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

the idea was in his mind, he began to look forward to his visit to Londra, for he only realised at
this moment to what extent the atmosphere had become oppressive in Castle Brass, once so famous
for its peace.
He stared up at the smoke-darkened beams of the roof, think-ing sadly of Hawkmoon and what he had
become. He won-dered if it was altogether a good thing that the defeat of the Dark Empire had
brought tranquillity to the world. It was pos-sible that Hawkmoon, even more than himself, was a
man who only came alive when conflict threatened. If, for instance, there was trouble again in
Granbretan - if the unregenerate remnants of the defeated warriors were seriously troubling Queen
Flana -perhaps it would be a good notion to ask Hawkmoon to make it his business to find them and
destroy them.
Count Brass sensed that a task of that nature would be the only thing which could save his friend.
Instinctively he guessed that Hawkmoon was not made for peace. There were such men - men fashioned


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by fate to make war, either for good or for evil (if there was a difference between the two
qualities) - and Hawkmoon might well be one of them.
Count Brass sighed and returned his attention to his new plan. He would write to Flana in the
morning, sending news ahead of his intended visit. It would be interesting to see what had become
of that strange city since he had last visited it, as a conqueror.

2
COUNT BRASS GOES A-JOURNEYING
'Give Queen Flana my kindest compliments,' said Dorian Hawkmoon distantly. He held a tiny
representation of Flana in his pale fingers, turning the model this way and that as he spoke.
Count Brass was not entirely sure that Hawkmoon realised he had picked the model up. 'Tell her
that I do not feel fit enough to make the journey.'
'You would feel fitter once you had begun to travel,' Count Brass pointed out. He noticed that
Hawkmoon had covered the windows with dark tapestries. The room was lit now by lamps, though it
neared noon. And the place smelled dank, unhealthy, full of festering memories.
Hawkmoon rubbed at the scar on his forehead, where the Black Jewel had once been imbedded. His
skin was waxy. His eyes burned with a dreadful, feverish light. He had become so thin that his
clothes draped his body like drowned flags. He stood looking down at the table bearing the
intricate model of old Londra, with its thousands of crazy towers, interconnected by a maze of
tunnels so that no inhabitant need ever see daylight.
Suddenly it occurred to Count Brass that Hawkmoon had caught the disease of those he had defeated.
It would not have surprised the Count to discover that Hawkmoon had taken to wearing an ornate and
complicated mask.
'Londra has changed,' said Count Brass, 'since last you saw it. I hear that the towers have been
torn down - that flowers grow in wide streets - that there are parks and avenues in place of the
tunnels.'
'So I believe,' said Hawkmoon without interest. He turned away from Count Brass and began to move
a division of Dark Empire cavalry out from beyond Londra's walls. He seemed to be working on a
battle situation where the Dark Empire had defeated Count Brass and the other Companions of the
Runestaff. 'It must be exceptionally - pretty. But for my own pur-poses I prefer to remember
Londra as it was.' His voice became sharp, unwholesome. 'When Yisselda died there,' he said.
Count Brass wondered if Hawkmoon was blaming him - accusing him of cohabiting with those whose
compatriots had slain Yisselda. He ignored the inference. He said: 'But the jour-ney itself. Would