Chronicles of Corum (17 page)

“How can we reach our folk now?” Medhbh said in despair.

“Even if we reached the gates they would be fools to open them to admit us,” Corum agreed. “We must confine ourselves, I suppose, to attacking them from the rear until they realize that we are behind them.”

Medhbh nodded. She pointed.’ ‘Let us ride over there, where the walls are almost breached. We might be able to give our folk time to repair the damage

Corum saw that her suggestion had sense in it. Without a word he spurred his horse down the hill, the spear, Bryionak, poised for a cast at the first of his foes that he should meet. He was almost certain that he and Medhbh would die, but at that moment he did not care. All he regretted was that he would not die in his Name-robe, the scarlet robe he had given to Calatin on the coast of Moidel’s Mount.

As he rode nearer, he was able to see that the ice phantoms were not in this army. Perhaps those creatures were not the creations of the Fhoi Myore, after all? But the Ghoolegh were, that was certain. Being almost indestructible they were proving a hard enemy for the Mabden to cope with. And who led them into battle? A rider on a tall horse. A rider who was not pale green, like Hew Argech, yet still familiar. How many men were familiar to him in this world? Very few. The light caught the armor of the rider. In a moment it had changed from bright gold to dull silver, from scarlet to flickering blue.

And Corum knew he had seen the armor before and that he, himself, had sent its wearer to Limbo in a great fight at the camp of Queen Xiombarg’s forces; to Limbo—where the Fhoi Myore, perhaps, were still secure, before the disruption of the fabric of the multiverse had sent them into this world to poison it. And had it sent that rider with them? It was a likely explanation. The dark yellow plume still nodded on the rider’s helm which, as before, completely obscured the face. The breastplate was still engraved with the Arms of Chaos, the eight arrows radiating from a central hub. And in his glove of metal was a sword which also shone sometimes gold, sometimes silver, sometimes blue or scarlet.

“Gaynor,” said Corum, and he recalled the terror of Gaynor’s death. “It is Prince Gaynor the Damned.”

“You know that warrior?” Medhbh questioned,

“I slew him once,” said Corum grimly. “Or, at least, I banished him—I thought from this world, at least. But here he is—my old enemy. Could he be the ‘brother’, I wonder, of whom the old woman spoke?” This last question was addressed to himself. He had already drawn back his arm and flung Bryionak towards Prince Gaynor, who had once been a champion (perhaps the Champion Eternal himself) but was now pledged wholly to evil.

Bryionak went flying to its target and it struck Prince Gaynor’s shoulder and made him stagger in his saddle. The faceless helm turned and watched as the spear flew back to Corum’s hand. Gaynor had been directing his Ghoolegh against the weak parts of Caer Mahlod’s walls. They ran through snow which had been stained red by blood and black by mud, and many were missing limbs, features and even innards, but still they worked. Corum gripped the spear, Bryionak, and he knew that, as before, Gaynor was not easily beaten, even by magic.

He heard Gaynor’s laughter from within the helm. Gaynor seemed almost pleased to see him, as if glad to see a familiar face whether it was friend’s or foe’s. “Prince Corum, the Champion of the Mabden! We were speculating on your absence, thinking that you had sensibly fled, perhaps even returning to your own world. But here you are. How whimsical is Fate that she wills us to continue our silly squabble.”

Corum looked back for a moment and saw the Bull of Crinanass still followed. He looked beyond Gaynor at the battered walls of Caer Mahlod. He saw many dead men on the battlements.

”Indeed She is,” he said.’ ‘But would you fight me again, Prince Gaynor? Would you beg me for mercy again? Would you have me send you to Limbo again?”

Prince Gaynor laughed his bitter laugh and said:

“Ask the Fhoi Myore that last question. They would be only too pleased to return to their dreadful homeland. And if they left me and if I had no loyalties, now that Chaos and Law no longer war upon this plane, I should be pleased to join with you, Corum. As it is, as usual, we must battle.”

Corum remembered what he had seen on Gaynor’s face the time he had opened the man’s helm. He shuddered. Again he feltpity for Gaynor the Damned who was bound to live out many existences in many different planes, just as was he—though Gaynor was destined to serve the meanest, the most treacherous of masters. And now his soldiers were half-dead things. Previously they had been beast-things.

