Chronicles of Corum (24 page)
Read Chronicles of Corum Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General
“Of the few things I fear,” said Goffanon, “I fear those dogs most.” Since they had left Caer Llud far behind them, his speech had become increasingly coherent, his mind sharper, though he had said little about his association with the Wizard Calatin. “There must be still thirty miles of hard country before Craig Don is reached.”
They had come to a stop upon a hill, searching through the dancing snow for sign of the dogs which pursued them.
Corum was thoughtful. He looked at Amergin who had awakened the night after they had fled Caer Llud and had since been bound to stop him from straying. Occasionally the High King would utter a bleat, but it was impossible to divine what he wanted from them, unless it was to indicate his hunger, for he had eaten little since they had fled the city. He spent most of his time in sleep, and even when he was awake he was passive, resigned.
Corum said to Goffanon:’ ‘Why were you in Caer Llud. I remember you telling me you intended to spend the rest of your days in Hy-Breasail. Did Calatin come to the Enchanted Isle and offer you a bargain which attracted you?”
Goffanon snorted. “Calatin? Come to Hy-Breasail? Of course not. And what bargain could he offer me that was better than that which you offered? No, I fear that you were the instrument of my alliance with the Mabden wizard.”
“I? How?”
‘ ‘Remember how I scoffed at Calatin’s superstitions? Remember how thoughtlessly I spat into that little bag you gave me? Well, Calatin had a good reason for wanting that spittle. He has more power than I guessed—and a power I barely understand. It was the dryness which first came upon me, you see. No matter how much I drank I still felt thirsty—terrible, painful thirst. My mouth was forever dry. Corum. I was dying of thirst, though I nearly drained the rivers and streams of my island, gulping down the water as fast as I could, yet never satisfying that thirst. I was horrified—and I was dying. Then came a vision—a vision sent by that man of power, Corum—by that Mabden. And the vision spoke to me and told me that Hy-Breasail was rejecting me as it rejected the Mabden, that I should die if I remained there—die of this frightful thirst.” The dwarf shrugged his huge shoulders.’ ‘Well, I debated this, but I was already mad with thirst. At last I set sail for the mainland, where Calatin greeted me. He gave me something to drink. That drink did satisfy my thirst. But it also robbed me of my senses and put me completely in the wizard’s power. I became his slave. He can still reach out for me. He could still trap me again and make me do his bidding. While he has that charm he made from my spittle—the charm which brings on the thirst—he can also control my thoughts to a large extent—he can somehow occupy my mind and cause my body to perform certain actions. And while he occupies my mind, I am not responsible for what I do.”
“So by delivering that blow to Calatin’s head, I was able to break his influence over you?”
“Yes. And by the time he recovered we were doubtless beyond the range of his magic-working!” Goffanon sighed. “I had never thought a Mabden could command such mysterious gifts.”
“And that is how the horn came back into Calatin’s keeping?”
“Aye. I gained nothing from my bargain with you, Corum.”
Corum smiled as he drew something from beneath his cloak. ‘ ‘Nothing,” he said. “But I gained something from that most recent encounter.”
“My horn!”
“Well,” said Corum, “I remember how mercenary you were, friend Goffanon, in the matter of bargains. Strictly speaking, I would say this horn is mine.”
Goffanon nodded his great head philosophically. ‘’That is fair,” he said. “Very well, the horn is yours, Corum. I lost it, after all, through my own stupidity.”
“But through my unconscious connivance,” said Corum. “Let me borrow the horn a while, Goffanon. When the time seems ripe, I will return it to you.”
“It is a better bargain than any I made with you, Corum. I feel ashamed.”
“Well, Goffanon, what do you plan to do? Return to Hy-Breasail?”
Goffanon shook his head. “What should I gain by that. It seems my best interests lie with your cause, Corum, for if you defeat Calatin and the Fhoi Myore, then I am freed from Calatin’s service forever. If I return to my island, Calatin can always find me again.”
“Then you are fully with us?”
“Aye.”
Jhary-a-Conel shifted nervously in his saddle. “Listen,” he said, ‘ ‘they come much closer now. I think they have our scent. I think we are in considerable danger, my friends.”
But Corum was laughing. “I think not, Jhary-a-Conel. Not now.”
“Why so? Listen to their ghastly baying!” His lips curled in distaste. “The wolves seek the sheep, eh?”
And, as if in confirmation, Amergin bleated softly.
Then Corum laughed. “Let them come closer,” he said. “The closer the better.”
