Chronicles of Corum (26 page)

And he began to row again.

It was some time later that Goffanon spoke again. He drew his black brows together and peered over Corum’s shoulder, looking beyond Corum in the direction in which they rowed.

‘ ‘Sea-fog ahead by the look of it. Strange to find it so isolated and in such weather
…”

Corum, reluctant to interrupt the rhythm of his rowing, did not look back but continued his steady strokes,

“Thick, too,” said Goffanon some moments later. “It would probably be best to avoid it.”

And now Corum did pause in his rowing and turn to look. Goffanon was right. The sea-fog was spreading across a huge area, almost completely obscuring the sight of the land ahead. And now that Corum ceased his exertions he felt that it had become subtly colder, for all that the sun continued to shine.’ ‘Bad luck for us,” he said, “but it will take too long to row around it. We’ll risk rowing through and hope that it does not cover too wide an area.” And Corum rowed on.

But soon the cold had actually become uncomfortable and he rolled down his sleeves. Still, this was not enough, and he paused to draw his heavy byrnie over his body and place his helmet upon his head. This seemed to impair his rowing, and it was as if he dipped his oars in clinging mud. Tendrils of mist began to move around the boat and Goffanon frowned again, and shivered.

“Can it be?” he growled, shifting so that the boat rocked wildly and they were almost pitched into the sea. “Can it be?”

“You think it Fhoi Myore mist?” Corum murmured.

“I think it resembles Fhoi Myore mist most closely.”

“I think so, too.”

Now the mist was all around them and they could see only a few yards in all directions. Corum stopped rowing altogether and the boat drifted slower and slower until suddenly it stopped altogether. Corum looked over the side.

The sea had frozen. It had frozen almost instantly, for the waves had become ridges and on some of those ridges were delicate patterns which could only have been foam.

Corum’s spirits sank and it was with resignation and despair that he stood up in the boat and bent to pick up his lance and his axe.

Goffanon, too, rose and tentatively put a fur-booted foot upon the ice, testing it. He lumbered from the boat and stood upon the sea, tying the thongs of his fur cloak together so that he was completely covered. His breath began to steam. Corum followed suit, wrapping his own cloak around him, staring this way and that. He heard noises in the far distance. A grunt. A shout. And perhaps he heard the creaking of a great wicker battle-cart and the heavy footfalls of some malformed beast upon the ice. Was it thus that Fhoi Myore built their roads across the sea, needing no ships? Was this ice their version of a bridge? Or did they know that Goffanon and Corum came this way and seek to thwart their progress?

They would know soon, thought Corum as he crouched beside the boat and watched. The Fhoi Myore and their minions were moving from East to West, in the same direction as Corum and Goffanon but at a slightly different angle. In the dim distance Corum saw dark shapes riding and marching and sniffed the familiar scent of pines, saw the bulky shapes of Fhoi Myore chariot-riders, and once he glimpsed the flickering armor of one who could only be Gay nor. And now he began to realize that the Fhoi Myore marched not against Caer Mahlod at all but most likely against Caer Garanhir, their own destination. And if the Fhoi Myore reached Caer Garanhir before them, the chances of finding the Oak and the Ram were very poor.

“Garanhir,” muttered Goffanon, “they go to Garanhir.”

‘ ‘Aye,” said Corum despairingly, “and we have no choice now but to follow behind them, then hope to overtake them when they reach the land. We must warn Garanhir if we can. We must warn King Daffyn, Goffanon!”

Goffanon shrugged his massive shoulders and tugged at his shaggy black beard and rubbed his nose. Then he spread his left hand and raised his double-headed war-axe in his right hand and smiled. “Indeed, we must,” he said.

They were thankful that the Hounds of Kerenos did not run with the Fhoi Myore army. These, doubtless, still scoured the countryside about Craig Don, looking for the three friends and Amergin. They would have had no chance at all of avoiding detection if those dogs had been present. Moving warily, Corum and Goffanon skulked in the wake of the Fhoi Myore, peering ahead in the hope that they would soon sight the land. The going was difficult, for the waves had formed small hills and dangerous ruts in the frozen sea.

They were exhausted by the time they witnessed the landing of the Fhoi Myore and the People of the Pines on shores which had, an hour since, been green and lush and now were suddenly ice-covered and dead.

And the sea began to melt as the Fhoi Myore passed and Corum and Goffanon found themselves wading through water which was still freezing and which rose to Corum’s chin and Goffanon’s chest.

And, as he stumbled up the frosty beach, his throat choked with a mixture of sea and mist, Corum felt himself seized, weapons and all, about the waist and he was moving headlong up a hillside, borne by Goffanon who was wasting no time, running easily with Corum under one arm, his beard and hair flying in the wind, his greaves and his armor rattling on his massive body, apparently in no way slowed by his burden.

Corum’s ribs ached but he managed to remark: “You are a most useful dwarf, Goffanon. I am amazed at the energy possessed by one of such small stature as yourself.”

“I
suppose
I
compensate for my shortness by cultivating stamina,’’ said Goffanon seriously.

Two hours later and they were well ahead of the Fhoi Myore force. They sat in a dip in the ground, enjoying the smell of grass and wild flowers, knowing miserably that it would not be long before these became rigid with cold and died. Perhaps that was why Corum relished the smell of the vegetation while it was still there.

Goffanon let out a great sigh as, tenderly, without picking the plant, he looked at a wild poppy. “The Mabden lands are amongst the prettiest in this whole Realm,” he said. ‘ ‘And now these perish, as all the other lands have perished. Conquered by the Fhoi Myore.”

