These were the creatures of whom Corum was most wary, with the exception of Gaynor himself, for they still retained much of their former intellect. He motioned Jhary to complete silence and barely breathed as he watched the throng pass by.
It was a large army and it had prepared itself for an expedition. It was leaving Caer Llud, it seemed. Was it to make a further attack on Caer Mahlod, or did they march elsewhere?
And then, behind this army, swam a thicker mist, and from out of the mist came strange grumblings and gruntings, peculiar noises which might have been speech. The mist thinned a fraction and Corum saw the outline of lumbering, malformed beasts and a wicker chariot. He had to peer upward to see the faint outline of the one who rode in the chariot. He saw reddish fur and an eight-fingered hand, all gnarled and covered in warts, clutching what appeared to be a monstrous hammer, but the shoulders and the head were completely obscured. Then the creaking battle-cart had gone past the window and silence came again to the street.
Corum wrapped the Sidhi Cloak about his body. It seemed to have been made originally for a much larger man, for its folds completely engulfed him.
And then it seemed, to his astonishment, that he saw two rooms, as if his eyes were slightly out of focus. Yet the rooms were subtly different. One was the room of death in which Jhary sat huddled in his blankets, and one was light, airy, full of sunshine.
And Corum understood, then, the properties of the Sidhi Cloak. It had been long since he had been able to shift his body from one plane into another. Effectively, this was what the mantle had done for him. Like Hy-Breasail, it was not completely of this plane; it moved him sideways, as it were, through the dimensions separating one plane from another.
“What has happened?” said Jhary-a-Conel peering in Corum’s direction.
“Why? Have I vanished?”
Jhary shook his head. “No,” he said, “but you have become a little shadowy, as if the mist thickens around you.”
Corum frowned. “So the cloak does not work, after all. I should have tested it before I left Caer Mahlod.”
Jhary-a-Conel looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it will deceive Mabden eyes, Corum. You forget that I am used to traveling between the Realms. But those who cannot see, who have no knowledge such as we possess, perhaps they will not see you.”
Corum made a bitter smile. ‘‘Well,’’ he said, “we must hope so, Jhary!”
He turned toward the door.
“Go warily, Corum,” said Jhary-a-Conel. “Gaynor—the Fhoi Myore themselves—many are not of this world at all. Some may see you clearly. Others may gain just an impression of your outline. But there is much danger in what you plan.”
And Corum said nothing in reply but left the room and entered the street and began to move toward the tower by the river with a steady, dogged stride, as a man might go bravely to his inevitable death.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
A HIGH KING BROUGHT LOW
He stood directly in Corum’s path as Corum went through the open gateway and began to ascend the gently rising steps which led to the entrance of the tall granite tower. He was big, barrel-chested, clad in leather, and in each white hand he held a cutlass. His red eyes glared. His bloodless lips curved in something which could have been a smile or a snarl.
Corum had met his kind before. This was one of the Fhoi Myore’s living dead vassals, called the Ghoolegh. Often they rode as huntsmen with the Hounds of Kerenos, for they were drawn from the ranks of those who had been foresters before the Fhoi Myore came.
This must be the test, thought Corum. He stood less than a foot from the red-eyed Ghoolegh and assumed a martial position, hand on sword.
But the Ghoolegh did not respond. He continued to stare through Corum and plainly could not see him.
In some relief, his faith in the Sidhi Cloak restored, Corum passed around the Ghoolegh guard and continued until he reached the entrance to the tower itself.
Here stood two more Ghoolegh and they were as unaware of Corum’s presence as their fellow. He was almost cheerful as he walked through and began to mount the curving stairway leading up into the heart of the tower. The tower was wide and roughly square in shape. The steps were old and worn and the walls on both sides were either painted or carved with pictures of exceptionally beautiful workmanship. As with most Mabden art, they depicted famous deeds, great heroes, love stories and the doings of gods, and demigods, yet they had a purity of conception, a beauty, which showed none of the darker aspects of superstition and religiosity. The metaphorical content of the old stories was completely understood by these Mabden and appreciated for what it was.
