The Mad God's Amulet

  When Oladahn saw the next man's head emerge over the side, he cursed and made to draw his sword, but Hawkmoon stopped him. 'He's our prisoner, and we might as well keep him alive, for he could be a useful bargaining counter if we are in trouble later.'

  'How sensible!' D'Averc exclaimed admiringly, then began coughing. 'Forgive me - my ordeal has desperately weakened me, I fear. A change of clothes, some hot grog, a good night's rest, and I'll be myself again.'

  You'll be lucky if we let you rot in the bilges,' Hawkmoon said. 'Take him below to our cabin, Oladahn.'

  Huddled in the tiny cabin that was dimly lit by a small lantern hanging from the roof, Hawkmoon and Oladahn watched D'Averc strip himself of his mask, armour and sodden undergarments.

  'How did you come to be on the raft, D'Averc?' Hawkmoon asked as the Frenchman fussily dried himself. Even he was slightly nonplussed by the man's apparent coolness. He admired the quality and even wondered if he did not actually like D'Averc in some strange way. Perhaps it was D'Averc's honesty in admitting his ambition, his unwillingness to justify his actions, even if, as recently, they involved casual murder.

  'A long story, my dear friend. The three of us - Ecardo, Peter, and I - left the men to deal with that blind monster you released upon us and managed to reach the safety of the hills. A little later the ornithopter we had sent to collect you arrived and began to circle, evidently puzzled by the disappearance of an entire city - as we were, I must admit; you must explain that to me later. Well, we signalled to the pilot, and he came down. We had already realized the somewhat difficult position we found ourselves in . . .'

  D'Averc paused. 'Is there any food to be had?'

  'The skipper has ordered some supper from the galley,' Oladahn said. 'Continue.'

  'We were three men without horses in a rather barren part of the world. As well, we had failed to keep you when we had captured you, and as far as we knew, the pilot was the only living man left who knew that we had done that . .

  'You killed the pilot?' Hawkmoon said.

  'Just so. It was necessary. Then we boarded his machine with the intention of reaching the nearest base.'

  'What happened?' Hawkmoon asked. 'Did you know how to control the ornithopter?'

  D'Averc smiled. You have guessed correctly. My knowledge is limited. We managed to gain the air, but then the wretched thing would not be steered. Before we knew it, it was carrying us off to the Runestaff knows where. I feared for my safety, I must admit. The monster behaved increasingly erratically, until at last it began to fall. I managed to guide it so that it landed on a soft riverbank, and we were barely hurt. Ecardo and Peter had become hysterical, quarrelling among themselves, becoming unbearable in their manners and most hard to control. However, we somehow managed to build a raft with the intention of floating down the river until we came to a town . . .'

  'That same raft?' Hawkmoon asked.

  'The same, aye.'

  ''Then how did you come to be at sea?'

  'Tides, my good friend,' D'Averc said with an airy wave of his hand. 'Currents. I had not realized we were so close to an estuary. We were swept along at a most appalling rate, carried far beyond land. On that raft - that damnable raft - we spent the next several days, with Peter and Ecardo whining at one another, blaming one another for their predicament when they should have blamed me. Oh, I cannot tell you what an ordeal it was, Duke Dorian.'

  'You deserved worse,' Hawkmoon said.

  There came a knock on the cabin door. Oladahn answered it and admitted a scruffy cabin boy carrying a tray on which were three bowls containing some kind of grey stew.

  Hawkmoon accepted the tray and handed D'Averc a bowl and a spoon. For a moment D'Averc hesitated; then he took a mouthful. He seemed to eat with great control. He finished the dish and replaced the empty bowl on the tray. 'Delicious,' he said. 'Quite perfect, for ship's cooking.'

  Hawkmoon, who had been nauseated by the mess, handed D'Averc his own bowl, and Oladahn, too, proffered his.

  'I thank you,' said D'Averc. I believe in moderation. Enough is as good as a feast.'

  Hawkmoon smiled slightly, once again admiring the Frenchman's coolness. Evidently the food had tasted as foul to him as it had to them, but his hunger had been so great that he had eaten the stuff anyway, and with panache.

  Now D'Averc stretched, his rippling muscles belying his claim to invalidism. 'Ah,' he yawned. 'If you will forgive me, gentlemen, I will sleep now. I have had a trying and tiring few days.'

