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.

The dirge of the Soldiers of the Dawn changed to a great howl as they rushed down the steps behind Hawkmoon and began to hack and stab about them with clubs and lances. The fierce Falcon fighters met them valiantly, giving as good as they received, but were plainly demoralised when they discovered that for every Warrior of the Dawn that they slew another appeared from nowhere to take his place.

D’Averc, Orland Fank and the Warrior in Jet and Gold moved more slowly down the steps, swinging their

blades in unison before them and driving back the Falcons with three pendulums of steel.

Shenegar Trott struck again at Hawkmoon and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. Hawkmoon flung out his swordarm and the Sword of the Dawn met Trott’s mask, denting it so that the features took on an even more grotesque appearance.

But then, as Hawkmoon leapt backward, poised to continue the fight, he felt a sudden blow on the back of his head, half-turned and saw a Falcon warrior had struck him with the haft of an axe. He tried to recover, but then began to fall. As he lost his senses, he saw the Warriors of Dawn fade into oblivion. Desperately he tried to recover, for the Warriors of Dawn, it seemed, could not exist unless he had control of his senses.

But it was too late. As he fell to the steps, he heard Shenegar Trott chuckling.

Chapter Eleven

A Brother Slain

HAWKMOON HEARD THE distant din of battle, shook his head and peered through a haze of red and black. He tried to rise, but at least four corpses pinned him down. His friends had taken good account of themselves.

Struggling up, he saw that Shenegar Trott had reached the Runestaff. And there stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, evidently badly wounded, hacked at by a hundred blades, attempting to stop the Granbretanian. But Shenegar Trott raised a huge mace and brought it down on the Warrior’s helm. He staggered and the helm crumpled.

Hawkmoon gathered his breath to cry hoarsely: “Legion of the Dawn! Return to me! Legion of the Dawn!”

At last the barbaric warriors reappeared, lashing about them at the startled Falcons.

Hawkmoon staggered up the steps to the Warrior’s aid, unable to see if any of the others lived. But then the huge weight of the jet and gold armour began to fall towards him, knocking him backwards. He supported it as best he could, but he knew by the feel of it that there was no life in the body within.