“Well, nowyou’d be the Hawkmoon and the D’Averc,” he said in a strange accent. “I was told you’d likely come.”

“And who are you, sir?” D’Averc asked somewhat haughtily.

“Why, I’m Orland Fank, didn’t you know? Orland Fankhere at your service, good sirs.”

“Do you live on this island?” Hawkmoon asked.

“I have lived on it, but not at the moment, don’t you know.” Fank removed his bonnet and wiped his forehead with his arm. “I’m a travelling man, these days. Like yourselves, I understand.”

“And who told you of us?” Hawkmoon asked.

“I’ve a brother. Given to wearing somewhat fancy metal of black and gold …”

“The Warrior in Jet and Gold!” Hawkmoon exclaimed.

“He’s called some such foppish title, I gather. He would not have mentioned his rough and ready brother to you, I don’t doubt.”

“He did not. Who are you?”

“I’m called Orland Fank. From Skare Braein the Orkneys, you know…”

“The Orkneys!” Hawkmoon’s hand went to his sword. “Is that not part of Granbretan? Island to the far north!”

Fank laughed. “Tell an Orkney man that he belongs to the Dark Empire, and he’ll tear the throat from you with his teeth!” He gestured apologetically, and as if in explanation said, “It’s the favourite way of dealing with a foe out there, you know. We’re not a sophisticated folk.”

“So the Warrior in Jet and Gold is also from the Orkneys …” D’Averc began.

“Save you, no man! Him from the Orkneys, with his fancy suit of armour and his fine manner!” Orland Fank laughed heartily. “No. He’s no Orkney man!” Fank wiped tears of laughter from his eyes with his battered bonnet. “Why should you think that?”

“You said he was your brother.”

“So he is. Spiritually, you might say. Perhaps even physically. I’ve forgotten. It’s been many years, you see, since we first came together.”

“What brought you together?”

“A common cause, you might say. A shared ideal.”

“And would the Runestaff be the source of that cause?” Hawkmoon murmured, his voice hardly louder than the whisper of the surf below them.

“It might.”

“You seem close-mouthed, suddenly, friend Fank,” said D’Averc.

“Aye. In Orkney, we’re a close-mouthed folk,” smiled Orland Fank. “Indeed, I’m considered something of a babbler there.” He did not seem offended.

Hawkmoon gestured behind him. “Those monsters. The strange clouds we saw earlier. Would that be to do with the Runestaff?”

“I saw no monsters. No clouds. I’ve but recently arrived here myself.”

“We were driven to this island by gigantic reptiles,” Hawkmoon said. “And now I begin to see why. They, too, served the Runestaff, I do not doubt.”

“That’s as may be,” Fank replied. “It’s not my business you see, Lord Dorian.”

“Was it the Runestaff that caused our boat to be wrecked?” Hawkmoon asked fiercely.