He saw the forest on the mainland. Nothing threatened.
He glanced up at the cloudless sky.
He hoped the pause would be a long one.
This Ends The
First Book Of Corum
Book One
In which Prince Corum meets a poet, hears a portent and plans a journey
The First Chapter
What the Sea God Discarded
Now the skies of summer were pale blue over the deeper blue of the sea; over the golden green of the mainland forest; over the grassy rocks of Moidel's Mount and the white stones of the castle raised on its peak. And the last of the Vadhagh race, Prince Corum in the Scarlet Robe, was deep in love with the Mabden woman, Margravine Rhalina of Allomglyl.
Corum Jhaelen Irsei, whose right eye was covered by a patch encrusted with dark jewels so that it resembled the orb of an insect, whose left eye (the natural one) was large and almond-shaped with a yellow centre and purple surround, was unmistakably Vadhagh. His skull was narrow and long and tapering at the chin and his ears were tapered, too. They had no lobes and were flat against the skull. The hair was fair and finer than the finest Mabden maiden’s, his mouth was wide, full-lipped, and his skin was rose-pink and flecked with gold. He would have been handsome save for the baroque blemish that was now his right eye and for the somewhat grim twist to his lips. Then, too, there was the alien hand which strayed often to his sword-hilt, visible when he pushed back his scarlet robe.
This left hand bore six fingers on it and seemed encased in a jewelled gauntlet (not so - the “jewels” were the hand’s skin). It was a sinister thing and it had crushed the heart of the Knight of the Swords himself - my lord Arioch of Chaos - and allowed Arkyn, Lord of Law, to return.
Corum certainly seemed a being bent on vengeance and he was, indeed, pledged to avenge his murdered family by slaying Earl Glandyth-a-Krae, servant of King Lyr-a-Brode of Kalenwyr, who ruled the South and the East of the continent once ruled by the Vadhagh. And he was also pledged to the Cause of Law against the Cause of Chaos (whose servant Lyr and his subjects were).
This knowledge made him sober and manly, but it also made his soul heavy. He was also unsettled by the thought of the power grafted to his flesh - the Power of the Hand and the Eye.
The Margravine Rhalina was womanly and beautiful and her gentle face was framed by thick, black tresses. She had huge dark eyes and red, loving lips.
She, too, was nervous of the sorcerous gifts of the dead wizard Shool, but she tried not to brood upon them, just as earlier she had refused to brood upon the loss of her husband, the Margrave, when he had been drowned in a shipwreck while on his way to Lywrn-an-Esh, the land he served and which was gradually being covered by the sea.
She found more to laugh at than did Corum and she was his comfort, for once he had been innocent and had laughed a great deal, and he remembered this innocence with longing. But the longing brought other memories - of his family lying dead, mutilated, dishonoured on the sward outside Castle Erorn as it burned and Glandyth brandished his weapons which were clothed in Vadhagh blood. Such violent images were stronger than the images of his earlier, peaceful life. They forever inhabited his skull, sometimes filling it, sometimes lurking in the darker corners and merely threatening to fill it. And when his revenge-lust seemed to wane, they would always bring it back to fullness. Fire, flesh and fear; the barbaric chariots of the Denledhyssi -
brass, iron and crude gold. Short, shaggy horses and burly, bearded warriors in borrowed Vadhagh armour - opening their red mouths and bellowing their insensate triumph, while the old stones of Castle Erorn cracked and tumbled in the yelling blaze and Corum discovered what hate and terror were...
Glandyth’s brutal face would fill his dreams, dominating even the dead, tortured faces of his parents and his sisters, so that he would often awake in the middle of the night, fierce, tensed and shouting.
Then only Rhalina could calm him, stroking his ruined face and holding his shaking body close to her own.
Yet, during those days of early summer, there were moments of peace and they could ride through the woods of the mainland without fear, now, of the Pony Tribes who had fled at the sight of the ship Shool had sent on the night of their attack - a dead ship from the bottom of the sea, crewed by corpses and commanded by the dead Margrave himself, Rhalina’s drowned husband.