“The quality of your infantry seems up to standard,” said Corum.

Gaynor laughed again, his voice muffled from within his never-opened helm. “Even better, in some respects, I’d say.”

“Would you not call them off and join with me, Gaynor. You know that I had little hatred for you at the end. We have more in common than any others here.”

“True,” said Gaynor. “So why not side with me, Corum. After all, the Fhoi Myore conquest is inevitable.”

“And will inevitably lead to death.”

“That is what I have been promised,” said Gaynor simply.

And Corum knew that Gaynor wanted death more than anything and that he could not argue with the Damned Prince unless he, Corum, could offer Gaynor a death that was still quicker.

“When the world dies,” Gaynor continued, “shall not I die, too?”

Corum looked beyond Prince Gaynor the Damned at the battlements of Caer Mahlod and the handful of Mabden fighting for their lives against half-dead Ghoolegh, snapping devil dogs and creatures who were more trees than men. “It is possible, Gaynor,” he said thoughtfully, ‘ ‘that it is your doom to be forever siding with evil in an effort to gain your ends when, if you achieved a noble deed your wishes would be granted.”

“A romantic view, I fear, Prince Corum.” Gaynor turned his horse away.

“What?” said Corum. “You will not fight me?”

“Nay—nor your bovine friend,” said Gaynor. He rode back towards the cover of the mist. ‘ ‘I wish to remain on this world until the finish. I’ll not be sent back to Limbo again by you!” His tone was equable, even friendly, as he cried: ’ ‘But I’ll return later to look upon your corpse, Corum.”

“You think it will be here?”

“We think that perhaps thirty of your folk are left alive and that before the evening our hounds will be feasting within your walls. Therefore—yes, I think your corpse will be here. Farewell, Corum.”

And Gaynor had gone and Corum and Medhbh were riding on for the broken wall. And now they heard the Black Bull of Crinanass snorting behind them, so they thought at first it chased them for daring to summon it. But it had veered off and was charging at a knot of pale green riders who had sighted Corum and Medhbh and had intended to ride them down.

The Black Bull of Crinanass lowered its head and drove straight into the group of riders, scattering their beasts, tossing men high into the air and then charging onward, straight into a rank of Ghoolegh and trampling every one of them, turning, its tail high and its head nodding, to spike a devil dog on each horn.

It dominated the whole battlefield, that Black Bull of Crinanass. It shook off any weapons which might find a mark in its hide. It charged with fearful speed thrice around the walls of Caer Mahlod while Corum and Medhbh, forgotten by their enemies, looked on with stunned delight. And Corum held the spear, Bryionak, high into the air, and cheered the Black Bull of Crinanass. Then he saw that there was a gap in the ranks of the stunned besiegers and he lowered his head, bade Medhbh to follow him, and urged his horse towards Caer Mahlod. He leapt it through the breach and stopped it, by chance, directly before a weary and much-wounded King Mannach, who sat upon a rock trying to stop the blood flowing from his mouth while an old man tried to remove the arrowhead from his lung.

There were tears in King Mannach’s eyes as he lifted his old, noble head to stare at Corum. ”But the Bull has come too late,” he said.

“Too late, perhaps,” said Corum, “but at least you will see the Bull destroy those who have destroyed your folk.”

‘ ‘No,” said King Mannach. ”I will not watch. I am tired of it.”

While Medhbh comforted her father, Corum went around the walls of Caer Mahlod, taking stock of their situation while the Bull of Crinanass occupied the enemy outside.

Prince Gaynor had been wrong. There were not thirty able-bodied men left on the walls, but forty. And outside were still many of the hounds, several squadrons of pale green riders and a fair number of Ghoolegh. Moreover the Fhoi Myore themselves had yet to move upon Caer Mahlod, and any one of the Gods of Limbo probably had the power to destroy the city if he cared to leave his misty sanctuary for a few moments.

Corum climbed to the highest tower of the battlements, now partially in ruins. The Bull was chasing little groups of their enemies all over the muddy battlefield. Many were fleeing, heedless of the chilling, booming noises which came from the mist over the forest—the voices, no doubt, of the Fhoi Myore. And those who did not heed the voices were as doomed as those who paused, turned and were destroyed by the mighty Bull, for they did not run far before they fell dead, slain by their own masters.

