The Chronicles of Corum (42 page)

One of the nearest swordsmen lunged forward with a snarl of hatred. "Fool! I knew you for a fool! You are proven a fool! You die for your foolishness." The sword passed through the byrnie and buried itself in Bwydyth's body. He cried out, groaned, tried to stagger toward his friends, and then fell face down in the melting snow.

"So the poison is acting swiftly," said Jhary.

Already another man had fallen on the swordsman who had struck Bwydyth down. Two more were slain in almost as many heartbeats. Cries of rage and hatred burst from the lips of the rest. Blood spurted in the gray evening light.

The civilized folk of Gwlas-cor-Gwrys were butchering each other without reason. They were fighting amongst themselves like so many carrion dogs over a carcass.

The Third Chapter
 Chaos Returned

Soon the winding path to the castle was strewn with corpses. Four men were left on their feet when something seemed to seize their heads and turn them to glare with blazing eyes at Corum and Jhary, who still stood by the gates. The four began to move up the hill again. Corum and Jhary readied their swords.

Corum felt the anger rising in his own head, shaking his body with its intensity. It was a relief to be able to vent it at last. With a chilling yell he rushed down the hill toward the attackers, his bright sword raised, Jhary behind him.

One of the swordsmen went down before Corum's first thrust. These men were gaunt-faced and exhausted. It looked as if they had not slept for many days. Normally Corum would have known pity for them, would have tried to disarm them or merely wound them. But his own rage made him strike to kill.

And soon they were all dead.

And Corum Jhaelen Irsei stood over their corpses and panted like a mad wolf, the blood dripping from his blade onto the gray ground. He stood thus for some moments until a small sound reached his ears. He turned. Jhary-a-Conel was already kneeling beside the man who had made the sound. It was Bwydyth-a-Horn and he was not quite dead.

"Corum . . ." Jhary looked up at his friend. "He is calling your name, Corum."

His fury abated for the moment, Corum went to Bwydyth's side. "Aye, friend," he murmured gently.

"I tried, Corum, to fight what was inside my skull. I tried for many days, but eventually it defeated me. I am sorry, Corum ..."

"We have all suffered the sickness."

"When rational I decided to come to you in the hope that you would know of a cure. At least, I thought, I could warn you ..."

"And that is why your ship came to be in these parts, eh?"

"Aye. But we were followed. There was a battle and it brought back all my rage again. The whole Vadhagh race is at war, Corum—and Lywm-an-Esh is no better. . . . Strife governs all..." Bwydyth's voice grew still fainter.

"Do you know why, Bwydyth?"

"No . . . Prince Yurette hoped to discover. . . . He, too, was overcome by the berserk fury. . . . He—died .... 

Reason is banished. .. . We are in the grip of demons. ... 

Chaos is returned.... We should have remained in our city.."

Corum nodded. "It is Chaos' work, without doubt. We became complacent too quickly, we ceased to be wary—and Chaos struck. But it cannot be Mabelrode, for if he came to our plane he would be destroyed as Xiombarg was destroyed. He must be working through an agency. But who?"

"Glandyth?" whispered Jhary. "Could it be the Earl of Krae? All Chaos needs is one willing to serve it. If the will exists, the power is given."

Bwydyth-a-Horn began to cough. "Ah, Corum, forgive me for this . . ."

"There is nought to forgive, since we are equally possessed by something which is beyond our power to fight."

"Find what it is, Corum . . ." Bwydyth's eyes burned near-black as he raised himself on one elbow. "Destroy it if you can.... Revenge me... revenge us all..."

And Bwydyth died.

Corum was trembling with emotion. "Jhary—have you manufactured the potion of which you spoke?

"It is almost ready, though I make no claims for it yet. It might not counter the madness."

"Be quick."

Corum rose to his feet and walked back to the castle, sheathing his sword.

As he entered the gates he heard a scream and went running through the gray galleries until he entered a room of bright fountains. There was Rhalina beating off the attack of two of the female retainers. The women were shrieking like beasts and striking at her with their nails.

Corum drew his sword again, reversed it, struck the nearest woman on the base of the skull. She went down and the other whirled, foaming at the mouth. Corum leaped forward and with his jeweled hand struck her on the jaw.

