Chronicles of Corum (6 page)

King Mannach’s voice began to take on the aspects of a dirge, a lament for his people in their defeat.’ ‘O Corum, do not judge us by what you see now. I know that we were once a great folk with many powers, but we became poor after our first fights with the Fhoi Myore, when they took away the land of Lwym-an-Esh and all our books and lore with it …”

‘ ‘This sounds like a legend to explain a natural disaster,” Corum said gently.

“So thought I until now,” King Mannach told him, and Corum was bound to accept this.

“Though we are poor,” continued the king, “and though much of our control over the inanimate world is lost—for all this, we are still the same folk. Our minds are the same. We do not lack intelligence, Prince Corum.”

Corum had not considered that they had. Indeed, he had been astonished at the king’s clear thinking, having expected to meet a race much more primitive in its ideas. And though this people had come to accept magic and wizardry as a fact, they were not otherwise superstitious.

“Yours is a proud and noble people, King Mannach,” he said sincerely. “And I will serve them as best I can. But it is for you to tell me how to serve, for I have less knowledge of the Fhoi Myore than have you.”

‘ ‘The Fhoi Myore have great fear of our old magical treasures,” King Mannach said. “To us they had become little more than objects of interesting antiquity, but now we believe that they mean more—that they do have powers and represent a danger to the Fhoi Myore. And all here will agree on one thing—that the Bull of Crinanass has been seen in these parts.”

“This bull has been mentioned before.”

“Aye. A giant black bull which will kill any who seeks to capture it, save one.”

“And is that one called Corum?” asked Corum with a smile. “His name is not mentioned in the old texts. All the texts say is that he will bear the spear called Bryionak, clutched in a fist which shines like the moon.”

“And what is the spear Bryionak?”

“A magical spear, made by the Sidhi Smith, Goffanon, and now again in his possession. You see, Prince Corum, after the Fhoi Myore came to Caer Llud and captured the High King, a warrior called Onragh, whose duty had been to protect the ancient treasures, fled with them in a chariot. But as he fled the treasures fell, one by one, from the chariot. Some were captured by the pursuing Fhoi Myore, we heard. Others were found by Mabden. And the rest, if the rumors are to be trusted, were found by folk older than the Mabden or the Fhoi Myore—the Sidhi, whose gifts to us they originally were. We cast many runes and our wizards sought many oracles before we learned that the spear called Bryionak was once again in the possession of this mysterious Sidhi, the Smith Goffanon.”

“And do you know where this smith dwells?”

“He is thought to dwell in a place now called Hy-Breasail, a mysterious island of enchantment lying south of our eastern shores. Our druids believe that Hy-Breasail is all that remains of Lwym-an-Esh.”

“But the Fhoi Myore rule there, do they not?” “They avoid the island. I know not why.” ? ‘The danger must be great if they deserted a land that was once theirs.”

“My thinking also,” King Mannach agreed. “But was the danger only apparent to the Fhoi Myore? No Mabden has ever returned from Hy-Breasail. The Sidhi are said to be blood relations to the Vadhagh. Of the same stock, many say. Perhaps only a Vadhagh could go to Hy-Breasail and return?”

Corum laughed aloud. “Perhaps. Very well, King Mannach, I will go there and look for your magical spear.”

“You could go to your death.”

“Death is not what I fear, King.”

Soberly, King Mannach nodded. “Aye. I believe I understand you, Prince Corum. There is much more to fear than death in these dark days of ours.”

The flames of the brands were burning low, guttering. The merry-making was now subdued. A single harpist played a soulful tune and sang a song of doomed lovers which Corum, in his drunkenness, identified with his own story, that of himself and Rhalina. And it seemed to him, in the half-light, that the girl who had spoken to him earlier looked much like Rhalina. He stared at her as, unconscious of his gaze, she talked and laughed with one of the young warriors. And he began to hope. He hoped that somewhere in this world Rhalina had been reincarnated, that he would find her somewhere and, though she would not know him, she would fall in love with him as she had done before.

The girl turned her head and saw that he stared. She smiled at him, bowing slightly.

He raised his wine-cup, shouting somewhat wildly as he got to his feet. ‘ ‘Sing on, bard, for I drink to my lost love Rhalina. And I pray that I shall find her in this grim world.”

