Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  They would know soon, thought Corum as he crouched beside the boat and watched. The Fhoi Myore and their minions were moving from East to West, in the same direction as Corum and Goffanon but at a slightly different angle. In the dim distance Corum saw dark shapes riding and marching and sniffed the familiar scent of pines, saw the bulky shapes of Fhoi Myore chariot-riders, and once he glimpsed the flickering armor of one who could only be Gay nor. And now he began to realize that the Fhoi Myore marched not against Caer Mahlod at all but most likely against Caer Garanhir, their own destination. And if the Fhoi Myore reached Caer Garanhir before them, the chances of finding the Oak and the Ram were very poor.

  “Garanhir,” muttered Goffanon, “they go to Garanhir.”

  ‘ ‘Aye,” said Corum despairingly, “and we have no choice now but to follow behind them, then hope to overtake them when they reach the land. We must warn Garanhir if we can. We must warn King Daffyn, Goffanon!”

  Goffanon shrugged his massive shoulders and tugged at his shaggy black beard and rubbed his nose. Then he spread his left hand and raised his double-headed war-axe in his right hand and smiled. “Indeed, we must,” he said.

  They were thankful that the Hounds of Kerenos did not run with the Fhoi Myore army. These, doubtless, still scoured the countryside about Craig Don, looking for the three friends and Amergin. They would have had no chance at all of avoiding detection if those dogs had been present. Moving warily, Corum and Goffanon skulked in the wake of the Fhoi Myore, peering ahead in the hope that they would soon sight the land. The going was difficult, for the waves had formed small hills and dangerous ruts in the frozen sea.

  They were exhausted by the time they witnessed the landing of the Fhoi Myore and the People of the Pines on shores which had, an hour since, been green and lush and now were suddenly ice-covered and dead.

  And the sea began to melt as the Fhoi Myore passed and Corum and Goffanon found themselves wading through water which was still freezing and which rose to Corum’s chin and Goffanon’s chest.

  And, as he stumbled up the frosty beach, his throat choked with a mixture of sea and mist, Corum felt himself seized, weapons and all, about the waist and he was moving headlong up a hillside, borne by Goffanon who was wasting no time, running easily with Corum under one arm, his beard and hair flying in the wind, his greaves and his armor rattling on his massive body, apparently in no way slowed by his burden.

  Corum’s ribs ached but he managed to remark: “You are a most useful dwarf, Goffanon. I am amazed at the energy possessed by one of such small stature as yourself.”

  “I suppose I compensate for my shortness by cultivating stamina,’’ said Goffanon seriously.

  Two hours later and they were well ahead of the Fhoi Myore force. They sat in a dip in the ground, enjoying the smell of grass and wild flowers, knowing miserably that it would not be long before these became rigid with cold and died. Perhaps that was why Corum relished the smell of the vegetation while it was still there.

  Goffanon let out a great sigh as, tenderly, without picking the plant, he looked at a wild poppy. “The Mabden lands are amongst the prettiest in this whole Realm,” he said. ‘ ‘And now these perish, as all the other lands have perished. Conquered by the Fhoi Myore.”

  “What of the other lands in this Realm?’‘ Corum asked. “What know you of them?’‘

  “Long-since turned to poisoned ice by the diseased remnants of the Fhoi Myore race,” Goffanon said. “These lands were safe partly because the Fhoi Myore remembered Craig Don and avoided the place, partly because this is where the surviving Sidhi made their homes. It took them a considerable length of time before they came back from the eastern seas and beyond .“He stood up.’ ‘Would you sit upon my shoulders now? It will be more comfortable for you, I think.”

  And Corum accepted the offer with courtesy and climbed upon the dwarf’s shoulders. Then they were off again, for there was no time to be wasted.

  ‘ ‘This proves the need for Mabden unity,” said Corum from his perch. “If there were proper communications between the surviving Mabden, then all could gather to attack the Fhoi Myore force from several sides.”

  ‘ ‘But what of Balahr and the rest? What have the Mabden in their armories which can defend them against Balahr’s frightful gaze?”

