The Mad God''s Amulet

  'Eyes!' Hawkmoon said in revulsion, then relaxed and smiled as he saw Oladahn holding up a handful of jewels he had prised from the Granbretanians' masks.

  'Well,' said D'Averc, 'we need provisions desperately, and the Lady Yisselda needs some clothing. Who'll stand least chance attracting attention if he goes into a town when we get to Carpathia?'

  Hawkmoon gave him a sardonic glance. 'Why, you, of course, Sir Huillam, without your Dark Empire accessories. For I, as I am sure you would have pointed out, have this damned Black Jewel to label me, and Oladahn has his furry face. But you are still my prisoner . . .'

  'I am aggrieved, Duke Dorian. I thought us allies - united against a common enemy, united by blood, by saving each other's lives . . .'

  'You have not saved mine, as I recall.

  'Not specifically, I suppose. Still ...'

  'And I am not disposed to give you a handful of jewels and set you free,' Hawkmoon continued, adding in a more sombre tone, 'Besides, I'm not in a trusting mood today.'

  'You would have my word, Duke Dorian,' D'Averc said lightly, though his eyes seemed to harden slightly.

  Hawkmoon frowned.

  'He has proved himself our friend in several fights,' Oladahn said softly.

  Hawkmoon sighed. 'Forgive me, D'Averc. Very well, when we reach Carpathia, you will buy us what we need.'

  D'Averc began to cough. 'This damnable air. It will be the death of me.'

  They rode on, the horned cats loping at a more gentle pace than the previous day's but still making faster speed than any horse. They left the great forest by midday and by evening saw in the distance the mountains of Carpathia at the same time as Yisselda pointed north, indicating the tiny figures of riders approaching them.

  'They've seen us,' Oladahn said, 'and seem to be planning to ride at an angle to cut us off.'

  Hawkmoon flicked his whip over the flanks of the huge beasts drawing the chariot. 'Faster!' he shouted, and almost at once the chariot began to gather speed.

  A little later D'Averc called above the rumble and rattle of the wheels, 'They're Dark Empire riders - no doubt of that. Order of the Walrus if I'm not mistaken.'

  'The King-Emperor must be planning a serious invasion of Ukrania,' Hawkmoon said. 'There's no other reason for so many bands of Dark Empire warriors here. That means he has almost certainly consolidated all conquests farther west and south.'

  'Save for the Kamarg, I hope,' said Yisselda.

  The race continued, with the horsemen gradually drawing nearer, riding, as they were, at an angle to the chariot's course.

  Hawkmoon smiled grimly, letting the riders think they were catching them. Ready with your bow, Oladahn,' he said. 'Here's an opportunity for target practice.'

  As the horsemen, in grotesque, grinning walrus masks of ebony and ivory, drew close, Oladahn nocked an arrow to string and let fly. A rider fell, and a few javelins hurtled toward the chariot but dropped short. Three more members of the Walrus Order died from Oladahn's arrows before they were outdistanced and the jaguars were hauling their burden into the first foothills of the Carpathian Mountains.

  Within two hours it was dark and they decided it was safe to camp.

  Three days later they contemplated the rocky side of a mountain and knew that they would have to abandon both beasts and chariot if they were to cross the range at all. They would have to travel on foot; there was no alternative.

  The terrain had become increasingly difficult for the mutant jaguars, and the mountainside ahead was impossible for them to climb dragging the chariot. They had tried to find a pass, had wasted two days looking for one, but there was none.

  Meanwhile, if they were pursued, their pursuers would be almost upon them by now. There was no doubt in their minds that Hawkmoon had been recognized as the man whom the King-Emperor Huon had sworn to destroy. Therefore, Dark Empire warriors, interested in elevating themselves in the eyes of their master, would be eager to seek him out.

  So they began to climb, stumbling up the steep face of the mountain, leaving the unharnessed beasts behind them.

  When they were nearing a ledge that seemed to extend for some distance around the mountain and offer a relatively easy path, they heard the rattle of weapons and hooves and saw the same walrus-masked riders who had pursued them on the plain come riding from behind some rocks below.

  'Their javelins are bound to get us at this range, D'Averc said grimly. 'And there's no cover.'

