Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  Corum kicked his right foot free from his stirrup and drove his heel into the snout of one hound while with his axe he smashed down a dog which had got a grip upon his horse’s harness. But the horse was tiring fast. Corum realized that it could not hold out against the hounds only a few moments more before it collapsed beneath him with its throat torn, and there were still some six dogs to contend with.

  Five. Corum sliced the rear legs from a dog which sought to spring at him and misjudged its distance. The thing flopped to the ground near the one which still died from a broken spine. The dog with the broken spine dragged itself to where its comrade writhed and sank its fangs into the red, exposed flanks, tearing hungrily at the flesh, taking a final meal before it expired.

  Then Corum heard a yell and got an impression of something black moving to the right of him. Gaynor’s men, no doubt, coming in to finish him. He tried a backswipe with the axe, but missed.

  The Hounds of Kerenos were regrouping, readying themselves for a more organized attack upon him. Corum knew he could not fight both the hounds and the newcomers, whoever they were. He looked for a gap in the ranks of the dogs through which he might gallop. But his horse stood panting now, its legs trembling, and he knew he could get nothing more from the beast. He transferred his axe to his silver hand and drew his sword. Then he began to jog towards the hounds, preferring to die attacking them rather than to flee from them. And again something black swept past him—a fast-moving pony with a rider crouched low upon its back, a curved sword in both hands, slicing into the white pack so that they yelped in surprise and scattered. Whereupon Corum selected one and rode after it, bearing down on it. It turned going for his horse’s throat, but Corum stabbed and took the creature in the chest. Its long-clawed paws scrabbled at the body of the skittering horse for a moment before it fell to the ground.

  And now only three hounds lived. Three hounds running after the black speck of a rider who could still be seen in the distance, his armor changing color even as he rode.

  Then Corum dismounted from his horse and drew a deep breath. Then he regretted it, for the stink of the hounds was worse in death than in life. He looked around him at the ruin of white fur and red vitals, at the gore which soaked the ground, and then he turned to look at the ally who had appeared to save his life.

  His ally was still mounted. Grinning, the ally sheathed first one curved sword and then another. He adjusted a broadbrimmed hat upon his long hair. He took a bag which hung from his saddle pommel and opened it. From the bag crept a small black and white cat which was unusual in that it had a pair of wings neatly folded along its back.

  Corum’ s ally grinned even more widely as he noted Corum’s astonishment.

  “This situation is not new to me, at least,” said Jhary-a-Conel, the self-styled Companion to Heroes. “I am often in time to save some champion’s life. It is my fate, just as it is his fate to struggle forever in the great wars of history. I sought you at Caer Mahlod, having some intimation that I would be useful, but you had already gone. I followed as swiftly as I could, sensing that your life was in peril.” Jhary-a-Conel swept off his wide-brimmed hat and bowed in his saddle. “Greetings, Prince Corum.”

  Corum was still panting from his fight. He could not speak. But he managed to grin back at his old friend. “Do you quest with me, Jhary?” he said at last. “Do you come with me to Caer Llud?”

  “If the fates so will it. Aye. How fare you, Corum, in this world?”

  “Better than I thought. And better still now that you are here, Jhary.”

  “You know I might not be enabled to stay here?”

  “I understood as much from our last conversation. And you? Have you had adventures on other planes since we last met?”

  “One or two. One or two. Where you are called Hawkmoon, I had one of the most peculiar experiences of my everlasting career.” And Jhary told Corum the story of his adventures with Hawkmoon, who had gained a friend, lost a bride, found himself inhabiting another’s body, and had spent what Corum considered a rather confusing time in a world which was not his own.

  And as Jhary talked, the two old friends rode from the scene of the slaughter, following in the tracks of Prince Gay nor the Damned who appeared to be riding hastily for Caer Llud.

  And Caer Llud was still many, many days distant.

