Free Chronicles of Corum by Michael Moorcock

Croich. But the only architect of Castle Owyn was the wind and the only mason the sea.”
    “Yet I should like to go there,” said Corum, “when I can.”
    “If both of us survive the raid of the Fhoi Myore—indeed, if the Fhoi Myore decide not to attack us— then I will take you. But there is nothing to see, Prince Corum. The place is best observed from this distance.”
    “I suspect,” said Corum, “that you are right, King.”
    Now, as they spoke, the mist grew thicker still and obscured all sight of the sea. Mist fell upon Caer Mahlod and filled her narrow streets. Mist moved upon the fortress from all sides save the West.
    Even the small sounds in the fort died as the occupants waited to discover what the mist had brought with it.
    It had become dark, almost like evening. It had become cold so that Corum, more warmly clothed than any of the others, shivered and drew his scarlet robe more tightly about him.
    And there came the howling of a hound from out of the mist. A savage, desolate howling which was taken up by other canine throats until it filled the air on all sides of the fortress called Caer Mahlod.
    Peering through his single eye, Corum tried to see the hounds themselves. For an instant he thought he saw a pale, slinking shape at the bottom of the hill, below the walls. Then the shape had gone. Corum carefully strung his long, bone bow and nocked a slender arrow to the string. Grasping the shaft of the bow with his metal hand, he used his fleshly hand to draw back the string to his cheek and he waited until he saw another faint shape appear before he let the arrow fly.
    It pierced the mist and vanished.
    A scream rose high and horrible and became a snarl, a growl. Then a shape was running up the hill towards the fort. It ran very fast and very straight. Two yellow eyes glared directly into Corum’s face as if the beast recognized instinctively the source of its wound. Its long, feathery tail waved as it ran, and at first it seemed it had another tail, rigid and thin, but then Corum realized that it was his arrow, sticking from the animal’s side. He nocked another arrow to his bowstring. He drew the string back and glared into the beast’s blazing eyes. A red mouth gaped and yellow fangs dripped saliva. The hair was coarse and shaggy and, as the dog approached, Corum realized it was as large as a small pony.
    The sound of its snarling filled his ears and still he did not let fly, for it was sometimes hard to see against the background of mist.
    Corum had not expected the hound to be white. It was a glowing whiteness which was somehow disgusting to look upon. Only the ears of the hound were darker than the rest of its body, and these ears were a glistening red, the color of fresh blood.
    Higher and higher up the hill raced the white hound, the first arrow bouncing apparently unnoticed in its side, and its howl seemed almost to be a howl of obscene laughter as it anticipated sinking its fangs into Corum’s throat. There was glee in the yellow eyes.
    Corum could wait no longer. He released the arrow.
    The shaft seemed to travel very slowly towards the white hound. The beast saw the arrow and tried to sidestep, but it had been running too fast, too purposefully. Its movements were not properly coordinated. As it ducked to save its right eye, its legs tangled and it received the arrow in its left eye with such an impact that the tip of the arrow burst through the other side of the skull.
    The hound opened its great jaws as it collapsed, but no further sound escaped that frightful throat. It fell, rolled a short way down the hill, and was still.
    Corum let out a sigh and turned to speak to King Mannach.
    But King Mannach was already flinging back his arm, aiming a spear into the mist where at least a hundred pale shadows skulked and slavered and wailed their determination to be revenged upon the slayers of their sibling.

THE SECOND CHAPTER
THE FIGHT AT CAER MAHLOD
    “Oh, there are many!”
    King