeys the power of the Mad God, as I obey
it," Stalnikov answered. "The Red Amulet makes all
its slaves!"

"Only in the hands of an evil creature . . ."
Hawkmoon flung himself aside as Yisselda's talons
ripped at him. He scrambled up and darted toward the
cage.

"It turns all who wear it evil," Stalnikov replied,
chuckling as Yisselda's claws ripped at Hawkmoon's
sleeve. "All . . ."

"All but a servant of the Runestaff!"

The voice came from the entrance to the hall, and
it belonged to the Warrior in Jet and Gold. It was
sonorous and grave.

"Help me," said Hawkmoon.

"I cannot," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold, stand-
ing motionless, his huge blade point down on the floor
before him, his gauntleted hands resting on the
pommel.

Now Hawkmoon stumbled and felt Yisselda's claws
digging into his back. He lifted his hands to grab her
wrists and yelled in pain as the spikes sank into his
palms, but he managed to free himself of the talons
and fling her away and dash for the cage where the
Mad God gibbered in delight.

Hawkmoon leaped for the bars, kicking at Stalnikov
as he did so. The cage swung erratically and began to
spin. Yisselda danced below, trying to reach him with
her talons.

Stalnikov had withdrawn to the opposite side of the
cage, his mad eyes now full of terror, and Hawkmoon
managed to drag open the door and fling himself in,
pulling it shut behind him. Outside, Yisselda howled
in frustrated bloodlust, the light from the amulet
turning her eyes scarlet.

Now Hawkmoon wept openly as he darted a glance
at the woman he loved; then he turned his hate-filled
face on the Mad God.

Stalnikov's deep voice, still mournful, reverberated
through the hall. He fingered the amulet, directing its
light into Hawkmoon's eyes. "Back, mortal. Obey
me—obey the power of the amulet. . . ."

Hawkmoon blinked, feeling suddenly weak. His
eyes became fixed on the glowing amulet, and he
paused, feeling the power of the thing engulf him.

"Now," said Stalnikov. "Now, you will deliver
yourself up to your destroyer."

But Hawkmoon rallied all his determination and
took a step forward. The Mad God's bearded, chin
dropped in astonishment. "I command you in the
name of the Red Amulet . . ."

From the doorway came the sonorous voice of the
Warrior in Jet and Gold. "He is the one whom the
amulet cannot control. The only one. He is the right-
ful wearer."

Stalnikov trembled and began to edge around the
cage as Hawkmoon, still weak, moved determinedly
on.

"Back!" screamed the Mad God. "Leave the cage!"

Below, Yisselda's taloned fingers had grasped the
bars and she was hauling her metal studded body up,
her eyes still fixed murderously on Hawkmoon's
throat.

"Back!" This time Stalnikov's voice lost some of its
force and confidence. He reached the door of the cage
and kicked it open.

Yisselda, her white teeth bared, her beautiful face
twisted in terrifying madness, had hauled herself up
now so that she clung to the outside of the cage. The

Mad God's back was toward her, the Red Amulet
directed still into Hawkmoon's eyes.

Yisselda's claw darted out, slashing at the back of
Stalnikov's head. He screamed and leaped to the floor.
Now Yisselda saw Hawkmoon again and made to
enter the cage.

Hawkmoon knew there was no time to try to
reason with his maddened betrothed. He gathered all
his strength and dived past her slashing claw, to land
on the uneven flagstones of the floor and lie there for
a moment, winded.

Painfully he picked himself up as Yisselda, too,
leaped groundward.

The Mad God had scrambled to the great seat
opposite the cage, climbing up its back to perch there,
the Red Amulet dangling from his neck, casting its
strange light again on Hawkmoon's face. Blood
streamed down his shoulders from the wound Yissel-
da's clawed hands had inflicted.

Stalnikov gibbered in terror as Hawkmoon reached
the seat and climbed up onto its arm. "I beg you, leave
me ... I'll do you no harm."

"You've done me much harm already," Hawkmoon
said grimly, drawing his blade. "Much harm. Enough
to make revenge taste very sweet, Mad God. . . ."

Stalnikov crept as high as he could. He shouted at
the girl. "Yisselda—stop! Resume your former char-
acter. I command you, by the power of the Red
Amulet!"

Hawkmoon turned and saw that Yisselda had
paused, looking bemused. Her lips parted in horror as
she stared at the things on her hands, the metal spikes
that covered her body. "What has happened? What
has been done to me?"

"You were hypnotized by this monster here,"

Hawkmoon rasped, waving his sword in the cringing
Stalnikov's direction. "But I will avenge the wrongs
he has done you."

"No," Stalnikov screamed. "It is not fair!"

Yisselda burst into tears.

Stalnikov looked this way and that. "Where are
my minions—where my warriors?"

"You made them destroy one another for your own
perverted sport," Hawkmoon told him. "And those
not slain, we captured."

"My army of women! I wanted beauty to conquer
all Ukrania. Get me back the Stalnikov inherit-
ance ..."

"That inheritance is here," said Hawkmoon, rais-
ing his sword.

Stalnikov leaped from the back of the chair and
began to run toward the door but swerved aside as he
saw that it was blocked by the Warrior in Jet and
Gold.

He scuttled into the darkness of the hall, into a
cranny where he disappeared from sight.

Hawkmoon got down from the chair and turned to
look at Yisselda, who lay in a heap on the floor weep-
ing. He went to her and gently removed the blood-
stained talons from her slim, soft fingers.

She looked up. "Oh, Dorian. How did you find
me? Oh, my love . . ."

"Thank the Runestaff," said the voice of the War-
rior in Jet and Gold.

Hawkmoon turned, laughing in relief. "You are
persistent in your claims, at least, Warrior."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold said nothing but stood
like a statue, faceless and tall, by the doorway.

Hawkmoon found the fastenings of the grim, spiked
suit and began to strip it off the girl.

"Find the Mad God," said the Warrior. "Remem-
ber, the Red Amulet is yours. It will give you power."

Hawkmoon frowned. "And turn me mad, per-
haps?"

"No, fool, it is yours by right."

Hawkmoon paused, impressed by the Warrior's
tone. Yisselda touched his hand. "I can do the rest,"
she said.

Hawkmoon hefted his sword and peered into the
darkness wherein Stalnikov, the Mad God, had dis-
appeared.

"Stalnikov!"

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of the hall a tiny
spot of red light gleamed. Hawkmoon ducked his
head and entered the alcove. He heard a sobbing
sound. It filled his ears.

Closer and closer crept Hawkmoon to the source
of the red brilliance. Greater and greater became the
sound of the strange weeping. Then at last the red
glow burned very bright, and by its light he saw the
wearer of the amulet, standing against a wall of rough-
hewn stone, a sword in his hand.

"For thirty years I have waited for you, German,"
Stalnikov said suddenly, his voice calming. "I knew
you must come to ruin my plans, to destroy my ideals,
to demolish all I have worked for. Yet I hoped to
avert the threat. Perhaps I still can."

With a great scream, he raised the sword and
swung it at Hawkmoon.

Hawkmoon blocked the blow easily, turned the
blade so that it spun from the Mad God's grasp,
brought his own sword forward so that it was pre-
sented at Stalnikov's heart.

For a moment Hawkmoon looked gravely and
broodingly at the frightened madman. The light from

the Red Amulet stained both their faces scarlet.
Stalnikov cleared his throat as if to plead; then his
shoulders sagged.

Hawkmoon drove the point of his blade into the
Mad God's heart. Then he turned on his heel and left
both corpse and Red Amulet where they lay.

Chapter Four
THE POWER OF THE AMULET

HAWKMOON DREW HIS cloak about Yisselda's naked
shoulders. The girl was shivering, sobbing with re-
action mixed with joy at seeing Hawkmoon. Nearby
stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, still motionless.

While Hawkmoon embraced Yisselda, the warrior
began to move, his huge body crossing the hall and
entering the darkness where lay the body of Stalnikov,
the Mad God.

"Oh, Dorian, I cannot tell you the horrors I have
been through these past months. Captured by this
group and that, traveling for hundreds of miles. I do
not even know where this hellish place is. I have no
memory of recent days, save for a faint remembrance
of some nightmare where I struggled with myself
against a desire to slay you. . . ."

Hawkmoon hugged her to him. "A nightmare was
all it was. Come, we will leave. We will return to the
Kamarg and safety. Tell me, what has become of
your father and the others?"

Her eyes widened. "Did you not know? I had
thought you returned there first before coming to
seek me."

"I have heard nothing but rumors. How are Bow-
gentle, von Villach, Count Brass . . .?"

She lowered her gaze. "Von Villach was killed by
a flame-lance in a battle with Dark Empire troops on
the northern borders. Count Brass ..."

"What is it?"

"When I last saw him, my father lay on a sickbed,
and even Bowgentle's healing powers seemed incap-
able of raising him to health. It is as if he had lost all
feelings—as if he no longer wished to live. He said
the Kamarg must soon fall—he believed you dead
when you did not return in the time necessary to have
told him you were safe."

Hawkmoon's eyes blazed. "I must get back to the
Kamarg posthaste—if only to give Count Brass the
will again to live. With you gone, he can barely have
sustained any kind of energy."

"If he lives at all," she said softly, not wanting to
admit the possibility.

"He must live. If the Kamarg still stands, then
Count Brass lives."

From the passage beyond the hall came the sound
of running, booted feet. Hawkmoon pushed Yisselda
behind him and again drew his great battle blade.

The door was flung open, and Oladahn stood there
panting, D'Averc not far behind.

"Dark Empire warriors," Oladahn said. "More of
them than we could fight. They must be exploring
the castle and surrounds for survivors and booty."

D'Averc pushed past the little beast-man. "I tried
to reason with them—claimed that I had the right to
command them, being of greater rank than their
leader, but"—he shrugged—"it seems D'Averc has no
rank in the legions of Granbretan any more. The
damned pilot of the ornithopter lived long enough

to tell a search party of my clumsiness in letting you
escape. I am as much an outlaw, now, as you. . . ."

Hawkmoon frowned. "Come in, both, and bar that
great door. It should hold them if they attack."

"Is it the only exit?" D'Averc asked, appraising the
door.

"I think so," Hawkmoon said, "but we must worry
about that score later."

From the shadows, the Warrior in Jet and Gold
reemerged. In one gloved hand the Red Amulet
dangled from its cord. The cord was stained with
blood.

The Warrior handled it gingerly, not touching the
stone itself, and stretched it out toward Hawkmoon
as D'Averc and Oladahn hurried to swing the door
shut and bar it.

"Here," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "It is
yours."

Hawkmoon recoiled. "I do not want it—will not
have it. It is an evil thing. It has caused many to die,
others to go mad—even that poor creature Stalnikov
was its victim. Keep it. Find another fool enough to
wear it!"

"You must wear it," came the voice from the helm.
"Only you may wear it."

"I will not!" Hawkmoon swept out his hand to
point to Yisselda. "That thing drove this gentle girl
to become a slavering, killing beast. All those we saw
in the fisherfolk's village—all slain by the power of the
Red Amulet. All those who came against us—turned
insane by its power. All those who died in the court-
yard—destroyed by the Red Amulet." He struck the
thing from the Warrior's hand. "I will not take it.
If that is what the Runestaff creates, I will have no
part of it.!"

"It is what men—fools like yourself—do with it, that
makes it corrupt in its influence," the Warrior in Jet
and Gold said, his voice still grave and impassive. "It
is your duty—as the Runestaff's chosen servant—to
take the gift. It will not harm you. It will bring you
nothing but power."

"Power to destroy and turn men mad!"

"Power to do good—power to fight the hordes of
the Dark Empire!"

Hawkmoon sneered. There came a great crash on
the door, and he knew that the warriors of Gran-
bretan had found them. "We are outnumbered," said
Hawkmoon. "Will the Red Amulet give us the power
to escape them when there is only one way out-
through yonder door?"

"It will help you," said the Warrior in Jet and
Gold, leaning down to retrieve the fallen amulet,
again picking it up by its string.

The door creaked under the pressure of the blows
from those on the other side.

"If the Red Amulet can do so much good," Hawk-
moon said, "why do you not touch it yourself?"

"It is not mine to touch. It could do to me what
it did to the miserable Stalnikov." The warrior moved
forward. "Here, take it. It is why you came here."

"It is because of Yisselda I came here—to rescue
her. I have done that."

"It is why she came here."

"So it was a trick to lure me . . .?"

"No. It was part of the pattern. But you say you
came to save her, and yet you refuse the means of
escaping with her safely from this castle. Once those
warriors break in, a score or more of fierce fighters,
they will destroy you all. And Yisselda's fate might
be worse than yours. . . ."

Now the door was splitting. Oladahn and D'Averc
backed away, swords ready, a look of quiet despera-
tion in their eyes.

"Another moment and they will be in here," said
D'Averc. "Farewell, Oladahn—and you, too, Hawk-
moon. You were less boring companions than
some . . ."

Hawkmoon eyed the amulet. "I do not know . . ."

"Trust my word," said the Warrior in Jet and
Gold. "I have saved you in the past. Would I have
done so merely to destroy you now?"

"Destroy me, no—but this will put me in some evil
power. How do I know you are a messenger for the
Runestaff? I have only your word that I serve it and
not some darker cause."

"The door is breaking down!" Oladahn yelled.
"Duke Dorian, we'll need your aid! Let the warrior
escape with Yisselda if he can!"

"Quick," said the Warrior, extending the amulet
again to Hawkmoon. "Take it and save the maid, at
least."