Here and there were the remains of tapestries which had been torn from the walls. Frost-coated, mist-rotted, it was possible to see that they had been of immeasurable value, worked in gold and silver thread as well as rich scarlets, yellows and blues. Corum mourned at the destruction the Fhoi Myore and their minions had wrought.
He reached the first story of the tower and found himself on a wide stone-flagged landing, almost a room in itself, with benches lined along the walls and decorative shields set above them. And from one of the rooms off this landing he heard voices.
Confident now in the powers of his cloak he approached the half-open door and to his surprise felt warmth issuing from it. He was grateful for the warmth, but puzzled, too. Becoming more cautious, he peered around the door and was shocked.
Two figures sat beside a big fire which had been built in the stone hearth. Both were swathed in layers of thick, white fur. Both wore fur gauntlets. Both had no business being in Caer Llud at all. On the other side of the room food was being set out by a girl who had the same white flesh and red eyes of the Ghoolegh guards and was doubtless, like them, one of the living dead. It meant that the two by the fire were not in Caer Llud illicitly. They were obviously guests, with servants put at their disposal.
One of these guests of the Fhoi Myore was a tall, slender Mabden with jeweled rings on his gloved hands and a jeweled, golden collar at his throat. His long hair and his long beard were both gray, framing a handsome, old face. And worn by a thong passed over his head so that it rested upon his chest was a horn. It was a long horn and there were bands of silver and gold around it. Corum knew that every one of those hands represented a different forest beast. The Mabden was the one he had met near Moidel’s Mount and with whom he had traded a cloak—in exchange for the horn which the Mabden had, apparently, recovered. It was the Wizard Calatin, who planned secret plans which had nothing to do with loyalty either to his Mabden countrymen or their Fhoi Myore enemies—or so Corum had thought.
But still more shocking to Corum was the sight of the wizard’s companion—the one who had sworn he would never involve himself in the affairs of the world. And this man must truly be a renegade, for it was the one who called himself a dwarf yet was eight feet tall and at least four feet broad at the shoulder—who had the fine, sensitive features which marked him as a cousin to the
Vadhagh, although many of those features were covered in black hair. There was a glimpse of an iron breastplate beneath his many furs. On his legs there were polished iron greaves with gold inlays, and he wore a polished iron helmet of similar workmanship. Beside him stood his huge double-bladed war-axe, not unlike Corum’s axe, but much larger. This was Goffanon, the Sidhi Smith of Hy-Breasail, who had given Corum the Spear Bryionak and the bag of spittle which Calatin had wanted. How could Goffanon possibly have allied himself with the Fhoi Myore, let alone the Wizard Calatin? Goffanon had sworn that he would never again involve himself in the wars between mortals and the Gods of Limbo! Had he deceived Corum? Had he been in league with the Fhoi Myore and the Wizard Calatin all along? Yet, if so, why had he given Corum the Spear Bryionak which had led to the defeat of the Fhoi Myore at Caer Mahlod?
Now, as if he sensed Corum’s presence, Goffanon slowly began to turn his head toward the door and Corum withdrew hastily, not sure if the Sidhi would be able to see him.
There was somethin
g strange about Goffanon’s face, something dull and tragic, but Corum had not had enough time to study the expression closely enough to be able to analyze it.
With heavy heart, horrified by Goffanon’s treachery (though not over-surprised by Calatin’s decision to league himself with the Fhoi Myore) Corum tiptoed back to the landing, hearing Calatin say:
“We shall go with them tomorrow when they march.”
And he heard Goffanon reply in a deep, distant voice: “Now begins in earnest the conquest of the West.”
So the Fhoi Myore did prepare for battle and almost certainly they marched against Caer Mahlod again. And this time they had a Sidhi as an ally and there were no Sidhi weapons to thwart their ambitions.
