Moorcock, Michael - Runestaff 1 - The Jewel in the Skull

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Book 1 in The Runestaff series
Jewel in The Skull
By Michael Moorcock
Contents
BOOK ONE
1. Count Brass 7
2. Yisselda and Bowgentle 14
3. Baron Meliadus 21
4. The Fight at Castle Brass 31
BOOK TWO
1. Dorian Hawkmoon 40
2. The Bargain 45
3. The Black Jewel 58
4. Journey to Castle Brass 63
5. The Awakening of Hawkmoon 72
6. The Battle of the Kamarg 91
BOOK THREE
1. Oladahn 119
2. The Caravan of Agonosvos 125
3. The Warrior in Jet and Cold 134
4. Malagigi 138
5. The Black Jewel's Life 145
6. Servant of the Runestaff 151
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
COUNT BRASS
Then the Earth grew old, its landscapes mellowing
and showing signs of age, its ways becoming whim-
sical and strange in the manner of a man in his last
years.
—The High History of the Runestaff
COUNT BRASS, Lord Guardian of the Kamarg, rode out
on a horned horse one morning to inspect his territories. He
rode until he came to a little hill, on the top of which stood a
ruin of immense age. It was the ruin of a Gothic church, and
its walls of thick stone were smooth with the passing of winds
and rains. Ivy clad much of it, and the ivy was of the flowering
sort so that at this season purple and amber blossoms filled
the dark windows, an excellent substitute for the stained glass
that had once decorated them.
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On his rides, Count Brass always came to the ruin. He felt
a kind of fellowship with it, for, like him, it was old; like him,
it had survived much turmoil, and, like him, it seemed to have
been strengthened rather than weakened by the ravages of
time. The hill on which the ruin stood was a waving sea of tall
tough grass, moved by the wind. The hill was surrounded by
the rich, seemingly infinite marshlands of the Kamarg-a
lonely landscape populated by wild white bulls, herds of horn-
ed horses, and the giant scarlet flamingoes so large that they
could easily lift a grown man.
The sky was a light gray, carrying rain, and from it shone
sunlight of watery gold, touching the Count's armor of bur-
nished brass and making it glow like flame. The Count wore a
huge broadsword at his hip, and a plain helmet, also of brass,
was on his head. His whole body was sheathed in heavy brass,
and even his gloves and boots were of brass links sewn upon
leather. The Count's body was broad, sturdy and tall, and he
had a great, strong head on his shoulders, with a tanned face
that might also have been molded of brass. From this head
stared two steady eyes of golden brown. His heavy mustache
was red, as was his hair. In the Kamarg, as well as beyond it,
it was not unusual to hear the legend that the Count was, in
fact, not a true man at all but a living statue in brass, a Titan,
invincible, indestructible, immortal.
But those who knew Count Brass well enough knew that he
was a man in every sense - a loyal friend, a terrible foe, given
much to laughter yet capable of ferocious anger, a drinker of
enormous capacity, a trencherman of not indiscriminate
tastes, a wit, a swordsman and a horseman without par, a
sage in the ways of men and history, a lover at once tender
and savage. Count Brass, with his rolling, warm voice and his
rich vitality, could not help but be a legend, for if the man was
exceptional, then so were his deeds.
Count Brass stroked the head of his horse, rubbing his
gauntlet between the sharp, spiral horns of the animal and
looking to the south, where the sea and sky met far away. The
horse grunted with pleasure, and Count Brass smiled, leaned
back in his saddle, and flicked the reins to make the horse de-
scend the hill and head along the secret marsh path that led
toward the northern towers beyond the horizon.
The sky was darkening when he reached the first tower and
saw its guardian, an armored silhouette against the skyline,
keeping his vigil. Though no attack had been made on the
Kamarg since Count Brass had come to replace the former,
corrupt Lord Guardian, there was now a slight danger that
roaming armies, made up of those whom the Dark Empire of
the west had defeated, might wander into the domain looking
for towns and villages to loot. The guardian, like all his fel-
lows, was equipped with a flame-lance of baroque design, a
sword four feet long, a tamed riding flamingo tethered to one
side of the battlements, and a heliograph device to signal in-
formation to the other towers. There were other weapons in
the towers, weapons the Count himself had built and in-
stalled, but the guardians knew only their method of opera-
tion; they had never seen them in action. Count Brass had
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assured them that they were more powerful than any weapons
possessed even by the Dark Empire of Granbretan, and they
believed him, though they were still a little wary of the strange
machines.