For an instant, Hawkmoon hesitated; then he ac-
cepted the thing. It settled into his hand like a pet in
the hand of its master—but an exceedingly powerful
pet. Its red light seemed to grow in intensity until it
appeared to flood the great, grotesquely proportioned
chamber. Hawkmoon felt the power flood into him.
His whole body became full of a great sense of well-
being. When he moved it was with great speed. His
brain seemed no longer clouded by the events of the
past day. He smiled and placed the blood-stained
thong about his neck, bent to kiss Yisselda once and
felt a delicious sensation rush through him, turned,
sword ready, to face the howling horde that had by
now all but demolished the great door.

Then the door fell inward, and there stood
crouched the panting dogs of Granbretan, tiger masks
gleaming with enameled metal and semiprecious
jewels, weapons poised to butcher the pathetic-seem-
ing little group that awaited them.

The leader stepped forward.

"So much exercise for so few. Brothers, we'll make
them pay for our efforts."

And then the killing began.

Chapter Five
THE SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL

"OH, BY THE Runestaff," murmured Hawkmoon thickly, "the power in me!"

Then he sprang forward, great battle blade howling
through the air to snap the enmetaled neck of the
leading warrior, slash backhanded at the man to his
left and send him reeling, swing around and cut
through the armor of the man to his right.

Suddenly there were blood and twisted metal every-
where. The light from the amulet spread scarlet
shadows across the masked faces of the warriors as
Hawkmoon led his comrades forward in an attack-
the last thing the Dark Empire soldiers had expected.

But the amulet's light dazzled them, and they lifted
armor-clumsy arms to shield their eyes, weapons held
defensively, bewildered by the speed with which
Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and D'Averc moved against
them. Following the other three came the Warrior in
Jet and Gold, his own huge broadsword whistling in
a circle of steel death, all his movements apparently
effortless.

There were a clattering and a shouting from the
men of Granbretan as, with Yisselda behind them at
all times, the four drove them into the hall.

Hawkmoon was attacked by some six swearing
axmen who tried to press in against him and stop him
from wielding his deadly sword, but the young Duke
of Koln kicked out at one, elbowed another aside,
and brought his blade straight down into the mask-
helmet of another splitting both helm and skull so
that brains oozed through the fissure when he'd
tugged his sword free. The sword became rapidly
blunted with so much work, until at last he was using
it more as an ax than anything else. He wrenched a
fresh sword from the hand of one of his attackers but
kept his own. With the new sword he thrust, with
the old he hacked.

"Ah," whispered Hawkmoon. "The Red Amulet
is worth its price." It swung at his neck, turning his
sweating, vengeful face into a red demon's mask.

Now the last of the warriors tried to flee for the
door, but the Warrior in Jet and Gold and D'Averc
blocked them, hacking them down as they tried to
burst past.

Somewhere, Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of Yis-
selda. Her face was buried in her hands as she refused
to witness the red ruin Hawkmoon and his friends
had created. "Oh, it is sweet to slay these carrion,"
Hawkmoon said. "Do not refuse to look, Yisselda—
this is our triumph!" But the girl did not look up.

In many parts of the hall the floors were heaped
with the twisted corpses of the slaughtered. Hawk-
moon panted, seeking more to slay, but there were
none left. He dropped the borrowed blade, sheathed
his own, the battle lust leaving him completely. He
frowned down at the Red Amulet, raising it up to
regard it more closely, studying the simple motif of a
runecarved staff that had been cut from it.

"So," he murmured. "Your first help is in aiding
me to kill. I'm grateful, but I wonder, still, if you're

not a force more for evil than for good. . . ." The
light from the Runestaff flickered and began to fade.
Hawkmoon looked up at the Warrior in Jet and Gold.
"The amulet's dulled—what means that?"

"Nothing," said the Warrior. "It draws its power
from a great distance off and cannot sustain it at all
times. It will grow bright again eventually." He
paused, cocking his head toward the passage. "I hear
more footsteps—the warriors were not the whole
force."

"Then let us go to meet them," D'Averc said with
a low bow, waving Hawkmoon before him. "After
you, my friend. You seem best equipped to be first."

"No," said the warrior. "I will go. The Amulet's
power has faded for the while. Come."

Warily they passed through the smashed door,
Hawkmoon last with Yisselda. She looked up at him
then, her eyes steady. "I am glad you killed them,"
she said, "though I hate to see death come so grace-
lessly."

"They live without grace," Hawkmoon said softly,
"and they deserve to die without grace. It is the only
way to treat those who serve the Dark Empire. Now
we must face more of them. Be brave, my love, for
we face now our greatest danger."

Ahead, the Warrior in Jet and Gold had already
engaged the first of the fresh force of fighters and was
flinging the weight of his great metal-encased body
against them so that they stumbled back in the nar-
row confines of the passage, unnerved, as much as
anything, because not one of their opponents seemed
hurt by them and because some five and twenty of
their comrades appeared to have met their death
within.

The Dark Empire soldiers broke out into the
corpse-strewn courtyard, shouting and trying to rally

themselves. All four who came against them were
covered in partly dried blood and brains and made a
terrifying sight as they entered the daylight.

The gray rain was still falling and the air was still
chill, but it revived Hawkmoon and the others, and
their recent victory had made them feel invincible.
Hawkmoon. D'Averc, and Oladahn grinned like
wolves at their foes—grinned with such complacency,
too, that the Dark Empire warriors hesitated before
attacking, though they greatly outnumbered Hawk-
moon and his companions. The Warrior in Jet and
Gold raised a pointing finger to the drawbridge. "Be-
gone," he said in deep, grave tones, "or we shall
destroy you as we destroyed your brothers."

Hawkmoon wondered if the warrior were bluffing
or if that mysterious entity honestly believed they
could beat so many without the power of the Red
Amulet to aid them.

But before he could decide, another group of war-
riors came rushing over the drawbridge. They had
retrieved weapons from the hands and bodies of
corpses, and they were enraged.

The Mad God's warrior women had escaped from
the nets.

"Show them the amulet," the Warrior in Jet and
Gold whispered to Hawkmoon. "That is what they
are used to obeying. It is that which bemused them"
in the first place, not the Mad God."

"But its light has faded," Hawkmoon protested.

"No matter. Show them the amulet."

Hawkmoon swept the Red Amulet from his neck
and held it up before the howling women.

"Stay. In the name of the Red Amulet, I command
you to attack not us—but these . . ." and he pointed
at the wavering Dark Empire warriors. "Come, I will
lead you!"

Hawkmoon sprang forward, his blunted sword
sweeping out to slash the foremost warrior and slay
him before he realized it.

The women easily outnumbered the Dark Empire
force, and they worked with a will at their destruc-
tion, so well that D'Averc called, "Let them finish—
we can escape now."

Hawkmoon shrugged. "This is surely but one pack
of Dark Empire hounds. There must be many more
about, for it's not their way to spread too far from the
mass of their brothers."

"Follow me," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold.
"Time, I think, to unloose the Mad God's beasts...."

Chapter Six
THE MAD GOD'S BEASTS

THE WARRIOR in Jet and Gold led them to a section of
the Courtyard where a pair of great iron trapdoors had
been let into the cobblestones. They were forced to
drag aside corpses before they could grasp the huge
brass rings and heave the doors back. The doors
clanged on the stones to reveal a long stone ramp that
led down into gloom.

From within came a warm smell that was at once
familiar and unfamiliar to Hawkmoon and made him
hesitate at the top of the ramp, for he was sure that
the scent meant danger.

"Do not be afraid," said the warrior firmly. "Pro-
ceed. There lies your method of escaping this place."

Slowly Hawkmoon began to descend, the others
following him.

The light that came thinly from above showed him
a long room with a large object at the far end. He
could not decide what it was and was about to investi-
gate it, when the Warrior in Jet and Gold said from
behind him, "Not now. First, the beasts. They are in
their stalls."

Hawkmoon realized that the long room was in fact

some sort of stable, with stalls on either side. Now
from some of them came stirring sounds and animal
grunts, and all at once a door shuddered as a huge
bulk was flung against it,

"Not horses," said Oladahn. "Nor bullocks. To me,
Duke Dorian, they have the smell of cats."

"Aye, that's so," Hawkmoon nodded, fingering the
pommel of his sword. "Cats—that's the scent. How
can cats aid our escape?"

D'Averc had taken a brand from the wall and was
striking a flint to ignite his tinder. Shortly, the brand
flamed, and Hawkmoon saw that the object at the far
end of the stable was a vast chariot, large enough to
accommodate more than their number. Its double
shafts had space for four animals.

"Open the stalls," said the Warrior in Jet and
Gold, "and harness the cats to the yokes."

Hawkmoon wheeled. "Harness cats to the chariot?
Certainly a whim fit for a mad god—but we are sane
mortals, Warrior. Besides, those cats are wild, by the
sound of their movements. If we open the stalls,
they're bound to fall upon us."

As if in confirmation, there came a great yowling
roar from one of the stalls, and this was taken up by
the other beasts until the stables echoed with the
bestial din and it was impossible to make oneself heard
over it.

When it had begun to subside, Hawkmoon
shrugged and stepped toward the ramp. "We'll find
horses above and take our chances with more familiar
steeds than these."

"Have you not yet learned to trust my wisdom?"
said the warrior. "Did I not speak truth about the Red
Amulet and the rest? "

"I have still to test that truth fully," Hawkmoon
said.

"Those mad women obeyed the power of the
amulet, did they not?"

"They did," Hawkmoon agreed.

The Mad God's beasts are trained, likewise, to obey
he who is master of the Red Amulet. What would I
gain, Dorian Hawkmoon, from lying to you?"

Hawkmoon shrugged. "I have grown suspicious of
all since I first encountered the Dark Empire. I do
not know if you have anything to gain or not. How-
ever"—he walked towards the nearest stall and laid his
hands on the heavy wooden bar—"I'm tired of bicker-
ing and will test your assurances. . . ."

As he flung off the bar, the stable door was swept
back from within by a giant paw. Then a head
emerged, larger than an oxen's, fiercer than a tiger's;
a snarling cat's head with slanting yellow eyes and
long yellow fangs. As it padded out, a deep growling
sound coming from its belly, its glaring eyes regarding
them calculatingly, they saw that its back was lined
with a row of foot-high spines of the same color and
appearance as its fangs, running down to the base of
its tail, which, unlike that of an ordinary cat, was
tipped with barbs.

"A legend come to life," gasped D'Averc, losing
his detached manner for a moment. "One of the
mutant war jaguars of Asiacommunista. An old
bestiary I saw pictured them, said that if they had
existed at all then it was a thousand years ago, that
because they were the products of some perverted
biological experiment they could not breed. . . ."

"So they cannot," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold,
"but their lifespan is all but infinite."

The huge head now swung toward Hawkmoon,
and the barbed tail swished back and forth, the eyes
fixing on the amulet at Hawkmoon's throat.

"Tell it to lie down," said the Warrior.

"Lie down!" commanded Hawkmoon, and almost
at once the beast settled to the floor, its mouth closing,
its eyes losing some of their fierceness.

Hawkmoon smiled. "I apologize, Warrior. Very
well, let's loose the other three. Oladahn, D'Averc..."

His friends went forward to take out the bars of
the remaining stalls, and Hawkmoon put his arm
around Yisselda's shoulders.

"That chariot," he said, "will bear us home, my
love." Then he remembered something. "Warrior, my
saddlebags—still on my horse unless those dogs have
stolen them!"

"Wait here," said the Warrior, turning and begin-
ning to ascend the ramp. "I will look."

"I will look myself," Hawkmoon said. "I know
the-"

"No," said the Warrior. "I will go."

Hawkmoon felt a vague suspicion. "Why?"

"Only you, with the amulet, have the power of
controlling the Mad God's beasts. If you were not
here, they could turn on the others and destroy them."

Reluctantly, Hawkmoon stepped back and watched
the Warrior in Jet and Gold move with heavy pur-
posefulness to the top of the ramp and disappear.

Out of their stalls now prowled three more horned
cats, similar to the first. Oladahn cleared his throat
nervously. "Best remind them that it is you they
obey," he said to Hawkmoon.

"Lie down!" Hawkmoon commanded, and slowly
the beasts obeyed. He went up to the nearest and laid
a hand on its thick neck, feeling the wiry, bristling
fur, the hard muscle beneath it. The beasts were the
height of horses but considerably bulkier and infinitely
more deadly. They had not been bred to pull car-
riages, that was plain, but to kill in battle.

"Move that chariot up," he said, "and let's harness
these creatures."

D'Averc and Oladahn dragged the chariot forward.
It was of black brass and green gold and smelled of
antiquity. Only the leather of the yokes was relatively
new. They slipped the harness over the heads and
shoulders of the beasts, and the mutant jaguars hardly
moved, save for flattening their ears occasionally when
the men tightened the straps too rapidly.

When all was ready, Hawkmoon signed to Yis-
selda to enter the chariot. "We must wait for the
warrior to return," he said. "Then we may set off."

"Where is he?" D'Averc asked.

"Gone to find my gear," Hawkmoon explained.

D'Averc shrugged and lowered his great helm over
his face. "It is taking him long enough. I for one will
be glad when we leave this place behind. It stinks of
death and evil."

Oladahn pointed upward, at the same time drawing
his sword. "Is that what you smelled, D'Averc?"

At the top of the ramp stood six or seven more
Dark Empire warriors of the Order of the Weasel,
their long-snouted masks almost seeming to tremble
in anticipation of killing the men below.

"Into the chariot, quick," Hawkmoon ordered as
the weasels began to descend.

In the front of the chariot was a raised block on
which the driver could stand, and beside it, in a rack
once used for javelins, a long-handled whip. Hawk-
moon sprang onto the block, seized the whip, and
cracked it over the heads of the beasts. "Up, beauties!
Up!" The cats climbed to their feet. "And now-
forward!"

The chariot jumped forward with a great lurch as
the powerful animals dragged it forward up the ramp.
The weasel-masked warriors screamed as the gigantic

horned cats raced toward them. Some leaped from the
ramp, but most were too late and went down scream-
ing, crushed by clawed feet and iron-rimmed wheels.