And then he lowered his head, feeling that he had become foolish. The girl, seen properly, looked very little like Rhalina. But her eyes remained fixed on his single one as he sank back into his seat and, again, he stared at her with curiosity.

‘ ‘I see you find my daughter worthy of your attention, Lord of the Mound,” came King Mannach’s voice from beside Corum. The king spoke a little sardonically.

“Your daughter?”

“She is called Medhbh. Is she fair?”

“She is fair. She is fine, King Mannach.”

“She is my consort, since her mother was killed in our first fight with the Fhoi Myore. She is my right hand, my wisdom. A great battle-leader is Medhbh and our finest shot with battle-snare and the sling and tathlum.”

“What is the tathlum?”

“A hard ball, made from the ground up brains and bones of our enemies. The Fhoi Myore fear it. That is why we use it. The brains and bones are mixed with lime and the lime sets hard. It seems an effective weapon against the invaders—and few weapons are effective, for their magic is strong.”

Corum said softly, as he sipped still more mead,’ ‘Before I set off to find your spear for you, I should like very much to see the nature of our enemies.”

King Mannach smiled. “It is a request we can easily grant, for two of the Fhoi Myore and their hunting packs have been seen not far from here. Our scouts believe that they head towards Caer Mahlod to attack our fort. They should be here by tomorrow’s sunset.”

“You expect to beat them? You seem unconcerned.” ‘ ‘We shall not beat them. Attacks such as this are, we think, more in the nature of a diversion for the Fhoi Myore. On some occasions they have succeeded in destroying one of our forts, but mainly they do this simply to unnerve us.”

“Then you will let me guest here until tomorrow’s sunset?”

“Aye. If you promise to flee and seek Hy-Breasail if the fort begins to fall.”

“I promise,” said Corum.

Again he found himself glancing at King Mannach’s daughter. She was laughing, flinging back her thick, red hair as she drained her mead-cup. He looked at her smooth limbs with their golden bangles, her firm, well-proportioned figure. She was the very picture of a warrior-princess, yet there was something else about her manner that made him think she was more than that. There was a fine intelligence in her eyes, and a sense of humor. Or did he imagine it all, wanting so desperately to find Rhalina in any Mabden woman.

At length he forced himself to leave the hall, to be escorted by King Mannach to the room set aside for him. It was simple, plainly furnished, with a wooden bed sprung with hide ropes, a straw mattress and furs to cover him against the cold. And he slept well in that bed and did not dream at all.

New foes, new friends, new enigmas

And the first morning dawned, and Corum saw the land.

Through the window, filled with oiled parchment to admit light and allow a shadowy view of the world outside, Corum saw that the walls and roofs of rocky Caer Mahlod sparkled with bright frost. Frost clung to gray granite stones. Frost hardened on the ground and frost made the trees, in the nearby forest below, bright and sharp and dead.

A log fire had burned in the low-roofed room Corum had been given, but now it was little more than warm ash. Corum shivered as he washed and donned his clothes.

And this, Corum thought, was springtime. Once spring had been early and golden and winter barely noticed, an interval between the mellow days of autumn and the fresh mornings of the springtime.

Corum thought he recognized the landscape. He was not, in fact, far from the promontory on which Castle Erorn stood, in a former time, at least. The view through the oiled parchment window was further obscured by a suggestion of sea-mist rising from the other side of the fortress town, but far away could just be seen the outline of a crag which was almost certainly one of the crags close to Erorn. He conceived a wish to go to that point and see if Castle Erorn still stood and, if it did stand, if it was occupied by one who might know something of the castle’s history. Before he left this part of the country he promised himself he would visit Castle Erorn, if only to witness a symbol of his own mortality.

Corum remembered the proud, laughing girl in the hall on the previous night. It was no betrayal of Rhalina, surely, if he admitted that he was attracted to the girl. And there had been little doubt that she had been attracted to him. Yet why did he feel so reluctant to admit the fact? Because he was afraid? How many women could he love and watch grow old and perish before his own long life were over? How many times could he feel the anguish of loss? Or would he begin to grow cynical, taking the women for a short while and leaving them before he could grow to love them too much? For their sake and for his, that might be the best solution to his profoundly tragic situation.

