The Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

“Goffanon! Traitor!” yelled Corum, and put up his own sword, revealing his position to Calatin who took a dagger from his belt and began to move toward him.

  Goffanon was moving slowly, as if drugged. Corum decided to deal with Calatin first. He whirled his sword round in a poorly considered stroke which yet found Calatin’s head and downed him, but the wizard was only knocked senseless by the flat of the sword. Corum gave Goffanon all his concentration, wishing desperately that he was not hampered by the burden of Amergin across his shoulder.

  “Corum?” Goffanon frowned. “Must I kill you?” “It’s no wish of mine, traitor.”

  Goffanon began to lower his axe.’ ‘But what does Calatin wish?” ‘ ‘He wishes nothing.” Corum believed that he understood a little now of Goffanon’s position. Amergin was not the only occupant of the tower under a glamour. ‘ ‘He wishes you to protect me. That is what he wants. He wishes that you come with me.”

  “Very well,” said Goffanon simply. And he fell in beside Corum.

  “Hurry!” Corum stooped to wrench something from Calatin’s body. From above came the puzzled voices of the Ghoolegh, and the Ghoolegh whom Corum had pushed down the steps was beginning to slither forward, though almost every bone must have been broken. They were hard to slay, those who were already dead. “Those beyond the tower must soon realize that something is afoot here.”

  They began to descend the last stairway.

  There was a noise below and around the bend came the remaining Ghoolegh while at the same time Corum heard their comrades rushing down the steps, having decided that their enemies must somehow have escaped them.

  Two above and three below. The Ghoolegh hesitated, seeing only Goffanon. Doubtless they had been told that Goffanon was not an enemy and this confused them further. As quickly as he could, Corum crept past those who blocked the path below and, as they began to climb towards Goffanon, he did the only thing he could do against the living dead: He cut at the tendons of their legs so that they flopped down, using their arms to continue to crawl towards Goffanon, their cutlasses still in their hands. Goffanon turned with his axe and chopped at the legs of the two remaining Ghoolegh, severing those limbs. No blood spouted as the guards collapsed.

  Then they were through the door, running into the cold poisoned mist, down the steps from the tower, through the gateway, into the freezing streets, Goffanon loping beside Corum, keeping pace with him, his brows still drawn together as if in tremendous concentration.

  Into the house they went and Jhary-a-Conel was already mounted, swathed still in coarse blankets so that only his face peeped through, holding Corum’s horse ready for him. Jhary was astonished to see the Sidhi Smith. “Are you Amergin?”

  But Corum was tearing the mantle of invisibility from him, revealing the starved figure in old sheepskins who lay over his shoulder. “This is Amergin,” he explained curtly. “The other’s a cousin of mine I thought a traitor.” Corum heaved the prone Archdruid over his saddle, speaking to Goffanon. “Do you come with us, Sidhi? Or do you remain to serve the Fhoi Myore?”

  “Serve the Fhoi Myore? A Sidhi would not do that! Goffanon serves nobody!” The speech was still thick, the eyes still dull.

  Having no time to waste either upon analyzing the cause of Goffanon’s strange actions or conversing with the great smith to learn more, Corum said roughly:

  “Then come with us from Caer Llud.”

  “Aye,” said Goffanon musingly. “I would prefer to leave Caer Llud.”

  They rode through the chilling mist, avoiding the massings of warriors on the far side of the city. Perhaps it was this which had allowed them to enter the city and leave it without detection—the Fhoi Myore thought only of their wars upon the West and gathered together all their forces, all their attention, for this single venture.

  Whatever the reason, they were soon able to leave the outskirts of Caer Llud and were riding up a snow-covered hill, with the Dwarf Goffanon running easily beside their horses, his axe upon his shoulder, his beard and hair streaming behind him, his huge breath billowing in the air.

  “Gaynor will soon understand what has happened and be most angry,” Corum told Jhary-a-Conel. “He will realize that he has made a fool of himself. We can expect pursuit soon and he will be most vicious if he finds us.”

  Jhary peered out from under his many blankets, refusing to relinquish a morsel of warmth. “We must make speed for Craig Don,” he said. “There we will have time to consider what to do next.” He managed to grin. “At least we now have something the Fhoi Myore wish to keep—we have Amergin.”