  “They have their Treasures. Already I have seen how one of them, the spear Bryionak which you gave me, can do much harm to the Fhoi Myore.”

  “There was only one spear Bryionak,” said Goffanon in an almost melancholy tone, “and now that has vanished—doubtless returning to my own home Realm.”

  They entered a narrow gorge between white limestone cliffs topped by green turf. “As I recall,” said Goffanon, “the city of Caer Garanhir lies but a short way on the other side of the pass.”

  But as the pass wound up through the rocks and grew narrower at its farther end, they saw that a group of figures awaited them there.

  At first Corum thought that these were war-knights of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir, alerted of their coming and there to greet them. But then he noticed the greenish cast of riders and horses and he knew that these were not friends. And then the green ranks broke and another rider emerged—a rider whose armor shifted color constantly and whose face was completely hidden by a blank, smooth helm.

  And Goffanon stopped and took Corum from his shoulders and put him upon the pale clay of the ground and looked back as he heard a sound.

  Corum looked also.

  Riding green horses down the steep slopes of the gorge came another group of green riders, and the whole air was thick with their pine scent. The riders reached the bottom of the pass and paused.

  Gaynor’s voice echoed through the narrow walls of the gorge and his voice was gay, triumphant: “You could have prolonged your life so easily, Prince Corum, if you had chosen to remain as my guest at Craig Don. Where is the little lamb Amergin, whom you stole?”

  “Amergin was dying, the last I saw of him,” said Corum truthfully, unslinging his axe from his back.

  Goffanon murmured: ‘ ‘It is time for the hewing of pines, I think, Corum,” and he moved so that he stood facing those at their rear while Corum confronted those at their front. Goffanon hefted his own huge axe, turning its polished iron so that it flashed in the bright summer sunshine. “At least we shall die in the summer warmth,” Goffanon said, “and not have our bones eaten by the Cold Folk’s mist.”

  “You should have been warned,” said Prince Gaynor the Damned. “He eats a diet of rare grasses only. And now the High King of the Mabden is perished, a mere carcass of mutton. No matter.”

  In the distance, behind him, Corum heard a great roaring noise and he knew that this must be the Fhoi Myore on the march, moving much faster than he had thought possible.

  Goffanon cocked his head to one side and listened, almost curiously.

  Then, from both sides, the green-faced horsemen began to bear down on them so that the sides of the gorge shook and Gaynor’s bleak laughter grew wilder and wilder.

  Corum whirled his war-axe and made a great wound in the neck of the first horse, seeing greenish, viscous liquid ooze from the gash. It halted the horse’s momentum, but it did not kill it. Its green eyes rolled and its green teeth snapped and its green rider brought a dull iron sword down at Corum’s head. Corum had fought Hew Argech, one of the People of the Pines, and he knew how to counter such blows. He chopped deliberately at the wrist as it swept down and wrist and sword flew earthward like a bough lopped from a tree. He chopped next at the horse’s legs so that it crashed onto the dusty clay and lay there unsuccessfully trying to regain an upright position. This helped confuse the next rider who came at Corum and was unable to strike a clean blow without snaring his horse’s legs in those of the wounded animal. The scent of pines was now almost overpowering as the sap oozed from the wounds Corum wrought. It was a scent he had once loved but which now sickened him. It was sweet and odious.

  Goffanon had brought at least three of the Pine
Folk down and was chopping at their bodies, slicing off limbs so that they could not move, though they still lived, their green eyes glaring, their green lips snarling. These had once been the flower of Mabden warriors, probably from Caer Llud itself, but the human blood had been drawn from their veins and pine sap poured into them instead, and now they served the Fhoi Myore. Although they were ashamed of what they had become, they were at the same time most proud of their distinction.

  As he fought, Corum tried to glance about him to see if there was any means of escaping from the gorge, but Gaynor had chosen the best place to attack—where the sides were steepest and the passage narrowest. This meant that Corum and Goffanon could defend themselves longer but could never hope to get away. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the People of the Pines—vanquished by these living trees, these brothers of the oak’s oldest enemy. Like a rustling, marching forest, they rushed again at the one-eyed Vadhagh with the silver hand and at the eight-foot Sidhi with the bristling black beard.