The guardian turned as Count Brass approached the tower.
The man's face was almost hidden by his black iron helmet,
which curved around his cheeks and over his nose. His body
was swathed in a heavy leather cloak. He saluted, raising his
arm high.
Count Brass raised his own arm. "Is all well, guardian?"
"All well, my lord." The guardian shifted his grip on his
flame-lance and turned up the cowl of his cloak as the first
drops of rain began to fall. "Save for the weather."
Count Brass laughed. "Wait for the mistral and then com-
plain." He guided his horse away from the tower, making
for the next.
The mistral was the cold, fierce wind that whipped across
the Kamarg for months on end, its wild keening a continuous
sound until spring. Count Brass loved to ride through it when
it was at its height, the force of it lashing at his face and turn-
ing his bronze tan to a glowing red.
Now the rain splashed down on his armor, and he reached
behind his saddle for his cloak, tugging it about his shoulders
and raising the hood. Everywhere through the darkening day
the reeds bent in the breeze-borne rain, and there was a con-
stant patter of water on water as the heavy drops splashed
into the lagoons, sending out ceaseless ripples. Above, the
clouds banked blacker, threatening to release a good-sized
weight of water, and Count Brass decided he would forego the
rest of his inspection until the next day and instead return to
his castle at Aigues-Mortes, a good four hours' ride through
the twisting marsh paths.
He sent the horse back the way they had come, knowing
that the beast would find the path by instinct. As he rode, the
rain fell faster, making his cloak sodden, and the night closed
in rapidly until all that could be seen was the solid wall of
blackness broken only by the silver traceries of rain. The
horse moved more slowly but did not pause. Count Brass
could smell its wet hide and promised it special treatment by
the grooms when they reached Aigues-Mortes. He brushed
water from its mane with his gloved hand and tried to peer
ahead, but he could see only the reeds immediately around him,
hear only the occasional maniacal cackle of a mallard, flapping
across a lagoon pursued by a water-fox or an otter. Some-
times he thought he saw a dark shape overhead and felt the
swish of a swooping flamingo making for its communal nest
or recognised the squawk of a moorhen battling for its life
with an owl. Once, he caught a flash of white in the darkness
and listened to the blundering passage of a nearby herd of
white bulls as they made for firmer land to sleep; and he no-
ticed the sound, a little later, of a marsh-bear stalking the herd
his breath whiffling and his feet making the slightest sound as
he carefully padded across the quaking surface of the mud.
All these sounds were familiar to Count Brass and did not
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alarm him.
Even when he heard the high-pitched whinny of frightened
horses and heard their hoofbeats in the distance he was not
unduly perturbed until his own horse stopped dead and moved
uncertainly. The horses were coming directly toward him,
charging down the narrow causeway in panic. Now Count
Brass could see the leading stallion, his eyes rolling in fear, his
nostrils flaring and snorting.
Count Brass yelled and waved his arms, hoping to divert
the stallion, but it was plainly too panic-stricken to heed him.
There was nothing else to do. Count Brass yanked at the reins
of his mount and sent it into the marsh, hoping desperately
that the ground would be firm enough to hold them at least
until the herd had passed. The horse stumbled into the reeds,
its hooves seeking purchase in the soft mud; then it had plun-
ged into water and Count Brass saw spray fly and felt a wave
hit his face, and the horse was swimming as best it could
through the cold lagoon, bravely carrying its armored burden.
The herd had soon thundered past. Count Brass puzzled
over what had panicked them so, for the wild horned horses
of the Kamarg were not easily disturbed. Then, as he guided
his horse back toward the path, there came a sound that im-
mediately explained the commotion and sent his hand to the
hilt of his sword.
