Chronicles of Corum (5 page)

“When do you go to them?” said Jhary, inspecting the array.

“Tonight.” Corum weighed the lance in his hand. “If their summoning is successful. I shall go mounted, on my red horse. I shall ride to them.”

Jhary did not ask how Corum would reach them and Corum himself had not considered that problem, either. Certain peculiar laws would be involved, and that was all they knew or cared to know. Much depended on the power of invocation of the group who waited in the oak-grove.

Together they broke their fast, and then they went up to the battlements of the castle. From there they could see the wide ocean to the west and the great forests and moors to the east. The sun was bright and the sky was wide and clear and blue. It was a good, peaceful day. They talked of the old times, recalling dead friends and dead or banished gods, of Kwll who had been more powerful than either the Lords of Law or the Lords of Chaos, who had seemed to fear nothing. They wondered where Kwll and his brother Rhynn had gone, whether there were other worlds beyond the fifteen planes of Earth and if those worlds resembled Earth in any way.

“And then, of course,” said Jhary, “there is the question concerning the Conjunction of the Million Spheres and what follows when that conjunction is over. Is it over yet, do you think?”

‘ ‘New laws are established after the conjunction. But established by what? And by whom?” Corum leaned against the battlements, looking out across the narrow bay. I suspect that it is we who make those laws. And yet we do so unknowingly. We are not even sure what is good and what is evil—or, indeed, if anything is either. Kwll had no such beliefs and I envied him. How pitiful we are. How pitiful am I that I cannot bear to live without loyalties. Is it strength which makes me decide to go to these people? Or is it weakness?”

“You speak of good and evil and say you know not what they are—it is the same with strength and weakness. The terms are meaningless.” Jhary shrugged.’ ‘Love means something to me, and so does hate. Physical strength is given to some of us—I can see it. And some are physically weak. But why equate the elements in a man’s character with such attributes. And, if we do not condemn a man because, through luck, he is not physically strong, why condemn him if, for instance, his resolve is not strong. Such instincts are the instincts of the beasts and, for beasts, they are satisfactory instincts. But men are not beasts. They are men. That is all.”

Corum’s smile had some bitterness in it.’ ‘And they are not gods, Jhary.”

“Not gods—or devils, either. Just men and women. How much happier would we be if we accepted that!” And Jhary threw back his head and laughed suddenly. “But perhaps we should be more boring, too! We are both of us beginning to sound too pious, my friend. We are warriors, not holy men!”

Corum repeated a question of the previous night. ‘ ‘You know this land where I have decided to go. Shall you go there, too—tonight?”

‘ ‘I am not my own master.” Jhary began to pace the flagstones. “You know that, Corum.”

“I hope that you do.”

‘ ‘You have many manifestations in the Fifteen Planes, Corum. It could be that another Corum somewhere needs a companion and that I shall have to go with him.”

“But you are not sure?”

“I am not sure.”

Corum shrugged. “If what you say is true—and I suppose I must accept that it is—then perhaps I shall meet another aspect of you, one who does not know his fate?”

“My memory often fails me, as I have told you before. Just as yours fails you in this incarnation.”

“I hope that we shall meet on this new plane and that we shall recognize one another.”

“That is my hope, also, Corum.”

They played chess that evening and spoke little, and Corum went early to his bed. When the voices came, he spoke to them slowly: ‘ ‘I shall come in armor and I shall be armed. I shall ride upon a red horse. You must call me with all your powers. I give you time to rest now. Gather your strength and in two hours begin the invocation.”

In one hour Corum rose and went down to put his armor on, to dress himself in silk and samite, to have his ostler lead his horse into the courtyard. And when he was ready, with his reins in his gloved left hand and his silver hand upon the pommel of a poignard, he spoke to his retainers and told them that he rode upon a quest and that if he did not return they should throw open Castle Erorn to any traveller who needed shelter. They should also feast such travellers well, in Corum’s name. Then he rode through the gates and down the slope and into the great wood, as he had ridden nearly a century before when his father and his mother and his sisters had been alive. But then he had ridden through the morning. Now he rode into the night, beneath the moon.

Of all those in Castle Erorn, only Jhary-a-Conel had not bid goodbye to Corum.

Now the voices grew louder in Corum’s ears as he rode through the dark, ancient forest.

“Corum! Corum!”

Strangely, his body began to feel light. He touched spurs to the flanks of his horse and it broke into a gallop. “Corum! Corum!”

“I am coming!” The stallion galloped harder, its hooves pounding the soft turf, plunging deeper and deeper into the dark wood. “Corum!”

Corum leaned forward in his saddle, ducking as branches brushed his face. “I come!”