  THE FIFTH CHAPTER

  THE LANDS WHERE THE FHOI MYORE RULE

  “Aye,” said Jhary-a-Conel as he slapped gloved hands together over a fire which seemed reluctant to burn. “The Fhoi Myore are fitting cousins to the Lords of Entropy, for they seem to seek the same ends. For all I know the Fhoi Myore are what those lords have become. There are so many fluctuations these days. Caused partially, I should say, by Baron Kalan’s foolish manipulation of time, partially as a result of the Million Spheres beginning to slide out of conjunction—though that will take a little while before it is fully accomplished. In the meantime we live in times which are uncertain in more ways than one. The fate of sentient life itself sometimes seems to me to be at stake. Yet do I fear? No, I think not. I place no special value upon sentience. I’d as cheerfully become a tree!”

  “Who’s to say they are not sentient?” Corum smiled as he set a pan upon the fire and began to lay strips of meat in the slowly boiling water.

  “Well, then, a block of marble.”

  “Again, we do not know …” Corum began, but Jhary cut him short with a snort of impatience.

  “I’ll not play such children’s games!”

  “You misunderstand me. You have touched on a subject I have been considering only lately, you see. I, too, am beginning to realize that there is no special value to being, as it were, able to think. Indeed, one can see many disadvantages. The whole miserable condition of mortals is created by their ability to analyze the universe and their inability to understand it.”

  “Some do not care,” said Jhary. “I, for one, am content to drift—to let whatever happens happen without bothering to ask why it happens.”

  ‘ Indeed, I agree that that is an admirable feeling. But we are not all endowed with such feelings by nature. Some must cultivate those feelings. Others may never cultivate them and they lead unhappy lives as a result. Yet does it matter if our lives are happy or unhappy? Should we place more value on joy than on sorrow? Is it not possible to see both as possessing the same value?”

  ” All I know,” said Jhary practically,’ ‘is that most of us consider it better to be happy …”

  ‘ ‘Yet we all achieve that happiness in a variety of ways. Some by cultivating carelessness, some by caring. Some by service to themselves and some by service to others. Currently I find pleasure in serving others. The whole question of morality …”

  “… is as nothing when one’s stomach rumbles,” said Jhary, peering into the pot. “Is that meat done, do you think, Corum?”

  Corum laughed. “I think I am becoming a bore,” he said.

  “It‘s nothing.” Jhary fished pieces of meat from the pot and dropped them into his bowl. He set one piece aside to cool for the cat which purred as it sat on his shoulder and rubbed its head against Jhary‘s. “You have found a religion, that is all. What else can you expect in a Mabden dream?”

  They rode beside a frozen river, along a track now completely hidden by the snow, climbing higher and higher into the hills. They rode past a house whose stone walls had been cracked open as if by the blow of a gigantic hammer and it was only when they were close did they see the white skulls peering from the windows and the white hands gesturing in attitudes of terror. The bones shimmered in the pale sunshine.

  ‘ ‘Frozen,” said Jhary.’ ‘And cold it was which doubtless cracked the stones.”

  “Balahr’s work,” said Corum. “He of the single, deadly eye. I know him. I have fought him.”

  And they went past the house and over the hill, finding a town where the frozen corpses lay strewn about; these still had flesh on them and had plainly died before the cold had frozen them. And each
male had been horribly desecrated.

  ‘ ‘The work of Goim,” said Corum.’ ‘The only female of the Fhoi Myore still surviving. She has a taste for certain morsels of mortal flesh.”

  “We are at the borders of the lands where the Fhoi Myore hold full sway,” said Jhary-a-Conel pointing ahead to where gray Clouds boiled. “Shall we suffer so? Shall Balahr or Goim find us.”

  “It is possible,” Corum told him.

  Jhary grinned. “You are most sober, old friend. Well, console yourself that if they do these things to us we shall remain in a position of moral superiority/’

  Corum grinned back. “It does console me,” he said, “nonetheless!”

  And they led their horses out of the town and down a steep, snow-filled track, passing a cart full of the frozen bodies of children doubtless sent to flee the place before the Fhoi Myore descended.

  And they entered a valley where the bodies of a whole army of warriors had been eaten by dogs, and here they found fresh tracks— the tracks of a single rider and three large hounds.

