The Knight of Swords

  The Knight of Swords

  The First Book of Corum

  Michael Moorcock

  Content

  Book One

  Introduction

  The First Chapter At Castle Erorn

  The Second Chapter Prince Corum Sets Forth

  The Third Chapter The Mabden Herd

  The Fourth Chapter The Bane Of Beauty: The Doom Of Truth

  The Fifth Chapter A Lesson Learned

  The Sixth Chapter The Maiming Of Corum

  The Seventh Chapter The Brown Man

  The Eighth Chapter The Margravine Of Allomglyl

  The Ninth Chapter Concerning Love And Hatred

  The Tenth Chapter A Thousand Swords

  The Eleventh Chapter The Summoning

  The Twelfth Chapter The Margrave's Bargain

  Book Two

  The First Chapter The Ambitious Sorcerer

  The Second Chapter The Eye Of Rhynn And The Hand Of Kwll

  The Third Chapter Beyond The Fifteen Planes

  Book Three

  The First Chapter The Walking God

  The Second Chapter Temgol-Lep

  The Third Chapter The Dark Things Come

  The Fourth Chapter In The Flamelands

  The Fifth Chapter Through The Lion's Mouth

  The Sixth Chapter The God Feasters

  The Seventh Chapter The Bane Of The Sword Rulers

  The Eighth Chapter A Pause In The Struggle

  Book One

  In which Prince Corum learns a lesson and loses a limb

  Introduction

  In those days there were oceans of light and cities in the skies and wild flying beasts of bronze. There were herds of crimson cattle that roared and were taller than castles. There were shrill, viridian things that haunted bleak rivers. It was a time of gods, manifesting themselves upon our world in all her aspects; a time of giants who walked on water; of mindless sprites and misshapen creatures who could be summoned by an ill-considered thought but driven away only on pain of some fearful sacrifice; of magics, phantasms, unstable nature, impossible events, insane paradoxes, dreams come true, dreams gone awry, of nightmares assuming reality.

  It was a rich time and a dark time. The time of the Sword Rulers. The time when the Vadhagh and the Nhadragh, age-old enemies, were dying. The time when Man, the slave of fear, was emerging, unaware that much of the terror he experienced was the result of nothing else but the fact that he, himself, had come into existence. It was one of many ironies connected with Man, who, in those days, called his race "Mabden."

  The Mabden lived brief lives and bred prodigiously. Within a few centuries they rose to dominate the westerly continent on which they had evolved. Superstition stopped them from sending many of their ships toward Vadhagh and Nhadragh lands for another century or two, but gradually they gained courage when no resistance was offered. They began to feel jealous of the older races; they began to feel malicious.

  The Vadhagh and the Nhadragh were not aware of this. They had dwelt a million or more years upon the planet which now, at last, seemed at rest. They knew of the Mabden but considered them not greatly different from other beasts. Though continuing to indulge their traditional hatreds of one another, the Vadhagh and the Nhadragh spent their long hours in considering abstractions, in the creation of works of art and the like. Rational, sophisticated, at one with themselves, these older races were unable to believe in the changes that had come. Thus, as it almost always is, they ignored the signs.

  There was no exchange of knowledge between the two ancient enemies, even though they had fought their last battle many centuries before.

  The Vadhagh lived in family groups occupying isolated castles scattered across a continent called by them Bro-an-Vadhagh. There was scarcely any communication between these families, for the Vadhagh had long since lost the impulse to travel. The Nhadragh lived in their cities built on the islands in the seas to the northwest of Bro-an-Vadhagh. They, also, had little contact, even with their closest kin. Both races reckoned themselves invulnerable. Both were wrong.

  Upstart Man was beginning to breed and spread like a pestilence across the world. This pestilence struck down the old races wherever it touched them. And it was not only death that Man brought, but terror, too. Willfully, he made of the older world nothing but ruins and bones. Unwittingly, he brought psychic and supernatural disruption of a magnitude which even the Great Old Gods failed to comprehend.

