'I am a fool,' he said aloud. 'And a murderer. For I have slain a good horse besides myself. Perhaps Czernik was right—perhaps the Black Jewel made me do acts of treachery I cannot now remember. Perhaps I deserve to die.'
And then he thought he heard Count Brass ride by, mocking him with ghostly laughter. But it was probably only a marsh goose whose slumber had been disturbed by a fox.
Now his left arm was being sucked down. Carefully he raised it. Even the reeds were out of reach now.
He heard his horse give one last sigh as its head sank beneath the mud. He saw its body heave as it sought to draw breath. And then it was still. He watched as its torso slipped from sight.
Now there were more ghostly voices to mock him. Was that Yisselda's voice? The cry of a gull. And the deeper voices of his soldiers? The bark of foxes and marsh bears.
This deception seemed, at that moment, to be the cruellest of all—for his own brain deceived him.
Again he was filled with a sense of irony. To have fought for so long and so hard against the Dark Empire. To have survived terrifying adventures on two continents—only to die in ignominy, alone, in a swamp. None would know where or how he had died. His grave would be unmarked. There would be no statue erected to him outside the walls of Castle Brass. Well, he thought, it was a quiet way to die, at least.
'Dorian!'
This time the bird's cry seemed to call his name. He called back at it, echoing it 'Dorian!'
'Dorian!'
'My Lord of Koln,' said the voice of a marsh bear.
'My Lord of Koln,' said Hawkmoon in the same tone. Now it was completely impossible to free his left arm. He felt the mud burying his chin. The constricting mud against his chest made it that much harder for him to breath. He felt dizzy. He hoped that he might become unconscious before the mud filled his mouth.
Perhaps if he died he would find that he dwelled in some netherworld. Perhaps he would meet Count Brass again. And Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains. And Huillam D'Averc. And Bowgentle, the philosopher, the poet.
'Ah,' he said to himself, 'if I could be sure, then I would welcome this death a little more readily. Yet, there is still the question of my honour—and that of Yisselda. Yisselda!'
'Dorian!' Again the bird's cry bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife's voice. He had heard that dying men entertained such fancies. Perhaps for some it made death easier, but for him it made it that much harder.
'Dorian! I thought I heard you speak. Are you near by? What has happened.'
Hawkmoon called back to the bird. 'I am in the marsh, my love, and I am dying. Tell them that Hawkmoon was not a traitor. Tell them he was not a coward. Tell them, instead, that he was a fool!'
The reeds near the bank began to rustle. Hawkmoon looked towards them, expecting to see a fox. That would be terrible, to be attacked even as the mud dragged him under. He shuddered.
And then there was a human face peering at him through the reeds. And it was a face he recognised.
'Captain?'
'My lord,' said Captain Josef Vedla. Then his face turned away as he spoke to someone behind him. 'You were right, my lady. He is here. And almost completely under.' A brand flared as Vedla extended it out as far as he could stretch, peering at Hawkmoon to see just how far he was buried. 'Quickly, men—the rope.'
'I am pleased to see you, Captain Vedla. Is my lady Yisselda with you, too?'
'I am, Dorian.' Her voice was tense. 'I found Captain Vedla and he took me to the tavern where Czernik was. It was Czernik who told us that you had ventured into the marsh. So we gathered what men we could and came to find you.'
'I am grateful,' said Hawkmoon, 'though I should not have been if I had not acted so foolishly—ugh!' The mud had reached his mouth.
A rope was flung towards him. With his free right hand he just managed to grasp it and stick his wrist through the loop.
'Pull away,' he said, and groaned as the noose tightened on his wrist and he felt as if his arm were being dragged from its socket.
Slowly his body emerged from the mud, which was reluctant to give up its feast, until he was able to sit gasping on the bank while Yisselda, careless that he was covered in the slimy, stinking stuff from head to toe, embraced him, sobbing. 'We thought you dead.'
'I thought myself dead,' he said. 'Instead I have killed one of my best horses. I deserve to die.'
Captain Vedla was looking nervously about him. Unlike the guardians who were Kamarg bred, he had never been much attracted to the marsh, even in daylight.