Out into the gray daylight the bizarre chariot broke,
scattering more weasel warriors coming to investigate
the open trapdoors.

"Where is the warrior?" Hawkmoon cried above
the din of howling men. "Where are my saddlebags?"

But the Warrior in Jet and Gold was nowhere to
be seen, and neither could they locate Hawkmoon's
horse.

Now Dark Empire swordsmen hurled themselves
against the chariot, and Hawkmoon lashed out at them
with his whip while behind him Oladahn and D'Averc
held them back with their own blades.

"Drive through the gate!" D'Averc cried. "Hurry—
at any moment they'll overwhelm us!"

"Where is the Warrior?" Hawkmoon looked wildly
about him.

"Doubtless he awaits us outside!" D'Averc shouted
desperately. "Drive, Duke Dorian, or we're doomed!"

Suddenly Hawkmoon saw his horse over the heads
of the milling warriors. It had been stripped of its
saddlebags, and he had no way of knowing who had
taken them.

-In panic he shouted again, "Where is the Warrior
in Jet and Gold? I must find him. The contents of
those saddlebags could mean life or death for the
Kamarg!"

Oladahn gripped his shoulder and said urgently,
"And if you do not drive out of here, it means our
deaths—and maybe worse for Yisselda!"

Hawkmoon was nearly out of his mind with inde-
cision, but then, as Oladahn's words at last entered
his consciousness, he gave a great yell and whipped up
the beasts, sending them springing through the gate

and across the drawbridge, to gallop along the lake-
side with what seemed like all the hordes of Gran-
bretan behind them.

Moving far more rapidly than horses could move,
the Mad God's beasts dragged the bouncing chariot
over the ground and away from the dark castle and
the mist-covered lake, away from the village of hovels
and the place of corpses, into the foothills beyond the
lake, down a muddy road that led between gloomy
cliffs, and out onto the wide plains again. Where the
road petered out and the ground became soft, but the
mutant jaguars had no effort in crossing it.

"If I have a complaint," remarked D'Averc, as he
clung for dear life to the side of the chariot and was
bounced about horribly, "it is that we are moving a
trifle too rapidly. . . ."

Oladahn tried to grin through gritted teeth. He was
crouched in the bottom of the vehicle, holding Yis-
selda and trying to protect her from the worst of the
bumps.

Hawkmoon made no response. He clenched the
reins tight in his hands and did not reduce the speed
of their flight. His face was pale and his eyes blazed
with anger, for he was sure he had been duped by the
man who claimed to be his chief ally against the Dark
Empire—duped by the apparently incorruptible War-
rior in Jet and Gold.

Chapter Seven
ENCOUNTER IN A TAVERN

"HAWKMOON, STOP, for the Runestaff's sake! Stop,
man! Are you possessed!" D'Averc, more troubled
than anyone had ever seen him, tugged at Hawk-
moon's sleeve as the man lashed at the panting beasts.
The chariot had been moving for hours now, had
splashed across two rivers without stopping, and was
now tearing through a forest as night fell. At any
moment it might strike a tree and kill them all. Even
the powerful horned cats were tiring, but Hawk-
moon mercilessly lashed them on.

"Hawkmoon! You are mad!"

"I am betrayed!" answered Hawkmoon. "Betrayed!
I had the salvation of the Kamarg in those saddlebags,
and the Warrior in Jet and Gold stole them. He
tricked me. Gave me a trinket with limited powers in
exchange for a machine with powers that were un-
limited for my purposes! On, beasts, on!"

"Dorian, listen to him. You will kill us all!" Yisselda
spoke tearfully. "You will kill yourself—and then how
will you aid Count Brass and the Kamarg?"

The chariot leaped into the air and came down with
a crash. No normal vehicle could have stood such a
shock, and it jarred the passengers to their bones.

"Dorian! You have gone mad. The Warrior would
not betray us. He has helped us. Perhaps he was over-
whelmed by Dark Empire men—the saddlebags stolen
from him!"

"No—I sensed some betrayal when he left the
stables. He has gone—my gift from Rinal with him."

But Hawkmoon's rage and bafflement were begin-
ning to pass, and he no longer whipped at the flanks
of the straining beasts.

Gradually the pace of the chariot slowed as the
tired beasts, no longer goaded by the whip, gave in to
their instinct to rest.

D'Averc took the reins from Hawkmoon's hands,
and the young warrior did not resist, merely sank to
the bottom of the chariot and buried his head in his
hands.

D'Averc brought the beasts to a halt, and they sank
at once to the ground, panting noisily.

Yisselda stroked Hawkmoon's hair. "Dorian—all the
Kamarg needs is you to save it. I do not know what
this other thing was, but I am sure we have no use for
it. And you have the Red Amulet. That will be of
some use, surely."

It was night now, and moonlight fell through a
lattice of tree branches. D'Averc and Oladahn dis-
mounted from the chariot, rubbing their bruised
bodies, and went off to look for wood for a fire.

Hawkmoon looked up. The light from the moon
struck his pale face and the black jewel imbedded in
his forehead. He regarded Yisselda with melancholy
eyes, though his lips tried to smile. "I thank you,
Yisselda, for your faith in me, but I fear it will need
more than Dorian Hawkmoon to win the fight against
all Granbretan, and the warrior's perfidy has made
me despair the more. ..."

"There is no proof of perfidy, my dear."

"No—but I knew instinctively that he planned to
leave us, taking the machine with him. He sensed my
knowledge, too. I do not doubt he has it and is far
away by now. I do not necessarily suspect that he
takes it for an ignoble purpose. Possibly his purpose is
of greater importance than mine, but yet I cannot
excuse his actions for that. He deceived me. He be-
trayed me."

"If he serves the Runestaff, he may know more than
you, may wish to preserve this thing, may think it
dangerous to you."

"I have no proof he serves the Runestaff. For all I
know, he may serve the Dark Empire and I am their
tool!"

"You have become oversuspicious, my love."

"I have been forced to become so," Hawkmoon
sighed. "I will be so until Granbretan is defeated or
I am destroyed." And he held her close to him, bury-
ing his weary head in her bosom, and slept that way
all night.

In the morning the sun was bright though the air
cold. Hawkmoon's gloomy spirits had departed with
the deep sleep, and they all appeared in a better mood.
All were ravenous, including the mutant beasts, whose
tongues lolled and whose eyes were greedy and fierce.
Oladahn had fashioned himself a bow and some
arrows early and had gone off into the deeper reaches
of the forest to seek game.

D'Averc coughed theatrically as he polished his
huge boarhelm with a piece of cloth he had found in
the bottom of the chariot.

"This western air does not do my weak lungs any
good," he said. "I would rather be in the east again,
perhaps in Asiacommunista, where I have heard a
noble civilization exists. Perhaps such a civilization

would appreciate my talents, elevate me to some high
estate."

"You have given up hope of any reward from the
King-Emperor?" Hawkmoon asked with a grin.

"The reward I'll get is the same he's promised you,"
D'Averc said mournfully. "If that damned pilot had
not lived . . . and then my being seen fighting with
you at the castle . . . No, friend Hawkmoon, I am
afraid my ambitions as far as Granbretan go are now
seen to be somewhat unrealistic."

Oladahn appeared, staggering under the weight of
two deer, one on each shoulder. They jumped up to
help him.

"Two with two shots," he said proudly. "And the
arrows were hastily made at that."

."We cannot eat all of one, let alone two," D'Averc
said.

"The beasts," Oladahn said. "They need feeding or
I'll warrant, Red Amulet or no Red Amulet, they'll
feed on us before the day's done."

They quartered the larger deer and flung it to the
mutant cats, who gulped the meat down swiftly,
growling softly. Then they set about making a spit on
which to roast the second animal.

When they were eating at last, Hawkmoon sighed
and smiled. "They say that good food banishes all
care," he said, "but I had not believed it until now. I
feel a new man. That is the first good meal I have eaten
in months. Fresh-killed venison eaten in the woods—
ah, the pleasure of it!"

D'Averc, who was wiping his fingers fastidiously
and had apparently eaten delicately an enormous
amount of meat, said, "I admire health such as yours,
Hawkmoon. I wish I had your hearty appetite."

"And I wish I had yours," said Oladahn, laughing,
"for you've eaten enough to last you a week.

D'Averc looked at him reproachfully.

Yisselda, who was still wrapped only in Hawk-
moon's cloak, shivered a little and put down the bone
on which she had been chewing. "I wonder," said she,
"if we could seek out a town as soon as possible. There
are things I would purchase. . . ."

Hawkmoon looked embarrassed. "Of course, Yis-
selda, my dear, though it will be difficult. ... If Dark
Empire warriors are thick in these parts, it would be
better to drive on farther south and west toward the
Kamarg. Perhaps in Carpathia a town can be found.
We must be almost upon her borders now."

D'Averc pointed his thumb to the chariot and the
beasts. "We'd get a poor reception arriving at a town
in that unearthly thing," he said. "Perhaps if one of
us went into the nearest settlement. . . ? But then,
what would we use for money?"

"I have the Red Amulet," Hawkmoon said. "It
could be traded. . . ."

"Fool," said D'Averc, suddenly deadly serious and
glaring at him. "That amulet is your life—and ours—
our only protection, the only means of controlling
our beasts there. It seems to me that it is not the amu-
let you hate, but the responsibility it implies."

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps I was a
fool to suggest it. Still, I like not the thing. I saw
what you did not—I saw what it had done to a man
who had worn it thirty years."

Oladahn interrupted. "There is no need for this
dispute, friends, for I anticipated our need and while
you, with great ferocity, were finishing off our foes
in the Mad God's hall. Duke Dorian, I dug a few
eyes from the Dark Empire men ..."

"Eyes!" Hawkmoon said in revulsion, then re-
laxed and smiled as he saw Oladahn holding up a

handful of jewels he had prised from the Granbretan-
ians' masks.

"Well," said D'Averc, "we need provisions des-
perately, and the Lady Yisselda needs some clothing.
Who'll stand least chance of attracting attention if
he goes into a town when we get to Carpathia?"

Hawkmoon gave him a sardonic glance. "Why,
you, of course, Sir Huillam, without your Dark Em-
pire accessories. For I, as I am sure you would have
pointed out, have this damned black jewel to label
me, and Oladahn has his furry face. But you are still
my prisoner...."

"I am aggrieved, Duke Dorian. I thought us allies-
united against a common enemy, united by blood, by
saving each other's lives...."

"You have not saved mine, as I recall."

"Not specifically, I suppose. Still..."

"And I am not disposed to give you a handful of
jewels and set you free," Hawkmoon continued,
adding in a more somber tone, "Besides, I'm not in
a trusting mood today."

"You would have my word, Duke Dorian,"
D'Averc said lightly, though his eyes seemed to
harden slightly.

Hawkmoon frowned.

"He has proved himself our friend in several fights,"
Oladahn said softly.

Hawkmoon sighed. "Forgive me, D'Averc. Very
well, when we reach Carpathia, you will buy us what
we need."

D'Averc began to cough. "This damnable air. It
will be the death of me."

They rode on, the horned cats loping at a more
gentle pace than the previous day's but still making
faster speed than any horse. They left the great forest

by midday and by evening saw in the distance the
mountains of Carpathia at the same time as Yisselda
pointed north, indicating the tiny figures of riders
approaching them.

"They've seen us," Oladahn said, "and seem to be
planning to ride at an angle to cut us off."

Hawkmoon flicked his whip over the flanks of the
huge beasts drawing the chariot. "Faster!" he shouted,
and almost at once the chariot began to gather speed.

A little later D'Averc called above the rumble and
rattle of the wheels, "They're Dark Empire riders-
no doubt of that. Order of the Walrus if I'm not
mistaken."

"The King-Emperor must be planning a serious
invasion of Ukrania," Hawkmoon said. "There's no
other reason for so many bands of Dark Empire
warriors here. That means he has almost certainly
consolidated all conquests farther west and south."

"Save for the Kamarg, I hope," said Yisselda.

The race continued, with the horsemen gradually
drawing nearer, riding, as they were, at an angle to
the chariot's course.

Hawkmoon smiled grimly, letting the riders think
they were catching them. "Ready with your bow,
Oladahn," he said. "Here's an opportunity for target
practice."

As the horsemen, in grotesque, grinning walrus
masks of ebony and ivory, drew close, Oladahn
nocked arrow to string and let fly. A rider fell, and
a few javelins hurtled toward the chariot but dropped
short. Three more members of the Walrus Order died
from Oladahn's arrows before they were outdistanced
and the jaguars were hauling their burden into the
first foothills of the Carpathian Mountains.

Within two hours it was dark and they decided it
was safe to camp.

Three days later they contemplated the rocky side
of a mountain and knew that they would have to
abandon both beasts and chariot if they were to cross
the range at all. They would have to travel on foot;
there was no alternative.

The terrain had become increasingly difficult for
the mutant jaguars, and the mountainside ahead was
impossible for them to climb dragging the chariot.
They had tried to find a pass, had wasted two days
looking for one, but there was none.

Meanwhile, if they were pursued, their pursuers
would be almost upon them by now. There was no
doubt in their minds that Hawkmoon had been recog-
nized as the man whom the King-Emperor Huon had
sworn to destroy. Therefore, Dark Empire warriors,
interested in elevating themselves in the eyes of their
master, would be eager to seek him out.

So they began to climb, stumbling up the steep
face of the mountain, leaving the unharnessed beasts
behind them.

When they were nearing a ledge that seemed to
extend for some distance around the mountain and
offer a relatively easy path, they heard the rattle of
weapons and hooves and saw the same walrus-masked
riders who had pursued them on the plain come riding
from behind some rocks below.

"Their javelins are bound to get us at this range,"
D'Averc said grimly. "And there's no cover."