He saw the shadowy group in the grove. They surrounded him, yet still he rode and his speed grew even faster. He began to feel dizzy.

“Corum!”

And it seemed to Corum that he had ridden like this before, that he had been in this way before and it was why he had known what to do.

The trees blurred, he rode with such speed. “Corum!”

White mist began to boil all around him. Now the faces of the chanting group could be seen in; sharper detail. The voices grew faint, then loud, then faint again. Corum spurred the snorting horse on into the mist. That mist was history. It was legend. It was time. He glimpsed sights of buildings, the like of which he had never seen, rising hundreds and thousands of feet into the air. He saw armies of millions, weapons of terrifying power, flying machines and dragons. He saw creatures of every shape, size and form. All seemed to cry out to him as he rode by. And he saw Rhalina.

He saw Rhalina as a girl, as a boy, as a man, as an old woman. He saw her alive and he saw her dead.

And it was mat sight which made him scream, and it was why he was still screaming as he rode suddenly into a forest clearing, bursting through a circle of men and women who had stood with hands linked around a mound, chanting as with a single voice. He was still screaming as he drew his bright sword and raised it high in his silver hand as he reined his horse to a halt on the top of the mount.

“Corum!” cried the folk in the clearing.

And Corum ceased to scream and lowered his head, though his sword was still raised.

The red Vadhagh horse in all its silken trappings pawed at the grass of the mound and again it snorted.

Then Corum said in a deep, quiet voice, “I am Corum and I will help you. But remember, in this land, in this age, I am a virgin.”

“Corum,” they said. “Corum Llaw Ereint.” And they pointed out his silver hand to each other and their faces were joyful.

“I am Corum,” he said. “You must tell me why I have been summoned.”

A man older than the others, his red beard veined with white, a great gold collar about his neck, stepped forward.

“Corum,” he said. “We called you because you are Corum.”

Corum’s mind was clouded. For all that he could smell the night air, see the people around him, feel the horse beneath him, it still seemed that he dreamed. Slowly he rode back down the mound. A light wind caught the folds of his scarlet robe and lifted them, swirling them about his head. He tried to realize that somehow he was now separated from his own world by at least a millennium. Or could it be, he wondered, that he really did still dream. He felt the detachment that he sometimes felt when he was dreaming.

As he reached the bottom of the grassy mound the tall Mabden folk stood back respectfully. By the expressions on their well-formed features it seemed plain that they, too, were dazed by this event, as if they had not really expected their invocation to be successful. Corum felt sympathetic toward them. These were not the superstitious barbarians he had first suspected he would find. There was intelligence on those faces, a clarity about their gaze, a dignity about the way in which they held themselves, even though they thought they were in the presence of a supernatural being. These, it seemed, were the true descendants of the best of his wife’s folk. At that moment he felt no regret that he had answered their summons.

He wondered if they felt the cold as he did. The air was sharp and yet they wore only thin cloaks, which left their arms, chests and legs bare, save for the gold ornaments, leather straps and high sandals which all—men and women—had.

The older man who had first spoken to Corum was powerfully built and as tall as the Vadhagh himself. Corum reined his horse before this man and he dismounted. They stared at each other for some moments. Then Corum spoke distantly:

“My head is empty,” he said. “You must fill it.”

The man stared thoughtfully, at the ground and then raised his head, saying:

“I am Mannach, a king.” He smiled faintly. “A wizard, I, of sorts. Druid, some call me, though I’ve few of the druids’ skills—or much of their wisdom. But I am the best we have now, for we have forgotten most of the old lore. Which is perhaps why we are now in this predicament.” He added, almost with embarrassment, “We had no need of it, we thought, until the Fhoi My ore came back.” He looked curiously at Corum’s face as if he disbelieved in the power of his own invocation.

Corum had decided almost at once that he liked this King Mannach. Corum approved of the man’s skepticism (if that was what it was). Plainly the invocation had been weak because Mannach and probably the others had only half-believed in it.

“You summoned me when all else failed?” said Corum.

‘ ‘Aye. The Fhoi My ore beat us in battle after battle, for they do not fight as we fight. At last we had nothing left but our legends.” Mannach hesitated and then admitted: ‘‘I did not believe much in those legends before now.”

Corum smiled. “Perhaps there was no truth in them before now.”

Mannach frowned. ‘ ‘You speak more like a man than a god—or even a great hero. I mean no disrespect.”

“It is other folk who make gods and heroes of men like myself, my friend.” Corum looked around at the rest of the gathering. “You must tell me what you expect of me, for I have no mystic powers.”

It was Mannach who smiled now. “Perhaps you had none before.”

Corum raised his silver hand.’ ‘This? It is of earthly manufacture. With the right skills and knowledge any man might make one.”

