Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (64 page)

HAWKMOON AWOKE LATE feeling thoroughly rested, but then he noticed that the glowing shadows seemed agitated. They had turned to a cold, blue colour and were swirling around as if in fear!

Hawkmoon rose quickly and buckled on his sword belt. He frowned. Was the danger he had anticipated about to come—or had it come already? The Great Good Ones seemed incapable of human communication.

D'Averc came running into Hawkmoon's cubicle.

"What do you think is the matter, Hawkmoon?"

"I do not know. Is Shenegar Trott scheming invasion?

Is the boy in trouble?"

All at once the glowing shadows had wrapped themselves chillingly around the two men and they felt themselves whisked from the cubicle, through the room in which they had eaten, and along the corridors" at incredible speed until they broke out of the building altogether and were whirled upward into the golden light.

Now the speed of the Great Good Ones decreased and Hawkmoon and D'Averc, still breathless at the sudden action of the glowing shadows, hovered in the air high above the main square.

D'Averc looked pale, for his feet were planted on nothing and the glowing shadows seemed had taken on even less substance. Yet they did not fall.

Down in the square tiny figures could be seen moving in towards the cylindrical tower.

"It is an entire army!" Hawkmoon gasped. "There must be thousands of them. So much for Shenegar Trott's claims for the peaceful nature of his mission. He has invaded Dnark! But why?"

"Isn't it obvious to you, my friend," said D'Averc grimly. "He seeks the Runestaff itself. With that in his power, he would doubtless rule the world!"

"But he does not know its location!"

"That is probably why he is attacking the tower.

See—there are warriors already inside!"

Surrounded by the flimsy shadows, and with golden light on all sides, the two men looked at the scene in dis-may.

"We must descend," Hawkmoon said finally.

"But we are only two against a thousand!" D'Averc pointed out.

"Aye—but if the Sword of the Dawn will again summon the Legion of the Dawn, then we might succeed against them!" Hawkmoon reminded him.

As if they had understood his words, the Great Good Ones began to descend. Hawkmoon felt his heart enter his throat as they dropped rapidly towards the square, now thickly clustered with masked Dark Empire warriors—members of the terrible Falcon Legion which, like the Vulture Legion, was a mercenary force made up of renegades who were, if anything, more evil than the native Granbretanians. Had Falcon eyes stared up in anticipation of the feast of blood Hawkmoon and D'Averc offered; they had beaks ready to tear the flesh of the two enemies of the Dark Empire, and their swords, maces, axes and spears were like talons poised to rend.

As the glowing shadows deposited D'Averc and the Duke of Koln near the entrance to the tower they just had time to draw their blades before the Falcons attacked.

But then Shenegar Trott appeared at the entrance of the tower and called to his men.

"Stop, my falcons. There is no need for bloodshed. I have the boy!"

Hawkmoon and D'Averc saw him lift the child, Jehemia Cohnahlias, by his robes and hold him struggling before them.

"I know that this city is full of supernatural creatures who would seek to stop us," the Count announced, "and thus I have taken the liberty of insuring our safety while we are here. If we are attacked. If one of us is touched, I shall slit the little boy's throat from ear to ear." Shenegar Trott chuckled. "I take this step only to avoid un-pleasantness on all sides..."

Hawkmoon made to move, to summon the Legion of the Dawn, but Trott wagged his finger chidingly.

"Would you be the cause of a child's death, Duke of Koln?"

Glowering, Hawkmoon dropped his swordarm, addressing the boy. "I warned you of his perfidy!"

"Aye ..." the boy struggled, half-choking in his robes.

"I fear I should have—paid more—attention to you, sir."

Count Shenegar laughed, his mask flashing in the golden light "Now—tell me where the Runestaff is kept."

The boy pointed back into the tower. "The Hall of the Runestaff is within."

"Show me!" Shenegar Trott turned to his men.

"Watch this pair. I'd rather have them alive, since the King Emperor will be well-pleased if we can return with two as well as Heroes of Kamarg the Runestaff. If they move, shout to me and I'll take off an ear or two." He drew his dirk and held it near the boy's face. "Most of you—follow me."

Shenegar Trott disappeared once more into the tower and six of the Falcon warriors stayed to guard Hawkmoon and D'Averc while the rest followed their leader.