But Hawkmoon smiled thinly. "There is still one
thing," he said, and raised his voice. "At them, my
beasts—kill them, my cats! Obey me, in the name of
the amulet!"

The mutant cats turned their baleful eyes on the
newcomers, who were so jubilant at seeing their
victims exposed that they hardly noticed the horned
jaguars. The leader raised his javelin.

And the cats leaped.

Yisselda did not look back as the terrified screams
filled the air and the bloodcurdling snarls echoed
through the quiet mountains as the Mad God's beasts
first killed and then fed.

By the next day they had crossed the mountains
and come to a green valley with a little red town that
was very peaceful.

D'Averc looked down at the town and held out his
hand to Oladahn. "The jewels, if you please, friend
Oladahn. By the Runestaff, I feel naked in just shirt
and britches!" He took the jewels, tossed them in his
palm, winked at Hawkmoon, and set off for the
village.

They lay in the grass and watched him walk down
whistling and enter the street; then he disappeared.

They waited for four hours. Hawkmoon's face
began to grow grim, and he glanced resentfully at
Oladahn, who pursed his lips and shrugged.

And then D'Averc reappeared, but he had others
with him. With a shock, Hawkmoon realized they
were Dark Empire troops. Men of the feared Order
of the Wolf, Baron Meliadus's old order. Had they
recognized D'Averc and captured him? But no—on
the contrary, D'Averc seemed quite friendly with
them. He waved, turned on his heel, and began to
walk up the hill to where they were hidden, a large
bundle on his back. Hawkmoon was puzzled, for the
wolf masks had gone back into the village, allowing
D'Averc to go free.

"He can talk, can D'Averc," grinned Oladahn. "He
must have convinced them he was an innocent
traveler. Doubtless the Dark Empire is still using the
soft approach in Carpathia."

"Perhaps," said Hawkmoon, not entirely convinced.

When D'Averc came back he flung down his
bundle and pulled it open, displaying several shirts
and a pair of britches, as well as a number of dif-
ferent foodstuffs—cheeses, bread, sausages, cold meat,
and the like. He handed back most of Oladahn's jewels
to him. "I purchased them relatively cheaply," he
said, then frowned as he saw Hawkmoon's expression.
"What is it, Duke Dorian? Not satisfied? I could not
get the Lady Yisselda a gown, I regret, but the
britches and shirt should fit her."

"Dark Empire men," said Hawkmoon, jerking his
thumb at the village. "You seemed very friendly with
them."

"I was worried, I'll admit," D'Averc said, "but they
seem to be cautious of violence, are in Carpathia to
tell the folk of the benefits of Dark Empire rule. Ap-
parently the King of Carpathia is entertaining one of
their nobles. The usual technique—gold before
violence. They asked me a few questions but were not
unduly suspicious. They say they're warring in Shekia,
have almost subdued that nation but for a key city or
two."

"You did not mention us?" Hawkmoon said.

"Of course not."

Half-satisfied, Hawkmoon relaxed a little.

D'Averc picked up the cloth in which he'd wrapped
his bundle. "Look—four cloaks with hoods, such as
the holy men in these parts wear. They'll hide our
faces well enough. I heard there's a larger town about
a day's walk further south. It's a town where they
trade horses. We can get there by tomorrow and buy
steeds. Is it a good idea?"

Hawkmoon nodded slowly. "Aye. We need horses."

The town was called Zorvanemi, and it bustled with
folk of all sorts come to sell and to buy horses. Just

outside the main town were the stockyards, and here
were many kinds of horseflesh, from thoroughbreds
to plow horses.

They arrived too late in the evening to buy, and
they put up at an inn on the edge of town, close to the
stockyards, so that they could buy what they wanted
and be away early in the morning. Here and there
they saw small groups of Dark Empire soldiers, but
the soldiers paid no attention to the cowled holy men
who mingled with the crowd; there were several
deputations from different monasteries in the area,
and one more went unnoticed.

In the warmth of the inn's public room they or-
dered hot wine and food and consulted a map they
had bought, speaking softly, discussing their best route
through to southern France.

A little later the door of the inn was pushed open,
and the cold night air swept in. Over the sounds of
conversation and occasional laughter, they heard the
coarse tones of a man yelling for wine for himself and
his comrades and suggesting to the landlord that girls
should be found for them as well.

Hawkmoon glanced up and was instantly on his
guard. The men who had entered were soldiers in the
Order of the Boar, the order that D'Averc had be-
longed to. With their squat, armored bodies and heavy
helmet masks, they looked, in the half-light, exactly
like the animals they represented, as if so many boars
had learned to talk and walk on their hind legs.

The landlord was plainly nervous, clearing his
throat several times and asking them what wine they
preferred.

"Strong wine, plentiful wine," shouted the leader.
"And the same goes for the women. Where are your
women? I hope they're lovelier than your horses.
Come man, be quick. We've spent all day buying

horseflesh and helping this town's prosperity—now
you'll do us a favor."

The boar warriors were evidently here to buy steeds
for the Dark Empire troops—probably those bent on
conquering Shekia, which lay just across the border.

Hawkmoon, Yisselda, Oladahn, and D'Averc drew
their cowls surreptitiously about their heads and sipped
at their wine without looking up.

There were three serving wenches in the public
room, as well as two men and the landlord himself. As
one passed, the boar warrior grabbed her and pressed
the snout of his mask against her cheek.

"Give an old pig a kiss, little girl," he roared.

She wriggled and tried to get free, but he held her
tight. Now there was silence everywhere else in the
tavern, and tension.

"Come outside with me," the boar leader continued.
"I'm in a rutting mood."

"Oh, no, please let me go," the girl sobbed. "I'm
to be married next week."

"Married, eh?" guffawed the warrior. "Well, let me
teach you a thing or two for you to teach your hus-
band."

The girl screamed and continued to resist. No one
else in the tavern moved.

"Come on," the warrior said hoarsely. "Outside ..."

"I won't," wept the girl. "I won't until I'm mar-
ried."

"Is that all?" The boar-masked man laughed. "Well,
then—I'll marry you if that's what you want." He
turned suddenly and glared at the four who sat in the
shadows. "You're holy men, aren't you? One of you
can marry us." And before Hawkmoon and the rest
had realized what was happening, he had grabbed
Yisselda, who sat on the outside of the bench, and
hauled her to her feet. "Marry us, holy man, or— By

the Runestaff! What sort of holy man are you?"
Yisselda's cowl had fallen back, revealing her lovely
hair.

Hawkmoon stood up. There was nothing for it now
but to fight. Oladahn and D'Averc stood up.

As one, they drew the swords hidden under their
robes. As one, they launched themselves at the arm-
ored warriors, yelling for the women to flee.

The boar warriors were drunk and surprised, and
the three companions were neither. It was their only
advantage. Hawkmoon's blade slipped between breast-
plate and gorget of the leader and killed him before
he could draw his own sword, while Oladahn's swipe
to another's barely protected legs hamstrung him.
D'Averc managed to slice off the hand of one who had
stripped off his gauntlets.

Now they fought back and forth across the tavern
floor as men and women made hastily for the stairs
and doors, many to crowd to the gallery above to
watch.

Oladahn, forsaking normal swordplay in the nar-
row room, had leaped onto the back of a huge op-
ponent and, dirk in hand, was trying to stab him
through the eyeholes of his mask while the man clum-
sily tried to dislodge him, staggering about half-blind.
D'Averc was fencing with a swordsman of some
skill who was driving him back steadily toward the
stairs, while Hawkmoon was desperately defending
himself against a man with a huge ax that, every time
it missed him, chopped huge chunks out of the wood-
work.

Hawkmoon, hampered by his cloak, was trying to
get out of it and at the same time duck the blows from
the ax. He stepped to one side, tripped in the folds
of the cloak, and fell. Above the axman snorted and
raised the ax for the final blow.

Hawkmoon rolled just in time as the ax came down
and sheared through the cloth of his gown. He
leaped up as the man tugged the ax from the hard
wood of the floor and swung his sword round to
clang against the back of the axman's neck. The man
groaned and fell, dazed, to his knees. Hawkmoon
kicked back the mask, revealing a red, twisted face,
and stabbed into the gaping mouth, driving the sword
deep into the throat so that the jugular was cut and
blood shot from the helm. Hawkmoon withdrew his
blade and the helm clanged shut.

Nearby, Oladahn was struggling, half-off his man,
who had now got a grip on his arm and was tugging
him away from his neck. Hawkmoon jumped forward
and with both hands drove his sword into the man's
belly, piercing armor, leather underjerkin, and flesh.
The man screamed and crumpled to the floor, to lie
there writhing.

Then together Oladahn and Hawkmoon took
D'Averc's man from behind, both swords slashing at
him, until he, too, lay dead on the floor.

There was nothing left but to finish off the hand-
less man who lay propped against a bench, weeping
and trying to stick his hand back on.

Panting, Hawkmoon looked about the tavern room
at the carnage they had wrought. "Not a bad night's
work for holy men," he said.

D'Averc looked thoughtful. "Maybe," he said
softly, "it is time to change our disguise to a more
useful one."

"What do you mean?"

"There are enough pieces of boar armor here to
furnish all four of us, particularly since I still have
mine. I speak the secret language of the Order of the
Boar. With luck we could travel disguised as those
we fear most—as Dark Empire men. We have been

wondering how to get through the countries where
Granbretan has consolidated her gains. Well—here's
our way."

Hawkmoon thought deeply. D'Averc's suggestion
was a wild one, but it had possibilities, particularly
since D'Averc himself knew all the rituals of the or-
der.

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "Perhaps you're right,
D'Averc. We could then travel where the Dark Em-
pire forces are thickest and stand a chance of getting
to the Kamarg faster. Very well, we'll do it."

They began stripping the armor from the corpses.

"We can be sure of the landlord's and townspeo-
ple's silence," said D'Averc, "for they'll not want it
known that six Dark Empire warriors were killed
here."

Oladahn watched them work, nursing his twisted
arm. "A pity," he said with a sigh. "It was an exploit
that should be recorded."

Chapter Eight
THE DARK EMPIRE CAMP

"BROOD OF THE MOUNTAIN GIANTS! I'll stifle to death
before we've gone a mile!" The muffled voice of
Oladahn came from within the grotesque helmet as
he tried to tug himself free of its engulfing weight.
They sat, all four, in their room above the tavern, try-
ing on the captured armor.

Hawkmoon, too, was finding the stuff uncomfort-
able. Apart from the fact that it did not fit him prop-
erly, it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. He
had worn something like it some time before, when
disguised in the wolf armor of Baron Meliadus's
order, but if anything, the boar armor was even heav-
ier and far less comfortable. It must be that much
worse for Yisselda. Only D'Averc was used to it and
had donned his own, to look with some relish and
amusement at their first encounter with the uniform
of his order.

"No wonder you claim ill health," Hawkmoon
told him. "I know of nothing less healthy. I'm tempted
to forget the whole plan."

"You'll become more used to it as we ride,"
D'Averc assured him. "A little chaffing, a little stuff-
iness; then you'll find you'll feel naked without it."

"I'd rather be naked," Oladahn protested, yanking
off the leering boar mask at last. It fell with a clatter
to the floor.

"Careful with it," D'Averc said, wagging a finger.
"We don't want to damage any more."

Oladahn gave the helmet an extra kick.

A day and a night later, they were riding deep into
Shekia. There was no doubt that the Dark Empire
had conquered the province, for towns and villages
were everywhere laid waste, crucified corpses hung
along every road, carrion birds were thick in the air
and even thicker on the ground where they feasted.
The night had been as light as if the sun were per-
manently on the horizon, lit by the funeral pyres of
villages, farms, towns, villas, and cities. And the black
hordes of the Island Empire of Granbretan, brands
in one hand, swords in the other, rode like demons
from hell, howling and shrieking across the broken
land.

Survivors hid, cringing from the four as they rode
in disguise through this world of terror, galloping as
fast as they could, for none suspected them. They
were just one small pack of murderers and looters
among many, and neither friend nor foe had any
suspicion of their real identities.

Now it was morning, a morning overcast with black
smoke, warmed by distant fires, a morning of ash-
covered fields and trampled crops, of broken flowers
and bloody corpses, a morning like any other morning
in a land under the heel of Granbretan.

Along the churned mud of the road, a group of
riders came toward them, swathed in great canvas
night cloaks that covered their bemasked heads as
well as their bodies. They rode powerful black horses

and were hunched in their saddles as if they had been
riding for many days.

As they drew close, Hawkmoon murmured, "Dark
Empire men for certain, and they seem to be taking
an interest in us...."

The leader pushed back his canvas cowl and re-
vealed a huge boar mask, larger and more ornate than
even D'Averc's. He reined in his black stallion, and
his men came to a halt behind him.

"Silence, all three," murmured D'Averc, leading
them up to the waiting warriors. "I'll speak."

Now from the leader of the boar warriors came
a peculiar snorting, snuffling, and whining voice that
must be speaking, thought Hawkmoon, the secret
language of the Order of the Boar.

He was surprised to hear similar sounds begin to
issue from D'Averc's throat. The conversation con-
tinued for some rime, D'Averc pointing back down
the road, the boar leader jerking his helm mask in the
other direction. Then the leader urged his horse on,
and he and his men filed past the nervous three and
continued on up the road.

"What did he want?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Wanted to know if we'd seen any livestock.
They're a foraging party of some sort, out to locate
provisions for the camp ahead."

"What camp's that?"

"A big one, he said, about four miles further on.
They're getting ready to attack one of the last cities
still standing against them—Bradichla. I know the
place. It had beautiful architecture."

"Then we are close to Osterland," Yisselda said,
"and beyond Osterland lies Italia, and beyond Italia,
Provence... home."

"True," said D'Averc. "Your geography is excel-

lent. But we are not home yet, and the most dangerous
part of the journey has still to be encountered."