“You have gifts,” said King Mannach. “The gifts of your race, your experience, your wisdom—aye, and your skills, Lord of the Mound. The legends say that you fought mighty gods before the Dawn of the World.”

“I fought gods.”

“Well, we have great need of a fighter of gods. These Fhoi My ore are gods. They conquer our land. They steal our Holy things. They capture our people. Even now our High King is their prisoner. Our Great Places fall to them—Caer Llud and Craig Don among them. They divide our land and so separate our folk. Separated, it becomes harder for us to join in battle against the Fhoi Myore.”

“They must be numerous, these Fhoi My ore,” said Corum. “There are seven.”

Corum said nothing, allowing the astonishment he was unable to hide to serve in place of words.

“Seven,” said King Mannach. “Come with us now, Corum of the Mound, to our fort at Caer Mahlod, there to take meat and mead with us while we tell you why we called for you.”

And Corum remounted his horse and allowed the people to lead it through the frost-rimed oak wood and up a hill which overlooked the sea upon which a moon cast a leprous light. Stone walls rose high around the crown of the hill and there was only one small gate, really a tunnel, which went down then up again, through which a visitor could pass in order to enter the city. These stones were white, too. It was as if the whole world were frozen and all its scenery carved from ice.

Within, the city of Caer Mahlod reminded Corum of the stone cities of Lyr-a-Brode, though some attempts had been made to finish the granite of the houses’ walls, paint scenes upon the walls and carve gables. Much more fortress than town, the place had a gloomy aspect Corum could not equate with the people who had summoned him.

“These are old forts,” King Mannach explained. “We were driven from our great cities and forced to find homes here, where our ancestors were said to dwell. They are strong, at least, settlements like Caer Mahlod, and during the day it is possible to see many miles in all directions.” He ducked beneath a portal as he led Corum into one of the big buildings which was lit with rush torches and oil lamps. The others who had been with Mannach in the oak wood followed them in. At last they all stood in a low-roofed hall furnished with heavy wooden benches and tables. On these tables, however, was some of the finest gold, silver and bronze plate Corum had ever seen. Each bowl, each platter, each cup, was exquisite and, if anything, of even finer workmanship than the ornaments the people wore. Even though the walls were of rough stone, the hall danced with glittering light as the flames of the brands were reflected in the tableware and the ornaments of the People of Cremm Croich.

‘ ‘This is all that is left of our treasure,” said King Mannach, and he shrugged. “And the meat we serve is poor fare now; for game grows scarce, running before the Hounds of Kerenos, which hunt the whole land as soon as the sun has set and do not cease hunting until the sun rises. One day, we fear, the sun will not rise again at all and soon the only life in all the world will be those hounds and the huntsmen who are their masters. And ice and snow will prevail over all—everlasting Samhain.”

Corum recognized this last word, for it was like the word the folk of Lwym-an-Esh had used to describe the darkest and the bleakest days of winter. He understood King Mannach’s meaning.

They seated themselves at the long wooden table and servants brought the meat. It was an unappetizing meal and again King Mannach apologized for it. Yet there was little gloom in that hall this night as harpists played merry tunes and sang of the old glories of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich. They made up new songs describing how Corum Jhaelen Irsei would lead them against their enemies and destroy those enemies and bring back the summer to their land. Corum noticed with pleasure that men and women were on terms of complete equality here and he was told by King Mannach that the women fought beside the men in their battles, being particularly adept in the use of the battle-snare, the weighted thong which could be hurled through the air to encircle the throats of the enemy and strangle them or snap their necks or limbs.

‘ ‘These are all things which we have had to learn again in the past few years,” Mannach told Corum, pouring him frothy mead into a large golden cup. “The arts of battle had become little more than exercises, games of skill with which we entertained each other at festivals.”

“When did the Fhoi Myore come?” Corum asked.

“Some three years ago. We were unprepared. They arrived on the eastern shores during the winter and did not make their presence known. Then, when spring did not come in those parts, people began to investigate the causes. We did not believe it at first, when we heard what had happened from the folk of Caer Llud. Since then the Fhoi Myore have extended their rule until now the whole of the eastern half of this land, from top to bottom, has become their undisputed domain. Gradually they moved westward. First come the Hounds of Kerenos, then come the Fhoi Myore.”

“The seven? Seven men?”

“Seven misshapen giants, two of which are female. And they have strange powers, controlling forces of nature, beasts and, perhaps, even demons.”

“They come from the East. Where in the East?”

“Some say from across the sea, from a great mysterious continent of which we know little, a continent now bereft of life and entirely covered in snow. Others say that they come from beneath the sea itself, from a land where only they can live. Both these lands were called by our ancestors Anwyn, but I do not think this is a Fhoi Myore name.

