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 brilliant coloursbut 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 Onesthose 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 freedomnot 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!"
"Ayeit 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."
Chapter Ten
Spirit of The Runestaff
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 sirthere is none." Shenegar Trott began to move forward.
"AyeI'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."
"Ayebut 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 Globehe 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 boyor whatever it waswas 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 youthousands 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 mournful, 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.