'I know Count Brass and I know you. I know that Count Brass would not tell such a lie. In diplomacy he was cunning—we all know that. But to his friends he spoke only the truth.'
'Then what you saw was not Count Brass.'
'What I saw was Count Brass. His ghost. Count Brass as he was when I rode at his side holding his banner for him when we went against the League of Eight to Italia, two years before we came to the Kamarg. I know Count Brass . . .'
Hawkmoon frowned. 'And what was his message?'
'He waits for you in the marshes every night, there to take his vengeance upon you.'
Hawkmoon drew a deep breath. He adjusted his sword-belt on his hip. 'Then I will go to him tonight.'
Czernik looked curiously at Hawkmoon. 'You are not afraid?'
'I am not. I know that whoever you saw cannot be Count Brass. Why should I fear a fraud?'
'Perhaps you do not remember betraying him?' Czernik suggested vaguely. 'Perhaps it was all done by the jewel you once wore in your forehead? Could it be the jewel which forced you to such actions, so that when it was removed you forgot all that you had planned?'
Hawkmoon offered Czernik a bleak smile. 'I thank you for that, Czernik. But I doubt if the jewel controlled me to that extent. Its nature was somewhat different.' He frowned. For a moment he had begun to wonder if Czernik were right. It would be horrifying if it were true . . . But no, it could not be true. Yisselda would have known the truth, however much he might have tried to hide it. Yisselda knew he was no traitor.
Yet something was haunting the marshlands and trying to turn the folk of the Kamarg against him and therefore he must get to grips with it once and for all—lay the ghost and prove to people like Czernik that he had betrayed no one.
He said nothing more to Czernik but turned and strode from the tavern, mounting his heavy black stallion and turning its head towards the town gates.
Through the gates he went and out into the moonlit marsh, hearing the first distant, keening notes of the mistral, feeling its cold breath on his cheek, seeing the surface of the lagoons ripple and the reeds perform an agitated dance in anticipation of the wind's full force which would come a few days later.
Again he let his horse find its own route, for it knew the marsh better than did he. And meanwhile he peered through the gloom, looking this way and that; looking
for a ghost.
Chapter Two
The Meeting In The Marsh
The marsh was full of small sounds—scuttlings and slitherings, coughs, barks and hoots as the night animals went about their business. Sometimes a larger beast would emerge from the darkness and blunder past Hawkmoon. Sometimes there would be a heavy splash from a lagoon as a large fish-eating owl plunged upon its prey. But no human figure—ghost or mortal—was seen by the Duke of Koln as he rode deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Dorian Hawkmoon was confused. He was bitter. He had looked forward to a life of rural tranquillity. The only problems he had anticipated were the problems of breeding and planting, of the ordinary business of raising children.
And now this damned mystery had emerged. Not even a threat of war would have disturbed him half as much. War, albeit with the Dark Empire, was clean compared to this. If he had seen the brazen ornithopters of Granbretan in the skies, if he had seen beast-masked armies and grotesque carriages and all the other bizarre paraphernalia of the Dark Empire in the distance, he would have known how to deal with it. Or if the Runestaff had called him, he would have known how to respond.
But this was insidious. How could he cope with rumours, with ghosts, with old friends being turned against him?
Still the horned stallion plodded on through the marsh paths. Still there was no sign that the marsh was occupied by anyone other than Hawkmoon himself. He began to feel tired, for he had risen much earlier than usual in order to prepare himself for the festival. He began to suspect that there was nothing out here, that Czernik and the others had imagined it all, after all. He smiled to himself. He had been a fool to take a drunkard's ravings seriously.
And, of course, it was at that moment that it appeared to him. It was seated on a hornless chestnut war-horse and the warhorse was draped with a canopy of russet silk. The armour shone in the moonlight and it was all of heavy brass. Burnished brass helmet, very plain and practical; burnished brass breastplate and greaves. From head to foot the figure was clad in brass. The gloves and the boots were of brass links stitched upon leather. The belt was of brass chain brought together by a huge brass buckle and the belt supported a brass scabbard. In the scabbard rested something which was not of brass but of good steel. A broadsword. And then there was the face—the golden brown eyes, steady and stern, the heavy red moustache, the red eye-brows, the bronze tan.