“And Lwym-an-Esh? Do you know aught of that land?”

‘ ‘It is where, in legend, our folk came from. But in ancient times, in the misty past, there was a battle between the Fhoi Myore and the folk of Lwym-an-Esh and Lwym-an-Esh was drawn beneath the sea to become part of the land of the Fhoi Myore. Now only a few islands remain and on those islands are a few ruins, I have heard, speaking for the truth of the legends. After this disaster our people defeated the Fhoi Myore—with magical help in the form of a sword, a spear, a cauldron, a stallion, a ram and an oak tree. These things were kept at Caer Llud in the care of our High King, who had rule over all the different peoples of this land and who, once a year at mid-summer, would mete out justice in any disputes thought to be too complicated for kings such as myself. But now our magical treasures are scattered—some say lost forever—and our High King is a slave of the Fhoi Myore. That is why, in desperation, we recalled the legend of Corum and begged you for your help.”

“You speak of mystical things,” said Corum, “and I was never one to understand magics and the like, but I will try to help.”

‘ ‘It is strange, what has happened to us,” mused King Mannach, “for here I sit eating with a demigod, and discover that, in spite of the evidence of his own existence, he is as unconvinced by the supernatural as was I!” He shook his head.”Well, Prince Corum of the Silver Hand, we must both learn to believe in the supernatural now. The Fhoi Myore have powers which prove that it exists.”

“And so have you, it seems,” added Corum. “For I was brought here by an invocation distinctly magical in character!”

A tall red-haired warrior leaned across the table, raising a wine cup high to toast Corum. “Now we shall defeat the Fhoi Myore. Now their devil dogs shall run! Hail to Prince Corum!”

And all rose then, echoing the toast.

“Hail to Prince Corum!”

And Prince Corum acknowledged the toast and replied to it with:

“Hail to the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich!”

But in his heart he was disturbed. Where had he heard a similar toast? Not during his own life. Therefore he must recall another life, another time when he was hero and savior to a people not unlike these in some ways. Why did he feel a sense of dread, then? Had he betrayed them? Try as he might, he could not rid himself of these feelings.

A woman left her place on the bench and swayed a little as she approached him. She put a soft, strong arm about him and kissed his right cheek. “Hail to thee, hero,” she murmured. “Now you shall bring us back our bull. Now you shall lead us into battle with the spear Bryionak. Now you will restore to us our lost treasures and our Great Places. And will you sire us sons, Corum? Heroes?” And she kissed him again.

Corum smiled a bitter smile. “I will do all else, if it is in my power, lady. But one thing, the last thing, I cannot do, for Vadhagh cannot sire Mabden children.”

She did not seem distressed. “There is magic for that, too, I think,” she said. For the third time she kissed him before returning to her place. And Corum felt desire for her and this sense of desire reminded him of Rhalina. And then he became sad again and his thoughts turned inward.

“Do we tire you?” King Mannach asked a little later.

Corum shrugged. “I have been sleeping for too long, King Mannach. I have stored up my energy. I should not be tired.”

“Sleeping? Sleeping in the mound?”

“Perhaps,” answered Corum dreamily. “I thought not, but perhaps it was in the mound. I lived in a castle overlooking the sea, wasting my days in regret and despair. And then you called. At first I would not listen. Then an old friend came and told me to answer your call. So I came. But possibly that was the dream …” Corum began to think he had quaffed too much of the sweet mead. It was strong. His vision was cloudy and he was filled with a peculiar mixture of melancholy and euphoria, “Is it important to you, King Mannach, my place of origin?”

‘ ‘No. What is important is that you are here at Caer Mahlod, that our people see you and take heart.”

‘ ‘Tell me more of the Fhoi Myore and how you were defeated.”

“Of the Fhoi Myore I can tell you little, save that it is said they were not always united against us—that they are not all of the same blood. They do not make war as we once made war. It was our way to choose champions from the ranks of the contesting armies. Those champions would fight for us, man to man, matching skills until one was beaten. Then his life would be spared if he had not sustained bad injuries from his fight. Often no weapons at all would be used— bard would match bard, composing satires against their enemies until the best satirist sent the others slinking away in shame. But the Fhoi Myore had no such notion of battle when they came against us. That is why we were defeated so easily. We are not killers. They want Death—crave for Death—follow Death—cry after Him to turn and face them. That folk, the Cold Folk, are like that. Those People of the Pines, they ride willy-nilly in pursuit of Death and herald the Reign of Death, of the Winter Lord, across all the land you ancients called Bro-an-Mabden, the Land in the West. This land. Now we have people in the North, the South and the West. Only in the East have we no people left, for they are cold now, fallen before the People of the Pines …”