The Oak and the Ram - 04

by Michael Moorcock

  By the evening the sky had begun to grow gray, and heavy clouds could be seen in the horizon towards the East.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  A WORLD FULL OF DEATH

  Shivering, Corum pulled the heavy fur cloak around his shoulders and drew the hood over his helmeted head. Then he drove his fleshly hand deep into the fur-lined gauntlet he held ready and covered his silver hand with the other gauntlet. He stamped out the remains of his fire and looked this way and that across the landscape, his breath billowing white in the air. The sky was a hard, flat blue and it was sunless, for it was not yet true dawn. The land was almost featureless and the ground was dead, black, with a coating of pale frost. Here and there a stark, leafless tree stood out. In the distance was a line of snow-topped hills, as black as the ground. Corum sniffed the wind.

  It was a dead wind.

  The only scent on the wind was that of the killing frost. This part of the land was so desolate that it was evident the Cold Folk had spent some time here. Perhaps this was where they had camped before moving against Caer Mahlod in their war with that city.

  Now Corum heard the sound he thought he had heard before. This sound had caused him to spring up from his fire and disperse the smoke. The sound of hoofbeats. He looked to the southeast. There was a place where the ground rose and obscured his view. It was from beyond the rise that the hoofbeats were coming.

  And now Corum heard another sound.

  The faint baying of hounds.

  The only hounds he might expect to hear in these parts were the devil hounds of Kerenos.

  He ran to his red horse, who was showing signs of nervousness, and mounted himself in his saddle, shaking his lance free from its scabbard and laying it across his pommel. He leaned forward and patted his horse's neck to calm the beast. He turned the horse toward the rise, ready to meet the danger.

  A single rider appeared first, just as the sun began to rise behind him. The sun's rays caught the rider's armor and it flashed deep red. There was a naked sword in the rider's hand and the sword also reflected the rays of the sun so that for a second Corum could barely see. Then the armor turned to a fierce, burning blue, and Corum guessed the identity of the horseman.

  The baying of those frightful hounds became louder, but still they had not appeared.

  Corum urged his horse towards the rise.

  Suddenly there was silence.

  The voices of the hounds were stilled; the rider sat unmoving on his horse, but his armor changed color again, from blue to greenish yellow.

  Corum listened to the sound of his own breathing, the steady beating of his own horse's hooves upon the hard, rimed earth. He began to ascend the rise, approaching the rider, his lance ready.

  And then the rider spoke from within the featureless helm enclosing his head.

  "Ha! I guessed so. It is you, Corum."

  "Good morning, Gaynor. Will you joust?"

  Prince Gaynor the Damned threw back his head and laughed a bleak, hollow laugh and his armor changed from yellow to blazing black and he swept his sword into its scabbard. "You know me, Corum. I am become wary. I do not have it in mind to make another journey into Limbo just yet. Here, at least, I have matters to occupy my time. There—well, there is nothing at all there."

  "In Limbo?"

  "Aye. In Limbo."

  "Join a noble cause, then? Fight for my cause? Thus you could win redemption."

  "Redemption? Oh, Corum, you are simple-minded indeed. Who would redeem me?"

  "No one."

  "Then why do you speak of redemption?"

  ' ‘ You can redeem yourself. That is what I meant. I do not mean that you should placate the Lords of Law—if they still exist anywhere—or that you should bow to any authority save your own pride. I mean that there is within you, Prince Gaynor the Damned, something which could save you from the hopelessness now consuming you. You know those whom you serve to be degenerate, destructive, lacking in greatness of spirit. Yet willfully you follow them, fulfill their ends for them, perpetrate great crimes and create monstrous miseries, spread evil, carry death—you know what you do and you know, too, that for you such crimes bring further agony of spirit."

  The armor changed from black to angry crimson. Prince Gaynor's faceless helm turned to stare directly into the rising sun. His horse stirred and he tightened his grip upon his reins.

  "Join my cause, Prince Gaynor. I know that you respect it."

  "Law has rejected me," said Prince Gaynor the Damned in a hard, weary voice. "All that I once followed, all that I once respected, all that I once admired and sought to emulate—all have rejected Gaynor. It is too late, you see, Prince Corum."

  "It is not too late," said Corum urgently, "and you forget, Gaynor, that I alone have looked upon that face you hide behind your helm. I have seen all your guises, all your dreams, all your secret desires, Gaynor."

  "Aye," said Prince Gaynor the Damned quietly, "and that is why you must perish, Corum. That is why I cannot bear to know that you are alive."

  "Then fight," said Corum with a sigh. "Fight now."

  "I would not dare do that, not now that you have beaten me in combat once. I would not have you look upon all my faces again, Corum. No, you must die by other means than in single combat. The Hounds ..."

  Then Corum, guessing what was in Gaynor’s mind, sent his horse into a sudden gallop, lance aimed directly at Gaynor's featureless helm, and rushed upon his ancient enemy.

  But Gaynor laughed and wheeled his steed, thundering down the hill so that the white frost rose in glistening shards on all sides of him and the ground seemed to crack as he crossed it.

  And Gaynor rode straight down the hill toward where half-a-score of pale hounds squatted, their red tongues lolling, their yellow eyes glaring, their yellow fangs dripping yellow saliva, their long, feathery tails curled along their shaggy backs. And all their bodies were that glowing, leprous white, save for the tips of their ears which were the color of fresh-drawn blood. Some, the largest, were the size of small ponies.

  And now they were getting to their feet as Gaynor rode toward them. And now they were panting and grinning as Gaynor yelled to them.

  And now they were running up the hill toward Corum. Corum spurred his horse to greater efforts, hoping to plunge through the dogs and reach Gaynor before he escaped. He struck the pack with an impact which bowled several of the hounds over and his lance skewered one directly through the skull. And both these things combined to slow Corum down as he tried to tug the lance from the dog he had slain. His horse reared, screaming, and lashed at the dogs with its iron-shod hooves. Corum abandoned his grip upon his lance and swung his double-bladed war-axe from his back, whirling it as he struck first to his left and then to his right, cleaving the head from one dog and cracking the spine of another. But the dogs kept up their chill baying, and this mixed with the horrible bowlings of the hound whose spine had been snapped, and yellow fangs clashed on Corum's byrnie and ripped at his great fur cloak, trying to drag the whistling war-axe from his hands.

  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, re
adying 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.’'