It could be no other.
'Count Brass!' gasped Hawkmoon. And then he closed his mouth and studied the figure, for he had seen Count Brass dead on the battlefield.
There was something different about this man and it did not take Hawkmoon more than a moment to realize that Czernik had spoken the literal truth when he said it was the same Count Brass beside whom he had fought at the Dnieper Crossing. This Count Brass was at least twenty years younger than the one whom Hawkmoon had first met when he visited the Kamarg seven or eight years previously.
The eyes flickered and the great head, seemingly all of brazen metal, turned slightly so that those eyes now peered directly into Hawkmoon's.
'Are you the one?' said the deep voice of Count Brass. 'My nemesis?'
'Nemesis?' Hawkmoon uttered a sharp laugh. 'I thought you to be mine, Count Brass!'
'I am confused.' The voice was definitely the voice of Count Brass, but it had a slightly dreamy quality to it. And Count Brass's eyes did not focus with their old, familiar clarity upon Hawkmoon's.
'What are you?' Hawkmoon demanded. 'What brings you to the Kamarg?'
'My death. I am dead, am I not?'
'The Count Brass whom I knew is dead. He died at Londra more than five years since. I hear that I have been accused of that death.'
'You are the one called Hawkmoon of Koln?'
'I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln, aye.'
'Then I must slay you, it seems.' This Count Brass spoke with some reluctance.
For all that his head whirled, Hawkmoon could see that Count Brass (or whatever the creature was) was quite as uncertain of himself as was Hawkmoon at that moment. For one thing, while Hawkmoon had recognized Count Brass, this man had not recognized Hawkmoon.
'Why must you slay me? Who told you to slay me?'
'The oracle. Though I am dead now, I may live again. But if I live again I must ensure that I do not die at the Battle of Londra. Therefore I must kill the one who would lead me to that battle and betray me to those against whom I fight. That one is Dorian Hawkmoon of Koln, who covets my land and—and my daughter.'
'I have lands of my own and your daughter was betrothed to me before the Battle of Londra. Someone deceives you, friend ghost.'
'Why should the oracle deceive me?'
'Because there are such things as false oracles. Where do you come from?'
'From? Why, from Earth.'
'Where do you believe this place to be, in that case?'
'The netherworld, of course. A place from which few escape. But I can escape. Only I must slay you first, Dorian Hawkmoon.'
'Something seeks to destroy me through you, Count Brass—if Count Brass you be. I cannot begin to explain this mystery, but I believe that you think you really are Count Brass and that I am your enemy. Perhaps all is a lie—perhaps only part.'
A frown passed across the Count's brazen brow. 'You confuse me. I do not understand. I was not warned of this.'
Hawkmoon's lips were dry. He was so bewildered that he could barely think. So many emotions moved in him at the same time. There was grief for the memory of his dead friend. There was hatred for whoever it was sought to mock that memory. There was fear in case this should be a ghost. There was sympa
thy, should this really be Count Brass raised from the dead and turned into an automaton.
He began to suspect not the Runestaff now, but the science of the Dark Empire. This whole affair had the stamp of the perverse genius of the scientists of Granbretan. But how could they have affected it? The two great sorcerer-scientists of the Dark Empire, Taragorm and Kalan, were dead. There had been none to equal them while they lived, and none to replace them when they died.
And why did Count Brass look so much younger? Why did he seem unaware that he possessed a daughter?
'Not warned by whom?' said Hawkmoon insistently. If it came to a fight he knew that Count Brass could easily defeat him. Count Brass had ever been the best fighter in Europe. Even in late middle-age there had been no one who could begin to match him in a man-to-man sword engagement.
'By the oracle. And another thing puzzles me, my enemy to be; why, if you still live, do you, too, dwell in the netherworld?'