Corum moved with greater urgency up the next stairway and had gone half-way when he turned a bend and saw a lump squatting so that it filled the whole stair and afforded him no room through which he could pass undetected. The lump did not see him, but it lifted its snout and sniffed. Its three eyes, of disparate size, had a puzzled look. Its pink, bristle-covered flesh quivered as it pushed itself into a sitting position on its five arms. Three of the arms were human, though they seemed to have belonged to a woman, a youth and an old man. One of the arms was simian, that of a gorilla, and one of the arms seemed to have been the property of some kind of large reptile. The legs which the lump now revealed were short and ended in a human foot, a cloven hoof and a dog-like paw, respectively. The lump was naked, apparently sexless, and it was unarmed. It stank of excrement and of sweat and of corrupting food. It wheezed as it altered its position.
As silently as was possible, Corum drew his sword as the three lids closed over the three mismatched eyes as the lump, seeing nothing, resettled itself to sleep again.
As the eyes closed Corum struck.
He struck through the oval mouth, through the roof of the mouth, into the brain. He knew that he could strike only once effectively before the lump made a noise which would bring other guards.
The eyes opened and instantly one closed again in a kind of obscene wink.
The others stared at the blade of the sword in astonishment, for it seemed to protrude from the thin air. The simian hand came up to touch the blade but it never completed the gesture. The hand fell limply back. The remaining eyes closed and Corum was sheathing his sword and clambering over the fat, yielding flesh as fast as he could, praying that none should find the lump’s corpse before he had discovered the whereabouts of the Archdruid Amergin.
There were two Ghoolegh guards, their cutlasses at attention across their chests, at the top of this particular stair, but it was plain that they had heard nothing.
Hurriedly Corum slipped past them and mounted the next flight and there, on the landing above him, he saw two huge hounds, the largest of all the hounds of Kerenos he had ever seen.
And these hounds were sniffing the air. They could not see him, but they had caught his scent. Both were voicing soft, deep growls.
Acting as rapidly as he had acted when he had seen the lump, Corum ran through the gap between the dogs and had the satisfaction of seeing them snap at the air and almost close their fangs on each other’s throats.
And here was a great archway filled by a door of beaten bronze on which had been raised motifs of beautiful complexity. King Fiachadh had described it. This was the door to Amergin’s apartments. And hanging on a brass hook beside the door, behind the head of one gigantic Ghoolegh guard, was a single iron key. And this was the key to the beautiful bronze door.
Behind Corum the Hounds of Kerenos, ordered not to leave their position, were whining and sniffing at the flagstones near where they sat. The Ghoolegh guard’s dull features became curious. He lurched forward.
“What is it, dogs? Do strangers come?”
Corum stepped behind the Ghoolegh and silently drew the key from its hook, inserting it into the lock, turning it, opening the door and closing it behind him. With the distraction of the dogs to occupy his slow brain, the Ghoolegh might not notice the absence of the iron key.
Corum found himself in an apartment full of rich, dark hangings. He sniffed and was surprised to recognize the smell of new-cut grass. The apartment was warm, too, heated by a fire even larger than the one at which Calatin and Goffanon sat two floors below.
But where was Amergin?
Stealthily Corum crept from one dark room to another, his hand on his sword, expecting some new trap.
And then, at last, he saw something. At first he took it for an animal, for it was upon all fours and eating from a golden tray piled high with the strands of some vegetable.
The head turned but the eyes did not see Corum, still draped in his Sidhi Mantle. Large, soft eyes stared at nothing and the jaws moved slowly as they chewed the vegetation. The body was clothed in sheepskin garments with the wool still on them. The wool was dirty and full of filthy scraps of thistle, briar and burrs as if torn from the body of a wild mountain sheep. Jacket, shirt and leggings were all of the same coarse stuff and there was even a hood of sheepskin drawn around the head, exposing only the face. The man looked ridiculous and pathetic and Corum knew that this was Amergin, High King of Mabden, Archdruid of Craig Don, and that he was truly under a glamour.