'I saw the fellow who calls himself Count Brass.' Hawkmoon addressed Captain Vedla.
'And you killed him, my lord?'
Hawkmoon shook his head. 'I think he's some play-actor who bears a strong resemblance to Count Brass.
But he is not Count Brass—living or dead—of that I'm almost certain. He's too young, for one thing. And he has not been properly educated in his part. He does not know the name of his daughter. He knows nothing of the Kamarg. Yet, I think, there is no malice in the fellow. He might be mad, but more likely he's been mesmerised into believing that he is Count Brass. Some Dark Empire trouble-makers, I'd guess, out to discredit me and avenge themselves at the same time.'
Vedla looked relieved. 'At least I will have something to tell the gossip-mongers,' he said. 'But this fellow must have had a startling resemblance to the old Count if he deceived Czernik.'
'Aye—he was everything—expressions, gestures and so on. But there is something a little vague about his manner—as if he is in a dream. That is what led me to suspect that he is not, himself, acting maliciously but has been put up to this by others.' Hawkmoon got up.
'Where is this impostor now?' Yisselda asked.
'He disappeared into the marsh. I was following him—at too great a speed—when this happened to me.' Hawkmoon laughed. 'I had become so worried, you know, that I thought for a moment he really had disappeared—like a ghost.'
Yisselda smiled. 'You can have my horse,' she said. 'I will ride on your lap, as I have done more than once before.'
And in a much relaxed mood the small party returned to Castle Brass.
By the next morning the story of Dorian Hawkmoon's encounter with the 'play-actor' had spread throughout the town and among the ambassadorial guests in the castle. It had become a joke. Everyone was relieved to be able to laugh, to mention it without danger of giving offence to Hawkmoon. And the festivities went on, growing wilder as the wind blew stronger. Hawkmoon, now that he had nothing to fear for his honour, decided to make the false Count Brass wait for a day or two and this he did, throwing himself completely into the merry-making.
But then, one morning at breakfast, while Hawkmoon and his guests decided on their plans for that day, young Lonson of Shkarlan came down with a letter in his hand. The letter bore many seals and looked most impressive. 'I received this today, my lord,' said Lonson. 'It came by ornithopter from Londra. It is from the queen herself.'
'News from Londra. Splendid.' Hawkmoon accepted the letter and began to break the seals. 'Now, Prince Lonson, sit and break your fast while I read.'
Prince Lonson smiled and, at Yisselda's suggestion, sat beside the lady of the castle, helping himself to a steak from the platter before him.
Hawkmoon began to read Queen Flana's letter. There was general news of the progress of her schemes for farming large areas of her nation. These seemed to be going well. Indeed, in some cases they had surpluses which they were able to trade with Normandia and Hanoveria, whose own farming was going well, too. But it was towards the end of the letter that Hawkmoon began to give it more attention.
'And so we come to the only unpleasant detail of this letter, my dear Dorian. It seems that my efforts to rid my country of reminders of its dark past have not been entirely successful. Mask-wearing has sprung up again. There has been some attempt, I gather, to re-form some of the old Beast Orders—particularly the Order of the Wolf of which, you will recall, Baron Meliadus was Grand Master. Some of my own agents have
, upon occasions, been able to disguise themselves as members of the cult and gain entry to meetings. An oath is sworn which might amuse you (I hope, indeed, that it will not disturb you!)—as well as swearing to bring back the Dark Empire in all its glory, to oust me from my throne and to destroy all those loyal to me, they also swear vengeance upon you and your family. Those who survived the Battle of Londra, they say, must all be wiped out. In your secure Kamarg, I doubt if you are in much danger from a few Granbretanian dissidents, so I advise you to continue to sleep well! I know for certain that these secret cults are not much popular and only flourish in those parts of Londra not yet rebuilt. The great majority of the people —aristocrats and commoners alike—have taken happily to rural life and to parliamentary government. It was our old way to rule thus, when Granbretan was sane. I hope that we are sane again and that, soon, even those few pockets of insanity will be cleansed from our society. One other peculiar rumour, which my agents have been unable to verify, is that some of the worst of the Dark Empire lords are still alive somewhere and waiting to resume their "rightful place as rulers of Granbretan". I cannot believe this—it seems to be a typical legend invented by the disinherited. There must be a thousand heroes sleeping in caves all over Granbretan alone, waiting to spring to somebody's assistance when the time is ripe (why is it never ripe, I wonder!). To be on the safe side, my agents are trying to find the source of these rumours, but several, I regret to say, have already died as the cultists discover their true identities. It should take several months, but I think we shall soon be completely rid of the mask-wearers, particularly since the dark places they prefer to inhabit are being torn down very rapidly indeed.'
