The Chronicles of Castle Brass

  'We must make better time,' Katinka van Bak told Hawkmoon as they sat in the tap-room of a good inn near the central square of the city. 'Else the passes in the Bulgar Mountains will be blocked to us and our whole journey will have no point.'

  'I wonder if it does have point,' Hawkmoon said, sipping a negus with some relish, holding the steaming winecup in his gloved hands. He had now changed beyond recognition from the creature he had become at Castle Brass, though all who had known him before that time would have recognised him immediately. His face had become strong again and muscles rippled beneath his silk shirt. His eyes were bright and healthy and his skin glowed. His long fair hair shone.

  'You wonder if you'll find Yisselda there?'

  'That, aye. And I wonder if the army is as strong as you thought. Perhaps they were lucky in the manner in which they overwhelmed your forces."

  'Why do you think this now?'

  'Because we have heard no rumours. No a single hint that anyone in these parts has received even an inkling of this force which occupies the Bulgar Mountains.'

  'I have seen this army,' Katinka van Bak reminded him. 'And it is vast. Believe me in that. It is powerful. It could take over the whole world. Believe me in that also.'

  Hawkmoon shrugged. 'Well, I do believe you, Katinka van Bak. But I still find it strange that no rumours have come to our ears. When we have spoken of this army there is never another who confirms what we say. It is no wonder that little attention is paid to us!'

  'Your brain sharpens,' said Katinka van Bak approvingly, 'but as a result you are less able to believe the fantastical!' She smiled. 'Is that not often the case?'

  'Often, aye.'

  'Would you turn back?'

  Hawkmoon studied the hot wine in his cup. 'It is a long journey home. But now I feel guilty, leaving my duties in the Kamarg to go upon this quest.'

  'You were not performing those duties very well,' she reminded him softly. 'You were not in a position to do so - mentally or physically.'

  Hawkmoon smiled grimly. 'That's true. I have benefited a great deal from this journey. Yet that does not change the fact that my responsibilities lie firstly in the Kamarg.'

  'It is a longer journey to the Kamarg, now, than it is to the Bulgar Mountains,' she said.

  'You were at first reluctant to go on this quest,' he said. 'But now you are the most anxious of us to complete it!'

  She shrugged. 'Say that I like to finish what I begin. Is that unusual?'

  'I would say it was typical of you, Katinka van Bak.' Hawkmoon sighed. 'Very well. Let's go to the Bulgar Mountains, then, as quickly as our horses will take us. And let us make haste back to the Kamarg when our errand is done. With information and the strength of the Kamarg we shall find a way of defeating those who destroyed your land. We'll confer with Count Brass who, almost certainly, will have returned by then.'

  'A sensible scheme, Hawkmoon.' Katinka van Bak seemed relieved. 'And now I'll to bed.'

  'I'll finish my wine and copy your example,' said Hawkmoon. He laughed. 'You still manage to lire me out, even now.'

  'Another month and our situation will be reversed,' she promised. 'Goodnight to you, Hawkmoon.'

  Next morning their horses' hooves galloped through shallow snow and more snow was falling from an overcast sky. But by the early afternoon the clouds had cleared and the sky was blue and empty over their heads while the snow had begun to melt. It was not a serious fall, but it was an omen of what they might expect to find when they approached the Bulgar Mountains.

  They rode through a hilly land which had once been part of the Kingdom of Wien, but so crushed had been that kingdom that its population had all but disappeared. Now grass had grown back on the burned ground and the many ruins were vine-covered and picturesque. Later travellers might come to marvel at such pretty relics, thought Hawkmoon, but he could never forget that they were the result of Granbretan's savage lust to rule the world.

  They were passing the remains of a castle which looked down on them from a rise above the path they followed when Hawkmoon thought he heard a sound from the place.

  He whispered to Katinka van Bak who was riding just ahead.

  'Did you hear it? From the castle?'

  'A human voice? Aye. I did. Could you hear the words?' She turned in her saddle to look back at him.

  He shook his head. 'No. Should we investigate?"

  'Our time runs short.' She pointed to the sky where more clouds were gathering.

  But by now they had both pulled in their horses and were still, looking up at the castle.

  'Good afternoon!'

  The voice was strangely accented but cheerful.

