Michael Moorcock - Runestaff 3 - The Sword of the Dawn

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Book 3 of The Runestaff
The Sword of The Dawn
by Michael Moorcock
Contents
Book One
1 The Last City 9
2 The Flamingoes' Dance 13
3 Elvereza Tozer 19
4 Flana Mikosevaar 27
5 Taragorm 30
6 The Audience 33
7 The Emissaries 39
8 Meliadus at the Palace of Time 48
9 Interlude at Castle Brass 54
10 The Sights of Londra 56
11 Thoughts of the Countess Flana 59
12 A Revelation 60
13 King Huon's Displeasure 66
14 The Wastes of Yel 69
15 The Deserted Cavern 77
16 Mygan of Llandar 86
Book Two
1 Zhenak-Teng 97
2 The Charki 103
3 The Sayou River 108
4 Valjon of Starvel 114
5 PahlBewchard 127
6 Narleen 132
7 The Blaze 140
8 The Walls of Starvel 146
9 The Temple of Batach Gerandiun 152
10 A Friend from the Shadows 160
11 The Parting 170
BOOK ONE
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WHEN THAT ASPECT of the Eternal Champion
called Dorian Hawkmoon, last Duke of Koln, ripped
the Red Amulet from the throat of the Mad God
and made that powerful thing his own, he returned
with Huillam D'Averc and Oladahn of the Mountains
to the Kamarg where Count Brass, his daughter Yis-
selda, his friend Bowgentle the philosopher and all
their people underwent siege from the hordes of the
Dark Empire led by Hawkmoon's old enemy Baron
Meliadus of Kroiden.
So powerful had the Dark Empire grown that it
threatened to destroy even the well-protected province
of the Kamarg. If that happened, it would mean that
Meliadus would take Yisselda for his own and slay
slowly all the rest, turning the Kamarg to a waste of
ash. Only by the mighty force released by the ancient
machine of the wraith-folk which could warp whole
areas of time and space were they saved by shifting
into another dimension of the Earth.
And so they found sanctuary. Sanctuary in some
other Kamarg, where the evil and horror of Granbretan
did not exist; but they knew that if ever the crystal ma-
chine were destroyed, they would be plunged back into
the chaos of their own time and space.
For a while they lived in joyful relief at their es-
cape, but gradually Hawkmoon began to finger his
sword and wonder at the fate of his own world . . .
—The High History of the Runestaff
Chapter One
THE LAST CITY
THE GRIM RIDERS spurred their battle-steeds up
the muddy slopes of the hill, coughing as their lungs
took in the thick black smoke rising from the valley.
It was evening, the sun was setting, and their gro-
tesque shadows were long. In the twilight, it seemed
that gigantic beast-headed creatures rode the horses.
Each rider bore a banner, stained by war, each wore
a huge beast-mask of jewelled metal and heavy armour
of steel, brass and silver, emblazoned with its wearer's
device, battered and bloodied, and each gauntleted
right hand gripped a weapon on which was encrusted
the remains of a hundred innocents.
The six horsemen reached the top of the hill and
dragged their snorting mounts to a halt, stabbing their
banners into the earth where they flapped like the
wings of birds of prey in the hot wind from the valley.
Wolf-mask turned to stare at Fly-mask, Ape glanced
at Goat, Rat seemed to grin at Hound—a grin of
triumph. The Beasts of the Dark Empire, each a War-
lord of thousands, looked beyond the valley and be-
yond the hills to the sea, looked back at the blazing city
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below them where, faintly, they could hear the wails
of the slaughtered and the tormented.
The sun set, night fell arid the flames burned bright-
er, reflected in the dark metal of the masks of the
Lords of Granbretan.
"Well, my lords," said Baron Meliadus, Grand Con-
stable of the Order of, the Wolf, Commander of the
Army of Conquest, his deep, vibrant voice booming
from within his great mask, "well, we have conquered
all Europe now."