Hawkmoon scowled. "If only the boy had paid heed to what we said!" He moved slightly and the Falcons stirred warningly. "Now how are we to save him—and the Runestaff—from Trott?"

Suddenly the Falcons looked upward in astonishment and D'Averc's gaze followed theirs.

"It seems we are to be rescued," smiled D'Averc.

The glowing shadows were returning.

Before the Falcons could move or speak, the shadows had wrapped themselves around the two men and were once again lifting them upwards.

Disconcerted, the Falcons slashed at their feet as they ascended, and then turned to run into the tower, to warn their leader of what had happened.

Higher and higher rose the Great Good Ones, carrying Hawkmoon and D'Averc with them. Into the golden haze that became a thick, golden mist so that they could no longer see each other, let alone the buildings of the city.

They seemed to travel for hours before they became aware of the golden mist thinning.

As THE GOLDEN mist diminished, Hawkmoon blinked his eyes, for they were now assailed by all manner of colours—waves and rays making strange configurations in the air—and all emanating from a central source.

Narrowing his eyes against the light, he peered around him. They hovered near the roof of a hall whose walls seemed constructed of sheets of translucent emer-ald and onyx. At the centre of the hall rose a dais, reached by steps from all sides. It was from the object on this dais that the configurations of light originated.

The patterns—stars, circles, cones and more complex figures—shifted constantly, but their source was always the same. It was a small staff, about the length of a short sword, of a dense black, dull and apparently discoloured in a few places. The discolorations were of a deep, mottled blue.

Could this be the Runestaff? Hawkmoon wondered. It seemed unimpressive for an object of such legendary powers. He had imagined it taller than a man, of bril-liant colours—but that thing he could carry in one hand!

Suddenly, from the side of the hall, men thrust themselves in. It was Shenegar Trott and his Falcon Legion.

The little boy still struggled in Trott's grasp and now the laughter of the Count of Sussex began to fill the hall.

"At last! And it is mine! Even the King Emperor will not dare to deny me anything once the Runestaff itself is in my hands."

Hawkmoon sniffed. There was a fragrant, bitter-sweet smell in the air. And now a mellow humming sound filled the hall. The Great Good Ones began to lower himself and D'Averc until they stood high on the steps, just below the Runestaff. And then Count Shenegar saw them.

"How...?"

Hawkmoon glared down at him, raised his left arm to point directly at him. "Release the child, Shenegar Trott!"

The Count of Sussex chuckled again, recovering quickly from his astonishment. "First tell me how you arrived here before me."

"By means of the help of the Great Good Ones—those supernatural creatures you feared. And we have other friends, Count Shenegar."

Trott's dirk leapt to within a hairsbreadth of the boy's nose. "I would be a fool, then, to release my only chance of freedom—not to say success!"

Hawkmoon lifted up the Sword of the Dawn. "I warn you, Count, this blade I bear is no ordinary instrument!

See how it glows with rosy light!"

"Aye—it is very pretty. But can it stop me before I pluck one of the boy's eyes from his skull, like a plum from the jar?"

D'Averc glanced about the strange room, at the constantly changing patterns of light, at the peculiar walls, and the glowing shadows now high above and seemingly looking on. "It's stalemate, Hawkmoon," he murmured.

"We can get no further help from the glowing shadows.

Evidently they are powerless to take a part in human affairs."

"If you'd release the boy, I'd consider letting you leave Dnark unharmed," Hawkmoon said.

Shenegar Trott laughed. "Indeed? And you would chase an army from the city, you two?"

"We are not without allies," Hawkmoon reminded him.

"Possibly. But I suggest you lay down your own swords and let me up to the Runestaff there. When I have that, you may have the boy."

"Alive?"

"Alive."

"How can we trust Shenegar Trott of all men?"

D'Averc said. "He will kill the boy and then dispose of us. It is not the way of the nobles of Granbretan to keep their word."

"If only we had some guarantee," whispered Hawkmoon desperately.

At that moment a familiar voice spoke from behind them and they turned in surprise.

"You have no choice but to release the child, Shenegar Trott!" The voice boomed from within a helm of jet and gold.