With a certain effort of will he dismissed the problem and the image of the red-haired daughter of the king. If today were a day for the making of war, then he had best concentrate on that matter before any other, lest the enemy silence his conscience when they silenced his breathing. He smiled, recalling King Mannach’s words. The Fhoi Myore followed Death, Mannach had said. They courted Death. Well, was not the same true of Corum? And, if it were true, did that not make him the best enemy of the Fhoi Myore?

He left his chamber, ducking through the doorway, and walked through a series of small, round rooms until he reached the hall where he had dined the previous night. The hall was empty. Now the plate had been stored away and faint, gray light came reluctantly through the narrow windows to illuminate the hall. It was a cold place, and a stern one. A place, Corum thought, where men might kneel alone and purify their minds for battle. He flexed his silver hand, stretching the silver fingers, bending the silver knuckles, looking at the silver palm which was so detailed that every line of a natural hand was reproduced. The hand was attached by pins to the wrist-bone. Corum had performed the necessary operation himself, using his other hand to drive the drill through the bone. Well might anyone believe it to be a magic hand, so perfect a copy of the fleshly one was it. With a sudden gesture of distaste Corum let the hand fall to his side. It was the only thing he had created in two-thirds of a century—the only work he had finished since the end of the adventure of the Sword Rulers.

He felt self-disgust and could not analyze the reason for the emotion. He began to pace back and forth over the great flagstones, sniffing at the cold, damp air like a hound impatient to begin the chase. Or was he so impatient to begin? Perhaps he was, instead, escaping from something. From the knowledge of his own, inevitable doom? The doom which Elric and Erekose had both hinted at ?

“Oh, by my ancestors, let the battle come and let it be a mighty one!” he shouted aloud. And with a tense movement he drew his battle-blade and whirled it, testing its temper, gauging its balance, before resheathing it with a crash which echoed through the hall.

‘ ‘And let it be a successful one for Caer Mahlod, Sir Champion.” The voice was the sweet, amused voice of Medhbh, King

Mannach’s daughter, leaning in the doorway, a hand on her hip. Around her waist was a heavy belt bearing a sheathed dagger and broadsword. Her hair was tied back and she wore a sort of leather toga as her only’armor. In her free hand she held a light helmet not unlike a Vadhagh helmet in design but made of brass.

Rarely given to bombastics and embarrassed at being discovered declaiming his confusion, Corum turned away, unable to look into her face. His humor left him momentarily. “I fear you have very little of a hero in me, lady,” he said coldly.

“And a mournful god, Lord of the Mound. We hesitated, many of us, before summoning you to us. Many thought that, if you existed at all, you would be some dark and awful being of the Fhoi Myore kind, that we should release something horrible upon ourselves. But, no, we brought to us instead a man. And a man is much more complicated a being than a mere god. And our responsibilities, it seems, are different altogether—subtler and harder to accomplish. You are angry because I saw that you were fearful …”

“Perhaps it was not fear, lady.”

“But perhaps it was. You support our cause because you chose to. We have no claim on you. We have no power over you, as we thought we might have. You help us in spite of your fear and your self-doubt. That is worth much more than the help of some barely sensate supernatural creature such as the Fhoi Myore use. And the Fhoi Myore fear your legend. Remember that, Prince Corum.”

Still Corum would not turn. Her kindness was unmistakable. Her sympathy was real. Her intelligence was as great as her beauty. How could he turn when to turn would be to see her and to see her would be to love her helplessly, to love her as he had loved Rhalina.

Controlling his voice he said: “I thank you for your kindness, lady. I will do what I can in the service of your folk, but I warn you to expect no spectacular aid from me.”

He did not turn, for he did not trust himself. Did he see something of Rhalina in this girl because he needed Rhalina so much? And if that were the case what right had he to love Medhbh, herself, if he loved in her only qualities he imagined he saw?

A silver hand covered the embroidered eye-patch, the cold and unfeeling fingers plucking at the fabric Rhalina had sewn. He almost shouted at her:

“And what of the Fhoi Myore? Do they come?”

“Not yet. Only the mist grows thicker. A sure sign of their presence 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 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.