"What shall we do about this camp," Oladahn said,
"Skirt it or try to ride through it?"

"It's a vast camp," D'Averc told him. "Our best
chance would be to go through the middle, possibly
even spend the night in it and try to learn something
of the Dark Empire's plans—whether they have heard
we are nearby, for instance."

Hawkmoon's muffled voice came from the helmet.
"I am not sure it is not too dangerous," he said doubt-
fully. "Yet if we try to skirt the camp, we might
arouse suspicion. Very well, we go through it."

"Will we not have to remove our masks, Dorian?"
Yisselda asked him.

"No fear of that," D'Averc said. "The native Gran-
bretanian often sleeps in his mask, hates to reveal his
face."

Hawkmoon had noticed the weariness in Yisselda's
voice and knew that they must rest soon; it would
have to be in the Granbretanian camp.

They had expected the camp to be huge, but not as
vast as this. In the distance beyond it was the walled
city of Bradichla, its spires and facades visible even
from here.

"They are remarkably beautiful," said D'Averc
with a sigh. He shook his head. "What a pity they
must fall tomorrow. They were fools to resist this
army."

"It is of incredible size," said Oladahn. "Surely un-
necessary to defeat that town?"

"The Dark Empire aims at speed of conquest,"
Hawkmoon told him. "I have seen larger armies than
this used on smaller cities. But the camp covers a great

distance, and organization will not be perfect. I think
we can hide here."

There were canopies, tents, even huts built here and
there, cooking fires of all descriptions on which food
of all descriptions was being prepared, and corrals for
horses, bullocks, and mules. Slaves hauled great war
machines through the mud of the camp, goaded on
by men of the Order of the Ant. Banners fluttered in
the breeze, and the standards of a score of military
orders were stuck here and there in the ground. From
a distance, it seemed like some primeval concourse of
beasts as a line of wolves tramped across a rained field
or a gathering of moles (one of the engineering or-
ders) grouped about a cooking fire, while elsewhere
could be seen wasps, ravens, ferrets, rats, foxes, tigers,
boars, flies, hounds, badgers, goats, wolverines, otters,
and even a few mantises, select guards whose Grand
Constable was King Huon himself.

Hawkmoon himself recognized several of the ban-
ners—that of Adaz Promp, fat Grand Constable of the
Order of the Hound; Brenal Farnu's ornate flag,
showing him to be a Baron of Granbretan and the
Rats' Grand Constable; the fluttering standard of
Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex. Hawkmoon guessed
that this city must be the last to fall in a sustained cam-
paign and that was why the army was so large and
attended by so many high-ranking warlords. He made
out Shenegar Trott himself, being borne in a horse
litter toward his tent, his robes covered in jewels, his
pale silver mask wrought in the parody of a human
face.

Shenegar Trott seemed like a soft-living, soft-
brained aristocrat, ruined by rich living, but Hawk-
moon had seen Shenegar Trott do battle at the Ford
of Weizna on the Rhine, had seen him deliberately
sink himself and horse under water and ride along the

river bottom, to emerge on the enemy's bank; It was
the puzzling thing about all Dark Empire noblemen.
They seemed soft, lazy, and self-indulgent; yet they
were as strong as the beasts they pretended to be and
were often braver. Shenegar Trott was also the man
who had hacked off the limb of a screaming child and
eaten a bite from it while its mother was forced to
watch.

"Well," said Hawkmoon, taking a deep breath,
"let's ride through and camp as near to the far side
as we can. I hope we'll be able to slip away in the
morning."

They rode slowly through the camp. From time to
time a boar would greet them and D'Averc would
answer for them. Eventually they came to the farthest
edge of the camp and dismounted. They had brought
the gear stolen from the men they had killed in the
tavern, and now they set it up without suspicion, for
it bore no special insignia. D'Averc watched the
others work. It would not do, he had told them, for
one of his obvious rank to be seen helping his men.

A group of engineers of the Badger Order came
tramping around with a cartload of spare axheads,
sword pommels, arrowheads, spear tips, and the like.
They also had a sharpening machine.

"Any work for us, brother boars?" they grunted,
pausing beside the little camp.

Hawkmoon boldly drew his blunted blade. "This
needs sharpening."

"Aye, and I've lost a bow and a quiver of arrows,"
Oladahn said, eyeing a batch of bows in the bottom
of the cart.

"What about your mate?" said the man in the bad-
ger mask. "He's got no sword at all." He indicated
Yisselda.

"Then give him one, fool," barked D'Averc in his
most lordly tone, and the badger hastily obeyed.

When they had been reequipped and had their wea-
pons freshly sharpened, Hawkmoon felt his confi-
dence come back. He was pleased at the coolness of
his deception.

Only Yisselda seemed downhearted. She hefted the
great sword she had been forced to strap around her
waist. "Much more weight," she said, "and I'll fall
to my knees."

"Best get inside the tent," Hawkmoon said. "There
you'll be able to take off some of the gear, at least."

D'Averc seemed unsettled, watching Hawkmoon
and Oladahn prepare a cooking fire.

"What ails you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked,
looking up and peering through the eyeslits of his hel-
met. "Sit down. The food will not be long."

"I smell something wrong," D'Averc murmured.
"I am not altogether happy that we are in no danger."

"Why? Do you think the Badgers suspected us?"

"Not at all." D'Averc looked across the camp.
Evening darkened the sky, and the warriors were
beginning to settle down; there was less movement
now. On the walls of the distant city, soldiers lined
the battlements, ready to resist an army that none had
resisted to date, save for the Kamarg. "Not at all,"
D'Averc repeated, half to himself, "but I would feel
relieved if..."

"If what?"

"I think I will walk about the camp a little, see
what gossip I can hear."

"Is that wise? Besides, if we are approached by
others of the Boar Order, we'll not be able to speak
the language."

"I'll not be gone long. Get into your tents as soon
as you can."

Hawkmoon wanted to stop D'Averc, but he did
not know how to without attracting unwanted atten-
tion. He watched D'Averc stride off through the
camp.

Just then a voice said from behind them, "A nice-
looking piece of sausage you have there, brothers."

Hawkmoon turned. It was a warrior in the mask
of the Order of the Wolf.

"Aye," said Oladahn quickly. "Aye—will you have
a piece . . . brother?" He cut a slice of sausage and
handed it to the man in the wolf mask. The warrior
turned, lifted his mask, popped the food into his
mouth, lowered his mask quickly, and turned back
again.

"Thanks," he said. "I've been traveling for days on
next to nothing. Our commander drives you hard.
We just came in. Riding faster than a flying French-
man." He laughed. "All the way from Provence."

"From Provence?" Hawkmoon said involuntarily.

"Aye. Been there?"

"Once or twice. Have we won the Kamarg yet?"

"As good as. Commander thinks it's a matter of
days. They're virtually leaderless, running out of pro-
visions. Those weapons they've got have killed a mil-
lion of us, but they won't kill many more before we
ride over them!"

"What happened to Count Brass, their leader?"

"Dead, I heard—or as good as. Their morale's get-
ting worse every day. By the time we get back, I
should think it'll be all over there. I'll be glad. I've
been pitched there for months. This is the first change
of scenery since we began the damned campaign.
Thanks for the sausage, brothers. Good killing to-
morrow! "

Hawkmoon watched the wolf warrior stamp away
into the night that was now lit by a thousand camp

fires. He sighed and entered the tent. "You heard
that?" he asked Yisselda.

"I heard." She had removed her helmet and greaves
and was combing her hair. "It seems my father still
lives." She spoke in an overcontrolled tone, and
Hawkmoon, even in the darkness of the tent, could
see tears in her eyes.

He took her face in his hands and said, "Do not
fear, Yisselda. A few days more and we shall be at his
side."

"If he lives that long..."

"He awaits us. He will live."

Later Hawkmoon went outside. Oladahn sat by
the dying fire, arms around his knees.

"D'Averc has been gone too long," said Oladahn.

"Aye," said Hawkmoon distantly, staring at the
faraway walls of the city. "Has he come to harm? I
wonder."

"Deserted us, more likely—" Oladahn broke off as
several figures emerged from the shadows.

Hawkmoon saw, with sinking heart, that they were
boar-masked warriors. "Into your tent, quickly," he
murmured to Oladahn.

But it was too late. One of the boars was already
talking to Hawkmoon, addressing him in the guttural
secret tongue of the order. Hawkmoon nodded and
raised a hand as if acknowledging a greeting, hoping
that that was all it was, but the boar's tone became
more insistent. Hawkmoon tried to enter his tent, but
an arm restrained him.

Again the boar spoke to him. Hawkmoon coughed,
pretending illness, pointing at his throat. But then the
Board said, "I asked you, brother, if you drink with
us. Take off that mask!"

Hawkmoon knew that no member of any order

would demand of another that he remove his mask—
unless he suspected him of wearing it illicitly. He
stepped back and drew his sword.

"I regret I should not like to drink with you,
brother. But I'll happily fight with you."

Oladahn sprang up beside him, his own sword
ready.

"Who are you?" growled the boar. "Why wear
the armor of another order? What sense does that
make?"

Hawkmoon flung back his helm, revealing his pale
face and the black jewel that shone there. "I am
Hawkmoon," he said simply, and leaped forward into
the mass of astonished warriors.

The pair took the lives of five of the Dark Empire
men before the noise of the fight brought others run-
ning from all over the camp. Riders galloped up. All
around him Hawkmoon was aware of shouts and the
babble of voices. His arm rose and fell in the darkness
of the press, but soon it was gripped by a dozen hands
and he felt himself borne down. A spear haft caught
him a buffet in the back of his neck, and he fell into
the mud of the field.

Dazed, he was dragged upright and hauled before
a tall, black-armored figure seated on a horse some
distance away from the main mass. His mask was
lifted back, and he peered up at the horseman.

"Ah, this is pleasant, Duke of Koln," came the deep,
musical voice from within the horseman's helm, a
voice edged with evil and with malice; a voice Hawk-
moon recognized dimly but could not believe in his
recognition.

"My long journey has not been wasted," said the
horseman, turning to his mounted companion.

"I am glad, my lord," was the reply. "I trust I am
now reinstated in the eyes of the King-Emperor?"

Hawkmoon's head jerked up to look at the other
man. His eyes blazed as he recognized the elaborate
mask-helm of D'Averc.

Thickly, Hawkmoon cried, "So you have betrayed
us? Another betrayal! Are all men traitors to Hawk-
moon's cause?" He tried to break free, to grab with
his hands at D'Averc, but the warriors held him back.

D'Averc laughed. "You are naive, Duke Dor-
ian. ..." He began to cough weakly.

"Have you got the others?" the horseman asked.
"The girl and the little beast-man?"

"Aye, your excellency," answered one of the men.

"Then bring them to my camp. I want to inspect
them all closely. This is a very satisfying day for me."

Chapter Nine
THE JOURNEY SOUTH

A STORM had begun to rumble over the camp as
Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and Yisselda were dragged
through the mud and the filth, past the bright, curious
eyes of the warriors, through the noise and confusion,
to where a great banner fluttered in the newly come
wind.

Lightning suddenly split a jagged gulf in the sky,
and thunder growled, then exploded. More lightning
came, fast on the thunder's heels, illuminating the
scene before them. Hawkmoon gasped as he recog-
nized the banner, tried to speak to Oladahn or Yis-
selda, but was then bundled into a large pavilion
where a masked man sat on a carved chair, D'Averc
standing beside him. The man in the chair wore the
mask of the Order of the Wolf. The banner had
proclaimed him Grand Constable of that order, one
of the greatest nobles in all Granbretan, First Chief-
tain of the Armies of the Dark Empire under the
King-Emperor Huon, a Baron of Kroiden—a man
Hawkmoon thought dead, was sure he had slain him
himself.

"Baron Meliadus!" he grunted. "You did not die
at Hamadan."

"No, I did not die, Hawkmoon, though you woun-
ded me sorely. I escaped that battlefield."

Hawkmoon smiled thinly. "Few of your men did.
We defeated you—routed you."

Meliadus turned his ornate wolf mask and spoke to
a captain who stood nearby. "Bring chains. Bring
many chains, strong and of great weight. Heap them
on these dogs and rivet them. I want no locks that
might be picked. This time I will be sure they are
brought to Granbretan."

He left his chair and descended, to peer through the
eyeslits in his mask at Hawkmoon's face. "They have
discussed you often at King Huon's Court, have de-
vised such exquisite, such elaborate, such splendid
punishments for you, traitor. Your dying will take a
year or two, and each moment will be agony of mind,
spirit, and body. All our ingenuity, Hawkmoon, we
have squandered on you."

He stepped back and reached out a black gauntlet
to cup Yisselda's hate-twisted face. She turned her
head, eyes filled with anger and despair. "And as for
you—I offered you all honors to become my wife.
Now you will have no honor, but a husband I shall be
to you until I tire of you or your body breaks." The
wolf head moved slowly to regard Oladahn. "And as
for this Creature, unhuman, yet upstart enough to
walk on two legs, he shall crawl and whine like the
animal he is, be trained to behave like a proper
beast, ..."

Oladahn spat at the jeweled mask. "I'll have an ex-
cellent model in you," he said.

Meliadus whirled, cloak swirling, and limped heav-
ily back to his chair.

"I'll save all until we've presented ourselves at the
throne globe," Meliadus said, his voice slightly un-
steady. "I've been patient and will remain so for a few

more days. We move off at first light, returning to
Granbretan. But we shall take a slight detour in order
that you may witness the final destruction of the Ka-
marg. I have been there for a month, you know, and
watched its men die daily, watched the towers fall,
one by one.There are not many left. I have told them
to hold off the last assault until I return. I thought you
would like to see your homeland . . . raped." He
laughed, putting his grotesquely masked head on one
side to look at them again. "Ah! Here are the chains."

