The dirge of the Soldiers of the Dawn changed to a great howl as they rushed down the steps behind Hawkmoon and began to hack and stab about them with clubs and lances. The fierce Falcon fighters met them valiantly, giving as good as they received, but were plainly demoralised when they discovered that for every Warrior of the Dawn that they slew another appeared from nowhere to take his place.
D'Averc, Orland Fank and the Warrior in Jet and Gold moved more slowly down the steps, swinging their blades in unison before them and driving back the Falcons with three pendulums of steel.
Shenegar Trott struck again at Hawkmoon and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. Hawkmoon flung out his swordarm and the Sword of the Dawn met Trott's mask, denting it so that the features took on an even more grotesque appearance.
But then, as Hawkmoon leapt backward, poised to continue the fight, he felt a sudden blow on the back of his head, half-turned and saw a Falcon warrior had struck him with the haft of an axe. He tried to recover, but then began to fall. As he lost his senses, he saw the Warriors of Dawn fade into oblivion. Desperately he tried to recover, for the Warriors of Dawn, it seemed, could not exist unless he had control of his senses.
But it was too late. As he fell to the steps, he heard Shenegar Trott chuckling.
Chapter Eleven
A Brother Slain
HAWKMOON HEARD THE distant din of battle, shook his head and peered through a haze of red and black. He tried to rise, but at least four corpses pinned him down. His friends had taken good account of themselves.
Struggling up, he saw that Shenegar Trott had reached the Runestaff. And there stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, evidently badly wounded, hacked at by a hundred blades, attempting to stop the Granbretanian. But Shenegar Trott raised a huge mace and brought it down on the Warrior's helm. He staggered and the helm crumpled.
Hawkmoon gathered his breath to cry hoarsely: "Legion of the Dawn! Return to me! Legion of the Dawn!"
At last the barbaric warriors reappeared, lashing about them at the startled Falcons.
Hawkmoon staggered up the steps to the Warrior's aid, unable to see if any of the others lived. But then the huge weight of the jet and gold armour began to fall towards him, knocking him backwards. He supported it as best he could, but he knew by the feel of it that there was no life in the body within.
He forced back the visor, weeping for the man he had never considered a friend until now, curious to see the features of the one who had guided his destiny for so long, but the visor would hardly move an inch, Shenegar Trott's mace had buckled it so.
"Warrior…"
"The Warrior is dead!" Shenegar Trott had flung off his mask and was reaching for the Runestaff, triumphantly staring over his shoulder at Hawkmoon. "As shall you be in a trice, Dorian Hawkmoon!"
With a shout of fury, Hawkmoon dropped the Warrior's corpse and flew up the steps towards his enemy. Disconcerted, Trott turned, raising the mace again.
Hawkmoon ducked the blow and closed with Trott, grappling with him on the topmost step while red carnage spread all around them.
As he struggled with the count, he saw D'Averc, halfway up the steps, his shirt a mass of bloody rags, one arm limp at his side, tackling five of the Falcon warriorsand higher up Orland Fank was still alive, whirling his battle-axe around his head and giving voice to a strange, skirling cry.
Trott's breath wheezed from between his fat lips and Hawkmoon was astonished at his strength. "You will die, Hawkmoonyou must die if the Runestaff is to be mine!"
Hawkmoon panted as he wrestled with the Count. "It will never be yours. It can be possessed by no man!"
With a sudden heave, he broke Trott's guard and punched him full in the face. The Count screamed and came forward again, but Hawkmoon raised his booted foot and kicked him in the chest, sending him reeling back against the dais. Then Hawkmoon recovered his sword and when Shenegar Trott ran at him again, blind with anger, he ran directly on to the point of the Sword of the Dawn, dying with an obscene curse on his lips and one last, backward look at the Runestaff.
Hawkmoon tugged the sword free and looked about him. His Legion of the Dawn were finishing their work, clubbing down the last of the Falcons, and D'Averc and Fank were leaning exhaustedly against the dais beneath the Runestaff.
Soon a few groans were cut short as spiked clubs fell on heads, and then there was silence save for the faint, melodic humming and the heavy breathing of the three survivors.
As the last Granbretanian died, the Legion of the Dawn vanished.
Hawkmoon stared down at the fat corpse of Shenegar Trott and he frowned. "We have slain onebut if one has been sent here, then others will follow. Dnark is no longer safe from the Dark Empire."
Fank sniffed and wiped his nose with his forearm. "It is for you to make sure that Dnark is safethat the rest of the world is safe."
Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. "And how may I do that?"
Fank began to speak and then his eyes lighted on the huge corpse of the Warrior in Jet and Gold and he gasped: "Brother!" and began to stagger down the steps, to drop his battle axe and gather the armoured figure in his arms. "Brother…?"
"He is dead," Hawkmoon said softly. "He died by Shenegar Trott's hand, defending the Runestaff. I slew Trott…"
Fank wept.
At length they stood together, the three of them, looking about at the carnage. The whole hall of the Runestaff was full of corpses. Even the patterns in the air seemed to have taken on a reddish colouring and the bitter-sweet odour could not disguise the stink of death.
Hawkmoon scabbarded the Sword of the Dawn. "What now, I wonder?" he said. "We've done the work we were asked to do. We've defended the Runestaff successfully. Now do we return to Europe."
Then a voice spoke from behind them; it was the sweet voice of the child, Jehemia Cohnahlias. Turning, Hawkmoon saw that he stood beside the Runestaff, holding it in one hand.
"Duke of Koln you take what you have rightfully earned," said the boy, his slanting eyes full of warm hu mour. "You take the Runestaff with you back to Europe, there to decide the destiny of the Earth."
"To Europe! I thought it could not be removed from its place."
"You, as the chosen one of the Runestaff, may take it." The boy stretched out towards Hawkmoon, and in his hand was the Runestaff. "Defend it. And pray it defends you."
"And how shall we use it?" D'Averc enquired.
"As your standard. Let all men know that the Runestaff rides with youthat the Runestaff is on your side. Tell them that it was the Baron Meliadus who dared swear an oath on the Runestaff and thus set into motion these events which will destroy completely one protagonist or the other. Whatever happens, it will be final. Carry your invasion to Granbretan if you can, or else die in the effort. The last great battle between Meliadus and Hawkmoon is soon to be fought, and over it the Runestaff will preside!"
Hawkmoon mutely accepted the staff. It felt cold, dead and very heavy, though the patterns still blazed about it.
"Put it inside your shirt, or wrap it in a cloth," advised the boy, "and none will observe those betraying forces until you should wish them revealed."
"Thank you," said Hawkmoon quietly.
"The Great Good Ones will help you return to your home," the boy continued. "Farewell, Hawkmoon."
"Farewell? Where do you go now?"
"Where I belong."
And suddenly the boy began to change again, turning into a streamer of golden light still bearing some semblance of human shape, pouring itself into the Runestaff which immediately became warm, vital and light in Hawkmoon's grasp.