The Chronicles of Castle Brass

  And, of course, it was at that moment that it appeared to him. It was seated on a hornless chestnut war-horse and the warhorse was draped with a canopy of russet silk. The armour shone in the moonlight and it was all of heavy brass. Burnished brass helmet, very plain and practical; burnished brass breastplate and greaves. From head to foot the figure was clad in brass. The gloves and the boots were of brass links stitched upon leather. The belt was of brass chain brought together by a huge brass buckle and the belt supported a brass scabbard. In the scabbard rested something which was not of brass but of good steel. A broadsword. And then there was the face—the golden brown eyes, steady and stern, the heavy red moustache, the red eye-brows, the bronze tan.

  It could be no other.

  'Count Brass!' gasped Hawkmoon. And then he closed his mouth and studied the figure, for he had seen Count Brass dead on the battlefield.

  There was something different about this man and it did not take Hawkmoon more than a moment to realize that Czernik had spoken the literal truth when he said it was the same Count Brass beside whom he had fought at the Dnieper Crossing. This Count Brass was at least twenty years younger than the one whom Hawkmoon had first met when he visited the Kamarg seven or eight years previously.

  The eyes flickered and the great head, seemingly all of brazen metal, turned slightly so that those eyes now peered directly into Hawkmoon's.

  'Are you the one?' said the deep voice of Count Brass. 'My nemesis?'

  'Nemesis?' Hawkmoon uttered a sharp laugh. 'I thought you to be mine, Count Brass!'

  'I am confused.' The voice was definitely the voice of Count Brass, but it had a slightly dreamy quality to it. And Count Brass's eyes did not focus with their old, familiar clarity upon Hawkmoon's.

  'What are you?' Hawkmoon demanded. 'What brings you to the Kamarg?'

  'My death. I am dead, am I not?'

  'The Count Brass whom I knew is dead. He died at Londra more than five years since. I hear that I have been accused of that death.'

  'You are the one called Hawkmoon of Koln?'

  'I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln, aye.'

  'Then I must slay you, it seems.' This Count Brass spoke with some reluctance.

  For all that his head whirled, Hawkmoon could see that Count Brass (or whatever the creature was) was quite as uncertain of himself as was Hawkmoon at that moment. For one thing, while Hawkmoon had recognized Count Brass, this man had not recognized Hawkmoon.

  'Why must you slay me? Who told you to slay me?'

  'The oracle. Though I am dead now, I may live again. But if I live again I must ensure that I do not die at the Battle of Londra. Therefore I must kill the one who would lead me to that battle and betray me to those against whom I fight. That one is Dorian Hawkmoon of Koln, who covets my land and—and my daughter.'

  'I have lands of my own and your daughter was betrothed to me before the Battle of Londra. Someone deceives you, friend ghost.'

  'Why should the oracle deceive me?'

  'Because there are such things as false oracles. Where do you come from?'

  'From? Why, from Earth.'

  'Where do you believe this place to be, in that case?'

  'The netherworld, of course. A place from which few escape. But I can escape. Only I must slay you first, Dorian Hawkmoon.'

  'Something seeks to destroy me through you, Count Brass—if Count Brass you be. I cannot begin to explain this mystery, but I believe that you think you really are Count Brass and that I am your enemy. Perhaps all is a lie—perhaps only part.'

  A frown passed across the Count's brazen brow. 'You confuse me. I do not understand. I was not warned of this.'

  Hawkmoon's lips were dry. He was so bewildered that he could barely think. So many emotions moved in him at the same time. There was grief for the memory of his dead friend. There was hatred for whoever it was sought to mock that memory. There was fear in case this should be a ghost. There was sympathy, should this really be Count Brass raised from the dead and turned into an automaton.

  He began to suspect not the Runestaff now, but the science of the Dark Empire. This whole affair had the stamp of the perverse genius of the scientists of Granbretan. But how could they have affected it? The two great sorcerer-scientists of the Dark Empire, Taragorm and Kalan, were dead. There had been none to equal them while they lived, and none to replace them when they died.

  And why did Count Brass look so much younger? Why did he seem unaware that he possessed a daughter?

