Michael Moorcock - Castle Brass 1 - Count Brass

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The Chronicles of Castle Brass Book 1
Count Brass
by Michael Moorcock
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
OLD FRIENDS
1. The Haunting of Dorian Hawkmoon 11
2. The Meeting in the Marsh 35
3. A Letter from Queen Flana 45
4. A Company of the Dead 54
BOOK TWO
OLD ENEMIES
1. A Speaking Pyramid 67
2. The Return of the Pyramid 77
3. The Journey to Soryandum 85
4. A Further Encounter with Another Old Enemy 91
5. Some Other Londra 98
6. Another Victim 110
BOOK THREE
OLD DREAMS AND NEW
1. The World Half-Made 121
2. A Museum of the Living and the Dead 127
3. Count Brass Chooses to Live 137
4. A Great Wind Blowing 145
5. Something of a Dream 151
EPILOGUE 157
BOOK ONE
OLD FRIENDS
CHAPTER ONE
THE HAUNTING OF DORIAN HAWKMOON
It had taken all these five years to restore the land of
Kamarg, to repopulate its marshes with the giant scar-
let flamingoes, the wild white bulls and the horned
great horses which had once teemed here before the
coming of the Dark Empire's bestial armies. It had
taken all these five years to rebuild the watchtowers of
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the borders, to put up the towns and to erect tall Castle
Brass in all its massive, masculine beauty. And, if any-
thing, in these five years of peace, the walls were built
stronger, the watchtowers taller, for, as Dorian Hawk-
moon had said once to Queen Flana of Granbretan, the
world was still wild and there was still little justice in it.
Dorian Hawkmoon, the Duke of Koln, and his bride,
Yisselda, Countess of Brass, old, dead Count Brass's
daughter, were the only two who remained of that
group of heroes who had served the Runestaff against
the Dark Empire and finally defeated Granbretan in the
great Battle of Londra, putting Queen Flana, sad
Queen Flana, upon the throne so that she might guide
her cruel and decadent nation towards humanity and
vitality.
Count Brass had died slaying three barons (Adaz
Promp, Mygel Hoist and Saka Gerden) and in turn was
slain by a spearman of the Order of the Goat.
Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains, beastman and
loyal friend of Hawkmoon, had been hacked to pieces
by the war axes of the Order of the Pig.
Bowgentle, the unwarlike, the philosophical, had been
savaged and decapitated by Pigs, Goats and Hounds
to the number of twelve.
Huillam D'Averc, mocker of everything, whose only
faith had seemed to be in his own lack of good health,
who had loved and been loved by Queen Flana, had
died most ironically, riding to his love and being slain
by one of her soldiers who thought D'Averc attacked
her.
Four heroes died. Thousands of other heroes, un-
named in the histories, but brave, also died in the
service of the Runestaff, in the destruction of the Dark
Empire tyranny.
And a great villain died. Baron Meliadus of Kroiden,
most ambitious, most ambivalent, most awful of all the
aristocrats of Granbretan, died upon the sword of
Hawkmoon, died beneath the edge of the mystical
Sword of the Dawn.
And the ruined world seemed free.
But that had been five years hence. Much had passed
since then. Two children had been born to Hawkmoon
and the Countess of Brass. They were called Manfred,
who had red hair and his grandfather's voice and health
and stood to be his grandfather's size and strength, and
Yarmila, who had golden hair and her mother's gentle
toughness of will, as well as her beauty. They were
Brass stock, there was little in them of the Dukes of
Koln, and perhaps that was why Dorian Hawkmoon
loved his children so fiercely and so well.
And beyond the walls of Castle Brass stood four
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statues to the four dead heroes, to remind the in-
habitants of the castle of what they had fought for and
at what cost. And Dorian Hawkmoon would often take
his children to those statues and tell them of the Dark
Empire and its deeds. And they were pleased to listen.
And Manfred assured his father that when he grew up
his deeds would be as great as those of old Count Brass,
whom he so resembled.
And Hawkmoon would say that he hoped they would
have no need of heroes when Manfred was grown.
Then, seeing disappointment in his son's face, he
would laugh and say there were many kinds of heroes
and if Manfred had his grandfather's wisdom and
diplomacy, his strong sense of justice, that would make
him the best kind of hero—a justice-maker. And Man-
fred would only be somewhat consoled, for there is little
that is romantic about a judge and much that is attrac-
tive to a four-year-old boy about a warrior.