  “Gaynor also goes this way,” said Corum, “a mere few hours ahead of us. Why does he dally now?”

  ‘Perhaps he watches us. Perhaps he tries to guess the purpose of our quest,” Jhary suggested. ‘ ‘ With such information he can return to his masters and be welcomed.”

  ‘If the Fhoi Myore welcome anyone. They do not recruit help, as such. There are some—the resurrected dead among them—who have no choice but to follow them and do their work for them, for they are welcome nowhere else.”

  “How do the Fhoi Myore resurrect the dead?”

  “There is one of the six called Rhannon, I believe. Rhannon breathes cold breath into the mouths of the dead and brings them to life. He kisses the living and introduces them to death. That is the legend. But few know much of the Fhoi Myore. Even the Fhoi Myore hardly know what they do or why they are upon this plane. Once they were driven away by the Sidhi who came from another plane themselves to help the people of Lwym-an-Esh. But with the decline of the Sidhi, the Fhoi Myore strength grew unchecked until they were able to return to the land and begin their conquerings. Their diseases must kill them soon. Few, I understand, will live for more than another thousand years. Then, when the Fhoi Myore die, the whole of this world shall be dead.”

  “It would seem,” said Jhary-a-Conel, “that we could do with a few Sidhi allies.”

  “The only one I know is called Goffanon and he is weary of fighting. He accepts that the world is doomed and that nothing he can do will avert that doom.”

  “He could be right,” said Jhary feelingly, looking about him.

  And then Corum lifted his head, peering this way and that, his face troubled.

  Jhary was surprised. “What is it?”

  ‘ ‘Do you not hear it?” Corum looked up into the hills from which they had come. He could hear it quite plainly now—melancholy, wild, somehow mocking. The strains of a harp.

  “Who would play music here?” Jhary murmured. “Save a dirge?’’ He listened again.’ ‘And it sounds as if it could be a dirge.”

  “Aye,” said Corum grimly. “A dirge for me. I have heard the harp more than once since I came to this realm, Jhary. And I have been told to fear a harp.’’

  “It is beautiful, however,’’ said Jhary.

  “I have been told to fear beauty, also,’‘ said Corum. He still could not find the source of the music. He realized that he was trembling and he controlled himself, urging his horse onward. “I have been told that I shall be slain,” he continued,’ ‘by a brother. ‘’

  And Jhary, asking questions, could get Corum to speak no further on this subject. They rode for some miles in silence until they came out of the valley and looked upon a wide plain.

  ‘ ‘The Plain of Craig Don,’ ‘ said Corum. ‘’It is all it can be. This is thought a holy place by the Mabden. We are more than half-way to Caer Llud now, I think.’’

  “And well into the Lands of the Fhoi Myore,” added Jhary-a-Conel.

  Even as they watched, a blizzard swept suddenly over the great plain from East to West and was gone again, leaving fresh snow sparkling as a woman might lay a fresh sheet upon a bed.

  “We’ll leave good tracks in that,” said Jhary.

  Corum was marveling at the strange sight as the fast-moving blizzard moved away into the distance. Overhead the sun was fully obscured by clouds. The clouds were agitated. They swirled restlessly all the time, changing shape swiftly.

  “I am reminded somewhat of the Realm of Chaos,” Jhary told him.’ ‘And I have been told that such frozen landscapes as these are the ultimate landscapes of worlds where the Lords of Entropy are triumphant. This is what their wasteful variety achieves. But I speak of other worlds and other heroes—indeed, of other dreams. Shall we risk the dangers of detection upon that plain, or shall we circle the plain and hope that we are not seen?”

  ‘ ‘We cross the Plain of Craig Don,” said Corum firmly.’ ‘And if we are stopped and have time to speak, we shall say that we have come to offer our services to the Fhoi Myore, knowing that the Mabden cause is hopeless.”

  “There seem few here of any intelligence, as I understand by intelligence,’’ said Jhary. “Will they give us that time to converse, do you think?”

  “We must hope that there are more like Gaynor.”