She, too, fell.

Corum felt rage rising in him again. He glared at the weeping Rhalina. "What did you do to offend them?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "I? Nothing, Corum.

Corum! I did nothing!"

"Then why—?" He realized his voice was harsh, shrill.

Deliberately he took control of himself. "I am sorry, Rhalina. I understand. Ready yourself for a journey. We leave in our sky ship as soon as possible. Jhary may have a medicine which will calm us. We must go to Lywm-an-Esh to see if there is any hope there. We must try to contact Lord Arkyn and hope the Lord of Law will help us."

"Why is he not already helping us?" she asked bitterly.

"We aided him to regain his realm and now, it seems, he abandons us to Chaos."

"If Chaos is active here, then it is active elsewhere. It could be that there are worse dangers in his realm, or in the realm of his brother Lord of Law. You know that none of the gods may interfere directly in mortal affairs."

"But Chaos tries more frequently," she said.

"That is the nature of Chaos and that is why mortals are best served by Law, for Law believes in the freedom of mortals and Chaos sees us merely as playthings to be molded and used according to its whims. Quickly, now, prepare to leave."

"But it is hopeless, Corum. Chaos must be so much more powerful than Law. We have done all we can to fight it. Why not admit that we are doomed?"

"Chaos only seems more powerful because it is aggressive and willing to use any means to gain its end.

Law endures. Make no mistake, I do not like the role in which Fate has cast me—I would that someone else had my burden—but the power of Law must be preserved if possible. Now go—hurry."

She went away reluctantly while Corum made sure that the retainers were not badly hurt. He did not like to leave them, for he was sure that they would turn upon each other soon. He decided that he would leave them some of the potion Jhary was preparing and hope that it would last them.

He frowned. Could Glandyth really be the cause of this?

But Glandyth was no sorcerer—he was a brute, a bloody-handed warrior, a good tactician, and, in his own terms, had many virtues, but he had little subtlety or even desire to use sorcery, for he feared it.

Yet there were no others left in this realm who would willingly make themselves servants of Chaos—and one had to be willing or Chaos could not gain entry to the realm at all ...

Corum decided to wait until he discovered more before continuing to speculate. If he could reach Halwyg-nan-Vake and the Temple of Law, he might be able to contact Lord Arkyn and seek his advice.

He went to the room where he kept bis arms and armor and he drew on his silver bynie, his silver greaves, and bis conical silver helm with the three characters set Into it over the peak—characters which stood for his full name. And over all this he put his scarlet robe. Then he selected weapons—a bow, arrows, a lance, and a war-axe of exquisite workmanship—and he buckled on his long, strong sword. Once again he garbed himself for war and he made both a magnificent and a terrible figure, with his glittering six-fingered hand and the jeweled patch which covered the jeweled Eye of Rhynn. He had prayed that he would never have to dress himself thus again, that he would never have to use the alien hand grafted to his left wrist or peer through the eye into the fearsome netherworld to summon the living dead to his aid. Yet in his heart he had known that the power of Chaos had not been vanquished, that the worst was still to come.

He felt weary, however, for his battle with the madness in his skull was as exhausting as any physical fight.

Jhary came in and he, too, was dressed for traveling, though he disdained armor, wearing a quilted leather jerkin, stamped with designs in gold and platinum, in lieu of a breastplate—his only concession. His wide-brimmed hat was placed at a jaunty angle on his head, his long hair was brushed so that it shone and fell over his shoulders.

He wore flamboyant silks and satins, elaborately decorated boots trimmed with red and white lace, and was the very picture of effete dandyism. Only the soldier's sword at his belt denied the impression. On his shoulder was the small black-and-white winged cat, which was his constant companion. In his hand he held a bottle with a thin neck. A brownish liquid swirled inside.

"It is made." He spoke slowly, as if in a trance. "And it has the desired effect, I think. It has driven away my fury, though I feel drowsy. Some of the drowsiness should wear off. I hope it does."

Corum looked at him suspiciously. "It might counter the fury—but we shall be slow to defend ourselves if attacked.

It slows the wits, Jhary!"

