The English Assassin by Michael Moorcock Page A

his native land, adapted it and turned it into a philosophy capable of bringing together all the previously disunited tribes. Nye was by no means deceived by the Mahon’s appearance. He was well aware that he was not addressing a simple savage. If he had known nothing at all about the Mahon, he would still have recognised the look of profound cunning which glinted even now in those pale eyes.
    “O Chieftain,” began the captain in Scottish as soon as he had recovered his breath, “you have made the great Chief-of-us-All sad. I come to tell you this. He wonders why his children gather all these weapons to themselves.” He spread his arms to indicate the camp. “And give hospitality to soldiers from other shores.”
    In the distance the autumn river roared down the narrow gorge, its flow altering constantly as it was fed by a thousand tiny streams which streaked the hills; white veins in yellow marble. Throughout the half-mile radius of the camp the savage warriors stood and looked as their leader talked with the soldier who had come from the sky. Each of the men had a naked sword in his hand and Nye knew that if he made one mistake he would never be able to reach the airship before he was slaughtered beneath those shining blades.
    The Red Fox’s smile was grim and his eyes were like polished granite. “His Majesty will be sadder still, O Emissary, when he learns we intend to make war on those of our own folk who are foolish enough to side with the soldiers. We have already razed Fort William the Fourth.”
    “The Chief-of-us-All should punish you for that,” said the captain, “but he is slow to anger. He understands that his children have been misled by the honeyed tongues of men from across the seas. Men who would make his children fight their battles for them.”
    The Mahon rubbed his nose with a large hand and looked amused. “Tell His Majesty that we are not his children. We are mountain warriors. We shall preserve our ancient ways. We would rather die than become the subject race of any foreigner.”
    “But what of your women? Your sons and your daughters? Do they wish to see their menfolk die? Will they be happy if the schools, the doctors, the medicines— aye and the merchants who buy their wares—disappear from this land?”
    “We’ll provide our own schools and doctors—and we’ll have no more merchants ever again in the mountains of Argyll!”
    Captain Nye smiled at the idea and was about to reply when he noticed a movement of the tent flap behind the Mahon.
    A tall figure emerged to stand at the chief’s side. He wore a suit of heather-mixture tweeds. A shooting hat was pulled down to shade his face, a monocle gleamed in his right eye. From his mouth jutted a black cheroot. “I’m afraid you’ll have no luck with that argument, captain. The chief here has already decided that the advantages of British rule are outweighed by the disadvantages.”
    For all the evidence of his eyes and ears, Captain Nye could hardly believe that this was an Englishman. A renegade. He tried to hide his astonishment. “Who the devil are you, sir?”
    “Just an observer, old chap. And an advisor, of sorts, I suppose.” The man paused, his attention given to the faint humming which filled the air, drowning, eventually, the sound of the water. He smiled.
    “This is Mr Cornelius,” said the Mahon. “He has helped us with our fleet. Here it comes now.” The hill chieftain pointed behind Nye. The captain turned to look.
    Over the brow of the furthest hills came swimming upwards of a hundred massive aerial men-o’-war. They were airships of a type far in advance of anything Nye had seen before. They bristled with artillery gondolas. Their slender cigar-shaped hulls were like the bodies of gigantic sharks. On each silver-grey side, on each elevator fin was painted a livery which combined the black flag of Anarchy and the blue cross of Scotland.
    “Cornelius?” Nye looked back towards the tent but the tall man had