'This is not the netherworld. It is the land of the Kamarg. Do you not recognize it, then—you, who were its Lord Guardian for so many years—who helped defend it against the Dark Empire? I do not think you can be Count Brass.'
The figure raised a gauntleted hand to its brow in a gesture of puzzlement. "Think you that? Yet we have never met. . .'
'Not met? We have fought together in many battles. We have saved each other's lives. I think that you are a man who bears a resemblance to Count Brass, who has been trapped by some sorcery or other and taught to think that he is Count Brass—then despatched to kill me. Perhaps some remnants of the old Dark Empire still survive. Perhaps some of Queen Flana's subjects still hates me. Does that idea mean anything to you?'
'No. But I know that I am Count Brass. Do not confuse me further, Duke of Koln.'
'How do you know you are Count Brass? Because you resemble him?'
'Because I am him!' The man roared. 'Dead or alive—I am Count Brass!'
'How can you be, when you do not recognise me? When you did not even know you had a daughter? When you confuse this land of the Kamarg for some supernatural netherworld? When you recall nothing of what we went through together in the service of the Runestaff? When you believe that I, of all people, who loved you, whose life and dignity both were saved by you, should have betrayed you?'
'I know nothing of the events of which you speak. But I know of my travellings and of my battles in the service of a score of princes—in Magyaria, Arabia, Scandia, Slavia and the lands of the Greeks and Bulgars. I know of my dream, which is to bring unity to the squabbling princedoms of Europe. I know of my successes—aye, and of my failures, too. I know of the women I have loved, of the friends I have had—and of the enemies I have fought. And I know, too, that you are neither friend nor foe as yet, but will become my most treacherous enemy. On Earth I lie dying. Here I travel in search of the one who will finally take all I possess, including my very life.'
'And say again who has granted you this boon?'
'Gods—supernatural beings—the oracle itself—I know not.'
'You believe in such things?'
'I did not. Now I must, for the evidence is here.'
'I think not. I am not dead. I do not inhabit a nether-world. I am flesh and blood and so, by the looks of it, are you, my friend. I hated you when I first rode out to seek you. Now I see that you are as much a victim as am I. Return to your masters. Tell them that it is Hawkmoon who shall be avenged—upon them!'
'By Narsha's garter, I'll not be given orders!' roared the man in brass. His gloved right hand fell upon the hilt of his sword. It was a gesture typical of Count Brass. The expressions were Count Brass's too. Was this some terrible simulacrum of the Count, invented by Dark Empire science?
Hawkmoon was by now almost hysterical with bewilderment and grief.
'Very well, then,' he cried, 'let us go to it, you and I. If you are truly Count Brass you'll have little difficulty in slaying me. Then you will be content. And so will I, for I could not live with people suspecting that I had betrayed you!'
But then the man's expression changed and became thoughtful. 'I am Count Brass, be certain of that, Duke of Koln. But, as for the rest, it is possible that we are both victims of a plot. I have not merely been a soldier in my life, but a politician, too. I know of those who delight in turning friend against friend for their own ends. There is a slight possibility that you speak truth . . .'
'Well, then,' said Dorian Hawkmoon in relief, 'return with me to Castle Brass and we will discuss what we both know.'
The man shook his head. 'No. I cannot. I have seen the lights of your walled city and your castle above it. I would visit it—but there is something that stops me from so doing—a barrier. I cannot explain what its properties are. That is why I have been forced to wait for you in this damned marsh. I had hoped to get this business over with swiftly, but now . ..' The man frowned again. 'For all that I am a practical man, Duke of Koln, I have always prided myself on being a just one. I would not slay you to fulfil some other's end—not unless I knew what that end was, at any rate. I must consider all that you have said. Then, if I decide that you are lying to save your skin, I will kill you.'
'Or,' said Hawkmoon grimly, 'if you are not Count Brass, there is a good chance that I shall kill you.'
The man smiled a familiar smile—Count Brass's smile. 'Aye—if I am not Count Brass,' he said.