The Fhoi Myore did not seem to care that they wasted their creatures so and yet did nothing to stop the carnage which the Black Bull of Crinanass was wreaking. Corum supposed that the Cold Folk knew that they could still crush Caer Mahlod and perhaps deal with the Bull, too.

And then it was over. Not a single Ghoolegh, hound nor pale green rider remained alive. What mortal weapon could not slay, the Black Bull had slain.

It stood triumphant amongst the corpses of men, beasts and things that were like men. It pawed at the ground and its breath foamed from its nostrils. It raised its head and it bellowed and that bellow shook the walls of Caer Mahlod.

Yet still the Fhoi Myore had not moved from their mist.

None on the battlements cheered, for they knew that the main attack was still to come.

Now, save for the great Bull’s triumphant lowing, there was a silence about the scene. Death was everywhere. Death hung over the battlefield, inhabited the fortress. And Death waited in the mist-shrouded forest. Corum remembered something King Mannach had told him—how the Fhoi Myore pursued Death. Did they, like Prince Gaynor, long for oblivion? Was this their main concern? If so, it made them an even more terrifying enemy.

The mist had begun to move. Corum cried out to the survivors to ready themselves. In his silver hand he held up the spear, Bryionak, so that all could see.

‘ ‘Here is the spear of the Sidhi! There is the last of the Sidhi war-cattle! And here stands Corum Llaw Ereint. Rally, men of Caer Mahlod, for the Fhoi Myore come against us now in all their strength. But we have strength. We have courage. And this is our land, our world, and we must defend it!”

Corum saw Medhbh. He saw her smile up at him and heard her cry out:

“If we die, then let us die in a way that will make our legend great!”

Even King Mannach, leaning on the arm of a warrior who was, himself, wounded, seemed to recover from his depression. Sound men and wounded men, youths and maidens, the aged, now swarmed up to the walls of Caer Mahlod and steadied their hearts as they saw seven shadows in seven creaking battle-carts, drawn by seven misshapen beasts, reach the bottom of the hill upon which Caer Mahlod stood. The mist surrounded them again, and the Black Bull of Crinanass was also engulfed in the pale, clinging stuff, and they no longer heard his lowing. It was as if the mist had poisoned him, and perhaps that was what had happened.

Corum took aim at the first looming shadow, aiming for what appeared to be the head, though the outline was much distorted. The creaking of the chariots grated on his bones and his body wanted to do little else but curl in on itself, but he resisted the sensation and cast the spear, Bryionak.

Slowly the spear seemed to sunder the mist as it passed through and went true to its target, producing for an instant a strange honk of pain. Then the spear had returned to his hand and the honking continued. In other circumstances the sound might have been ludicrous, but here it was sinister and menacing. It was the voice of an insensate beast, of a stupid being, and Corum realized that the owner of that voice was a creature of little intelligence and monstrous, primitive will. And that was what made the Fhoi Myore so dangerous. They were motivated by blind need; they could not understand their plight. They could think of no way to deal with it but to continue their conquests, continue them without malice or hatred or any sense of vengeance. They used what they needed; they made use of whatever powers they had, of whoever would serve them, to seek an impossible goal. Yes, that was what made them almost impossible to defeat. They could not be bargained with, reasoned with. Fear was all that might stop them, and it was plain that the one who had honked did fear the Sidhi spear. The advancing chariots began to slow as the Fhoi Myore grunted to each other.

A moment later a face appeared out of the mist. It was more like a wound than a face. It was red and there were lumps of raw flesh hanging on it. The mouth was distorted and appeared in the left cheek, and there was but one eye—one eye with a great lid of dead flesh. Attached to that eyelid was a wire, and the wire ran over the skull and under the arm pit and could be pulled by the two-fingered hand to open it.

The hand moved now, tugging at the wire. Corum was filled with an instinctive feeling of danger and was already ducking behind the battlement as the eye opened. The eye was blue, like northern ice, and from it poured a radiance. Bitter cold gnawed at Corum’s body, though he was not in the direct path of the radiance. And now he knew how those people by the lake had died, frozen in the postures of war. The cold was so intense that it knocked him backward and almost off the ledge. He recovered, crawled further away and raised his head, the spear poised. Already several of the warriors on the battlements were rigid and dead. Corum threw the spear, Bryionak. He threw it at the blue eye.