  'Take my bed,' Hawkmoon said, indicating his cramped bunk. He did not mention that earlier he had noticed what had seemed to be a whole catalogue of lice nesting in it. 'I'll see if the skipper has a hammock.'

  'I am grateful,' D'Averc said, and there seemed to be a surprising seriousness about his tone that made Hawkmoon wheel away from the door.

  'For what?'

  D'Averc began to cough ostentatiously, then looked up and said in his old, mocking tone, 'Why, my dear Duke, for saving my life, of course.'

  In the morning the storm had died down, and though the sea was still rough it was much calmer than the previous day.

  Hawkmoon met D'Averc on deck. The man was dressed in coat and britches of green velvet but was without his armour. He bowed when he saw Hawkmoon.

  'You slept well?' asked Hawkmoon.

  'Excellently.' D'Averc's eyes were full of humour, and Hawkmoon guessed that he had been bitten a good many times.

  'Tonight we should make port,' Hawkmoon told him. 'You will be my prisoner - my hostage, if you like.'

  'Hostage? Do you think the Dark Empire cares if I live or die once I have lost my usefulness?'

  'We shall see,' said Hawkmoon, fingering the Jewel in his skull. 'If you attempt to escape, I shall certainly kill you - as coolly as you killed your men.'

  D'Averc coughed into the handkerchief he carried. 'I owe you my life,' he said. 'So it is yours to take if you would.'

  Hawkmoon frowned. D'Averc was far too devious for him to understand properly. He was beginning to regret his decision. The Frenchman might prove more of a liability than he had bargained for.

  Oladahn came hurrying along the deck. 'Duke Dorian,' he panted, pointing forward. 'A sail - and it's heading directly toward us.'

  'We're in little danger,' Hawkmoon smiled. 'We're no prize for a pirate.'

  But moments later Hawkmoon noticed signs of panic among the crew, and as the captain stumbled past, he caught his arm. 'Captain Mouso - what is it?'

  'Danger sir,' rasped the skipper. 'Great danger. Did you not read the sail?'

  Hawkmoon peered toward the horizon and saw that the ship carried a single black sail. On it was painted an emblem of some kind, but he could not make out what it was. 'Surely they'll not trouble us,' he said. 'Why should they risk a fight for a tub like this - and you said yourself we're carrying no cargo.'

  'They care not what we carry or don't carry, sir. They attack anything on the ocean on sight. They're like killer sharks, Duke Dorian - their pleasure is not in taking treasure, but in destruction!'

  'Who are they? Not a Granbretanian ship by the look of it,' D'Averc said.

  'Even one of those would probably not bother to attack us,' stuttered Captain Mouso. 'No - that is a ship crewed by those belonging to the Cult of the Mad God. They are from Ukrania and in recent months have begun to terrorize these waters.'

  'They definitely seem to have the intention of attacking,' D'Averc said lightly. 'With your permission, Duke Dorian, I'll go below and don my sword and armour.'

  'I'll get my weapons, too,' Oladahn said. 'I'll bring your sword for you.'

  'No point in fighting!' It was the mate, gesticulating with his bottle. 'Best throw ourselves in the sea now.'

  'Aye,' Captain Mouso nodded, looking after D'Averc and Oladahn as they went to fetch their weapons. 'He's right. We'll be outnumbered, and they'll tear us to pieces. If we're captured, they'll torture us for days.'

  Hawkmoon started to say something to the captain, then turned as h
e heard a splash. The mate had gone - as good as his word. Hawkmoon rushed to the side but could see nothing.

  'Don't bother to help him - follow him,' the skipper said, 'for he's the wisest of us all.'

  The ship was bearing down on them now, its black sail painted with a pair of great red wings, and in the centre of them was a huge, bestial face, howling as if in the throes of maniacal laughter. Crowding the decks were scores of naked men wearing nothing but sword belts and metal-studded collars. Drifting across the water came a weird sound that Hawkmoon could not at first make out. Then he glanced at the sail again and knew what it was.

  It was the sound of wild, insane laughter; as if the damned of hell were moved to merriment.

  'The Mad God's ship,' said Captain Mouso, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. 'Now we die.'

  7

  The Ring on the Finger

  Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and D'Averc stood shoulder to shoulder by the port rail of the ship as the weird vessel sped closer.