  But Hawkmoon smiled thinly. 'There is still one thing,' he said, and raised his voice. 'At them, my beasts - kill them, my cats! Obey me, in the name of the amulet!'

  The mutant cats turned their baleful eyes on the newcomers, who were so jubilant at seeing their victims exposed that they hardly noticed the horned jaguars. The leader raised his javelin.

  And the cats leaped.

  Yisselda did not look back as the terrified screams filled the air and the bloodcurdling snarls echoed through the quiet mountains as the Mad God's beasts first killed and then fed.

  By the next day they had crossed the mountains and come to a green valley with a little red town that was very peaceful.

  D'Averc looked down at the town and held out his hand to Oladahn. 'The jewels, if you please, friend Oladahn. By the Runestaff, I feel naked in just shirt and britches!' He took the jewels, tossed them in his palm, winked at Hawkmoon, and set off for the village.

  They lay in the grass and watched him walk down whistling and enter the street; then he disappeared.

  They waited for four hours. Hawkmoon's face began to grow grim, and he glanced resentfully at Oladahn, who pursed his lips and shrugged.

  And then D'Averc reappeared, but he had others with him. With a shock, Hawkmoon realized they were Dark Empire troops. Men of the feared Order of the Wolf, Baron Meliadus's old Order. Had they recognized D'Averc and captured him? But no - on the contrary, D'Averc seemed quite friendly with them. He waved, turned on his heel, and began to walk up the hill to where they were hidden, a large bundle on his back. Hawkmoon was puzzled, for the wolf masks had gone back into the village, allowing D'Averc to go free.

  'He can talk, can D'Averc,' grinned Oladahn. 'He must have convinced them he was an innocent traveller. Doubtless the Dark Empire is still using the soft approach in Carpathia.'

  'Perhaps,' said Hawkmoon, not entirely convinced.

  When D'Averc came back he flung down his bundle and pulled it open, displaying several shirts and a pair of britches, as well as a number of different foodstuffs - cheeses, bread, sausages, cold meat, and the like. He handed back most of Oladahn's jewels to him. 'I purchased them relatively cheaply,' he said, then frowned as he saw Hawkmoon's expression. 'What is it, Duke Dorian? Not satisfied? I could not get the Lady Yisselda a gown, I regret, but the britches and shirt should fit her.'

  'Dark Empire men,' said Hawkmoon, jerking his thumb at the village. 'You seemed very friendly with them.'

  'I was worried, I'll admit,' D'Averc said, 'but they seem to be cautious of violence. They are in Carpathia to tell the folk of the benefits of Dark Empire rule. Apparently the King of Carpathia is entertaining one of their nobles. The usual technique - gold before violence. They asked me a few questions but were not unduly suspicious. They say they're warring in Shekia, have almost subdued that nation but for a key city or two.'

  'You did not mention us?' Hawkmoon said.

  'Of course not.'

  Half-satisfied, Hawkmoon relaxed a little.

  D'Averc picked up the cloth in which he'd wrapped his bundle. 'Look — four cloaks with hoods, such as the holy men in these parts wear. They'll hide our faces well enough. I heard there's a larger town about a day's walk further south. It's a town where they trade horses. We can get there by tomorrow and buy steeds. Is it a good idea?'

  Hawkmoon nodded slowly. 'Aye. We need horses.'

  The town was called Zorvanemi, and it bustled with folk of all sorts come to sell and to buy horses. Just outside the main town were the stockyards, and here were many kinds of h
orseflesh, from thoroughbreds to plough horses.

  They arrived too late in the evening to buy, and they put up at an inn on the edge of town, close to the stockyards, so that they could buy what they wanted and be away early in the morning. Here and there they saw small groups of Dark Empire soldiers, but the soldiers paid no attention to the cowled holy men who mingled with the crowd; there were several deputations from different monasteries in the area, and one more went unnoticed.

  In the warmth of the inn's public room they ordered hot wine and food and consulted a map they had bought, speaking softly, discussing their best route through to southern France.

  A little later the door of the inn was pushed open, and the cold night air swept in. Over the sounds of conversation and occasional laughter, they heard the coarse tones of a man yelling for wine for himself and his comrades and suggesting to the landlord that girls should be found for them as well.

