Chronicles of Corum (9 page)

“I know not. I take your advice. If I live, I will tell the folk of Caer Mahlod of what I have seen here. But you must take my advice, also, Corum Jhaelen Irsei. Do not dismiss my advice. I am Ieveen the Seeress and what I see is always true. It is only the consequences of my own actions that I cannot foresee. That is my fate.”

“And it is my fate, I think,” said Corum as he rode away from her, “to flee from truth. At least,” he added, “I think I prefer small truths to larger ones. Farewell, old woman.”

Surrounded by her frozen sons, her ravaged cloak fluttering about her old, thin body, her voice high and faint, she called once more to him:

“Fear only three things, Corum of the Silver Hand. Brother, harp and beauty.”

Corum wished that the harp had not been mentioned. The other two things he could easily dismiss for a mad woman’s ravings. But he had already heard the harp. And he already feared it.

Bowed and broken by the weight of the snow, its trees without leaves, without berries, its animal inhabitants dead or fled, the forest had lost its strength.

Corum had known this forest. It was the Forest of Laahr where he had first awakened after being mutilated by Glandyth-a-Krae. Reflectively he looked at his left hand, the silver hand, and he touched his right eye, recalling the Brown Man of Laahr and the Giant of Laahr. Really the Giant of Laahr had begun all this, first by saving his life, then by … He dismissed the thoughts. On the far side of the Forest of Laahr was the westerly tip of this land and at that tip Moidel’s Mount had stood.

He shook his head as he looked at the ruined forest. There would be no Pony Tribes living there now. No Mabden to plague him.

Again he recalled the evil Glandyth. Why did evil always come from the eastern shores? Was it some special doom that this land had to suffer, through cycle upon cycle of history?

And so, with such idle speculation consuming his thoughts, Corum rode into the snowy tangle of the forest.

Dark and bleak, the oaks, the alders, the elms and the quickens stretched on all sides of him now. And of the trees in the forest, only the yews seemed to be bearing the burden of the snow with any fortitude. Corum recalled the reference to the People of the Pines. Could it be true that the Fhoi Myore slew broadleafed trees and left only the conifers? What reason could they have for destroying mere trees? How could trees be a threat to them?

Shrugging, Corum continued his ride. It was not an easy ride. Huge drifts of snow had banked up everywhere. Elsewhere trees had cracked and fallen, one upon the other, so that he was forced to make wide circles around them, until he was in great danger of losing his way. But he forced himself to continue, praying that beyond the forest, where the sea was, the weather would improve.

For two days Corum plunged on through the Forest of Laahr until he admitted to himself that he was completely lost.

The cold, it was true, seemed just a little less intense; but that was no real indication that he was heading west. It was quite possible that he had simply grown used to it.

But, warmer though it might be, the journey had become gruelling. At night he had to clear away the snow to sleep and he had long since forgotten his earlier caution concerning the lighting of fires. A big fire was the easiest way of melting the snow, and he hoped that the snow-heavy tree boughs would disperse the smoke enough so that it would not be seen from the edge of the forest.

He camped one night in a small clearing, built his fire of dead branches, using melted snow to water his horse and searching beneath the snow for a few surviving blades of grass on which the beast might feed. He had begun to feel the benefit of the flames upon his frozen bones, when he thought he detected a familiar howling coming from the depths of the forest in what he took to be the North. Instantly he got up, hurling handfuls of snow upon the fire to extinguish it, and listening carefully for the sound to come again.

It came.

It was unmistakable. There were at least a dozen canine throats baying in unison, and the only throats which could make that particular sound belonged to the hunting dogs of the Fhoi Myore, the Hounds of Kerenos.

Corum got his bow and quiver of arrows from where he had stacked them with the rest of his gear when unsaddling his horse. The nearest tree was an ancient oak. It had not completely died and he guessed that its branches would probably support his weight. He tied his lances together with a cord, put the cord between his teeth, cleared snow as best he could from the lower branches and began to climb.

Slipping and almost falling twice, he got as high as he could and, by carefully shaking the branches, managed to clear some of the snow so that he could see into the glade below without being easily seen himself.