Mygel Hoist, skeletal Archduke of Londra, head of
which he had barely escaped with his life, laughed,
the Order of the Goat, veteran of the Kamarg, from
"Aye—all Europe. Not an inch of it is not ours. And
now great parts of the East belong to us also." The
Goat helm nodded as if in satisfaction, the ruby eyes
catching the firelight, flashing malignantly.
"Soon," merrily growled Adaz Promp, Master of the
Order of the Hound, "all the world will be ours. All."
The Barons of Granbretan, masters of a continent,
tacticians and warriors of ferocious courage and skill,
careless of their own lives, corrupt of soul and mad of
brain, haters of all that was not in decay, wielders of
power without morality, force without justice, chuckled
with gloomy pleasure as they watched the last Euro-
pean city to withstand them crumble and die. It had
been an old city. It had been called Athena.
"All," said Jerek Nankenseen, Warlord of the Order
of the Fly, "save the hidden Kamarg ..."
And Baron Meliadus lost his humor then, made al-
most as if he would strike his fellow warlord.
Jerek Nankenseen's bejewelled Fly-mask turned a
little to regard Meliadus and the voice from within the
mask was baiting. "Is it not enough that you have
chased them away, my lord Baron?"
"No," snarled the Wolf of Wolves. "Not enough."
"They can offer us no menace," murmured Baron
Brenal Farnu of the Rat helm. "From what our scien-
tists divined, they exist in a dimension beyond Earth,
in some other time or space. We cannot reach them and
they cannot reach us. Let us enjoy our triumph, un-
marred by thoughts of Hawkmoon and Count
Brass..."
"I cannot!"
"Or is it another name that haunts thee, brother
Baron?" Jerek Nankenseen mocked the man who had
been his rival in more than one amorous encounter in
Londra. "The name of the fair one, Yisselda? Is it love
that moves you, my lord? Sweet love?"
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For a moment the Wolf did not reply, but the hand
that gripped the sword tightened as if in fury. Then
the rich, musical voice spoke and it had recovered its
composure, was almost light in tone.
"Vengeance, Baron Jerek Nankenseen, is what moti-
vates me..."
"You are a most passionate man, Baron . . ." Jerek
Nankenseen said dryly.
Meliadus sheathed his sword suddenly and reached
out to grasp his banner, wrenching it from the earth.
"They have insulted our King-Emperor, our land—
and myself. I will have the girl for my pleasure, but in
no soft spirit will I take her, no weak emotion will
motivate me..."
"Of course not," murmured Jerek Nankenseen, a
hint of patronage in his voice.
". . . And as for the others, I will have my pleasure
with them, also—in the prison vaults of Londra. Do-
rian Hawkmoon, Count Brass, the philosopher Bow-
gentle, the unhuman one, Oladahn of the Bulgar Moun-
tains, and the traitor Huillam D'Averc—all these shall
suffer for many years. That I have sworn by the Rune-
staff!"
There was a sound behind them. They turned to
peer through the flickering light and saw a canopied lit-
ter being borne up the hill by a dozen Athenan prison-
ers of war who were chained to its poles. In the litter
lounged the unconventional Shenegar Trott, Count of
Sussex. Count Shenegar almost disdained the wearing
of a mask at all, and as it was he wore a silver one
scarcely larger than his head, fashioned to resemble, in
caricature, his own visage. He belonged to no Order
and was tolerated by the King-Emperor and his Court
because of his immense richness and almost superhu-
man courage in battle—yet he gave the appearance, in
his jeweled robes and lazy manner, of a besotted fool.
He, even more than Meliadus, had the confidence (such
as it was) of the King-Emperor Huon, for his advice
was almost always excellent. He had plainly heard the
last part of the exchange and spoke banteringly.
"A dangerous oath to swear, my lord Baron," said he
softly. "One that could, by all counts, have repercus-
sions on he who swears it..."
"I swore the oath with that knowledge," replied Me-
liadus. "I shall find them, Count Shenegar, never fear."
"I came to remind you, my lords," said Shenegar
Trott, "that our King-Emperor grows impatient to see
us and hear our report that all Europe is now his
property."
"I will ride for Londra instantly," Meliadus said.
