Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  He felt self-disgust and could not analyze the reason for the emotion. He began to pace back and forth over the great flagstones, sniffing at the cold, damp air like a hound impatient to begin the chase. Or was he so impatient to begin? Perhaps he was, instead, escaping from something. From the knowledge of his own, inevitable doom? The doom which Elric and Erekose had both hinted at ?

  “Oh, by my ancestors, let the battle come and let it be a mighty one!” he shouted aloud. And with a tense movement he drew his battle-blade and whirled it, testing its temper, gauging its balance, before resheathing it with a crash which echoed through the hall.

  ‘ ‘And let it be a successful one for Caer Mahlod, Sir Champion.” The voice was the sweet, amused voice of Medhbh, King

  Mannach’s daughter, leaning in the doorway, a hand on her hip. Around her waist was a heavy belt bearing a sheathed dagger and broadsword. Her hair was tied back and she wore a sort of leather toga as her only’armor. In her free hand she held a light helmet not unlike a Vadhagh helmet in design but made of brass.

  Rarely given to bombastics and embarrassed at being discovered declaiming his confusion, Corum turned away, unable to look into her face. His humor left him momentarily. “I fear you have very little of a hero in me, lady,” he said coldly.

  “And a mournful god, Lord of the Mound. We hesitated, many of us, before summoning you to us. Many thought that, if you existed at all, you would be some dark and awful being of the Fhoi Myore kind, that we should release something horrible upon ourselves. But, no, we brought to us instead a man. And a man is much more complicated a being than a mere god. And our responsibilities, it seems, are different altogether—subtler and harder to accomplish. You are angry because I saw that you were fearful …”

  “Perhaps it was not fear, lady.”

  “But perhaps it was. You support our cause because you chose to. We have no claim on you. We have no power over you, as we thought we might have. You help us in spite of your fear and your self-doubt. That is worth much more than the help of some barely sensate supernatural creature such as the Fhoi Myore use. And the Fhoi Myore fear your legend. Remember that, Prince Corum.”

  Still Corum would not turn. Her kindness was unmistakable. Her sympathy was real. Her intelligence was as great as her beauty. How could he turn when to turn would be to see her and to see her would be to love her helplessly, to love her as he had loved Rhalina.

  Controlling his voice he said: “I thank you for your kindness, lady. I will do what I can in the service of your folk, but I warn you to expect no spectacular aid from me.”

  He did not turn, for he did not trust himself. Did he see something of Rhalina in this girl because he needed Rhalina so much? And if that were the case what right had he to love Medhbh, herself, if he loved in her only qualities he imagined he saw?

  A silver hand covered the embroidered eye-patch, the cold and unfeeling fingers plucking at the fabric Rhalina had sewn. He almost shouted at her:

  “And what of the Fhoi Myore? Do they come?”

  “Not yet. Only the mist grows thicker. A sure sign of their presence somewhere near.”

  “Does mist follow them?”

  “Mist precedes them. Ice and snow follow. And the East Wind often signals their coming, bearing hailstones large as gulls’ eggs. Ah, the earth dies and the trees bow when the Fhoi Myore march.” She spoke distantly.

  The tension in the hall was increasing.

  And then she said: “You do not have to love me, lord.”

  That was when he turned.

  But she had gone.

  Again he stared down at his metal hand, using the soft one, the one of flesh, to brush the tear from his single eye.

  Faintly, from another, distant, part of the fortress, he thought he heard the strains of a Mabden harp playing music sweeter than any he had heard at Castle Erorn—and it was sad, the sound of that harp.

  “You have a harpist of great genius in your Court, King Mannach.”

  Corum and the king stood together on the outer walls of Caer Mahlod, looking toward the East.

  “You heard the harp, too?” King Mannach frowned. He was dressed in a breastplate of bronze with a bronze helmet upon his graying head. His handsome face was grim and his eyes puzzled. “Some thought that you played it, Lord of the Mound.”

  Corum held up his silver hand. “This could not pluck such a strain as that.” He looked at the sky. “It was a Mabden harpist I heard.”

  ‘ ‘I think not,” said Mannach. ‘ ‘At least, Prince, it was no harpist of my court we heard. The bards of Caer Mahlod prepare themselves for the fight. When they play, it will be martial songs we shall hear, not music like that of this morning.”

  “You did not recognize the tune?”

  ‘ ‘I have heard it once before—in the grove of the mound, the first night that we came to call to you to help us. It was what encouraged us to believe that there might be truth in the legend. If that harp had not played, we should not have continued.”

  Corum drew his brows together. “Mysteries were never to my taste,” he said.

  “Then life itself cannot be to your taste, lord.”

  Corum smiled. ‘ ‘I take your meaning, King Mannach. Nonetheless, I am suspicious of such things as ghostly harps.”

  There was no more to say on the matter. King Mannach pointed towards the thick oak forest. Heavy mist clung to the topmost branches. Even as they watched, the mist seemed to grow denser, descending towards the ground until few of the frost-rimed trees could be seen. The sun was up, but its light was pale, for thin clouds were beginning to drift across it. The day was still.

