Chronicles of Corum

by Michael Moorcock

  “Naught else?”

  “Why should aught else be necessary?”

  And then the Oak Woman stepped back into the trunk of the Golden Oak and was followed by the Silvern Ram and the light from the oak began to fade. Then the outlines of the oak itself began to fade and then the Golden Oak, the Silvern Ram and Oak Woman were gone and were never afterward seen again in mortal lands.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  THE DAGDAGH HARP

  Now the folk of Caer Mahlod carried their High King Amergin joyfully back to their fortress city and many danced as they moved through the moonlit forest. There were broad grins upon the faces of Goffanon and Ilbrec, who was mounted on his black horse Splendid Mane.

  And only Corum’s brow was clouded, for he had heard words from Oak Woman which were less than cheering, and he lagged behind and was late in entering the King’s hall.

  Their own good spirits clouding their vision, none of the others saw that Corum did not smile, and they slapped him upon his shoulders and they toasted him and they honored him as much as they honored their own High King.

  And the feasting began, and the drinking, and the singing to the sound of the Mabden harps.

  So Corum, seated beside Medhbh on one side and King Mannach on the other, drank a considerable amount of sweet mead and tried to drive the memory of the harp from his mind.

  He saw King Mannach lean across to where Goffanon was seated next to Ilbrec (who was manfully showing no discomfort as he sat cramped and cross-legged beside the bench) and ask: “How knew you the incantation which raised the Oak Woman, Sir Goffanon?”

  “I knew no special incantation,” said Goffanon, lifting a cauldron of mead from his lips and setting it upon the table. ‘ ‘I trusted to my hidden memories and the memories of my people. I hardly heard the words of the song myself. They came almost unbidden from my lips. I relied upon this to reach both the Oak Woman and Amergin’s spirit wherever it drifted. It was Amergin himself who gave me the word which in turn produced that music which, in its turn, began the transformation.”

  ‘ ‘Dagdagh,” said Medhbh, unaware that Corum shuddered at the sound. “An old word. A name, perhaps?” “A title, also. A word of many meanings.” “A Sidhi name?”

  “I think not—though it is associated with the Sidhi. The Dagdagh led the Sidhi into battle on more than one occasion. I am young, you see, as the Sidhi measure age, and I took part in only two of the nine historic fights against the Fhoi Myore. By that time the name of the Dagdagh was no longer spoken. I know not why, save that there was a hint that Dagdagh had betrayed our cause.”

  “Betrayed it? Not this night, surely?”

  “No,” said Goffanon, his brow darkening a trifle. “Not this night.” And he raised the cauldron to his lips and took a thoughtful swig.

  Jhary-a-Conel left his seat and came to stand behind Corum. “Why so pensive, old friend?”

  Corum was grateful that Jhary had noticed his mood and at the same time did not wish to spoil Jhary’s celebration. He smiled as best he could and shook his head:’ ‘Weariness, I suppose. I’ve slept little of late.”

  “That harp,” continued Medhbh and Corum wished that she would stop. ” I recall hearing a similar harp.” She turned to Corum. “At Castle Owyn when we rode there once.”

  ‘ ‘Aye,” he murmured. ‘ ‘At Castle Owyn.”

  “A mysterious harp,” said King Mannach, “but I for one am grateful to it and would hear its music again if it brings us such gifts as the restoration of our High King,” and he raised his mead-hom to toast Amergin who sat smiling and calm, but drinking little, at the head of the table. ‘ ‘Now we shall mass,” said King Mannach,’ ‘all the folk of the Mabden who remain. We shall build a great army and we shall ride against the Fhoi Myore. And this time we shall leave none alive!”

  “Brave words,” said Ilbrec, “but we need more than courage. We need weapons such as my sword Retaliator. We need cunning— aye, and caution where it suits our cause.”

  “You speak wisely, Sir Sidhi,” said Amergin. “You echo my own thoughts.” His old and yet youthful face was full of good humor as if he were not troubled one bit by the great problem of the Fhoi Myore. He wore a robe now of loose yellow samite bordered with designs of blue and red, and his hair was braided and lay upon his back.

