Chronicles of Corum (30 page)

“The Fhoi Myore marched before we came here,” said Corum. “It was our warning that saved you.”

“It did not save my son,” said King Daffyn.

“It did not save my husband,” said the maiden who sat beside the king.

“But other sons were saved—and other husbands—and more will be saved, King Daffyn, with your help. We seek two of the Mabden Treasures—the Oak of Gold and the Ram of Silver. Do you have them?”

‘ ‘They are no longer mine,” said King Daffyn.’ ‘And I would not part with them if they were.”

“These are the only things which will revive your Archdruid Amergin from the enchantment put upon him by the Fhoi Myore,” said Corum.

“Amergin? He is a prisoner in Caer Llud. Or dead, by now.”

“No. Amergin lives—just. We saved him.”

“Did you?” King Daffyn looked at the two with a different expression in his eyes. “Amergin lives and is free?” The despair seemed to fall away as Fhoi Myore snow had melted when touched by the Black Bull’s blood. “Free? To guide us?”

‘ ‘Aye—if we can get to Caer Mahlod in time. For that is where he is. At Caer Mahlod, but dying. The Oak and the Ram alone will save him. Yet if they are not yours, whom must we ask to give them
to
us?”

“They were our wedding gifts,” said the sweet-faced girl. ‘ ‘They were the King’s gifts to his son and to me this morning, when Guwinn lived. You may have the Oak of Gold and the Ram
of
Silver.”

And she left the Hall and returned shortly bearing a casket. And she opened the casket and revealed a model of a spreading oak tree all worked in gold and so fine as to seem completely real. And beside it rested the silver image of a ram, each curl of wool seeming to be set in relief by the craftsman who made it. It was a ram with great, sweeping horns—a rampant ram whose silver eyes stared with a strange wisdom from the silver head.

And the maiden bowed her fair head and she closed the lid of the casket; and she handed it to Corum who accepted it with gratitude, thanking her, thanking King Daffyn.

“And now we go back to Caer Mahlod,” said Corum.

“Tell Amergin, if he revives, that we shall follow him in any decision he makes,” said King Daffyn.

“I will tell him,” said Corum.

Then the Vadhagh Prince and the Sidhi Dwarf left that hall
of
mourning and went out through the gates of Caer Garanhir and joined their comrade Ilbrec, son of Manannan, the greatest
of
the Sidhi heroes.

And the fire flickered around the distant mist and now a peculiar fire had begun to sprout some distance from the walls of Caer Garanhir.

^‘
‘The Sidhi fire protects this place,” said Ilbrec.’ ‘It will not last, but it will dissuade the Fhoi Myore from attacking, I think. Now, we ride!” He stuffed the sword Retaliator into his belt and bent to pick up Corum who clung to his casket as he was lifted into the air and sat upon Ilbrec’s saddle near the pommel.’ ‘We shall need a boat when we reach the sea,” said Corum as they began to move.

“Oh, I think not,” said Ilbrec.

In which Prince Corum is witness to the power of the Oak and the Ram and the Mabden people find new hope …

They had reached the beach before Corum became aware that Goffanon was lagging behind. He craned his head back and saw that the Sidhi Dwarf was some distance off, almost stumbling now and shaking his shaggy head from side to side. “What ails Goffanon?” Corum said.

Ilbrec had not noticed. Now he, too, looked back. “Perhaps he tires. He has fought long today and he has run many miles /’ Ilbrec looked to the West, to where the sun was sinking. “Should we rest before crossing the sea?”

The gigantic horse Splendid Mane tossed his head as if to say that he did not wish to rest, but Ilbrec laughed and patted his neck.

“Splendid Mane hates to rest and loves only to be galloping the world. He has slept for so long in the caverns beneath the sea that he is impatient to be on the move! But we must let Goffanon catch up with us and then ask him what he feels.”

Corum heard Goffanon’s panting breath behind him and turned again, smiling, to ask the Sidhi Smith what he wished to do.