  And the Great Old Gods began to know Fear. And Man, slave of fear, arrogant in his ignorance, continued his stumbling progress. He was blind to the huge disruptions aroused by his apparently petty ambitions. As well, Man was deficient in sensitivity, had no awareness of the multitude of dimensions that filled the universe, each plane intersecting with several others. Not so the Vadhagh nor the Nhadragh, who had known what it was to move at will between the dimensions they termed the Five Planes. They had glimpsed and understood the nature of the many planes, other than the Five, through which the Earth moved.

  Therefore it seemed a dreadful injustice that these wise races should perish at the hands of creatures who were still little more than animals. It was as if vultures feasted on and squabbled over the paralyzed body of the youthful poet who could only stare at them with puzzled eyes as they slowly robbed him of an exquisite existence they would never appreciate, never know they were taking.

  "If they valued what they stole, if they knew what they were destroying," says the old Vadhagh in the story, ‘The Only Autumn Flower,’ "then I would be consoled."

  It was unjust.

  By creating Man, the universe had betrayed the old races.

  But it was a perpetual and familiar injustice. The sentient may perceive and love the universe, but the universe cannot perceive and love the sentient. The universe sees no distinction between the multitude of creatures and elements which comprise it. All are equal. None is favored. The universe, equipped with nothing but the materials and the power of creation, continues to create: something of this, something of that. It cannot control what it creates and it cannot, it seems, be controled by its creations (though a few might deceive themselves otherwise). Those who curse the workings of the universe curse that which is deaf. Those who strike out at those workings fight that which is inviolate. Those who shake their fists, shake their fists at blind stars.

  But this does not mean that there are some who will not try to do battle with and destroy the invulnerable.

  There will always be such beings, sometimes beings of great wisdom, who cannot bear to believe in an insouciant universe.

  Prince Corum Jhaelen Irsei was one of these. Perhaps the last of the Vadhagh race, he was sometimes known as The Prince in the Scarlet Robe.

  This chronicle concerns him.

  —The Book of Corum

  The First Chapter

  At Castle Erorn

  At Castle Erorn dwelt the family of the Vadbagh prince, Khlonskey. This family had occupied the castle for many centuries. It loved, exceedingly, the moody sea that washed Erorn's northern walls and the pleasant forest that crept close to her southern flank.

  Castle Erora was so ancient that it seemed to have fused entirely with the rock of the huge eminence that overlooked the sea. Outside, it was a splendor of time-worn turrets and salt-smoothed stones. Within, it had moving walls which changed shape in tune with the elements and changed color when the wind changed course. And there were rooms full of arrangements of crystals and fountains, playing exquisitely complicated fugues composed by members of the family, some living, some dead. And there were galleries filled with paintings brushed on velvet, marble, and glass by Prince Khlonskey's artist ancestors. And there were libraries filled with manuscripts written by members of both the Vadh
agh and the Nhadragh races. And elsewhere in Castle Erora were rooms of statues, and there were aviaries and menageries, observatories, laboratories, nurseries, gardens, chambers of meditation, surgeries, gymnasia, collections of martial paraphernalia, kitchens, planetaria, museums, conjuratoria, as well as rooms set aside for less specific purposes, or rooms forming the apartment of those who lived in the castle.

  Twelve people lived in the castle now, though once five hundred had occupied it. The twelve were Prince Khlonskey, himself, a very ancient being; his wife Colatalarna, who was, in appearance, much younger than her husband; Hastru and JPholhinra, his twin daughters; Prince Rhanan, his brother; Sertreda, his niece; Corum, his son. The remaining five were retainers, distant cousins of the prince. All had characteristic Vadhagh features: narrow, long skulls; ears that were almost without lobes and tapered flat alongside the head; fine hair that a breeze would make rise like flimsy clouds about their faces; large almond eyes that had yellow centers and purple surrounds; wide, full-lipped mouths; and skin that was a strange, gold-flecked rose-pink. Their bodies were slim and tall and well proportioned and they moved with a leisurely grace that made the human gait seem like the shambling of a crippled ape.

