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.