It was a slithering sound, a slobbering sound; the sound of
a baragoon - the marsh gibberer. Few of the monsters were
left now. They had been the creations of the former Guardian
who had used them to terrorize the people of the Kamarg
before Count Brass came. Count Brass and his men had all
but destroyed the race, but those which remained had learned
to hunt by night and avoid large numbers of men at all costs.
The baragoons had once been men themselves, before they
had been taken as slaves to the former Guardian's sorcerous
laboratories and there transformed. Now they were mon-
sters eight feet high and some five feet broad, bile-colored and
slithering on their bellies through the marshlands, rising only
to leap upon and rend their prey with their steel-hard talons.
When they did, on occasion, have the good fortune to find a
man alone they would take slow vengeance, delighting in eat-
ing a man's limbs before his own eyes.
As his horse regained the marsh path, Count Brass saw the
the baragoon ahead, smelled its stench, and coughed on the
odor. His huge broadsword was now in his hand.
The baragoon had heard him and paused.
Count Brass dismounted and stood between his horse and
the monster. He gripped his broadsword in both hands and
began to walk, stiff-legged in his armor of brass, toward the
baragoon.
Instantly it began to gibber in a shrill, repulsive voice, rais-
ing itself up and flailing with its talons in an effort to terrify
the Count. But to Count Brass the apparition was not unduly
horrific; he had seen much worse in his time. However, he
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knew that his chances against the beast were slim, since the
baragoon could see in the dark and the marsh was its natural
environment. Count Brass would have to use cunning.
"Well, you ill-smelling foulness," he began in an almost
jocular tone, "I am Count Brass, the enemy of your race. It
was I who destroyed your evil kin and it is thanks to me that
you have so few brothers and sisters these days. Do you miss
them? Would you join them?"
The baragoon's gibbering shout of rage was loud but not
without a hint of uncertainty. It shuffled its bulk but did not
move toward the Count.
Count Brass laughed. "Well, cowardly creation of sorcery
- what's your answer?"
The monster opened its mouth and tried to frame a few
words with its misshapen lips, but little emerged that could
be recognized as human speech. Its eyes now did not meet
Count Brass's.
With every appearance of casualness, Count Brass dug his
great sword into the ground and rested his gauntleted hands
upon the crosspiece. "I see you are ashamed of terrorizing the
horses I protect, and I am in good humor, so I will pity you.
Go now and I'll let you live a few more days. Stay, and you
die this hour."
He spoke with such assurance that the beast dropped back
to the ground, though it did not retreat. The Count lifted up
his sword, as if with impatience, and began to walk decisively
forward. He wrinkled his nose against the stench of the mon-
ster, paused, and waved the thing away from him. "Into the
swamp, into the slime where you belong. I am in a merciful
mood tonight."
The baragoon's wet mouth snarled, but he still hesitated.
Count Brass frowned a little, judging his moment, for he
had known the baragoon would not retreat so easily. He
lifted his sword. "Will this be your fate?"
The baragoon began to rise on its hind legs, but Count
Brass's timing was exactly right. He was already swinging the
heavy blade into the monster's neck.
The thing struck out with both taloned hands, its gib-
bering cry a mixture of hatred and terror. There was a metallic
squeal as the talons scored gashes in the Count's armor,
sending him staggering backward. The monster's mouth open-
ed and closed an inch from the Count's face, its huge black
eyes seeming to consume him with their rage. As he staggered
he tugged his sword with him. It came free. He regained his
footing and struck again.
Black blood pumped from the wound, drenching the Count.
There was another terrible cry from the beast, and its hands
went to its head, trying desperately to hold it in place. Then
the baragoon's head flopped half off its shoulders, blood
pumped again, and the body fell.
Count Brass stood stock still, panting heavily, a look of
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grim satisfaction upon his face. He wiped the creature's blood
fastidiously from his face, smoothed his heavy mustache with
the back of his hand, and congratulated himself that he
appeared to have lost none of his guile or his skill. He had
planned every moment of the encounter, intending from the
first to kill the creature. He had kept the baragoon bewildered
until he could strike. He saw no wrong in deceiving the thing.