  Occupying themselves chiefly with remote, intellectual pastimes, the family of Prince Khlonskey had had no contact with other Vadhagh folk for two hundred years and had not seen a Nhadragh for three hundred. No news of the outside world had come to them for over a century. Only once had they seen a Mabden, when a specimen had been brought to Castle Erorn by Prince Opash, a naturalist and first cousin to Prince Khlonskey. The Mabden—a female—had been placed in the menageries where it was cared for well, but it lived little more than fifty years and when it died was never replaced. Since then, of course, the Mabden had multiplied and were, it appeared, even now inhabiting large areas of Bro-an-Vadhagh. There were even rumors that some Vadhagh castles had been infested with Mabden who had overwhelmed the inhabitants and eventually destroyed their homes altogether. Prince Khlonskey found this hard to believe. Besides, the speculation was of little interest to him or his family. There were so many other things to discuss, so many more complex sources of speculation, pleasanter topics of a hundred kinds.

  Prince Khlonskey's skin was almost milk-white and so thin that all the veins and muscles were clearly displayed beneath. He had lived for over a thousand years and only recently had age begun to enfeeble him. When his weakness became unbearable, when his eyes began to dim, he would end his life in the manner of the Vadhagh, by going to the Chamber of Vapors and laying himself on the silk quilts and cushions and inhaling the various sweet-smelling gases until he died. His hair had turned a golden brown with age and the color of his eyes had mellowed to a kind of reddish-purple with pupils of a dark orange. His robes were now rather too large for his body, but, although he carried a staff of plaited platinum in which ruby metal had been woven, his bearing was still proud and his back was not bent.

  One day he sought his son, Prince Corum, in a chamber where music was formed by the arranging of hollow tubes, vibrating wires, and shifting stones. The very simple, quiet music was almost drowned by the sound of Khlonskey's feet on the tapestries, the tap of his staff, and the rustle of the breath in his thin throat.

  Prince Corum withdrew his attention from the music and gave his father a look of polite inquiry.

  "Father?"

  "Corum. Forgive the interruption."

  "Of course. Besides, I was not satisfied with the work." Corum rose from his cushions and drew his scarlet robe about him.

  "It occurs to me, Corum, that I will soon visit the Chamber of Vapors," said Prince Khlonskey, "and, in reaching this decision, I had it in mind to indulge a whim of mine. However, I will need your help."

  Now Prince Corum loved his father and respected his decision, so he said gravely, "That help is yours, Father. What can I do?"

  "I would know something of the fate of my kinsmen. Of Prince Opash, who dwells at Castle Sam in the East Of Princess Lorim, who is at Castle Crachah in the South. And of Prince Faguin of Castle Gal in the North."

  Prince Corum frowned. "Very well, Father, if ..."

  "I know, Son, what you think—that I could discover what I wish to know by occult means. Yet this is not so. For some reason it is difficult to achieve intercourse with the other planes. Even my perception of them is dimmer than it should be, try as I might to enter them with my senses. And to enter them physically is almost impossible. Perhaps it is my age ..."

  "No, Father," said Prince Corum, "for I, too, have found it difficult Once it was easy to move through the Five Planes at will With a little more effort the Ten Planes could be contacted, though, as you know, few could visit them physically. Now I am unable to do more than see and occasionally hear those other four planes which, with ours, form the spectrum through which our planet directly passes in its astral cycle. I do not understand why this loss of sensibility has come about."

  "And neither do I," agreed his father. "But I feel that it must be portentous. It indicates some major change in the nature of our Earth. That is the chief reason why I would discover something of my relatives and, perhaps, learn if they know why our senses become bound to a single plane. It is unnatural. It is crippling to us. Are we to become like the beasts of this plane, which are aware only of one dimension and have no understanding that the others exist at all? Is some process of devolution at work? Shall our children know nothing of our experiences and slowly return to the state of those aquatic mammals from which our race sprang? I will admit to you, my son, that there are traces of fear in my mind."

  Prince Corum did not attempt to reassure his father. "I read once of the Blandhagna," he said thoughtfully. "They were a race based on the Third Plane. A people of great sophistication. But something took hold of their genes and of their brains and, within five generations, they had reverted to a species of flying reptile still equipped with a vestige of their former intelligence—enough to make them mad and, ultimately, destroy themselves completely. What is it, I wonder, that produces these reversions?"

