Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (62 page)

Then the monsters were gone.

Hawkmoon wiped water from, his eyes and spat out the brine from his mouth.

What would they do next? Was it their intention to keep their prey alive, to pick them off when they needed fresh meat? There was no way of telling.

Hawkmoon heard a cry and saw D'Averc and half-a-dozen others come staggering along the rocks toward him.

D'Averc looked bewildered. "Did you see the beasts leave, Hawkmoon?"

"Aye. Will they be back, I wonder?"

D'Averc glanced grimly in the direction in which the beasts had disappeared. He shrugged.

"I suggest we strike inland, saving what we can from the ship," Hawkmoon said. "How many of us left alive?"

He turned enquiringly to the bosun who stood behind D'Averc.

"Most of us, I think, sir. We were lucky. Look." The bosun pointed beyond the ship to where the major part of the crew was assembling on the shore.

"Send some men back to her before she breaks up,"

Hawkmoon said. "Rig lines to the shore and start getting provisions to dry land."

"As you say, sir. But what if the monsters return?"

"We'll have to deal with them when we see them," Hawkmoon said.

For several hours Hawkmoon watched as everything possible was carried from the ship and piled on the rocks of the island.

"Can the ship be repaired, do you think?" D'Averc asked.

"Maybe. Now that the sea is calm, there's little chance of her breaking up. But it will take time." Hawkmoon fingered the dull, black stone in his forehead. "Come, D'Averc, let's explore inland."

They began to climb up over the rocks, heading up the slope to the summit of the island. The place seemed completely devoid of life. The best they could hope to find would be pools of fresh water and there might be shellfish on the shore. It was a bleak place. Their hopes of survival, if the ship could not be refloated, seemed very slight, particularly with the prospect of the monsters returning.

They reached the summit at last and paused, breathing heavily from their exertions.

"The other side's as barren as this," D'Averc said, gesturing downward. "I wonder . . ." He broke off and gasped. "By the Eyes of Berezenath! A man!"

Hawkmoon looked in the direction D'Averc indicated.

Sure enough, a figure was strolling along the shore below. As they stared, he looked up and waved cheerfully, gesturing them towards him.

Certain they were suffering hallucinations, the two began slowly to climb down until they were close to the him. He stood there, fists on his hips, feet wide apart, grinning at them. They paused.

The man was dressed in a peculiar and archaic fashion. Over his brawny torso was stretched a jerkin of leather, leaving his arms and chest bare. He wore a woollen bonnet on his mop of red hair and a pheasant's tailfeather was stuck jauntily into it. His breeks were of a strange chequered design and he wore battered buckled boots on his feet. Secured over his back by a cord was a gigantic battle-axe, its steel blade streaked with dirt and battered by much use. His face was bony and red and his pale blue eyes were sardonic as he stared at them.

"Well, now—you'd be the Hawkmoon and the D'Averc," he said in a strange accent. "I was told you'd likely come."

"And who are you, sir?" D'Averc asked somewhat haughtily.

"Why, I'm Orland Fank, didn't you know? Orland Fank—here at your service, good sirs."

"Do you live on this island?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I have lived on it, but not at the moment, don't you know." Fank removed his bonnet and wiped his forehead with his arm. "I'm a travelling man, these days.

Like yourselves, I understand."

"And who told you of us?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I've a brother. Given to wearing somewhat fancy metal of black and gold ..."

"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" Hawkmoon exclaimed.

"He's called some such foppish title, I gather. He would not have mentioned his rough and ready brother to you, I don't doubt."

"He did not. Who are you?"

"I'm called Orland Fank. From Skare Brae—in the Orkneys, you know..."

"The Orkneys!" Hawkmoon's hand went to his sword.

"Is that not part of Granbretan? Island to the far north!"

Fank laughed. "Tell an Orkney man that he belongs to the Dark Empire, and he'll tear the throat from you with his teeth!" He gestured apologetically, and as if in explanation said, "It's the favourite way of dealing with a foe out there, you know. We're not a sophisticated folk."

"So the Warrior in Jet and Gold is also from the Orkneys ..." D'Averc began.

