Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  And now they all gasped as the head opened eyes which were pure and clear and icy green. And the rotting lips replied: "I hear your voice Sactric, my own, but I do not see your face. Perhaps I am still a little blind?"

  "No, I have had to inhabit this cat for the nonce. But soon we shall be in new bodies, bodies which can accept us, on some other plane. There is a chance that we might escape from this plane at last, my love."

  They had brought a casket with them from Ynys Scaith and into this box of bronze and gold they now lowered the head. As the lid closed the eyes stared from the gloom.

  "Farewell, for the moment, beloved Sactric!"

  "Farewell, Terhali!"

  "And that is what you stole from Sactric," murmured Corum to Goffanon.

  "Aye, the head of his sister. It is all that is left of her. But it is enough. She has power equal to her brother's. If she had still been on Ynys Scaith when you went there, I doubt you would have survived at all."

  ''Goffanon is right,'' said the black and white cat, staring hard at the box which the dwarf now tucked under his arm. "That is why I would not leave this plane until she was restored to me. She is all that I love, Terhali."

  Jhary-a-Conel reached up and gave the cat's head a sympathetic pat. ' ‘It is what they say, is it not, about even the worst of us having tenderness for something ..." And he brushed away an imaginary tear.

  "And now," said Corum, ‘‘we must make haste for Craig Don."

  ‘ ‘Which way?" asked Jhary-a-Conel, looking around him.

  ‘'That way," said Ilbrec, pointing east, ‘'toward the winter."

  Corum had almost forgotten how fierce was the Fhoi Myore winter and he was grateful that they had come upon the abandoned village and found riding horses there, and thick furs to wear, for without both they would now be in a sorry plight. Even Ilbrec was muffled in the pelts of the snow-fox and the marten. Four nights had passed and each night seemed to herald a colder morning. Everywhere they had seen the familiar signs of the Fhoi Myore victories— ground cracked open as if from the blow of a gigantic hammer, frozen bodies twisted in the contours of agony, mutilated corpses of human folk as well as beasts, ruined towns, groups of warriors frozen on the spot by the power of Balahr’s eye, children ripped into a dozen pieces by the teeth of the Hounds of Kerenos—the signs of that frightful, unnatural winter which was destroying the very grass of the fields and leaving desolation wherever the ice formed. Through deep drifts of snow they forced their way, falling often, stumbling frequently, and occasionally losing track of their direction altogether—blundering on toward Craig Don, which might already be the graveyard of the last of the Mabden.

  And the white snow continued to fall from the gray and endless sky, and their blood felt like ice in their veins, and their skins cracked and their limbs grew stiff and painful so that even breathing hurt their chests and, leading their horses, they were often tempted to lie down in the soft snow and forget their ambitions and die as they knew their comrades must have died.

  And at night, when they would light a poor fire and sit close to it, they would scarcely be able to move their lips to speak and it seemed that their minds were as numbed by the cold as their bodies; often the only sound would be the murmur of the small black and white cat as it curled beside the bronze and gold casket and spoke to the head within, and they would hear the head reply, but they would feel no curiosity concerning the nature of the conversation between Sactric and Terhali.

  Corum was not sure how many days and nights had passed (he was merely faintly surprised that he was still alive) when they came to the crest of a low hill and looked out across a wide plain over which fell a thin drift of snow; and there in the distance they saw a wall of mist and they recognized the mist for what it was—the mist which went everywhere that the Fhoi Myore went and which some believed was created by their foul breath or which others thought was necessary to sustain the diseased lives of the Cold Folk. And they knew that they had come to the Place of the Seven Stone Circles, the holy place of the Mabden, their greatest Place of Power, Craig Don. And as they rode closer they began to hear the horrid howling of the Hounds of Kerenos, the strange, melancholy booming tones of the Fhoi Myore, the rustlings and whisperings of the Fhoi Myore vassals, the People of the Pines who had once been men but were now brothers to the trees.

  "This means," said Jhary-a-Conel, riding close to Corum on a horse which pushed wearily through snow which sometimes came up to its neck, "that some of our comrades still live. The Fhoi Myore would not remain so close to Craig Don unless there was something to keep them here."

