The Chronicles of Corum

  His rides grew wilder and he tired all his horses. He went further and further away from Castle Erorn, as if he hoped to find something. However, he found nothing but the sea to his west and the moors and the forests to his east, south and north. No Mabden villages were here, no farms or even the huts of charcoal-burners or foresters, for the Mabden had no desire to settle in Vadhagh lands, not since the fall of King Lyr-a-Brode. And was that really what he sought, Corum wondered. Mabden company? Did his voices and his dreams represent his desire to share adventures with mortals again? The thought was painful to him. He saw Rhalina clearly for a moment, as she had been in her youth—radiant, proud and strong.

  With his sword he slashed at the stems of ferns; with his lance he drove at the boles of trees; with his bow he shot at rocks—a parody of battle. Sometimes he would fall upon the grass and sob.

  And still the voices called him:

  “Corum! Corum! Help us!”

  ‘ ‘Help you? ” he screamed back. “It is Corum who needs help!” “Corum. Corum. Corum …”

  Had he ever heard those voices before? Had he been in a situation like this one before?

  It seemed to Corum that he had; yet, as he recalled all the events in his life, he knew that it could not be true. He had never heard those voices, dreamed those dreams. And still he was sure that he remembered them from another time. Perhaps from another incarnation? Was he truly the Champion Eternal?

  Weary, sometimes ragged, sometimes without his weapons, sometimes leading a limping horse, Corum would return to Castle Erorn by the sea, and the pounding of the waves in the caves below Erorn would be like the pounding of his own heart.

  His servants would try to comfort him, to restrain him, to ask what ailed him. He would not reply. He was civil but would tell them nothing of his torment. He had no way of telling them, and he knew that they would not understand, even if he could find a way.

  And then, one day, as he stumbled across the threshold of the castle courtyard, barely able to keep himself from falling, the servants told him that a visitor had come to Castle Erorn. He waited for Corum in one of the music chambers which Corum had ordered closed for some years. The sweetness of the music had reminded him too much of Rhalina, whose favorite chamber it had been.

  ‘His name?” Corum muttered.’ ‘Is he Mabden or Vadhagh? His purpose here?”

  “He would tell us nothing, master, save that he was either your friend or your enemy—that you would know which.”

  “Friend or enemy? A riddler? An entertainer? He’ll have hard work here …”

  Yet Corum was curious, almost grateful for the mystery. Before he went to the music room he washed himself and put on fresh clothes and drank a little wine until he felt revived enough to face the stranger.

  The harps and the organs and the crystals in the music chamber had begun their symphony. He heard the faint notes of a familiar tune drifting up to his apartments, as the long silence was broken. At once he felt overwhelmed by depression and determined that he would not do the stranger the courtesy of receiving him. But something in Corum wanted to listen to that music. He had composed it himself for Rhalina’s birthday one year. It expressed much of the tenderness he had felt towards her. She had then been ninety years old, with her mind and body as sound as they had ever been: ‘You keep me young, Corum,’ she had said.

  Tears came into Corum’s single eye. He brushed them away, cursing the visitor who had revived such memories. The man was a boor, coming uninvited to Castle Erorn, opening up a deliberately closed chamber. How could he justify such actions?

  And then Corum wondered if this were a Nhadragh, for the Nhadragh, he had heard, still hated him. Those who had remained alive after King Lyr-a-Brode’s conquests had degenerated into semi-sentience. Had one of them remembered just enough of his hatred to seek out Corum to slay him? Corum felt something close to elation at this thought. He would relish a fight.

  And so he strapped on his silver hand and his slender sword before he went down the ramp to the music chamber.

  As he neared the chamber the music grew louder and louder, more complex and more exquisite. Corum had to struggle against it as he might struggle against a strong wind.

  He entered the room. Its colors swirled and danced with the music. It was so bright that Corum was momentarily blinded. Blinking, he peered around the chamber, seeking his visitor.