He had hoped that the horse might try to escape when it scented the hounds, but it was too well trained. It waited trustingly for him, cropping at the sparse grass. He heard the hounds come closer. He was now almost sure that they had detected him. He hung the quiver on a branch within easy reach of his hand and selected an arrow. He could hear the dogs, now, crashing through the forest: The horse snorted and flattened its ears, its eyes rolling as it looked this way and that for its master.

Now Corum saw mist beginning to form on the edges of the glade. He thought he detected a white, slinking shape. He began to draw back the bowstring, lying flat along the branch and bracing himself with his feet.

The first hound, its red tongue lolling, its red ears twitching, its yellow eyes hot with bloodlust, entered the glade.

Corum sighted along the shaft of the arrow, aiming for the heart. He released the string. There was a thud as the string struck his gauntleted wrist, a twang as the bow straightened. The arrow flew directly to its target. Corum saw the hound stagger and reel, staring at the arrow protruding from its side. Plainly, it had no idea from where the deadly missile had come. Its legs buckled. Corum reached for another arrow.

And then the bough snapped.

For a second Corum seemed suspended in the air as he realized what had happened. There was a dull cracking noise, a crash, and he was falling, trying futilely to grab at other branches as he went down, snow flying, making a terrible noise. The bow was wrenched from his hand; quiver and lances were still in the tree. He landed painfully on left shoulder and thigh. If the snow had not been so thick he would almost certainly have broken bones. As it was the rest of his weapons were on the far side of the clearing, and more of the Hounds of Kerenos were skulking in, having been momentarily surprised by the death of their brother and the sudden collapse of the tree branch.

Corum pulled himself to his feet and began to lope towards the bole against which his sword was leaning.

The horse whinnied and cantered towards him, blocking the path between him and his sword. Corum yelled at it, trying to force it out of the way. A long-drawn and triumphant howl came from behind him. Two huge paws struck his back and he went down. Hot, sticky saliva dripped on his neck. He tried to get up, but the giant dog pinned him, howling again to announce its victory .Corum had seen others of its breed do the same thing. In a moment it would bare its fangs and rip his throat out.

But then Corum heard the horse’s neighing, got an impression of flying hooves. Then the dog’s weight was off his body and he was rolling clear, seeing the great war-steed standing on its hind-legs and striking at the snarling hound with its iron-shod hooves. Half of the hound’s head was caved in, but it still snapped at the horse. Then another hoof struck the skull and the dog collapsed with a groan.

Corum was already limping across the glade and instantly his silver hand was on the scabbard, his fleshly hand on the hilt of the sword, the blade scraping free even as he turned back.

Tendrils of mist were sinuously entering the glade itself now, like searching, ghostly fingers. Already two more hounds were attacking the valiant war-horse which, although it bled from two or three superficial bites, was still holding its own.

Then Corum saw a human figure appear from among the trees. Dressed all in leather, with a leather hood and heavy leather shoulder pads, it held a sword.

At first Corum thought that the figure had come to aid him, for the face was as white as the bodies of the hounds and its eyes blazed red. He remembered the strange albino he had met at the Tower of Voilodion Ghagnasdiak. Was it Elric?

But no—the features were not the same. The features of this man were heavy, corrupt, and his body was thick, unlike the slim form of Elric of Melnibone. He began to lumber knee-deep through the snow, the sword raised to deliver a blow.

Corum crouched and waited.

His opponent brought his sword down in a clumsy blow which Corum easily parried and returned, stabbing upwards with all his strength to pierce the leather and drive the point of his blade into the man’s heart. A peculiar grunt escaped the white-faced warrior’s lips, and he took three steps backward until the sword was free of his body. Then he took his own sword in both hands and swung it again at Corum.

Corum ducked barely in time. He was horrified. His thrust had been clean and true, and the man had not died. He hacked at his opponent’s exposed left arm, inflicting a deep cut. No blood spurted from the wound. The man seemed oblivious of it, slashing again at Comm.

Elsewhere in the darkness more of the hounds were bounding into the glade. Some merely sat on their haunches and watched the fight between the two men. Others set upon the war-horse whose breath steamed in the cold night air. His horse was tiring now, and would soon be dragged down by the frightful dogs.

