Chronicles of Corum (18 page)

And so Rhalina had died.

And Corum had found Medhbh, King Mannach’s daughter, and in a short while (as Corum reckoned time) she too would die. If it was his weakness to fall in love with short-lived Mabden women, then he must reconcile himself to the knowledge that he would outlive many lovers, must experience many losses, many agonies. As it was, he did not think much about it, preferring to avoid the significance of such ideas whenever possible. Besides, the memories of Rhalina were growing dim, and it was only with difficulty that he could remember the fine details of the life he had led in an earlier age, when he had ridden against the Sword Rulers.

Corum Jhaelen Irsei (who had first been called the Prince in the Scarlet Robe, but, having since traded this robe to a wizard, was now known as Corum of the Silver Hand) stayed at Caer Mahlod for two months after the day when the Black Bull of Crinanass had ran its fecund course and brought sudden spring to the land of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich, the People of the Mound. It was two months since the misshapen Fhoi Myore had tried to slay the inhabitants of Caer Mahlod, to freeze and to poison this place so that it, too, might resemble Limbo from whence the Fhoi Myore came and to which they were unable to return.

Now the Fhoi Myore appeared to have abandoned their ambitions of conquest. They were stranded upon this plane and had no love for its inhabitants, but they did not fight for the joy of fighting. The Fhoi Myore were only six. They had once been many. But they were dying of long-drawn-out diseases which would eventually rot them. In the meantime, however, they made themselves as comfortable as possible upon the Earth, turning the world into bleak and perpetual Samhain, a midwinter world. And before the Fhoi Myore expired they would, casually, have destroyed the entire Mabden race as well.

But very few of the Mabden were in a mood to think about such a prospect. They had triumphed over the Fhoi Myore this once and won their freedom. It seemed enough, for the summer was the richest and the hottest any remembered (some sweated and joked that they would welcome the return of the Cold Folk, they panted so much in the heat), as if the sun, giving no warmth to the rest of the Mabden lands, poured all its power into one small corner of the world.

The oaks were greener, the alders were stronger, the ash and the elms were the lushest they had ever been. In the fields there was wheat ripening where folk had never hoped to see another harvest. There were poppies and cornflowers and marigolds, buttercups, woodbine, hollyhocks and daisies growing everywhere in profusion.

Only the cold, cold water pouring down in the rivers which flowed from the East reminded the folk of Tuha-na-Cremm Croich that their countrymen were all dead, or vassals of the Fhoi Myore, or both; that their High King—their Archdruid Amergin—was under a glamour, a prisoner in his own city of Caer Llud, a city now used as their capital by the Fhoi Myore. Only that reminded them, whenever they bent to drink. And many were made gloomy, brooding upon their incapacity to avenge their dead cousins, for the best they had done was defend their own land against the Cold Folk and even then they could not have accomplished the defense without the help of Sidhi magic and a demigod raised from his deep slumber beneath the Mound. That demigod was Corum.

The water flowed from the East and it fed the wide ditch they had dug around the conical mound on which was built the fortress city of Caer Mahlod, an old city of gray and bulky granite; a city without much beauty but with considerable strength. Caer Mahlod had been abandoned at least once and reoccupied in times of war. It was the only city that remained to the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich. Once they had had several cities, but these had been swept away by the ice which the Fhoi Myore brought.

But now many of those who had occupied the fortress town had returned to rebuild their ruined farms and tend the crops which had been revitalized by the Black Bull’s lifeblood. Only King Mannach and King Mannach’s warriors and retainers and his daughter and Corum remained at Caer Mahlod.