  “An odd thing to hope!” exclaimed Jhary. He smiled at his cat, but it merely purred without apparently understanding its master’s joke.

  The wind howled then and Jhary bowed to it, pretending to assume that it was showing its appreciation.

  Corum clutched his fur robe to him. Though it had been ripped in several places by the Hounds of Kerenos, it was still serviceable.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us cross the Plain of Craig Don.”

  The snow was in constant movement beneath their horses’ feet, eddying like an agitated river over rocks. The wind blew it this way and that. The wind made the snowdrifts heave and fall and re-form. The wind drove into their bones so that sometimes they felt they would rather have cold steel in them than that wind. The wind sighed like a huntsman satisfied by his kill. It moaned like a satiated lover and growled like a hungry beast. It shouted like a conqueror and hissed like a striking snake and blew fresh snow from the sky. Their shoulders would be heaped with this snow until it was blown clear again and a new deposit laid in its place. The wind blew roads through the snow for them and then sealed them up again. It blew from the East and from the North and from the West and the South. Sometimes it seemed that the wind blew from all directions at once, seeking to crush them as they pressed on across the Plain of Craig Don. The wind built castles and tore them down. It whispered promises and roared threats, toying with them.

  Then, through the swirl and the confusion, Corum saw dark shapes ahead. At first he thought them warriors and, dismounting, drew his sword, for his horse would be of no help to him in this depth of snow. He sank to his knees in the stuff. Jhary remained on horseback however.

  “Fear not,” he said to Corum. “They are not men. They are stones. They are the stones of Craig Don.”

  And Corum realized that he had misjudged the distance, and the objects were still some good distance ahead.

  “This is the holy place of the Mabden,” said Jhary.

  ‘ ‘This is where they elect their High Kings and hold their important ceremonies,” said Corum.

  “It is where they once did these things,” Jhary corrected him. Even the wind appeared to drop as they approached the great stones, seeming to show reverence for this great, old place.

  There were seven circles in all, each circle containing another until the center of all of them was reached, and the innermost circle contained a large stone altar. Looking out from the center and down the hill, Corum fancied the concentric stone circles represented ripples in a pool, planes of reality, representations of a geometry not wholly connected with Earthly geometry. “It is a holy place,” he murmured. “It is.”

 
; “Certainly it touches upon something I cannot explain,” Jhary agreed. “Does it not remind you in some ways of Tanelorn?”

  “Tanelorn? Perhaps. Is this their Tanelorn?”

  ‘’Geographically speaking, I think it might be. Tanelorn is not always a city. Sometimes it is a thing. Sometimes it is merely an idea. And this—this is the representation of an idea.”

  “So primitive in its materials and the working of those materials,” said Corum, “yet so subtle in its conception. What minds created Craig Don, I wonder?”

  ‘ ‘Mabden minds. Those you serve. This, too, is why they cannot bring themselves to unite against the Fhoi Myore. This was the center of their world. It reminded them of their faith and of their dignity. Now that they can no longer travel upon their two great yearly visits to Craig Don, their souls starve and, starving, rob them of their strength of will.”

  ‘ ‘We must find a means of giving Craig Don back to them, then,” said Corum firmly.

  “But first give them their High King, he who possesses all the wisdom of those who spend whole weeks fasting and meditating at Craig Don’s altar.” Jhary leaned against one of the great stone pillars. “Or so they say,” he added, as if embarrassed by having been caught uttering an approving word for the place.’ ‘Not that it is my affair,” he went on. “I mean, if—”

  “Look who comes,” said Corum. “And he appears to come alone.”

  It was Gaynor. He had appeared at the outer circle of stones and seemed so small at that distance that he could only be identified by his armor which, as usual, constantly changed color. He was not on horseback. He came walking through what was almost a tunnel made up of seven great arches, and, as he came within speaking distance, said:

  “Some would have it that this temple, this Craig Don, is a representation of the Million Spheres, of the various planes of existence. But I do not think the local people sophisticated enough to understand such matters, do you?”

  “Sophistication is not always measured by an ability to forge good steel or build large cities, Prince Gaynor,” said Corum.