Chronicles of Corum (34 page)

So they came to Caer Mahlod; all of them. Tall warriors garbed in their finest gear, riding strong horses, bearing good weapons. They had a look of practical magnificence. They made the country around Caer Mahlod blaze with the bright colors of their samite pavilions and their embroidered battle flags, the gold of their bracelets, the silver of their cloak clasps, the burnished iron of their helmets, the mother-of-pearl inlaid upon their carved beakers or set into their traveling chests. These were the greatest of the Mabden and they were also the last, the People of the West, the Stepsons of the Sun, whose cousins of the East had long since perished in fruitless battle with the Fhoi Myore.

And in the center of their encampments stood a tent much larger than the rest. Of sea-blue silk, it was otherwise unadorned and no battle banner stood near its entrance, for the size of the tent alone was enough to announce that it contained Ilbrec, the son of Man an-nan-mac-Lyr, who had been the greatest of the Sidhi heroes in the old fights against the Fhoi Myore. Tethered near this tent stood a huge black horse, large enough to seat the giant; a horse of evident intelligence and energy: a Sidhi horse. Though welcome in Caer Mahlod itself, Ilbrec could find no hall high enough to contain him and had thus pitched his tent with those of the gathering warriors.

Beyond the fields of pavilions there were green forests of pleasant trees, there were gentle hills dotted with clumps of wild flowers and shrubs whose colors sparkled like jewels in the warming rays of the sun; and to the west of all this glowed a blue, white-crested ocean over which black and grey gulls drifted. Though they could not be seen from the walls of Caer Mahlod, there were many ships on all the nearby beaches. The ships had come from the isle of the west, bringing the folk of Manannan and Anu; they had come from Gwyddneu Garanhir and they had come from Tir-nam-Beo. They were ships of several different designs and divergent purposes, some being warships and others being trading ships, some used for fishing the sea and some for traveling broad rivers. Every available ship had been utilized to bring the Mabden tribes to this massing.

Corum stood upon Caer Mahlod's battlements, the Dwarf Goffa-non at his side. Goffanon was a dwarf only by Sidhi standards, being considerably taller than Corum. Today he did not wear his polished iron helm; his huge unkempt mane of black hair flowed down his shoulders, meeting his heavy black beard so that it was impossible to tell which was which. He wore a simple smock of blue cloth, embroidered at collar and cuffs in red thread and gathered at the waist by his great leather belt. There were leggings and high-laced sandals on his legs and feet. In one huge, scarred hand was a mead horn from which he would sip occasionally; the other hand rested on the haft of his inevitable double-bladed war-axe, one of the last of the Weapons of Light, the Sidhi weapons especially forged in another Realm to fight the Fhoi Myore. The Sidhi dwarf looked with satisfaction upon the tents of the Mabden.

"They still come," he said. "Good warriors."

"But somewhat inexperienced in the kind of warfare we contemplate," Corum said. He watched as a column of northern Mabden crossed the ground beyond the main gate and the moat. These were tall and tough, in scarlet plaids which made them sweat, in winged or horned helmets or simple battle-caps; red-bearded men for the most part, soldiers of the Tir-nam-Beo, armed with big broadswords and round iron shields, disdaining all other weapons save the knives sheathed in the belts which criss-crossed their chests. Their dark features were painted or tattooed in order to emphasize their already fierce appearance. Of all the surviving Mabden, these men of the high northern mountains were the only ones who still lived, for the most part, by war, cut off by their own chosen terrain from what they regarded as the softer aspects of Mabden civilization. They reminded Corum somewhat of the old Mabden, the Mabden of the Earl of Krae who had hunted him once across these same downs and cliffs, and for a moment he wondered again at his willingness to serve the descendants of that cruel, animal-like folk. Then he recalled Rhalina and he knew why he did what he did.

Corum turned away to contemplate the roofs of the fortress-city of Caer Mahlod, leaning his back against the battlements, relaxing in the warmth of the sunshine. It had been over a month since he had stood at night upon the brink of the chasm separating Castle Owyn from the mainland and shouted his challenge to the Dagdagh harpist whom he was convinced inhabited the ruin. Medhbh had worked hard to console him and make him forget his nightmares and she had been largely successful; he now saw his experiences in terms of his exhaustion and his dangers. All he had needed was rest and with that rest had come a certain degree of tranquility.

Jhary-a-Conel appeared on the steps leading to the battlements. He had on his familiar slouch hat, and his little winged black and white cat sat comfortably on his left shoulder. He greeted his friends with his usual cheerful grin. "I've just come up from the bay. More ships have arrived—from Anu. The last, I heard. They have none left to send."

"More warriors?" said Corum.

''A few, but mainly they bring fur garments—all that the people of Anu can muster."

"Good." Goffanon nodded his great head. "At least we'll be reasonably well-equipped when we venture into the Frostlands of the Fhoi Myore."

Removing his hat, Jhary wiped sweat from his brow. "It's hard to imagine that the world is so cold such a comparatively short distance from here.'' He put his hat back on his head and reached inside his jerkin, taking out a piece of herbal wood and broodingly picking his teeth with it as he joined them. He stared out over the encampment. "So this is the whole Mabden strength. A few thousands."

"Against five," said Goffanon, almost defiantly.

"Five gods," said Jhary, giving him a hard stare. "In keeping our spirits high we must not let ourselves forget the power of our enemies. And then there is Gaynor—and the Ghoolegh—and the Pine Warriors—and the Hounds of Kerenos—and," Jhary paused, adding softly, almost regretfully, "and Calatin."

