The Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  Corum yawned and nodded. “It is the best attitude to have, I think. Well, I’ll to my bed. Whatever comes of all this, know that your coming has improved my spirits considerably, Jhary. I’ll speak with you again in the morning. First I must see how this night passes.”

  Jhary stroked his cat under its chin. “You could benefit greatly from helping those who call to you.” It was almost as if he had addressed the cat.

  Corum paused as he walked towards the door.’ ‘You have already hinted as much. Can you tell me in what way I would benefit?”

  ‘ ‘I said ‘could’, Comm. I cannot say more. It would be foolish of me, and irresponsible. Perhaps it is already true that I have said too much. For now I puzzle you.”

  “I’ll dismiss the question from my mind—and bid you good night, old friend.”

  “Good night, Corum, may your dreams be clear.”

  Comm left the room and began to climb the ramp to his own bedchamber. This would be the first night in many months that he looked forward to sleep less with fear than with curiosity. He fell asleep almost immediately. And, almost immediately, the voices began. Instead of resisting them, he relaxed and listened.

  “Corum! Cremm Croich. Your people need you.”

  For all its strange accent, the voice was quite clear. But Corum saw nothing of the chorus, nothing of the circle with linked hands which stood about a mound in an oak-grove.

  ‘ ‘Lord of the Mound. Lord of the Silver Hand. Only you can save us.”

  And Corum found himself replying: “How can I save you?”

  The answering voice sounded excited. “You answer at last! Come to us, Corum of the Silver Hand. Come to us Prince in the Scarlet Robe. Save us as you have saved us in the past.”

  “How can I save you?”

  “You can find for us the Bull and the Spear and lead us against the Fhoi My ore. Show us how to fight them, for they do not fight as we fight.”

  Corum stirred. Now he could see them. They were tall and good-looking young men and women whose bronzed bodies glinted with warm gold, the color of autumn corn, and the gold was woven into intricate and pleasing designs. They wore armlets, anklets, collars and circlets, all of gold. Their flowing clothes were of linen dyed in light reds, blues and yellows. There were sandals upon their feet. They had fair hair or hair as red as rowanberries. They were, indeed, the same race as the folk of Lwym-an-Esh. They stood in the oak-grove, hands joined, eyes closed, and they spoke as one.

  “Come to us, Lord Corum. Come to us.”

  “I will consider it,” said Corum, making his tone a kindly one, “for it is long since I have fought and I have forgotten the arts of war.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “If I come, I will come tomorrow.”

  The scene faded, the voices faded. And Corum slept peacefully until morning.

  When he awoke he knew that there was nothing to debate. While he slept he had decided, if possible, to answer the call of the people of the oak-grove. His life at Castle Erorn was not only miserable, it served no one, not even himself. He would go to them, crossing the planes, moving through time, and he would go to them willingly, proudly.

  Jhary found him in the armory. He had selected for himself the silver byrnie and the conical helm of silvered steel and his full name engraved above the peak. He had found greaves of gilded brass and he had laid out his surcoat of scarlet silk, his shirt of blue samite, A long-hafted Vadhagh war-axe stood against a bench and beside it was a sword manufactured in a place other than the Earth, with a hilt of red and black onyx, a lance whose shaft was carved from top to bottom with miniature hunting scenes comprising more than a hundred tiny figures, all depicted in considerable detail. There also was a good bow and a quiver of well-fletched arrows. Resting against these was a round war-board, a shield made of a number of layers of timber) leather, brass and silver and covered all over with the fine, strong hide of the white rhinocerus which had once lived in the northern forests of Corum’s land.

  “When do you go to them?” said Jhary, inspecting the array.

  “Tonight.” Corum weighed the lance in his hand. “If their summoning is successful. I shall go mounted, on my red horse. I shall ride to them.”

  Jhary did not ask how Corum would reach them and Corum himself had not considered that problem, either. Certain peculiar laws would be involved, and that was all they knew or cared to know. Much depended on the power of invocation of the group who waited in the oak-grove.