  'I had a feeling you would be passing this way, Champion.’

  And from the ruins now stepped a slim young man wearing a hat with a huge brim, turned up at one side. There was a feather stuck in the band. He wore a velvet jerkin, rather dusty, and blue velvet pantaloons. On his feet were soft doeskin boots. He carried a small sack over his back. At his hip was a plain, slender sword.

  And it was with horror that Dorian Hawkmoon recognised him.

  Hawkmoon found himself drawing his sword, though the stranger had offered him no harm.

  'What? You think me an enemy?' said the youth, smiling. 'I assure you that I am not.'

  'You have seen him before, Hawkmoon?' Katinka van Bak said sharply. 'Who is he?'

  He was the vision Hawkmoon had had when he lay upon his bed in Castle Brass, before the coming of the warrior woman.

  'I know not,' said Hawkmoon thickly. 'This has a terrible smell of sorcery to it. Dark Empire work perhaps. He resembles - he looks like an old friend of mine - yet there is nothing evidently the same about them ...'

  'An old friend, eh?' said the stranger. 'Well I am that, Champion. What do they call you in this world?'

  'I do not understand you.' Reluctantly Hawkmoon sheathed his sword.

  'It is often the case when I recognise you. I am Jhary-a-Conel and I should not be here at all. But such strange disruptions have been taking place in the multiverse of late! I was wrenched from four separate incarnations in as many minutes! And what do they call you, then?'

  'I still do not understand,' said Hawkmoon doggedly. 'Call me? I am the Duke von Koln. I am Dorian Hawkmoon.'

  'Then greetings again, Duke Dorian. I am your companion. Though for how long I shall remain with you I know not. As I say, strange disruptions are...'

  'You babble a considerable amount of nonsense, Sir Jhary," said Katinka van Bak impatiently. 'How came you to these parts?'

  'Through no volition of my own was I transported to this wasteland, madam.'

  Suddenly the young man's bag began to jump and writhe and Jhary-a-Conel lowered it gently to the ground, opening it and drawing out a small, winged black and white cat. The same Hawkmoon had seen in the vision.

  Hawkmoon shuddered. While he could find nothing to dislike about the young man himself, he had a terrible premonition that a-Conel's appearance heralded some unpleasant doom for him. Just as he could not see why he thought a-Conel resembled Oladahn, neither could he work out why other things were familiar, too. Echoes. Echoes like those which had convinced him that Yisselda still lived .. .

  'Do you know Yisselda?' he said tentatively. 'Yisselda of Brass?'

  Jhary-a-Conel frowned. 'I do not believe so. But then I know so many people and forget most of them, just as I might well forget you some day. That is my fate. As, of course, it is yours."

  ‘You speak familiarly of my fate. Why should you know more of it than do I?'

  'Because I do, in this context. Another time neither shall recognise the other. Champion, what calls you now?'

  As a Champion of the Runestaff, Hawkmoon was used to this form of address, though it was rare for most to use it. The rest of the sentence was a mystery to him.

  'Nothing calls me. I am upon a quest with this lady here. An urgent quest."

  'Then we must not delay. A moment."

  Jhary-a-Conel raced
back up the hill and into the ruined castle. A moment later he emerged leading an old yellow horse. It was the unloveliest nag Hawkmoon had ever seen.

  'I doubt if you would be able to keep up with us mounted on that creature," Hawkmoon said. 'Even if we had agreed that you should accompany us. And we have not agreed.'

  'But you will.' Jhary-a-Conel put a foot into a stirrup and swung himself into his saddle. The horse seemed to sag under his weight. 'After all, it is our fate to ride together.'

  'That may seem preordained to you, my friend,' said Hawkmoon grimly, 'but I share no such belief.' And yet, he realised, he did. It seemed to him that it was perfectly natural that Jhary should ride with them. At the same time he resented both Jhary's assumption and his own.

  Hawkmoon looked to Katinka van Bak to see what she thought. She merely shrugged. 'I've no objection to another sword riding with us,' she said.

  She cast a disdainful look at Jhary's horse. 'Not,' she added, 'that I think you'll be riding with us for long.'

  'We shall see,' Jhary told her cheerfully. 'Where do you ride?'