  'Not warned by whom?' said Hawkmoon insistently. If it came to a fight he knew that Count Brass could easily defeat him. Count Brass had ever been the best fighter in Europe. Even in late middle-age there had been no one who could begin to match him in a man-to-man sword engagement.

  'By the oracle. And another thing puzzles me, my enemy to be; why, if you still live, do you, too, dwell in the netherworld?'

  'This is not the netherworld. It is the land of the Kamarg. Do you not recognize it, then—you, who were its Lord Guardian for so many years—who helped defend it against the Dark Empire? I do not think you can be Count Brass.'

  The figure raised a gauntleted hand to its brow in a gesture of puzzlement. "Think you that? Yet we have never met. . .'

  'Not met? We have fought together in many battles. We have saved each other's lives. I think that you are a man who bears a resemblance to Count Brass, who has been trapped by some sorcery or other and taught to think that he is Count Brass—then despatched to kill me. Perhaps some remnants of the old Dark Empire still survive. Perhaps some of Queen Flana's subjects still hates me. Does that idea mean anything to you?'

  'No. But I know that I am Count Brass. Do not confuse me further, Duke of Koln.'

  'How do you know you are Count Brass? Because you resemble him?'

  'Because I am him!' The man roared. 'Dead or alive—I am Count Brass!'

  'How can you be, when you do not recognise me? When you did not even know you had a daughter? When you confuse this land of the Kamarg for some supernatural netherworld? When you recall nothing of what we went through together in the service of the Runestaff? When you believe that I, of all people, who loved you, whose life and dignity both were saved by you, should have betrayed you?'

  'I know nothing of the events of which you speak. But I know of my travellings and of my battles in the service of a score of princes—in Magyaria, Arabia, Scandia, Slavia and the lands of the Greeks and Bulgars. I know of my dream, which is to bring unity to the squabbling princedoms of Europe. I know of my successes—aye, and of my failures, too. I know of the women I have loved, of the friends I have had—and of the enemies I have fought. And I know, too, that you are neither friend nor foe as yet, but will become my most treacherous enemy. On Earth I lie dying. Here I travel in search of the one who will finally take all I possess, including my very life.'

  'And say again who has granted you this boon?'

  'Gods—supernatural beings—the oracle itself—I know not.'

  'You believe in such things?'

  'I did not. Now I must, for the evidence is here.'

  'I think not. I am not dead. I do not inhabit a nether-world. I am flesh and blood and so, by the looks of it, are you, my friend. I hated you when I first rode out to seek you. Now I see that you are as much a victim as am I. Return to your masters. Tell them that it is Hawkmoon who shall be avenged—upon them!'

  'By Narsha's garter, I'll not be given orders!' roared the man in brass. His gloved right hand fell upon the hilt of his sword. It was a gesture typical of Count Brass. The expressions were Count Brass's too. Was this some terrible simulacrum of the Count, invented by Dark Empire science?

  Hawkmoon was by now almost hysterical with bewilderment and grief.

  'Very well, then,' he cried, 'let us go to it, you and I. If you are truly Count Brass you'll have little difficulty in slaying me. Then you will be content. And so will I, for I could not live with people suspecting that I had betrayed you!'

  But then the man's expres
sion changed and became thoughtful. 'I am Count Brass, be certain of that, Duke of Koln. But, as for the rest, it is possible that we are both victims of a plot. I have not merely been a soldier in my life, but a politician, too. I know of those who delight in turning friend against friend for their own ends. There is a slight possibility that you speak truth . . .'

  'Well, then,' said Dorian Hawkmoon in relief, 'return with me to Castle Brass and we will discuss what we both know.'

  The man shook his head. 'No. I cannot. I have seen the lights of your walled city and your castle above it. I would visit it—but there is something that stops me from so doing—a barrier. I cannot explain what its properties are. That is why I have been forced to wait for you in this damned marsh. I had hoped to get this business over with swiftly, but now . ..' The man frowned again. 'For all that I am a practical man, Duke of Koln, I have always prided myself on being a just one. I would not slay you to fulfil some other's end—not unless I knew what that end was, at any rate. I must consider all that you have said. Then, if I decide that you are lying to save your skin, I will kill you.'

  'Or,' said Hawkmoon grimly, 'if you are not Count Brass, there is a good chance that I shall kill you.'

