Read Online Chronicles of Corum by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online Page A

A place, Corum thought, where men might kneel alone and purify their minds for battle. He flexed his silver hand, stretching the silver fingers, bending the silver knuckles, looking at the silver palm which was so detailed that every line of a natural hand was reproduced. The hand was attached by pins to the wrist-bone. Corum had performed the necessary operation himself, using his other hand to drive the drill through the bone. Well might anyone believe it to be a magic hand, so perfect a copy of the fleshly one was it. With a sudden gesture of distaste Corum let the hand fall to his side. It was the only thing he had created in two-thirds of a century—the only work he had finished since the end of the adventure of the Sword Rulers.
    He felt self-disgust and could not analyze the reason for the emotion. He began to pace back and forth over the great flagstones, sniffing at the cold, damp air like a hound impatient to begin the chase. Or was he so impatient to begin? Perhaps he was, instead, escaping from something. From the knowledge of his own, inevitable doom? The doom which Elric and Erekose had both hinted at ?
    “Oh, by my ancestors, let the battle come and let it be a mighty one!” he shouted aloud. And with a tense movement he drew his battle-blade and whirled it, testing its temper, gauging its balance, before resheathing it with a crash which echoed through the hall.
    ‘ ‘And let it be a successful one for Caer Mahlod, Sir Champion.” The voice was the sweet, amused voice of Medhbh, King
    Mannach’s daughter, leaning in the doorway, a hand on her hip. Around her waist was a heavy belt bearing a sheathed dagger and broadsword. Her hair was tied back and she wore a sort of leather toga as her only’armor. In her free hand she held a light helmet not unlike a Vadhagh helmet in design but made of brass.
    Rarely given to bombastics and embarrassed at being discovered declaiming his confusion, Corum turned away, unable to look into her face. His humor left him momentarily. “I fear you have very little of a hero in me, lady,” he said coldly.
    “And a mournful god, Lord of the Mound. We hesitated, many of us, before summoning you to us. Many thought that, if you existed at all, you would be some dark and awful being of the Fhoi Myore kind, that we should release something horrible upon ourselves. But, no, we brought to us instead a man. And a man is much more complicated a being than a mere god. And our responsibilities, it seems, are different altogether—subtler and harder to accomplish. You are angry because I saw that you were fearful …”
    “Perhaps it was not fear, lady.”
    “But perhaps it was. You support our cause because you chose to. We have no claim on you. We have no power over you, as we thought we might have. You help us in spite of your fear and your self-doubt. That is worth much more than the help of some barely sensate supernatural creature such as the Fhoi Myore use. And the Fhoi Myore fear your legend. Remember that, Prince Corum.”
    Still Corum would not turn. Her kindness was unmistakable. Her sympathy was real. Her intelligence was as great as her beauty. How could he turn when to turn would be to see her and to see her would be to love her helplessly, to love her as he had loved Rhalina.
    Controlling his voice he said: “I thank you for your kindness, lady. I will do what I can in the service of your folk, but I warn you to expect no spectacular aid from me.”
    He did not turn, for he did not trust himself. Did he see something of Rhalina in this girl because he needed Rhalina so much? And if that were the case what right had he to love Medhbh, herself, if he loved in her only qualities he imagined he saw?
    A silver hand covered the embroidered eye-patch, the cold and unfeeling fingers plucking at the fabric Rhalina had sewn. He almost shouted at her:
    “And what of the Fhoi Myore? Do they come?”
    “Not yet. Only the mist grows thicker. A sure sign of their presence