And sometimes Hawkmoon and Yisselda would take
their children riding through the wild marshlands of the
Kamarg, beneath wide skies of pastel colours, of faded
reds and yellows, where the reeds were brown and dark
green and orange and, in the appropriate season, bent
before the mistral. And they would see a herd of white
bulls thunder by, or a herd of horned horses. And they
might see a flock of huge scarlet flamingoes suddenly
take to the air and drift on broad wings over the heads
of the invading human beings, not knowing that it was
Dorian Hawkmoon's responsibility, as it had been that
of Count Brass, to protect the wildlife of the Kamarg
and never to kill it, and only sometimes to tame it to
provide riding beasts for land and sky. Originally this
had been why the great watchtowers had been built
and why the men who occupied those watchtowers
were called Guardians. But now they guarded the
human populace as well as the beasts, guarded them
from any threat from beyond the Kamarg's borders (for
no native-bred Karmargian would consider harming the
animals which were found nowhere else in the world).
The only beasts that were hunted (save for food) in
the marshes were the baragoon, the marsh gibberers, the
things which had once been men themselves before be-
coming the victims of sorcerous experiments conducted
by an evil Lord Guardian who had been done away with
by old Count Brass. But there were only one or two
baragoons left in the Kamarg lands now for hunters
had little difficulty identifying them—they were over
eight feet tall, five feet broad, bile-coloured and they
slithered on their bellies through the swamps, occasion-
ally rising to rush upon whatever prey they could now
find in the marshlands. None the less, on their rides,
Yisselda and Dorian Hawkmoon would take care to
avoid the places still thought to be inhabited by the
baragoon.
Hawkmoon had come to love the Kamarg more than
his own ancestral lands in far-off Germany, had even
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renounced his title to those lands now ruled well by an
elected council as indeed were many of the European
lands who had lost their hereditary rulers and chosen,
since the defeat of the Dark Empire, to become re-
publics.
Yet, for all that Hawkmoon was loved and respected
by the people of the Kamarg, he was aware that he did
not replace old Count Brass in their eyes. He could
never do that. They sought Countess Yisselda's advice
as often as they sought his and they looked with great
favour on young Manfred, seeing him almost as a rein-
carnation of their old Lord Guardian.
Another man might have resented all this, but Hawk-
moon, who had loved Count Brass as well as had they,
accepted it with good grace. He had had enough of
command, of heroics. He preferred to live the life of a
simple country gentleman and wherever possible let the
people have control of their own affairs. His ambitions
were simple, too—to love his beautiful wife Yisselda
and to ensure the happiness of his children. His days
of history-making were over. All that he had left to
remind him of his struggles against Granbretan was an
oddly shaped scar in the centre of his forehead—where
once had reposed the dreadful Black Jewel, the Brain-
eater implanted there by Baron Kalan of Vitall when,
years before, Hawkmoon had been recruited against his
will to serve the Dark Empire against Count Brass. Now
the jewel was gone and so was Baron Kalan, who had
committed suicide after the Battle of Londra. A brilliant
scientist, but perhaps the most warped of all the barons
of Granbretan, Kalan had been unable to conceive of
continuing to exist under the new and, in his view, soft
order Imposed by Queen Flana, who had succeeded the
King Emperor Huon after Baron Meliadus had slain
him in a desperate effort to make himself controller of
Granbretan's policies.
Hawkmoon sometimes wondered what would have
happened to Baron Kalan, or, for that matter, Tara-
gorm, Master of the Palace of Time, who had perished
when one of Kalan's fiendish weapons had exploded
during the Battle of Londra, if they had lived on. Could
they have been put into the service of Queen Flana and
their talents used to rebuild the world they had helped
destroy? Probably not, he thought. They were insane.
Their characters had been wholly shaped by the per-
verted and insane philosophies which had led Gran-
bretan to make war upon the world and come close to
conquering it all.
After one of their marshland rides, the family would
return to Aigues-Mortes, the walled and ancient town
which was the principal city of the Kamarg, and to Cas-
tle Brass which stood on a hill in the very centre. Built
of the same white stone as the majority of the town's
houses, Castle Brass was a mixture of architectural
styles which, somehow, did not seem to clash with
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each other. Over the centuries there had been additions
and renovations; at the whim of different owners parts
had been torn down and other parts built. Most of the
windows were of intricately detailed stained glass,
though the window frames themselves were as often
round as they were square and as square as they were
oblong or oval. Turrets and towers sprang up from the
main mass of stone in all kinds of surprising places;
there were even one or two minarets in the manner of
Arabian palaces. And Dorian Hawkmoon, following the
fashion of his own German folk, had had many flagstaffs
erected and upon these staffs floated beautiful coloured
banners, including those of the Counts of Brass and
the Dukes of Koln. Gargoyles festooned the gutters of
the castle and many a gable was carved in stone in the
likeness of a Kamargian beast—the bull, the flamingo,
the horned horse and the marsh bear.
