Chronicles of Corum (27 page)

Then Corum realized that only Goffanon laughed. Gaynor laughed no longer.

Corum tried to peer through the mass of green warriors to the far end of the pass where he had last seen Gaynor, but there was no sign of the flickering, fiery armor. It seemed that Prince Gaynor the Damned had deserted the scene of his triumph.

And now the Warriors of the Pine were falling back, looking fearfully into the sky. And Corum risked glancing up and he saw a rider there. The rider was seated upon a shining black horse dressed completely in red and gilded leather, the buckles of its harness of sea-ivory and the edges all stitched with large and perfect pearls.

And overwhelming the stink of the pines came the fresh, warm smell of the sea. And Corum knew that the smell came from the smiling rider who sat astride the horse with one hand upon his hip and the other upon his bridle.

And then, casually, the rider stepped his horse over the gorge and turned so that he could look down into the pass from the other side. It gave Corum some idea of the size of horse and rider.

The rider had a light, golden beard and his face was that of a youth of some eighteen summers. His golden hair was braided and hung down his chest. He wore a breastplate which was fashioned from some kind of bronze and decorated with motifs of the sun and of ships, as well as whales and fish and sea-serpents. Upon the rider’s great, fair-skinned arms were bands of gold whose patterns matched those of the breastplate. He wore a blue cloak with a great circular pin at the left shoulder. His eyes were a clear, piercing gray-green. At his hip was a heavy sword which was probably longer than Corum’s full height. On his left arm was a shield of the same glowing bronze as his breastplate.

And Goffanon was crying delightedly up to the gigantic rider on the gigantic horse, even as he continued to fight the People of the Pines.

“I heard you coming, brother!” cried Goffanon. “I heard you and knew who it was!”

And the giant’s laughter rumbled down the gorge. “Greetings, little Goffanon. You fight well. You always fought well.”

“Do you come to aid us?”

“It seems so. My rest was disturbed by the Fhoi Myore vermin laying ice across my ocean. For years I have been at peace in my underwater retreat, thinking to have no more irritation from the Cold Folk. But they came, with their ice and their mist and their silly soldiers, and so I must attempt to teach them a lesson.” Almost carelessly he drew his great sword from its scabbard and, with the flat, reached down into the gorge to sweep away the Brothers of the Pines so that they began to retreat in panic in both directions.

“I will meet you at the far end of this pass,” said the giant, shaking the reins of his horse and making it move away from the brink. “I fear I would stick if I tried to join you there.”

The ground shook as the gigantic rider disappeared and a little while later they trudged up to the end of the gorge to meet him and Goffanon, in spite of his weariness, ran forward with his arms wide open, the axe falling from his grip, shouting joyfully:

“Ilbrec! Ilbrec! Son of my old friend! I did not know you lived!”

Ilbrec, twice Goffanon’s height, swung himself from his saddle, laughing. “Aha, little smith, if I had known that you survived
I
should long since have sought you out!” Corum was astonished to see the Sidhi Goffanon seized in Ilbrec’s great arms and embraced. Then Ilbrec turned his attention upon Corum and said: “Smaller and smaller, eh! Who is this who so resembled our ancient Vadhagh cousins?”

‘ ‘Vadhagh he is, brother Ilbrec. A champion of the Mabden since the Sidhi left.”

Corum felt ridiculously tiny as he bowed to the great, laughing youth. “Greetings to you, cousin,” he said.

“And how fared your father, the great Manannan?” Goffanon asked. ‘ ‘I heard that he had been slain in the Island of the West and lies now beneath his own Hill.”

‘ ‘Aye—with a Mabden folk named for him. He has honor in his Realm.”

“And deservedly, Ilbrec.”

“Are there more of our folk surviving?” Ilbrec asked. “I had thought myself the last.”

“None to my knowledge,’‘ Goffanon told him.

“And how many Fhoi Myore are there?”

“Six. There were seven, but the Black Bull of Crinanass took one before it departed this Realm—-or died—1 know not which. The Black Bull was the last of the great Sidhi herd.”

“Six.” Ilbrec sat himself down upon the turf, his golden brow darkening. “What are their names, these six?”

^‘
‘One is Kerenos,” said Corum. “Another is Balahr and another is Goim. The others I do not know.”

‘ ‘Nor have I seen them,” said Goffanon
.’
‘They hide, as usual, in their mist.”

Ilbrec nodded. “Kerenos with his dogs, Balahr with his eye and Goim—Goim with her teeth. An unsavoury trio, eh? And hard to fight, those three alone. They were three of the most powerful. Doubtless it is why they linger on. I should have thought them all rotted and forgotten by now. They have vitality, these Fhoi Myore.”

‘ ‘The vitality of Chaos and Old Night,” agreed Goffanon, fingering the blade of his axe. “Ah, if only all our comrades were with us. What a reiving then, eh? And if those comrades wielded the Weapons of Light, how we should drive back the coldness and the darkness
…”

“But we are two,” said Ilbrec sadly. “And the greatest of the Sidhi are no more.”

“Yet the Mabden are courageous,’’ said Corum. “They have a certain power. And if their High King can be restored to them
…”

‘ ‘True,” said Goffanon, and he began to tell his old friend of all that had passed in recent months, since the coming of the Fhoi Myore to the islands of the Mabden. Only when he spoke of Calatin and the wizard’s charm did he become reticent, but managed to speak of the matter nonetheless.