"Aye, my brother speaks the truth . . ." From the other side of the dais Orland Fank now emerged, his gigantic war-axe on his leather-clad shoulder.

"How did you get here?" Hawkmoon asked in astonishment.

"I might ask the same," grinned Fank. "At least you now have friends with whom to debate this dilemma."

SHENEGAR TROTT, COUNT of Sussex, chuckled again and shook his head. "Well, there are now four of you, but it does not alter the situation a scrap. I have thousands at my back. I have the boy. You will kindly step aside, gentlemen, while I take the Runestaff for my own."

Orland Fank's rawboned face split in a huge grin, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold merely shifted his armoured feet a little. Hawkmoon and D'Averc look questioningly at them. "I think there is a weakness in your argument, my friend," said Orland Fank.

"Oh, no sir—there is none." Shenegar Trott began to move forward.

"Aye—I'd say that there was."

Trott paused. "What is it, then?"

"You are assuming you can hold yon boy, are you not?"

"I could kill him before you could take him."

"Aye—but you're assuming the child has no means of escaping from you, are you not?"

"He can't wriggle free!" Shenegar Trott held the child up by the slack of his garments and began to laugh loudly. "See!"

And then the Granbretanian yelled in astonishment as the boy seemed to flow from his grasp, streaking out across the hall in a long strip of light, his features still visible but oddly elongated. The music swelled in the hall and the odour increased.

Shenegar Trott made ineffectual grabbing motions at the boy's thinning substance but it was as impossible to grasp him as it was to grasp the glowing shadows now pulsing in the air above them.

"By Huon's Globe—he is not human!" screamed Trott in frustrated anger. "He is not human!"

"He did not claim to be," Orland Fank said mildly and winked cheerfully at Hawkmoon. "Are you and your friend ready for a good fight?"

"We are," grinned Hawkmoon. "We are indeed!"

Now the boy—or whatever it was—was stretching out over their heads to touch the Runestaff. The configurations changed rapidly and many more of them filled the hall so that all their faces were crossed with shifting bars of colour.

Orland Fank watched this with great attention and it seemed that as the boy was actually absorbed into the Runestaff the Orkneyman's face flooded with regret.

Soon there was no trace of the boy in the hall and the Runestaff glowed a brighter black, seemed to have sentience.

Hawkmoon gasped. "Who was he, Orland Fank?"

Fank blinked. "Who? Why, the spirit of the Runestaff.

He rarely materialises in human form. You were especially honoured."

Shenegar Trott was screaming in fury. Then he broke off as a great voice boomed from the closed helm of the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "Now you must prepare yourself for death, Count of Sussex."

Trott laughed crazily. "You are still mistaken. There are four of you—thousands of us. You shall die, and then I shall claim the Runestaff!"

The Warrior turned to Hawkmoon. "Duke of Koln, would you care to summon some aid?"

"With pleasure," grinned Hawkmoon and he raised the rosy sword high in the air. "I summon the Legion of the Dawn!"

A rosy light filled the hall, flooding over the colourful patterns in the air. And there stood a hundred fierce warriors, framed each in his own scarlet aura.

The warriors had a barbaric appearance, as if they came from an earlier, more primitive age. They bore great spiked clubs decorated with ornate carvings, lances bound with tufts of dyed hair. Their brown bodies and faces were smeared with paint and clad in loincloths of bright stuff. On their arms and legs were strapped wooden discs for protection. Their large black eyes were full of a remote sorrow and they gave voice to a mourn-ful, moaning dirge.

These were the Warriors of the Dawn.

Even the hardened members of the Falcon Legion cried out in horror as the warriors appeared from nowhere. Shenegar Trott took a step backward.

"I would advise you to lay down your weapons and make yourselves our prisoners," Hawkmoon advised grimly.

Trott shook his head. "Never. There are still more of us than there are of you!"

"Then we must begin our battle," Hawkmoon said, and he moved down the steps towards his enemies.

Now Shenegar Trott drew his own great battleblade and dropped to a fighting position. Hawkmoon swung at him with the Sword of the Dawn, but Trott dodged aside, swinging at Hawkmoon and barely missing gouging a line across his stomach. Hawkmoon was at a disadvantage, for Trott was fully armoured, while Hawkmoon wore only silk.