Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (38 page)

he saw war engines of enormous size, huge flame cannon, 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 flamelance, 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 flashing 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, flamelances 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 flamelances; 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 flamelances 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 numbers 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 displayed 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 flamelance, 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 Meliadus 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 arranged 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 warriors 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 flamelance up and directed 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 another 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, expected 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 angry 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 began 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 figures 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 plaguestruck!"

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 galloped 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 flamelance, narrowly missing D'Averc. Behind them other flamelances 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 flamelances 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 flamelances did not cease, but they were geting 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 redhot, 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 fortunes 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 Granbretanian 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 Hawkmoon—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 Hawkmoon'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 philosopherpoet.

Bowgentle embraced Yisselda, then gripped Hawkmoon'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 without 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?"