  “Aye. They’ll be reluctant to destroy us if it means destroying Amergin too. But we cannot rely on that.” Corum adjusted the body more securely across his saddle.

  “From what I know of the Fhoi Myore, they’ll not think over-subtly upon the matter,” agreed Jhary.

  “Always our good luck and our bad luck both, the mentality of the Fhoi Myore!” Corum grinned back at his old friend.’ Tor all the great danger ahead of us, Jhary-a-Conel, I cannot but feel right-well satisfied with today’s accomplishments. Not long ago I knew if I went to my death, my quest would be unfulfilled. Now should I die, at least I shall know that I was partially successful!”

  “It will not give me much satisfaction, however,” said Jhary-a-Conel feelingly. And he looked over his shoulder to Caer Llud in the distance as if he already heard the baying of the Hounds of Kerenos.

  They left the mist behind and the air became relatively warmer. Jhary began to strip the blankets from him and drop them behind in the snow as they galloped on. The horses needed no urging this time. They were as glad to be free of Caer Llud and its unnatural mists as were their riders.

  It was four days before they heard the noise of the Hounds. And Craig Don was still some distance off.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  OF ENCHANTMENTS AND OMENS

  “Of the few things I fear,” said Goffanon, “I fear those dogs most.” Since they had left Caer Llud far behind them, his speech had become increasingly coherent, his mind sharper, though he had said little about his association with the Wizard Calatin. “There must be still thirty miles of hard country before Craig Don is reached.”

  They had come to a stop upon a hill, searching through the dancing snow for sign of the dogs which pursued them.

  Corum was thoughtful. He looked at Amergin who had awakened the night after they had fled Caer Llud and had since been bound to stop him from straying. Occasionally the High King would utter a bleat, but it was impossible to divine what he wanted from them, unless it was to indicate his hunger, for he had eaten little since they had fled the city. He spent most of his time in sleep, and even when he was awake he was passive, resigned.

  Corum said to Goffanon:’ ‘Why were you in Caer Llud. I remember you telling me you intended to spend the rest of your days in Hy-Breasail. Did Calatin come to the Enchanted Isle and offer you a bargain which attracted you?”

  Goffanon snorted. “Calatin? Come to Hy-Breasail? Of course not. And what bargain could he offer me that was better than that which you offered? No, I fear that you were the instrument of my alliance with the Mabden wizard.”

  “I? How?”

  ‘ ‘Remember how I scoffed at Calatin’s superstitions? Remember how thoughtlessly I spat into that little bag you gave me? Well, Calatin had a good reason for wanting that spittle. He has more power than I guessed—and a power I barely understand. It was the dryness which first came upon me, you see. No matter how much I drank I still felt thirsty—terrible, painful thirst. My mouth was forever dry. Corum. I was dying of thirst, though I nearly drained the rivers and streams of my island, gulping down the water as fast as I could, yet never satisfying that thirst. I was horrified—and I was dying. Then came a vision—a vision sent by that man of power, Corum—by that Mabden. And the vision spoke to me and told me that Hy-Breasail was rejecting me as it rejected the Mabden, that I should die if I remained there—die of this frightful thirst.” The dwarf shrugged his huge
shoulders.’ ‘Well, I debated this, but I was already mad with thirst. At last I set sail for the mainland, where Calatin greeted me. He gave me something to drink. That drink did satisfy my thirst. But it also robbed me of my senses and put me completely in the wizard’s power. I became his slave. He can still reach out for me. He could still trap me again and make me do his bidding. While he has that charm he made from my spittle—the charm which brings on the thirst—he can also control my thoughts to a large extent—he can somehow occupy my mind and cause my body to perform certain actions. And while he occupies my mind, I am not responsible for what I do.”

  “So by delivering that blow to Calatin’s head, I was able to break his influence over you?”

  “Yes. And by the time he recovered we were doubtless beyond the range of his magic-working!” Goffanon sighed. “I had never thought a Mabden could command such mysterious gifts.”

  “And that is how the horn came back into Calatin’s keeping?”

  “Aye. I gained nothing from my bargain with you, Corum.”

