Fank began to speak and then his eyes lighted on the huge corpse of the Warrior in Jet and Gold and he gasped: “Brother!” and began to stagger down the steps, to drop his battle axe and gather the armoured figure in his arms. “Brother…?”

“He is dead,” Hawkmoon said softly. “He died by Shenegar Trott’s hand, defending the Runestaff. I slew Trott.. .”

Fank wept.

At length they stood together, the three of them, looking about at the carnage. The whole hall of the Runestaff was full of corpses. Even the patterns in the air seemed to have taken on a reddish colouring and the bittersweet odour could not disguise the stink of death.

Hawkmoon scabbarded the Sword of the Dawn. “What now, I wonder?” he said. “We’ve done the work we were asked to do. We’ve defended the Runestaff successfully. Now do we return to Europe.”

Then a voice spoke from behind them; it was the sweet voice of the child, Jehemia Cohnahlias. Turning, Hawkmoon saw that he stood beside the Runestaff, holding it in one hand.

“Duke of Koln you take what you have rightfully earned,” said the boy, his slanting eyes full of warm hu

mour. “You take the Runestaff with you back to Europe, there to decide the destiny of the Earth.”

“To Europe! I thought it could not be removed from its place.”

“You, as the chosen one of the Runestaff, may take it.” The boy stretched out towards Hawkmoon, and in his hand was the Runestaff. “Defend it. And pray it defends you.”

“And how shall we use it?” D’Averc enquired.

“As your standard. Let all men know that the Runestaff rides with youthat the Runestaff is on your side. Tell them that it was the Baron Meliadus who dared swear an oath on the Runestaff and thus set into motion these events which will destroy completely one protagonist or the other. Whatever happens, it will be final. Carry your invasion to Granbretan if you can, or else die in the effort. The last great battle between Meliadus and Hawkmoon is soon to be fought, and over it the Runestaff will preside!”

Hawkmoon mutely accepted the staff. It felt cold, dead and very heavy, though the patterns still blazed about it.

“Put it inside your shirt, or wrap it in a cloth,” advised the boy, “and none will observe those betraying forces until you should wish them revealed.”

“Thank you,” said Hawkmoon quietly.

“The Great Good Ones will help you return to your home,” the boy continued. “Farewell, Hawkmoon.”

“Farewell? Where do you go now?”

“Where I belong.”

And suddenly the boy began to change again, turning into a streamer of golden light still bearing some semblance of human shape, pouring itself into the Runestaff which immediately became warm, vital and light in Hawkmoon’s grasp.

With a slight shudder, Hawkmoon tucked the Runestaff inside his shirt.