It had been a handsome face, possibly an intelligent face, but now it was neither. The eyes stared, unblinking, into nothing, the jaws continued to chew at the grass.
Corum murmured: “Amergin?”
And Amergin ceased his chewing. He opened his mouth and he uttered a single, frightened bleat.
He began to crawl toward the shadows where doubtless he thought he would find security.
Sadly, Corum drew his sword.
THE THIRD CHAPTER
A TRAITOR SLEEPS, A FRIEND AWAKES
Without hesitation, Corum reversed his grip upon his sword and brought the round pommel down hard on the back of Amergin’s neck. Then he picked up the body, surprised by its lightness. The man was slowly starving to death on the diet of grass he had been fed. Corum had been told that there would be little chance of releasing Amergin from his enchantment until they were far away from Caer Llud. He would have to carry the Archdruid to safety.
Somehow he managed to drape his mantle over Amergin’s body as well as his own, checking in a mirror that both he and Amergin were invisible. Looking once around the room he turned and walked back to the bronze door, his sword still in his hand, though also covered by his mantle.
Cautiously he turned the key and opened the door. The Ghoolegh was standing up, close to the hounds. Both the devil dogs remained nervous, suspicious, but were still seated, their heads corning almost to the Ghoolegh’s shoulder. The red, stupid eyes of the guard peered first down the stair and then about the landing and Corum was sure that he had seen the door closing, but then he looked again down the stairs and Corum was able to replace the key on its hook.
But he moved hastily. The key clinked against the stone of the wall. The dogs picked up their ears. They snarled. Standing at the top of the stairs the Ghoolegh began to turn. Corum rushed forward and kicked the Ghoolegh off-balance. The undead creature yelled and fell, tumbling head-over-heels down the granite steps. The dogs glared and one snapped at Corum, but the Vadhagh prince lunged forward with his sword and cut through the hound’s jugular as cleanly as he had slain the lump. Then he felt a blow on his back and staggered, taking two involuntary bounds down the stairs and only barely managing to keep his balance, burdened as he was by the unconscious High King, staggering around as the remaining hound leapt from the top of the stair, its red jaws extended, its glistening yellow fangs dripping saliva, its fur bristling, its forelegs extended. Corum only had time to bring up his sword before those gigantic paws had struck his chest and he was driven back against the wall, glimpsing from the corner of his single eye two Ghoolegh guards running to discover the cause of the commotion.
But his sword point had found the hound’s heart and the beast had been dead even as it struck Corum. He dragged himself from under it, keepi
ng a firm hold on Amergin, tugging his sword from the hound’s corpse and then rearranging the Sidhi Mantle about his body.
The Ghoolegh had seen something and they hesitated. They looked at the corpse of the hound, they looked at each other, uncertain what to do. Corum drew back, permitting himself a relieved grin as the Ghoolegh brandished their cutlasses and began to ascend the steps, plainly believing that whoever had slain the hound was still above.
Down the next flight Corum ran, clambering over the as yet undetected corpse of the lump, down the rest of the steps until, panting, he reached the landing.
But Calatin and Goffanon had heard the sounds of strife and they were coming out of their room. Calatin was first. He was shouting. “What is it? Who attacks?” He stared straight through Corum.
Corum made to move forward.
Then Goffanon said in a thick, slurred voice which had more curiosity in it than anger: “Corum? What do you in Caer Llud?”
Corum made to put a finger to his lips, hoping that Goffanon still had some loyalties to his Vadhagh cousin. Certainly Goffanon’s great axe was still held loosely in his hand. He did not seem prepared to do battle.
‘ ‘Corum?” Calatin whirled from where he stood on the first step. “Where?”
“There,” said Goffanon pointing.
Calatin understood swiftly. “Invisible! He must be slain. Slay him! Slay him, Goffanon!”
’‘ Very well.” Goffanon began to get a grip on the haft of his axe.