  Corum nodded. He knew that the Fhoi Myore feared Craig Don and would normally avoid the place at all costs; Gaynor had revealed that when he thought he had trapped them there, months before.

  Ilbrec rode ahead on Splendid Mane, driving a path through the snow which the others could follow. If it had not been for the Sidhi giant, their progress would have been much slower and, indeed, it was likely that they would never have reached Craig Don before the cold consumed them. Goffanon went next, on foot as always, his axe over his shoulder, the box containing Terhali's head under his arm. His wound had begun to heal, but the shoulder was still stiff.

  ' ‘The Fhoi Myore circle is complete,'' said Ilbrec.’ ‘ We shall not get through their ranks undetected, I fear."

  ‘‘Or unscathed." Corum watched his own breath billow white upon the freezing air and he tugged the thick furs tighter to his shivering body.

  ‘'Could not Sactric conjure some illusion for us that would allow us to pass through the besiegers without being seen?" Jhary suggested.

  Goffanon did not like this suggestion. ‘ ‘It would be best to save the illusions for later," he said,’’so that none will suspect the truth when the crucial moment comes ..."

  ‘‘I suppose that is wise," agreed Jhary-a-Conel reluctantly. ‘ 'Then we must make a dash for it, I would say. At least they expect no one to attack them from beyond Craig Don."

  ‘'No one in their right mind would," said Corum with a faint smile.

  "I do not think we are sane, at present," Jhary replied. And he managed to wink.

  "What do you think, Sactric?" Ilbrec asked the black and white cat.

  Sactric frowned. "I would rather that my sister and I conserved our strength until the last moment. What you ask of us is considerable, for it is much harder to use our power away from Ynys Scaith."

  Ilbrec accepted this. "I will go first to clear the path. Keep close behind me." He drew the great blade Retaliator and it shone strangely in the cold light; it was a thing of the sun and the sun had not been seen on this plain for some long while. Warmth glowed from it and seemed to melt the snowflakes as they fell. And Ilbrec laughed and his ruddy face was full of golden radiance and he cried to his horse:

  "On, Splendid Mane! On to Craig Don! On to the Place of Power!"

  Then he was galloping so that the snow flew in huge clouds on either side of him and his comrades followed close behind, yelling and waving their weapons, both to sustain their spirits and to keep themselves as warm as possible as Ilbrec vanished first into the unnaturally cold Fhoi Myore mist, leading the way to Craig Don.

  Then Corum had also entered the mist, keeping his eyes fixed as closely as he could on his gigantic comrade, and now he had an impression of huge, dark, bulky shapes moving through the mist, of hounds barking warnings, of riders with green-tinged skins trying to detect the nature of those who had suddenly charged into their camp, and he heard a voice he recognized crying:

  "Ilbrec! It is the giant! The Sidhi come to Craig Don! Rally Ghoolegh! Rally!"

  And it was Prince Gaynor's voice—the voice of Gaynor the Damned, whose fate was so closely linked to Corum's.

  Now the hunting horns of the Ghoolegh sounded as they called their fierce dogs to them and the mist was filled with a frightful yapping, yet still Corum could not see the pale beasts with their blood-red ears and their hot, yellow eyes, the beasts which his friend Goffanon feared abov
e all other things.

  A huge groaning answered Gaynor's warning, a voice full of pain, and Corum knew that this was the voice of Kerenos himself, wordless, anguished, bleak; the voice of one of the Lords of Limbo, as desolate as the plane from which these dying dogs had originated. Corum hoped that Kerenos' brother, Balahr, was not close by, for Balahr had only to direct his gaze upon them to freeze them for eternity.

  Suddenly Corum found his path blocked by four or five slack-faced creatures with skins almost as white as the surrounding snow; creatures armed with thick-bladed flenchers more suitable for hacking the carcasses of game than for fighting, but he knew that these were the favored weapons of the Ghoolegh and it was Ghoolegh he faced now. With his moon-colored sword he sliced about him, astonished at the ease with which the metal slid through flesh and bone, and he realized that the sword had, indeed, attained its full power now that it had been named. And though it was almost impossible to kill the Ghoolegh, he maimed his opponents so badly that they ceased to be any danger to him and he was able to pass easily through their ranks and catch up with Ilbrec who could still be seen ahead, Retaliator rising and falling like living flame and slaying pine-folk and the few hounds who had so far answered the call of the Ghoolegh horns.