Members of the Order of the Badger were coming
in, bearing huge iron chains, a brazier, hammers, and
rivets.

Hawkmoon, Yisselda, and Oladahn struggled as the
badgers bound them, but soon they were forced down
to the floor by the weight of the iron links.

Then the red-hot rivet nails were hammered home,
and Hawkmoon knew that no human being could
possibly hope to escape such bonds.

Baron Meliadus came to look down at him when the
work was done. "We'll journey by land to the Ka-
marg and from there to Bordeaux, where a ship will be
waiting for us. I regret I cannot offer you a flying ma-
chine—we are using most of them to level the Kamarg."

Hawkmoon closed his eyes; the only gesture he
could make to display his contempt for his captor.

Bundled into an open wagon the next morning, the
three were given no food before Baron Meliadus's
heavily guarded caravan set off. From time to time
Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of his enemy, riding
near the head of the column with Sir Huillam d'Averc
by his side.

The weather was still stormy and oppressive, and a
few heavy drops of rain splashed on Hawkmoon's face
and fell into his eyes. He was so heavily bound that he

could barely shake his head to rid it of the moisture.

The wagon bumped and jerked away, and in the
distance the Dark Empire troops were marching
against the city.

It seemed to Hawkmoon that he had been betrayed
on all sides. He had trusted the Warrior in Jet and
Gold and had had his saddlebags stolen; he had trusted
D'Averc and found himself delivered into the hands
of Baron Meliadus. Now he sighed, not sure that even
Oladahn would not betray him, given the opportun-
ity....

He found himself slipping almost comfortably into
the mood that had possessed him months before after
his defeat and capture by Granbretan when he had led
an army against Baron Meliadus in Germany. His face
became frozen, his eyes dull, and he ceased to think.

Sometimes Yisselda would speak and he would
answer with an effort, having no words of comfort be-
cause he knew that there were none that would con-
vince her. Sometimes Oladahn would try to make a
cheerful comment, but the others did not reply, and
eventually he, too, lapsed into silence. Only when,
from time to time, food was pushed into their mouths
did they show any signs of life.

So the days passed as the caravan trundled south-
ward towards the Kamarg.

They had all anticipated this homecoming for
months, but now they looked forward to it without
joy. Hawkmoon knew he had failed in his chosen
mission, failed to save the Kamarg, and he was full of
self-contempt.

Soon they were passing through Italia, and Baron
Meliadus called out one day, "The Kamarg we'll
reach before a couple of nights have passed. We are
just crossing the border into France!" And he laughed.

Chapter Ten
THE FALL OF THE KAMARG

"SIT THEM UP," said Baron Meliadus, "so they can see."

On horseback, he leaned over to look into the
wagon. "Get them up straight," he told his sweating
me who were wrestling with the three bodies still clad
in armor and made heavier by the great weight of
chains about them. "They do not look well," he
added. "And I thought them such hardy spirits!"

D'Averc rode up beside Baron Meliadus, coughing,
hunched a little in his saddle. "And you're still in poor
condition, D'Averc. Did not my apothecary mix you
the medicine you asked for?"

"He did, my lord Baron," D'Averc said weakly,
"but it does me little good."

"It should have done, the mixture of herbs you had
him put in it." Meliadus returned his attention to the
three prisoners. "See, we have stopped on this hill so
that you could look at your homeland."

Hawkmoon blinked in the midday sunlight, recog-
nizing the marshlands of his beloved Kamarg stretch-
ing and shining away to the horizon.

But closer he saw the great, somber watchtowers of
the Kamarg, the strength of the Kamarg with their

strange weapons of incredible power, whose secrets
were known only to Count Brass. And camped near
them, a black mass of men, like so many million ants
ready to sweep in, were the gathered forces of the
Dark Empire.

"Oh!" sobbed Yisselda. "They can never withstand
so many!"

"An intelligent estimate, my dear,'' said Baron Mel-
iadus. "You are quite right."

He and his party had come to a rest on the slopes of
a hill that led gradually down to the plain where the
troops of Granbretan massed. Hawkmoon could see
infantry, cavalry, engineers, rank upon rank of them;
he saw war engines of enormous size, huge flame can-
non, ornithopters flapping through the skies in such
numbers that their shapes blotted out the sun as they
passed over the heads of the onlookers. All manner of
metals had been brought against the peaceful Kamarg,
brass and iron and bronze and steel, tough alloys that
could resist the bite of a flame-lance, gold and silver
and platinum and lead. Vultures marched beside frogs,
and horses beside moles; there were wolves and boars
and stags and wildcats, eagles and ravens and badgers
and weasels. Silk banners fluttered in the moist, warm
air, bright with the colors of two score of nobles from
all corners of Granbretan. There were yellows and
purples and blacks and reds, blue and greens and flash-
ing pinks, and the sun caught the jewels of a hundred
thousand eyes and made them flash, malevolent and
grim.

"Aha," laughed Baron Meliadus. "That army I
command. If Count Brass had not refused to aid us
that day, you would all be honored allies of the Dark
Empire of Granbretan. But because you resisted us—
you will be punished. You thought your weapons and

your towers and the stoic bravery of your men was
enough to stand against the might of Granbretan. Not
enough, Dorian Hawkmoon, not enough! See—my
army, raised by me to commit my vengeance. See,
Hawkmoon, and know what a fool you and the rest
were!" He flung back his head and laughed for a long
time. "Tremble, Hawkmoon—and you, too, Yisselda—
tremble as your fellows are trembling now within
their towers, for they know those towers must fall,
they know the Kamarg will be ashes and mud before
tomorrow's sunset. I will destroy the Kamarg if it
means sacrificing my entire army!"

And Hawkmoon and Yisselda did tremble, though
it was with grief at the threat of the destruction
foreseen by mad Baron Meliadus.

"Count Brass is dead," said Baron Meliadus, turning
his horse to ride to the head of his company, "And
now dies the Kamarg!" He waved his arm. "Forward.
Let them see the carnage!"

The wagon began to move again, bumping down
the hill road to the plain, its prisoners propped in it
with stricken faces and miserable eyes.

D'Averc continued to ride beside the wagon,
coughing ostentatiously. "The Baron's medicine's not
bad," he said at length. "It should cure the ills of all his
men." And with that enigmatic pronouncement he
urged his horse into a gallop to reach the head of the
column and ride beside his master.

Hawkmoon saw strange rays flash from the towers
of the Kamarg and strike into the gathered ranks that
came against them, leaving scars of smoking ground
where men had been. He saw the cavalry of the
Kamarg begin to move up to take its positions, a thin
line of battered Guardians, riding their horned horses,
flame-lances on their shoulders. He saw ordinary

townsfolk from the settlements, armed with swords
and axes, coming in the wake of the cavalry. But he
did not see Count Brass, he did not seen von Villach,
and he did not see the philosopher Bowgentle. The
men of the Kamarg marched leaderless to this last
battle.

He heard the faint sounds of their battle shouts,
coming over the howls and roars of the attackers, the
crack of cannon and the shriek of flame-lances; heard
the clatter of armor and the creak of metal; smelled
beast and man and weapon, marching through the
mud. And then he saw the black hordes pause as a
wall of fire rose into the air before them and scarlet
flamingoes flew over it, riders aiming flame-lances at
the clanking ornithopters.

Hawkmoon ached to be free, to have the feel of a
sword in his hand and a horse between his legs, to
rally the men of the Kamarg, who, even leaderless,
could still resist the Dark Empire, though their num-
bers were a fraction of the enemy's. He writhed in his
chains, and he cursed in his fury and frustration.

Evening came, and the battle went on. Hawkmoon
saw an ancient black tower struck by a million flames
from the Dark Empire cannon, saw it sway, topple,
and fall, crashing down to become rubble suddenly.
And the black hordes cheered.

Night fell, and the battle went on. The heat of it
reached even to the three in the wagon and brought
sweat to their faces. Around them the wolf guards sat
laughing and talking, certain of victory. Their master
had ridden his horse into the thick of his troops, the
better to see how the battle went, and they brought
out a skin of wine with long straws jutting from it so
that they could suck the stuff through their masks. As
the night grew longer, their talk and their laughter
subsided until, strangely, they all slept.

Oladahn remarked on it. "Not like the vigilant
wolves to sleep so hard. They must be confident."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Aye, but it does us no good.
These damned chains are riveted so fast that we have
no hope of escaping."

"What's this?" the voice was D'Averc's. "No longer
optimistic, Hawkmoon? I find it hard to believe!"

"Away with you, D'Averc," Hawkmoon said as the
man emerged from the darkness to stand beside the
wagon." Back to lick the boots of your master."

"I had brought this," D'Averc said in a mock-
aggrieved tone, "to see if it would serve you." He dis-
played a bulky object in his hand. "After all, it was
my medicine that drugged the guards."

Hawkmoon's eyes narrowed. "What's that in your
hand?"

"A rarity I found on the battleground. Some great
commander's I'd judge, for there are few of them to
be found these days. It's a kind of flame-lance, though
small enough to be carried in one hand.

"I've heard of them," Hawkmoon nodded. "But
what use is it to me? I'm in chains, as you see."

"Aye, I noted that. If you'd take a risk, however,
it might be that I could release you."

"Is this a new trap, D'Averc, that you and Meli-
adus have concocted between you?"

"I'm hurt, Hawkmoon. Why should you think
that?"

"Because you betrayed us into Meliadus's hands.
You must have prepared the trap well ahead, when
you spoke to those wolf warriors in that Carpathian
village. You sent them to find their master and ar-
ranged to lead us to that camp where we could be
most easily captured."

"Why, it sounds possible," agreed D'Averc.
"Though you could see it another way—the wolf war-

riors recognized me then and followed us, going later
to warn their master. I heard the rumor at the camp
that Meliadus had come to find you, decided to tell
Meliadus I had led you into this trap so that one of us
would be free at least." D'Averc paused. "How does
that sound?"

"Glib."

"Well, yes, it does sound glib. Now, Hawkmoon,
there is not much time. Shall I see if I can burn your
chains without burning you, or would you rather
keep your seats for fear of missing a development in
the battle?"

"Burn the damned chains," Hawkmoon said, "for at
least with my hands free I'll have a chance to choke
you if you lie!"

D'Averc brought the little flame-lance up and di-
rected it at an angle to Hawkmoon's fettered arms.
Then he touched a stud, and a beam of intense heat
sprang from the muzzle. Hawkmoon felt pain sear his
arm, but he gritted his teeth. The pain got worse until
he felt he must cry out, and then there was a clatter as
one of the links fell to the bottom of the wagon and he
felt some of the weight leave him. An arm was free,
his right arm. He rubbed it and almost yelled as he
touched a part where the armor had been burned
clean through.

"Hurry," murmured D'Averc. "Here, hold up an-
other length of chain. It will be easier now."

At last Hawkmoon was free of the chain, and they
set about releasing Yisselda and then Oladahn.
D'Averc was becoming noticeably more nervous by
the time they had finished.

"I have your swords here," he said, "and new masks
and horses. You must follow me. And hurry, before
Meliadus comes back. I had, to tell you the truth, ex-
pected him before now."

They crept through the darkness to where the
horses were tethered, donned the masks, strapped the
swords to their waists, and climbed into their saddles.

Then they heard other steeds galloping up the hill
road toward them, heard confused shouts and an an-
gry bellow that could only be Meliadus's.

"Quick," D'Averc hissed. "We must ride—ride for
the Kamarg!"

They kicked their horses into a wild gallop and be-
gan to career down the hill toward the main battlefield.
"Make way!" D'Averc screamed. "Make way! The
force must move through. Reinforcements for the
front!"

Men leaped aside for their horses as they thundered
through the thick of the camp, cursing the four fig-
ures who rode so heedlessly.

"Make way!" D'Averc yelled. "A message for the
Grand Commander!" He found time to turn his head
and call to Hawkmoon, "It bores me to sustain the
same lie!" He yelled again, "Make way! The potion
for the plague-struck!"

Behind them they heard other horses as Meliadus
and his men came in pursuit.

Ahead they could now see that the fighting still
continued, but not with the intensity it had had
earlier.

"Make way!" bellowed D'Averc. "Make way for
Baron Meliadus!"

The horses leaped knots of men, swept around war
engines, galloped through fires, drawing nearer and
nearer to the Kamarg's towers, while behind them
they could hear Meliadus yelling.

Now they reached a point where the horses gal-
loped over corpses, the fallen of Granbretan, and the
main force was now behind them.

"Get the masks off," D'Averc called. "It's our only

chance. If the Kamargians recognize you and Yisselda
in time, they'll hold their fire. If not..."

From out of the darkness came the bright beam of a
flame-lance, narrowly missing D'Averc. Behind them
other flame-lances shot their searing death, aimed
doubtless by Meliadus's men. Hawkmoon grappled
with the straps of his mask helm, managed at last to
unloose it and fling it behind him.

"Stop!" The voice was Meliadus's, gaining on them
now. "You'll perish by your own forces! Fools!"

More flame-lances had opened up from the Kamarg
side, illuminating the night with ruddy light. The
horses rode over the dead, finding it hard going.
D'Averc had his head down over his horse's neck, and
Yisselda and Oladahn were crouching low, too, but
Hawkmoon drew his sword and yelled, "Men of the
Kamarg! It is Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon has returned!"

The flame-lances did not cease, but they were get-
ing closer and closer to one of the towers now.
D'Averc straightened in his saddle.

"Kamargians! I bring you Hawkmoon, who will—"
and fire splashed him. He flung up his arms, cried out,
and began to topple from his saddle. Hawkmoon
hastily drew alongside, steadying the body. The armor
was red-hot, melted in places, but D'Averc seemed not
wholly dead. A faint laugh came from the blistered 
lips. "A piece of serious misjudgement, linking my for-
tunes with yours, Hawkmoon...."