  “With Amergin to counsel us and Corum to lead us into war,” said King Mannach, “I believe that I am not foolish to show some optimism.” He smiled at Corum. “We grow stronger. Not long-since our lives seemed lost and our race destroyed, but now …”

  ‘ ‘Now,” said Corum finishing a whole hom of mead and wiping his lips upon the back of his silver hand, “now we celebrate great victories.” Unable to control himself he rose from the bench, stepped over it, and strode from the hall. He walked into the night, through the streets of Caer Mahlod—streets which were filled with merrymakers, with music and with laughter—and he went through the gate and over the turf toward where the distant sea boomed. And at last he stood alone upon the brink of the chasm which separated him from the ruins of his old home, Castle Erom, which this folk called Castle Owyn and thought a formation of natural rock.

  In the moonlight the ruins glowed and Corum wished that he could fly across the gulf and enter Castle Erorn and find a gateway back to his own world. There he had been lonely, but that was not the loneliness he felt now. Now he had a sense of complete desolation.

  And then he saw a face staring back at him from one of the broken windows of the castle. It was a handsome face, a face with a skin of gold; a mocking face.

  Corum called hoarsely: “Dagdagh! Is it Dagdagh?”

  And he heard laughter which became the music of a harp.

  Corum drew his sword. Below him the sea foamed and leapt on the rocks at the foot of the cliff. He prepared to leap the gulf, to seek out the youth with the skin of gold, to demand why the youth plagued him so. He poised himself, caring not if he fell and died. And then he felt a soft, strong hand upon his shoulder. He tried to shake it free, still crying: “Dagdagh! Let me be!”

  Medhbh’s voice said close to his ear, “Dagdagh is our friend, Corum. Dagdagh saved our High King.”

  Corum turned towards her and saw her troubled eyes staring into his single eye.

  “Put away your sword,” she said. “There is no one there.”

  “Did you not hear the music of his harp?”

  ‘ ‘1 heard the wind making music in the crannies of Castle Owyn. That is what I heard.”

  “You did not see his face, his mocking face?”

  “I saw a cloud move across the moon,” she said. “Come back now, Corum, to our celebrations.”

  And he sheathed his sword and he sighed and he let her lead him back to Caer Mahlod.

  EPILOGUE

  And that was the end of the Tale of the Oak and the Ram.

  Messengers went across the sea, taking the news to all: The High King was restored to his folk. They sailed to the West to tell King Fiachadh of the Tuha-na-Manannan (named for Ilbrec’s own family Corum now knew) and they sailed to the North where the Tuha-na-Tir-nam-Beo were told the news. And they told the Tuha-na-Ana and they told King Daffyn of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir. And wherever they found Mabden tribes they told them that the High King dwelled at Caer Mahlod, that Amergin debated the question of war against the Fhoi Myore and that the representatives of all the tribes of the Mabden race were called there to plan the last great fight which would decide who ruled the Islands of the West.

  In the smithies there was a clanging and roaring as swords were fashioned, and axes made and spears honed under the direction of that greatest of all smiths, Goffanon.

  And there was excitement and optimism in the homes of the Mabden as they wondered what Corum of the Silver Hand and Amergin the Archdruid would decide and where the battle would take place and when it would begin.

  And others listened to Ilbrec who would sit in the fields and tell them the tales he had heard from his father, who many thought to
be the greatest of the Sidhi heroes—tales of the Nine Fights against the Fhoi Myore and the deeds which were done. And they were heartened by these tales (some of which they knew) and glad to understand that the heroism which had been thought to be the fanciful invention of bards had actually taken place.

  And only when they saw Corum, pale and pensive, his head bent as if he listened for a voice he could not quite hear, did they consider the tragedy of those tales, of the great hearts which had been stilled in the service of their race.

  And at those times did the folk of Caer Mahlod become thoughtful and at those times they understood the enormity of the sacrifice made for their cause by the Vadhagh Prince called Corum of the Silver Hand.

  The Sixth Book of Corum

  The Sword and the Stallion

  Michael Moorcock

  www.sfgateway.com

  BOOK ONE

  In which armies are gathered and plans debated regarding an assault upon the Fhoi Myore and Caer Llud. Sidhi advice is requested and gladly given; yet, as is often the case, the advice creates further perplexity.