Sometimes Corum would stand on the battlements and look toward the sea and the ruins of his own home, which was now called Castle Owyn and thought to be a natural formation, and wonder upon the matter of the Spear Bryionak and the Black Bull and the magic which had been worked. It seemed to him that he dreamed, for he could not explain the magic of how it had been brought about. He dreamed the dream of these people, who had called him from a dream. And for the most part he was content. He had Medhbh of the Long Arm (the nickname she had earned for her skill with spear and tathlum) with her thick red hair, her strong beauty, her intelligence and her laughter. He had dignity. He had the respect of his fellow warriors. They had become used to him now. They accepted his strange Vadhagh looks—‘elfin’ looks, Medhbh called them—his artificial silver hand, his single yellow and purple eye and the patch over the other socket; the patch had been embroidered by Rhalina, Margravine of Moidel’s Mount, who lay at least a thousand years in the past.

He had dignity. He had been true to this folk and he had been true to himself. He had pride. And he had fine companionship. There was no question that his lot was improved since he had left Castle Erom and answered the call of this folk. He wondered what had become of Jhary-a-Conel, Companion to Heroes. It had been Jhary, after all, who had advised him to do King Mannach’s bidding. But Jhary was the last mortal Corum knew who could still travel through the Fifteen Planes, apparently at will. Once all the Vadhagh could move between the planes, as could the Nhadragh, but with the defeat of the Sword Rulers the last vestiges of this power had been denied them.

And sometimes Corum would call a bard to him to sing one of the old songs of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich, for he found such songs to his taste. One song was attributed to the first Amergin, ancestor to the High King and now a thrall of the Fhoi Myore, composed upon arriving in their new homeland:

I am the ocean wave;

I am the murmur of the surges;

I am seven battalions;

I am a strong bull;

I am an eagle on a rock;

I am a ray of the sun;

I am the most beautiful of herbs;

I am a courageous wild boar;

I am a salmon in the water;

I am a lake upon a plain;

I am a cunning artist;

I am a gigantic, sword-wielding champion;

I can shift my shape like a god.

In what direction shall we go?

Shall we hold our council in the valley or

on the mountain-top? Where shall we make our home? What land is better than this island of the

setting sun? Where shall we walk to and fro in peace

and safety? Who can find your clear springs of water as

can I?

Who can tell you the age of the moon but I? Who can call the fish from the depths of the

sea as can I? Who can lure them near the shore as can I? Who can change the shapes of the hills and

the headlands as can I? I am a bard who is called upon by seafarers

to prophesy. Javelins shall be wielded to avenge our

wrongs. I prophesy victory.

I end my song by prophesying all other good things.

And then the bard would sing his own song as a kind of amplification of Amergins:

I have been in many shapes before I attained congenial form.

I have been a narrow blade of a sword;

I have been a drop in the air;

I have been a shining star;

I have been a word in a book;

I have been a book in the beginning;

I have been a light in a lantern a year and a half;

I have been a bridge for passing over threescore rivers;

I have journeyed as an eagle;

I have been a boat on the sea;

I have been a director in battle;

I have been a sword in the hand;

I have been a shield in a fight;

I have been the string of a harp;

I have been enchanted for a year in the

foam of water. There is nothing in which I have not been.

And in these old songs Corum would hear the echoes of his own fate, which Jhary-a-Conel had explained to him—that of being eternally reborn, sometimes fully grown, as a warrior to fight in all the great battles of mortals —whether those mortals be Mabden, Vadhagh or some other race—to fight for the freedom of mortals oppressed by gods (for all that many believed the gods created
by
mortals). In those songs he heard an expression of the dreams he sometimes had— where he was the whole universe and the universe was him; where he was contained by the universe and simultaneously contained it, and everything had an equal dignity, an equal value, whether animate or inanimate. Rock, tree, horse or man—all were equal.

This was the mystical belief of many of King Mannach’s folk. A visitor from Corum’s world might have seen this as primitive worship of nature, but Corum knew that it was much more than that. Many a farmer there was in the land of the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich who would bow politely to a stone and murmur an apology before moving it from one place to another; and he would treat his earth, his ox and his plough with as much courtesy as he would treat his father, his wife or his friend. As a result, life among the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich had a formal, dignified rhythm which did not rob it of vitality or humor or, on occasions, anger. And this was why Corum found pride in fighting the Fhoi Myore, for the Fhoi Myore threatened more than life. The Fhoi Myore threatened the quiet dignity of this folk.