Corum stared in astonishment at his foe’s pale face, wondering what manner of creature this actually was. Not Kerenos himself, surely? Kerenos had been described as a giant. No, this was one of the Fhoi Myore minions, of whom he had heard. A hound-master, perhaps, to Kerenos’s hunt. The man had a small hunting dirk at his belt, and the blade that he bore was not unlike a flensing cutlass used for stripping meat and hacking at the bones of large prey.

The man’s eyes did not seem to focus on Corum at all, but on some distant goal. That was possibly why his responses were sluggish. Nonetheless, Corum was still winded from his fall and, if he could not kill his opponent, then sooner or later one of those clumsy blows would strike true and Corum would be slain.

Implacably, swinging the great cutlass from side to side, the white-faced warrior advanced on Corum, who was barely able to do more than parry the blows.

He was retreating slowly backwards, knowing that behind him, at the edge of the glade, waited the hounds. And the hounds were panting—panting in hot-breathed anticipation, their tongues lolling, as ordinary domestic dogs might pant when they anticipated food.

Corum could think of no worse fate at that moment than to become meat for the Hounds of Kerenos. He tried to rally, to carry the attack to his enemy, and then his left heel struck a hidden tree root, his ankle twisted, and he fell, hearing the note of a horn from the forest—a horn that could only belong to one considered the greatest of the Fhoi Myore, Kerenos. Now the dogs were up, moving in on him as he tried to struggle up, his sword raised to ward off the blows which the white-faced warrior rained upon him.

Again the horn sounded.

The warrior paused, cutlass raised, a dull expression of puzzlement appearing on his heavy features. The dogs, too, were hesitating, red ears cocked, unsure of what they were expected to do.

And the horn sounded for the third time.

Reluctantly the hounds began to slink back into the forest. The warrior turned his back on Corum and staggered, dropping his blade, covering his ears, moaning softly, as he, too, followed the dogs from the glade. Then, suddenly, he stopped. His arms dropped limply to his sides, blood suddenly began to spurt from the wounds Corum had inflicted.

The warrior fell upon the snow and was still.

Warily, uncertainly, Corum got to his feet. His war-horse plodded up to him and nuzzled him. Corum felt a pang of guilt that he had considered leaving the brave beast to its fate when he had climbed the tree. He rubbed its nose. Though bleeding from several bites, the horse was not seriously hurt, and three of the devil dogs lay dead in the glade, their heads and bodies smashed by the horse’s hooves.

A quietness fell upon the glade then. Corum used what he considered only a pause in the attack to seek his fallen bow. He found it, near the broken branch. But the arrows and his two lances remained where he had hung them in the tree. He stood on tiptoe, reaching up with his bow to try to dislodge them, but they were too high.

Then he heard a movement behind him and turned, sword at the ready.

A tall figure had entered the glade. He wore a long, pleated surcoat of soft leather dyed a deep, rich blue. There were jewels on his slender fingers, a gold and jewelled collar at his throat, and beneath the surcoat could just be seen a samite robe, embroidered with mysterious designs. The face was handsome and old, framed by long gray hair and a gray beard that ended just above the golden collar. In one of his hands the newcomer held a horn—a long horn bound with bands of silver and gold, each band fashioned in the shape of a beast of the forest.

Corum drew himself up, dropping the bow and taking his sword in both hands.

‘ ‘ I face you, Kerenos,” said the Prince in the Scarlet Robe ,” and I defy you.”

The tall man smiled. “Few have ever faced Kerenos.” His voice was mellow, weary and wise. “Even I have not faced him.”

“You are not Kerenos? Yet you have his horn. You must have called off those hounds. Do you serve him?”

‘ ‘I serve only myself—and those who aid me. I am Calatin. I was famous once, when there were folk in these parts to speak of me. I am a wizard. Once I had twenty-seven sons and a grandson. Now there is only Calatin.”

“There are many now who mourn sons—and daughters, too,” said Corum, recalling the old woman he had seen some days since.

“Many,” agreed the wizard Calatin. “But my sons and my grandson died not in the battle against the Fhoi Myore. They died on my behalf, seeking something I require in my own feud with the Cold Folk. But who are you, warrior, who fights the Hounds of Kerenos so well, and who sports a silver hand like the hand of some legendary demigod.”