The Sidhi smith glared at him.
“Aye? What is funny?”
‘ ‘I should be afraid to meet ordinary-sized men on this island!”
‘ ‘I miss your point.’ ‘ Goffanon’s eyes narrowed as he readied his axe and took up a fighting stance. It was only then that Corum realized that the eyes were similar to his own remaining single orb— almond-shaped, yellow and purple—and that the so-called dwarf’s skull structure was more delicate than it had at first appeared due to the beard covering so much of it. His face was, in most particulars, a Vadhagh face. Yet in all other respects Goffanon did not resemble a member of Corum’s own race.
‘ ‘ Are there others of your kind in Hy-Breasail?” Corum used the pure tongue of the Vadhagh, not the dialect spoken by most Mab-den, and produced an expression of gaping-mouthed astonishment on Goffanon’s features.
“I am the only one,” the smith replied in the same tongue. “ Or thought so. Yet if you be of my folk, why did you set your dogs upon me?”
“They are not my dogs. I am Corum Jhaelen Irsei, of the Vadhagh race.” With his left, his silver, hand, Corum held up the horn. “This is what controls the dogs. This horn. They think their master sounds it.”
Goffanon lowered his axe a fraction. “So you are not some servant of the Fhoi Myore?”
“I hope that I am not. I battle the Fhoi Myore and all that they stand for. Those dogs have attacked me more than once. It was to save me from further attacks that I was loaned the horn by a Mabden wizard.” Corum decided that this was a judicious time to sheath his sword and hoped that the Sidhi smith did not take the opportunity to split his skull.
Goffanon frowned, sucking at his lips as he debated Corum’s words.
“How long have the Hounds of Kerenos been on your island?” Corum asked.
“This time? A day—no more. But they have been before. They seem the only things unaffected by the madness which comes upon the rest of the denizens of this world when they set foot upon my shores. And since the Fhoi Myore have had an abiding hatred for Hy-Breasail, they do not rest in sending their minions to hunt me. Often I am able to anticipate their coming and take precautions, but this time I had grown too confident, not expecting them back so soon. I thought you to be some new creature, some huntsman like the Ghoolegh, of whom I have heard, who serve Kerenos. But it seems to me now that I once listened to a tale concerning a Vadhagh with a strange hand and only one eye—but that Vadhagh died, even before the Sidhi came.”
“You do not call yourself Vadhagh?”
“Sidhi, we are called.” Now Goffanon had lowered his axe completely. “We are related to your folk. Some of your people visited us once, I know—and we visited you. But that was when access to the Fifteen Planes was possible, before the last Conjunction of the Million Spheres.”
“You are from another plane. Then how did you reach this one?”
“A disruption in the walls between the realms. Thus came the Fhoi Myore, from the Cold Places, from Limbo. And thus we came—to help the folk of Lwym-an-Esh and their Vadhagh friends—and fought the Fhoi Myore. There was great slaying in those days, long ago, and huge wars, which sank Lwym-an-Esh, killing all the Vadhagh and most of the Mabden. Also my folk, the Sidhi, were slain, for we could not return to our own plane, since the rupture swiftly mended. We thought all the Fhoi Myore destroyed, but lately they have returned.”
“And you do not fight them?”
“I am not strong enough, alone. This island is physically part of my own plane. Here I can live in peace, save for the dogs. I am old. I shall die in a few hundred years.”
“I am weak,” Corum said. “Yet I fight the Fhoi Myore.”
Goffanon nodded. Then he shrugged. “Only because you have not fought them before,” he said.
‘ ‘Yet why can they not come to Hy-Breasail? Why do no Mabden return from the island?”
“I try to keep the Mabden away,” said Goffanon, “but they are an intrepid little race. Their very courage brings about their dreadful deaths. But I will tell you more when we have eaten. Will you guest with me, cousin?”
‘ ‘Gladly,” said Corum.
“Then come.”
Goffanon began to climb back up the rocks, working his way around the ledge on which he had stood to fight the Hounds of Kerenos, and disappeared again. His head reappeared almost instantly.
‘ ‘This way. I have lived here since the dogs began to plague me.”