There was about Castle Brass, as there had been in
the days of Count Brass himself, something at once im-
pressive and comfortable. The castle had not been built
to impress anyone with either the taste or the power of
its inhabitants. It had hardly been built for strength
(though it had already proven its strength) and aesthetic
considerations, too, had not been made when rebuild-
ing it. It had been built for comfort and this was a rare
thing in a castle. It could be that it was the only
castle in the world that had been built with such con-
siderations in mind! Even the terraced gardens outside
the castle walls had a homely appearance, growing
vegetables and flowers of every sort, supplying not only
the castle but much of the town with its basic require-
ments.
When they returned from their rides the family would
sit down to a good, plain meal which would be shared
with many of its retainers, then the children would be
taken to bed by Yisselda and she would tell them a
story. Sometimes the story would be an ancient one,
from the time before the Tragic Millennium, sometimes
it would be one she would make up herself and some-
times, at the insistence of Manfred and Yarmila, Dorian
Hawkmoon would be called for and he would tell them
of some of his adventures in distant lands when he
served the Runestaff. He would tell them of how he had
met little Oladahn, whose body and face had been cov-
ered in fine, reddish hair, and who had claimed to be the
kin of Mountain Giants. He would tell them of Amarehk
beyond the great sea to the north and the the magical
city of Dnark where he had first seen the Runestaff itself.
Admittedly, Hawkmoon had to modify these tales, for
the truth was darker and more terrible than most adult
minds could conceive. He spoke most often of his dead
friends and their noblest deeds, keeping alive the
memories of Count Brass, Bowgentle, D'Averc and
Oladahn. Already these deeds were legendary through-
out Europe.
And when the stories were done, Yisselda and Dorian
Hawkmoon would sit in deep armchairs on either side
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of the great fireplace over which hung Count Brass's
armour of brass and his broadsword, and they would
talk or they would read.
From time to time they would receive letters from
Londra, from Queen Flana telling how her policies
progressed. Londra, that insane roofed city, had been
almost entirely dismantled and fine, open buildings put
up instead on both sides of the River Tayme, which no
longer ran blood red. The wearing of masks had been
abolished and most of the people of Granbretan had,
after a while, become used to revealing their naked
faces, though some die-hards had had to receive mild
punishment for their insistence on clinging to the old,
mad ways of the Dark Empire. The Orders of the
Beasts had also been outlawed and people had been
encouraged to leave the darkness of their cities and re-
turn to the all but deserted and overgrown countryside
of Granbretan, where vast forests of oak, elm or pine
stretched for miles. For centuries Granbretan had lived
on plunder and now she had to feed herself. Therefore
the soldiers who had belonged to the beast orders were
put to farming, to clearing the forests, to raising herds
and planting crops. Local councils were set up to rep-
resent the interests of the people. Queen Flana had
called a parliament and this parliament now advised her
and helped her rule justly. It was strange how swiftly
a warlike nation, a nation of military castes, had been
encouraged to become a nation of farmers and foresters.
The majority of the people of Granbretan had taken
to their new lives with relief once it dawned on them
that they were now free of the madness that had once
infected the whole land—and sought, indeed, to infect
the world.
And so the quiet days passed at Castle Brass.
And so they would have passed for always (until
Manfred and Yarmila grew up and Hawkmoon and
Yisselda became middle-aged and, eventually, old in
their contentment, dying peacefully and cheerfully,
knowing that the Kamarg was secure and that the days
of the Dark Empire could never return) but for some-
thing strange that began to happen towards the close of
the sixth summer since the Battle of Londra when, to his
astonishment, Dorian Hawkmoon found that the people
of Aigues-Mortes were beginning to offer him peculiar
looks when he hailed them in the streets—some refusing
to acknowledge him at all and others scowling and mut-
tering and turning aside as he approached.
It was Dorian Hawkmoon's habit, as it had been
Count Brass's, to attend the great celebrations marking
the end of the summer's work. Then Aigues-Mortes
would be decorated with flowers and banners and the
citizens would put on their most elaborate finery, young
white bulls would be allowed to charge at will through
the streets and the guardians of the watchtowers would
ride about in their polished armour and silk surcoats,
their flame-lances on their hips. And there would be bull
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contests in the immeasurably ancient amphitheatre on
the outskirts of the town. Here was where Count Brass
had once saved the life of the great toreador Mahtan
Just when he was being gored to death by a gigantic bull.