  "Only the Sword Rulers know," his father said.

  Corum smiled. "And the Sword Rulers do not exist. I understand your concern, Father. You would have me visit these kinsmen of yours and bring them our greetings. I should discover if they fare well and if they have noticed what we have noticed at our Castle Erorn."

  His father nodded. "If our perception dims to the level of a Mabden, then there is little point in continuing our race. Find out, too, if you can, how the Nhadragh fare—if this dullness of the senses comes to them."

  "Our races are of more or less equal age," Corum murmured. "Perhaps they are similarly afflicted. But did not your kinsman Shulag have something to say, when he visited you some centuries back?"

  "Aye. Shulag had it that the Mabden had come in ships from the West and subjugated the Nhadragh, kilting most and making slaves of those remaining. Yet I find it hard to believe that the Mabden half-beasts, no matter how great their numbers, would have the wit to defeat Nhadragh cunning."

  Prince Corum pursed his lips reflectively. "Possibly they grew complacent," he said.

  His father turned to leave the chamber, his staff of ruby and platinum tapping softly on the richly embroidered cloth covering the flagstones, his delicate hand clutching it more tightly than usual. "Complacency is one thing," he said, "and fear of an impossible doom is another. Both, of course, are ultimately destructive. We need speculate no more, for on your return you may bring us answers to these questions. Answers that we can understand. When would you leave?"

  "I have it in mind to complete my symphony," Prince Corum said. "That will take another day or so. I will leave on the morning after the day I finish it."

  Prince Khlonskey nodded his old head in satisfaction. "Thank you, my son."

  When he had gone, Prince Corum returned his attention to his music, but be found that it was difficult for him to concentrate. His imagination began to focus on the quest he had agre
ed to undertake. A certain emotion took hold of him. He believed that it must be excitement. When he embarked on the quest, it would be the first time in bis life that he had left the environs of Castle Erorn.

  He attempted to calm himself, for it was against the customs of his people to allow an excess of emotion.

  "It will be instructive," he murmured to himself, "to see the rest of this continent. I wish that geography had interested me more. I scarcely know the outlines of Bro-an-Vadhagh, let alone the rest of the world. Perhaps I should study some of the maps and travelers' tales in the library. Yes, I will go there tomorrow, or perhaps the next day."

  No sense of urgency filled Prince Corum, even now. The Vadhagh being a long-lived people, they were used to acting at leisure, considering their actions before performing them, spending weeks or months in meditation before embarking on some study or creative work.

  Prince Corum then decided to abandon his symphony, on which he had been working for the past four years. Perhaps he would take it up again on his return, perhaps not. It was of no great consequence.

  The Second Chapter

  Prince Corum Sets Forth

  And so, with the hooves of his horse hidden by the white mist of the morning, Prince Corum rode out from Castle Erorn to begin his quest.

  The pale light softened the lines of the castle so that it seemed, more than ever, to merge with the great high rock on which it stood, and the trees that grew beside the path down which Corum rode also appeared to melt and mingle with the mist so that the landscape was a silent vision of gentle golds and greens and grays tinged with the pink rays of a distant, hidden sun. And, from beyond the rock, the sea, cloaked by the mist, could be heard retreating from the shore.

  As Corum reached the sweet-smelling pines and birches of the forest a wren began to sing, was answered by the croak of a rook, and both fell silent as if startled by the sounds their own throats had made.

  Corum rode on through the forest until the whisper of the sea dimmed behind him and the mist began to give way before the warming light of the rising sun. This ancient forest was familiar to him and he loved it, for it was here he had ridden as a boy and had been taught the obsolete art of war, which had been considered by his father as useful a way as any of making his body strong and quick. Here, too, he had lain through whole days watching the small animals that inhabited the forest—the tiny horselike beast of gray and yellow which had a horn growing from its forehead and was no bigger than a dog; the fan-winged gloriously colored bird that could soar higher than the eye could see and yet which built its nests in abandoned fox and badger sets underground; the large, gentle pig with thick, curly black hair that fed on moss; and many others.