The Jewel in the Skull

  Near the opening, his foot stumbled against something and he saw his gear piled on the floor. Everything was neatly stacked — saddle, panniers, sword, and dagger. He reached for the sword and softly withdrew it from its scabbard; then he went out.

  His face was struck by the heat from the great bonfire a short distance away. Over it, a spit had been constructed, and on the spit turned the huge carcass of the flamingo, trussed, plucked, and bereft of head and claws. Turning the spit by means of a complicated arrangement of leather thongs, which he dampened from time to time, was the stocky figure of a man almost half Hawkmoon's size.

  As Hawkmoon approached, the little man turned, saw the blade, yelled and jumped away from the fire. The Duke of Koln was astonished; the creature's face was covered with fine, reddish hair and thicker fur of the same colour seemed to cover his body. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and a leather divided kilt supported by a wide belt. On his feet were boots of soft doeskin, and he wore a cap into which were stuck four or five of the finest flamingo feathers, doubtless purloined from the bird's plumage during the plucking.

  He backed away from Hawkmoon, hands raised in a placatory gesture. 'Forgive me, master. I am deeply regretful, I assure you. Had I but known that the bird bore a rider, I would not, of course, have shot it. But all I saw was a dinner not to be missed ...'

  Hawkmoon lowered the sword. 'Who are you? Indeed-what are you?' He put one hand to his head. The heat from the fire and the exertion had made him dizzy.

  'I am Oladahn, kin to the Mountain Giants,' began the little man.'Well-known in these parts ...'

  'Giant? Giant!' Hawkmoon laughed hoarsely, swayed, and fell, losing consciousness again.

  Next time he awoke, it was to sniff the delicious smell of roasting fowl. He savoured it before he realized what it meant. He had been propped up just within the cave entrance, and his sword had vanished. The little furry man came hesitantly forward, offering him an enormous drumstick.

  'Eat, master, and you'll feel better,' said Oladahn.

  Hawkmoon accepted the great piece of meat. "I suppose I might as well, ' said he, 'since you have robbed me, almost certainly, of everything I desired.'

  'You were fond of the bird, master?'

  'No - but I am in mortal danger, and the flamingo was my only hope of escape.' Hawkmoon chewed at the tough flesh.

  'Someone pursues you, then?'

  'Something pursues me - an unusual and disgusting doom ...' And Hawkmoon found himself telling his tale to the creature whose action had brought that doom closer. Even as he spoke, he found it hard to understand why he confided in Oladahn. There was something so grave about his half-human face, something so attentive.about the way he cocked his little head, his eyes widening at each new detail, that Hawkmoon's natural reticence was forgotten. 'And now here I am,' he concluded at last, 'eating the bird that was to be my possible salvation.'

  'It is an ironic tale, my lord,' Oladahn sighed, wiping grease from his whiskers, 'and it clouds my heart to realize that it was my greedy stomach that brought about this last misfortune. Tomorrow I will do what I can to rectify my mistake and find you a steed of some sort to carry you on to the East.'

  'Something that can fly?'

  'Sadly, no. A goat's the beast I had in mind.' Before Hawkmoon could speak, Oladahn continued, 'I have a certain influence in these mountains, being regarded as something of a curiosity. I am a cross-bred animal, you see, the result of a union between an adventurous youth of peculiar tastes — a sorcerer of sorts - and a Mountain Giantess. Alas, I am an orphan now, for Mother ate Father one hard winter, then Mother was eaten in turn by my Uncle Barkyos — the terror of these parts, largest and fiercest of the Mountain Giants. Since then, I have lived alone, with only my poor father's books for company. I am an outcast - too strange to be accepted either by my father's race or my mother's - living on my wits. If I were not so small, doubtless I should have been eaten, also, by Uncle Barkyos by now ...'

  Oladahn's face looked so comic in its melancholy that Hawkmoon could no longer bear him even a trace of malice. Besides, he was feeling tired from the heat of the fire and the large meal he had eaten. 'Enough, friend Oladahn. Let us forget what cannot be rectified and sleep now. In the morning we must find a new mount for me to ride to Persia.'