The dwarf smiled.'
^‘
Aye,'' he said, "but we have learned how to deal with almost all these dangers. They are no longer quite the threat they were. The People of the Pines fear fire. And Gaynor fears Corum. And as for the Ghoolegh, well, we still have the Sidhi Horn. That gives us power, too, over the hounds. As for Calatin . . ."

"He is mortal," said Corum. "He can be slain. I intend to make it my particular business to slay him. He has power only over you, Goffanon. And, who knows? that power could well be on the wane."

"But the Fhoi Myore themselves fear nothing," said Jhary-a-Conel. "That we must remember."

"They fear one thing in this plane," Goffanon told the Companion to Heroes. "They fear Craig Don. It is what we must ever remember."

"It is what they ever remember, also. They will not go to Craig Don."

Goffanon the Smith drew his black brows together. "Perhaps they will," he said.

"It is not Craig Don, but Caer Llud we must consider," Corum told his friends."For it is that place we shall attack. Once Caer Llud is taken, our morale will rise considerably. Such a deed will give our men increased strength and enable them to finish the Fhoi Myore once and for all."

"Truly great deeds are needed," Goffanon agreed, "and also cunning thoughts."

"And allies," said Jhary feelingly, "more allies like yourself, good Goffanon, and golden Ilbrec. More Sidhi friends."

"I fear that there are no more Sidhi save we two," murmured Goffanon.

"It is unlike you to express such gloom, friend Jhary!" Corum clapped his silver hand upon the shoulder of his companion. "What causes this mood? We are stronger than we have ever been before!' ‘

Jhary shrugged. "Perhaps I do not understand the Mabden ways. There seems too much joy in all these newcomers, as if they do not understand their danger. It is as if they come to a friendly tourney with the Fhoi Myore, not a war to the death involving the fate of their whole world!"

"Should they grieve, then?" Goffanon said in astonishment.

"No . . ."

"Should they consider themselves in death or in defeat?" "Of course not . . ."

"Should they entertain one another with dirges rather than with merry songs? Should their faces be downturned and their eyes full of tears?"

Jhary began to smile. "You are right, I suppose, you monstrous dwarf. It is simply that I have seen so much. I have attended many battles. Yet never before have I seen men prepare for death with such apparent lack of concern."

''That is the Mabden way, I think,'' Corum told him. He glanced at Goffanon, who was grinning broadly."Learned from the Sidhi.''

''And who is to say that they prepare for their own deaths and not the deaths of the Fhoi Myore?" added Goffanon.

Jhary bowed."I accept what you say. It heartens me. It is merely that it is strange and the strangeness is doubtless what I find discomforting."

Corum was, himself, disconcerted to find his normally insouciant friend in such a mood. He tried to smile. "Come now, Jhary, this brooding demeanor suits you ill. Normally it is Corum who mopes and Jhary who grins
..."

Jhary sighed.

"Aye," he said, almost bitterly, "it would not do, I suppose, to forget our roles at this particular time."

And he moved away from them, pacing along the battlements until he reached a spot where he paused, staring into the middle distance, plainly desiring no further conversation with his comrades.

Goffanon glanced at the sun.

"Nearly noon. I am promised to advise the blacksmiths of the Tuha-na-Anu on the special problems involved in the casting and weighting of a kind of hammer we have devised together. I hope to talk with you further this evening, Corum, when we all meet to debate our plans."

Corum raised his silver hand in a salute as the dwarf went down the steps and strode through a narrow street in the direction of the main gate.

For a moment Corum had the impulse to join Jhary, but it was most obvious that Jhary required no company at this time. After
a
while Corum, too, descended the steps, going in search of Medhbh, for suddenly he felt a great need to seek the consolation of the woman he loved.

It occurred to him as he made his way toward the king's hall that perhaps he was becoming too dependent upon the girl. Sometimes he felt that he needed her as another man might need drink or a drug. While she seemed to respond eagerly to this need, it could be that it was not fair to her to make the demands he did. As he walked to find her, he saw clearly that there were the seeds of considerable tragedy in the relationship which had developed between them. He shrugged. The seeds need not be nurtured. They could be destroyed. Even if his main destiny was pre-determined there were certain aspects of his personal life which he could control.

"Surely that must be so," he muttered to himself. A woman passing him on the street glanced at him, believing herself to be addressed. She was carrying
a
sheaf of staves which would be used for spears.

"My lord?"

"I observed that our preparations go well," Corum told her, embarrassed.

"Aye, my lord. We all work for the defeat of the Fhoi Myore." She shifted her load in her arms. "Thank you, my lord
..."

"Aye." Corum nodded, hesitating. "Aye, good. Well, good morning to you."

"Good morning, my lord." She seemed amused.

Corum strode on, his head down, his lips firmly shut until he reached the hall of King Mannach, Medhbh's father.

But Medhbh was not there. A servant said to Corum: "She is at her weapons, Prince Corum, with some of the other women."

Prince Corum walked through a tunnel and into a high, wide chamber decorated with old battle flags and antique arms and armor, where a score of women practiced with bow, with spear, with sword and with sling. Medhbh herself was there, whirling her sling at a target at the far end of the chamber. She was famous for her skill with the sling and the tathlum, that awful missile made from the brains of a fallen enemy and thought to be of considerable supernatural effectiveness. As Corum entered, Medhbh let fly at the target and the tathlum struck it dead center, causing the thin bronze to ring and the target, which hung by a rope from the ceiling, to spin round and round, flashing in the light from the brands which helped light the chamber.

"Greetings," called Corum, his voice echoing, "Medhbh of the Long Arm!"

She turned, glad that he had witnessed her skill. "Greetings, Prince Corum." She dropped the sling and ran to him, embracing him, looking deep into his face. She frowned. "Are you melancholy, my love? What thoughts disturb you? Is there fresh news of the Fhoi Myore?"