"Save you, no man! Him from the Orkneys, with his fancy suit of armour and his fine manner!" Orland Fank laughed heartily. "No. He's no Orkney man!" Fank wiped tears of laughter from his eyes with his battered bonnet. "Why should you think that?"

"You said he was your brother."

"So he is. Spiritually, you might say. Perhaps even physically. I've forgotten. It's been many years, you see, since we first came together."

"What brought you together?"

"A common cause, you might say. A shared ideal."

"And would the Runestaff be the source of that cause?"

Hawkmoon murmured, his voice hardly louder than the whisper of the surf below them.

"It might."

"You seem close-mouthed, suddenly, friend Fank," said D'Averc.

"Aye. In Orkney, we're a close-mouthed folk," smiled Orland Fank. "Indeed, I'm considered something of a babbler there." He did not seem offended.

Hawkmoon gestured behind him. "Those monsters.

The strange clouds we saw earlier. Would that be to do with the Runestaff?"

"I saw no monsters. No clouds. I've but recently arrived here myself."

"We were driven to this island by gigantic reptiles,"

Hawkmoon said. "And now I begin to see why. They, too, served the Runestaff, I do not doubt."

"That's as may be," Fank replied. "It's not my business you see, Lord Dorian."

"Was it the Runestaff that caused our boat to be wrecked?" Hawkmoon asked fiercely.

"I could not say," Fank replied, replacing his bonnet on his mop of red hair and scratching at his bony chin.

"I only know that I'm here to give you a boat and tell you where you might find the nearest habitable land."

"You have a boat for us?" D'Averc was astonished.

"Aye. Not a splendid one, but a seaworthy craft none-theless. It should take the two of you."

"We have a crew of fifty!" Hawkmoon's eyes blazed.

"Oh, if the Runestaff wishes me to serve it, it should ar-range things better! All it has succeeded in doing so far is to anger me fiercely!"

"Your anger will only weary you," Orland Fank replied mildly. "I had thought you bound for Dnark in the Runestaff's service. My brother told me ..."

"Your brother insisted I go to Dnark. But I have other loyalties, Orland Fank—loyalties to the wife I have not seen for months, to the father-in-law who awaits my return, to my friends..."

"The folk of Castle Brass? Aye, I've heard of them.

They are safe, for the moment, if that comforts you."

"You know this for certain?"

"Aye. Their lives are pretty much without event, save for the trouble with one Elvereza Tozer."

"Tozer! What of the renegade?"

"He has vanished from the Komarg, I gather." Orland Fank made a flying gesture with his hand.

"For where?"

"Who knows?"

"They are well rid of Tozer, at any rate."

"I do not know the man."

"A talented playwright," Hawkmoon said, "with the morals of a—of a ..."

"A Granbretanian?" offered Fank.

"Exactly." Hawkmoon frowned then and stared hard at Orland Fank. "You would not deceive me? My kin and friends are safe?"

"Their security is not for the moment threatened."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Where is this boat? And what of my crew?"

"I have some small skill as a shipwright. I'll help them mend their ship so that they can return to Narleen."

"Why cannot we go with them?" D'Averc asked.

"I understood you were an impatient pair," Fank said innocently, "and that you would be off the island as soon as you could. It will take many days to repair the large craft."

"We'll take your little boat," Hawkmoon said. "It seems that if we did not, the Runestaff—or whatever power it was that really sent us here—would see to it that we were further inconvenienced."

"I understand that would be likely," Fank agreed, smiling a little to himself.

"And how will you leave the island if we take your boat?" D'Averc asked.

"I'll sail with the seamen of Narleen. I have a great deal of time to spare."

"How far is it to the mainland?" Hawkmoon asked.

"And by what shall we sail? Have you a compass to lend us?"

Fank shrugged. "It's of no great distance and you'll not need a compass. You need only wait for the right sort of wind."

"What do you mean?"

"The winds in these parts are somewhat peculiar. You will understand what I mean."

Hawkmoon shrugged in resignation.

They followed as Orland Fank led the way around the shore.

"It would seem that we are not quite as much the masters of our destinies as we should like," murmured D'Averc sardonically as the small boat came in sight.