  For a while, in the exhilaration of battle, Corum was barely aware of the Fhoi Myore mist he breathed, but slowly he realized that his throat and lungs felt as if ice formed solidly in them and his movements were becoming more sluggish, as were the movements of his horse. And desperately he shouted his battle-cry:

  "I am Corum! I am Cremm Croich of the Mound! I am Llaw Ereint, the Silver Hand! Tremble, lackeys of the Fhoi Myore, for the Mabden heroes have returned to the Earth! Tremble, for we are the Enemies of Winter!"

  And the sword called Traitor flashed and brought cold death to a snapping dog, while elsewhere Goffanon sung a dirge-like song as he whirled his axe with one hand in a circle of deadly metal, and Jhary-a-Conel, the black and white cat clinging to his shoulder, a blade in each hand, struck about him, screaming something which seemed more like a scream of fear than a battle-song.

  Now they were closing in from all sides and Corum heard the fearful creaking of the Fhoi Myore battle-carts and knew that Balahr and Goim and the others must be close by and that once the Fhoi Myore found them they would be doomed, but now, too, he could see the shadowy outlines of the first great stone circle of Craig Don—huge, rough-cut pillars which were topped by stone slabs almost as long as those which supported them. And seeing the great Place of Power so close gave Corum the extra strength to force his horse through the green-faced Pine Warriors who rode at him, to hack this way and that with Traitor and draw sap-like blood which filled the air with the cloying stink of the pine-tree. He saw Goffanon, beset by a pack of white hounds, go down on one knee, his black head thrown back, his deep voice roaring his defiance, and he burst into the pack, slicing at a throat here, a belly there, giving Goffanon time to rise and stumble into the sanctuary of the first circle and stand panting with his broad back against a granite pillar. , Then Corum himself had reached the circle and was safe and within seconds Ilbrec and Jhary had joined them and they all stood there, grinning at one another, unable to believe that they still lived.

  And from beyond the stone circle they heard Prince Gaynor shouting:

  "Now we have them all! They will starve as the others starve!"

  But the booming miserable voices of the Fhoi Myore seemed to contain a note of concern, and the howling of the Hounds of Kerenos had an uncertain quality to it, and the Ghoolegh and the Pine Warriors who clustered on the outskirts peered at the four comrades with wary respect, and Corum called back to his old enemy, his brother in destiny:

  "Now the Mabden will rally and drive you away forever, Gaynor!"

  And Gaynor's voice was amused."Are you sure they will rally to you, Corum? After you turned against them? I think, my friend, that you will find them reluctant even to speak to you, for all that they are near-dead and you are their only hope ..."

  "I know of Calatin's trick and what he did to destroy the Mabden morale. I will explain this to Amergin."

  Gaynor made no further reply in words, but his laughter cut deeper into Corum's spirit than could the sharpest of retorts.

  Slowly the four heroes made their way through the archways of the stone circles, passing wounded men and dead men, and mad men, and weeping men, and men who stared unseeingly into space, until at last they came to the central circle where a few tents had been erected and a few fires flickered and men in broken armor, in torn furs, crouched shivering beside their tattered battle banners and waited for death.

  Amergin, slender, frail, very proud, stood beside the stone altar of Craig Don where once he had lain after Corum had rescued him from Caer Llud. Amergin had a gloved hand resting upon that altar now as he looked up and recognized the four. His face was grim, but he did not speak. Then another figure emerged from behind the High King—a woman whose red hair fell to below her shoulders. There was a crown on her head and she was clad in heavy chain mail from throat to ankle, a heavy, bronze-buckled belt around her waist, a fur cloak on her back. And her eyes burned green and fierce as she looked with contempt upon Corum. It was Medhbh.

  Corum made a movement toward her, murmuring: "Medhbh, I have brought ..."

  But her voice was colder than Fhoi Myore mist as she drew herself up, her hand upon the golden pommel of her sword, and said:

  "Fiachadh is dead. It is Queen Medhbh now. I am Queen Medhbh and I lead the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich. Under our High King, Amergin, I lead all the Mabden, those who are not already slain as a result of your monstrous treachery."