The woods were full of sweet life, of little animals and bright flowers and rich scents. And though they never quite succeeded, they offered to heal the scars on Corum’s soul; they offered an alternative to conflict and death and sorcerous horror and they showed him that there were things in the universe which were calm and ordered and beautiful and that Law offered more than just a sterile order but sought to establish throughout the Fifteen Planes a harmony in which all things could exist in all their variety. Law offered an environment in which all the mortal virtues could flourish.
Yet while Glandyth and all he represented survived, Corum knew that Law would be under constant threat and that the corrupting monster Fear would destroy all virtue.
As they rode, one pretty day, through the woods, he cast about him with his mismatched eyes and he said to Rhalina, “Glandyth must die!”
And she nodded but did not question why he had made this sudden statement, for she had heard it many times in similar circumstances. She tightened the rein on her chestnut mare and brought the beast to a prancing halt in a glade of lupins and hollyhocks. She dismounted and picked up her long skirts of embroidered samite as she waded gracefully through the knee-high grass. Corum sat on his tawny stallion and watched her, taking pleasure in her pleasure as she had known he would. The glade was warm and shadowy, sheltered by kindly elm and oak and ash in which squirrels and birds had made their nests.
“Oh, Corum, if only we could stay here forever! We could build a cottage, plant a garden...”
He tried to smile. “But we cannot,” he said. “Even this is but a respite.
Shool was right. By accepting the logic of conflict I have accepted a particular destiny. Even if I forgot my own vows of vengeance, even if I had not agreed to serve Law against Chaos, Glandyth would still come and seek us out and make us defend this peace. And Glandyth is stronger than these gentle woods, Rhalina. He could destroy them overnight and, I think, would relish so doing if he knew we loved them.”
She kneeled and smelled the flowers. “Must it always be so? Must hate always breed hate and love be powerless to proliferate?”
“If Lord Arkyn is right, it will not always be so. But those who believe that love should be powerful must be prepared to die to ensure its strength.”
She raised her head suddenly and there was alarm in her eyes as they stared into his.
He shrugged. “It is true,” he said.
Slowly, she got to her feet and went back to where her horse stood. She put a foot into the stirrup and pulled herself into the side-saddle. He remained in the same position, staring at the flowers and at the grass which was gradually springing back into the places it had occupied before she had walked through it.
“It is true.”
He sighed and turned his horse towards the shore.
“We had best return,” he murmured, “before the sea covers the causeway.”
A little while later they emerged from the forest and trotted their steeds along the shore. Blue sea shifted on the white sand and, still some distance away, they saw the natural causeway leading through the shallows to the mount on which stood Castle Moidel, the farthest and forgotten outpost of the civilization of Lywm-an-Esh. Once the castle had stood among woods on the mainland of Lywm-an-Esh, but the sea now covered that land.
Seabirds called and wheeled in the cloudless sky, sometimes diving to spear a fish with their beaks and return with their catch to their nests amongst the rocks of Moidel’s Mount. The hooves of the horses thumped the sand or splashed through the surf as they neared the causeway which would soon be covered by the tide.
And then Corum’s
attention was caught by a movement far out to sea. He craned forward as he rode and peered Into the distance.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“I am not sure. A big wave, perhaps. But this is not the season of heavy seas.” He pointed. “Look.”
“There seems to be a mist hanging over the water a mile or two out. It is hard to observe. She gasped. “It is a wave!”
Now the water near the shore became slightly more agitated as the wave approached.
“It is as if some huge ship were passing by at great speed,” Corum said. “It is familiar...”
Then he looked more sharply into the distant haze. “Do you see something - a shadow - the shadow of a man on the mist?”
“Yes, I do see it. It is enormous. Perhaps an illusion - something to do with the light...”
“No,” he said. “I have seen that outline before. It is the giant - the great fisherman who was the cause of my shipwreck on the coast of Khoolocrah!”