  The man smiled a familiar smile—Count Brass's smile. 'Aye—if I am not Count Brass,' he said.

  'I shall come back to the marsh at noon tomorrow,' said Hawkmoon. 'Where shall we meet?'

  'Noon? There is no noon here. No sun at all!'

  'In this you do lie,' Hawkmoon laughed. 'In a few hours it will be morning here.'

  Again the man passed a gauntleted hand across his frowning brow. 'Not for me,' he said. 'Not for me.'

  This puzzled Hawkmoon all the more. 'But you have been here for days, I heard.'

  'A night—a long, perpetual night.'

  'Does this fact, too, not make you believe you are the victim of a deception?'

  'It might,' said the man. He gave a deep sigh. 'Well, come when you think. Do you see yonder ruin—on the hillock?' He pointed with a finger of brass.

  In the moonlight Hawkmoon could just make out the shape of an old ruined building which Bowgentle had described as being that of a Gothic church of immense age. It had been one of Count Brass's favourite places. He had often ridden there when he felt the need to be alone.

  'I know the ruin,' said Hawkmoon.

  'Then meet me there. I shall wait as long as my patience lasts.'

  'Very well.'

  'And come armed,' said the man, 'for we shall probably need to fight.'

  'You are not convinced of what I have said?'

  'You have said nothing very much, friend Hawkmoon. Vague suppositions. References to people I do not know. You think the Dark Empire is bothered with us? It has more important matters to consider, I should think.'

  'The Dark Empire is destroyed. You helped destroy it.'

  And again the man grinned a familiar grin. 'That is where you are deceived, Duke of Koln.' He turned his horse and began to ride back into the night.

  'Wait!' called Hawkmoon. 'What do you mean?'

  But the man had begun to gallop now.

  Wildly, Hawkmoon spurred his horse in pursuit. 'What do you mean?'

  The horse was reluctant to go at such a pace. It snorted and tried to pull back, but Hawkmoon spurred the beast harder. 'Wait!'

  He could just see the rider ahead, but his outline was becoming less well-defined. Surely he could not truly be a ghost?

  'Wait!'

  Hawkmoon's horse slipped in the slime. It whinnied in fear, as if trying to warn Hawkmoon of their mutual danger. Hawkmoon spurred the horse again. It reared. Its hind-legs began to slip in the mud.

  Hawkmoon tried to control his steed, but it was falling and taking him with it.

  And then they had both plunged off the narrow marsh road, broken through the reeds at the edge and fallen heavily into mud which gulped greedily and tugged them to itself. Hawkmoon tried to struggle back to the bank, but his feet were still in his stirrups and one of his legs was trapped beneath the bulk of his horse's floundering body.

  He stretched out and grabbed at a bunch of reeds, trying to drag himself to safety, he moved a few inches towards the path and then the reeds were wrenched free and he fell back.

  He became calm as he realised that he was being pulled deeper and deeper into the swamp with every panicky movement.

  He reflected that if he did have enemies who wished to see him dead he had, in his own stupidity, granted their wish, after all.

  Chapter Three

  A Letter From Queen Flana

  He could not see his horse, but he could hear it.

  The poor beast was snorting as the mud filled its mouth. Its struggles had grown much weaker.

  Hawkmoon had managed to free his feet from the stirrups and his leg was no longer trapped, but now only his arms, his head and his shoulders were above the surface. Little by little he was slipping to his death.

  He had had some notion of climbing on to the horse's back and from there leaping to the path, but his efforts in that direction had been entirely unsuccessful. All he had done was push the animal a little further under. Now the horse's breathing was ugly, muffled, painful. Hawkmoon knew that his own breathing would soon sound the same.

  He felt completely impotent. By his own foolishness he had got himself into this position. Far from solving anything, he had created a further problem. And, if he died, he knew, too, that many would say that he had been slain by Count Brass's ghost. This would give credence to the accusations of Czernik and the others. It would mean that Yisselda herself would be suspected of helping him betray her own father. At best she could leave Castle Brass, perhaps going to live with Queen Flana, perhaps going to Koln. It would mean that his son Manfred would not inherit his birthright as Lord Guardian of the Kamarg. It would mean that his daughter Yarmila would be ashamed to speak his name.

  '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 thi
s 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.