  The members of the crew had clustered around their captain, keeping as far as possible from the attackers.

  Looking at the rolling eyes and foaming mouths of the madmen in the ship, Hawkmoon decided that their chances were all but hopeless. Grappling irons snaked out from the Mad God's ship and bit into the soft wood of Smiling Girl s rail. Instantly the three men hacked at the ropes, severing most of them.

  Hawkmoon yelled to the captain, 'Get your men aloft - try to turn the ship.' But the frightened sailors did not move. 'You'll be safer in the rigging!' Hawkmoon shouted. They began to stir but still did nothing.

  Hawkmoon was forced to return his attention to the attacking ship and was horrified to see it looming over them, its insane crew clustering against the rail, some already beginning to climb over, ready to leap onto Smiling Girl's deck, cutlasses drawn. Their laughter filled the air, and bloodlust shone on their twisted faces.

  The first came flying down on Hawkmoon, naked body gleaming, sword raised. Hawkmoon's own blade rose to skewer the man as he fell; another twist of the sword and the corpse dropped down through the narrow gap between the ships, into the sea. Within moments the air was full of naked warriors swinging on ropes, jumping wildly, clambering hand over hand across the grappling lines. The three men stopped the first wave, hacking about them until everything seemed blood-red, but gradually they were forced away from the rail as the madmen swarmed onto the deck, fighting without skill but with a chilling disregard for their own lives.

  Hawkmoon became separated from his comrades, did not know if they lived or had been killed. The prancing warriors flung themselves at him, but he clutched his battle blade in both hands and swung it about him in a great arc, this way and that, surrounding himself with a blur of bright steel. He was covered in blood from head to foot; only his eyes gleamed, blue and steady, from the visor of his helmet.

  And all the while the Mad God's men laughed - laughed even as their heads were chopped from their necks, their limbs from their bodies.

  Hawkmoon knew that eventually weariness would overcome him. Already the sword felt heavy in his hands and his knees shook. His back against a bulkhead, he hacked and stabbed at the seemingly ceaseless wave of giggling madmen whose swords sought to slash the life from him.

  Here a man was decapitated, there another dismembered, but every blow drained more energy from Hawkmoon.

  Then, as he blocked two swords that struck at him at once, his legs buckled and he went down to one knee. The laughter grew louder, triumphant, as the Mad God's men moved in for the kill.

  He hacked upward desperately, gripping the wrist of one of his attackers and wrenching the sword away from him so that now he had two blades. Using the madman's sword to thrust and his own to swing, he managed to regain his footing, kicked out at another man, and scrambled away, to rush up the companionway to the bridge. At the top he turned to fight again, this time with an increased advantage over the howling madmen who crowded up the steps toward him. He saw now that both D'Averc and Oladahn were in the rigging, managing to keep their attackers at bay. He glanced toward the Mad God's ship. It was still held fast by grappling ropes, but it was deserted. Its entire crew was on board the Smiling Girl. Hawkmoon at once had an idea.

  He wheeled about, running from the warriors, leaped to the rail, and grabbed a rope that trailed from the cross-trees. Then he flung himself into space.

  He prayed that the rope would be long enough as he hurtled through the air, then let go, diving, it appeared, over the side of the ship. His grasping hands just managed to catch the rail of the enemy ship as he fell. He hauled himself onto the deck and began slashing at the grappling ropes, yelling 'Oladahn - D'Averc! Quickly - follow me!'

  From the rigging of the other ship the two men saw him and began climbing higher, to walk precariously along the main mast's yardarm while the men of the Mad God swarmed behind them.

  The Mad God's ship was already beginning to slide away, the gap between it and Smiling Girl widening rapidly.

  D'Averc jumped first, diving for the black-sailed ship's rigging and clutching a rope one-handed, to swing for an instant, threatening to drop to his death.

  Oladahn followed him, cutting loose a rope and swinging across the gap, to slide down the rope and land on the deck, where he fell spread-eagled on his face.

  Several of the insane warriors tried to follow, and a number actually managed to reach the deck of their own ship. Still laughing, they came at Hawkmoon in a bunch, doubtless judging Oladahn dead.

