The Jewel in the Skull Page 4

  'My father would dare anything,' she said with quiet conviction, 'but I feel, my lord, that I have no wish to put him to the trouble.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean that I would not marry without his consent.'

  'Would he give it?'

  'I believe not.'

  'Then ...'

  She tried to tug away completely from him, but his strong hands gripped her arms. Now she was frightened, wondering how her former passion could turn so swiftly into fear. 'I must go now.'

  'No! Yisselda, I am not used to my will being opposed. First your obstinate father refuses what I ask - now you! I'd kill you rather than let you leave without promising to come with me to Granbretan!' He pulled her toward him, his lips forcing a kiss from her. She moaned as she tried to resist.

  Then the dark, cloaked figure entered the chamber, unsheathing the long dagger from its case. The steel shone in the moonlight, and Baron Meliadus glared at the intruder but did not relinquish his hold on the girl.

  'Let her go,' said the dark figure, 'for if you do not I'll forsake all principle and slay you now.'

  'Bowgentle!' Yisselda sobbed. 'Run for my father - you are not strong enough to fight him!'

  Baron Meliadus laughed and threw Yisselda to the corner of the turret room. 'Fight? It would not be a fight with you, philosopher — it would be butchery. Stand aside and I'll leave - but I must take the girl.'

  'Leave alone,' Bowgentle replied. 'By all means do that, for I have no wish to have your death on my conscience. But Yisselda stays with me.'

  'She's leaving with me tonight — whether she wills it or no!' Meliadus flung back his own cloak, revealing a short sword high at his waist. 'Aside, Sir Bowgentle, for unless you move, I promise that you will not live to write a sonnet about this affair!'

  Bowgentle stood his ground, dagger held point outward at Baron Meliadus's chest.

  The Granbretanian's hand gripped the hilt of the sword and drew it from the scabbard in a blur of movement.

  'One last chance, philosopher!'

  Bowgentle did not reply. His half-glazed eyes did not blink. Only the hand holding the dagger shook slightly.

  Yisselda screamed. The scream was high-pitched and penetrating, echoing through the castle.

  Baron Meliadus turned with a grunt of rage, raising the sword.

  Bowgentle leaped forward, stabbing clumsily with the dagger, which was deflected by the tough leather the baron wore. Meliadus turned with a laugh of contempt, his sword struck twice at Bowgentle, once at his head and once at his body, and the philosopher-poet fell to the flagstones, his blood staining the floor. Again Yisselda screamed, this time in terror and pity for her father's friend. Baron Meliadus stooped and grabbed the struggling girl by her arm, twisted it so that she gasped, and flung her over his shoulder. Then he left the turret room and began to descend the steps swiftly.

  He had to cross the main hall to get to his own quarters, and as he entered it, there came a roar from the other side. By the light of the dying fire he saw Count Brass, clad only in a loose robe, his great broadsword in his hands, blocking the door through which Baron Meliadus meant to go.

  'Father!' Yisselda cried, and then the Granbretanian had flung her to one side and brandished his short sword at Count Brass.

  'So Bowgentle was right.' Count Brass rumbled. 'You abuse my hospitality, Baron.'

  'I want your daughter. She loves me.'

  'So it seems.' Count Brass glanced at Yisselda as she climbed to her feet, sobbing. 'Defend yourself, Baron.'

  Baron Meliadus frowned. 'You have a broadsword - my blade's little better than a bodkin. Besides, I've no wish to fight a man of your years. We can make peace, surely . . .'

  'Father — he has killed Bowgentle!'

  Count Brass trembled with rage at this. He strode to the wall where a rack of swords was placed, took the largest and best balanced from the rack, and flung it to Baron Meliadus. It clattered on the flagstones. Meliadus dropped his own blade and picked up the broadsword. Now he had the advantage, for he wore stout leather and the count wore only linen.

  Count Brass advanced, the broadsword raised, then swung at Baron Meliadus, who met the swipe with a parry. Like men hewing at a great tree, they swung the heavy blades this way and that. The clangour rang through the hall and brought servants scurrying, as well as the baron's men-at-arms, who looked disconcerted and uncertain what to do. By that time, von Villach and his men had arrived; the Granbretanians saw that they were heavily outnumbered and decided to do nothing.