  Hawkmoon glanced up and was instantly on his guard. The men who had entered were soldiers in the Order of the Boar, the order that D'Averc had belonged to. With their squat, armoured bodies and heavy helmet masks, they looked, in the half-light, exactly like the animals they represented, as if so many boars had learned to talk and walk on their hind legs.

  The landlord was plainly nervous, clearing his throat several times and asking them what wine they preferred.

  'Strong wine, plentiful wine,' shouted the leader. 'And the same goes for the women. Where are your women? I hope they're lovelier than your horses. Come man, be quick. We've spent all day buying horseflesh and helping this town's prosperity - now you'll do us a favour.'

  The boar warriors were evidently here to buy steeds for the Dark Empire troops - probably those bent on conquering Shekia, which lay just across the border.

  Hawkmoon, Yisselda, Oladahn, and D'Averc drew their cowls surreptitiously about their heads and sipped at their wine without looking up.

  There were three serving wenches in the public room, as well as two men and the landlord himself. As one passed, the boar warrior grabbed her and pressed the snout of his mask against her cheek.

  'Give an old pig a kiss, little girl,' he roared.

  She wriggled and tried to get free, but he held her tight. Now there was silence everywhere else in the tavern, and tension.

  'Come outside with me,' the boar leader continued. I'm in a rutting mood.'

  'Oh no, please let me go,' the girl sobbed. 'I'm to be married next week.'

  'Married, eh?' guffawed the warrior. 'Well, let me teach you a thing or two for you to teach your husband.'

  The girl screamed and continued to resist. No one else in the tavern moved.

  'Come on,' the warrior said hoarsely. 'Outside . . .'

  'I won't,' wept the girl. 'I won't until I'm married.'

  'Is that all?' The boar-masked man laughed. 'Well, then - I'll marry you if that's what you want. He turned suddenly and glared at the four who sat in the shadows. 'You're holy men, aren't you? One of you can marry us.' And before Hawkmoon and the rest had realized what was happening, he had grabbed Yisselda, who sat on the outside of the bench, and hauled her to her feet. 'Marry us, holy man, or - By the Runestaff! What sort of a holy man are you?' Yisselda's cowl had fallen back, revealing her lovely hair.

  Hawkmoon stood up. There was nothing for it now but to fight. Oladahn and D'Averc stood up.

  As one, they drew the swords hidden under their robes. As one, they launched themselves at the armoured warriors, yelling for the women to flee.

  The boar warriors were drunk and surprised, and the three companions were neither. It was their only advantage. Hawkmoon's blade slipped between breastplate and gorget of the leader and killed him before he could draw his own sword, while Oladahn's swipe to another's barely protected legs hamstrung him. D'Averc managed to slice off the hand of one who had stripped off his gauntlets.

  Now they fought back and forth across the tavern floor as men and women made hastily for the stairs and doors, many to crowd to the gallery above to watch.

  Oladahn, forsaking normal swordplay in the narrow room, had leaped onto the back of a huge opponent and, dirk in hand, was trying to stab him through the eyeholes of his mask while the man clumsily tried to dislodge him, staggering about half-blind.

  D'Averc was fencing with a swordsman of some skill who was driving him back steadily toward the stairs, while Hawkmoon was desperately defending himself against a man with a huge axe that, every time it missed him, chopped chunks out of the woodwork.

  Hawkmoon, hampered by his cloak, was trying to get out of it and at the same time duck the blows from the axe. He stepped to one side, tripped in the folds of the cloak, and fell. Above, the axeman snorted and raised the axe for the final blow.

  Hawkmoon rolled just in time as the axe came down and sheared through the cloth of his gown. He leaped up as he tugged the axe from the hard wood of the floor and swung his sword round to clang against the back of the axeman's neck. The man groaned and fell, dazed, to his knees. Hawkmoon kicked back the mask, revealing a red twisted face, and stabbed into the gaping mouth, driving the sword deep into the throat so that the jugular was cut and blood shot from the helm. Hawkmoon withdrew his blade and the helm clanged shut.

  Nearby, Oladahn was struggling, half-off his man, who had now got a grip on his arm and was tugging him away from his neck. Hawkmoon jumped forward and with both hands drove his sword into the man's belly, piercing armour, leather underjerkin, and flesh. The man screamed and crumpled to the floor, to lie there writhing.

