The Fhoi Myore did not seem to care that they wasted their creatures so and yet did nothing to stop the carnage which the Black Bull of Crinanass was wreaking. Corum supposed that the Cold Folk knew that they could still crush Caer Mahlod and perhaps deal with the Bull, too.
And then it was over. Not a single Ghoolegh, hound nor pale green rider remained alive. What mortal weapon could not slay, the Black Bull had slain.
It stood triumphant amongst the corpses of men, beasts and things that were like men. It pawed at the ground and its breath foamed from its nostrils. It raised its head and it bellowed and that bellow shook the walls of Caer Mahlod.
Yet still the Fhoi Myore had not moved from their mist.
None on the battlements cheered, for they knew that the main attack was still to come.
Now, save for the great Bull’s triumphant lowing, there was a silence about the scene. Death was everywhere. Death hung over the battlefield, inhabited the fortress. And Death waited in the mist-shrouded forest. Corum remembered something King Mannach had told him—how the Fhoi Myore pursued Death. Did they, like Prince Gaynor, long for oblivion? Was this their main concern? If so, it made them an even more terrifying enemy.
The mist had begun to move. Corum cried out to the survivors to ready themselves. In his silver hand he held up the spear, Bryionak, so that all could see.
‘ ‘Here is the spear of the Sidhi! There is the last of the Sidhi war-cattle! And here stands Corum Llaw Ereint. Rally, men of Caer Mahlod, for the Fhoi Myore come against us now in all their strength. But we have strength. We have courage. And this is our land, our world, and we must defend it!”
Corum saw Medhbh. He saw her smile up at him and heard her cry out:
“If we die, then let us die in a way that will make our legend great!”
Even King Mannach, leaning on the arm of a warrior who was, himself, wounded, seemed to recover from his depression. Sound men and wounded men, youths and maidens, the aged, now swarmed up to the walls of Caer Mahlod and steadied their hearts as they saw seven shadows in seven creaking battle-carts, drawn by seven misshapen beasts, reach the bottom of the hill upon which Caer Mahlod stood. The mist surrounded them again, and the Black Bull of Crinanass was also engulfed in the pale, clinging stuff, and they no longer heard his lowing. It was as if the mist had poisoned him, and perhaps that was what had happened.
Corum took aim at the first looming shadow, aiming for what appeared to be the head, though the outline was much distorted. The creaking of the chariots grated on his bones and his body wanted to do little else but curl in on itself, but he resisted the sensation and cast the spear, Bryionak.
Slowly the spear seemed to sunder the mist as it passed through and went true to its target, producing for an instant a strange honk of pain. Then the spear had returned to his hand and the honking continued. In other circumstances the sound might have been ludicrous, but here it was sinister and menacing. It was the voice of an insensate beast, of a stupid being, and Corum realized that the owner of that voice was a creature of little intelligence and monstrous, primitive will. And that was what made the Fhoi Myore so dangerous. They were motivated by blind need; they could not understand their plight. They could think of no way to deal with it but to continue their conquests, continue them without malice or hatred or any sense of vengeance. They used what they needed; they made use of whatever powers they had, of whoever would serve them, to seek an impossible goal. Yes, that was what made them almost impossible to defeat. They could not be bargained with, reasoned with. Fear was all that might stop them, and it was plain that the one who had honked did fear the Sidhi spear. The advancing chariots began to slow as the Fhoi Myore grunted to each other.
A moment later a face appeared out of the mist. It was more like a wound than a face. It was red and there were lumps of raw flesh hanging on it. The mouth was distorted and appeared in the left cheek, and there was but one eye—one eye with a great lid of dead flesh. Attached to that eyelid was a wire, and the wire ran over the skull and under the arm pit and could be pulled by the two-fingered hand to open it.