  Sparks scattered into the darkness of the hall as the two big men duelled, the broadswords rising and falling, swinging this way and that, every stroke parried with masterly skill. Sweat covered both faces as the swords swung; both chests heaved with the exertion as they fenced back and forth across the hall.

  Now Baron Meliadus cut at Count Brass's shoulder but succeeded only in grazing it. Next Count Brass's sword fell on Baron Meliadus's side but was blocked by the thick leather of the baron's doublet. There was a series of swift strokes in which it seemed both men must be cut to pieces, but when they stepped back and resumed their guard all Count Brass had was a light cut across his forehead and a tear in his gown, and Baron Meliadus's coat was ripped down the front and one arm of it hung in tatters.

  The sound of their panting and the scrape of their feet on the floor blended with the great clash of blades as they met again and again.

  Then Count Brass tripped over a small table and fell backwards, legs sprawling, one hand losing its grip on the sword. Baron Meliadus smirked and raised his weapon; Count Brass rolled over, swiped at the baron's legs, brought the man thumping down beside him.

  The blades forgotten for the moment, they wrestled over and over on the flagstones, fists battering at one another, lips snarling, swords still attached to them by wrist thongs.

  Then Baron Meliadus flung himself backward and jumped up, but Count Brass was up again too. He swung his sword suddenly and knocked the baron's blade with such force that the thong snapped and the sword sailed clear across the hall, where it stuck point first in a wooden pillar and thrummed like a metal organ reed.

  Count Brass's eyes showed no pity. They held only an intention to kill Baron Meliadus.

  'You slew my true and greatest friend,' he growled as he raised his broadsword. Baron Meliadus slowly folded his arms across his chest and waited for the blow, eyes downcast, an almost bored expression on his face.

  'You slew Bowgentle, and for that I slay you.'

  'Count Brass!'

  The count hesitated, the sword raised above his head.

  The voice was Bowgentle's.

  'Count Brass, he did not kill me. The flat of his sword stunned me, and the wound in my chest is by no means mortal.' Bowgentle came forward through the crowd, his hand on his wound, a livid bruise on his forehead.

  Count Brass sighed. 'Thank fate for that, Bowgentle. Nonetheless ...' He turned to contemplate Baron Meliadus. 'This villain has abused my hospitality, insulted my daughter, injured my friend ...'

  Baron Meliadus raised his eyes to meet the count's.

  'Forgive me, Count Brass. Moved by a passion for the beauty of Yisselda as I was, it clouded my brain, possessed me like a demon. I would not beg when you threatened my life, but now I ask you to understand that only honest, human emotions moved me to do what I did.'

  Count Brass shook his head. 'I cannot forgive you, Baron. I ll listen to your insidious words no longer. You must be gone from Castle Brass within the hour and off my lands by morning, or you and yours will perish.'

  'You'd risk offending Granbretan?'

  Count Brass shrugged. 'I do not offend the Dark Empire. If they hear anything like the truth of what passed this night, they will punish you for your mistakes, not come against me for having seen justice done. You have failed in your mission. You have offended me— not I, Granbretan.'

  Baron Meliadus said no more but, fuming, left to prepare himself for his journey. Disgraced and
enraged, he was soon in his bizarre carriage, and the carriage was rolling through the castle gates before half an hour had passed. He made no farewells.

  Count Brass, Yisselda, Bowgentle, and von Villach stood in the courtyard watching him leave.

  'You were right, Bowgentle,' muttered the count. 'Both Yisselda and I were beguiled by the man. I'll have no more emissaries from Granbretan visit Castle Brass.'

  'You realize that the Dark Empire must be fought, destroyed?' Bowgentle asked hopefully.

  'I did not say that. Let it do what it will. We will have no further trouble from Granbretan or Baron Meliadus.'

  'You are wrong,' Bowgentle said with conviction.