  Together they broke their fast, and then they went up to the battlements of the castle. From there they could see the wide ocean to the west and the great forests and moors to the east. The sun was bright and the sky was wide and clear and blue. It was a good, peaceful day. They talked of the old times, recalling dead friends and dead or banished gods, of Kwll who had been more powerful than either the Lords of Law or the Lords of Chaos, who had seemed to fear nothing. They wondered where Kwll and his brother Rhynn had gone, whether there were other worlds beyond the fifteen planes of Earth and if those worlds resembled Earth in any way.

  “And then, of course,” said Jhary, “there is the question concerning the Conjunction of the Million Spheres and what follows when that conjunction is over. Is it over yet, do you think?”

  ‘ ‘New laws are established after the conjunction. But established by what? And by whom?” Corum leaned against the battlements, looking out across the narrow bay. I suspect that it is we who make those laws. And yet we do so unknowingly. We are not even sure what is good and what is evil—or, indeed, if anything is either. Kwll had no such beliefs and I envied him. How pitiful we are. How pitiful am I that I cannot bear to live without loyalties. Is it strength which makes me decide to go to these people? Or is it weakness?”

  “You speak of good and evil and say you know not what they are—it is the same with strength and weakness. The terms are meaningless.” Jhary shrugged.’ ‘Love means something to me, and so does hate. Physical strength is given to some of us—I can see it. And some are physically weak. But why equate the elements in a man’s character with such attributes. And, if we do not condemn a man because, through luck, he is not physically strong, why condemn him if, for instance, his resolve is not strong. Such instincts are the instincts of the beasts and, for beasts, they are satisfactory instincts. But men are not beasts. They are men. That is all.”

  Corum’s smile had some bitterness in it.’ ‘And they are not gods, Jhary.”

  “Not gods—or devils, either. Just men and women. How much happier would we be if we accepted that!” And Jhary threw back his head and laughed suddenly. “But perhaps we should be more boring, too! We are both of us beginning to sound too pious, my friend. We are warriors, not holy men!”

  Corum repeated a question of the previous night. ‘ ‘You know this land where I have decided to go. Shall you go there, too—tonight?”

  ‘ ‘I am not my own master.” Jhary began to pace the flagstones. “You know that, Corum.”

  “I hope that you do.”

  ‘ ‘You have many manifestations in the Fifteen Planes, Corum. It could be that another Corum somewhere needs a companion and that I shall have to go with him.”

  “But you are not sure?”

  “I am not sure.”

  Corum shrugged. “If what you say is true—and I suppose I must accept that it is—then perhaps I shall meet another aspect of you, one who does not know his fate?”

  “My memory often fails me, as I have told you before. Just as yours fails you in this incarnation.”

  “I hope that we shall meet on this new plane and that we shall recognize one another.”

  “That is my hope, also, Corum.”

  They played chess that evening and spoke little, and Corum went early to his bed. When the voices came, he spoke to them slowly: ‘ ‘I shall come in armor and I shall be armed. I shall ride upon a red horse. You must call me with all your powers. I give you time to rest now. Gather your strength and in two hours begin the invocation.”


  In one hour Corum rose and went down to put his armor on, to dress himself in silk and samite, to have his ostler lead his horse into the courtyard. And when he was ready, with his reins in his gloved left hand and his silver hand upon the pommel of a poignard, he spoke to his retainers and told them that he rode upon a quest and that if he did not return they should throw open Castle Erorn to any traveller who needed shelter. They should also feast such travellers well, in Corum’s name. Then he rode through the gates and down the slope and into the great wood, as he had ridden nearly a century before when his father and his mother and his sisters had been alive. But then he had ridden through the morning. Now he rode into the night, beneath the moon.

  Of all those in Castle Erorn, only Jhary-a-Conel had not bid goodbye to Corum.

  Now the voices grew louder in Corum’s ears as he rode through the dark, ancient forest.

  “Corum! Corum!”