  No birds sang in the forest. Even the movements of the warriors inside the fort were muted. When a man did shout, the sound seemed magnified and clear as a belPs note for a second before it was absorbed into the silence. All along the battlements had been stacked weapons—spears, arrows, bows, large stones and the round tathlum balls which would be flung from slings.

  Now the warriors began to take their places on the walls. Caer Mahlod was not a large settlement, but it was strong and heavy, squatting on the top of a hill whose sides had been smoothed so that it seemed like a man-made cone of enormous proportions. To the south and north stood several other cones like it, and on two of these could be seen the ruins of other fortresses, suggesting that once Caer Mahlod had been part of a much larger settlement.

  Corum turned to look towards the sea. There the mist had gone and the water was calm, blue and sparkling, as if the weather which touched the land did not extend across the ocean. And now Corum could see that he had been right in judging Castle Erorn nearby. Two or three miles to the south was the familiar outline of the promontory and what might be the remains of a tower.

  “Do you know that place, King Mannach?” asked Corum, pointing.

  “It is called Castle Owyn by us, for it resembles a castle when seen from the distance, but really it is a natural formation. Some legends are attached to it concerning its occupation by supernatural beings—by the Sidhi, by Cremm Croich. But the only architect of Castle Owyn was the wind and the only mason the sea.”

  “Yet I should like to go there,” said Corum, “when I can.”

  “If both of us survive the raid of the Fhoi Myore—indeed, if the Fhoi Myore decide not to attack us— then I will take you. But there is nothing to see, Prince Corum. The place is best observed from this distance.”

  “I suspect,” said Corum, “that you are right, King.”

  Now, as they spoke, the mist grew thicker still and obscured all sight of the sea. Mist fell upon Caer Mahlod and filled her narrow streets. Mist moved upon the fortress from all sides save the West.

  Even the small sounds in the fort died as the occupants waited to discover what the mist had brought with it.

  It had become dark, almost like evening. It had become cold so that Corum, more warmly clothed than any of the others, shivered and drew his scarlet robe more tightly about him.

  And there c
ame the howling of a hound from out of the mist. A savage, desolate howling which was taken up by other canine throats until it filled the air on all sides of the fortress called Caer Mahlod.

  Peering through his single eye, Corum tried to see the hounds themselves. For an instant he thought he saw a pale, slinking shape at the bottom of the hill, below the walls. Then the shape had gone. Corum carefully strung his long, bone bow and nocked a slender arrow to the string. Grasping the shaft of the bow with his metal hand, he used his fleshly hand to draw back the string to his cheek and he waited until he saw another faint shape appear before he let the arrow fly.

  It pierced the mist and vanished.

  A scream rose high and horrible and became a snarl, a growl. Then a shape was running up the hill towards the fort. It ran very fast and very straight. Two yellow eyes glared directly into Corum’s face as if the beast recognized instinctively the source of its wound. Its long, feathery tail waved as it ran, and at first it seemed it had another tail, rigid and thin, but then Corum realized that it was his arrow, sticking from the animal’s side. He nocked another arrow to his bowstring. He drew the string back and glared into the beast’s blazing eyes. A red mouth gaped and yellow fangs dripped saliva. The hair was coarse and shaggy and, as the dog approached, Corum realized it was as large as a small pony.

  The sound of its snarling filled his ears and still he did not let fly, for it was sometimes hard to see against the background of mist.

  Corum had not expected the hound to be white. It was a glowing whiteness which was somehow disgusting to look upon. Only the ears of the hound were darker than the rest of its body, and these ears were a glistening red, the color of fresh blood.

  Higher and higher up the hill raced the white hound, the first arrow bouncing apparently unnoticed in its side, and its howl seemed almost to be a howl of obscene laughter as it anticipated sinking its fangs into Corum’s throat. There was glee in the yellow eyes.

  Corum could wait no longer. He released the arrow.

  The shaft seemed to travel very slowly towards the white hound. The beast saw the arrow and tried to sidestep, but it had been running too fast, too purposefully. Its movements were not properly coordinated. As it ducked to save its right eye, its legs tangled and it received the arrow in its left eye with such an impact that the tip of the arrow burst through the other side of the skull.

  The hound opened its great jaws as it collapsed, but no further sound escaped that frightful throat. It fell, rolled a short way down the hill, and was still.

  Corum let out a sigh and turned to speak to King Mannach.

  But King Mannach was already flinging back his arm, aiming a spear into the mist where at least a hundred pale shadows skulked and slavered and wailed their determination to be revenged upon the slayers of their sibling.

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  THE FIGHT AT CAER MAHLOD

  “Oh, there are many!”

  King Mannach’s expression was troubled as he took up a second spear and flung that after the first. “More than any I have seen before.’’ He glanced round to see how his men fared. Now all were active against the hounds. They whirled slings, shot arrows and threw spears. The hounds surrounded Caer Mahlod. “There are many. Perhaps the Fhoi Myore have already heard that you have come to us, Prince Corum. Perhaps they have determined to destroy you.”

