Count Brass

  For some reason Hawkmoon felt singularly calm as he considered his situation. Instinct told him to bide his time, that the crucial moment of action would come quite soon. And for this reason he relaxed his body and took no notice of the guards with their flame-lances, concentrating on what Kalan and Taragorm were saying.

  'The pyramid is almost ready,' Kalan told Taragorm. 'But we must leave swiftly.'

  'Are we all to crowd into that thing?'. Count Brass said, and he laughed. Hawkmoon realised that Count Brass, too, was biding his time.

  'Aye,' said Taragorm. 'All.'

  And, as they watched, the pyramid began to expand until it was twice its size, then three times, then four and at last it filled the entire cleared space in the centre of the laboratory and suddenly Count Brass, Hawkmoon, Taragorm and the two mantis-masked guards were engulfed by the pyramid and stood within it while Kalan, suspended above their heads, continued to play with his odd controls.

  'You see,' said Taragorm. His voice was amused. 'Kalan's talents always lay in his understanding of the nature of space. Whereas mine, of course, lie in my understanding of time. That is why together we can produce such whimsicalities as this pyramid!'

  And now the pyramid was travelling again, shunting through the myriad dimensions of Earth. Once more Hawkmoon saw bizarre scenery and peculiar mirrorimages of his own world and many of them were not the same as those he had witnessed on his journey to Kalan's and Taragorm's half-world.

  And then it seemed they were in the darkness of limbo again. Beyond the flickering walls of the pyramid Hawkmoon could see nothing but solid blackness.

  'We are there,' said Kalan, and he turned a crystal control. The vessel began to shrink again, growing smaller and smaller until it could barely contain Kalan's body. The sides of the pyramid clouded and turned to the familiar brilliant white. Hanging in the blackness over their heads it seemed to provide no illumination beyond its immediate area. Hawkmoon could see nothing of his own body, let alone those of the others. He knew only that his feet stood upon smooth and solid ground and that his nostrils picked up a damp, stale smell. He stamped his foot upon the ground and the sound echoed and echoed. It seemed that they were in a cavern of some kind.

  Now Kalan's voice boomed from the pyramid.

  'The moment has come. The resurrection of our great Empire is at hand. We, who can bring life to the dead and death to the living, who have remained faithful to the old ways of Granbretan, who are pledged to restore her greatness and her domination over the whole world, bring the faithful ones the creature they most desire to see. Behold!'

  And suddenly Hawkmoon was engulfed in light. The source was a mystery, but the light blinded him and made him cover his eyes. He cursed as he turned this way and that, trying to avoid it.

  'See how he wriggles,' said Kalan of Vitall. 'See how he cringes, this, our arch-enemy!'

  Hawkmoon forced himself to stand still and open his eyes to the terrible light.

  A dreadful whispering was coming from all around him now, and a slithering, and a hissing. He peered about him, but could still see nothing beyond the light. The whispering grew to a murmur and the murmur to a muttering and the muttering to a roar and the roar became a single word, voiced by what must have been a thousand throats.

  'Granbretan! Granbretan! Granbretan!'

  And then there was silence.

  'Enough of this!' came the voice of Count Brass. 'Have done with—aah!'

  And now Count Brass, too, was surrounded with the same strange radiance.

  'And here is the other,' said Kalan's voice. 'Faithful, look upon him and hate him, for this is Count Brass. Without his help, Hawkmoon would never have been able to destroy that which we love. By treachery, by stealth, by cowardice, by begging the assistance of those more powerful than themselves, they thought they could destroy the Dark Empire. But the Dark Empire is not destroyed. She will grow stronger and greater still! Behold, Count Brass!'

  And Hawkmoon saw the white light surrounding Count Brass grow a peculiar blue colour and Count Brass's armour of brass glowed blue, too, and Count Brass clapped his gauntleted hands to his helmeted head and he opened his mouth and let out a scream of pain.

  'Stop!' cried Hawkmoon. 'Why torture him?'

  Lord Taragorm's voice came from near by, soft and pleased. 'Surely you know why, Hawkmoon?'