But Goffanon’s eyes were glaring and Goffanon’s lips were curled back in a foam-flecked snarl and the great double-bladed war-axe was aimed directly at Ilbrec’s skull.

“Ilbrec!” Corum flung himself towards the ground and landed with a crash, managing to keep the chest containing the Oak and the Ram tucked firmly under his left arm. He drew his sword as he sprang upright, while Ilbrec turned, calling in puzzlement:

“Goffanon! Old friend? What’s this?”

“He is enchanted!” Corum yelled. “A Mabden wizard has put him under a glamour. Calatin must be nearby!”

Ilbrec reached out to grasp the haft of the dwarf’s war-axe, but Goffanon was strong. He pulled the giant from his saddle and the two immortals began to struggle upon the ground, close to the seawashed beach, while Corum and Splendid Mane looked on, the horse severely puzzled by his master’s behavior.

Corum cried: “Goffanon! Goffanon! You fight a brother!”

Another voice floated down from above and looking up Corum saw a tall man standing on the edge of the cliff, a tendril or two of white, clinging mist drifting about his shoulders.

The world grew gray as the sun sank.

The figure on the cliff-edge was the Wizard Calatin, in a long pleated surcoat of soft leather stained a rich, deep blue. Upon his slender, gloved fingers were jeweled rings and at his throat a collar of jeweled gold, while his samite robe was embroidered with mystical designs. He stroked his gray beard and smiled his secret smile.

‘ ‘He is my ally now, Corum of the Silver Hand,” said the Wizard Calatin.

“And thus the ally of the Fhoi Myore!” Corum looked for a pathway up the cliff which would take him to the wizard. And all the while Goffanon and Ilbrec tumbled over and over on the sand, grunting and snorting in their exertions.

“For the moment, at least,” said Calatin.’ ‘But one does not have to be loyal to either Mabden or Fhoi Myore—or Sidhi—there are other loyalties, loyalties to oneself among them, are there not? And, who knows, but you could be an ally of mine soon!”

‘ ‘Never that! ‘’ Corum began to run up a steep cliff path towards the wizard, his sword in his fleshly hand. “Never that, Calatin!”

Out of breath, Corum reached the top of the cliff and approached the wizard, who smiled and began to retreat slowly.

It was then that Corum saw the mist behind the wizard and he recognized the mist for what it was.

“Fhoi Myore! One of them is free!”

“He was never trapped by Ilbrec’s sword. We followed behind the main force. This is Sreng. Sreng of the Seven Swords.”

And the mist began to move towards Corum as darkness covered the world; and from below on the beach he still heard the pantings and gruntings of the two fighting Sidhi.

And through the mist he saw a huge wicker battlecart, large enough to take one as large as Ilbrec himself. The cart was drawn by two massive creatures which seemed most to resemble lizards, though they were not lizards. And from the cart now stepped a vast being with a white body all covered in red, pulsing warts, and the body was naked save for a belt. The belt was festooned with swords, making a sort of kilt. Corum looked up and he saw a face which was human in some respects and resembled the face of one he had known, long ago. The eyes were fierce and tragic. They were the eyes of the Earl of Krae, of Glandyth who had first struck off Corum’s hand and put out his eye and so begun the long history of the fight against the Sword Rulers. But the eyes did not know Corum, though there was a flicker of recognition as they saw the silver hand fixed to his left wrist.

And from the torn folds of the mouth there sounded a booming noise.

“Lord Sreng,” said the Wizard Calatin. “This is he who helped in the destruction at Caer Mahlod. This is he who engineered this day’s defeat. This is Corum.”

And Corum put down the casket in which reposed the Oak of Gold and the Ram of Silver and he spread his legs so that he stood firmly over the casket, and he reached to his belt and he took his dirk in his silver hand, and he prepared to defend himself against Sreng of the Seven Swords.