Corum climbed slowly after the Sidhi, reached the ledge and saw that it went around a slab of rock which hid an entrance to a cave. The slab could be moved in grooves to block the entrance and, as Corum stepped through, Goffanon put his gigantic shoulder to the slab and heaved it into place. Inside was light coming from well-made lamps set in niches in the walls. The furniture was plain but expertly carved and there were woven tapestries upon the floor. Save for the lack of a window, Goffanon’s lair was more than comfortable.
While Corum rested in a chair Goffanon busied himself at his stove, preparing soup, vegetables and meat. The smell that arose from his pots was delicious, and Corum congratulated himself for curbing his desire to spear fish from the stream. This meal promised to be much more appetizing.
Goffanon, apologizing for the scarcity of his plate, for he had lived alone for hundreds of years, put a huge bowl of soup before Corum. The Vadhagh prince ate gratefully.
Next followed meat and a variety of succulent vegetables which were, in turn, followed by the best-tasting fruit Corum had ever eaten. When, at last, he sank back in his chair it was with a feeling of well-being such as he had not experienced in years. He thanked Goffanon profusely, and the self-styled dwarf’s huge frame seemed to writhe in embarrassment. He apologized again and then seated himself in his own chair and put an object into his mouth which was a long stalk which projected from a small cup. Goffanon sucked at the stalk, holding over the bowl of the little cup apiece of burning wood. Soon clouds of smoke issued from the bowl and from his mouth and he smiled with contentment, only noticing Corum’s surprised expression some time later. “A custom of my folk,” he explained. “It is an aromatic herb which we burn in this way and inhale the smoke. It pleases us.”
The smoke did riot smell particularly sweet to Corum, but he accepted the Sidhi’s explanation, though refusing Goffanon’s offer of a bowl of his own smoke.
“You asked,” said Goffanon slowly, half-closing his huge, almond-shaped eyes, “why the Fhoi Myore fear this island and why the Mabden perished here. Well, neither is any deliberate doing of mine, though I am glad that the Fhoi Myore avoid me. Long ago, during the first Fhoi Myore invasion when we were called to help our Vadhagh cousins and their friends, we had great difficulty in breaching the wall between the realms. Finally we did so, causing enormous disruptions in the world of our own plane, resulting in a great piece of land coming with us through the dimensions to your world. That piece of land settled, luckily, upon a relatively unpopulated part of the kingdom of Lwym-an-Esh. However, it retained the properties of our plane—it is, as it were, part of the Sidhi dream, rather than the Vadhagh, the Mabden or the Fhoi Myore dreams. Though, as you will have noted, of course, since the Vadhagh are closely related to the Sidhi they have little difficulty in adapting themselves to it. The Mabden and the Fhoi Myore, on the other hand, cannot survive here at all. Madness overwhelms them as soon as they land. They enter a world of nightmare. All their fears multiply and become completely real for them, and they are thus destroyed by their own terrors.”
‘ ‘I guessed something of this,” Corum told Goffanon, “for I had a hint of what might happen when I slept earlier today.”
“Exactly. Even the Vadhagh sometimes experience a little of what it means for a mortal Mabden to land on Hy-Breasail. I try to hide the island’s outlines with a mist I am able to prepare, but it is not always possible to keep a sufficient supply of the mist in the air. That is when the Mabden find the island and suffer enormously as a result.”
‘ ‘And where do
the Fhoi Myore originate from? You spoke of the Cold Places.”
“The Cold Places, aye. Do you know of them in Vadhagh lore? The places between the planes—a chaotic limbo which occasionally spawns intelligence of sorts. That is what the Fhoi Myore are— creatures from Limbo who fell through the breach in the wall between the realms and arrived upon this plane. Whereupon they embarked upon conquest of your world, planning to turn it into another limbo where they might best survive. They cannot live for much longer, the Fhoi Myore. Their own diseases destroy them. But they will live long enough, I fear, to bring freezing death to all but Hy-Breasail—to bring freezing death to Mabden and to all beasts, even the smallest sea-creature, on this world. It is inevitable. They will probably outlive me, some of them—Kerenos anyway. But their plagues will slay them at last. Virtually all this world, save the land from which you have just come, has died under their rule. It happened quickly, I think. We thought them all dead, but they must have found hiding places —perhaps at the edge of the world where ice always may be found. Now their patience is rewarded, eh?” Goffanon sighed. “Well, well—there are other worlds—and those they cannot reach.”