  And now brands flared and Hawkmoon saw that, indeed, they stood in a great cavern. And the five of them —Count Brass, Lord Taragorm, the two guards and himself—stood upon the top of a ziggurat raised in the centre of the cavern, while Baron Kalan in his pyramid hovered above their heads.

  And below there were at least a thousand masked figures, travesties of beasts, with heads of Pig and Wolf and Bear and Vulture, swarming below and screaming out now as Count Brass screamed and fell to his knees, still surrounded by the awful blue flame.

  And the leaping light of the brands showed murals and carvings and bas-reliefs which were, in the details of their obscenity, evidently of true Dark Empire workmanship. And Hawkmoon knew that they must be in Londra proper, probably in some cavern beneath a cavern, far below the foundations of the city.

  He tried to reach Count Brass, but the light around his own body stopped him.

  'Torture me!' cried Hawkmoon. 'Leave Count Brass and torture me!'

  And again came Taragorm's soft, sardonic voice. 'But we do torture you, Hawkmoon, do we not?'

  'Here is the one who brought us to the edge of annihilation!' came Kalan's voice from above. 'Here is the one who, in his pride, thought he had destroyed us. But we shall destroy him. And with his destruction will come an end to all restraint upon us. We shall emerge, we shall conquer. The dead shall return and lead us— King Huon . ..'

  'King Huon!' roared the masked crowd.

  'Baron Meliadus!' cried Kalan.

  'Baron Meliadus!' roared the crowd.

  'Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex!'

  'Shenegar Trott!'

  'And all the great heroes and demigods of Granbretan shall return!'

  'All! All!'

  'Aye—all shall return. And they shall have vengeance upon this world!'

  'Vengeance!'

  'The Beasts shall have vengeance!'

  And again, quite suddenly, the crowd fell silent.

  And again Count Brass screamed and tried to rise on his knees and beat at his body as the blue flame brought pain.

  Hawkmoon saw that Count Brass was sweating, that his eyes burned as if with fever, that his lips writhed.

  'Stop!' he cried. He tried to break through the light which held him, but again without success. 'Stop!'

  But now the beasts were laughing. Pigs giggled, dogs cackled, wolves barked and insects hissed. They laughed to see Count Brass in such pain and his friend in such helpless misery.

  And Hawkmoon realised they were trapped in a ritual —a ritual which had been promised these mask-wearers in return for their loyalty to the unregenerate lords of the Dark Empire.

  And what would the ritual lead to? He began to guess.

  Count Brass rolled upon the floor now, nearly falling over the edge of the ziggurat. And, every time he came close to the edge, something rolled him back to the centre. The blue flame ate at his nerves and his screams came louder and louder. He had lost all dignity, all identity, in that pain.

  Hawkmoon wept as he begged Kalan and Taragorm to desist.

  At last it stopped. Count Brass got shakily to his feet. The blue light faded to white and then the white light faded, too. Count Brass's face was taut. His lips were all bloody. His eyes had horror in them.

  'Would you kill yourself, Hawkmoon, to end your friend's agony?' Taragorm's taunting voice came from beside the Duke of Koln. 'Would you do that?'

  'So that is the alternative. Did your prognosis show you that your cause would triumph if I slew myself?'

  'It improves our chances. It would be best if Count Brass could be prevailed upon to kill you but, if he will not . . .' Taragorm shrugged. 'This is the
next best thing.'

  Hawkmoon looked towards Count Brass. For an instant their eyes met and he stared into yellow orbs that were full of agony. Hawkmoon nodded. 'I will do it. But first you must release Count Brass.'

  'Your own death will release Count Brass,' said Kalan from above. 'Be sure of that.'

  'I do not trust you,' Hawkmoon said.

  The beasts below watched on with bated breath as they waited for their enemy to die.

  'Will this be sufficient evidence of our faith?' The white light faded from around Hawkmoon, too. Taragorm took Hawkmoon's sword from the soldier who still held it. He handed it to Hawkmoon. 'There. Now you can kill me or kill yourself. Only be assured that if you kill me, Count Brass's torture will continue. If you kill yourself, it will cease.'