  And they slept, to awaken at dawn to see the fire still flickering under the carcass of the bird and a group of men, in fur and iron, breakfasting off it in some glee.

  'Brigands!' Oladahn cried, springing up in alarm. 'I should not have left the fire!'

  'Where did you hide my sword?' Hawkmoon asked him, but already two of the men, smelling strongly of ancient animal fat, had swaggered toward them, drawing crude swords. Hawkmoon rose slowly to his feet, ready to defend himself as best he could, but Oladahn was already speaking.

  'I know you, Bekner,' he said, pointing at the largest of the brigands. 'And you should know that I am Oladahn of the Mountain Giants. Now that you have had your meal, be off, or my kin will come and slay you.'

  Rekner grinned, unperturbed, picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail. 'I have heard of you, indeed, littlest of giants, and I see nothing to fear, though I've been told that the villagers hereabouts avoid you. But villagers are not brave brigands, eh? Hush now, or we'll kill you slowly instead of quickly.'

  Oladahn seemed to wilt, but he continued to stare hard at the brigand chieftain. Rekner laughed. 'Now, what treasures have you got in that cave of yours?'

  Oladahn was swaying from side to side, as if in terror, crooning softly to himself. Hawkmoon looked from him to the brigand and back again, wondering if he could dash into the cave and find his sword in time. Now Oladahn's crooning grew louder, and Rekner paused, the smile freezing on his face and a glassy look coming into his eyes as Oladahn peered into them. Suddenly the little man flung up a hand, pointing and speaking in a cold voice. 'Sleep, Rekner!

  Rekner slumped to the ground, and his men cursed, starting forward, then stopping as Oladahn kept his hand raised. 'Beware my power, scavengers, for Oladahn is the son of a sorcerer.'

  The brigands hesitated, glancing at their prone leader. Hawkmoon looked in astonishment at the furry creature who held the warlike men at bay, then ducked into the cave and found his sword rescabbarded. He drew the belt that held it and the dagger about his waist and buckled it, pulling forth the blade and returning to Oladahn's side. The little man muttered from the corner of his mouth, 'Bring your provisions. Their steeds are tethered at the bottom of the slope. We'll use them to escape, for Rekner will waken any instant, and I cannot hold them after that.'

  Hawkmoon got the panniers, and he and Oladahn began to back down the slope, their feet scraping on the loose rock and scrub. Rekner was already stirring. He gave a groan and sat up. His men bent to help him to his feet.

  'Now,' said Oladahn, and turned to run. Hawkmoon followed and there, to his surprise, were half a dozen goats the size of ponies, each animal with a sheepskin saddle. Oladahn swung himself up onto the nearest and held the bridle of another for Hawkmoon. The Duke of Koln hesitated for a moment, then smiled wryly and climbed into the saddle. Rekner and his brigands were racing down the hill toward them. With the flat of his sword, Hawkmoon slapped at the rumps of the remaining goats and they began to spring away.

  'Follow me!' cried Oladahn, urging his goat down the mountain toward a narrow trail. But Rekner's men had reached Hawkmoon, and his bright sword met their dull ones as they hacked savagely at him. He stabbed one man through the heart, struck another in the side, managed to slam the side of his blade down on Rekner's pate, then was riding the leaping goat in hot pursuit of the strange little man, the brigands roaring oaths and staggering after him.

  The goat moved in a series of leaps, jolting the bones of his body, but soon they had reached the trail and were riding down a tortuous path around the mountain, the cries of the brigands growing fainter and fainter. Oladahn turned with a grin of triumph. 'We have our mounts, Lord Hawkmoon, eh? Easier than even I expected. A
good omen! Follow me. I'll lead you to your road.'

  Hawkmoon smiled in spite of himself. Oladahn s company was intoxicating, and his curiosity about the little man, coupled with his growing respect and gratitude for the manner in which he had saved their lives, made Hawkmoon forget almost completely that the furry kin of the Mountain Giants had been the initial cause of his new troubles.

  Oladahn insisted on riding with him for several days, all the way through the mountains, until they reached a wide yellow plain and Oladahn pointed, saying, 'That is the way you must go.'

  'I thank you,' Hawkmoon said, staring now toward Asia. 'It is a shame that we must part.'