The hand moved now, tugging at the wire. Corum was filled with an instinctive feeling of danger and was already ducking behind the battlement as the eye opened. The eye was blue, like northern ice, and from it poured a radiance. Bitter cold gnawed at Corum’s body, though he was not in the direct path of the radiance. And now he knew how those people by the lake had died, frozen in the postures of war. The cold was so intense that it knocked him backward and almost off the ledge. He recovered, crawled further away and raised his head, the spear poised. Already several of the warriors on the battlements were rigid and dead. Corum threw the spear, Bryionak. He threw it at the blue eye.
For one moment it seemed that Bryionak had been frozen in the air. It hovered, suspended, and then appeared to make a conscious effort to continue. The point, glowing bright orange now, as it had against the ice phantoms, sliced into the eye.
Then Corum knew from which of the Fhoi Myore the honking had come. The hand dropped the wire and the eyelid closed, even as the spear withdrew itself and returned to Corum. The travesty of a face twisted, the head turning this way and that, while the beast which pulled the chariot lurched round and began to retreat into the mist.
Corum felt a certain elation enter his mind. This Sidhi weapon had been especially made to fight the Fhoi Myore and it did its job well. Now one of the six was in retreat. He called out to the people on the wall:
“Get back to the ground. Leave me here alone, for I have the spear, Bryionak. Your weapons can do nothing against the Fhoi Myore. Let me stand here and fight them.”
Medhbh cried back:
“Let me stand with you, Corum, to die with you!”
But he shook his head and turned again to regard the advancing Cold Folk. Still it was hard to see them—a suggestion of a horned head, a hint of bristling hair, a glint which might have been the glint of an eye.
There came a roaring, then. Was that the voice of Kerenos, Chieftain of the Fhoi Myore? No. The roaring came from behind the Fhoi Myore chariots.
An even larger, darker shape reared up behind them and Corum gasped as he recognized it. It was the Black Bull of Crinanass, grown huger but losing none of its mass. It lowered its horns and plucked one of the Fhoi Myore from its chariot. Then it tossed the god up into the sky, caught him on its horn and tossed the god again.
The Fhoi Myore were in panic. They wheeled their war-carts and began a sudden retreat. Corum saw Prince Gaynor, tiny and terrified, running with them. The mist moved faster than a tidal wave, back over the forest, out over the plain, and disappeared over the horizon leaving behind it a wasteland of corpses. The Black Bull of Crinanass, which had shrunk to its previous size, was now grazing contentedly on a patch of grass somehow left untrampled on the battlefield. But on its horns were dark smears and there were pieces of meat scattered about nearby. Some distance to the left of the Black Bull of Crinanass was a huge chariot, much bigger than the Bull, which had overturned, its wheel still spinning. It was a crude thing, of wood and wicker-work, poorly crafted.
The folk of Caer Mahlod were not jubilant, though they had been saved from destruction. They were stunned at what had happened. Very slowly they began to gather on the battlements to look at all the destruction.
Corum walked slowly down the steps, the spear, Bryionak, still held loosely in his silver hand. He walked through the tunnel and out of the gate of Caer Mahlod, across the ruined earth to where the Bull was grazing. He did not know why he went to the Bull. This time the creature did not move away from him but turned its huge head and stared into his eyes.
“You must slay me now,” said the Black Bull of Crinanass, ‘ ‘and then my destiny will be complete.” It spoke in the pure tongue of the Vadhagh and the Sidhi. It spoke calmly, yet sadly.
“I cannot slay you,” said Corum.“You have saved us all. You killed one of the Fhoi Myore so that now they number only six. Caer Mahlod still stands and m
any of her folk still live because of what you did.”
“It is what you did,” said the Bull. “You found the spear, Bryionak. You called me. I knew what must happen.”
“Why must I slay you?”
“It is my destiny. It is necessary.”
“Very well,” said Corum. “I will do what you request.”
And he took the spear, Bryionak, and he cast it into the heart of the Black Bull of Crinanass. A great gout of blood burst from the Bull and the beast began to run. This time the spear stayed in its side and did not return to Corum’s hand.