  And in his dark carriage, as it bumped through the night toward the northern borders of the Kamarg, Baron Meliadus spoke aloud to himself and swore an oath by the most mysterious and sacred object he knew. He swore by the Runestaff (that lost artifact said to contain all the secrets of destiny) that he would get Count Brass into his power by any means possible, that he would possess Yisselda, and that the Kamarg would become one great furnace in which all who inhabited it would perish.

  This he swore by the Runestaff, and thus the destiny of Baron Meliadus, Count Brass, Yisselda, the Dark Empire, and all who were now and would be later concerned with the events in Castle Brass was irrevocably decided.

  The play was cast, the stage set, the curtain raised.

  Now the mummers must enact their destiny.

  BOOK TWO

  Those who dare swear by the Runestaff must then benefit or suffer from the consequences of the fixed pattern of destiny that they set in motion. Some several such oaths have been sworn in the history of the Runestaff's existence, but none with such vast and terrible results as the mighty oath of vengeance sworn by the Baron Meliadus of Kroiden the year before that aspect of the Champion Eternal, Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln, entered into the pages of this ancient narrative.

  — The High History of the Runestaff

  1

  Dorian Hawkmoon

  Baron Meliadus returned to Londra, gloomy-towered capital of the Dark Empire, and brooded for almost a year before he settled on his plan. Other affairs of Granbretan occupied him in that time. There were rebellions to put down, examples to be made of newly conquered towns, fresh battles to be planned and fought, puppet governors to be interviewed and placed in power.

  Baron Meliadus fulfilled all these responsibilities faithfully and with imagination, but his passion for Yisselda and his hatred of Count Brass were never far from his thoughts. Although he had suffered no ignominy for his failure to win the count to Granbretan's cause, he still felt thwarted. Besides, he was constantly finding problems in which the count could have helped him easily. Whenever such a problem arose, Baron Meliadus's brain became clogged with a dozen different schemes of revenge, but none seemed suited to do everything he required. He must have Yisselda, he must get the count's aid in the affairs of Europe, he must destroy the Kamarg as he had sworn. They were incompatible ambitions.

  In his tall tower of obsidian, overlooking the blood red River Tayme where barges of bronze and ebony carried cargo from the coast, Baron Meliadus paced his cluttered study with its tapestries of time-faded browns, blacks, and blues, its orreries of precious metal and gemstones, its globes and astrolabes of beaten iron and brass and silver, its furniture of dark, polished wood, and its carpets of deep pile the colours of leaves in autumn.

  Around him, on all the walls, on every shelf, in every angle, were his clocks. All were in perfect synchronization, and all struck on the quarter, half, and full hour, many with musical effects. They were of various shapes and sizes, in cases of metal, wood, or certain other, less recognizable substances. They were ornately carved, to the extent, sometimes, that it was virtually impossible to tell the time from them. They had been collected from many parts of Europe and the Near East, the spoils of a score of conquered provinces. They were what Baron Meliadus loved most among his many possessions. Not only this study, but every room in the great tower, was full of clocks. There was a huge four-faced clock in bronze, onyx, gold, silver, and platinum at the very top of the tower, and when its great bells were struck by life-size figures of naked girls holding hammers, all Londra echoed with the din. The clocks rivalled in variety those of Meliadus's brother-in-law, Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time, whom Meliadus loathed with a deep attachment as rival for his strange sister's perverse and whimful affections.

  Baron Meliadus ceased his pacing and picked up a piece of parchment from his desk. It contained the latest information from the province of Koln, a province that, nearly two years previously, Meliadus had made an example of. It seemed now that too much had been done, for the son of the old Duke of Koln (whom Meliadus had personally disembowelled in the public square of the capital) had raised an army of rebellion and almost succeeded in crushing the occupying forces of Granbretan. Had not speedy reinforcements, in the shape of ornithopters armed with long-range flame-lances, been sent, Koln might have been temporarily taken from the Dark Empire.

  But the ornithopters had demolished the forces of the young duke, and he had been made prisoner. He was due soon to arrive in Londra to pleasure the nobles of Granbretan with his sufferings. Here again was a situation where Count Brass might have helped, for before he showed himself in open rebellion, the Duke of Koln had offered himself as a mercenary commander to the Dark Empire and had been accepted, had fought well in the service of Granbretan, at Niirnberg and Ulm, winning the confidence of the Empire, gaining command of a force comprised mainly of soldiers who had once served his father, then turning with them and marching back to Koln to attack the province.