  Hawkmoon became suspicious. Suddenly it occured to him that this man might be a spy for those who now occupied the Bulgar Mountains.

  'Why do you ask?'

  Jhary shrugged. 'I wondered. I had heard of some trouble in the mountains to the east of here. A wild band who swoop down to destroy everything before returning to their retreat.'

  'I have heard a story like that," Hawkmoon admitted cautiously. 'Where did you hear it?"

  'Oh, from a traveller I met on the road.'

  At last Hawkmoon had heard confirmation of what Katinka van Bak had told him. He was relieved to find that she had not been lying to him. 'Well,' he said, 'we ride in that general direction. Perhaps we shall see for ourselves.'

  'Indeed,' said Katinka van Bak with a crooked smile.

  And now there were three riding for the Bulgar Mountains. A strange threesome, in truth. They rode for some days and Jhary's nag appeared to have no great trouble in keeping pace with the other horses.

  One day Hawkmoon turned to their new companion and asked him: 'Did you ever have occasion to meet a man called Oladahn? He was quite short and covered all over in red hair. He claimed to be kin to the Bulgar Mountain Giants (whom none, to my knowledge, has ever seen). An expert archer."

  'I've met many expert archers, among them Rackhir the Red Archer who is perhaps the greatest in all the multiverse, but never one called Oladahn. Was he a good friend of yours?'

  'My closest friend for a long while."

  'Perhaps I have borne that name," Jhary-a-Conel said frowning. 'I have borne many, of course. It seems vaguely familiar. Just as the name Corum or Urlik would seem familiar to you.'

  'Urlik?' Hawkmoon felt the blood leave his face. 'What know you of that name?'

  'It is your name. Or one of them, at least. As is Corum. Though Corum was not a human manifestation and would therefore be a little harder for you to recall.'

  'You speak so casually of incarnations! Do you really mean to claim you can recall past lives as easily as I can recall past adventures?'

  'Some lives. By no means all. And that is just as well. In another incarnation I might not remember this one, for instance. Yet my name has not changed, in this case, I note.'

  Jhary laughed. 'My memories come and go. Just as yours do. It is what saves us.'

  'You speak in riddles, friend Jhary.'

  'So you often tell me.' Jhary shrugged. 'Yet this adventure does seem a little different, I'll admit. I am in the peculiar situation, at present, of being shifted willy-nilly through the dimensions at present. Disruptions on a large scale - brought about by the experiments of some foolish sorcerer, no doubt. And then, of course, there is always the interest that the Lords of Chaos show when such opportunities are offered. I would imagine they are playing some part in this."

  'The Lords of Chaos? Who are they?'

  'Ah, it is something you must discover, if you do not know. Some say that they dwell at the end of time and their attempts to manipulate the universe according to their own desires are a result of their own world's dying. But that is a rather narrow theory. Others suggest that they do not exist at all, but are conjured up, periodically, by men's imaginations.'

  'You are a sorcerer yourself, Master Jhary?' asked Katinka van Bak, falling back to join them.

  'I think not.'

  'A philosopher at least,’ she said.

  'My experience moulds my philosophy, that is all.'

  And Jhary seemed to tire of the conversation and refused to be drawn further on that particular topic.

  'My only experience of the sort you hint at," said Hawkmoon, 'was with the Runestaff. Could the Runestaff be involved in what is happening in the Bulgar Mountains?'

  'The Runestaff? Perhaps.'

  Snow had fallen heavily on the great city of Pesht. Built of white, carved stone, the city had survived the Dark Empire sieges and now looked much as it had done before Granbretan had ridden out on her conquerings. Snow sparkled on every surface and its glare, as they approached at night under a full moon, made it seem that Pesht burned with white fire.

  They arrived at the gates after midnight and had some difficulty rousing the guard who let them in with a considerable amount of grumbling and querying their business in the city. Down broad, deserted avenues they rode, seeking the palace of Prince Karl of Pesht. Prince Karl had once courted Katinka van Blak and asked her to be his wife. They had been lovers for three years, the warrior woman had told Hawkmoon, but she would never marry him. Now he had married a princess from Zagredia and was happy. They were friends. She had stayed with him during her flight from Ukrainia. He would be surprised to see her.