“So the Golden Oak and the Silver Ram still exist,” mused Ilbrec. “My father spoke of them. And Fand the Beautiful, she prophesied that one day they would give power to the Mabden. My mother Fand was a great seeress, for all her weaknesses in other directions.” Ilbrec grinned and spoke no more of Fand. Instead, he rose up and went to where his black horse cropped the grass
.’
‘Now, I suppose, we must make speed for Caer Garanhir and see what defenses they can build and how best we can help them when the Fhoi Myore attack. Do you think all six ride against that city?”

“It is possible,” said Corum. “Yet usually the Fhoi Myore do not move in the front of their vassals but bring up the rear. They are cunning, in some ways, those Fhoi Myore.”

“They were ever that. Would you ride with me, Vadhagh?”

Corum smiled. “If your horse agrees that he will not mistake me for a flea upon his back, I’ll ride with you, Ilbrec.”

And, laughing, Ilbrec swung Corum up and sat him down so that he could place a leg on either side of his great pearl-studded pommel. Still unused to the hugeness of the Sidhi (and understanding at last how Goffanon could regard himself as a dwarf) Corum felt weak in the presence of Ilbrec, who now seated himself with a creak of leather breeks and saddle behind him, calling out: “Onward, Splendid Mane. Onward, beautiful horse, to where the Mabden gather.”

And as soon as he had become used to the huge movements of the cantering horse, Corum began to enjoy the sensation of riding the beast, listening to the conversation of the two Sidhi as Goffanon continued his steady pace beside the horse.

“It seems to me,” said Ilbrec thoughtfully, “that my father bequeathed a chest to me containing some armor and a spear or two. Perhaps they would be useful in this struggle of ours, though they have lain unused for many scores of years now. If I could find that chest I would know.”

“Yellow Shaft and Red Javelin?” queried Goffanon eagerly. “The sword your father named Retaliator?”

‘ ‘Most of his arms were lost in that last battle, as you know,” said Ilbrec. “And others were of a sort which drew their strength from our original Realm and thus could not be used properly or could only be used once. Nonetheless, there could be something of use in that chest. It is in one of the sea-caverns I have not visited since that battle. For all I know it has gone, or rotted, or,” he smiled, “been devoured by some sea-monster.”

“Well, we shall know soon enough,” said Goffanon. “And if Retaliator should be there
…”

“We’d be best advised to consider our own abilities,” said Ilbrec, laughing again. ‘ ‘Rather than put our faith in weapons which might not even exist in this Realm any longer. Even with them, the strength of the Fhoi Myore is greater than ours.”

“But added to the Mabden strength,” said Corum, “it could be great indeed.”

“I have always liked the Mabden,” Ilbrec told him, “though I am not sure I share your faith in its powers. Still, times change and so do races. I will give you my judgement of the Mabden when I have seen them do battle against the Fhoi Myore.”

^‘
‘That opportunity should come quite soon,” said Corum, pointing ahead.

He had seen the towers of Caer Garanhir. And they were tall, those towers, rivaling the buildings of Caer Llud in size and outshining them in beauty. Towers of shining limestone and dark-veined obsidian from which banners flew. Towers surrounded by the battlements of a massive wall which spoke of invincible strength.

Yet Corum knew that the impression of strength was deceptive, that Balahr’s horrid eye could crack that granite and destroy all who sheltered behind it. Even with the giant Ilbrec as an ally they would be hard put to resist the forces of the Fhoi Myore.

Corum had smiled when he saw the expressions of those who had come to the battlements when Ilbrec had shouted, but now his face was dark as he stood in King Daffyn’s magnificent hall, hung with jeweled flags, and tried to speak to a man who was barely able to stand and yet continued to sip from a mead-cup as he tried to listen to Corum’s words. Half of King Daffyn’s war-knights were sprawled insensible beside benches covered with stained samite. The other half leaned on anything which would give them support, some with drawn swords calling out silly boasts, while some sat with mouths hanging open, staring at Ilbrec who had managed to squeeze himself into the hall and crouched behind Corum and Goffanon.

They were not prepared for war, the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir. They were prepared for nothing but drunken slumber now, for they had been celebrating a marriage—that of the King’s son, Prince Guwinn, to the daughter of a great knight of Caer Garanhir.

Those still awake were impressed well enough by the appearance of what they saw as three Sidhi of varying sizes, but some were still certain that they suffered the effects of feasting and drinking too much.

”The Fhoi Myore march in strength against you, King Daffyn,” said Corum again. “Many hundreds of warriors, and most hard to slay they are!”

King Daffyn’s face was red with drink. He was a fat, intelligent-looking man, but his eyes held little intelligence at that moment.

‘ ‘I fear you overpraised the Mabden, Prince Corum,” said Ilbrec tolerently. “We must do what we can without them.”

“Wait!” King Daffyn came unsteadily down the steps from his throne, mead-hom still in his hand. “Are we to be slain in our cups?”

“It seems so, King Daffyn,” said Corum.

“Drunk? Slain without dignity by those who slew—who
slew
our brothers of the East?”

’
^‘
Just so!” said Goffanon, turning away impatiently.
^“
And you deserve little better.”

King Daffyn fingered the great medallion of rank which
he
wore about his neck. “I shall have failed my people,” he said.

^‘
‘Listen again,” said Corum. And he re-told his tale, slowly, while King Daffyn made a considerable effort to understand, even throwing away the mead-hom and refusing more mead when a blustering knight offered it to him.

^‘
‘How many hours are they from Caer Garanhir?” said the King when Corum had finished.

”Perhaps three. We traveled rapidly. Perhaps four or five. Perhaps they will not attack at all until the morning.”

“But three hours—we have three hours for certain.”

“I think so.”

King Daffyn staggered about his hall, shaking sleeping knights, shouting at those who were still in some stage of wakefulness. And Corum despaired.