'Is there disturbing news in Flana's letter?' Yisselda asked her husband as he folded the parchment.
He shook his head. 'Not really. It just fits with something that I heard recently. She says that mask-wearing has sprung up again in Londra.'
'But that is bound to happen for a while, surely? Is it widespread?'
'Apparently not.'
Prince Lonson laughed. 'There is surprisingly little of it, my lady, I assure you. Most of the ordinary people were only too pleased to rid themselves of uncomfortable masks and heavy clothes. This is true, too, of the nobility—save for the few who were members of warrior-castes and still survived (happily there were not many).'
'Flana says that there are rumours of some of the prime movers among them still being alive,' said Hawkmoon quietly.
'Impossible. You slew Baron Meliadus himself—split, Duke of Koln, from shoulder to groin!'
One or two of the other guests looked rather put out by Prince Lonson's remark. He apologised profusely. 'Count Brass,' he continued, 'despatched Adaz Promp and several more. Shenegar Trott you also slew, in Dnark, before the Runestaff. And the others—Mikosevaar, Nankenseen and the rest—all are dead. Taragorm died in an explosion and Kalan killed himself. What others are left?'
Hawkmoon frowned. 'All I can think of are Taragorm and Kalan,' he said. 'They are the only two whose deaths were unwitnessed.'
'But Taragorm died in an explosion of Kalan's battlemachine. None could have survived it.'
'You are right.' Hawkmoon smiled. 'It is silly to speculate like this. There are better things to do.'
And again he turned his attention to the day's festivities.
But that night, he knew, he would ride out to the nun and confront the one who called himself Count Brass.
Chapter Four
A Company Of The Dead
Thus it was at sunset that Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln, Lord Guardian of the Kamarg, rode out again upon the winding marsh roads, deep into his domain, watching the scarlet flamingoes wheel, seeing the herds of white bulls and horned horses in the distance, like clouds of fast-flowing smoke passing through the green and tawny reeds, seeing the lagoons turned to pools of blood by the red and sinking sun. Breathing the sharp air borne by the mistral, and coming at last to a small hill on which stood a ruin of immense age—a ruin around which ivy, purple and amber, climbed. And there, as the last rays of the sun died, Dorian Hawkmoon dismounted from his horned horse and waited for a ghost to come.
The wind tugged at his high-collared cloak. It blew at his face and froze his lips. It made the hairs of his horse's coat ripple like water. It keened across the wide, flat marshlands. And, as the day animals began to compose themselves for slumber, and before the night animals began to merge, there fell upon the great Kamarg a terrible stillness.
Even the wind dropped. The reeds no longer rustled. Nothing moved.
And Hawkmoon waited on.
Much later he heard the sound of a horse's hooves on the damp marshland ground. A muffled sound. He reached over to his left hip and loosened his broadsword in its scabbard. He was in armour now. Steel armour which had been made to fit every contour of his body. He brushed hair from his eyes and adjusted his plain helm—as plain as Count Brass's own. He threw back the cloak from his shoulders so that it should not encumber his movements.
But there was more than one horseman approaching. He listened carefully. The moon was full tonight but the riders came from the other side of the ruin and he could see nothing of them. He counted. Four horsemen, by the sound of it. So—the impostor had brought allies. It had been a trap, after all. Hawkmoon sought cover. The only cover was in the ruin itself. Cautiously he moved towards it, clambering over the old, worn stones until he was certain that he was hidden from anyone who came from either side of the hill. Only the horse betrayed his presence.
The riders came up the hill. He could see them now, in silhouette. They rode their horses straight-backed. There was a pride in their stance. Who could they be?
Hawkmoon saw a glint of brass and knew that one of them was the false Count. But the other three wore no distinctive armour. They reached the top of the hill and saw his horse.
He heard the voice of Count Brass calling:
'Duke von Koln?'
Hawkmoon did not reply.
He heard another voice. A languid voice. 'Perhaps he has gone to relieve himself in yonder ruin?'
And, with a shock, Hawkmoon recognised that voice too.
It was the voice of Huillam D'Averc. Dead D'Averc, who had died so ironically in Londra.
He saw the figure approach, a handkerchief in one hand, and he recognised the face, too. It was D'Averc's. Then Hawkmoon knew, terrifyingly, who the other two riders were.
'Wait for him. He said he'd come, did he not, Count Brass?' Bowgentle was speaking now.
'Aye. He said so.'
'Then I hope he hurries, for this wind bites even through my thick pelt.' Oladahn's voice.
And Hawkmoon knew then that this was a nightmare, whether he slept or whether he was awake. It was the most painful experience of his life to see those who so closely resembled his dead friends walking and talking as they had walked and talked in each other's company some five years since. Hawkmoon would have given his own life if it would have brought them back, but he knew that it was impossible. No kind of resurrection drug could revive one who, like Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains, had been torn to pieces and those pieces scattered. And there were no signs of wounds on the others, either.
'I shall catch a chill, that's certain—and die a second time, perhaps.' This was D'Averc, typically thoughtful for his own health, which was as robust as anyone's. Were these ghosts?
'What has brought us together, I wonder,' mused Bowgentle. 'And to such a bleak and sunless world? We met once, I believe, Count Brass—at Rouen, was it not? At the Court of Hanal the White?'
'I believe so.'
'By the sound of him, this Duke of Koln is worse than Hanal for indiscriminate bloodletting. The only thing we have in common, as far as I can tell, is that we shall all die by his hand if we do not kill him now. Yet, it is hard to believe . . .'
'He suggested that we were the victims of a plot, as I told you,' said Count Brass. 'It could be true.'
'We are victims of something, that's certain,' said
D'Averc, blowing his nose delicately upon his lacey handkerchief. 'But I agree that it would be best to discuss the matter with our murderer before we despatch him. What if we kill him and nothing comes of it—we remain in this dreadful, gloomy place for eternity—with him as a companion, for he'll be dead, too.'
'How did you come to die?' Oladahn asked almost conversationally.
'A sordid death—a mixture of greed and jealousy was my undoing. The greed was mine. The jealousy another's.'
'You intrigue us all,' laughed Bowgentle.
'A mistress of mine was, it happened, married to another gentleman. She was a splendid cook—her range of recipes was incredible, my friends, both at the stove and in the bed, if you follow me. Well, I was staying with her for a week while her husband was away at Court—this was in Hanoveria where I myself had business at the time. The week was splendid, but it came to an end, for her husband was due to return that night. To console me, my mistress cooked a splendid supper. A triumph! She never cooked a better. There were snails and soups and goulashes and little birds in exquisite sauces and souffles—well, I see I discomfort you and I apologise . . . The meal, in short, was superb. I had more than is good for one of my delicate health and then I begged my mistress while there was still time to favour me with her company in bed for just one short hour, since her husband was not due back for two. With some reluctance she agreed. We fell into bed. We rounded off the meal in ecstasy. We fell asleep. So fast asleep, I might add, that we were only awakened by her husband shaking us awake!'
'And he killed you, eh?' said Oladahn.
'In a manner of speaking. I leapt up. I had no sword. I had no cause to kill him, either, of course, since he was the injured party (and I've a strong sense of justice). Up I jumped and out of the window I dashed. No clothes. Lots of rain. Five miles back to my own lodgings. Result, of course, pneumonia.'
Oladahn laughed and the sound of his merriment was agonising to Hawkmoon. 'Of which you died?'
'Of which, to be accurate, if that peculiar oracle is correct, I am dying, while my spirit sits on a windy hill and is no better off, it seems!' D'Averc went to shelter beside the ruin and was not five feet from where Hawkmoon crouched. 'How did you come to die, my friend?'