Now he would never see his wife again, never breathe the air of the Kamarg, never aid in the downfall of Granbretan, should that time ever come. And he had lost all that in a vain effort to save a stranger, a man he hardly knew, whose fight was remote and unimportant compared with the fight against the Dark Empire.
Now it was too late to consider those things, for he was going to die. He would die in a terrible way, bled like a pig, feeling his strength ebbing from him with every pulse of his heart.
Valjon smiled.
"You do not call out a bold battle-cry now, my slave friend. You seem silent. Have you nothing to ask me?
Would you not beg for your life-beg to be made my slave again? Would you not apologise for sinking my ship, for killing my men, for insulting me?"
Hawkmoon spat at him.
Valjon gave a slight shrug. "I wait for a new knife.
When that is brought and properly blessed, then I shall slit your veins here and there, making sure that you die very slowly, that you will be able to see your blood feeding the ones below. Your bloodless corpses will be sent to the Mayor of Narleen-Bewchard's uncle if I'm not mistaken-as evidence that we of Starvel do not expect to be disobeyed."
A pirate came through the hall and kneeled at Valjon's feet, offering him a long, sharp knife. Valjon accepted it and the pirate backed away.
Valjon now murmured words over the knife, looking often up at the Sword of the Dawn, then he took the knife in his right hand and raised it until its tip was almost touching Hawkmoon's groin.
"Now we shall begin again," said Valjon, and slowly he started to chant the litany Hawkmoon had heard earlier.
Hawkmoon tasted bile in his mouth as he tried to break free of the cords that bound him. The words droned on, the chanting rose in volume and in hysterical pitch,
"… Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead come alive, causes the living to remain living…"
The tip of the knife stroked Hawkmoon's thigh.
"… which draws its light from the lifeblood of Men…"
Absently, Hawkmoon wondered if, indeed, the rosy sword did derive its light, in some peculiar way, from blood. The knife touched his knee and he shuddered again, cursing at Valjon, struggling wildly in the bonds.
"… know that you shall be worshipped for all time…".
Suddenly Valjon paused in his chanting and gasped, looking beyond Hawkmoon to a spot above his head.
Hawkmoon craned his neck back and gasped, too.
The Sword of the Dawn was descending from the roof!
It came slowly and then Hawkmoon could see that it hung in a land of web of metallic ropes-and there was something else in the web, now-the figure of a man.
The man wore a long helmet that hid all his face. His armour and trappings were all black and golden and at his side he bore a huge broadsword.
Hawkmoon could not believe it. He recognised the man-if man it was.
"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" he cried.
"At your service," said a sardonic voice from within the helm.
Valjon snarled with rage and flung the knife at the Warrior in Jet and Gold. It clattered on his armour and fell into the pool.
The Warrior hung by one gauntleted hand to the pommel of the Sword of the Dawn and carefully cut at the thongs holding Hawkmoon's wrists.
"You-you desecrate our most holy object," Valjon said unbelievingly. "Why are you not punished? Our god, Batach Gerandiun, will have his vengeance. The sword is his, it contains his spirit."
"I know better," said the Warrior. "The sword is Hawkmoon's. The Runestaff saw fit, once, to use your ancestor Batach Gerandiun for its purposes, giving him power over this rosy blade, but now you have lost the power and Hawkmoon here has it!"
"I do not understand you?" Valjon said baffled.
"And who are you? Where do you come from? Are you-could you be-Batach Gerandiun?"
"I could be," murmured the Warrior. "I could be many things, many men."
Hawkmoon prayed that the Warrior would be finished in time. Valjon would not remain so dazed forever. He clung to the frame as his wrists came free, took the knife the Warrior handed him, began gingerly to cut at the thongs binding his ankles.
Valjon shook his head.
"This is impossible. A nightmare." He turned to his fellow pirates. "Do you see it, too-the man who hangs from our sword?"
They nodded dumbly. One of them began to run back towards the entrance of the hall. "I'll fetch men. Men to aid us…"
Hawkmoon sprang then-sprang for the nearest pirate lord and grasped him by the throat. The man cried out, tried to wrench Hawkmoon's hands away, but Hawkmoon bent back his head until the neck snapped, swiftly drew the sword from the corpse's scabbard and let the body drop.
There he stood, naked in the glow from the great sword, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold cut at the bonds of his friends.
Valjon backed away, his eyes disbelieving. "It cannot be. It cannot be…"
Now D'Averc swung down to stand beside Hawkmoon, then Bewchard joined him. Both were unarmed and naked.
Nonplussed by their leader's indecision, the other pirates made no move. Behind the naked trio, the Warrior in Jet and Gold swung on the great sword, dragging it nearer to the floor.
Valjon screamed and grabbed for the blade, wrenching it from its web of metal. "It is mine! It is mine by right!"
The Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head. "It is Hawkmoon's by right!"
Valjon clutched the sword to him. "He shall not have it! Destroy them!"
Now men were rushing into the hall, bearing brands, and the pirate lords drew their swords, began to advance on the four who stood by the pool. The Warrior in Jet and Gold drew his own great blade and swept it before him like a scythe, driving the pirates back, killing several.
"Take up their swords," he told Bewchard and D'Averc. "Now we must fight."
Bewchard and D'Averc did as the Warrior instructed and, following behind him, pushed forward.
But now it seemed that a thousand men filled the hall. They had gleaming eyes which lusted for their lives.
"You must take that sword from Valjon, Hawkmoon," shouted the Warrior above the din of battle.
"Take it-or we shall all perish!"
Again they were pressed back to the edge of the bloody pit and behind them there came a slobbering sound. Hawkmoon darted a look into the pit and cried out in horror. "They are rising from the pool!"
And now the creatures swam toward the edge and Hawkmoon saw that they were like the tentacled creature they had encountered in the forest, but smaller.
Evidently they were of the same breed, brought here centuries before by Valjon's ancestors, gradually adapting from an environment of water to an environment of human blood!
He felt a tentacle touch his naked flesh and he shuddered in cold terror. The peril at his back gave him extra strength and he drove with all his might at the pirates, seeking out Valjon who stood nearby, clutching at the Sword of the Dawn which engulfed him in its weird, red radiance.
Seeing his danger, Valjon moved his hand to the hilt of the sword, called out something and waited expectantly. But what he expected to happen did not occur and he gasped, running at Hawkmoon with the sword raised high.
Hawkmoon sidestepped, blocked the blow and staggered, half-blinded by the light. Valjon screamed and swung the rosy sword again. Hawkmoon ducked beneath the swing and brought his own blade in, catching Valjon in the shoulder. With a great, bewildered cry Valjon struck again and again his blow was avoided by the naked man.
Valjon paused, studying Hawkmoon's face, his expression one of mingled terror and astonishment. "How can it be?" he murmured. "How can it be?"