  Hawkmoon was hard put to defend himself. A blade slashed his arm, another caught his face below the visor. Then suddenly, from above, a body dropped into the centre of the naked warriors and began hewing around him, almost as much a maniac as they.

  It was D'Averc in his boar-headed armour, streaming with the blood of those he had slain. And now, at the back of their attackers came Oladahn, evidently only winded by his fall, yelling a wild mountain battle cry.

  Soon every one of the madmen who had managed to reach the ship was dead. The others were leaping from the deck of Smiling Girl into the water, still laughing weirdly, trying to swim after the ship.

  Looking back at Smiling Girl, Hawkmoon saw that miraculously most of her crew had apparently survived - at the last minute they had climbed to the safety of the mizzen mast.

  D'Averc raced forward and took the wheel of the Mad God's ship, cutting the lashings and steering away from the vainly swimming men.

  'Well,' breathed Oladahn, sheathing his sword and inspecting his cuts, 'we seem to have escaped lightly - and with a better ship.'

  'With luck we'll beat Smiling Girl into port,' Hawkmoon grinned. 'I hope she's still bound for Crimia, for she has all our possessions on board.'

  Skilfully, D'Averc was turning the ship about toward the north. The single sail bulged as it caught the wind and the boat left the swimming madmen behind. Even as they drowned, they continued to laugh.

  After they had helped D'Averc relash the wheel so that the ship continued roughly on course, they began to explore the ship. It was crammed with treasure evidently pillaged from a score of ships, but also there were all kinds of useless things - broken weapons and ships' instruments, bundles of clothing - and here and there a rotting corpse or a dismembered body, all piled together in the holds.

  The three men decided to get rid of the corpses first, wrapping them in cloaks or bundling up the various limbs in rags and tossing them overboard. It was disgusting work and took a long time, for some of the remains were hidden under mounds of other things.

  Suddenly Oladahn paused as he worked, his eyes fixed on a severed human hand that had become mummified in some way. Reluctantly, he picked it up, inspecting a ring on the little finger. He glanced at Hawkmoon.

  'Duke Dorian . . .'

  'What is it? Do not bother to save the ring. Just get rid of the thing.'

  'No - it is the ring itself. Look - it has a peculiar design . . .'

  Impatiently Hawkmoon crossed the dimly lit hold and
peered at the thing, gasping as he recognized it. 'No! It cannot be!'

  The ring was Yisselda's. It was the ring Count Brass had placed on her finger to mark her betrothal to Dorian Hawkmoon.

  Numbed with horror, Hawkmoon took the mummified hand, a look of incomprehension on his face.

  'What is it?' Oladahn whispered. 'What is it that so disturbs you?'

  'It is hers. It is Yisselda's.'

  'But how could she have come to be sailing this ocean so many hundreds of miles from the Kamarg? It is not possible, Duke Dorian.'

  'The ring is hers.' Hawkmoon gazed at the hand, inspecting it eagerly as realization struck him. 'But — the hand is not. See, the ring barely fits the little finger. Count Brass placed it on the middle finger, and even then it was a loose fit. This is the hand of some thief.' He wrenched the precious ring from the finger and threw the hand down. 'Someone who was in the Kamarg, perhaps, and stole the ring . . .' He shook his head. It's unlikely. But what is the explanation?'

  'Perhaps she journeyed this way - seeking you, maybe,' Oladahn suggested.

  'She'd be foolish if she did. But it is just possible. However, if that's the case, where is Yisselda now?'

  Oladahn was about to speak, when there came a low, terrifying chuckling sound from above. They looked up at the entrance to the hold.

  A mad, grinning face looked down at them. Somehow one of the insane warriors had managed to catch the ship. Now he prepared to leap down on them.

  Hawkmoon just managed to draw his sword as the madman attacked, sword slashing. Metal hit metal.

  Oladahn drew his own blade, and D'Averc came rushing up, but Hawkmoon shouted, 'Take him alive! We must take him alive!'

  As Hawkmoon engaged the madman, D'Averc and Oladahn resheathed their swords and fell on the warrior's back, grasping his arms. Twice he shook them off, but then he went down kicking as they wound length after length of rope around him. And then he lay still, chuckling up at them, his eyes unseeing, his mouth foam-flecked.

  'What use is he alive?' D'Averc asked with polite curiosity. 'Why not cut his throat and have done with him?'