Count Brass had leaped into the ring and wrestled the
bull with his bare hands, bringing the beast to its knees
and winning the acclaim of the crowd, for Count Brass
had then been well into middle age.
But nowadays the festival was not a purely local
affair. Ambassadors from all over Europe would come
to honour the surviving hero and heroine of Londra
and Queen Flana herself had visited Castle Brass on two
previous occasions. This year, however, Queen Flana
had been kept at home by affairs of state and one of her
nobles attended in her name. Hawkmoon was pleased
to note that Count Brass's dream of a unified Europe
was beginning to become reality. The wars with Gran-
bretan had helped break down the old boundaries and
had brought the survivors together in a common cause.
Europe still consisted of about a thousand small prov-
inces, each independent of any other, but they worked
in concert on many projects concerning the general
good.
The ambassadors came from Scandia, from Muscovy,
from Arabia, from the lands of the Greeks and the
Bulgars, from Ukrainia, from Nurnberg and Catalania.
They came in carriages, on horseback or in ornithopters
whose design was borrowed from Granbretan. And they
brought gifts and they brought speeches (some long and
some short) and they spoke of Dorian Hawkmoon as if
he were a demigod.
In past years their praise had found enthusiastic re-
sponse in the people of the Kamarg. But for some reason
this year their speeches did not get quite the same qual-
ity of applause as they once had. Few, however, noticed.
Only Hawkmoon and Yisselda noticed and, without be-
ing resentful, they were deeply puzzled.
The most fulsome of all the speeches made in the
ancient bullring of Aigues-Mortes came from Lonson,
Prince of Shkarlan, cousin to Queen Flana, ambassador
from Granbretan. Lonson was young and an enthusias-
tic supporter of the queen's policies. He had been barely
seventeen when the Battle of Londra had robbed his
nation of its evil power and thus he bore no great re-
sentment of Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln—indeed, he
saw Hawkmoon as a saviour, who had brought peace
and sanity to his island kingdom. Prince Lonson's
speech was rich with admiration for the new Lord Pro-
tector of the Kamarg. He recalled great deeds of bat-
tle, great achievements of will and self-discipline, great
cunning in the arts of strategy and diplomacy by which,
he said, future generations would remember Dorian
Hawkmoon. Not only had Hawkmoon saved continental
Europe—he had saved the Dark Empire from itself.
Seated in his traditional box with all his foreign guests
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about him, Dorian Hawkmoon listened to the speech
with embarrassment and hoped it would soon end. He
was dressed in ceremonial armour which was as ornate
as it was uncomfortable and the back of his neck itched
horribly. While Prince Lonson spoke it would not be
polite to remove the helmet and scratch. He looked at
the crowd seated on the granite benches of the amphi-
theatre and seated on the ground of the ring itself.
Whereas most of the people were listening with approval
to Prince Lonson's speech, others were muttering to
each other, scowling. One old man, whom Hawkmoon
recognised as an ex-guardian who had fought beside
Count Brass in many of his battles, even spat into the
dust of the arena when Prince Lonson spoke of Dorian
Hawkmoon's unswerving loyalty to his comrades.
Yisselda also noticed this and she frowned, glancing
at Hawkmoon to see if he had noticed. Their eyes met.
Dorian Hawkmoon shrugged and gave her a little
smile. She smiled back, but the frown did not altogether
leave her brow.
And at last the speech was over and applauded and
the people began to leave the arena so that the first of
the bulls might be driven in and the first toreador at-
tempt to remove the colourful ribbons which were tied
to the beast's horns (for it was not the custom of the
folk of the Kamarg to exhibit their courage by slaying
animals—instead skill alone was pitted against the snort-
ing savagery of the very fiercest bulls).
But when the crowd had departed there was one who
remained. Now Hawkmoon recalled his name. It was
Czernik, originally a Bulgar mercenary who had thrown
in his lot with Count Brass and ridden with him through
a dozen campaigns. Czernik's face was flushed, as if he
had been drinking, and his stance was unsteady as he
pointed a finger up at Hawkmoon's box and spat again.
'Loyalty!' the old man croaked. 'I know otherwise.
I know who is Count Brass's murderer—who betrayed
him to his enemies! Coward! Play-actor! False hero!'
Hawkmoon was stunned as he listened to Czernik
rant. What could the old man mean?
Stewards ran into the ring to grasp Czernik's arms and
attempt to hurry him off. But he struggled with them.
