Free Chronicles of Corum by Michael Moorcock Page A

Mannach’s expression was troubled as he took up a second spear and flung that after the first. “More than any I have seen before.’’ He glanced round to see how his men fared. Now all were active against the hounds. They whirled slings, shot arrows and threw spears. The hounds surrounded Caer Mahlod. “There are many. Perhaps the Fhoi Myore have already heard that you have come to us, Prince Corum. Perhaps they have determined to destroy you.”
    Corum made no reply, for he had seen a huge white hound slinking at the very foot of the wall, sniffing the entrance way which had been blocked with a large boulder. Leaning out over the battlements, Corum let fly with one of his last arrows, striking the beast in the back of its skull. It moaned and ran off into the mist. Corum could not see if he had killed it. They were hard to kill, these hounds, and hard to see in the mist and the frost, save for their blood-red ears, their yellow eyes.
    Even had they been darker it would have been difficult to fight them. The mist grew thicker still. It attacked the throats and the eyes of the defenders so that they were constantly wiping the stuff from their faces, spitting over the walls at the hounds as they tried to free their lungs of the cold and clogging dampness. Yet they were brave. They did not falter. Spear after spear darted down. Arrow after arrow arced into the ranks of those sinister dogs. Only the piles of tathlum balls were not used, and Corum was curious to know why, for King Mannach had not had time to tell him. But spears and arrows and rocks were already running low and only a few of the pale dogs were dead.
    Kerenos, whoever he might be, had well-stocked kennels, thought Corum as he shot the last of his arrows, dropped his bow and pulled his sword from its scabbard.
    And their howling brought tension to every nerve so that one had to fight one’s own cringing muscles as well as the dogs themselves.
    King Mannach ran along the battlements encouraging his warriors. So far none had fallen. Only when the missiles were exhausted would they be forced to defend themselves with their blades, axes and their pikes. That time was almost upon them.
    Corum paused to draw a breath and try to take account of their situation. There were something less than a hundred hounds below. There were something more than a hundred men on the battlements. The hounds would have to make enormous leaps to get a foothold on the walls. That they were capable of making such leaps, Corum was in no doubt.
    Even as he considered this he saw a white beast come flying towards him, its forelegs outstretched, its jaws snapping, its hot, yellow eyes glaring. If he had not already unsheathed his blade he would have been slain there and then. But now he brought the sword up, stabbing out at the hound even as it flew through the air towards him. He caught it in the belly and nearly lost his footing as the thing impaled itself upon the point of his sword, grunted as if in mild surprise, growled as it understood its fate, and made one feeble, futile snap at him before it went tumbling backwards to fall directly upon the spine of one of its fellows.
    For a little while Corum thought that the Hounds of Kerenos had had enough of battle for that day, for they seemed to retreat. But their growrings, their mutterings, their occasional howlings, made it plain that they were simply resting, biding their time, preparing for the next attack. Perhaps they were taking instructions from an unseen master—perhaps Kerenos himself. Corum would have given much for a glimpse of the Fhoi Myore. He wanted to see at least one, if only to form his own opinion of what they were and from where they derived their powers. A little earlier he had seen a darker shape in the mist, a shape which was taller than the hounds and had seemed to walk on two legs, but the mist was shifting so rapidly all the time (though never dispersing) that he might have been deceived. If he had actually seen