  Hawkmoon licked his dry lips. He looked from Count Brass to Taragorm to Kalan and to the blood-hungry crowd. To kill himself for the pleasure of these degenerates was loathsome. And yet, it was the only way to save Count Brass. But what of the rest of the world? He was too dazed to think of anything more, to consider any further possibilities.

  Slowly he shifted his sword in his hand until the pommel was upon the flagstones and the tip under his breastplate, resting against his flesh.

  'You will still perish,' Hawkmoon said. His smile was bitter as he contemplated the frightful crowd. 'Whether I live or die. You will perish because of the rot that is in your souls. You perished before because you turned inward upon each other as a response to the great danger which threatened you. You squabbled, beast against beast, as we attacked Londra. Could we have succeeded without your help? I think not.'

  'Be silent!' Kalan cried from his pyramid. 'Do what you have agreed to do, Hawkmoon, or Count Brass begins to dance again!'

  But then Count Brass's voice, deep and huge and weary, came from behind Hawkmoon.

  Count Brass said:

  'No!'

  'If Hawkmoon goes back on his word, Count Brass, then back comes flame and pain ...' said Taragorm, as one might address a child.

  'No,' said Count Brass. 'I'll suffer no more.'

  'You wish to kill yourself, too?'

  'My life means very little at this moment. It was because of Hawkmoon that I have suffered so. If he is to die, at least give me the pleasure of despatching him! I'll do what you wanted me to do in the first place. I see now that I have bore many ordeals for the sake of one who is, indeed, my enemy. Aye—let me kill him. Then I shall die. And I shall have died avenged.'

  The pain had plainly turned Count Brass mad. His yellow eyes rolled. His lips twisted back to reveal ivory teeth. 'I shall have died avenged!'

  Taragorm was surprised. 'This is more than I hoped for. Our faith in you, Count Brass, was justified, after all.' Taragorm's voice was gleeful as he took the brasshilted broadsword from the mantis-guard and handed it to Count Brass.

  Count Brass took his sword in both his great hands. His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Hawkmoon.

  'I shall feel better, taking an enemy with me,' said Count Brass.

  And he raised the long sword above his head. And his brass armour picked up the light from the brands and made his whole head and his whole body shine as if with fire.

  And Hawkmoon peered into those yellow eyes and knew that he saw death there.

  Chapter Four

  A Great Wind Blowing

  But it was not his own death that Hawkmoon saw.

  It was Taragorm's death.

  In an instant Count Brass had shifted his stance, shouted to Hawkmoon to take the guards, and brought the massive sword down upon the ornate clock-mask.

  There came a howl from below as the crowd understood what was happening. Beast-masks tossed from side to side as the Dark Empire creatures began to climb the steps of the ziggurat.

  Kalan cried out from above. Hawkmoon, reversing his sword swiftly, swept it round to knock the flamelances from the hands of the guards. They fell back. Kalan's voice continued to wail hysterically from the pyramid. 'Fools! Fools!'

  Taragorm was staggering. It was evidently Taragorm who controlled the white fire, for it flickered around Count Brass as he raised his sword for a second blow. Taragorm's clock was split, the hands buckled, but thehead beneath was evidently still intact.

  The sword smashed into the ruined mask and the two sides fell away.

  And there was revealed a head far smaller, in proportion, than the body on which it sat. A round, ugly head —the head of something which might have thrived during the Tragic Millennium.

  And then that tiny, round, white thing was lopped from its stalk by a sideswipe of Count Brass's sword. Taragorm was now most certainly dead.

  Beasts began to clamber onto the platform from all sides.

  Count Brass roared with battle-joy as his sword took lives, as blood splashed in the flame-light, as men screamed and fell.

  Hawkmoon was still engaged on the far side of the ziggurat with the two mantis-guards who had drawn their own swords.

  And now a great wind seemed to be blowing through the cavern, a whistling wind, a wailing wind.

  Hawkmoon drove his sword point first through the eyeslit of the nearest mantis-warrior. He tugged the sword free and slashed at the other, driving the edge into the neck so hard that it smashed through the metal and severed the jugular. Now he could try to reach Count Brass.

  'Count Brass!' he called. 'Count Brass!'

  Kalan was cackling in panic above. 'The wind!' he cried. 'The time-wind!'