If he had given the monster a fair fight, it was likely that he,
and not the baragoon, would now be lying headless in the mud.
Count Brass took a deep breath of the cold air and moved
forward. With some effort he managed to push the dead bara-
goon off the path with his booted foot, sending it slithering
into the marsh.
Then Count Brass remounted his horned horse and rode
back to Aigues-Mortes without further incident
CHAPTER TWO
YISSELDA AND BOWGENTLE
COUNT BRASS had led armies in almost every famous
battle of his day; he had been the power behind the thrones of
half the rulers of Europe, a maker and a destroyer of kings
and princes. He was a master of intrigue, a man whose advice
was sought in any affair involving political struggle. He had
been, in truth, a mercenary; but he had been a mercenary
with an ideal, and the ideal had been to set the continent of
Europe toward unification and peace. Thus he had, from pre-
ference, leagued himself with any force he judged capable of
making some contribution to this cause. Many a time he had
refused the offer to rule an empire, knowing that this was an
age when a man could make an empire in five years and
lose it in six months, for history was still in a state of flux and
would not settle in the Count's lifetime. He sought only to
guide history a little in the course he thought best.
Tiring of wars, of intrigue, and even to some extent, of
ideals, the old hero had eventually accepted the offer of the
people of the Kamarg to become their Lord Guardian.
That ancient land of marshes and lagoons lay close to the
coast of the Mediterranean. It had once been part of the
nation called France, but France was now two dozen duke-
doms with as many grandiose names. The Kamarg, with its
wide, faded skies of orange, yellow, red, and purple, its relics
of the dim past, its barely changing customs and rituals, had
appealed to the old Count and he had set himself the task of
making his adopted land secure.
In his travels in all the Courts of Europe he had discovered
many secrets, and thus the great, gloomy towers that ringed
the borders of the Kamarg now protected the territory with
more potent, less-recognizable weaponry than broadswords
or flame-lances.
On the southern borders, the marshes gradually gave way
to sea, and sometimes ships stopped at the little ports, though
travelers rarely disembarked. This was because of the Kam-
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arg's terrain. The wild landscapes were treacherous to those
not familiar with them, and the marsh roads were hard to find;
also, mountain ranges flanked its three sides on land. The man
wishing to head inland disembarked farther east and took a
boat up the Rhone. So the Kamarg received little news from
the outside world, and what it did receive was usually stale.
This was one of the reasons why Count Brass had settled
there. He enjoyed the sense of isolation; he had been too long
involved with worldly affairs for even the most sensational
news to interest him much. In his youth he had commanded
armies in the wars that constantly raged across Europe. Now,
however, he was tired of all conflict and refused all requests
for aid or advice that reached him, no matter what induce-
ment was offered.
In the west lay the island empire of Granbretan, the only
nation with any real political stability, with her half-insane
science and her ambitions of conquest. Having built the tall,
curved bridge of silver that spanned thirty miles of sea, the
empire was bent on increasing her territories by means of her
black wisdom and her war machines like the brazen ornithop-
ters that had a range of more than a hundred miles. But even
the encroachment of the Dark Empire into the mainland of
Europe did not greatly disturb Count Brass; it was a law of
history, he believed, that such things must happen, and he saw
the ultimate benefits that could result from a force, no matter
how cruel, capable of uniting all the warring states into one
nation
Count Brass's philosophy was the philosophy of experience,
the philosophy of a man of the world rather than a scholar,
and he saw no reason to doubt it, while the Kamarg, his sole
responsibility, was strong enough to resist even the full might
of Granbretan,
Having nothing, himself, to fear from Granbretan, he
watched with a certain remote admiration the cruel and effi-
cient manner in which the nation spread her shadow farther
and farther across Europe with every year that passed.