  Corum saw the man at last. He was sitting in the shadows, absorbed in the music. Corum went amongst the huge harps, the organs and the crystals, touching them and quieting them until, at last, there was complete silence. The colors faded from the room. The man rose from his corner and began to approach. He was small of stature and walked with a distinct swagger. He had a wide-brimmed hat upon his head and a deformity on his right shoulder, perhaps a hump. His face was entirely obscured by the brim of the hat, yet Corum began to suspect that he knew the man.

  Corum recognized the cat first. It sat upon the man’s shoulder. It was what Corum had at first mistaken for a hump. Its round eyes stared at him. It purred. The man’s head lifted and there was there smiling face of Jhary-a-Conel.

  So astonished was Corum, so used was he to living with ghosts, that at first he did not respond.

  “Jhary?”

  “Good morrow, Prince Corum. I hope you did not mind me listening to your music. I don’t believe I have heard that piece before.”

  “No. I wrote it long after you left.” Even to his own ears, Corum’s voice was distant.

  “I upset you, playing it?” Jhary became concerned.

  “Yes. But you were not to blame. I wrote it for Rhalina and now …”

  “… Rhalina is dead. I heard she lived a good life. A happy life.”

  “Aye. And a short life.” Corum’s tone was bitter.

  “Longer than most mortals’, Corum.” Jhary changed the subject. “You do not look well. Have you been ill?”

  ‘ ‘In my head, perhaps. I still mourn for Rhalina, Jhary-a-Conel. I still grieve for her, you see. I wish she …” Corum offered Jhary a somewhat bleak smile. “But I must not consider the impossible.”

  “Are there impossibilities?” Jhary gave his attention to his cat, stroking its fur-covered wings.

  “There are in this world.”

  “There are in most. Yet what is impossible in one is possible in another. That is the pleasure one has in travelling between the worlds, as I do.”

  “You went to seek gods. Did you find them?”

  ‘ ‘A few. And some heroes whom I could accompany. I have seen a new world born and an old one destroyed since we last talked. I have seen many strange forms of life and heard many peculiar opinions regarding the nature of the universe and its inhabitants. Life comes and goes, you know. There is no tragedy in death, Corum.”

  ‘ ‘There is a tragedy here,” Corum pointed out, “when one has to live for centuries before rejoining the object of one’s love—and then only joining her in oblivion.”

  “This is morbid, silly talk. It is unworthy of a hero.” Jhary laughed. ’ ‘It is unintelligent, to say the least, my friend. Come now, Corum—I’ll regret paying you this visit if you’ve become as dull as that.”

  And at last Coram smiled. “You are right. It is what happens to men who avoid the company of their fellows, I fear. Their wits grow stale.”

  “It is for that reason that I have always, by and large, preferred the life of the city,” Jhary told him.

  “Does the city not rob you of your spirit? The Nhadragh lived in cities and they grew degenerate.”

  “The spirit can be nurtured almost anywhere. The mind needs stimuli. It is a question of finding the balance. It also depends upon one’s temperament, too, I suppose. Well, temperamentally I am a dweller in cities. The larger, the dirtier, the more densely populated, the better! And I have seen some cities so black with grime, so packed with life, so vast, that you would not believe me if I told you the details! Ah, beautiful!”

  Corum laughed. ‘ ‘I am pleased t
hat you have come back, Jhary-a-Conel, with your hat and your cat and your irony!” And then they embraced each other and they laughed together.

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  THE INVOCATION OF A DEAD DEMIGOD

  That night they feasted, and Corum’s heart lightened and he enjoyed his meat and wine for the first time in seven years.

