"That would seem likely," the girl said gravely.
She continued: "Then yesterday an ornithopter arrived at the village and its pilot went straight to the commander of the garrison. We heard it rumoured that the soldiers were being recalled to Londra and we were overjoyed. An hour later the soldiers of the garrison fell upon the village, killing, looting, raping. They had orders to leave nothing alive so that when they returned they would not meet resistance, so that any others who came upon the village should not find food. An hour afterwards, they were gone."
"So they plan to return," Hawkmoon mused. "But I wonder why they left…"
"Some invading enemy, perhaps?" Bowgentle suggested, bathing the girl's brow.
"That was my guessand yet it does not seem to fit." Hawkmoon sighed. "It is puzzlingfrightening that we know so little."
There came a knock upon the door and D'Averc entered. "An old friend is here, Hawkmoon."
"An old friend? Who?"
"The Orkneyman-Orland Fank."
Hawkmoon rose. "Perhaps he can enlighten us."
As he walked towards the door Bowgentle spoke quietly. "The girl is dead, Duke Dorian."
"She knows she will be avenged," Hawkmoon said flatly and he left to descend the stairs to the hall.
"Something is in the wind, I agree, friend," Orland Fank was saying to Count Brass as they stood together beside the fire. He waved his hand as Hawkmoon joined them. "And how d'you fare, Duke Dorian?"
"Well enough, in the circumstances. Do you know why the legions are leaving, Master Fank?"
"I was telling the good Count Brass here that I do not…"
"Ah, and I thought you omniscient, Master Fank."
Fank grinned sheepishly, tugging off his bonnet to wipe his face with it. "I still need time to gather information and I've been busy the while since you left Dnark. I've brought gifts for all the heroes of Castle Brass."
"You are kind."
"They're not from me, you understand, but from well, the Runestaff, I suppose. I'll give you them later. They've little practical use, you might think, but then it's hard to say what is practical and what is not in the fight against the Dark Empire.
Hawkmoon turned to D'Averc. "What did you discover on your ride?"
"Much the same as you," D'Averc replied. "Razed villages, all the inhabitants hastily slain. Signs of an overswift departure on the part of the troops. I gather that there are still some garrisons in the large towns, but they are skeleton staffedmainly artillery and no cavalry at all."
"This seems insane," murmured Count Brass.
"If they are insane, then we may yet take advantage of their lack of rationality," Hawkmoon said with a grim smile.
"Well spoken, Duke Dorian," Fank clapped his red, brawny hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder. "Now can I bring in the gifts."
"By all means, Master Fank."
"Lend me a couple of servants to help, if you will, for there's six of 'em and they're powerful heavy. I brought them on two horses."
A few moments later the servants came in, each holding two wrapped objects, one in each hand. Fank himself brought in the remaining two. He laid them on the flagstones at their feet. "Open them, gentlemen."
Hawkmoon bent and pulled back the cloth that wrapped one of the gifts. He blinked as the light struck his eyes and he saw his own face reflected perfectly back at him. He was puzzled, dragging off the rest of the cloth to stare in astonishment at the object before him. The others, too, were murmuring in surprise.
The objects were battle helmets designed to cover the whole head and rest on the shoulders. The metal of their manufacture was unfamiliar, but it was polished more finely than the finest mirror Hawkmoon had ever seen. With the exception of two eye slits the fronts of the helms were completely smooth, without decoration of any sort so that whoever stared at them saw a complete image of himself. The backs were crested in the same metal, with clean, simple decoration. It struck Hawkmoon how useful they could be in battle, for the enemy would be confused by his own reflection, would have the impression that he was fighting himself!
Hawkmoon laughed aloud. "Why, whoever invented these must be a genius! They are the finest helms I have ever seen."
"Try them on," Fank said, grinning back. "You'll find they fit well. They are the Runestaffs answer to the beast masks of the Dark Empire."
"How do we know which is ours," Count Brass said.
"You will know," Fank told him. "The one you have opened. The one with the crest the colour of brass."
Count Brass smiled and lifted the helm to place it upon his shoulders. Hawkmoon looked at him and saw his own face, the dull black jewel in the centre of his forehead, staring back in amused surprise. Hawkmoon lifted his helm over his head. His had a golden crest. Now when he turned to regard Count Brass it seemed at first that the count's helm gave no reflection, until Hawkmoon realised that there were an infinity of reflections.
The others had put their helms on their shoulders. D'Averc's had a blue crest and Oladahn's a scarlet one. They laughed with pleasure.
"A goodly gift, Master Fank," Hawkmoon said, removing his helmet. "An excellent gift. But what of the other two helms?"
Fank smiled mysteriously. "Ahah, yesthey would be for those who would desire them."
"For yourself?"
"Not for myself, noI must admit I tend to disdain armour. It is cumbersome stuff and it makes it harder for me to wield my old battle-axe here." He jerked his thumb behind him at the axe secured by a cord on his back.
"Then who are the other two helms for?" Count Brass said, removing his own helm.
"You will know when you know," Fank said. "And then it will seem obvious to you. How are the folk of Castle Brass faring?"
"You mean the villagers of the hill?" Hawkmoon said. "Well, some of them were slain by the striking of the great gong recalling us to our own dimension. A few buildings fell, but all in all they survived well enough. The remaining Kamargian cavalry has survived."
"About five hundred men," said D'Averc. "Our army."
"Aye," Fank said with a sidelong glance at the Frenchman. "Aye. Well, I must be away about my business."
"And what business would that be, Master Fank?" Oladahn asked.
Fank paused. "In the Orkneys, my friend, we are not asking of each other's business," he said chidingly.
"Thank you for the gifts," Oladahn said with a bow, "and forgive my curiosity."
"I accept your apology," Fank said.
"Before you leave, Master Fank, I thank you on behalf of us all for these welcome gifts," Count Brass told him. "And could we bother you with a final question?"
"You are all prone to too much questioning in my own opinion," Fank said. "But then we're close-mouthed in the Orkneys. Ask away, friend, and I'll do my level best to answer, if the question is not too personal."
"Do you know how the crystal machine came to be shattered?" Count Brass asked. "What caused it?"
"I would gather that Lord Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time in Londra, discovered the means of breaking your machine once he understood its source. He has many old texts which would tell him such things. Doubtless he built a clock whose striking would travel through the dimensions and be of such a pitch and volume as to shatter the crystal. It was, I believe, the one remedy of the enemies of the folk of Soryandum who gave you the machine."
"So it was the Dark Empire brought us back," Hawkmoon said. "But if that was so, then why were they not waiting for us?"
"Perhaps a domestic crisis of some sort," Orland Fank said. "We shall see. Farewell, my friends. I have the feeling we will meet again shortly."
Chapter Five
Five Heroes and A Heroine