"It offers a different perspective, I grant you." Jhary smiled a dreamy smile. "But it's our only chance, Corum.

And, speaking for myself, I would rather die in peace than in mental anguish."

"I'll grant you that." Corum accepted the bottle, "How much shall I take?"

"It is strong. Just a little on the tip of the forefinger."

Corum tilted the bottle and got a small amount of the potion on his finger. Cautiously, he licked it. He gave Jhary back the bottle. "I feel no different. Perhaps it does not work on the Vadhagh metabolism."

"Perhaps. Now you must give some to Rhalina..."

"And the servants."

"Aye—fair enough—the servants ..."

They stood in the courtyard brushing the last of the snow off the canopy covering the sky ship, peeling back the cloth to reveal the rich blues, greens, and yellows of the metallic hull. Jhary clambered slowly in and began to pass his hands over the variously colored crystals on the panel in the prow. This was not as large a sky ship as the first they had encountered. This one was open to the elements when not utilizing the protective power of its invisible energy screen. A whisper of sound came from the ship and it lifted an inch off the ground. Corum helped Rhalina in and then he, too, was aboard, lying on one of the couches and watching Jhary as he prepared the craft for flight.

Jhary moved slowly, a slight smile on his face. Corum, full of a sense of well-being, watched him. He looked over to the couch where Rhalina had placed herself and he saw that she was almost asleep. The potion was working well in that the sense of fury had disappeared. But part of Corum still knew that his present euphoria might be as dangerous as his earlier rage. He knew that he had exchanged one madness for another, in some senses.

He hoped that another sky ship would not attack them, as Bwydyth's had been attacked, for, apart from their present disability, they were all unfamiliar with the art of aerial warfare. It was the best Jhary could do to pilot the sky ship in the desired direction.

At last the craft lifted gently into the cold, gray air, turning west and moving along the coast toward Lywm-an-Esh.

And as the ship drifted on its way Corum looked down at the world, all bleak and frozen, and wondered if spring would ever come again to Bro-an-Vadhagh.

He opened his lips to speak to Jhary, but the dandy was absorbed with the controls. He watched as, suddenly, the little black-and-white cat sprang from Jhary's shoulder, clung for a moment to the side of the sky ship, and then flew off over the land, to disappear behind a line of hills.

For a moment Corum wondered why the cat had deserted them, but then he forgot about it as he once again became interested in the sea and the landscape below.

The Fourth Chapter
 A New Ally for Earl Glandyth

The little cat flew steadily through the day, changing its direction constantly as if it followed an invisible and winding path through the sky. Soon it had ceased to fly inland, hesitated, then headed out over the cliffs and over the sea, which it hated. Islands came in sight.

They were the Nhadragh Isles where lived the remainder of the folk who had become groveling slaves of the Mabden in order to preserve their lives. Though presently released from that slavery, they had become so degenerate that their race might still die from apathy, for most could not even hate the Vadhagh now.

The cat was searching for something, following a psychic rather than a physical scent; a scent which only he could distinguish.

Once before had the little winged cat followed a similar scent, when he had gone to Kalenwyr to witness the great massing of Mabden and the summoning of their now banished gods the Dog and the Horned Bear. This time, however, the cat was acting upon its own impulses: it had not been sent to the Nhadragh Isles by Jhary-a-Conel, its master.

In what was almost the exact center of the group of green islands was the largest of them, called Maliful by the Nhadragh. Like all the islands it contained many ruins—ruins of towns, ruins of castles, ruins of villages.

Some were ruins thanks to the passage of time, but others were ruins thanks to the passage of Mabden armies when they had attacked the Nhadragh Isles at the height of King Lyr-a-Brode's power. It had been Earl Glandyth and his Denledhyssi chariot warriors who had led these expeditions, just as, later, he had led expeditions to the Vadhagh castles and destroyed what was left of the Vadhagh race, save Corum—or so he had thought. The destruction of the two elder races—the Shefanhow as Glandyth called them—had taken a matter of a few years. They had been completely unprepared for Mabden attack, had not been able to believe in the power of creatures scarcely more intelligent or cultured than other beasts. So they had died.