Over the whole battlefield ran the Black Bull of Crinanass. Through the forest it ran and across the moors beyond. Along the cliffs by the sea it ran. And its blood washed the whole land, and where the blood touched the land it became green. Flowers grew up and trees came into leaf and slowly, above, the sky was clearing and the clouds fled in the wake of the Fhoi Myore. The sky became blue and the warm sun shone, and when the sun spread heat across all the world around Caer Mahlod, the bull ran towards the broken cliffs where Castle Erorn stood. It leapt the chasm which separated the cliff from the tower. Standing beside the tower for a moment, its knees buckling as the blood still trickled from its wound, it looked back at Corum, then staggered to the headland and flung itself over, into the sea. And the spear, Bryionak, still stayed in the side of the Black Bull of Crinanass and was never afterward seen again in mortal lands.
EPILOGUE
And that was the end of the Tale of the Bull and the Spear.
All signs of the struggle had disappeared from hill, forest and plain. Summer had come to Caer Mahlod at last, and many believed that the blood of the Black Bull had made the land safe for ever from the encroachment of the Cold Folk.
And Corum Jhaelen Irsei, of the Vadhagh folk, lived a life among the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich, and that, to them, was a further guarantee of their security. Even the old woman whom Corum had met on the frozen plain no longer muttered her gloomy warnings. All were happy. And they were happy that Corum lay with Medhbh, daughter of King Mannach, for it meant that he would stay with them. They harvested their crops, sang in the fields and feasted well, for the land was rich again where the Bull had run.
But sometimes Corum, lying beside his new love, would awake in the night and fancy that he heard the cool and melancholy strains of a harp. And he would brood on the old woman’s words, wondering why he should fear a harp, a brother and, above all, beauty.
And at those times, of all the folk dwelling at Caer Mahlod, Corum was not happy.
The Fifth Book of Corum
The Oak and the Ram
Michael Moorcock
www.sfgateway.com
BOOK ONE
In which Prince Corum finds himself called to pursue the second of his great quests …
THE FIRST CHAPTER
THE MEETING OF THE KINGS
And so Rhalina had died.
And Corum had found Medhbh, King Mannach’s daughter, and in a short while (as Corum reckoned time) she too would die. If it was his weakness to fall in love with short-lived Mabden women, then he must reconcile himself to the knowledge that he would outlive many lovers, must experience many losses, many agonies. As it was, he did not think much about it, preferring to avoid the significance of such ideas whenever possible. Besides, the memories of Rhalina were growing dim, and it was only with difficulty that he could remember the fine details of the life he had led in an earlier age, when he had ridden against the Sword Rulers.
Corum Jhaelen Irsei (who had first been called the Prince in the Scarlet Robe, but, having since traded this robe to a wizard, was now known as Corum of the Silver Hand) stayed at Caer Mahlod for two months after the day when the Black Bull of Crinanass had ran its fecund course and brought sudden spring to the land of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich, the People of the Mound. It was two months since the misshapen Fhoi Myore had tried to slay the inhabitants of Caer Mahlod, to freeze and to poison this place so that it, too, might resemble Limbo from whence the Fhoi Myore came and to which they were unable to return.
Now the Fhoi Myore appeared to have abandoned their ambitions of conquest. They were stranded upon this plane and had no love for its inhabitants, but they did not fight for the joy of fighting. The Fhoi Myore were only six. They had once been many. But they were dying of long-drawn-out diseases which would eventually rot them. In the meantime, however, they made themselves as comfortable as possible upon the Earth, turning the world into bleak and perpetual Samhain, a midwinter world. And before the Fhoi Myore expired they would, casually, have destroyed the entire Mabden race as well.
But very few of the Mabden were in a mood to think about such a prospect. They had triumphed over the Fhoi Myore this once and won their freedom. It seemed enough, for the summer was the richest and the hottest any remembered (some sweated and joked that they would welcome the return of the Cold Folk, they panted so much in the heat), as if the sun, giving no warmth to the rest of the Mabden lands, poured all its power into one small corner of the world.