"For there I may consult our sorcerer-scientists and
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discover a means of hunting out my foes. Farewell,
my lords."
He dragged at his horse's reins, turning the beast and
galloping back down the hill, watched by his peers.
The beast-masks moved together in the firelight. "His
singular mentality could destroy us all," whispered one.
"What matter?" chuckled Shenegar Trott, "so long
as all is destroyed with us ..."
The answering laughter was wild, ringing from the
jeweled helms. It was insane laughter, tinged as much
with self-hatred as with hatred of the world.
For this was the great power of the Lords of the
Dark Empire, that they valued nothing on all the Earth,
no human quality, nothing within or without them-
selves. The spreading of conquest and desolation, of
terror and torment, was their staple entertainment, a
means of employing their hours until their spans of life
were ended. For them, warfare was merely the most
satisfactory way of easing their ennui ...
Chapter Two
THE FLAMINGOES
DANCE
AT DAWN, WHEN clouds of giant scarlet flamin-
goes rose from their nests of reeds and wheeled through
the sky in bizarre ritual dances, Count Brass would
stand on the edge of the marsh and stare over the water
at the strange configurations of dark lagoons and tawny
islands that seemed to him like hieroglyphs in some
primeval language.
The ontological revelations that might exist in these
patterns had always intrigued him, and of late he had
taken to studying the birds, reeds and lagoons, attempt-
ing to divine the key to this cryptic landscape.
The landscape, he thought, was coded. In it he might
find the answers to the dilemma of which even he was
only half-conscious; find, perhaps, the revelation that
would tell him what he needed to know of the growing
threat he felt was about to engulf him both psychically
and physically.
The sun rose, brightening the water with its pale
light, and Count Brass heard a sound, turned, and saw
his daughter Yisselda, golden-haired madonna of the
lagoons, an almost preternatural figure in her flowing
blue gown, riding bareback her white horned Kamarg
horse and smiling mysteriously as if she, too, knew
some secret that he could never fully comprehend.
Count Brass sought to avoid the girl by stepping out
briskly along the shore, but already she was riding
close to him and waving.
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"Father—you're up early! Not for the first time re-
cently."
Count Brass nodded, turned again to contemplate
the waters and the reeds, looked up suddenly at the
dancing birds as if to catch them by surprise, or by
some instinctive flash of divination learn the secret of
their strange, almost frenetic gyrations.
Yisselda had dismounted and now stood beside him.
"They are not our flamingoes," she said. "And yet
they're so like them. What do you see?"
Count Brass shrugged and smiled at her. "Noth-
ing. Where's Hawkmoon?"
"At the castle. He's still asleep."
Count Brass grunted, clasping his great hands to-
gether as if in desperate prayer, listening to the beat-
ing of the heavy wings overhead. Then he relaxed and
took her by the arm, guiding her along the bank of the
lagoon.
"It's beautiful," she murmured. "The sunrise."
Count Brass made a small gesture of impatience.
"You don't understand . . ." he began, and then
paused. He knew that she would never see the land-
scape as he saw it. He had tried once to describe it to
her, but she had lost interest quickly, had made no
effort to understand the significance of the patterns he
detected everywhere—in the water, the reeds, the trees,
the animal life that filled this Kamarg in abundance,
as it had filled the Kamarg that they had left.
To him it was the quintessence of order, but to her
it was simply pleasurable to look at—something "beau-
tiful," to admire, in fact, for its "wildness."
Only Bowgentle, the philosopher poet, Ms old friend,
had an inkling of what he meant and even then Bow-
gentle believed that it reflected not on the nature of the
landscape but on the particular nature of Count Brass's
mind.
"You're exhausted, disorientated," Bowgentle would
say. "The ordering mechanism of the brain is working
too hard, so you see a pattern to existence that, in fact,
only stems from your own weariness and distur-
bance ..."
Count Brass would dismiss this argument with a
scowl, don his armour of brass and ride away on his
own again, to the discomfort of his family and friends.