The other two came to a halt, their horses stamping
in confusion. Behind them, Baron Meliadus and his
men came closer.

"Take the reins of his horse, Oladahn," Hawkmoon
said. "I'll steady him in his saddle, and we'll see if we
can get closer to the tower."

Flame shot out again, this time from the Granbret-
anian side. "Stop, Hawkmoon!"

Hawkmoon ignored the command and moved on,
slowly picking his way through the mud and death all
around him, trying to support D'Averc.

Hawkmoon shouted as a great beam of light sprang
from the tower, "Men of the Kamarg! It is Hawk-
moon—and Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter."

The light faded. Closer now came the horses of
Meliadus. Yisselda, too, was swaying in her saddle
from exhaustion. Hawkmoon prepared to meet the
wolves of Meliadus.

Then, bursting down an incline, came about a score
of armored Guardians, the white, horned horses of the
Kamarg under them, and they surrounded the four.

One of the Guardians peered closely into Hawk-
moon's face, then his eyes lit with joy. "It is my
lord Hawkmoon! It is Yisselda! Ah—now our luck
will change!"

Some distance away Meliadus and his men had
paused when they saw the Kamargians. Then they
turned and rode into the darkness.

They came to Castle Brass in the morning, when the
pale sunlight fell on the lagoons and wild bulls
looked up from where they drank and watched them
pass. A wind stirred the reeds, making them roll like
the sea, and the hill overlooking the town was rich
with grapes and other fruits just beginning to ripen.
On top of the hill stood Castle Brass, solid and old and
seemingly unchanged by the wars that had raged on
the borders of the province it protected.

They road up the curling white road to the castle,
crossed into the courtyard, where joyous stewards
rushed out to take their horses, then entered the hall,
which was full of Count Brass's trophies. It was
strangely cold and silent, and a single figure stood by
the great fireplace waiting for them. Although he

smiled, his eyes were fearful and his face had aged
much since Hawkmoon had last seen him—wise Sir
Bowgentle, the philosopher-poet.

Bowgentle embraced Yisselda, then gripped Hawk-
moon's hand.

"How is Count Brass?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Physically well, but he has lost the will to live."
Bowgentle signed for stewards to help D'Averc.
"Take him to the room in the northern tower—the
sickroom. I'll attend to him as soon as I can. Come," he
said. "See for yourselves...."

They left Oladahn to stay with D'Averc and
climbed the old stone staircase to the landing where
Count Brass's apartments still were. Bowgentle opened
a door and they entered the bedroom.

There was a simple soldier's bed, big and square,
with white sheets and plain pillows. On the pillows
lay a great head that seemed carved from metal. The
red hair had a little more gray, the bronzed face was a
trifle paler, but the red mustache was the same. And
the heavy brow that hung like a ledge of rock over
the cave of the deepset golden brown eyes, that, too,
was the same. But the eyes stared at the ceiling with-
out blinking, and the lips did not move, were set in a
hard line.

"Count Brass," murmured Bowgentle. "Look."

But the eyes remained fixed. Hawkmoon had to
come forward, peer straight into the face, and make
Yisselda do likewise. "Count Brass, your daughter,
Yisselda, has returned, and Dorian Hawkmoon, too."

From the lips now came a rumbling murmur, "More
illusions. I'd thought the fever past, Bowgentle."

"So it is, my lord—these are not phantoms."

The eyes moved now to look at them. "Am I dead
at last and joined with you, my children?"

"You are on earth, Count Brass!" Hawkmoon said

Yisselda bent and kissed her father on the lips.
"There, father—an earthly kiss."

Gradually the hard line of the lips began to melt,
until a smile was there, then a wide grin. Then the
body heaved under the clothes, and suddenly Count
Brass was sitting upright. "Ah! It's true. I'd lost hope!
Fool that I am, I'd lost hope!" He laughed now, sud-
denly alive with vitality.

Bowgentle was astonished. "Count Brass—I thought
you but a pace from the door of death!"

"So I was, Bowgentle—but I've leaped back from
it, as you see. Leaped a long way. How goes the
siege, Hawkmoon?'

"Badly for us, Count Brass, but better, I'll wager,
now we three are together again!"

"Aye. Bowgentle, have my armor brought. And
where is my sword?"

"Count Brass—you must still be weak. . . ."

"Then bring me food—a great deal of food—and
I'll fortify myself while we talk." And Count Brass
sprang from his bed to embrace his daughter and her
betrothed.

In the hall they ate while Dorian Hawkmoon told
Count Brass all that had befallen him since leaving the
castle so many months before. Count Brass, in turn,
told of his tribulations with, it had seemed, the entire
might of the Dark Empire to contend with. He told
of von Villach's last battle and how the old man had
died bravely, at the cost of a score of Dark Empire
lives, how he, himself, had been wounded, how he
had learned of Yisselda's disappearance and lost the
will to live.

Oladahn came down then and was introduced. He

said that D'Averc was badly hurt but that Bowgentle
thought he would recover.

On the whole it was a cheerful homecoming, but
marred by the knowledge that on the borders the
Guardians were fighting for their lives, almost cer-
tainly fighting a losing battle.

Count Brass had by this time donned his armor of
brass and strapped on his huge broadsword. He tow-
ered above the others as he stood up and said, "Come,
Hawkmoon, Sir Oladahn, we must to the battlefield
and lead our men to victory."

Bowgentle sighed. "Two hours ago I thought you
all but dead—now you ride to battle. You are not well
enough, sir."

"My sickness was of the spirit, not the flesh, and
that's cured now," roared Count Brass. "Horses! Tell
them to bring our horses, Sir Bowgentle!"

Though himself weary, Hawkmoon found renewed
vigor as he followed the old man from the castle. He
blew a kiss to Yisselda, and then they were in the
courtyard, mounting the horses that would bear them
to the battlefield.

They rode hard, the three of them, through the
secret pathways of the marshlands, with huge clouds
of giant flamingoes passing through the air over their
heads, herds of wild horned horses galloping away
from them. Count Brass waved a gloved hand. "Such
a land is worth defending with all we have. Such
peace is worth protecting."

Soon they heard the sounds of warfare and came to
where the Dark Empire drove against the towers.
They reined in when they saw the worst.

Count Brass spoke in a stricken whisper. "Impossi-
ble," he said.

But it was true.

The towers had fallen. Each lay broken, a pile of
smoking masonry. The survivors were even now
being pressed back, though they battled bravely.

"This is the fall of the Kamarg," said Count Brass
in the voice of an old man.

Chapter Eleven
RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

Now ONE OF the captains saw them and came riding
up. His armor was in tatters and his sword broken, but
there was joy in his face. "Count Brass! At last! Come
sir, we must rally the men—drive the Dark Empire
dogs back!"

Hawkmoon saw Count Brass force himself to smile,
draw his great broadsword, and say, "Aye, Captain.
See if you can find a herald or two to tell all that
Count Brass is back!"

A cheer went up from the hard-pressed Kamar-
gians as Count Brass and Hawkmoon appeared, and
they held their ground, even drove the Granbretan-
ians back in places. Count Brass, with Hawkmoon and
Oladahn following, rode into the thick of his men,
once again the invincible man of metal. "Aside, lads!"
he called. "Aside and let me get at the enemy!"

Count Brass grabbed his own battered standard
from a nearby rider, and with this balanced in the
crook of his arm, his sword waving, he drove forward
at the mass of beast masks ahead.

Hawkmoon rode up beside him, and they made a
menacing, almost supernatural pair, the one in his

flaming armor of brass and the other with the black
jewel imbedded in his forehead, their swords rising
and falling on the heads of the tightly packed Gran-
bretan infantry. And when another figure joined
them, a stocky man with fur covering his face and a
flashing saber striking here and there like lightning,
they seemed a trio out of mythology, unnerving the
beast warriors of Granbretan so that they fell back.

Hawkmoon searched about for Meliadus, swearing
that he would certainly kill him this time, but he
could not see him for the moment.

Gauntleted hands tried to drag him from his saddle,
but his sword slipped through eyeholes, split helms,
and sliced heads from their shoulders.

The day wore, and the fighting continued without
respite. Hawkmoon swayed in his saddle now, battle-
weary and half-dazed with pain from a dozen minor
cuts and a great many bruises. His horse was killed,
but the weight of men surrounding him was so great
that he sat it for half an hour before he realized it was
dead. Then he sprang off it and continued fighting
on foot.

He knew that no matter how many he and the
others killed, they were outnumbered and ill-equip-
ped. Gradually they were being driven farther and
farther back.

"Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only we had a
few hundred fresh troops, we might win the day. By
the Runestaff, we need aid!"

Suddenly a strange electric sensation ran through
his body, and he gasped, recognizing what was hap-
pening to him, realizing that he had unconsciously in-
voked the Runestaff. The Red Amulet, which now
glowed at his neck, spreading red light on the armor
of his enemies, was now transmitting power into his

body. He laughed and began to hew around him with
fantastic strength, cutting back the circle of warriors
attacking him. His sword snapped, but he grabbed a
lance from a horseman riding at him, dragged its
owner from his saddle, and, swinging the lance like a
sword, jumped onto the horse and resumed the
attack.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" he cried using the old
battlecry of his ancestors. "Hai—Oladahn—Count
Brass!" He gouged his way through the beast-masked
warriors between himself and his friends. Count
Brass's standard still swayed in its owner's hand.

"Drive them back!" Hawkmoon yelled. "Drive
them back to our borders!"

Then Hawkmoon was everywhere, a whirling
bringer of death. He raced through the ranks of
Granbretan, and where he passed there were only
corpses. A great muttering went up from the enemy
then, and they began to falter.

Soon they were falling back, some actually running
from the field. And then the figure of Baron Meliadus
appeared, crying out to them to turn to stand and to
fight.

"Back!" he cried. "You cannot fear so few!" But
the tide was completely on the turn now, and he him-
self was caught by it, borne back by his retreating
men.

They fled in terror from the pale-faced knight
whose sword fell everywhere, in whose skull a black
jewel shone and at whose throat hung an amulet of
scarlet fire, whose fierce horse reared over their heads.
They had heard, too, that he shouted the name of a
dead man—that he, himself, was a dead man, Dorian
Hawkmoon, who had fought against them at Koln
and almost defeated them there, who had defied the

King-Emperor himself, who had nearly slain Baron
Meliadus and had, in fact, defeated him more than
once. Hawkmoon! It was the only name the Dark
Empire feared.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" The figure held its
sword high as its horse reared again. "Hawkmoon!"

Possessed of the power of the Red Amulet, Hawk-
moon chased the fleeing army, and he laughed wildly
with a mad triumph. Behind him rode Count Brass,
terrible in his red-gold armor, his huge blade dripping
with the blood of his foes; Oladahn, grinning through
his fur, bright eyes gleaming, saber slick with gore;
and behind them the jubilant forces of the Kamarg, a
handful of men jeering at the mighty army they had
routed.

Now the power of the amulet began to fade from
Hawkmoon, and he felt his pains return, felt the
weariness again, but now it did not matter, for they
had come to the border, marked by the ruined towers,
and watched their enemies in flight.

Oladahn laughed. "Our victory, Hawkmoon."

Count Brass frowned. "Aye—but not one we can
sustain. We must withdraw, regroup, find some safer
ground to stand, for we will not beat them again in
the open field."

"You are right," nodded Hawkmoon. "Now that
the towers have fallen we need to find another spot
well defended—and there is only one I can think
of. . . ." He glanced at the Count.

"Aye—Castle Brass," agreed the old man. "We must
send word to all the towns and villages of the Kamarg
to tell the people to bring their goods and stock to
Aigues-Mortes under the protection of the castle... ."

"Will we be able sustain so many for a long siege?"
Hawkmoon asked.

"We shall see," Count Brass replied, watching the
distant army beginning to regroup. "But at least they
will have some protection when the Dark Empire
troops flood over our Kamarg."

There were tears in his eyes as he turned his horse
and began to ride back to the castle.

From the balcony of his rooms in the eastern tower,
Hawkmoon watched the people driving their live-
stock into the protection of the old town of Aigues-
Mortes. Most of them were corralled in the amphi-
theater at one end of the town. Soldiers brought in
provisions and helped folk with their loaded carts. By
evening all but a few had entered the safety of the
walls, crowding into houses or camping in the streets.
Hawkmoon prayed that plague or panic might not set
in, for such a crowd might be hard to control.

Oladahn joined him on the balcony, pointing to the
northeast. "Look," he said. "Flying machines." And
Hawkmoon saw the ominous shapes of Dark Empire
ornithopters flapping over the horizon, a certain sign
that the army of Granbretan was on the move.

By nightfall, they could see the cooking fires of the
nearest troops.

"Tomorrow," said Hawkmoon. "It could be our
last battle."

They went down to the hall, where Bowgentle
talked to Count Brass. Food had been prepared, as lav-
ishly as ever. The two men turned as Hawkmoon and
Oladahn entered the hall.

"How is D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Stronger," Bowgentle said. "He has an excellent
constitution, says he would like to get up to eat to-
night. I said he might."

Yisselda came through the outer door. "I've spoken
to the women," she said, "and they say all are now

within the walls. We have enough provisions to last as
much as a year, if we slaughter the stock...."

Count Brass smiled sadly. "It will take less than a
year to decide this battle. And how is the spirit in the
town?"

"Good," she said, "now that they have heard of
your victory today and know you both to be alive."
" "It is as well," Count Brass said heavily, "that they
do not know that tomorrow they die. Or if not to-
morrow, the next day. We cannot stand against such
a weight of soldiers for long, my dear. Most of our
flamingoes are dead, so we have virtually no protec-
tion in the air. Most of our Guardians are dead, and
the troops we have left are all but untrained."

Bowgentle sighed. "And we thought the Kamarg
could never fall...."