Across Scandia and all the nations of the north the shadow
fell, along a line marked by famous cities: Parye, Munchein,
Wien, Krahkov, Kerninsburg (itself a foothold in the myste-
rious land of Muskovia). A great semi-circle of power in the
main continental land mass; a semi-circle that grew wider
almost every day and must soon touch the northernmost
princedoms of Italia, Magyaria, and Slavia. Soon, Count
Brass guessed, the Dark Empire's power would stretch from
the Norwegian Sea to the Mediterranean, and only the Kamarg
would not be under its sway. It was partly with this knowledge
in mind that he had accepted the Lord Guardianship of the
territory when its previous Guardian, a corrupt and spurious
sorcerer from the land of the Bulgars, had been torn to pieces
by the native guardians whom he had commanded.
Count Brass had made the Kamarg secure from attack from
outside and from menace from within. There were few bara-
goons left to terrorize the people of the many small villages,
and other terrors had been dealt with also.
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Now the Count dwelt in his warm castle at Aigues-Mortes,
enjoying the simple, rural pleasures of the land, while the
people were, for the first time in many years, free from anx-
iety.
The castle, known as Castle Brass, had been built some
centuries before on what had then been an artificial pyramid
rising high above the center of the town. But now the pyramid
was hidden by earth in which had been planted grass and
gardens for flowers, vines, and vegetables in a series of ter-
races. Here there were well-kept lawns on which the children
of the castle could play or adults stroll, there were the grape-
vines that gave the best wine in the Kamarg, and farther down
grew rows of harricots and patches of potatoes, cauliflowers,
carrots, lettuce, and many other common vegetables, as well
as more exotic ones like the giant pumpkin-tomatoes, celery
trees, and sweet ambrogines. There were also fruit trees and
bushes that supplied the castle through most of the seasons.
The castle was built of the same white stone as the houses
of the town. It had windows of thick glass (much of it painted
fancifully) and ornate towers and battlements of delicate
workmanship. From its highest turrets it was possible to see
most of the territory it protected, and it was so designed that
when the mistral came an arrangement of vents, pulleys, and
little doors could be operated and the castle would sing so
that its music, like that of an organ, could be heard for miles
on the wind.
The castle looked down on the red roofs of the town and at
the bullring beyond, which had originally been built, it was
said, many thousands of years ago by the Romanians.
Count Brass rode his weary horse up the winding road to
the castle and hallooed to the guards to open the gate. The
rain was easing off, but the night was cold and the Count was
eager to reach his fireside. He rode through the great iron
gates and into the courtyard, where a groom took his horse.
Then he plodded up the steps, through the doors of the castle,
down a short passage, and into the main hall.
There, a huge fire roared in the grate, and beside it, in deep,
padded armchairs, sat his daughter, Yisselda, and his old
friend Bowgentle. They rose as he entered, and Yisselda stood
on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, while Bowgentle stood by smiling.
"You look as if you could do with some hot food and a
change into something warmer than armor," said Bowgentle,
tugging at a bellrope. "I'll see to it."
Count Brass nodded gratefully and went to stand by the fire
tugging off his helmet and placing it with a clank on the man-
tel. Yisselda was already kneeling at his feet, tugging at the
straps of his greaves. She was a beautiful girl of nineteen, with
soft rose-gold skin and fair hair that was not quite blonde and
not quite auburn but of a color lovelier than both. She was
dressed in a flowing gown of flame-orange that made her
resemble a fire sprite as she moved with graceful swiftness to
carry the greaves to the servant who now stood by with a
change of clothes for her father.
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Another servant helped Count Brass shed his breastplate,
backplate, and other parts of his armor, and soon he was
pulling on soft, loose trousers and shirt of white wool and
wrapping a linen gown over that.
A small table, heavy with steaks of local beef, potatoes,
salad, and a delicious thick sauce, was brought up to the fire,
together with a flagon of mulled wine. Count Brass sat down
with a sigh and began to eat.
Bowgentle stood by the fire watching him, while Yisselda
curled up in the chair opposite and waited until he had taken
the edge off his appetite.
"Well, my lord," said she with a smile, "how went the day?
Is all our land secure?"
