‘ ‘Most of his arms were lost in that last battle, as you know,” said Ilbrec. “And others were of a sort which drew their strength from our original Realm and thus could not be used properly or could only be used once. Nonetheless, there could be something of use in that chest. It is in one of the sea-caverns I have not visited since that battle. For all I know it has gone, or rotted, or,” he smiled, “been devoured by some sea-monster.”
“Well, we shall know soon enough,” said Goffanon. “And if Retaliator should be there …”
“We’d be best advised to consider our own abilities,” said Ilbrec, laughing again. ‘ ‘Rather than put our faith in weapons which might not even exist in this Realm any longer. Even with them, the strength of the Fhoi Myore is greater than ours.”
“But added to the Mabden strength,” said Corum, “it could be great indeed.”
“I have always liked the Mabden,” Ilbrec told him, “though I am not sure I share your faith in its powers. Still, times change and so do races. I will give you my judgement of the Mabden when I have seen them do battle against the Fhoi Myore.”
‘ ‘That opportunity should come quite soon,” said Corum, pointing ahead.
He had seen the towers of Caer Garanhir. And they were tall, those towers, rivaling the buildings of Caer Llud in size and outshining them in beauty. Towers of shining limestone and dark-veined obsidian from which banners flew. Towers surrounded by the battlements of a massive wall which spoke of invincible strength.
Yet Corum knew that the impression of strength was deceptive, that Balahr’s horrid eye could crack that granite and destroy all who sheltered behind it. Even with the giant Ilbrec as an ally they would be hard put to resist the forces of the Fhoi Myore.
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
THE GREAT FIGHT AT CAER GARANHIR
Corum had smiled when he saw the expressions of those who had come to the battlements when Ilbrec had shouted, but now his face was dark as he stood in King Daffyn’s magnificent hall, hung with jeweled flags, and tried to speak to a man who was barely able to stand and yet continued to sip from a mead-cup as he tried to listen to Corum’s words. Half of King Daffyn’s war-knights were sprawled insensible beside benches covered with stained samite. The other half leaned on anything which would give them support, some with drawn swords calling out silly boasts, while some sat with mouths hanging open, staring at Ilbrec who had managed to squeeze himself into the hall and crouched behind Corum and Goffanon.
They were not prepared for war, the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir. They were prepared for nothing but drunken slumber now, for they had been celebrating a marriage—that of the King’s son, Prince Guwinn, to the daughter of a great knight of Caer Garanhir.
Those still awake were impressed well enough by the appearance of what they saw as three Sidhi of varying sizes, but some were still certain that they suffered the effects of feasting and drinking too much.
”The Fhoi Myore march in strength against you, King Daffyn,” said Corum again. “Many hundreds of warriors, and most hard to slay they are!”
King Daffyn’s face was red with drink. He was a fat, intelligent-looking man, but his eyes held little intelligence at that moment.
‘ ‘I fear you overpraised the Mabden, Prince Corum,” said Ilbrec tolerently. “We must do what we can without them.”
“Wait!” King Daffyn came unsteadily down the steps from his throne, mead-hom still in his hand. “Are we to be slain in our cups?”
“It seems so, King Daffyn,” said Corum.
“Drunk? Slain without dignity by those who slew—who slew our brothers of the East?”
’‘Just so!” said Goffanon, turning away impatiently. “And you deserve little better.”
King Daffyn fingered the great medallion of rank which he wore about his neck. “I shall have failed my people,” he said.
‘‘Listen again,” said Corum. And he re-told his tale, slowly, while King Daffyn made a considerable effort to understand, even throwing away the mead-hom and refusing more mead when a blustering knight offered it to him.
‘‘How many hours are they from Caer Garanhir?” said the King when Corum had finished.
”Perhaps three. We traveled rapidly. Perhaps four or five. Perhaps they will not attack at all until the morning.”
“But three hours—we have three hours for certain.”
“I think so.”
King Daffyn staggered about his hall, shaking sleeping knights, shouting at those who were still in some stage of wakefulness. And Corum despaired.
Ilbrec voiced that despair. “This will not do at all,” he said. He began to squeeze himself back through the doors. “Not at all.”
Corum barely heard him as he continued to remonstrate with King Daffyn who was fighting with his own disinclination to hear bad news on such a day as this. Goffanon turned and left the hall shouting: “Do not abandon them, Ilbrec. You see them at their worst …”
But there came a shaking of the earth, a thundering of hooves, and Corum now ran from the hall in time to see the huge black horse, Splendid Mane, leap the battlements of Caer Garanhir’s walls.
“So,” said Corum,’ ‘he has gone. Plainly he feels he would best save his strength for a better cause. I cannot say that I blame him.”
“He is headstrong,” said Goffanon. “Like his father. But his father would not have left friends behind.”
‘‘You wish to go, too?”
‘ ‘No. I’ll stay. I’ve told you my decision. We are lucky to be here and not fallen to the Pine Folk. We should be grateful that Ilbrec saved our lives once.”