  ‘ ‘And then I came to be involved in the strangest of all adventures concerning the nature of time,” Jhary told him. Jhary had been recounting his deeds for nearly two hours. “You’ll recall the Rune-staff, which came to our aid during the episode concerning the tower of Voilodion Ghagnasdiak? Well, my adventures touched on the world most influenced by that peculiar stick. A manifestation of that eternal hero, of whom you, yourself, are a manifestation, he called himself Hawkmoon. If you think that your tragedy is great, you would think it nothing when you hear the tragedy of Hawkmoon, who gained a friend and lost a bride, two children and …”

  And for another hour he told the tale of Hawkmoon. There were other tales to follow, he promised, if Corum wished to hear them. There were tales of Elric and Erekose, whom Corum had met, of Kane and Cornelius and Carnelian, of Glogaeur and Bastable and many more—all aspects, Jhary swore, of the same champion and all his friends (if not himself). And he spoke of such weighty matters with so much humor, with so many joking asides, that Corum’s spirits rose still higher, until he was helpless with laughter and quite drunk on the wine.

  Then, in the early morning, he confided to Jhary his secret—that he feared that he had gone mad.

  “I hear voices, dream dreams—always the same. They call for me. They beg me to join them. Do I pretend to myself that this is Rhalina who calls me? Nothing I do will rid me of them, Jhary. That is why I was out again today—hoping to tire myself so much that I would not dream.”

  And Jhary’s face became serious as he listened. And when Corum had finished, the little man put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, saying, “Fear not. Perhaps you have been mad these past seven years, but it was a quieter madness altogether. You did hear voices. And the people you saw in your dream were real people. They were summoning—or trying to summon—their champion. They were trying to bring you to them. They have been trying for many days now.

  Again Corum had difficulty in understanding Jhary. “Their champion … ?” he said vaguely.

  “In their age you are a legend,” Jhary told him.’ ‘A demigod, at very least. You are Corum Llaw Ereint to them—Corum of the Silver Hand. A great warrior. A great champion of his people. There are whole cycles of tales concerning your exploits and proving your divinity!” Jhary smiled a little sardonically. “As with most gods and heroes you have a legend attached to your name which says that you will return at the time of your people’s greatest need. Now their need is great indeed.”

  “Who are these people that they should be ‘mine’?”

  “They are the descendants of the folk of Lwym-an-Esh— Rhalina’s people.”

  “Rhalina’s … ?”

  “They are fine folk, Corum. I know them.”

  “You come from them now?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You cannot make them stop this chanting? You cannot make them cease appearing in my dreams?”

  “Their strength weakens daily. Soon they will trouble you no longer. You will sleep tranquilly again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh I am certain. They can survive for only a little while more, before the Cold Folk overwhelm them, before the People of the Pines enslave or slay what remains of their race.”

  “Well,” said Corum, “as you say, these things come and go…”

  “Aye,” said Jhary. “But it will be sad to see the last of that golden folk go down beneath the dark and savage invaders who now sweep across their land, bringing terror where there was peace, bringing fear where there was joy …”

  “It sounds familiar,” said Corum dryly. “So the world turns, and turns again.” He was now fairly well satisfied that he understood why Jhary was harping upon this particular subject.

  “And turns again,” agreed Jhary.

  “And even if I would, I could not help them, Jhary. I am no longer able to travel between the planes. I cannot even see through to other planes. Besides, how could one warrior help this folk of which you speak?”

  ‘ ‘One warrior could help greatly. And it is their invocation which would bring you to them, if you would let it. But they are weak. They cannot summon you against your will. You resist them. It does not take much resistance. Their numbers grow small, their power fades. They were once a great people. Even their name derives from your name. They call themselves Tuha-na-Cremm Croich.”

  “Cremm?”

  “Or Corum, sometimes. It is an older form. It means simply ‘Lord’ to them—Lord of the Mound. They worship you in the form of a stone slab erected on a mound. You are supposed to live beneath that mound and hear their prayers.”

  “These are superstitious people.”

  ‘ ‘A little. But they are not god-ridden. They worship Man above all else. And all their gods are really nothing more than dead heroes. Some folk make gods of the sun, the moon, the storms, the beasts and so on. But this folk deifies only what is noble in Man and loves what is beautiful in nature. You would be proud of your wife’s descendants, Corum.”