"You are too certain that it will," said a voice from
the stairs, and there was D'Averc, pale and dressed in a
loose, fawn-colored gown, limping down to the hall.
"In such spirits you are bound to lose. You could try
to talk of victory, at least."

"You are right, Sir Huillam." Count Brass changed
his mood with an effort of will. "And we could eat
some of this good food here to give us energy for to-
morrow's struggle."

"How are you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked as
they seated themselves at the board.

"Well enough," said D'Averc lightly. "I think I can
manage some small refreshments." And he began to
heap his plate with meat.

They ate in silence, for the most part, relishing the
meal that many felt would be their last.

When Hawkmoon looked from his window the
next morning, it was to see the marshlands overlaid
with men. In the night, the Dark Empire had crept up

close to their walls, and, now it was readying itself to
the assault.

Quickly Hawkmoon donned clothes and armor and
went down to the hall, where he found D'Averc al-
ready encased in his patched armor, Oladahn cleaning
his blade, and Count Brass discussing some feature of
the coming campaign with two of his remaining
captains.

There was an atmosphere of tension in the hall, and the men spoke to one another in murmurs.

Yisselda appeared and called to him softly, "Dori-
an..." He turned and ran up the stairs to the landing
on which she stood, taking her in his arms and holding
her close, kissing her gently on the forehead. "Dori-
an," she said, "let us be married before..."

"Aye," he said quietly. "Let us find Bowgentle."

They found the philosopher in his quarters reading
a book. He looked up as they entered and smiled at
them. They told him what they wanted, and he laid
down his book. "I had hoped for the grand cere-
mony," he said, "but I understand."

And he made them join hands and kneel before him
while he spoke the words of his own composition that
had always been used in marriages since he and his
friend the Count had come to Castle Brass.

When it was done, Hawkmoon stood up and kissed
Yisselda again. Then he said, "Look after her, Bow-
gentle," and left the room to join his friends, who
were already leaving the hall for the courtyard.

As they mounted their horses a great shadow sud-
denly darkened the courtyard, and they heard the
creaking and clattering overhead that could only be a
Dark Empire ornithopter. A bolt of flame leapt from
it and splashed on the cobbles, narrowly missing

Hawkmoon and causing his horse to rear, nostrils flar-
ing and eyes rolling.

Count Brass brought up the flame-lance with which
he had already equipped himself and touched the stud,
and red fire struck upwards at the flying machine.
They heard the pilot scream and saw the thing's wings
cease to work. It glided out of sight, and they heard it
crash at last on the side of the hill.

"I must station flame-lancers in the towers," Count
Brass said. "They'll have the best chance of striking
back at the ornithopters. Come, gentlemen—let's to the
battle."

And as they left the castle walls and rode down to
the town, they saw the huge tide of men was already
washing at the walls of the town where Kamarg war-
riors fought desperately to drive it back.

Ornithopters, fashioned like grotesque metal birds,
wheeled over the town, pouring down flame into the
streets, and the air became filled with the screams of
the townsfolk, the roar of flame-lances, and the clash
of metal against metal. Black smoke hung over
Aigues-Mortes, and in places houses were already
burning.

Hawkmoon led the charge down to the town and
pushed through frightened women and children to
gain the walls and join in the fight. Elsewhere were
Count Brass, D'Averc, and Oladahn, helping to resist
the force that tried to crush the town.

There came a desperate roar from one portion of
the wall and an echoing cheer of triumph, and Hawk-
moon began to run in that direction, seeing that a
hole had been breached in the defenses and Dark Em-
pire warriors, in helms of wolf and bear, were gush-
ing through.

Hawkmoon met them, and they wavered instantly,

remembering his earlier exploits. He was no longer
equipped with superhuman strength, but he used the
pause to cry his ancestral battleshout, "Hawkmoon!
Hawkmoon!" and leap at them, sword meeting metal,
flesh, and bone and driving them back through the
breach.

So they fought all day, holding the town even as
their numbers rapidly dropped, and when the night
fell and the Dark Empire troops withdrew. Hawk-
moon knew, as they all knew, that the next morning
must bring defeat.

Wearily, Hawkmoon, Count Brass, and the others
led their horses back up the winding road to the
castle, their hearts heavy as they thought of all the in-
nocents slaughtered that day and of all the innocents
who would be slaughtered tomorrow—if they were
lucky enough to die.

Then they heard a galloping horse behind them and
turned on the slope, swords ready, to see the strange
figure of a tall rider coming up the hill toward the
castle. He had a long helm that completely encased
his face, and his armor was wrought all in jet and gold.
Hawkmoon scowled. "What does that traitorous thief
want? "he said.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold pulled up his big
horse nearby. His deep, vibrant voice came from
within his helmet then. "Greetings, defenders of the
Kamarg. I see the day goes badly for you. Baron Meli-
adus will defeat you tomorrow."

Hawkmoon wiped his forehead with a rag. "No
need to make so much of the obvious, Warrior. What
have you come to steal this time?"

"Nothing," said the warrior. "I have come to de-
liver something." He reached behind him and pro-
duced Hawkmoon's battered saddlebags.

Hawkmoon's spirits rose, and he leaned forward to
take the saddlebags, opening one to look inside.
There, wrapped in a cloak, was the object he had been
given so long ago by Rinal. It was safe. He pulled
back the cloak and saw the crystal unshattered.

"But why did you take it in the first place?" he
asked.

"Let us go to Castle Brass, and there I will explain
all to you," said the warrior.

In the hall the warrior stood up by the fireplace
while the others sat in various positions around him,
listening.

"At the Mad God's castle," began the warrior, "I
left you because I knew that with the aid of the Mad
God's beasts you could soon be safely away from
there. But I knew other hazards lay ahead for you
and suspected that you might be captured. Therefore,
I decided to take the object Rinal gave you and keep
it safe until you should return to the Kamarg."

"And I had thought you a thief!" Hawkmoon said.
"I am sorry, Warrior."

"But what is the object?" Count Brass asked.

"An ancient machine," the Warrior said, "produced
by one of the most sophisticated sciences ever to
emerge on this earth."

"A weapon?" Count Brass asked.

"No. It is a device which can warp whole areas of
rime and space and shift them into other dimensions.
While the machine exists, it can exert this power, but
should it, by mischance, be destroyed, then the area it
has warped falls immediately back into the time and
space original to it."

"And how is it operated?" Hawkmoon asked, re-
membering suddenly that he had no such knowledge.

"It is difficult to explain, since you would recognize
none of the words I would use," said the Warrior in
Jet and Gold. "But Rinal has taught me its use, among
other things, and I can work it."

"But for what purpose?" D'Averc asked. "To shift
the troublesome Baron and his men to some limbo
where they will not trouble us again?"

"No," said the Warrior. "I will explain-"

The doors burst open, and a battered soldier rushed
into the hall. "Master," he cried to Count Brass, "it
is Baron Meliadus under a flag of truce. He would
parley with you at the town walls."

"I have nothing to say to him," Count Brass said.

"He says that he intends to attack at night. That he
can have the walls down within an hour, for he has
fresh troops held back for the purpose. He says that
if you deliver your daughter, Hawkmoon, D'Averc,
and yourself into his hands, he will be lenient with the
rest."

Count Brass thought for a moment, but Hawkmoon
broke in, "It is useless to consider such a bargain,
Count Brass. We both know of Meliadus's penchant
for treachery. He seeks only to demoralize the folks
to make his victory easier."

Count Brass sighed. "But if what he says is true,
and I cannot doubt that it is, he will have the walls
down shortly and we all perish."

"With honor, at least," said D'Averc.

"Aye," said Count Brass with a somewhat sardonic
smile. "With honor, at least." He turned to the cou-
rier. "Tell Baron Meliadus that we still do not wish to
speak with him."

The warrior bowed. "I will, my lord." He left the
hall.

"We had best return to the walls," said Count Brass,
rising wearily just as Yisselda entered the room.

"Ah, Father, Dorian—you are both safe."
Hawkmoon embraced her. "But now we must go
back," he said softly. "Meliadus is about to launch an-
other attack."

"Wait," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "I have
yet to describe my plan to you."

Chapter Twelve
ESCAPE TO LIMBO

BARON MELIADUS SMILED when he heard the cou-
rier's message.

"Very well," he said to his stewards, "let the whole
town be destroyed and as many of its inhabitants
taken alive to give us sport on our victory day." He
turned his horse back to where his fresh troops awaited
him.

"Move forward," he said, and watched as they be-
gan to flow towards the doomed town and the castle
beyond.

He saw the fires on the town walls, the few soldiers
waiting, knowing with certainty that they would die
now. He saw the graceful outlines of the castle that
had once protected the town so well, and he chuck-
led. There was a warmth inside him, for he had longed
for this victory ever since he had been ejected from
the castle some two years earlier.

Now his troops had nearly reached the walls, and
he kicked his horse's flanks to make it move down so
that he could see the battle better.

Then he frowned. There seemed something wrong
with the light, for the outline of town and castle had
apparently wavered in a most alarming fashion.

He opened his mask and rubbed at his eyes, then
looked again.

The silhouette of Castle Brass and Aigues-Mortes
seemed to glow, first pink, then pale red, then scarlet,
and Baron Meliadus felt lightheaded. He licked his
dry lips and feared for his sanity.

The troops had paused in their attack and mutter-
ing to themselves and backing away from the place.
The entire town and the hillside and castle it sur-
rounded were now a flaming blue. The blue began to
fade, and fading with it went Castle Brass and Aigues-
Mortes. A wild wind blew, knocking Baron Meliadus
back in his saddle.

He cried out, "Guards! What has happened?"

"The place has—has vanished, my lord," came a
nervous voice.

"Vanished! Impossible. How can a whole town and
a hill vanish? It is still there. They have erected some
kind of screen around the place."

Baron Meliadus rode wildly down to where the
town walls had been, expecting to meet a barrier, but
none blocked him, and his horse trampled over only
mud that looked as if it had been recently plowed.

"They have escaped me!" he howled. "But how?
What science aids them? What power can they have
that is greater than mine?"

The troops had begun to turn back. Some were
running. But Baron Meliadus dismounted from his
horse, hands outstretched, trying to feel for the van-
ished town. He screamed with fury and wept with
impotent rage, falling at last to his knees in the mud
and shaking his fist at where Castle Brass had been.

"I will find you, Hawkmoon—and your friends. I
will bring all the scientific knowledge of Granbretan
to bear on this search. And I will follow you, if needs
be, to whatever place you have escaped to, whether it

be on this earth or beyond it, and you will know my
vengeance. By the Runestaff, I swear this!"

And then he looked up as he heard the thump of a
horse's hooves riding past him, thought he saw a figure
flash by in armor of jet and gold, thought he heard
ghostly ironic laughter, and then the rider, too had
vanished.

Baron Meliadus rose up from his knees and looked
around him for his horse.

"Oh, Hawkmoon," he said through clenched teeth.
"Oh, Hawkmoon, I will catch thee!"

Again he had sworn by the Runestaff, as on that
fateful morning two years before. And his action had
set in motion a new pattern of history. His second
oath strengthened that pattern, whether it favored
Meliadus or Hawkmoon, and hardened all their des-
tinies a little more strongly.

Baron Meliadus found his horse and returned to his
camp. Tomorrow he would leave for Granbretan and
the labyrinth laboratories of the Order of the Snake.
Sooner or later he would be bound to find a way
through to the vanished Castle Brass, he told himself.

Yisselda looked through the window in wonder-
ment, her face alight with joy; Hawkmoon smiled
down at her and hugged her to him.

Behind them, Count Brass coughed and said, "To
tell you the truth, my children, I'm a little disturbed
by all this—this science. Where did that fellow say we
were?"

"In some other Kamarg, father," said Yisselda.

The view from the window was misty. Though the
town and the hillside were solid enough, the rest was
not. Beyond it they could see, as if through a blue
radiance, shining lagoons and waving reeds, but they
were of transformed colors, no longer of simple greens

and yellows, but of all the colors of the rainbow and
without the substance of the castle and its surrounds.

"He said we might explore it," said Hawkmoon.
"So it must be more tangible than it looks."

D'Averc cleared his throat. "I'll stay here and in the
town, I think. What say you, Oladahn?"

Oladahn grinned. "I think so—until I'm more used
to it, at least."

"Well, I'm with you," said Count Brass. He
laughed. Still, we're safe, eh? And all the folk, too.
We've that to be grateful for."

"Aye," said Bowgentle thoughtfully. "But we must
not underestimate the scientific prowess of Gran-
bretan. If there is a way of following us here, they
will find it—be sure of that."

Hawkmoon nodded. "You are right, Bowgentle."
He pointed to Rinal's gift, which lay now in the cen-
ter of the empty dining table, outlined in the strange,
pale blue light that flooded through the windows.
"We must keep that in our safest vault. Remember
what the warrior said—if it is destroyed, we find our-
selves back again in our own space and time."

Bowgentle went over to the machine and gently
picked it up. "I will see that it is safe," he said.

When he had left, Hawkmoon turned again to look
through the window, fingering the Red Amulet.

"The warrior said that he would come again with a
message and a mission for me," he said. "I am in no
doubt now that I serve the Runestaff, and when the
warrior comes, I shall have to leave Castle Brass, leave
this sanctuary, and return again to the world. You
must be prepared for that, Yisselda."

"Let us not speak of it now," she said, "but cele-
brate, instead, our marriage."

"Aye, let us do that," he said with a smile. But he
could not shut entirely from his mind the knowledge

that somewhere, separated from him by subtle bar-
riers, the world still existed and was still in danger
from the Dark Empire. Though he appreciated the
respite, the time to spend with the woman he loved,
he knew that soon he must return to that world and
do battle once more with the forces of Granbretan.
But for the moment, he would be happy.