Read Online Chronicles of Corum by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Moorcock
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somewhere near.”
“Does mist follow them?”
“Mist precedes them. Ice and snow follow. And the East Wind often signals their coming, bearing hailstones large as gulls’ eggs. Ah, the earth dies and the trees bow when the Fhoi Myore march.” She spoke distantly.
The tension in the hall was increasing.
And then she said: “You do not have to love me, lord.”
That was when he turned.
But she had gone.
Again he stared down at his metal hand, using the soft one, the one of flesh, to brush the tear from his single eye.
Faintly, from another, distant, part of the fortress, he thought he heard the strains of a Mabden harp playing music sweeter than any he had heard at Castle Erorn—and it was sad, the sound of that harp.
“You have a harpist of great genius in your Court, King Mannach.”
Corum and the king stood together on the outer walls of Caer Mahlod, looking toward the East.
“You heard the harp, too?” King Mannach frowned. He was dressed in a breastplate of bronze with a bronze helmet upon his graying head. His handsome face was grim and his eyes puzzled. “Some thought that you played it, Lord of the Mound.”
Corum held up his silver hand. “This could not pluck such a strain as that.” He looked at the sky. “It was a Mabden harpist I heard.”
‘ ‘I think not,” said Mannach. ‘ ‘At least, Prince, it was no harpist of my court we heard. The bards of Caer Mahlod prepare themselves for the fight. When they play, it will be martial songs we shall hear, not music like that of this morning.”
“You did not recognize the tune?”
‘ ‘I have heard it once before—in the grove of the mound, the first night that we came to call to you to help us. It was what encouraged us to believe that there might be truth in the legend. If that harp had not played, we should not have continued.”
Corum drew his brows together. “Mysteries were never to my taste,” he said.
“Then life itself cannot be to your taste, lord.”
Corum smiled. ‘ ‘I take your meaning, King Mannach. Nonetheless, I am suspicious of such things as ghostly harps.”
There was no more to say on the matter. King Mannach pointed towards the thick oak forest. Heavy mist clung to the topmost branches. Even as they watched, the mist seemed to grow denser, descending towards the ground until few of the frost-rimed trees could be seen. The sun was up, but its light was pale, for thin clouds were beginning to drift across it. The day was still.
No birds sang in the forest. Even the movements of the warriors inside the fort were muted. When a man did shout, the sound seemed magnified and clear as a belPs note for a second before it was absorbed into the silence. All along the battlements had been stacked weapons—spears, arrows, bows, large stones and the round tathlum balls which would be flung from slings.
Now the warriors began to take their places on the walls. Caer Mahlod was not a large settlement, but it was strong and heavy, squatting on the top of a hill whose sides had been smoothed so that it seemed like a man-made cone of enormous proportions. To the south and north stood several other cones like it, and on two of these could be seen the ruins of other fortresses, suggesting that once Caer Mahlod had been part of a much larger settlement.
Corum turned to look towards the sea. There the mist had gone and the water was calm, blue and sparkling, as if the weather which touched the land did not extend across the ocean. And now Corum could see that he had been right in judging Castle Erorn nearby. Two or three miles to the south was the familiar outline of the promontory and what might be the remains of a tower.
“Do you know that place, King Mannach?” asked Corum, pointing.
“It is called Castle Owyn by us, for it resembles a castle when seen from the distance, but really it is a natural formation. Some legends are attached to it concerning its occupation by supernatural beings—by the Sidhi, by Cremm
“Does mist follow them?”
“Mist precedes them. Ice and snow follow. And the East Wind often signals their coming, bearing hailstones large as gulls’ eggs. Ah, the earth dies and the trees bow when the Fhoi Myore march.” She spoke distantly.
The tension in the hall was increasing.
And then she said: “You do not have to love me, lord.”
That was when he turned.
But she had gone.
Again he stared down at his metal hand, using the soft one, the one of flesh, to brush the tear from his single eye.
Faintly, from another, distant, part of the fortress, he thought he heard the strains of a Mabden harp playing music sweeter than any he had heard at Castle Erorn—and it was sad, the sound of that harp.
“You have a harpist of great genius in your Court, King Mannach.”
Corum and the king stood together on the outer walls of Caer Mahlod, looking toward the East.
“You heard the harp, too?” King Mannach frowned. He was dressed in a breastplate of bronze with a bronze helmet upon his graying head. His handsome face was grim and his eyes puzzled. “Some thought that you played it, Lord of the Mound.”
Corum held up his silver hand. “This could not pluck such a strain as that.” He looked at the sky. “It was a Mabden harpist I heard.”
‘ ‘I think not,” said Mannach. ‘ ‘At least, Prince, it was no harpist of my court we heard. The bards of Caer Mahlod prepare themselves for the fight. When they play, it will be martial songs we shall hear, not music like that of this morning.”
“You did not recognize the tune?”
‘ ‘I have heard it once before—in the grove of the mound, the first night that we came to call to you to help us. It was what encouraged us to believe that there might be truth in the legend. If that harp had not played, we should not have continued.”
Corum drew his brows together. “Mysteries were never to my taste,” he said.
“Then life itself cannot be to your taste, lord.”
Corum smiled. ‘ ‘I take your meaning, King Mannach. Nonetheless, I am suspicious of such things as ghostly harps.”
There was no more to say on the matter. King Mannach pointed towards the thick oak forest. Heavy mist clung to the topmost branches. Even as they watched, the mist seemed to grow denser, descending towards the ground until few of the frost-rimed trees could be seen. The sun was up, but its light was pale, for thin clouds were beginning to drift across it. The day was still.
No birds sang in the forest. Even the movements of the warriors inside the fort were muted. When a man did shout, the sound seemed magnified and clear as a belPs note for a second before it was absorbed into the silence. All along the battlements had been stacked weapons—spears, arrows, bows, large stones and the round tathlum balls which would be flung from slings.
Now the warriors began to take their places on the walls. Caer Mahlod was not a large settlement, but it was strong and heavy, squatting on the top of a hill whose sides had been smoothed so that it seemed like a man-made cone of enormous proportions. To the south and north stood several other cones like it, and on two of these could be seen the ruins of other fortresses, suggesting that once Caer Mahlod had been part of a much larger settlement.
Corum turned to look towards the sea. There the mist had gone and the water was calm, blue and sparkling, as if the weather which touched the land did not extend across the ocean. And now Corum could see that he had been right in judging Castle Erorn nearby. Two or three miles to the south was the familiar outline of the promontory and what might be the remains of a tower.
“Do you know that place, King Mannach?” asked Corum, pointing.
“It is called Castle Owyn by us, for it resembles a castle when seen from the distance, but really it is a natural formation. Some legends are attached to it concerning its occupation by supernatural beings—by the Sidhi, by Cremm
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