  Then together Oladahn and Hawkmoon took D Averc's man from behind, both swords slashing at him, until he, too, lay dead on the floor.

  There was nothing left but to finish off the handless man who lay propped against a bench, weeping and trying to stick his hand back on.

  Panting, Hawkmoon looked about the tavern room at the carnage they had wrought. 'Not a bad night's work for holy men,' he said.

  D'Averc looked thoughtful. 'Maybe,' he said softly, 'it is time to change our disguise to a more useful one.'

  What do you mean?'

  There are enough pieces of boar armour here to furnish all four of us, particularly since I still have mine. I speak the secret language of the Order of the Boar. With luck we could travel disguised as those we fear most - as Dark Empire men. We have been wondering how to get through the countries where Granbretan has consolidated her gains. Well - here's our way.'

  Hawkmoon thought deeply. D'Averc's suggestion was a wild one, but it had possibilities, particularly since D'Averc himself knew all the rituals of the Order.

  Aye,' said Hawkmoon. Perhaps you're right, D'Averc. We could then go where the Dark Empire forces are thickest and stand a chance of getting to the Kamarg faster. Very well, we'll do it.'

  They began stripping the armour from the corpses.

  'We can be sure of the landlord's and townspeople's silence,' said D'Averc, 'for they'll not want it known that six Dark Empire warriors were killed here.'

  Oladahn watched them work, nursing his twisted arm. A pity,' he said with a sigh. 'It was an exploit that should be recorded.'

  8

  The Dark Empire Camp

  'Brood of the Mountain Giants! I'll stifle to death before we've gone a mile!' The muffled voice of Oladahn came from within the grotesque helmet as he tried to tug himself free of its engulfing weight. They sat, all four, in their room above the tavern, trying on the captured armour.

  Hawkmoon, too, was finding the stuff uncomfortable. Apart from the fact that it did not fit him properly, it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. He had worn something like it some time before, when disguised in the wolf armour of Baron Meliadus's Order, but if anything, the boar armour was even heavier and far less comfortable. It must be that much worse for Yisselda. Only D'Averc was used to it and had donned his own, to look with some relish and amusement at their first encounter with the uniform of his Order.

  'No wonder you claim ill health,' Hawkmoon told him. 'I know of nothing
less healthy. I'm tempted to forget the whole plan.'

  'You'll become more used to it as we ride,' D'Averc assured him. 'A little chaffing, a little stuffiness; then you'll find you'll feel naked without it.'

  'I'd rather be naked,' Oladahn protested, yanking off the leering boar mask at last. It fell with a clatter to the floor.

  'Careful with it.' D'Averc wagged a finger. 'We don't want to damage any more.'

  Oladahn gave the helmet an extra kick.

  A day and a night later, they were riding deep into Shekia. There was no doubt that the Dark Empire had conquered the province, for towns and villages were everywhere laid waste, crucified corpses hung along every road, carrion birds were thick in the air and even thicker on the ground where they feasted. The night had been as light as if the sun were permanently on the horizon, lit by the funeral pyres of villages, farms, towns, villas, and cities. And the black hordes of the Island Empire of Granbretan, brands in one hand, swords in the other, rode like demons from hell, howling and shrieking across the broken land.

  Survivors hid, cringing from the four as they rode in disguise through this world of terror, galloping as fast as they could, for none suspected them. They were just one small pack of murderers and looters among many, and neither friend nor foe had any suspicion of their real identities.

  Now it was morning, a morning overcast with black smoke, warmed by distant fires, a morning of ash-covered fields and trampled crops, of broken flowers and bloody corpses, a morning like any other morning in a land under the heel of Granbretan.

  Along the churned mud of the road, a group of riders came toward them, swathed in great canvas night cloaks that covered their bemasked heads as well as their bodies. They rode powerful black horses and were hunched in their saddles as if they had been riding for many days.

  As they drew close, Hawkmoon murmured, 'Dark Empire men for certain, and they seem to be taking an interest in us . .'

  The leader pushed back his canvas cowl and revealed a huge boar mask, larger and more ornate than even D'Averc's. He reined in his black stallion, and his men came to a halt behind him.