“I wish to save this one,” said Corum quietly. “I would save what is left, at least. I am sworn to that. Sworn to help the Mabden. Now I quest for their lost treasures. It was rumored that you have one of those, something you made for the Mabden in their first fight with the Fhoi Myore, ages since.”
Goffanon nodded. ” You speak of the spear, Bryionak. I made it. Here it is only an ordinary spear, but in the Mabden dream and the Fhoi Myore dream, it has great power.”
“So I heard.”
“It will tame, among other things, the Bull of Crinanass, which we brought with us when we came.” “A Sidhi beast?”
“ Aye. One of a great herd. He is the last.”
“ Why did you seek the spear and carry it back to Hy-Breasail?”
“I have not left Hy-Breasail. That spear was brought by one of the mortals who came exploring. I tried to comfort him as he died raving, but he could not be comforted. When he died I took back my spear. That is all. He had thought, it seemed, that Bryionak would protect him from the dangers of my island.”
“ So you would not deny the Mabden its help again.”
Goffanon frowned. “I do not know. I am fond of that spear. I should not like to lose it again. And it will not help the Mabden much, cousin. They are doomed. It is best to accept that. They are doomed. Why not let them die swiftly. To send them Bryionak would be to offer them a false hope.”
“It is in my nature to put my faith in hopes, no matter how false they seem,” Corum said quietly.
Goffanon looked at him sympathetically. “ Aye. I was told of Corum. Now I recall the tale. You are a sad one. A noble one. But what happens, happens. There is nothing you can do to stop it.”
“I must try, you see, Goffanon.”
‘ ‘Aye.” Goffanon pulled his great bulk from a chair and went to one side of the cave which was in shadow. He returned bearing a spear of very ordinary appearance. It had a well-worn wooden shaft and was bound in iron. Only its head had something odd about its manufacture. Like the blade of Goffanon’s axe, it shone brighter than ordinary iron.
The Sidhi handled it with pride. “My tribe was always the smallest of the Sidhi, both in numbers and in stature, but we had our skills. We could work metals in a way which you might describe as philosophical. We understood that metals had qualities beyond their obvious properties. And so we made weapons for the Mabden. We made several. Of them all, only this survives. I made it. The spear, Bryionak.”
He held it out to Corum who, for some reason, accepted it with his left hand, the silver hand. It was beautifully weighted, a practical weapon of war, but, if Corum had expected to sense in it anything extraordinary, he was disappointed.
“A good, plain spear,” said Goffanon, “is Bryionak.”
Corum nodded. “Save for the head, that is.”
“ No more of that metal can be smelted,” Goffanon told him. ‘ ‘A little of it came with us when we left our own plane. A few axe-blades, a sword or two—and that spear—were all we could manufacture. Good, sharp metal. It does not dull or rust.”
“And it has magical properties?”
Goffanon laughed. “Not to the Sidhi. But the Fhoi Myore think so. As do the Mabden. Therefore, of course, it has magical properties. Spectacular properties. Yes, I am glad to have my spear back.”
“You would not part with it again?”
“I think not.”
“But the Bull of Crinanass will obey the one who wields it. And the Bull will aid the people of Caer Mahlod against the Fhoi Myore—perhaps help them destroy the Fhoi Myore.”
“Neither bull nor spear is powerful enough to do that,” said Goffanon gravely. “I know that you want the spear, Corum, but I repeat this—nothing can save the Mabden world. It is doomed to die, just as the Fhoi Myore are doomed, just as I am doomed—and you also, unless you have a means of returning to your own plane, for I take it you are not from this one.”
“I am doomed, too, I think,” said Corum quietly. “But I would carry the spear, Bryionak, back to Caer Mahlod, for that was my oath, that is my quest.”
Goffanon sighed and took the spear from Corum’s hand. “ ‘No,”
he said. ‘ ‘When the Hounds of Kerenos come again I shall need all my weapons to destroy them. The pack which attacked me today is doubtless still upon this island. If I kill that pack there will come another pack. My spear and my axe, they are my only security. You have yon horn, after all.’’
“It is only loaned to me.”
“By whom?’’
“By a wizard. Calatin’s his name.”
‘ ‘Aha. I tried to turn three of his sons away from this shore. But they died, as the others died.’‘
“I know that many of his sons came here.”
“What did they seek?’’