Count Brass nodded with mock gravity. "It would seem so,
my lady, though I was not able to visit any of the northern
towers but one. The rain came on, and I decided to return
home." He told them about his encounter with the baragoon.
Yisselda listened with wide eyes while Bowgentle looked some-
what grave, his kind, ascetic face bowed and his lips
pursed. The famous philosopher-poet was not always approv-
ing of his friend's exploits and seemed to think that Count
Brass brought such adventures upon himself.
"You'll recollect," said Bowgentle when the Count had
finished, "that I advised you this morning to travel with von
Villach and some of the others." Von Villach was the Count's
chief lieutenant, a loyal old soldier who had been with him
through most of his earlier exploits.
Count Brass laughed up at his dour-faced friend. "Von
Villach? He's getting old and slow, and it would not be a
kindness to take him out in this weather!"
Bowgentle smiled a little bleakly. "He's a year or two
younger than yourself, Count. ..."
"Possibly, but could he defeat a baragoon single-handed?"
"That is not the point," Bowgentle continued firmly. "If
you traveled with him and a party of men-at-arms you would
not need to encounter a baragoon at all."
Count Brass waved a hand, dismissing the discussion. "I
have to keep in practice; otherwise, I might become as mori-
bund as von Villach."
"You have a responsibility to the people here, Father,"
Yisselda put in quietly. "If you were killed . . ."
"I shall not be killed!" The Count smiled scornfully, as if
death were something that only others suffered. In the fire-
light his head resembled the war mask of some ancient barbar-
ian tribe, cast in metal, and it did seem in some way imperish-
able
Yisselda shrugged. She had most of her father's qualities of
character, including the conviction that there was little point
indulging in arguments with such stubborn folk as Count
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Brass. Bowgentle had once written of her in a private poem,
"She is like silk, both strong and soft," and looking at them
now he noticed with quiet affection how the expression of one
was reflected in the other.
Bowgentle changed the subject. "I heard today that Gran-
bretan took the province of Koln not six months past," he
said. "Their conquests spread like a plague."
"A healthy enough plague," Count Brass replied, settling
back in his chair. "At least they establish order."
"Political order, perhaps," Bowgentle said with some fire,
"but scarcely spiritual or moral. Their cruelty is without
precedent. They are insane. Their souls are sick with a love
for all that is evil and a hatred for all that is noble."
Count Brass stroked his mustache. "Such wickedness has
existed before. Why the Bulgar sorcerer who preceded me
here was quite as evil as they."
"The Bulgar was an individual. So were the Marquis of
Pesht, Roldar Nikolayeff, and their kind. But they were ex-
ceptions, and in almost every case the people they led revolted
against them and destroyed them in time. But the Dark
Empire is a nation of such individuals, and such actions as
they commit are seen as natural. In Koln their sport was to
crucify every girlchild in the city, make eunuchs of the boys,
and have all the adults who would save their lives perform
lewd displays in the streets. That is no natural cruelty, Count,
and was by no means their worst. Their entertainment is to
debase all humanity."
"Such stories are exaggerated, my friend. You should
realize that. Why, I myself have been accused of—"
"From all I hear," Bowgentle interrupted, "the rumors are
not an exaggeration of the truth but a simplification. If their
public activities are so terrible, what must their private de-
lights be like?"
Yisselda shuddered. "I can't bear to think . . ."
"Exactly," Bowgentle said, turning to face her. "And few
can bear to repeat what they have witnessed. The order they
bring is superficial, the chaos they bring destroys men's
souls."
Count Brass shrugged his broad shoulders. "Whatever they
do, it is a temporary thing. The unification they force on the
world is permanent, mark my words."
Bowgentle folded his arms across his black-clad chest. "The
price is too heavy, Count Brass."
"No price is too heavy! What will you have? The prince-
doms of Europe dividing into smaller and smaller segments,
war a constant factor in the life of the common man? Today
few men can ever know peace of mind from cradle to grave.
Things change and change again. At least Granbretan offers
consistency!"
file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%2...%201%20-%20The%20Jewel%20in%20the%20Skull.txt (10 of 114) [1/19/03 6:39:30 PM]
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