He knew that it was wrong to leave Jhary in such suspense but he was enjoying the sensation—so often had Jhary made mysteries himself.
They rode on.
And all the while the Hounds of Kerenos came closer.
They were in sight of Craig Don by the time the hounds appeared behind them, but they knew that the devil dogs could move faster than could they. There was no chance at all of reaching the seven stone circles before the hounds caught them.
Corum peered backward at their pursuers, looking for signs of a suit of armor which constantly shifted its colors, but there was none. White faces and red eyes—the Ghoolegh huntsmen—controlled the pack. They were most expert at doing so, having been slaves of the Fhoi Myore for generations, bred beyond the sea in eastern lands before the Fhoi Myore began their reconquest of the West. Gay nor, no doubt against his will, had been needed by the Fhoi Myore to lead the marching warriors who went against Caer Mahlod (if that was where they went) and so had been kept from the pursuit. This was just as well, thought Corum, unslinging the horn and putting its ornamental mouthpiece to his lips. He took a deep breath.
“Ride for Craig Don,” he told the others. “Goffanon, take Amergin.”
The smith drew the limp body of the Archdruid from Corum’s saddle and swung it easily over his massive shoulder. “But you will die …” Jhary began.
‘ ‘I will not,” said Corum.’ ‘Not if I am careful in what I do now. Go. Goffanon will tell you the properties of this horn.”
“Horns!” Jhary exclaimed. “I am sick of them. Horns for bringing the apocalypse, horns for calling demons—now horns for handling dogs! The gods grow unimaginative!” And with that peculiar observation he kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode rapidly towards the tall stones of Craig Don, Goffanon loping behind him.
And Corum blew the horn once and though the Hounds of Kerenos pricked up their red, tufted ears, they still came running toward their quarry—running in a great pack made up of at least twoscore dogs. ITie Ghoolegh, mounted on pale horses, were, however, unsure. Corum could see that they hung back, where normally they would have chased behind the dogs.
Now the Hounds of Kerenos yelled in glee as they had Corum’s scent and, veering slightly, sped toward him through the snow.
And Corum blew the horn a second time and the yellow eyes of the hounds, so close, so glaring, took on a somewhat puzzled expression.
Now other horns shouted as the Ghoolegh called their dogs off in panic, for they knew what would happen to them if the horn sounded a third time.
The Hounds of Kerenos were so near to Corum now that he could smell their stinking, steaming breath.
And suddenly they stopped in their tracks, whined and began reluctantly to trot back across the wind-blown snow to where the Ghoolegh waited.
And when the Hounds of Kerenos were in retreat, Corum blew the horn a third time.
He saw the Ghoolegh clutch their heads. He saw the Ghoolegh fall from their saddles. And he knew that they were dead, for the third blast of that horn always killed them—it was the punishing blast with which Kerenos slew those who failed to obey him.
The Hounds of Kerenos, whose last instructions had been to return, continued to lope back to where the dead Ghoolegh lay. And Corum whistled to himself as he tucked the horn into his belt and made for Craig Don at an almost leisurely gait.
“Perhaps it is sacrilege, but it is a convenient place to put him while we debate the problem.’ ‘ Jhary looked down at Amergin who lay upon the great altar stone within the inner circle of columns. It was dark. A fire burned fitfully. “I cannot understand why he eats only the few pieces of fruit or vegetables we brought. It is as if his innards have become sheep’s innards, too. If this continues, Corum, we shall deliver a dead High King to Caer Mahlod!”
“You spoke earlier of being able to reach through to his inner mind,” Corum said. “Is that possible? If so, we can learn what to do to help him, perhaps.”
‘ ‘Aye, with the aid of my little cat I might be able to do that, but it will take much time and considerable energy. I would eat before I begin.”
“By all means.”
And then Jhary-a-Conel ate, and he fed his cat almost as much food as he consumed himself, while Corum and Goffanon ate only sparingly and poor Amergin ate nothing at all, for their supplies of dried fruit and vegetables were almost gone.
The moon peered for a moment through the clouds and it struck the altar with its rays and the costume of sheepskin gleamed. Then the moon went away again and the only light came from the flickering fire which flung red shadows among the old stones.
Jhary-a-Conel whispered to his cat. He stroked his cat and the cat purred. Slowly, the cat in his arms, he began to approach the altar where starved, wasted Amergin lay, breathing shallow breaths as he slept.