  Baron Meliadus frowned, for the young duke had provided an example that others might now follow. Already he was a hero in the German provinces, by all accounts. Few dared oppose the Dark Empire as he had done.

  If only Count Brass had agreed . . .

  Suddenly Baron Meliadus began to smile, a scheme seeming to spring instantly and complete into his mind. Perhaps the young Duke of Koln could be used in some way, other than in the entertainment of his peers.

  Baron Meliadus put down the parchment and pulled at a bellrope. A girl-slave entered, her naked body rouged all over, and fell on her knees to receive his instructions. (All the baron's slaves were female; he allowed no men into his tower for fear of treachery.) 'Take a message to the master of the prison catacombs,' he told the girl. 'Tell him that Baron Meliadus would interview the prisoner Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln as soon as he arrives there.'

  'Yes, master.' The girl rose and backed from the room, leaving Baron Meliadus staring from his window at the river, a faint smile on his full lips.

  Dorian Hawkmoon, bound in chains of gilded iron (as befitted his station in the eyes of the Granbretanians), stumbled down the gangplank from barge to quay, blinking in the evening light and staring around him at the huge, menacing towers of Londra. If he had never before needed proof of the congenital insanity of the inhabitants of the Dark Island, he had, to his mind, full evidence now. There was something unnatural about every line of the architecture, every choice of colour and carving. And yet there was also a sense of great strength about it, of purpose and intelligence. No wonder, he thought, it was hard to fathom the psychology of the people of the Dark Empire, when so much of them was paradox.

  A guard, in white leather and wearing the white metal death's-head mask that was uniform to the Order he served, pushed him gently forward. Hawkmoon staggered in spite of the lightness of the pressure, for he had not eaten for almost a week. His brain was at once clouded and abstracted; he was hardly aware of the significance of his circumstances. Since his capture at the Battle of Koln, no one had spoken to him. He had lain most of the time in the darkness of the ship's bilges, drinking occasionally from the trough of dirty water that had been fixed beside him. He was unshaven, his eyes were glazed, his long, fair hair was matted, and his torn mail and breeches were covered in filth. The chains had chafed his skin so that
red sores were prominent on his neck and wrists, but he felt no pain. Indeed, he felt little of anything, moved like a sleepwalker, saw everything as if in a dream.

  He took two steps along the quartz quay, staggered, and fell to one knee. The guards, now on either side of him, pulled him up and supported him as he approached a black wall that loomed over the quay. There was a small barred door in the wall, and two soldiers, in ruby-coloured pig masks, stood on either side of it. The Order of the Pig controlled the prisons of Londra. The guards spoke a few words to each other in the grunting secret language of their Order, and one of them laughed, grabbing Hawkmoon's arm, saying nothing to the prisoner but pushing him forward as the other guard swung the barred door inward.

  The interior was dark. The door closed behind Hawkmoon, and for a few moments he was alone. Then, in the dim light from the door, he saw a mask; a pig mask, but more elaborate than those of the guards outside. Another similar mask appeared, and then another. Hawkmoon was seized and led through the foul-smelling darkness, led down into the prison catacombs of the Dark Empire, knowing, with little emotion, that his life was over.

  At last he heard another door open. He was pushed into a tiny chamber; then he heard the door close and a beam fall into place.

  The air in the dungeon was fetid, and there was a film of foulness on flagstones and wall. Hawkmoon lay against the wall and then slid gradually to the floor. Whether he fainted or fell asleep, he could not tell, but his eyes closed and oblivion came.

  A week before, he had been the Hero of Koln, a champion against the aggressors, a man of grace and sardonic wit, a warrior of skill. Now, as a matter of course, the men of Granbretan had turned him into an animal - an animal with little will to live. A lesser man might have clung grimly to his humanity, fed from his hatred, schemed escape; but Hawkmoon, having lost all, wanted nothing.

  Perhaps he would awake from his trance. If he did, he would be a different man from the one who had fought with such insolent courage at the Battle of Koln.