  THE FIRST CHAPTER

  CONSIDERING THE NEED FOR GREAT DEEDS

  So they came to Caer Mahlod; all of them. Tall warriors garbed in their finest gear, riding strong horses, bearing good weapons. They had a look of practical magnificence. They made the country around Caer Mahlod blaze with the bright colors of their samite pavilions and their embroidered battle flags, the gold of their bracelets, the silver of their cloak clasps, the burnished iron of their helmets, the mother-of-pearl inlaid upon their carved beakers or set into their traveling chests. These were the greatest of the Mabden and they were also the last, the People of the West, the Stepsons of the Sun, whose cousins of the East had long since perished in fruitless battle with the Fhoi Myore.

  And in the center of their encampments stood a tent much larger than the rest. Of sea-blue silk, it was otherwise unadorned and no battle banner stood near its entrance, for the size of the tent alone was enough to announce that it contained Ilbrec, the son of Man an-nan-mac-Lyr, who had been the greatest of the Sidhi heroes in the old fights against the Fhoi Myore. Tethered near this tent stood a huge black horse, large enough to seat the giant; a horse of evident intelligence and energy: a Sidhi horse. Though welcome in Caer Mahlod itself, Ilbrec could find no hall high enough to contain him and had thus pitched his tent with those of the gathering warriors.

  Beyond the fields of pavilions there were green forests of pleasant trees, there were gentle hills dotted with clumps of wild flowers and shrubs whose colors sparkled like jewels in the warming rays of the sun; and to the west of all this glowed a blue, white-crested ocean over which black and grey gulls drifted. Though they could not be seen from the walls of Caer Mahlod, there were many ships on all the nearby beaches. The ships had come from the isle of the west, bringing the folk of Manannan and Anu; they had come from Gwyddneu Garanhir and they had come from Tir-nam-Beo. They were ships of several different designs and divergent purposes, some being warships and others being trading ships, some used for fishing the sea and some for traveling broad rivers. Every available ship had been utilized to bring the Mabden tribes to this massing.

  Corum stood upon Caer Mahlod's battlements, the Dwarf Goffa-non at his side. Goffanon was a dwarf only by Sidhi standards, being considerably taller than Corum. Today he did not wear his polished iron helm; his huge unkempt mane of black hair flowed down his shoulders, meeting his heavy black beard so that it was impossible to tell which was which. He wore a simple smock of blue cloth, embroidered at collar and cuffs in red thread and gathered at the waist by his great leather belt. There were leggings and high-laced sandals on his legs and feet. In one huge, scarred hand was a mead horn from which he would sip occasionally; the other hand rested on the haft of his inevitable double-bladed war-axe, one of the last of the Weapons of Light, the Sidhi weapons especially forged in another Realm to fight the Fhoi Myore. The Sidhi dwarf looked with satisfaction upon the tents of the Mabden.

  "They still come," he said. "Good warriors."

  "But somewhat inexperienced in the kind of warfare we contemplate," Corum said. He watched as a column of northern Mabden crossed the ground beyond the main gate and the moat. These were tall and tough, in scarlet plaids which made them sweat, in winged or horned helmets or simple battle-caps; red-bearded men for the most part, soldiers of the Tir-nam-Beo, armed with big broadswords and round iron shields, disdaining all other weapons save the knives sheathed in the belts which criss-crossed their chests. Their dark features were painted or tattooed in order to emphasize their already fierce appearance. Of all the surviving Mabden, these men of the high northern mountains were the only ones who still lived, for the most part, by war, cut off by their own chosen terrain from what they regarded as the softer aspects of Mabden civilization. They reminded Corum somewhat of the old Mabden, the Mabden of the Earl of Krae who had hunted him once across these same downs and cliffs, and for a moment he wondered again at his willingness to serve the descendants of that cruel, animal-like folk. Then he recalled Rhalina and he knew why he did what he did.

  Corum turned away to contemplate the roofs of the fortress-city of Caer Mahlod, leaning his back against the battlements, relaxing in the warmth of the sunshine. It had been over a month since he had stood at night upon the brink of the chasm separating Castle Owyn from the mainland and shouted his challenge to the Dagdagh harpist whom he was convinced inhabited the ruin. Medhbh had worked hard to console him and make him forget his nightmares and she had been largely successful; he now saw his experiences in terms of his exhaustion and his dangers. All he had needed was rest and with that rest had come a certain degree of tranquility.