Corum laughed. “They wanted you to spit upon them.’’ He recalled the little watertight bag Calatin had given him. He drew it from his pouch.
Goffanon frowned. Then his brow cleared and he shook his head, puffing at the little bowl of herbs which still burned near his mouth. Corum wondered where he had witnessed a similar custom, but his memory had become very hazy, of late, concerning his previous adventures. That was the price one paid, he guessed, for entering another dream, another plane.
Goffanon sniffed. “Another of their superstitions, no doubt. What do they do with these things? Animals’ blood drawn at midnight. Bones. Roots. How debased has Mabden knowledge become!”
“Would you grant the wizard his wish?” Corum asked. “I am pledged to ask you. He loaned me the horn on that understanding. ‘ ‘
Goffanon stroked his heavy beard. “It has come to something when the Vadhagh must beg the Mabden for their help.”
“This is a Mabden world,” Corum said. “You made that point yourself, Goffanon.”
‘ ‘A Fhoi Myore world soon. And then no world at all. Ah, well, if it will help you, I will do what you want. I can lose nothing by it and I doubt if your wizard will gain anything, either. Hand me the bag.’’
Corum passed the bag to Goffanon who grunted, laughed again, shook his head again, and spat into the bag, handing it back to Corum who, somewhat fastidiously, replaced it in his pouch.
“But it was the spear I really sought,” said Corum quietly. He regretted his insistence, after Goffanon had taken his other request with such good humor and, as well, had offered him good hospitality.
“I know.” Goffanon lowered his head and stared at the floor. “But if I help you save a few Mabden lives, I stand the chance of losing my own.”
“Have you forgotten the generosity which led you and your people to come here in the first place?”
“I was more generous in those days. Besides, it was our kin, the Vadhagh, who asked for that help.”
“I am your kin, then,” Corum pointed out. He felt a pang of guilt at
playing on the Sidhi dwarf’s better feelings. “And I ask.”
“One Sidhi, one Vadhagh, seven Fhoi Myore and still a fair horde of the ever-breeding Mabden. Yet it is not much compared with what I saw when first I came to this world. And the land was lovely. It bloomed. Now it is harsh and nothing will grow. Let it die, Corum. Stay with me here in the fair island, in Hy-Breasail.”
“I made a bargain,” said Corum simply. “Everything in me would force me to agree with you and to accept your offer, Goffanon—save for that one thing. I made a bargain.”
‘ ‘But my bargain—the bargain the Sidhi made—that is over. And I owe you nothing, Corum.”
“I helped you when the devil dogs attacked you.”
“I helped you keep your bargain with the Mabden wizard. Have I not paid that debt?”
“Must all things be discussed in terms of bargains, of debts?”
“Yes,” said Goffanon seriously, “for it is nearly the end of the world and there are only a few things left. They must be bartered and a balance kept. I believe that, Corum. It is not an attitude inspired by venality—we Sidhi were rarely considered venal—but by a necessary conception of order. What have you to offer me more useful to me in so many ways than the spear, Bryionak?”
“Nothing, I think.”
“Only the horn. The horn that will dismiss the dogs when they attack me. That horn is more valuable to me than the spear. And the spear—is that not more valuable to you than the horn?”
“I agree,” said Corum. “But the horn is not mine, Goffanon. The horn is only lent to me—by Calatin.”
“I will not give you Bryionak,” Goffanon said heavily, almost reluctantly,’ ‘unless you give me the horn. That is the only bargain I will strike with you, Vadhagh.”
“And it is the only one I have no right to make.”
“Is there nothing Calatin wants from you?”
“I have already made my bargain with Calatin.”
“You cannot make another.”
Corum drew his brows together and with his right hand he fingered his embroidered eye-patch, as he was wont to do when faced with a difficult problem. He owed Calatin his life. Calatin would owe Corum nothing until Corum returned from the island with the little bag of the Sidhi’s spittle. Then neither would be in the other’s debt. Yet the spear was important. Even now Caer Mahlod might be under attack from the Fhoi Myore and the only thing which might save them was the spear, Bryionak, and the Bull of Crinanass. And Corum had sworn that he would return with the spear. He plucked the horn from where it hung at his hip by the long thong looped over his shoulder. He looked at the fine, mottled bone, the ornamental bands, the silver mouthpiece. It was a hero’s horn. Who had bome it before Calatin found it? Kerenos himself?