  And Gaynor, at a safe distance, laughed on. He was indulging in his favorite sport—the destruction of heroes, the conquest of honor, the extermination of virtue and idealism. And he indulged himself thus because he had never quite succeeded in driving these qualities from his own self. Thus Gaynor sought to still any voice which dared remind him of the hope he dared not hope, the ambition he feared to entertain—the possibility of his own salvation.

  Corum’s arms grew weary and he staggered now as he chopped at green arms, slashed at green heads, cracked the skulls of green horses and grew dizzy with the scent of the pine sap which was now sticky underfoot.

  “Farewell, Goffanon,” he shouted to his comrade. “It heartened me much when you joined our cause, but I fear your decision has led you to your death.”

  And Corum was astonished when he heard Goffanon’s laughter blending with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned.

  THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

  A LONG-LOST BROTHER

  Then Corum realized that only Goffanon laughed. Gaynor laughed no longer.

  Corum tried to peer through the mass of green warriors to the far end of the pass where he had last seen Gaynor, but there was no sign of the flickering, fiery armor. It seemed that Prince Gaynor the Damned had deserted the scene of his triumph.

  And now the Warriors of the Pine were falling back, looking fearfully into the sky. And Corum risked glancing up and he saw a rider there. The rider was seated upon a shining black horse dressed completely in red and gilded leather, the buckles of its harness of sea-ivory and the edges all stitched with large and perfect pearls.

  And overwhelming the stink of the pines came the fresh, warm smell of the sea. And Corum knew that the smell came from the smiling rider who sat astride the horse with one hand upon his hip and the other upon his bridle.

  And then, casually, the rider stepped his horse over the gorge and turned so that he could look down into the pass from the other side. It gave Corum some idea of the size of horse and rider.

  The rider had a light, golden beard and his face was that of a youth of some eighteen summers. His golden hair was braided and hung down his chest. He wore a breastplate which was fashioned from some kind of bronze and decorated with motifs of the sun and of ships, as well as whales and fish and sea-serpents. Upon the rider’s great, fair-skinned arms were bands of gold whose patterns matched those of the breastplate. He wore a blue cloak with a great circular pin at the left shoulder. His eyes were a clear, piercing gray-green. At his hip was a heavy sword which was probably longer than Corum’s full height. On his left arm was a shield of the same glowing bronze as his breastplate.

  And Goffanon was crying delightedly up to the gigantic rider on the gigantic horse, even as he continued to fight the People of the Pines.

  “I heard you coming, brother!” cried Goffanon. “I heard you and knew who it was!”

  And the giant’s laughter rumbled down the gorge. “Greetings, little Goffanon. You fight well. You always fought well.”

  “Do you come to aid us?”

  “It seems so. My rest was disturbed by the Fhoi Myore vermin laying ice across my ocean. For years I have been at peace in my underwater retreat, thinking to have no more irritation from the Cold Folk. But they came, with their ice and their mist and their silly soldiers, and so I must attempt to teach them a lesson.” Almost carelessly he drew his great sword from its scabbard and, with the flat, reached down into the gorge to sweep away the Brothers of the Pines so that they began to retreat in panic in both directions.

  “I will meet you at the far end of this pass,” said the giant, shaking the reins of his horse and making it move away from the brink. “I fear I would stick if I tried to join you there.”

  The ground shook as the gigantic rider disappeared and a little while later they trudged up to the end of the gorge to meet him and Goffanon, in spite of his weariness, ran forward with his arms wide open, the axe falling from his grip, shouting joyfully:

  “Ilbrec! Ilbrec! Son of my old friend! I did not know you lived!”

  Ilbrec, twice Goffanon’s height, swung himself from his saddle, laughing. “Aha, little smith, if I had known that you survived I should long since have sought you out!” Corum was astonished to see the Sidhi Goffanon seized in Ilbrec’s great arms and embraced. Then Ilbrec turned his attention upon Corum and said: “Smaller and smaller, eh! Who is this who so resembled our ancient Vadhagh cousins?”

  ‘ ‘Vadhagh he is, brother Ilbrec. A champion of the Mabden since the Sidhi left.”

