"Michael Moorcock - Castle Brass 2 - The Champion of Garathor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

shadow and he could see nothing of the children at all. Why did he yearn? Why was he full of such
a deep and last-ing sense of loss? Why did he sometimes nurse the thought that this, which he
experienced now, was madness and that the dream - that of Yisselda and the children - had been the
reality?
Hawkmoon no longer knew himself and had lost the inclina-tion, as a result, to communicate with
others. He was a ghost. He haunted his own apartments. A sad ghost who could only sob and groan
and sigh.
At least he had been proud in his madness, said the towns-folk. At least he had been complete in
his delusions.
'He was happier mad."
Hawkmoon would have agreed with such sentiments, had they been expressed to him.
When not in the tower he haunted the room where he had set up his War Tables - high benches on
which rested models of cities and castles occupied by thousands of other models of sol-diers. In
his madness he had commissioned this huge array from Vaiyonn, the local craftsman. To celebrate,
he had told Vaiyonn, their victories over the Lords of Granbretan. And repre-sented in painted
metal were the Duke of Koln himself, Count Brass, Yisselda, Bowgentle, Huillam D'Averc and Oladahn
of the Bulgar Mountains - the heroes of the Kamarg, most of whom had perished at Londra. And here
too were models of their old enemies, the Beast Lords - Baron Meliadus in his wolf helm, King Huon
in his Throne Globe, Shenegar Trott, Adaz Promp, Asrovak Mikosevaar and his wife, Flana (now the
gentle Queen of Granbretan). Dark Empire infantry, cavalry and flyers were ranged against the
Guardians of the Kamarg, against the Warriors of Dawn, against the soldiers of a hundred small
nations.
And Dorian Hawkmoon would move all these pieces about his vast boards, going through one
permutation after another; fighting a thousand versions of the same battle in order to see how a
battle which followed it might have changed. And his heavy fingers were often upon the models of
his dead friends, and most of all they were upon Yisselda. How could she have been saved? What set
of circumstances would have guaranteed her continuing to live?
Sometimes Count Brass would enter the room, his eyes troubled. He would run his fingers through
his greying red hair and watch as Hawkmoon, absorbed in his miniature world, brought forward a
squadron of cavalry here, drew back a line of infantry there. Hawkmoon either did not notice the


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presence of Count Brass on these occasions or else he preferred to ignore his old friend until
Count Brass would clear his throat or other-wise make it evident that he had come in. Then
Hawkmoon would look up, eyes introspective, bleak, unwelcoming, and Count Brass would ask softly
after Hawkmoon's health. Hawkmoon would reply curtly that he was well.
Count Brass would nod and say that he was glad.
Hawkmoon would wait impatiently, anxious to get back to his manoeuvrings on his tables, while
Count Brass looked around the room, inspected a battle-line or pretended to admire the way
Hawkmoon had worked out a particular tactic.
Then Count Brass would say:
'I'm riding to inspect the towers this morning. It's a fine day. Why don't you come with me,
Dorian?"
Dorian Hawkmoon would shake his head. 'There are things I have to do here.'
'This?' Count Brass would indicate the wide trestles with a sweep of his hand. 'What point is
there? They are dead. It is over. Will your speculation bring them back? You are like some mystic -
some warlock - thinking that the facsimile can manip-ulate that which it imitates. You torture