  Strangely, his body began to feel light. He touched spurs to the flanks of his horse and it broke into a gallop. “Corum! Corum!”

  “I am coming!” The stallion galloped harder, its hooves pounding the soft turf, plunging deeper and deeper into the dark wood. “Corum!”

  Corum leaned forward in his saddle, ducking as branches brushed his face. “I come!”

  He saw the shadowy group in the grove. They surrounded him, yet still he rode and his speed grew even faster. He began to feel dizzy.

  “Corum!”

  And it seemed to Corum that he had ridden like this before, that he had been in this way before and it was why he had known what to do.

  The trees blurred, he rode with such speed. “Corum!”

  White mist began to boil all around him. Now the faces of the chanting group could be seen in; sharper detail. The voices grew faint, then loud, then faint again. Corum spurred the snorting horse on into the mist. That mist was history. It was legend. It was time. He glimpsed sights of buildings, the like of which he had never seen, rising hundreds and thousands of feet into the air. He saw armies of millions, weapons of terrifying power, flying machines and dragons. He saw creatures of every shape, size and form. All seemed to cry out to him as he rode by. And he saw Rhalina.

  He saw Rhalina as a girl, as a boy, as a man, as an old woman. He saw her alive and he saw her dead.

  And it was mat sight which made him scream, and it was why he was still screaming as he rode suddenly into a forest clearing, bursting through a circle of men and women who had stood with hands linked around a mound, chanting as with a single voice. He was still screaming as he drew his bright sword and raised it high in his silver hand as he reined his horse to a halt on the top of the mount.

  “Corum!” cried the folk in the clearing.

  And Corum ceased to scream and lowered his head, though his sword was still raised.

  The red Vadhagh horse in all its silken trappings pawed at the grass of the mound and again it snorted.

  Then Corum said in a deep, quiet voice, “I am Corum and I will help you. But remember, in this land, in this age, I am a virgin.”

  “Corum,” they said. “Corum Llaw Ereint.” And they pointed out his silver hand to each other and their faces were joyful.

  “I am Corum,” he said. “You must tell me why I have been summoned.”

  A man older than the others, his red beard veined with white, a great gold collar about his neck, stepped forward.

  “Corum,” he said. “We called you because you are Corum.”

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

  THE TUHA-NA -CREMM CROICH

  Corum’s mind was clouded. For all that he could smell the night air, see the people around him, feel the horse beneath him, it still seemed that he dreamed. Slowly he rode back down the mound. A light wind caught the folds of his scarlet robe and lifted them, swirling them about his head. He tried to realize that somehow he was now separated from his own world by at least a millennium. Or could it be, he wondered, that he really did still dream. He felt the detachment that he sometimes felt when he was dreaming.

  As he reached the bottom of the grassy mound the tall Mabden folk stood back respectfully. By the expressions on their well-formed features it seemed plain that they, too, were dazed by this event, as if they had not really expected their invocation to be successful. Corum felt sympathetic toward them. These were not the superstitious barbarians he had first suspected he would find. There was intelligence on those faces, a clarity about their gaze, a dignity about the way in which they held themselves, even though they thought they were in the presence of a supernatural being. These, it seemed, were the true descendants of the best of his wife’s folk. At that moment he felt no regret that he had answered their summons.

  He wondered if they felt the cold as he did. The air was sharp and yet they wore only thin cloaks, which left their arms, chests and legs bare, save for the gold ornaments, leather straps and high sandals which all—men and women—had.

  The older man who had first spoken to Corum was powerfully built and as tall as the Vadhagh himself. Corum reined his horse before this man and he dismounted. They stared at each other for some moments. Then Corum spoke distantly:

  “My head is empty,” he said. “You must fill it.”

  The man stared thoughtfully, at the ground and then raised his head, saying:

  “I am Mannach, a king.” He smiled faintly. “A wizard, I, of sorts. Druid, some call me, though I’ve few of the druids’ skills—or much of their wisdom. But I am the best we have now, for we have forgotten most of the old lore. Which is perhaps why we are now in this predicament.” He added, almost with embarrassment, “We had no need of it, we thought, until the Fhoi My ore came back.” He looked curiously at Corum’s face as if he disbelieved in the power of his own invocation.