  "I did not betray you," said Corum simply. "You were tricked by Calatin."

  "We saw you, Corum ..." began Amergin gently.

  "You saw a changeling—you saw a Karach created by Calatin for the very purpose of making you think me a traitor."

  "It is true, Amergin," said Ilbrec. "We all saw the Karach, on Ynys Scaith."

  Amergin raised his hand to his temple. It was plain that even that movement cost him dear. He sighed."Then we must have a trial, " he said, "for that is the Mabden way."

  "A trial?" Medhbh smiled. "At this time?" She turned her back on Corum. "He has proven himself guilty. Now he tells incredible lies; he thinks we are so dazed by defeat that we will believe them.''

  "We fight for our beliefs, Queen Medhbh,' ‘ said Amergin, "just as much as we fight for our lives. We must continue to conduct our affairs according to those beliefs. If we do not, then we have no justification for living. Let us question these people fairly and listen to their answers before we judge them innocent or guilty."

  Medhbh shrugged her beautiful shoulders. And Corum knew agony then. He knew that he loved Medhbh more than he had ever loved her before.

  "We shall find Corum guilty," she said. "And it will be my pleasure to deliver the sentence."

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  THE YELLOW STALLION

  There was hardly a man or woman there who could stand unaided. Gaunt, frozen, half-starved faces looked upon Corum and, for all that they were familiar faces, he saw no sympathy in them; all judged him a turncoat and blamed him for the huge losses they had sustained at Caer Llud. And beyond the seventh circle of stones, the outer circle, the unnatural mist swirled and the bleak voices of the Fhoi Myore boomed and echoed and the Hounds of Kerenos maintained a constant howling. And Corum's trial began.

  "Perhaps I was mistaken in seeking allies on Ynys Scaith," commenced Corum, "and thus I am guilty of poor judgement. But of all else, I am innocent."

  Morkyan of the Two Smiles, who had only been slightly wounded at Caer Llud, drew his dark brows together and fingered his moustache. His scar was white against his swarthy skin. "We saw you," said Morkyan. "We saw you riding side by side with Prince Gaynor, with the Wizard Calatin, with that other traitor Goffanon— all riding together, leading the Pine Warriors, the Ghoolegh, the Hounds of Kerenos against us. I saw you cut down Grynion
Ox-rider and one of the sisters, Cahleen, daughter of Milgan the White, and I heard that you were directly responsible for the death, also, of Phadrac-at-the-Crag-at-Lyth, that you lured him to his death when he thought you still fought for us . . ."

  Hisak, nicknamed Sunthief, who had helped Goffanon forge Corum's sword, growled from where he sat with his back against the altar, his left leg in splints, "I saw you kill many of our people, Corum. We all saw you."

  "And I say that it was not me whom you saw," Corum insisted. "We came to help. We have been on Ynys Scaith all this time— under a glamor which made us think a few hours had passed when really months had passed ..."

  Medhbh's laughter was harsh. "A folk tale! We cannot believe such childish lies!"

  Corum said to Hisak Sunthief: "Hisak, do you remember the sword that the one supposed to be me carried? Was it this sword?"

  And he drew forth his moon-colored blade and strange, pale light pulsed from it.

  "Was it this sword, Hisak?"

  And Hisak shook his head. "Of course it was not. I should have recognized that sword. Was I not present at the ceremony?"

  "You were. And if I had a sword of such power, would I have not used it in battle?"

  "Probably ..." admitted Hisak.

  "And look!" Corum held up his silver hand. "What is that metal?"

  "It is silver, of course."

  "Aye! Silver! And did this other—this Karach—did it have a hand of silver . .. ?"

  "I recall now," said Amergin, frowning, "that the hand did not seem to be exactly silver. More some kind of mock silver ..."

  "Because silver is deadly to the changeling!" said Ilbrec. "All know that!"

  "This is merely a complicated deception," said Medhbh, but she was no longer so sure in her accusations.

  "But where, then, is this changeling now?" said Morkyan of the Two Smiles. "Why does one vanish and another appear? If we saw both together we could be more easily convinced."