  Jhary-a-Conel appeared on the steps leading to the battlements. He had on his familiar slouch hat, and his little winged black and white cat sat comfortably on his left shoulder. He greeted his friends with his usual cheerful grin. "I've just come up from the bay. More ships have arrived—from Anu. The last, I heard. They have none left to send."

  "More warriors?" said Corum.

  ''A few, but mainly they bring fur garments—all that the people of Anu can muster."

  "Good." Goffanon nodded his great head. "At least we'll be reasonably well-equipped when we venture into the Frostlands of the Fhoi Myore."

  Removing his hat, Jhary wiped sweat from his brow. "It's hard to imagine that the world is so cold such a comparatively short distance from here.'' He put his hat back on his head and reached inside his jerkin, taking out a piece of herbal wood and broodingly picking his teeth with it as he joined them. He stared out over the encampment. "So this is the whole Mabden strength. A few thousands."

  "Against five," said Goffanon, almost defiantly.

  "Five gods," said Jhary, giving him a hard stare. "In keeping our spirits high we must not let ourselves forget the power of our enemies. And then there is Gaynor—and the Ghoolegh—and the Pine Warriors—and the Hounds of Kerenos—and," Jhary paused, adding softly, almost regretfully, "and Calatin."

  The dwarf smiled.'‘ Aye,'' he said, "but we have learned how to deal with almost all these dangers. They are no longer quite the threat they were. The People of the Pines fear fire. And Gaynor fears Corum. And as for the Ghoolegh, well, we still have the Sidhi Horn. That gives us power, too, over the hounds. As for Calatin . . ."

  "He is mortal," said Corum. "He can be slain. I intend to make it my particular business to slay him. He has power only over you, Goffanon. And, who knows? that power could well be on the wane."

  "But the Fhoi Myore themselves fear nothing," said Jhary-a-Conel. "That we must remember."

  "They fear one thing in this plane," Goffanon told the Companion to Heroes. "They fear Craig Don. It is what we must ever remember."

  "It is what they ever remember, also. They will not go to Craig Don."

  Goffanon the Smith drew his black brows together. "Perhaps they will," he said.

  "It is not Craig Don, but Caer Llud we must consider," Corum tol
d his friends."For it is that place we shall attack. Once Caer Llud is taken, our morale will rise considerably. Such a deed will give our men increased strength and enable them to finish the Fhoi Myore once and for all."

  "Truly great deeds are needed," Goffanon agreed, "and also cunning thoughts."

  "And allies," said Jhary feelingly, "more allies like yourself, good Goffanon, and golden Ilbrec. More Sidhi friends."

  "I fear that there are no more Sidhi save we two," murmured Goffanon.

  "It is unlike you to express such gloom, friend Jhary!" Corum clapped his silver hand upon the shoulder of his companion. "What causes this mood? We are stronger than we have ever been before!' ‘

  Jhary shrugged. "Perhaps I do not understand the Mabden ways. There seems too much joy in all these newcomers, as if they do not understand their danger. It is as if they come to a friendly tourney with the Fhoi Myore, not a war to the death involving the fate of their whole world!"

  "Should they grieve, then?" Goffanon said in astonishment.

  "No . . ."

  "Should they consider themselves in death or in defeat?" "Of course not . . ."

  "Should they entertain one another with dirges rather than with merry songs? Should their faces be downturned and their eyes full of tears?"

  Jhary began to smile. "You are right, I suppose, you monstrous dwarf. It is simply that I have seen so much. I have attended many battles. Yet never before have I seen men prepare for death with such apparent lack of concern."

  ''That is the Mabden way, I think,'' Corum told him. He glanced at Goffanon, who was grinning broadly."Learned from the Sidhi.''

  ''And who is to say that they prepare for their own deaths and not the deaths of the Fhoi Myore?" added Goffanon.

  Jhary bowed."I accept what you say. It heartens me. It is merely that it is strange and the strangeness is doubtless what I find discomforting."