  Corum felt ridiculously tiny as he bowed to the great, laughing youth. “Greetings to you, cousin,” he said.

  “And how fared your father, the great Manannan?” Goffanon asked. ‘ ‘I heard that he had been slain in the Island of the West and lies now beneath his own Hill.”

  ‘ ‘Aye—with a Mabden folk named for him. He has honor in his Realm.”

  “And deservedly, Ilbrec.”

  “Are there more of our folk surviving?” Ilbrec asked. “I had thought myself the last.”

  “None to my knowledge,’‘ Goffanon told him.

  “And how many Fhoi Myore are there?”

  “Six. There were seven, but the Black Bull of Crinanass took one before it departed this Realm—-or died—1 know not which. The Black Bull was the last of the great Sidhi herd.”

  “Six.” Ilbrec sat himself down upon the turf, his golden brow darkening. “What are their names, these six?”

  ‘‘One is Kerenos,” said Corum. “Another is Balahr and another is Goim. The others I do not know.”

  ‘ ‘Nor have I seen them,” said Goffanon.’ ‘They hide, as usual, in their mist.”

  Ilbrec nodded. “Kerenos with his dogs, Balahr with his eye and Goim—Goim with her teeth. An unsavoury trio, eh? And hard to fight, those three alone. They were three of the most powerful. Doubtless it is why they linger on. I should have thought them all rotted and forgotten by now. They have vitality, these Fhoi Myore.”

  ‘ ‘The vitality of Chaos and Old Night,” agreed Goffanon, fingering the blade of his axe. “Ah, if only all our comrades were with us. What a reiving then, eh? And if those comrades wielded the Weapons of Light, how we should drive back the coldness and the darkness …”

  “But we are two,” said Ilbrec sadly. “And the greatest of the Sidhi are no more.”

  “Yet the Mabden are courageous,’’ said Corum. “They have a certain power. And if their High King can be restored to them…”

  ‘ ‘True,” said Goffanon, and he began to tell his old friend of all that had passed in recent months, since the coming of the Fhoi Myore to the islands of the Mabden. Only when he spoke of Calatin and the wizard’s charm did he become reticent, but managed to speak of the matter nonetheless.

  “So the Golden Oak and the Silver Ram still exist,” mused Ilbrec. “My father spoke of them. And Fand the Beautiful, she prophesied that one day they would give power to the Mabden. My mother Fand was a great seeress, for all her weaknesses in other d
irections.” Ilbrec grinned and spoke no more of Fand. Instead, he rose up and went to where his black horse cropped the grass.’ ‘Now, I suppose, we must make speed for Caer Garanhir and see what defenses they can build and how best we can help them when the Fhoi Myore attack. Do you think all six ride against that city?”

  “It is possible,” said Corum. “Yet usually the Fhoi Myore do not move in the front of their vassals but bring up the rear. They are cunning, in some ways, those Fhoi Myore.”

  “They were ever that. Would you ride with me, Vadhagh?”

  Corum smiled. “If your horse agrees that he will not mistake me for a flea upon his back, I’ll ride with you, Ilbrec.”

  And, laughing, Ilbrec swung Corum up and sat him down so that he could place a leg on either side of his great pearl-studded pommel. Still unused to the hugeness of the Sidhi (and understanding at last how Goffanon could regard himself as a dwarf) Corum felt weak in the presence of Ilbrec, who now seated himself with a creak of leather breeks and saddle behind him, calling out: “Onward, Splendid Mane. Onward, beautiful horse, to where the Mabden gather.”

  And as soon as he had become used to the huge movements of the cantering horse, Corum began to enjoy the sensation of riding the beast, listening to the conversation of the two Sidhi as Goffanon continued his steady pace beside the horse.

  “It seems to me,” said Ilbrec thoughtfully, “that my father bequeathed a chest to me containing some armor and a spear or two. Perhaps they would be useful in this struggle of ours, though they have lain unused for many scores of years now. If I could find that chest I would know.”

  “Yellow Shaft and Red Javelin?” queried Goffanon eagerly. “The sword your father named Retaliator?”