  Corum smiled as he drew something from beneath his cloak. ‘ ‘Nothing,” he said. “But I gained something from that most recent encounter.”

  “My horn!”

  “Well,” said Corum, “I remember how mercenary you were, friend Goffanon, in the matter of bargains. Strictly speaking, I would say this horn is mine.”

  Goffanon nodded his great head philosophically. ‘’That is fair,” he said. “Very well, the horn is yours, Corum. I lost it, after all, through my own stupidity.”

  “But through my unconscious connivance,” said Corum. “Let me borrow the horn a while, Goffanon. When the time seems ripe, I will return it to you.”

  “It is a better bargain than any I made with you, Corum. I feel ashamed.”

  “Well, Goffanon, what do you plan to do? Return to Hy-Breasail?”

  Goffanon shook his head. “What should I gain by that. It seems my best interests lie with your cause, Corum, for if you defeat Calatin and the Fhoi Myore, then I am freed from Calatin’s service forever. If I return to my island, Calatin can always find me again.”

  “Then you are fully with us?”

  “Aye.”

  Jhary-a-Conel shifted nervously in his saddle. “Listen,” he said, ‘ ‘they come much closer now. I think they have our scent. I think we are in considerable danger, my friends.”

  But Corum was laughing. “I think not, Jhary-a-Conel. Not now.”

  “Why so? Listen to their ghastly baying!” His lips curled in distaste. “The wolves seek the sheep, eh?”

  And, as if in confirmation, Amergin bleated softly.

  Then Corum laughed. “Let them come closer,” he said. “The closer the better.”

  He knew that it was wrong to leave Jhary in such suspense but he was enjoying the sensation—so often had Jhary made mysteries himself.

  They rode on.

  And all the while the Hounds of Kerenos came closer.

  They were in sight of Craig Don by the time the hounds appeared behind them, but they knew that the devil dogs could move faster than could they. There was no chance at all of reaching the seven stone circles before the hounds caught them.

  Corum peered backward at their pursuers, looking for signs of a suit of armor which constantly shifted its colors, but there was none. White faces and red eyes—the Ghoolegh huntsmen—controlled the pack. They were most expert at doing so, having been slaves of the Fhoi Myore for generations, bred beyond the sea in eastern lands before the Fhoi Myore began their reconquest of the West. Gay nor, no doubt against his will, had been needed by the Fhoi Myore to lead the marching warriors who went against Caer Mahlod (if that was where they went) and so had been kept from the pursuit. This was just as well, thought Corum, unslinging the horn and putting its ornamental mouthpiece to his lips. He took a deep breath.

  “Ride for Craig Don,” he told the others. “Goffanon, take Amergin.”

  The smith drew the limp body of the Archdruid from Corum’s saddle and swung it easily over his massive shoulder. “But you will die …” Jhary began.

  ‘ ‘I will not,” said Corum.’ ‘Not if I am careful in what I do now. Go. Goffanon will tell you the properties of this horn.”

  “Horns!” Jhary exclaimed. “I am sick of them. Horns for bringing the apocalypse, horns for calling demons—now horns for handling dogs! The gods grow unimaginative!” And with that peculiar observation he kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode rapidly towards the tall stones of Craig Don, Goffanon loping behind him.

  And Corum blew the horn once and though the Hounds of Kerenos pricked up their red, tufted ears, they still came running toward their quarry—running in a great pack made up of at least twoscore dogs. ITie Ghoolegh, mounted on pale horses, were, however, unsure. Corum could see that they hung back, where normally they would have chased behind the dogs.

  Now the Hounds of Kerenos yelled in glee as they had Corum’s scent and, veering slightly, sped toward him through the snow.

  And Corum blew the horn a second time and the yellow eyes of the hounds, so close, so glaring, took on a somewhat puzzled expression.

  Now other horns shouted as the Ghoolegh called their dogs off in panic, for they knew what would happen to them if the horn sounded a third time.

  The Hounds of Kerenos were so near to Corum now that he could smell their stinking, steaming breath.

  And suddenly they stopped in their tracks, whined and began reluctantly to trot back across the wind-blown snow to where the Ghoolegh waited.

