He forced back the visor, weeping for the man he had never considered a friend until now, curious to see the features of the one who had guided his destiny for so

long, but the visor would hardly move an inch, Shenegar Trott’s mace had buckled it so.

“Warrior…”

“The Warrior is dead!” Shenegar Trott had flung off his mask and was reaching for the Runestaff, triumphantly staring over his shoulder at Hawkmoon. “As shall you be in a trice, Dorian Hawkmoon!”

With a shout of fury, Hawkmoon dropped the Warrior’s corpse and flew up the steps towards his enemy. Disconcerted, Trott turned, raising the mace again.

Hawkmoon ducked the blow and closed with Trott, grappling with him on the topmost step while red carnage spread all around them.

As he struggled with the count, he saw D’Averc, halfway up the steps, his shirt a mass of bloody rags, one arm limp at his side, tackling five of the Falcon warriorsand higher up Orland Fank was still alive, whirling his battle-axe around his head and giving voice to a strange, skirling cry.

Trott’s breath wheezed from between his fat lips and Hawkmoon was astonished at his strength. “You will die, Hawkmoonyou must die if the Runestaff is to be mine!”

Hawkmoon panted as he wrestled with the Count. “It will never be yours. It can be possessed by no man!”

With a sudden heave, he broke Trott’s guard and punched him full in the face. The Count screamed and came forward again, but Hawkmoon raised his booted foot and kicked him in the chest, sending him reeling back against the dais. Then Hawkmoon recovered his sword and when Shenegar Trott ran at him again, blind with anger, he ran directly on to the point of the Sword of the Dawn, dying with an obscene curse on his lips and one last, backward look at the Runestaff.

Hawkmoon tugged the sword free and looked about him. His Legion of the Dawn were finishing their work, clubbing down the last of the Falcons, and D’Averc and Fank were leaning exhaustedly against the dais beneath the Runestaff.

Soon a few groans were cut short as spiked clubs fell

on heads, and then there was silence save for the faint, melodic humming and the heavy breathing of the three survivors.

As the last Granbretanian died, the Legion of the Dawn vanished.

Hawkmoon stared down at the fat corpse of Shenegar Trott and he frowned. “We have slain onebut if one has been sent here, then others will follow. Dnark is no longer safe from the Dark Empire.”

Fank sniffed and wiped his nose with his forearm. “It is for you to make sure that Dnark is safethat the rest of the world is safe.”

Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. “And how may I do that?”