He had spent a long while exploring this new Kamarg
that was so much like his own save that there was no
evidence of mankind's ever having existed here.
"He is a man of action, like myself," Dorian Hawk-
moon, Yisselda's husband, would say. "His mind turns
inward, I fear, for want of some real problem with
which to engage itself."
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"The real problems seem insoluble," Bowgentle
would reply, and the conversation would end as Hawk-
moon, too, went off by himself, his hand on the hilt of
his sword.
There was tension in Castle Brass, and even in the
village below, the folk were troubled, glad of their es-
cape from the terror of the Dark Empire, but not sure
that they were permanently settled in this new land so
like the one they had left. At first, when they had ar-
rived, the land had seemed a transformed version of the
Kamarg, its colors those of the rainbow, but gradually
those colors had changed to more natural ones, as if
their memories had imposed themselves on the land-
scape, so that now there was little difference. There
were herds of horned horses and white bulls to tame,
scarlet flamingoes that might be trained to bear riders,
but at the back of the villagers' minds was always the
threat of the Dark Empire somehow finding a way
through even to this retreat.
To Hawkmoon and Count Brass—perhaps to
D'Averc, Bowgentle and Oladahn, too—the idea was
not so threatening. There were times when they would
have welcomed an assault from the world they had
left.
While Count Brass studied the landscape and sought
to divine its secrets, Dorian Hawkmoon would ride at
speed along the lagoon trails, scattering herds of bulls
and horses, sending the flamingoes flapping into the
sky, looking for an enemy.
One day, as he rode back on a steaming horse from
one of his many journeys of exploration along the
shores of the violet sea (sea and terrain seemed without
limit), he saw the flamingoes wheeling in the sky,
spiraling upwards on the air currents and then drifting
down again. It was afternoon and the flamingo dance
took place only at dawn. The giant birds seemed dis-
turbed and Hawkmoon decided to investigate.
He spurred his horse along the winding path through
the marsh until he was directly below the flamingoes,
saw that they wheeled above a small island covered in
tall reeds. He peered intently at the island and thought
that he glimpsed something among the reeds, a flash of
red that could be a man's coat.
At first Hawkmoon decided that it was probably a
villager snaring duck, but then he realized that if that
had been so the man would have hailed him—at least
waved him away to ensure he would not disturb the
fowl.
Puzzled, Hawkmoon spurred his horse into the wa-
ter, swimming it across to the island and on to the
marshy ground. The animal's powerful body pushed
back the tough reeds as it moved and again Hawk-
moon saw a flash of red, became convinced that he
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had seen a man.
"Ho!" he cried. "Who's there!"
He received no answer. Instead the reeds became
more agitated as the man began to run through them
without caution.
"Who are you?" Hawkmoon cried, and it came to
him then that the Dark Empire had broken through at
last, that there were men hidden everywhere in the
reeds ready to attack Castle Brass.
He thundered through the reeds in pursuit of the
red-jerkined man, saw him clearly now as he flung him-
self into the lagoon and began to swim for the bank.
"Stop!" Hawkmoon called, but the man swam on.
Hawkmoon's horse plunged again into the water and
it foamed white. The man was already wading onto the
opposite bank, glanced back to see that Hawkmoon
was almost upon him, turned right round and drew a
bright, slender sword of extraordinary length.
But it was not the sword that astonished Hawkmoon
most—it was the impression that the man had no face!
The whole of the head beneath the long, fair, dirty hair
was blank. Hawkmoon gasped, drawing his own sword.
Was it some alien inhabitant of this world?
Hawkmoon swung himself from his saddle, sword
ready, as the horse clambered onto the bank, stood
legs astraddle facing his strange antagonist, laughed
suddenly as he realized the truth. The man was wearing
a mask of light leather. The mouth and eye slits were
very thin and could not be distinguished at a distance.
"Why do you laugh?" the masked man asked in a
braying voice, his sword on guard. "You should not
laugh, my friend, for you are about to die."
"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "I know you for
a boaster only."
"I am a greater swordsman than you," replied the
man. "You had best surrender now."