  But Hawkmoon ignored him. He was bent on reaching his friend's side and dying with his friend if need be.

  But the wind blew still more strongly. It buffeted Hawkmoon. He found that he could barely move against it. And now beast-masked warriors of Granbretan were falling back, plunging over the sides of the ziggurat as the wind blew them, too.

  Hawkmoon saw Count Brass swinging his broadsword two-handed. The count's armour still shone like the sun itself. He had planted his feet upon a pile of those he had already slain and he was roaring with gigantic good humour as beasts came at him, slashing with swords and pikes and spears, his own blade moving with the regularity with which Taragorm's pendulum had once moved.

  And Hawkmoon laughed, too. This would be the way to die, if die they must. Again he fought against the wind, wondering from where it came as he struggled to reach Count Brass.

  But then he was picked up by it. He struggled as the ziggurat fell away below him and the scene became smaller and smaller, the figure of Count Brass himself so tiny that he could barely be seen now—and Kalan's white pyramid seemed to shatter as he passed it and Kalan screamed as he went tumbling down towards the fight.

  Hawkmoon tried to see what held him. But nothing visible held him at all. Only the wind.

  What had he heard Kalan call it? The time-wind?

  Had they, then, in slaying Taragorm, released other forces of space and time—perhaps created the chaos which Kalan's and Taragorm's experiments had brought so close?

  Chaos. Would he be blown forever upon this wind of time?

  But no—he had left the cavern and was in Londra itself. Yet this was not the reformed Londra. This was the Londra of the old, bad days—the crazy towers and minarets, the jewelled domes, built upon both sides of the blood-red River Thayme. The wind had blown him into the past. Metal wings clashed as ornate ornithopters flew by. There seemed to be much activity in this Londra. For what did they prepare?

  And again the scene shifted.

  Again Hawkmoon looked down upon Londra. But now a battle raged. Explosions. Flame. The shouts of the dying. He recognised it. This was the Battle of Londra.

  Down he began to tumble. Down and down until he could barely think and hardly knew who he was.

  And then he was Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln, a flashing mirror-helm upon his head, the Sword of the Dawn in his hand, the Red Amulet about his throat and a Black Jewel embedded in his skull.

  Again he was at the Battle of Londra.

  And he thought his new thoughts a
nd his old together as he spurred his horse into the fray. And there was a great pain in his head and he knew the Black Jewel gnawed at his brain.

  All about him men were fighting. The strange Legion of the Dawn, emitting its rosy aura, was driving through warriors who wore fierce wolf and vulture helms. All was confusion. Through his pain-glazed eyes Hawkmoon could hardly see what was happening. He glimpsed one or two of his Kamargian warriors. He saw two or three other mirror-helms flashing in the thick of the battle. He realised that his own sword arm was rising and falling, rising and falling as he beat off the Dark Empire warriors who were on all sides of him.

  'Count Brass,' he murmured. 'Count Brass.' He remembered that he sought to be at the side of his old friend, though he hardly knew why. He saw the barbaric Warriors of the Dawn, with their painted bodies, their spiked clubs and their barbed lances decorated with tufts of dyed hair, slicing through the massed ranks of the Dark Empire warriors. He looked about him, trying to see which of those who wore the mirror-helms was Count Brass.

  And still the pain in his skull grew and grew. And he gasped and wished that he could tear the mirrorhelm free from his own head. But his hands were already occupied with fending off those warriors who pressed about him.

  And then he saw something flash like gold and he knew it was the brazen hilt of Count Brass's sword and he spurred his horse through the throng.

  The man in the mirror-helm and the armour of brass was fighting three great Dark Empire lords. Hawkmoon saw him standing there in the mud, horseless and brave, while the three—Hound, Goat and Bull—rode down on him. He saw Count Brass swing his broadsword and cut at the legs of his opponents' horses so that Adaz Promp was thrown forward to land at Count Brass's feet and be swiftly slain. He saw Mygel Hoist trying to get his feet, his arms widespread as he begged for mercy. He saw Mygel Hoist's head fly from its shoulders. Now only one of the lords remained alive, Saka Gerden in his massive bull-helm, rising to his feet and shaking his head as the mirror-mask blinded him.