“What of the other lands in this Realm?’‘ Corum asked. “What know you of them?’‘

“Long-since turned to poisoned ice by the diseased remnants of the Fhoi Myore race,” Goffanon said. “These lands were safe partly because the Fhoi Myore remembered Craig Don and avoided the place, partly because this is where the surviving Sidhi made their homes. It took them a considerable length of time before they came back from the eastern seas and beyond .“He stood up
.’
‘Would you sit upon my shoulders now? It will be more comfortable for you,
I
think.”

And Corum accepted the offer with courtesy and climbed upon the dwarf’s shoulders. Then they were off again, for there was no time to be wasted.

‘ ‘This proves the need for Mabden unity,” said Corum from his perch. “If there were proper communications between the surviving Mabden, then all could gather to attack the Fhoi Myore force from several sides.”

‘ ‘But what of Balahr and the rest? What have the Mabden in their armories which can defend them against Balahr’s frightful gaze?”

“They have their Treasures. Already I have seen how one of them, the spear Bryionak which you gave me, can do much harm to the Fhoi Myore.”

“There was only one spear Bryionak,” said Goffanon in an almost melancholy tone, “and now that has vanished—doubtless returning to my own home Realm.”

They entered a narrow gorge between white limestone cliffs topped by green turf. “As
I
recall,” said Goffanon, “the city of Caer Garanhir lies but a short way on the other side of the pass.”

But as the pass wound up through the rocks and grew narrower at its farther end, they saw that a group of figures awaited them there.

At first Corum thought that these were war-knights of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir, alerted of their coming and there to greet them. But then he noticed the greenish cast of riders and horses and he knew that these were not friends. And then the green ranks broke and another rider emerged—a rider whose armor shifted color constantly and whose face was completely hidden by a blank, smooth helm.

And Goffanon stopped and took Corum from his shoulders and put him upon the pale clay of the ground and looked back as he heard a sound.

Corum looked also.

Riding green horses down the steep slopes of the gorge came another group of green riders, and the whole air was thick with their pine scent. The riders reached the bottom of the pass and paused.

Gaynor’s voice echoed through the narrow walls of the gorge and his voice was gay, triumphant: “You could have prolonged your life so easily, Prince Corum, if you had chosen to remain as my guest at Craig Don. Where is the little lamb Amergin, whom you stole?”

“Amergin was dying, the last I saw of him,” said Corum truthfully, unslinging his axe from his back.

Goffanon murmured: ‘ ‘It is time for the hewing of pines, I think, Corum,” and he moved so that he stood facing those at their rear while Corum confronted those at their front. Goffanon hefted his own huge axe, turning its polished iron so that it flashed in the bright summer sunshine. “At least we shall die in the summer warmth,” Goffanon said, “and not have our bones eaten by the Cold Folk’s mist.”

“You should have been warned,” said Prince Gaynor the Damned. “He eats a diet of rare grasses only. And now the High King of the Mabden is perished, a mere carcass of mutton. No matter.”

In the distance, behind him, Corum heard a great roaring noise and he knew that this must be the Fhoi Myore on the march, moving much faster than he had thought possible.

Goffanon cocked his head to one side and listened, almost curiously.

Then, from both sides, the green-faced horsemen began to bear down on them so that the sides of the gorge shook and Gaynor’s bleak laughter grew wilder and wilder.

Corum whirled his war-axe and made a great wound in the neck of the first horse, seeing greenish, viscous liquid ooze from the gash. It halted the horse’s momentum, but it did not kill it. Its green eyes rolled and its green teeth snapped and its green rider brought a dull iron sword down at Corum’s head. Corum had fought Hew Argech, one of the People of the Pines, and he knew how to counter such blows. He chopped deliberately at the wrist as it swept down and wrist and sword flew earthward like a bough lopped from a tree. He chopped next at the horse’s legs so that it crashed onto the dusty clay and lay there unsuccessfully trying to regain an upright position. This helped confuse the next rider who came at Corum and was unable to strike a clean blow without snaring his horse’s legs in those of the wounded animal. The scent of pines was now almost overpowering as the sap oozed from the wounds Corum wrought. It was a scent he had once loved but which now sickened him. It was sweet and odious.

Goffanon had brought at least three of the Pine Folk down and was chopping at their bodies, slicing off limbs so that they could not move, though they still lived, their green eyes glaring, their green lips snarling. These had once been the flower of Mabden warriors, probably from Caer Llud itself, but the human blood had been drawn from their veins and pine sap poured into them instead, and now they served the Fhoi Myore. Although they were ashamed of what they had become, they were at the same time most proud of their distinction.

As he fought, Corum tried to glance about him to see if there was any means of escaping from the gorge, but Gaynor had chosen the best place to attack—where the sides were steepest and the passage narrowest. This meant that Corum and Goffanon could defend themselves longer but could never hope to get away. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the People of the Pines—vanquished by these living trees, these brothers of the oak’s oldest enemy. Like a rustling, marching forest, they rushed again at the one-eyed Vadhagh with the silver hand and at the eight-foot Sidhi with the bristling black beard.

And Gaynor, at a safe distance, laughed on. He was indulging in his favorite sport—the destruction of heroes, the conquest of honor, the extermination of virtue and idealism. And he indulged himself thus because he had never quite succeeded in driving these qualities from his own self. Thus Gaynor sought to still any voice which dared remind him of the hope he dared not hope, the ambition he feared to entertain—the possibility of his own salvation.

Corum’s arms grew weary and he staggered now as he chopped at green arms, slashed at green heads, cracked the skulls of green horses and grew dizzy with the scent of the pine sap which was now sticky underfoot.

“Farewell, Goffanon,” he shouted to his comrade. “It heartened me much when you joined our cause, but I fear your decision has led you to your death.”

And Corum was astonished when he heard Goffanon’s laughter blending with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned.