THE MAD GOD'S AMULET
For Jim Cawthorn, for his inspirations and his drawings
BOOK ONE
We have learned now how Dorian Hawkmoon, last Duke of Koln, one aspect of the Champion Eternal, 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 westward 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 Tarabulus, 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 peaceful 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 involve the destinies of some several human souls of disparate character and ambitions . . .
—The High History of the Runestaff
1
Soryandum
The city was old, begrimed by time. A place of wind-worn stones and tumbled 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 travellers came to it in the mellow haze of the morning, when a melancholy wind blew through the silence of the ancient streets. The hooves of the horses were hushed as the travellers led them between towers that were green with age, passed by ruins bright with blossoms of orange, ochre and purple. And this was Soryandum, deserted by its folk.
The men and their horses were turned all one colour by the dust that caked them, making them resemble 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 warrior. His long fair hair had been bleached near white by the sun, and his pale blue eyes had a hint of madness 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 Dorian 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, including 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 perplexed. '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's my first requirement. 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-grey 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 Euphrates flows and Tarabulus lies beyond it by about a week's journey. We'll rest here for today and tonight, 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 britches with flaring bottoms. Glad to be out of the heavier leather and iron he had worn for protection s sake while crossing the desert in case any of the Dark Empires 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 threatened.
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 Hawkmoon 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 h
e was answered 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 unmistakably an ornate ornithopter, wrought in the shape of a gigantic condor, enamelled in blue, scarlet, and green. No other nation on Earth possessed such vessels. It was a flying machine of the Dark Empire of Granbretan.
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.
2
Huillam D'Averc
Hawkmoon made for the shadows of the street, hoping that he had not been seen by the ornithopter.
Could the Granbretanians have followed him all the way across the desert? 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 vulnerable 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 journey 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 building 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 winding, 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 centre 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-surrounded 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 armour 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 deep-rooted psychological reliance on them.
The masks were of rust red and murky yellow, fashioned to resemble rampant wild boars, with fierce, jewelled 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, infamous 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 caricaturing 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 theatrical about the way he leaned on his men. 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 had 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 re-emerge almost at once with a struggling, snarling Oladahn.
Relieved, Hawkmoon watched as two of the boar-masked warriors dragged Oladahn close to the battlements. 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 yourself 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 jumping 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 Granbretan 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 Hawkmoon 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 mansonry 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 sacrifice.