'I shall come back to the marsh at noon tomorrow,' said Hawkmoon. 'Where shall we meet?'
'Noon? There is no noon here. No sun at all!'
'In this you do lie,' Hawkmoon laughed. 'In a few hours it will be morning here.'
Again the man passed a gauntleted hand across his frowning brow. 'Not for me,' he said. 'Not for me.'
This puzzled Hawkmoon all the more. 'But you have been here for days, I heard.'
'A night—a long, perpetual night.'
'Does this fact, too, not make you believe you are the victim of a deception?'
'It might,' said the man. He gave a deep sigh. 'Well, come when you think. Do you see yonder ruin—on the hillock?' He pointed with a finger of brass.
In the moonlight Hawkmoon could just make out the shape of an old ruined building which Bowgentle had described as being that of a Gothic church of immense age. It had been one of Count Brass's favourite places. He had often ridden there when he felt the need to be alone.
'I know the ruin,' said Hawkmoon.
'Then meet me there. I shall wait as long as my patience lasts.'
'Very well.'
'And come armed,' said the man, 'for we shall probably need to fight.'
'You are not convinced of what I have said?'
'You have said nothing very much, friend Hawkmoon. Vague suppositions. References to people I do not know. You think the Dark Empire is bothered with us? It has more important matters to consider, I should think.'
'The Dark Empire is destroyed. You helped destroy it.'
And again the man grinned a familiar grin. 'That is where you are deceived, Duke of Koln.' He turned his horse and began to ride back into the night.
'Wait!' called Hawkmoon. 'What do you mean?'
But the man had begun to gallop now.
Wildly, Hawkmoon spurred his horse in pursuit. 'What do you mean?'
The horse was reluctant to go at such a pace. It snorted and tried to pull back, but Hawkmoon spurred the beast harder. 'Wait!'
He could just see the rider ahead, but his outline was becoming less well-defined. Surely he could not truly be a ghost?
'Wait!'
Hawkmoon's horse slipped in the slime. It whinnied in fear, as if trying to warn Hawkmoon of their mutual danger. Hawkmoon spurred the horse again. It reared. Its hind-legs began to slip in the mud.
Hawkmoon tried to control his steed, but it was falling and taking him with it.
And then they had both plunged off the narrow marsh road, broken through the reeds at the edge and fallen heavily into mud which gulped greedily and tugged them to itself. Hawkmoon tried to struggle
back to the bank, but his feet were still in his stirrups and one of his legs was trapped beneath the bulk of his horse's floundering body.
He stretched out and grabbed at a bunch of reeds, trying to drag himself to safety, he moved a few inches towards the path and then the reeds were wrenched free and he fell back.
He became calm as he realised that he was being pulled deeper and deeper into the swamp with every panicky movement.
He reflected that if he did have enemies who wished to see him dead he had, in his own stupidity, granted their wish, after all.
Chapter Three
A Letter From Queen Flana
He could not see his horse, but he could hear it.
The poor beast was snorting as the mud filled its mouth. Its struggles had grown much weaker.
Hawkmoon had managed to free his feet from the stirrups and his leg was no longer trapped, but now only his arms, his head and his shoulders were above the surface. Little by little he was slipping to his death.
He had had some notion of climbing on to the horse's back and from there leaping to the path, but his efforts in that direction had been entirely unsuccessful. All he had done was push the animal a little further under. Now the horse's breathing was ugly, muffled, painful. Hawkmoon knew that his own breathing would soon sound the same.
He felt completely impotent. By his own foolishness he had got himself into this position. Far from solving anything, he had created a further problem. And, if he died, he knew, too, that many would say that he had been slain by Count Brass's ghost. This would give credence to the accusations of Czernik and the others. It would mean that Yisselda herself would be suspected of helping him betray her own father. At best she could leave Castle Brass, perhaps going to live with Queen Flana, perhaps going to Koln. It would mean that his son Manfred would not inherit his birthright as Lord Guardian of the Kamarg. It would mean that his daughter Yarmila would be ashamed to speak his name.