  'Aha!' grinned Oladahn, rubbing at the red fur on his face. 'I'd agree with that sentiment. Come, I'll ride with you a way to keep you company on the plain.' And with that he urged his goat forward again.

  Hawkmoon laughed, shrugged, and followed.

  2

  The Caravan of Agonosvos

  It began to rain almost as soon as they reached the plain, and the goats, which had borne them so well through the mountains, were unused to the yielding earth and moved slowly. For a month they travelled, hunched in their cloaks, shivering from the damp that chilled them to their vitals, and Hawkmoon's head throbbed often. When the throbbing came, he would not speak to the solicitous Oladahn but would bury his head in his arms, his face pale and his teeth clenched, tormented eyes staring at nothing. He knew that at Castle Brass the sentience of the Jewel was beginning to break the bonds the count had wrought, and he despaired of seeing Yisselda again.

  Rain beat down, and a cold wind blustered, and through the sweeping curtain of water Hawkmoon saw vast stretches of fenland ahead of them, broken by clumps of gorse and black, shrunken trees. He had little idea of his bearings, for most of the time clouds obscured the sky. The only rough indication of direction was in the manner in which the shrubs grew in this part of the world, leaning almost invariably toward the south. He had not expected to meet such country so far to the east, and he gathered that its characteristics were the result of some event that had taken place during the Tragic Millennium.

  Hawkmoon brushed his damp hair from his eyes, feeling the hard touch of the Black Jewel embedded in his forehead. He shivered, glancing at Oladahn's miserable face, then back through the rain. There was a dark outline in the distance that might indicate a forest where they would at least have some protection from the rain. The pointed hooves of the goats stumbled through the swampy grass. Hawkmoon's head began to tingle, and again he felt the gnawing sensation in his brain and a nausea in his chest. He gasped, pressing one forearm against his skull while Oladahn looked on in mute sympathy.

  At length they reached the low-lying trees. They found the going even slower than it had been and avoided the ponds of dark water that had formed everywhere. The trunks and branches of the trees seemed malformed, twisting toward the ground rather than away from it. The bark was black or dark brown, and at this season there was no foliage. In spite of this, the forest seemed thick and hard to penetrate. At its edge water glinted, a shallow moat protecting the trees.

  Their mounts' hooves splashed through the muddy water as they entered the forest, bending low to avoid the curling branches. Even here the ground was swampy, and pools had formed at the bases of the trunks, but there was little shelter, after all, from the perpetually falling rain.

  They camped that evening on relatively dry ground, and although Hawkmoon made some attempt to help Oladahn build a fire, he was soon forced to lie with his back against a tree trunk, panting and clutching his head while the little man finished the work.

  The next morning they moved on through the forest, Oladahn leading Hawkmoon's mount, for the Duke of Koln was now slumped across its neck. Toward the latter part of the morning they heard human voices and turned their beasts toward the sound.

  It was a caravan of sorts, labouring through the mud and water between the trees. Some fifteen wagons, with rain-soaked silk canopies of scarlet, yellow, blue, and green. Mules and oxen strained to haul them, and their feet slipped in mud, and their muscles bulged and rippled as they were goaded on by their drivers, who stood beside them with whips and spiked sticks. At the wheels of the wagons other men sweated to help turn them, and at the backs of the wagons leaned more who pushed with all their might. Yet in spite of this great effort, the wagons hardly moved.

  It was not so much this sight that made the two travellers wonder, but the nature of the people of the caravan. Through his clouded eyes, Hawkmoon saw them and wondered.

  Without exception they were grotesque. Dwarves and midgets, giants and fat men, men with fur growing all over them (rather like Oladahn, save that the fur of these was unpleasant to look upon), others pale and hairless, one man with three arms, another with one; two cloven-footed people - a man and a woman — children with beards, hermaphrodites with the organs of both sexes, others with mottled skins like snakes, and others with tails, misshapen limbs and warped bodies; faces with features missing or else abnormally proportioned; some hunchbacked, some without necks, some with foreshortened arms and legs, one with purple hair and a horn growing from his forehead. And only in their eyes was there any similarity, for every expression was one of dull despair as the bizarre band toiled to move the caravan a few feet through the wooded marsh.