  Prince Karl of Pesht was surprised. He arrived in his own ornate hall in a brocade dressing gown, his eyes still thick with sleep, but he was pleased to see Katinka van Bak.

  'Katinka! I thought you planned to winter in the Kamarg!'

  'That had been my plan.' She went forward and seized the tall old man's shoulders, kissing him swiftly on both cheeks in the military fashion, so that it seemed more as if she was presenting a soldier with a medal than greeting an ex-lover. 'But Duke Dorian here persuaded me to accompany him to the Bulgar Mounains.'

  'Dorian? The Duke of Koln. I have heard much of you, young man. It is an honour to have you under my roof." Prince Karl smiled as he shook Hawkmoon's hand. 'And this?'

  'A companion of the road,' said Hawkmoon. 'His name is a strange one. Jhary-a-Conel.'

  Jhary swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. 'An honour to meet the Prince of Pesht,' he said.

  Prince Karl laughed. 'A privilege to entertain any companion of the great Hero of Londra. This is wonderful. You will stay for some time?'

  'For the night only, I regret,' said Hawkmoon. 'Our business in the Bulgar Mountains is urgent.'

  'What could possibly take you there? Even the legendary mountain giants are all dead now, I gather.'

  'You have not told the prince?" said Hawkmoon in surprise, turning to Katinka van Bak. 'Of the raiders. I thought...'

  'I did not wish to alarm him,' she said.

  'But his city is not so distant from the Bulgar Mountains that it cannot be in danger of attack!' Hawkmoon said.

  'Attack? What is this? An enemy from beyond the mountains?' Prince Karl's expression changed.

  'Bandits,' said Katinka van Bak, darting a hard, meaning glance at Hawkmoon. 'A city of the size of Pesht has nothing to fear. A land so well defended as yours is under no threat."

  'But ...' Hawkmoon restrained himself. Plainly Katinka van Bak had a reason for not telling the Prince of Pesht all she knew. But what could that reason possibly be? Did she suspect Prince Karl of being in league with her enemies? If so, she should have warned him earlier. Besides, it was inconceivable that this fine old man would ally him with such a rabble. He had fought well and nobly against the Dark Empire and had been imprisoned for his pains, though he had not been subjected to the indignities n
ormally visited upon captured enemy aristocrats by the Dark Empire.

  'You will be weary from so much riding,' said Prince Karl tactfully. He had already ordered his servants to prepare rooms for his guests. 'You will want to seek your beds. I have been selfish in thinking only of my own pleasure at seeing you again, Katinka, and meeting this hero here.' He smiled and put his arm around Hawkmoon's shoulders. 'But at breakfast, perhaps, we can talk a little. Before you leave?'

  'It would please me greatly, sire," said Hawkmoon.

  And when Hawkmoon lay in a great bed in a well-appointed room in which a comfortable fire blazed, he watched the shadows playing on the rich tapestries which decorated the walls and he brooded for a few minutes on the reasons for Katinka van Bak's reticence before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The big sleigh could have taken a dozen armoured men and could have been sold for a fortune, for it was inlaid with gold, platinum, ivory and ebony, as well as precious jewels. The carvings cut into the wood of its frame were the work of a master. Hawkmoon and Katinka van Bak had been reluctant to accept the gift from Prince Karl, but he was insistent. 'It is what you will need in this weather. Your riding beasts can follow and thus be fresh when you need them.' Eight black geldings pulled the sleigh and they were clad in harness of black leather and fine silver. Silver bells had been fixed to the harness, but these had been muffled for obvious reasons.

  The snow was falling thickly and the roads which led to Pesht were all slippery with ice. It was logical to use a sleigh under such circumstances. The sleigh was piled with provisions, with furs, with a pavilion which could be quickly erected in even the worst weather. There were ancient devices, relatives to the flame-lances, on which food could be prepared. And there seemed enough food of all kinds to feed a small army. Prince Karl had not been expressing mere politeness when he had said he was delighted to receive them.

  Jhary-a-Conel felt no reluctance in accepting the sleigh. He laughed with pleasure as he climbed in and seated himself amidst a profusion of expensive furs. 'Remember when you were Urlik,' he said, addressing Hawkmoon, 'Urlik Skarsol, Prince of the Southern Ice. Bears drew your carriage then!'