  Corum made no reply, for he had seen a huge white hound slinking at the very foot of the wall, sniffing the entrance way which had been blocked with a large boulder. Leaning out over the battlements, Corum let fly with one of his last arrows, striking the beast in the back of its skull. It moaned and ran off into the mist. Corum could not see if he had killed it. They were hard to kill, these hounds, and hard to see in the mist and the frost, save for their blood-red ears, their yellow eyes.

  Even had they been darker it would have been difficult to fight them. The mist grew thicker still. It attacked the throats and the eyes of the defenders so that they were constantly wiping the stuff from their faces, spitting over the walls at the hounds as they tried to free their lungs of the cold and clogging dampness. Yet they were brave. They did not falter. Spear after spear darted down. Arrow after arrow arced into the ranks of those sinister dogs. Only the piles of tathlum balls were not used, and Corum was curious to know why, for King Mannach had not had time to tell him. But spears and arrows and rocks were already running low and only a few of the pale dogs were dead.

  Kerenos, whoever he might be, had well-stocked kennels, thought Corum as he shot the last of his arrows, dropped his bow and pulled his sword from its scabbard.

  And their howling brought tension to every nerve so that one had to fight one’s own cringing muscles as well as the dogs themselves.

  King Mannach ran along the battlements encouraging his warriors. So far none had fallen. Only when the missiles were exhausted would they be forced to defend themselves with their blades, axes and their pikes. That time was almost upon them.

  Corum paused to draw a breath and try to take account of their situation. There were something less than a hundred hounds below. There were something more than a hundred men on the battlements. The hounds would have to make enormous leaps to get a foothold on the walls. That they were capable of making such leaps, Corum was in no doubt.

  Even as he considered this he saw a white beast come flying towards him, its forelegs outstretched, its jaws snapping, its hot, yellow eyes glaring. If he had not already unsheathed his blade he would have been slain there and then. But now he brought the sword up, stabbing out at the hound even as it flew through the air towards him. He caught it in the belly and nearly lost his footing as the thing impaled itself upon the point of his sword, grunted as if in mild surprise, growled as it understood its fate, and made one feeble, futile snap at him before it went tumbling backwards to fall directly upon the spine of one of its fellows.

  For a little while Corum thought that the Hounds of Kerenos had had enough of battle for that day, for they seemed to retreat. But their growrings, their mutterings, their occasional howlings, made it plain that they were simply resting, biding their time, preparing for the next attack. Perhaps they were taking instructions from an unseen master—perhaps Kerenos himself. Corum would have given much for a glimpse of the Fhoi Myore. He wanted to see at least one, if only to form his own opinion of what they were and from where they derived their powers. A little earlier he had seen a darker shape in the mist, a shape which was taller than the hounds and had seemed to walk on two legs, but the mist was shifting so rapidly all the time (though never dispersing) that he might have been deceived. If he had actually seen the outline of a Fhoi Myore, then there was no doubt that they were considerably taller than Man and probably not of the same race at all. Yet where could these others, who were not Vadhagh, Nhadragh or Mabden, have come from? This had puzzled Corum ever since his first conversation with King Mannach.

  “The hounds! ‘Ware the hounds!” a warrior shouted as he was borne backward by a gleaming white shape which had flown silently at him from out of the mist. Hound and man went together off the walls and fell with a terrific crack into the street below.

  Only the hound got up, its jaws full of the warrior’s flesh. It grinned, turned and loped into the street. Barely thinking, Corum flung his sword at it and struck it in the side. It shrieked and tried to snap at the sword protruding from between its ribs, just as a puppy might chase its own tail. Four or five rotations the great hound made before it understood that it was dead.

  Corum bounded down the steps to the street to retrieve his sword. He had never seen such monstrous dogs before, neither could he understand their strange coloring, which was like nothing else in nature he had ever seen. With distaste he tugged his blade free from the massive carcass, wiping the blood on the pale, coarse fur. Then he ran back up the steps to take his place on the wall.

  For the first time he noticed the stink. It was definitely a canine stink, like the smell of wet, dirty hair, but for a few seconds a
t a time it could be almost overpowering. With the mist attacking eyes and mouths and the stink of the hounds attacking their nostrils, the defenders were hard-pressed to accomplish their work. Dogs were on the walls now in several places and four warriors lay with their throats torn out, while two of the Hounds of Kerenos were also dead, one with its head hacked clean off.

  Corum was beginning to tire and judged that the others must also be wearying. In an ordinary battle they would have had every right to be exhausted by now. Here, however, they did not fight men but beasts, and the allies of the beasts were the elements themselves.

  Corum leaped to one side as a hound—one of the largest he had so far seen—cleared the battlements behind him and landed on the platform beyond, hissing and panting, its eyes rolling, its tongue lolling, its fangs dripping. The smell choked Comm. It issued from the mouth of the beast—a fetid, unhealthy smell. Growling softly, the hound gathered itself to attack Corum, the strange red ears lying flat against the tapering skull.

  Corum shouted something, grabbed up his own long-hafted war-axe from where he had kept it by the wall, and whirling this weapon, ran at the hound.

  The hound cringed perceptibly as the blade flashed over its white head. Its tail began to sink between its legs before it realized that it was considerably heavier and stronger than Corum and drew back its lips in a snarl exposing teeth some twelve inches long.