“The Wading God,” she said. “I know of him. He is sometimes also called the Fisher. Legends say that when he is seen it is an ominous portent.”
“It was an ominous enough portent for me when I last saw him.” Corum said with some humour. Now good-sized waves were rolling up the beach and they backed their horses off. “He comes closer. Yet the mist follows him.”
It was true. The mist was moving nearer the shore as the waves grew larger and the gigantic fisherman waded closer. They could see his outline clearly now. His shoulders were bowed as he hauled his great net, walking backwards through the water.
“What is he thought to catch?” whispered Corum. “Whales! Sea-monsters?”
“Anything,” she replied. “Anything that is upon or under the sea.” She shivered.
The causeway was now completely covered by the artificial tide and there was no point in going forward. They were forced further back towards the trees as the sea rolled in in massive breakers, crashing upon the sand and the shingle.
A little of the mist seemed to touch them and it became cold, though the sun was still bright. Corum drew his cloak about him. There came the steady sound of the giant’s strides as he waded on. Somehow he seemed a doomed figure to Corum - a creature destined to drag his nets forever through the oceans of the world, never finding the thing he sought.
“They say he fishes for his soul,” murmured Rhalina. “For his soul.”
Now the silhouette straightened its back and hauled in its net. Many creatures struggled there - some of them unrecognizable. The Wading God inspected his catch carefully and then shook out the net, letting the things fall back into the water. He moved on slowly, once again fishing for something it seemed he would never find.
The mist began to leave the shore as the dim outline of the giant moved out to sea again. The waters began to subside until at last they were still and the mist vanished beyond the horizon.
Corum’s horse snorted and pawed at the wet sand. The Prince in the Scarlet Robe looked at Rhalina. Her eyes were blank, fixed on the horizon. Her features were rigid.
“The danger is gone,” he said, trying to comfort her.
“There was no danger,” she said. “It is a warning of danger that the Wading God brings.”
“It is only what the legends say.”
Her eyes became alive again as she regarded him. “And have we not had cause to believe in legends of late?”
He nodded. “Come, let’s get back to the castle before the causeway’s flooded a second time.”
Their horses were grateful to be moving towards the Sanctuary of Moidel’s Castle. The sea was rising swiftly on both sides of the rocky path as they began to cross and the horses broke spontaneously into a gallop.
At last they reached the great gates of the castle and these swung open to admit them. Rhalina’s handsome warriors welcomed them back gladly, anxious for their own experiences to be confirmed.
“Did you see the giant, my lady Margravine?” Beldan, her steward, sprang down the steps of the west tower. “I thought it another of Glandyth’s allies.” The young man’s normally cheerful, open face was clouded. “What drove it off?”
“Nothing,” she said, dismounting, “It was the Wading God. He was merely going about his business.”
Beldan looked relieved. As with all the inhabitants of Castle Moidel, he ever expected a new attack. And he was right in his expectations. Sooner or later Glandyth would march again against the castle, bringing more powerful allies than the superstitious and easily frightened warriors of the Pony Tribes.
They had heard that Glandyth, after his failure to take Castle Moidel, had returned in a rage to the Court at Kalenwyr to ask King Lyr-a-Brode for an army. Perhaps next time he came he would also bring ships which could attack from the seaward while he attacked from the land. Such an assault would be successful, for Moidel’s garrison was small.
The sun was setting as they made for the main hall of the castle to take their evening meal. Corum, Rhalina and Beldan sat together to eat and Corum’s mortal hand went often to the wine-jug and far less frequently to the food.
He was pensive, full of a sense of profound gloom which infected the others so that they did not even attempt to make conversation.
Two hours passed in this way and still Corum swallowed wine.
And then Beldan raised his head, listening. Rhalina, too, heard the sound and frowned. Only Corum appeared not to hear it.
It was a rapping noise - an insistent noise. Then there were voices and the rapping stopped for a moment. When the voices subsided the rapping began again.