The oaks were greener, the alders were stronger, the ash and the elms were the lushest they had ever been. In the fields there was wheat ripening where folk had never hoped to see another harvest. There were poppies and cornflowers and marigolds, buttercups, woodbine, hollyhocks and daisies growing everywhere in profusion.
Only the cold, cold water pouring down in the rivers which flowed from the East reminded the folk of Tuha-na-Cremm Croich that their countrymen were all dead, or vassals of the Fhoi Myore, or both; that their High King—their Archdruid Amergin—was under a glamour, a prisoner in his own city of Caer Llud, a city now used as their capital by the Fhoi Myore. Only that reminded them, whenever they bent to drink. And many were made gloomy, brooding upon their incapacity to avenge their dead cousins, for the best they had done was defend their own land against the Cold Folk and even then they could not have accomplished the defense without the help of Sidhi magic and a demigod raised from his deep slumber beneath the Mound. That demigod was Corum.
The water flowed from the East and it fed the wide ditch they had dug around the conical mound on which was built the fortress city of Caer Mahlod, an old city of gray and bulky granite; a city without much beauty but with considerable strength. Caer Mahlod had been abandoned at least once and reoccupied in times of war. It was the only city that remained to the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich. Once they had had several cities, but these had been swept away by the ice which the Fhoi Myore brought.
But now many of those who had occupied the fortress town had returned to rebuild their ruined farms and tend the crops which had been revitalized by the Black Bull’s lifeblood. Only King Mannach and King Mannach’s warriors and retainers and his daughter and Corum remained at Caer Mahlod.
Sometimes Corum would stand on the battlements and look toward the sea and the ruins of his own home, which was now called Castle Owyn and thought to be a natural formation, and wonder upon the matter of the Spear Bryionak and the Black Bull and the magic which had been worked. It seemed to him that he dreamed, for he could not explain the magic of how it had been brought about. He dreamed the dream of these people, who had called him from a dream. And for the most part he was content. He had Medhbh of the Long Arm (the nickname she had earned for her skill with spear and tathlum) with her thick red hair, her strong beauty, her intelligence and her laughter. He had dignity. He had the respect of his fellow warriors. They had become used to him now. They accepted his strange Vadhagh looks—‘elfin’ looks, Medhbh called them—his artificial silver hand, his single yellow and purple eye and the patch over the other socket; the patch had been embroidered by Rhalina, Margravine of Moidel’s Mount, who lay at least a thousand years in the past.
He had dignity. He had been true to this folk and he had been true to himself. He had pride. And he had fine companionship. There was no question that his lot was improved since he had left Castle Erom and answered the call of this folk. He wondered what had become of Jhary-a-Conel, Companion to He
roes. It had been Jhary, after all, who had advised him to do King Mannach’s bidding. But Jhary was the last mortal Corum knew who could still travel through the Fifteen Planes, apparently at will. Once all the Vadhagh could move between the planes, as could the Nhadragh, but with the defeat of the Sword Rulers the last vestiges of this power had been denied them.
And sometimes Corum would call a bard to him to sing one of the old songs of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich, for he found such songs to his taste. One song was attributed to the first Amergin, ancestor to the High King and now a thrall of the Fhoi Myore, composed upon arriving in their new homeland:
I am the ocean wave;
I am the murmur of the surges;
I am seven battalions;
I am a strong bull;
I am an eagle on a rock;
I am a ray of the sun;
I am the most beautiful of herbs;
I am a courageous wild boar;
I am a salmon in the water;
I am a lake upon a plain;
I am a cunning artist;
I am a gigantic, sword-wielding champion;
I can shift my shape like a god.
In what direction shall we go?
Shall we hold our council in the valley or
on the mountain-top? Where shall we make our home? What land is better than this island of the
setting sun? Where shall we walk to and fro in peace
and safety? Who can find your clear springs of water as
can I?
Who can tell you the age of the moon but I? Who can call the fish from the depths of the