Sreng moved slowly, as if in pain, drawing two of his great swords from his belt.

“Slay Corum, Lord Sreng, and give me his body. Slay Corum and the Fhoi Myore will no longer be plagued by the resistance of the Mabden.”

Again the strained, booming noise came from the ragged mouth. The red warts pulsed on the vast expanse of pale flesh. Corum noted that one of the giant’s legs was shorter than the other so that his gait was rolling as he moved. He saw that Sreng had only three teeth in his mouth and that the little finger of his right hand was covered in a yellow mold speckled with white and black. Then Corum saw that other parts of the giant’s body, particularly about the thighs covered by the swords, also had patches of this mold growing upon them. And from Sreng of the Seven Swords there escaped a foulness of stench reminding Corum of long-dead fish and the excrement of cats.

From the dark below came the grunts of the fighting Sidhi. Calatin was barely visible, chuckling from the night. Only Sreng, framed against the mist he must carry always with him, was clearly seen.

Corum felt that he did not wish to die at the hands of this decrepit god, this Sreng. Sreng himself was already dying, as were the other Fhoi Myore, of diseases which might take a hundred years to kill him.

“Sreng,” said Corum, “would you return to Limbo, return to your own Realm where you would not perish? I could help you go back to your world, the plane where your disease will not flourish. Leave this Realm to enjoy its natural state. Take back your coldness and your death!”

“He deceives you, Lord Sreng,” said the Wizard Calatin from the darkness. “Believe me. He deceives you.”

And then a word, a booming word escaped the torn lips. And that word echoed the last word Corum had spoken, as if it were the only word in human speech which the lips could form.

The word was: “Death.”

“Your own Realm awaits you—there is a way through.”

A diseased arm began to raise a crude sword of roughly-cast iron. Corum knew that he could not block any blow from that sword. It whistled down at his head and then struck the ground near his feet with horrible force. He realized that Sreng had not deliberately missed him but that the Fhoi Myore was hard put to control his limbs. Knowing this Corum stooped, picked up the casket containing the Oak and the Ram, and ran inside Sreng’s guard, driving his sword deep into the giant’s shin.

The Fhoi Myore’s voice boomed in pain. Corum ran under his legs and hacked at him behind his knee where grew more of the disgusting mildew. Sreng began to turn, but then the leg buckled and he fell, searching for Corum while Calatin yelled:

“There Lord Sreng! There! Behind you!”

Now Corum shuddered as the chilling mist began to eat at his bones. All his instincts made him wish to run clear of the mist and into the night, but he held his ground as a gigantic hand came hunting for him. He hacked at the sinews of the hand and then another huge sword whistled over his head forcing him to duck, almost striking him.

And Sreng fell backward upon Corum, his neck pressing the Vadhagh prince to the ground, his hand still searching for the mortal who fought him with such temerity.

Corum sweated to pull himself free, not knowing if any of his bones were broken, while the diseased fingers brushed his shoulder, sought to pluck him up, missed and began to search again. The stench of the Fhoi Myore’s rotting flesh almost robbed Corum of his consciousness; the texture of that flesh made him shudder; the chilling mist robbed him of the last of his strength, but at least, he assured himself, he would be dying valiantly against one of the great enemies of those whose cause he championed.

Was the voice he now heard Calatin’s?

“Sreng! I know you, Sreng!”

No, the voice was Ilbrec’s. So Ilbrec had won the fight and doubtless Goffanon now lay dead upon the beach. Corum had the impression of a huge hand coming down upon him, but then it seized Sreng by what was left of the Fhoi Myore’s hair and pulled the head up so that Corum was able to scramble free. Then as Corum staggered back, still keeping his hold upon the casket containing the Oak and the Ram, he saw the golden Ilbrec draw the great sword Retaliator, the sword of his father, from his belt and place the point against Sreng’s breast and drive that point deep into the Fhoi Myore’s corrupting heart so that Sreng let forth a yell.