HAWKMOON LAY SCOWLING in the small boat and D'Averc whistled a tune as he stood in the prow, the spray lashing his face. For a whole day now the wind had guided the craft, blowing them on what was plainly a particular course.

"Now I understand what Fank meant about the wind," growled Hawkmoon. "This is no natural breeze.

I resent the feeling of being the puppet of some supernatural agency."

D'Averc grinned and pointed ahead. "Well, perhaps we'll have a chance to voice our complaints to the agency itself. See—land in sight."

Hawkmoon rose reluctantly. There were faint signs of land on the horizon.

"And so we return to Amarehk!" D'Averc laughed.

"If only it were Europe and Yisselda were there."

Hawkmoon sat down again.

"Or even Londra, and Flana to comfort me." D'Averc shrugged and began to cough theatrically. "Still, it is best this way, lest she find herself pledged to a sick and dying creature..."

Gradually they made out features on the shoreline: ir-regular cliffs, hills and beaches; some trees. Then, to the south, they saw a peculiar aura of golden light—light which throbbed as if in concert to a gigantic heart.

"More disturbing phenomena." D'Averc frowned.

The wind blew harder and the little boat turned toward the golden light.

"And we're heading directly for it," groaned Hawkmoon. "I am becoming tired of such things!"

Now it was clear they sailed into a bay formed by the mainland and a long island jutting out between the two shores. It was from the far end of this island that the golden light was pulsing.

The land on either side seemed pleasant, consisting of beaches and wooded hills, though there were no signs of habitation.

As they neared the source of the light, it began to fade until only a faint glow filled the sky and the boat's speed diminished. They still sailed directly towards the light. They saw it, then, and were amazed ...

It was a city of such grace and beauty it robbed them of speech. As huge as Londra, if not larger, its buildings were symmetrical spires and domes and turrets, all glowing with the same strange light, but coloured in delicate, pale shades that lurked behind the gold—pink, yellow, blue, green, violet and cerise—like a painting created in light and then washed with gold. Its magnificent beauty did not seem a proper habitation for human creatures, but for gods.

Now the ship sailed into a harbour stretching out from the city, its quays shifting with the same subtle shades of the buildings.

"It is like a dream..." Hawkmoon murmured.

"A dream of heaven." D'Averc's cynicism had vanished before the vision.

The little boat drifted to a set of steps that led down to the water, which was dappled with the reflections of the colours, and came to a halt.

D'Averc shrugged. "I suppose this is where we disembark. The boat could have borne us to a less pleasant place."

Hawkmoon nodded gravely and then said: "Are the Rings of Myggan still in your pouch, D'Averc?"

D'Averc patted his pouch. "They are safe. Why?"

"I wanted to know that if the danger was too great for us to face with our swords and there was time to use the rings, we could use them."

D'Averc nodded his understanding and then his forehead creased. "Strange that we did not think of using them on the island..."

Hawkmoon's face showed his astonishment. "Aye-aye . . ." And then he pursed his lips in disgust. "Doubtless that was the result of supernatural interference with our brains! How I hate the supernatural!"

D'Averc merrily put his fingers to his lips and put on an expression of mock disapproval. "What a thing to say in a city such as this!"

"Aye—well, I hope its inhabitants are as pleasant as its appearance."

"If it has any inhabitants," replied D'Averc glancing around him.

Together they climbed the steps and reached the quayside. The strange buildings were ahead of them and between the buildings ran wide streets.

"Let's enter the city," Hawkmoon said resolutely,

"and find out why we have been taken here as soon as we can. Then, perhaps, we shall be allowed to return to Castle Brass!"

Entering the nearest street, it seemed to them that the shadows cast by the buildings actually glowed with a life and a colour of their own. At close hand the tall towers were hardly tangible and when Hawkmoon reached out to touch one the substance of it was unlike anything he had touched before. It was not stone and it was not timber; not steel even, for it gave slightly under his fingers and made them tingle. He was also surprised by the warmth that ran through his arm and suffused his body.

He shook his head. "It is more like flesh than stone!"

D'Averc reached out now and was equally astonished.

"Aye—or like vegetation of some kind. Organic—living stuff!"