Jhary-a-Conel put the little winged cat’s head against the head of Amergin and then he drew his own head down so that it touched the other side of the cat’s head. Silence fell.
There came a bleating, loud and urgent, and it was impossible for the watchers to judge whether it came from Amergin’s mouth, from the cat’s, or from Jhary’s.
The bleating died away.
It became darker as, untended, the fire died. Corum could see the dirty white form of Amergin upon the altar, the faint outline of the cat as it pressed its tiny skull to the High King’s, the tense features of Jhary-a-Conel.
Jhary’s voice: “Amergin … Amergin
…
noble druid … pride of your folk … Amergin … Amergin … come back to us …” Another bleat, this time wavering and unsure. “Amergin
…”
Corum remembered the calling which had summoned him from his own world, the world of the Vadhagh, to this world. Jhary’s incantation was not unlike that of King Mannach. And possibly this had something to do with Amergin’s enchantment: he lived a different life entirely, the life of a sheep, perhaps in a world which was not quite this one. And if that were the case his ‘real’ self might be reached. Corum could not begin to understand what the people of this world called magic, but he knew something of the multiverse with its variety of planes which sometimes intersected, and he believed that their power probably derived from some half-conscious knowledge of these Realms.
“Amergin, High King … Amergin, Archdruid
…”
The bleating became fainter and at the same time seemed to assume the qualities of human speech.
“Amergin
…”
There was a catlike mewl, a distant voice which could have come from any one of the three upon the altar.
“Amergin of the family of Amergin .
..
the knowledge-seekers …”
“Amergin.” This was Jhary’s voice, strained and strange. “Amergin. Do you understand your fate?”
“An enchantment.
. .
I am no longer a man .
..
Why should this displease me … ?”
‘ ‘Because your own folk need your guidance, your strength, your presence amongst them!”
“I am all things.
..
we are all of us all things… it is immaterial, the form we take.
..
the spirit
…”
“Sometimes it is important, Amergin. As now, when the fate of the whole Mabden folk rests upon your assuming your former role. What will bring you back to your folk, Amergin? What power will restore you to them?”
“Only the power of the Oak and the Ram. Only the Oak Woman can call me home. If it matters to you that I return, then find the Golden Oak and the Silvern Ram, find one who understands their properties … Only—the Oak Woman—can—call me— home
…”
And then there came the agitated bleating of a sheep and Jhary fell back from the altar and the cat spread its wings and flew away to perch high on top of one of the great stone arches, crouching there as if in fear.
And the wind’s melancholy voice came from the distance and the clouds seemed to grow darker in the sky and the bleating of a sheep filled the stone circle and then died away.
Goffanon was the first to speak, tugging at the hairs of his black beard, his voice a growl: “The Oak and the Ram. Two of what the Mabden term their Treasures’—Sidhi gifts, both. It seems to me that I recall something of them. One of the Mabden who came to my island spoke of them before he died.” Goffanon shrugged. “Yet most Mabden who came to my island spoke of such things. It was their interest in talismans and spells which brought them to Hy-Breasail.”
“What did he say?” Corum asked.
“Well, he told the tale of the lost Treasures—how the warrior Onragh fled with them from Caer Llud and how they were scattered. These two were lost close to the borders of the land of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir, which is north of the land of the Taha-na-Cremm Croich, across a sea—though there is a way by land, also. One of that folk found the Golden Oak and the Silvern Ram—large talismans both, of fine Sidhi workmanship—and took them back to his folk where they were held in great reverence and where, for all I know, they still are.”
“So we must seek the Oak and the Ram before we can restore Amergin to his senses,” said Jhary-a-Conel. He looked pale and exhausted. “Yet I fear he will die before we can achieve that. He needs nourishment and the only nourishment which will keep him properly alive is that grass which the Fhoi Myore vassals fed him. It is a grass containing certain magical agents which, while they kept him firmly under his enchantment, also supplied his body’s primary needs. Unless he is restored to his human identity shortly, he will die, my friends.”
Jhary-a-Conel spoke flatly and neither Corum nor Goffanon needed to convince themselves of the truth of his words. It was evident, for one thing, that Amergin was beginning to waste away, particularly since their supplies of fruit and vegetables were all but gone.
“Yet we must go to the land of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garahir if we are to find those things which will save him,” said Corum. ‘
‘
And he will surely die before we reach that land. It seems that we are defeated.” He looked down at the pathetic sleeping figure of the one who had once been the symbol of Mabden pride.’ ‘We sought to save the High King. Instead, we have slain him.”