  It seemed that they were in hell and looked upon the damned.

  The forest smell of damp bark and wet mould was now mingled with other scents, harder to identify. There was the stink of men and beasts, of heavy perfume and rich spices, but besides these there was something else that lay over them all and made Oladahn shudder. Hawkmoon had raised himself up from his mount's neck and sniff ed the air like a wary wolf. He glanced at Oladahn, frowning. The deformed creatures did not seem to notice the newcomers but continued to work in silence. There was only the sound of the wagons creaking and the animals snorting and splashing in their yokes.

  Oladahn tugged at his reins, as if to pass the caravan by, but Hawkmoon did not follow his example. He continued to stare thoughtfully at the weird procession.

  'Come,' said Oladahn. 'There is danger here, Lord Hawkmoon.'

  'We must get our bearings - find out where we are and how far we must travel over this plain,' Hawkmoon said in a harsh whisper. 'Besides, our provisions are almost gone.'

  'We might come upon some game in the forest.'

  Hawkmoon shook his head. 'No. Also I think I know to whom this caravan belongs.'

  'Who?'

  'A man I have heard of but never encountered. A countryman of mine - a kinsman even - who left Koln some nine centuries ago.'

  'Nine centuries? Impossible!'

  'Not so. Lord Agonosvos is immortal - or nearly. If it be he, then he could help us, for I am still his rightful ruler.'

  'He would have loyalty to Koln, after nine hundred years?'

  'Let us see.' Hawkmoon urged his beast toward the head of the caravan, where a tall wagon swayed, its canopy of golden silk, its carriage carved in complicated patterns, painted in bright primaries. Ill at ease, Oladahn followed less rapidly. In the front of the wagon, seated well back to avoid the greater part of the drifting rain, was a figure huddled in a rich bearskin cloak, a plain black helm covering its whole face save for the eyes. It moved as it saw Dorian Hawkmoon regarding it and a thin, hollow sound came from the helm.

  'Lord Agonosvos,' Hawkmoon said. 'I am the Duke von Koln, last of the line begun a thousand years since.'

  The figure answered in a low, laconic tone. 'A Hawkmoon, I can see that. Landless now, eh? Granbretan took Koln, did it not?'

  'Aye . . .'

  'And so we are both banished; myself by your ancestor, and you by the conqueror.'

  'Be that as it may, I am still the last of my line and thus your master.' Hawkmoon's tormented face stared hard at the figure.

  'Master, is it? Authority over me was renounced when I was sent to the wild lands by Duke Dietrich.'

  'Not so, as you well know. No man of Koln
can ever refuse his prince's will.'

  'Can he not?' Agonosvos laughed quietly. 'Can he not?'

  Hawkmoon made to turn away, but Agonosvos raised a thin, slim-fingered hand that was bone-white. 'Stay. I have offended you and must make amends. How can I serve you?'

  'You admit your loyalty to me?'

  'I admit to impoliteness. You seem weary. I will stop my caravan and entertain you. What of your servant?'

  'He is not my servant but my friend. Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains.'

  'A friend? And not of your race? Still, let him join us.' Agonosvos leaned from his wagon to call languidly to his men to stop their labours. Instantly, they relaxed, standing where they were, their bodies limp and their eyes still full of dumb despair.

  'What do you think of my collection?' Agonosvos asked when they had dismounted and climbed into the gloom of the wagon's interior. 'Such curiosities once amused me, but now I find them dull and they must work to justify their existence. I have one at least of almost every type.' He glanced at Oladahn. 'Including yours. Some I cross-bred myself.'

  Oladahn shifted his position uncomfortably. It was unnaturally warm within the confines of the wagon; yet there was no sign of a stove or any other heating apparatus. Agonosvos poured them wine from a blue gourd. The wine, too, was a deep, lustrous blue. The ancient exile of Koln still wore his black, featureless helm, and his black, sardonic eyes looked at Hawkmoon a trifle calculatingly.

  Hawkmoon was making a great effort to appear in good health, but it was plain that Agonosvos guessed the truth when he handed him a golden goblet of wine and said, 'This will make you feel better, my lord.'