'Thus your master tries to silence the truth!' screamed
Czernik. 'But it cannot be silenced! He has been ac-
cused by the only one whose word can be trusted!'
If it had only been Czernik who had shown such
animosity, Hawkmoon would have dismissed his ravings
as senile. But Czernik was not the only one. Czernik
had expressed what Hawkmoon had seen on more than
a score of faces that day—and on previous days.
'Let him be!' Hawkmoon called, standing up and
leaning forward over the balustrade. 'Let him speak!'
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For a moment the stewards were at a loss to know
what to do. Then, reluctantly, they released the old
man. Czernik stood there trembling, glaring into Hawk-
moon's eyes.
'Now,' Hawkmoon called. 'Tell me of what you ac-
cuse me, Czernik. I will listen.'
The attention of the whole populace of Aigues-Mortes
was upon Hawkmoon and Czernik now. There was a
stillness, a silence in the air.
Yisselda tugged at her husband's surcoat. 'Do not
listen to him, Dorian. He is drunk. He is mad.'
'Tell me!' Hawkmoon demanded.
Czernik scratched his head of grey, thinning hair. He
stared around him at the crowd. He mumbled some-
thing.
'Speak more clearly!' Hawkmoon said. 'I am eager to
hear, Czernik.'
'I called you murderer and murderer you be!' Czernik
said.
'Who told you that I am a murderer!'
Again Czernik's mumble was inaudible.
'Who told you?'
'The one you murdered!' Czernik screamed. 'The one
you betrayed.'
'A dead man? Whom did I betray?'
'The one we all love. The one I followed across a
hundred provinces. The one who saved my life twice.
The one to whom, living or dead, I would ever give my
loyalty.'
Yisselda's whisper from behind Hawkmoon was in-
credulous. 'He can speak of none other but my
father . ..'
'Do you mean Count Brass?' Hawkmoon called.
'Aye!' cried Czernik defiantly. 'Count Brass, who
came to the Kamarg all those years ago and saved it
from tyranny. Who fought the Dark Empire and saved
the whole world! His deeds are well known. What was
not known was that at Londra he was betrayed by one
who not only coveted his daughter but coveted his cas-
tle, too. And killed him for them!'
'You lie,' and Hawkmoon evenly. 'If you were
younger, Czernik, I would challenge you to defend your
foul words with a sword. How could you believe such
lies?'
'Many believe them!' Czernik gestured to indicate the
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crowd. 'Many here have heard what I have heard.'
'Where have you heard this?' Yisselda joined her
husband at the balustrade.
'In the marshlands beyond the town. At night. Some,
like me, journeying home from another town—they
have heard it.'
'And from whose lying lips?' Hawkmoon was trem-
bling with anger. He and Count Brass had fought side
by side, each had been prepared to die for the other—
and now this dreadful lie was being told—a He which in-
sulted Count Brass's memory. And that was why Hawk-
moon was angry.
'From his own! From Count Brass's lips.'
'Drunken fool! Count Brass is dead. You said as
much yourself.'
'Aye—but his ghost has returned to the Kamarg.
Riding upon the back of his great horned horse in all
his armour of gleaming brass, with his hair and his
moustache all red as brass and his eyes like burnished
brass. He is out there, treacherous Hawkmoon, in the
marsh. He haunts you. And those who meet him are told
of your treachery, how you deserted him when his
enemies beset him, how you let him die in Londra.'
'It is a lie!' shouted Yisselda. 'I was there. I fought
at Londra. Nothing could save my father.'
'And,' continued Czernik, his voice deepening but still
loud, 'I heard from Count Brass how you joined with
your lover to deceive him.'
'Oh!' Yisselda clapped her hands to her ears. This
is obscene! Obscene!'
'Be silent now, Czernik,' warned Hawkmoon hollow-
ly. 'Still your tongue, for you go too far!'
'He awaits you in the marshes. He will take his ven-
geance upon you out there at night when next you
travel beyond the walls of Aigues-Mortes—if you dare.
And his ghost is still more of a hero, more of a man than
are you, turncoat. Aye—turncoat you be. First you
served Koln, then you served the Empire, then you
turned against the Empire, then you aided the Empire
in its plot against Count Brass, then once again you be-
trayed the Empire. Your history speaks for the truth
of what I say. I am not mad. I am not drunk. There are
others who have seen and heard what I have seen
and heard.'
"Then you have been deceived,' said Yisselda firmly.
'It is you who have been deceived, my lady!' Czernik
growled.
And then the stewards came forward again and
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