  And when the Hounds of Kerenos were in retreat, Corum blew the horn a third time.

  He saw the Ghoolegh clutch their heads. He saw the Ghoolegh fall from their saddles. And he knew that they were dead, for the third blast of that horn always killed them—it was the punishing blast with which Kerenos slew those who failed to obey him.

  The Hounds of Kerenos, whose last instructions had been to return, continued to lope back to where the dead Ghoolegh lay. And Corum whistled to himself as he tucked the horn into his belt and made for Craig Don at an almost leisurely gait.

  “Perhaps it is sacrilege, but it is a convenient place to put him while we debate the problem.’ ‘ Jhary looked down at Amergin who lay upon the great altar stone within the inner circle of columns. It was dark. A fire burned fitfully. “I cannot understand why he eats only the few pieces of fruit or vegetables we brought. It is as if his innards have become sheep’s innards, too. If this continues, Corum, we shall deliver a dead High King to Caer Mahlod!”

  “You spoke earlier of being able to reach through to his inner mind,” Corum said. “Is that possible? If so, we can learn what to do to help him, perhaps.”

  ‘ ‘Aye, with the aid of my little cat I might be able to do that, but it will take much time and considerable energy. I would eat before I begin.”

  “By all means.”

  And then Jhary-a-Conel ate, and he fed his cat almost as much food as he consumed himself, while Corum and Goffanon ate only sparingly and poor Amergin ate nothing at all, for their supplies of dried fruit and vegetables were almost gone.

  The moon peered for a moment through the clouds and it struck the altar with its rays and the costume of sheepskin gleamed. Then the moon went away again and the only light came from the flickering fire which flung red shadows among the old stones.

  Jhary-a-Conel whispered to his cat. He stroked his cat and the cat purred. Slowly, the cat in his arms, he began to approach the altar where starved, wasted Amergin lay, breathing shallow breaths as he slept.

  Jhary-a-Conel put the little winged cat’s head against the head of Amergin and then he drew his own head down so that it touched the other side of the cat’s head. Silence fell.

  There came a bleating, loud and urgent, and it was impossible for the watchers to judge whether it came from Amergin’s mouth, from the cat’s, or from Jhary’s.

  The bleating died away.

  It became darker as, untended, the fire died. Corum co
uld see the dirty white form of Amergin upon the altar, the faint outline of the cat as it pressed its tiny skull to the High King’s, the tense features of Jhary-a-Conel.

  Jhary’s voice: “Amergin … Amergin … noble druid … pride of your folk … Amergin … Amergin … come back to us …” Another bleat, this time wavering and unsure. “Amergin …”

  Corum remembered the calling which had summoned him from his own world, the world of the Vadhagh, to this world. Jhary’s incantation was not unlike that of King Mannach. And possibly this had something to do with Amergin’s enchantment: he lived a different life entirely, the life of a sheep, perhaps in a world which was not quite this one. And if that were the case his ‘real’ self might be reached. Corum could not begin to understand what the people of this world called magic, but he knew something of the multiverse with its variety of planes which sometimes intersected, and he believed that their power probably derived from some half-conscious knowledge of these Realms.

  “Amergin, High King … Amergin, Archdruid …”

  The bleating became fainter and at the same time seemed to assume the qualities of human speech.

  “Amergin …”

  There was a catlike mewl, a distant voice which could have come from any one of the three upon the altar.

  “Amergin of the family of Amergin . .. the knowledge-seekers …”

  “Amergin.” This was Jhary’s voice, strained and strange. “Amergin. Do you understand your fate?”

  “An enchantment. . . I am no longer a man . .. Why should this displease me … ?”

  ‘ ‘Because your own folk need your guidance, your strength, your presence amongst them!”

  “I am all things. .. we are all of us all things… it is immaterial, the form we take. .. the spirit…”

  “Sometimes it is important, Amergin. As now, when the fate of the whole Mabden folk rests upon your assuming your former role. What will bring you back to your folk, Amergin? What power will restore you to them?”

  “Only the power of the Oak and the Ram. Only the Oak Woman can call me home. If it matters to you that I return, then find the Golden Oak and the Silvern Ram, find one who understands their properties … Only—the Oak Woman—can—call me— home …”