After a while he began to avoid the villages and seek out caves where he would not be reminded of the Mabden tragedy.
But then one morning, after he had been riding for little more than an hour, he came to a broad depression in the moor, in the center of which was a frozen tarn. To the northeast of the tarn he saw what he at first took to be standing stones, all about the height of a man; but there were several hundred, whereas most stone circles were usually made up of hardly more than a score of granite slabs. As with everywhere else on this moor, snow was thick and covered the stones. Corum’s path took him to the other side of the tarn, and he was about to avoid the monuments (for such he judged them) when he thought he caught a movement of something black against the universal whiteness. A crow? He shaded his eyes to peer among the stones. No, something larger. A wolf, possibly. If it were a deer, he had need of meat. He drew the cover off his bow and strung it, swinging his lance behind him to give him a clear shot as he fitted an arrow to the string. Then, with his heels, he urged his horse forward.
As he drew closer he began to realize that these standing stones were not typical. The carving on them was much more detailed, so much so that they resembled the finest Vadhagh statuary. And that was what they were—statues of men and women poised as if in battle. Who had made them and for what purpose?
Again Corum saw the movement of a dark shape. Then it was hidden again by the statues. Corum found something familiar about the statues. Had he seen work like them before?
Then he recalled his adventure in Arioch’s castle and slowly the truth came. Corum resisted the truth. He did not want to know it.
But now he was close to the nearest of the statues and he could not avoid the evidence.
These were not statues at all.
These were the corpses of folk very much like the tall, fair folk of Tuha-na-Cremm Croich—corpses frozen as they prepared to do battle against an enemy. Corum could see their expressions, their attitudes. He saw the look of resolute courage on every face—men, women, quite young boys and girls—the javelins, axes, swords, bows, slings and knives still clutched in their hands. They had come to do battle with the Fhoi Myore, and the Fhoi Myore had answered their courage with this—an expression of contempt for their power and their nobility. Not even the Hounds of Kerenos had come against this sad army; perhaps the Fhoi Myore themselves had refused to appear, sending only a coldness—a sudden, awful coldness which had worked instantly and turned warm flesh into ice.
Corum turned away from the sight, the bow forgotten in his hands. The horse was nervous and was only too glad to bear him away around the banks of the frozen tarn, where stiff, dead reeds stood like stalagmites, like a travesty of the dead folk nearby. And Corum saw two who had been wading in the water and they too were frozen, appearing to be chopped off at the waist by the flat ice, their arms raised in attitudes of terror, They were a boy and a girl, both probably little older than sixteen years.
The landscape was dead—silent. The plodding of the horse’s hooves sounded to Corum like the tolling of a death-knell. He fell forward across his saddle-pommel, refusing to look, unable even to weep, so horror-struck was he by the images he had seen.
Then he heard a moan which at first he thought was his own. He lifted his head, drawing cold air into his lungs, and he heard the sound again. He turned and forced himself to glance back at the frozen host, judging it to be the direction from where the moan had come.
A black shape was clearly visible now among the white ones. A black cloak flapped like the broken wing of a raven.
“Who are you?” Corum cried, “that you weep for these?”
The figure was kneeling. As Corum called out, it rose to its feet, but no face or even limbs could be seen emerging from the tattered cloak.
“Who are you?” Corum turned his horse.
‘ Take me, too, Fhoi Myore vassal!’ ‘ The Voice was weary and it was old. “I know you and I know your cause.”
“I think that you do not know me, then,” said Corum kindly. “Now, say who you are, old woman.”
“I am Ieveen, mother of some of these, wife of one of these, and I deserve to die. If you be enemy, slay me. If you be friend, then slay me, friend, and prove myself a good friend to Ieveen. I would go now where my lost ones go. I want no more of this world and its cruelties. I want no more visions and terrors and truths. I am Ieveen and I prophesied all mat you see. That is why I fled when they would not listen to me. And when I came back, I found that I had been right. And that is why I weep—but not for these. I weep for myself and my betrayal of my folk. I am Ieveen the Seeress, but now I have none to see for, none to respect me, least of all myself. The Fhoi Myore came and struck them down. The Fhoi Myore left in their clouds with their dogs, hunting more satisfactory game than my poor clan, who were so brave and believed that the Fhoi Myore, no matter how depraved, how wicked, would respect them enough to offer them a fair fight. I warned them of what would befall them. I begged them to flee as I fled. They were reasonable. They told me I could go, but they wished to stay—that a folk must keep its pride or perish in different ways, each one dying within themselves. I did not understand them. Now I understand them. So slay me, sir.”
Now the thin arms were raised imploringly, the black rags falling away from flesh that was blue with cold and with age. Now the head covering dropped and the wrinkled face with its thin, gray hair was revealed, and Corum saw the eyes and wondered if, in all his travels, he had ever seen such misery as that which he saw in the face of Ieveen the Seeress.
“Slay me, sir!”
“I cannot,” said Corum. “If I had more courage I would do what you ask, but I have no courage of that sort, lady.” He pointed westward with his bow which was still strung. ‘ ‘Go that way and try to reach Caer Mahlod, where your folk still resist the Fhoi Myore. Tell them of this. Warn them. And thus you will redeem yourself in your own eyes. You are already redeemed in mine.”
“Caer Mahlod? You come from there? From Cremms-mound and the coast?”
“I am upon a quest. I seek a spear.”
‘ ‘The spear Bryionak?” Her voice now had a peculiar gasp in it. The tone was higher. And her eyes were now looking out beyond Corum as she swayed a little. ‘ ‘Bryionak and the Bull of Crinanass. Silver hand. Cremm Croich shall come. CremmCroich shall come. Cremm Croich shall come.” The voice had changed yet again to a soft chant. The lines seemed to leave her old face and a certain beauty was there now. ‘ ‘Cremm Croich shall come and he shall be called—called—called … And his name shall not be his name.”
Corum had been about to speak, but now he listened in fascination as the old seeress continued to chant. “Corum Llaw Ereint. Silver hand and scarlet robe. Corum is thy name and ye shall be slain by a brother …”
Corum had began to believe in the old woman’s powers, but now he found himself smiling. ” Slain I might be, old woman, but not by a brother. I have no brother.”
“Ye have many brothers, Prince. I see them all. Proud champions all. Great heroes.”
Corum felt his heart begin to beat faster and there was a tightness in his stomach. He said hastily:’ ‘No brothers, old woman. None.” Why did he fear what she said? What did she know that he refused to know?
‘ ‘You are afraid,” she said.’ ‘Then I see that I speak truth. But do not fear. You have only three things to fear. The first is the brother, of which I spoke. The second is a harp. And the third is beauty. Fear those three things, Corum Llaw Ereint, but nothing else.”
“Beauty? The other two are at least tangible—but why fear beauty?”
“And the third is beauty,” she said again. “Fear those three things.”
‘ ‘I’ll listen to this nonsense no more. You have my sympathy, old woman. Your ordeal has turned your mind. Go, as I said, to Caer Mahlod and there they will look after you. There you can atone for what makes you guilty, though I say that you should not feel guilt. Now I must continue my quest for the spear, Bryionak.”
‘ ‘Bryionak, Sir Champion, will be yours. But first you will make a bargain.”
“A bargain? With whom?”
“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.
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
THE WIZARD CALATIN
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.
Chronicles of Corum Page 8