"I regret I can't accept your word on the quality of
my swordsmanship or your own," Hawkmoon replied
with a smile. "How is it that such a master of the blade
is so poorly attired, for instance?"
With his sword he indicated the man's patched red
jerkin, his trousers and boots of cracked leather. Even
his bright sword had no scabbard, but had been drawn
from a loop of cord attached to a rope belt on which
also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers
were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of
his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall
but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.
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"A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where
did you steal the sword, beggar?"
He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then with-
drew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and
Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to
his face and discovered that it bled.
"Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the
stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make your-
self my prisoner."
Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A
worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much
I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I
heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he
lunged at the masked man.
His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry
that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon bare-
ly managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in
the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his
position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each
recognising in the other a true master of the sword.
They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither
giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon de-
cided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back
down the bank towards the water.
Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked
man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved
even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was
forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.
Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, go-
ing down on one knee. The other sprang forward to
thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat
striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell
from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and
placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the
other's throat.
"Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled
the masked man.
"I am easily bored," Hawkmoon replied. "I was be-
coming impatient with the game."
"Well, what now?"
"Your name?" Hawkmoon said. "I'll know that first
—then see your face—then know your business here-—
then, and perhaps most important, discover how you
came here."
"My name you will know," said the man with undis-
guised pride. "It is Elvereza Tozer."
"I do know it, indeed!" remarked the Duke of Koln
in some surprise.
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Chapter Three
ELVEREZA TOZER
ELVEREZA TOZER was not the man Hawkmoon
would have expected to meet if he had been told in
advance that he was to encounter Granbretan's great-
est playwright—a writer whose work was admired
throughout Europe, even by those who in all other
ways loathed Granbretan. The author of King Staleen,
The Tragedy of Katine and Carna, The Last of the
Braldurs, Annala, Chirshil and Adutf, The Comedy of
Steel and many more, had not been heard of of late,
but Hawkmoon had thought this due to the wars. He
would have expected Tozer to have been rich in dress,
confident in every way, poised and full of wit. Instead
he found a man who seemed more at ease with a sword
than with words, a vain man, something of a fool and
a poppinjay, dressed in rags.
As he propelled Tozer with his own sword along the
marsh trails towards Castle Brass, Hawkmoon puzzled
over this apparent paradox. Was the man lying? If so,
why should he claim to be, of all things, an eminent
playmaker?
Tozer walked along, apparently undisturbed by his
change of fortune, whistling a jaunty tune.
Hawkmoon paused. "A moment," he said, and
reached to grasp the reins of his horse, which had been
following him. Tozer turned. He still wore his mask.
Hawkmoon had been so astonished at hearing the name
that he had forgotten to order Tozer to remove the
leather from his face.
"Well," Tozer said, glancing about him. "It is a love-
ly country—though short in audiences, I would gath-
er."
"Aye," replied Hawkmoon, nonplussed. "Aye . . ."
He gestured towards the horse. "We'll ride pillion, I
think. Into the saddle with you, Master Tozer."
Tozer swung up onto the horse and Hawkmoon fol-
lowed him, taking the reins and urging the horse into
a trot.
In this manner they rode until they came to the gates
of the town, passed through them, and proceeded slow-
ly through the winding streets, up the steep road to the
walls of Castle Brass.
Dismounting in the courtyard, Hawkmoon gave the
horse to a groom and indicated the door to the main
hall of the castle. "Through there, if you please," he
told Tozer.
With a small shrug, Tozer sauntered through the
door and bowed to the two men who stood there by the
great fire which blazed in the hall. Hawkmoon nodded
to them. "Good morning, Sir Bowgentle—D'Averc. I
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file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20Runestaff%20\3%20-%20The%20Sword%20Of%20The%20Dawn.txtBook3ofTheRunestaffTheSwordofTheDawnbyMichaelMoorcockContentsBookOne1TheLastCity92TheFlamingoes'Dance133ElverezaTozer194FlanaMikosevaar275Taragorm306TheAudience337TheEmissaries398Meliadu...

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