  Corum had decided almost at once that he liked this King Mannach. Corum approved of the man’s skepticism (if that was what it was). Plainly the invocation had been weak because Mannach and probably the others had only half-believed in it.

  “You summoned me when all else failed?” said Corum.

  ‘ ‘Aye. The Fhoi My ore beat us in battle after battle, for they do not fight as we fight. At last we had nothing left but our legends.” Mannach hesitated and then admitted: ‘‘I did not believe much in those legends before now.”

  Corum smiled. “Perhaps there was no truth in them before now.”

  Mannach frowned. ‘ ‘You speak more like a man than a god—or even a great hero. I mean no disrespect.”

  “It is other folk who make gods and heroes of men like myself, my friend.” Corum looked around at the rest of the gathering. “You must tell me what you expect of me, for I have no mystic powers.”

  It was Mannach who smiled now. “Perhaps you had none before.”

  Corum raised his silver hand.’ ‘This? It is of earthly manufacture. With the right skills and knowledge any man might make one.”

  “You have gifts,” said King Mannach. “The gifts of your race, your experience, your wisdom—aye, and your skills, Lord of the Mound. The legends say that you fought mighty gods before the Dawn of the World.”

  “I fought gods.”

  “Well, we have great need of a fighter of gods. These Fhoi My ore are gods. They conquer our land. They steal our Holy things. They capture our people. Even now our High King is their prisoner. Our Great Places fall to them—Caer Llud and Craig Don among them. They divide our land and so separate our folk. Separated, it becomes harder for us to join in battle against the Fhoi Myore.”

  “They must be numerous, these Fhoi My ore,” said Corum. “There are seven.”

  Corum said nothing, allowing the astonishment he was unable to hide to serve in place of words.

  “Seven,” said King Mannach. “Come with us now, Corum of the Mound, to our fort at Caer Mahlod, there to take meat and mead with us while we tell you why we called for you.”

  And Corum remounted his horse and allowed the people to lead it through the frost-rimed oak wood and up a hill which overlooked the
sea upon which a moon cast a leprous light. Stone walls rose high around the crown of the hill and there was only one small gate, really a tunnel, which went down then up again, through which a visitor could pass in order to enter the city. These stones were white, too. It was as if the whole world were frozen and all its scenery carved from ice.

  Within, the city of Caer Mahlod reminded Corum of the stone cities of Lyr-a-Brode, though some attempts had been made to finish the granite of the houses’ walls, paint scenes upon the walls and carve gables. Much more fortress than town, the place had a gloomy aspect Corum could not equate with the people who had summoned him.

  “These are old forts,” King Mannach explained. “We were driven from our great cities and forced to find homes here, where our ancestors were said to dwell. They are strong, at least, settlements like Caer Mahlod, and during the day it is possible to see many miles in all directions.” He ducked beneath a portal as he led Corum into one of the big buildings which was lit with rush torches and oil lamps. The others who had been with Mannach in the oak wood followed them in. At last they all stood in a low-roofed hall furnished with heavy wooden benches and tables. On these tables, however, was some of the finest gold, silver and bronze plate Corum had ever seen. Each bowl, each platter, each cup, was exquisite and, if anything, of even finer workmanship than the ornaments the people wore. Even though the walls were of rough stone, the hall danced with glittering light as the flames of the brands were reflected in the tableware and the ornaments of the People of Cremm Croich.

  ‘ ‘This is all that is left of our treasure,” said King Mannach, and he shrugged. “And the meat we serve is poor fare now; for game grows scarce, running before the Hounds of Kerenos, which hunt the whole land as soon as the sun has set and do not cease hunting until the sun rises. One day, we fear, the sun will not rise again at all and soon the only life in all the world will be those hounds and the huntsmen who are their masters. And ice and snow will prevail over all—everlasting Samhain.”