  “Aye,” said Corum, narrowing his eye and giving Jhary a sideways look. There was a faint smile on his lips.’ ‘Is this mound in a forest. An oak forest?”

  “An oak forest, yes.”

  “It is the same that I saw in my dream. And why is this folk attacked?”

  “A race from beyond the sea (some say from beneath the sea) comes from the East. The whole land which used to be named Bro-an-Mabden has either gone under the waves or lies beneath a perpetual cloak of winter. Ice covers all—brought by this eastern folk. It has also been said that this is a folk who once conquered this land and was driven back. Others suggest that it is a mixture of two old races or more, banded together to destroy the ancestors of the Mabden of Lwym-an-Esh. There is no talk of Law or Chaos there. If this folk has power, it comes from themselves. They can produce fantasms. Their spells are powerful. They can destroy either by means of fire or by means of ice. And they have other powers, too. They are called the Fhoi Myore and they control the North Wind. They are called the Cold Folk and they can make the northern and the eastern seas answer their bidding. They are called the People of the Pines and can command black wolves as their servants. They are a brutal people, born, some say, of Chaos and Old Night. Perhaps they are the last vestiges of Chaos upon this plane, Comm.”

  Corum was smiling openly now.’ ‘And you urge me to go against such a folk? On behalf of another folk which is not my own?”

  “Your own by adoption. Your wife’s folk.”

  ‘ ‘I have already fought in one conflict that was not my own,” said Corum, turning away and pouring himself more wine.

  “Not your own? All such conflicts are yours, Corum. It is your fate.”

  “And what if I resist that fate?”

  ‘ ‘You cannot resist it for any great time. I know that. It is better to accept your destiny with good grace—with humor, even.”

  “Humor?” Corum swallowed the wine and wiped his lips. “That is not easy, Jhary.”

  “No. But it is what makes the whole thing bearable.”

  “And what do I risk if I answer the call and help this folk?”

  “Many things. Your life.”

  “That is worth little. What else?”

  “Your soul, perhaps.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You could discover the answer to that question if you embark upon this enterprise.”

  Corum frowned. “My spirit is not my own, Jhary-a-Conel. You have told me that.”

  “I did not. Your spirit is your own. Perhaps your actions are dictated by other forces, which is another question altogether . .

  Corum’s frown changed as he smil
ed. “You sound like one of those priests of Arkyn who used to thrive in Lwym-an-Esh. I think the morality is somewhat doubtful. However, I was ever pragmatic. The Vadhagh race is a pragmatic race.”

  Jhary raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “Will you allow yourself to be called by the People of Cremm Croich?”

  “I will consider it.”

  “Speak to them, at least.”

  “I have tried. They do not hear.”

  “Perhaps they do. Or perhaps you must be in a certain frame of mind to answer so that they can hear.”

  ‘ ‘Very well. I will try. And what if I do allow myself to be borne into this future time, Jhary? Will you be there?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You cannot be more certain?”

  “I am no more master of my fate than are you, Champion Eternal.”

  ‘ ‘I would be grateful,” said Corum,’ ‘if you will not use that title. I find it discomforting.”

  Jhary laughed. “I cannot say that I blame you. Corum Jhaelen Irsei!”

  Corum rose and stretched his arms. The firelight touched his silver hand and made it gleam red, as if suddenly suffused with blood. He looked at the hand, turning it this way and that in the light as if he had never properly seen it before.

  ‘ ‘Corum of the Silver Hand,” he said musingly.’ ‘They think the hand of supernatural origin, I take it.”

  “They have more experience of the supernatural than what you would call ‘science’. Do not despise them for that. Where they live there are strange things happening. Natural laws are sometimes the creation of human ideas.”

  “I have often contemplated that theory, but how does one find evidence for it, Jhary?”

  “Evidence, too, can be created. You are doubtless wise to encourage your own pragmatism. I believe everything, just as I believe nothing.”