Tolerant of their own foibles, their own vanities, their own follies, the Tuha-na-Cremm Croich tolerated these qualities in others. It was ironical to Corum that his own race, the Vadhagh (called Sidhi by this folk now) had at the end been possessed of a similar outlook and had been robbed of it by the ancestors of this folk. He wondered if, in achieving such a noble way of life, a people became automatically vulnerable to destruction by those who had not achieved it. If so, it was an irony of cosmic proportions. And so Corum dismissed this line of reasoning, for he had become weary of cosmic proportions since his encounter with the Sword Rulers and his discovery of his own destiny.

Now King Fiachadh came a-visiting, risking much to cross the water from the West. His envoy arrived on a steaming horse which was wrenched to a skidding stop at the edge of the great water ditch surrounding the walls of Caer Mahlod. The envoy was clad in billowing pale green silk, silver breastplate and greaves, a silver battle-cap and a surcoat quartered in yellow, blue, white and purple. He panted as he called his business to the guards upon the gate-towers. Corum, running from the other side of the battlements, saw him and was astonished, for he was dressed in a style unlike anything he had seen before in this land.

“King Fiachadh’s man!” called the envoy. “Coming to announce our king’s arrival on your shores.” He pointed to the West. “Our ships have landed. King Fiachadh begs the hospitality of his brother King Mannach!”

“Wait,” cried a guard, “We shall tell King Mannach!”

‘ Then hurry, I beg of you, for we are anxious to seek the security of your walls. We have heard many tales of late concerning the dangers to be found abroad in your land.”

While Corum remained in the gate-tower, looking with polite curiosity at the envoy, King Mannach was summoned.

King Mannach was astonished for other reasons. “Fiachadh? Why come he to Caer Mahlod?” he murmured, calling out to the envoy: ‘ ‘King Fiachadh knows that he is ever welcome in our town. But why journey you from the land of the Tuha-na-Manannan? Are you attacked?”

The envoy was still panting, managing only to shake his head. ‘ ‘Nay, sire. My master wishes to confer with you. Only recently we learned that Caer Mahlod had been freed of the Fhoi Myore frost. Thus we set sail speedily, without the usual formalities. For this King Fiachadh wishes you to forgive him.”

“There is nothing to forgive, unless it be the quality of our hospitality. Tell King Fiachadh we await him with pleasant anticipation.”

Another nod and the silk-clad knight forced his horse around to ride toward the cliffs, his loose jerkin and surcoat flapping, his silver cap and horse furniture flashing as he disappeared into the distance.

King Mannach laughed. “Prince Corum, you will like my old friend Fiachadh. And at last we shall have news of how the folk of the Western Kingdoms fare. I had feared them conquered.”

^“
I
had feared them conquered,” King Mannach said again as he spread his arms and the great gates of Caer Mahlod were opened. Through the passage (which now led under the moat) came a great parade of knights, maidens and squires, bearing banner-decked lances, with samite cloaks, with buckles and broaches of finely worked red gold set with amethysts, turquoise and mother-of-pearl. With round shields engraved and enameled in complicated, flowing designs, with silver-bound scabbards and gilded shoes. Tall, handsome women sat astride horses with ribbons plaited in their manes and tails. The men, too, were tall, and had long, thick moustaches of fiery red or warm yellow, their hair either flowing freely below their shoulders or bound in plaits or secured in bunches with little clasps of gold, brass or gem-set iron. And at the center of this colorful party was a barrel-chested giant of a man with a bright red beard and piercing blue eyes and wind-browned cheeks, dressed in a long robe of red silk trimmed with the fur of the winter fox, and wearing no helmet, only an ancient iron circlet in which runes had been set in delicate, curling gold.