Beldan got up. “I'll investigate...”
Rhalina glanced at Corum. “I’ll stay.”
Corum’s head was lowered as he stared into his cup, sometimes fingering the patch covering his alien eye, sometimes raising the Hand of Kwll and stretching the six fingers, flexing them, inspecting them, puzzling over the implications of his situation.
Rhalina listened. She heard Beldan’s voice. Again the rapping died. There was a further exchange. Silence.
Beldan came back into the hall.
“We have a visitor at our gates,” he informed her.
“Where is he from?”
“He says he is a traveller who has suffered some hardship and seeks sanctuary.”
“A trick?”
“I know not.”
Corum. looked up. “A stranger?”
“Aye,” Beldan said. “Some spy of Glandyth’s possibly.”
Corum rose unsteadily. “I’ll come to the gate.”
Rhalina touched his arm. “Are you sure... ?”
“Of course,” He passed his hand over his face and drew a deep breath. He began to stride from the hall, Rhalina and Beldan following.
He came to the gates and as he did so the knocking started up once more.
“Who are you?” Corum called. “What business have you with the folk of Moidel’s Castle?”
“I am Jhary-a-Conel, a traveller. I am here through no particular wish of my own, but I would be grateful for a meal and somewhere to sleep.”
“Are you of Lywm-an-Esh?” Rhalina asked.
“I am of everywhere and nowhere. I am all men and no man. But one thing I am not - and that is your enemy. I am wet and I am shivering with cold.”
“How came you to Moidel when the causeway is covered?” Beldan asked. He turned to Corum. “I have already asked him this once. He did not answer me.”
The unseen stranger mumbled something in reply.
“What was that?” Corum. said.
“Damn you! It’s not a thing a man likes to admit. I was part of a catch of fish! I was brought here in a net and I was dumped offshore and I swam to this damned castle and I climbed your damned rocks and I knocked on your damned door and now I stand making conversation with damned fools. Have you no charity at Moidel?”
The three of them were astonished then - and they were convinced that the stranger was not in league with Glandyth.
Rhalina signed
to the warriors to open the great gates. They creaked back a fraction and a slim, bedraggled fellow entered. He was dressed in unfamiliar garb and had a sack over his back, a hat on his head whose wide brim was weighed down by water and hung about his face. His long hair was as wet as the rest of him. He was relatively young, relatively good looking and, in spite of his sodden appearance, there was just a trace of amused disdain in his intelligent eyes. He bowed to Rhalina.
“Jhary-a-Conel at your service, ma'am.”
“How came you to keep your hat while swimming so far through the sea?” Beldan asked. “And your sack, for that matter?”
Jhary-a-Conel acknowledged the question with a wink. “I never lose my hat and I rarely lose my sack. A traveller of my sort learns to hold on to his few possessions - no matter what circumstances he finds himself in.”
“You are just that?” Corum asked. “A traveller?”
Jhary-a-Conel showed some impatience. “Your hospitality reminds me somewhat of that I experienced some time since at a place called Kalenwyr.
“You have come from Kalenwyr?”
“I have been to Kalenwyr. But I see I cannot shame you, even by that comparison...”
“I am sorry,” said Rhalina. “Come. There is food already on the table. I’ll have servants bring you a change of clothing and towels and so forth.”
They returned to the main hall. Jhary-a-Conel looked about him.
“Comfortable,” he said.
They sat in their chairs and watched him as he casually stripped off his wet clothes and stood at last naked before them. He scratched his nose. A servant brought him towels and he began busily to dry himself. But the new clothes he refused. Instead he wrapped himself in another towel and seated himself at the table, helping himself to food and wine. “I’ll take my own clothes when they’re dry,” he informed the servants. “I have a stupid habit concerning clothes not of my particular choosing. Take care when you dry the hat. The brim must be tilted just so.”
These instructions done, he turned to Corum with a bright smile. “And what name is it in this particular time and place, my friend?”