The Mad God's Amulet
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: The History of the Runestaff #2
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Фэнтези
Электронная книга - «The Mad God's Amulet». Краткое содержание книги:
"So this is why the Mad God demanded women be sent to him," D'Averc gasped. "But why?"
"He is a perverse god I understand," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold as he brought up his blade to meet the attack of the first warrior woman.
Though he defended himself desperately against the blades of the mad-faced women, Hawkmoon found it impossible to counterattack. They left many openings for his sword, and he could have slain several, but every time he had the opportunity to strike, he held back. And it seemed to be the same with his companions. In a moment's respite he glanced around him, and an idea came.
"Retreat slowly," he said to his friends. "Follow me. I've a plan to make this our victory-and a bloodless one."
Gradually the four fell back until they were stopped by the poles on which the stout nets of the fishermen had been hung out to dry. Hawkmoon stepped around the first and seized one end of the net, still battling.
Oladahn guessed his scheme and grabbed the other end; then Hawkmoon cried, "Now!" and they flung the thing out over the heads of the women.
The net settled over most of them, entangling them.
But some slashed free and came on.
Now D'Averc and the Warrior in Jet and Gold had understood Hawkmoon's intention, and they, too, flung a net to trap those who had escaped. Hawkmoon and Oladahn hurled a third net over the group they had originally ensnared. Eventually the women were completely trapped in the folds of several strong nets, and the companions were able to approach them gingerly, grabbing at their weapons and gradually disarming them.
Hawkmoon panted as he raised a sword and flung it into the lake. "Perhaps the Mad God is not so insane.
Train women to fight and they'll always have a certain momentary advantage over male soldiers. Doubtless this was part of some larger scheme…"
"You mean his raising money by piracy was to finance a conquering army of women?" Oladahn said, joining him in hurling weapons into the water while the struggles of the women subsided behind them.
"It seems likely," D'Averc agreed, watching them work. "But why did the women kill the others?"
"That we may find out when we reach the castle," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "We-" He broke off as part of one of the nets burst and a howling warrior woman came rushing at them, fingers outstretched like claws. D'Averc seized her, encircling her waist with his arms as she kicked and shrieked.
Oladahn stepped up, reversed his sword, and struck her on the base of the skull with the pommel.
"Much as it offends my sense of chivalry," D'Averc said, lowering the prone girl to the ground, "I think that you have presented the best scheme for dealing with these pretty murderesses," Oladahn," and he crossed to the nets, to begin languidly and systematically knocking out the struggling women fighters.
"At least," he said, "we have not killed them-and they have not killed us. An excellent equilibrium."
"I wonder if they are the only ones," Hawkmoon said broodingly.
"You are thinking of Yisselda?" Oladahn asked.
"Aye, I'm thinking of Yisselda. Come." Hawkmoon swung into his saddle. "Let's to the Mad God's castle."
He began to gallop rapidly along the beach toward the great black pile. The others were slower in following, straggling behind him. First came Oladahn, then the Warrior in Jet and Gold, and finally Huillam d'Averc at a leisurely canter, looking for all the world like a carefree youth out for a morning ride.
The castle came closer, and Hawkmoon slowed his mad dash, hauling on his horse's reins and bringing it to a skidding halt as they reached the drawbridge.
Within the castle all was quiet. A little mist curled about its towers. The drawbridge was down, and on it lay the corpses of the guards.
Somewhere, from the tops of one of the highest towers, a raven squawked and flapped away over the water of the lake.
No sun shone through those gray clouds. It was as if no sun had ever shone here, as if no sun ever would shine. It was as if they had left the world for some other plane where hopelessness and death prevailed throughout eternity.
The dark entrance to the castle courtyard gaped at Hawkmoon.
The mist formed grotesque shapes, and there was an oppressive silence everywhere. Hawkmoon took a deep breath of the chill, damp air, drew his blade, kicked at the flanks of his horse, and charged across the drawbridge, leaping the corpses, to enter the Mad God's lair.
Chapter Three
HAWKMOON'S DILEMMA
THE GREAT COURTYARD of the castle was clogged with bodies. Some were of the warrior women, but most were of men wearing the collar of the Mad God. Dried blood caked the cobbles not occupied by corpses in the grotesque attitudes of death.
Hawkmoon's horse snorted in fear as the stench of decaying flesh filled its nostrils, but he urged it on, dreading that he would see Yisselda's face among the dead.
He dismounted, turning over stiff bodies of women, peering at them closely, but none was Yisselda.
The Warrior in Jet and Gold entered the courtyard, Oladahn and D'Averc behind him. "She is not here," said the warrior. "She is alive-within."
Hawkmoon's bleak face rose. His hand trembled as it took the bridle of his horse. "Has-has he done ought to her, Warrior?"
"That you must see for yourself, Duke Dorian."
The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed at the castle's main doorway. "Through there lies the court of the Mad God. A short passage leads to the main hall, and there he sits awaiting you…"
"He knows of me?"
"He knows that one day the Red Amulet's rightful wearer must arrive to claim what is his…"
"I care nothing for the amulet, only for Yisselda.
Where is she, Warrior?"
"Within. She is within. Go claim both your rightsyour woman and your amulet. Both are important in the Runestaff's scheme."
Hawkmoon turned and ran for the doorway, disappearing into the darkness of the castle.
The interior of the castle was incredibly chill. Cold water dripped from the roof of the passage, and moss grew on the walls. Blade in hand, Hawkmoon crept along it, half-expecting an attack.
But none came. He reached a large wooden door, stretching twenty feet above his head, and paused.
From behind the door came a strange rumbling sound, a deep-voiced murmuring that seemed to fill the hall beyond. Cautiously Hawkmoon pushed against the door, and it yielded. He put his head through the gap and peered in upon a bizarre scene.
The hall was of strangely distorted proportions. In some parts the ceilings were very low, in others they soared upward for fifty feet. There were no windows, and the light came from brands stuck at random in the walls.
In the center of the hall, on a floor on which one or two corpses lay as they had been cut down earlier, was a great chair of black wood, studded with inlaid plaques of brass. In front of this, swinging from a part of the ceiling that was relatively low, was a large cage, such as would be used for a tame bird, save that this was much bigger. In it, Hawkmoon saw huddled a human figure.
Otherwise, the weird hall was deserted, and Hawkmoon entered, creeping across the floor toward the cage.
It was from this, he realized, that the distressed muttering sound was coming; yet it seemed impossible, for the noise was so great. Hawkmoon decided that it was because the sound was amplified by the peculiar acoustics of the hall.
He reached the cage and could see the huddled figure only dimly, for the light was poor.
"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "A prisoner of the Mad God?"
The moaning ceased, and the figure stirred. From it then came a deep, echoing melancholy voice. "Aye -you could say so. The unhappiest prisoner of all."
Now Hawkmoon could make out the creature better. It had a long, stringy neck, and its body was tall and very thin. Its head was covered in long, straggling gray hair that was matted with filth, and it had a pointed beard, also filthy, that jutted from its chin for about a foot. Its nose was large and aquiline, and its deepset eyes held the light of a melancholy madness.