“Aye.” Wearily, Corum turned back into the hall to find King Daffyn shaking two of the prone warriors.
“Wake up!” said King Daffyn. “Wake up. The Fhoi Myore come!”
· · ·
They stood blinking upon the battlements, their eyes red, their hands Shaking, and they made much use of the water-skins which the young lads brought round. Some were still in their formal wedding finery and others had donned armor. Now they sighed and groaned and held their heads as they looked out from the walls of Caer Garanhir and waited for the enemy.
“Yonder!” said a boy to Corum, lowering his water-skin and pointing. “I see a cloud!”
Corum looked and he saw it. A cloud of boiling mist on the far horizon. ” Aye,” he said.’ ‘That is the Fhoi Myore. But many come ahead of them, look. Look lower. See the riders.”
It seemed for a moment that a green tidal wave washed towards Caer Garanhir.
“What is that, Prince Corum?” said the boy.
“It is the People of the Pines,” said Corum, “and they are exceptionally hard to slay.”
“The mist moved toward us, but now it has paused,” said the boy.
“Aye,” Corum replied, “that is how the Fhoi Myore always fight, sending their vassals to weaken us first.” He looked along the battlements. One of King Daffyn’s war-knights was leaning out and groaning as he vomited. Corum turned away in grim despair. Other warriors were corning up the stone stairways now, nocking arrows to long bows. These, it appeared, had not celebrated the marriage of Prince Guwinn with quite the same abandon as the knights. They wore shining shirts of bronze mail and there were bronze war-caps upon their dark red heads. Some wore leathern breeks, and others had mail leggings. As well as the quivers on their backs they had javelins, and there were swords or axes at their belts. Corum’s spirits lifted a little as he saw these soldiers, but they dropped again when he heard, from the far distance, the cold, beaming, wordless voices of the Fhoi Myore. No matter how bravely or how well they fought this day, the Fhoi Myore remained and the Fhoi Myore had the means of destroying all within Caer Garanhir’s splendid walls.
Now the sound of hooves drowned the voices of the Fhoi Myore. Pale green horses and pale green riders, all of the same shade, with pale green clothing and pale green swords in pale green hands. The riders spread out as they approached the walls, circling to find the weakest parts of the def
enses before they closed in.
And the sweet, nauseating smell of the pines drifted closer on the wind, and that same wind brought a chill which made all who stood upon the battlements shiver.
“Archers!” King Daffyn cried, raising his long sword high. “Let fly!”
And a wave of whirring arrows met the wave of green riders and had no more effect upon them than if the archers had shot their shafts into so many trees. Faces, bodies, limbs and horses were struck, and the People of the Pines did not waver.
A young knight in a long samite robe over which had hastily been thrown a mail surcoat, ran up the steps, buckling a sword about his waist. He was a handsome youth, his brown hair unbound, his dark eyes dazed and puzzled. His feet were bare, Corum noticed.
“Father!” the youth cried, approaching King Daffyn. “I am here!” And this must be Prince Guwinn, less drunk than his fellows. And Corum thought to himself that Prince Guwinn had most to lose this day, for he must have come straight from his marriage bed.
Now Corum saw fire flickering in the distance and knew that Gaynor came to war. At the head of his Ghoolegh infantry, Gaynor the Damned lifted up his faceless helm as if he sought Corum amongst the defenders, his yellow plume dancing and his naked sword glowing sometimes silver, sometimes scarlet, sometimes gold and sometimes blue, the eight-arrowed Sign of Chaos pulsing on his breastplate, his strange armor glowing with as many different colors as his sword. Gaynor’s tall horse pranced before the white-faced Ghoolegh infantry. Corum saw red, bestial eyes gleaming in a thousand faces. And yet still there seemed to be more fire, fire burning on the fringes of the Fhoi Myore mist. Was this some new form of enemy Corum had not yet encountered?
The People of the Pines were driving closer and from their mouths came laughter—rustling laughter like the sound of wind through leaves. Corum had heard such laughter before and he feared it.
He saw the reaction in the faces of the knights and warriors who waited on the battlements. They all felt terror strike them as they realized fully that they were faced with the supernatural. Then each man controlled his terror as best he could and prepared to stand against the Brothers to the Trees.
Another wave of arrows flew out, and another, and every single arrow found its target and now virtually every pine warrior rode forward with a red-fletched arrow protruding from his heart.
And the rustling laughter increased.
The warriors rode slowly and relentlessly forward. Some bristled with arrows. A few had javelins sticking completely through them.
But their blank faces grinned blank grins and their cold eyes remained fixed upon the defenders. Reaching the foot of the walls, they dismounted.
More arrows flew and some of the People of the Pines began to take on the appearance of strange, sharp-spined animals, so many arrows quivered in their bodies.
And then they began to climb the walls.
They climbed as if they needed no hand- or foot-holds at all. They climbed as ivy climbed. Green tendrils moving up the walls towards the defenders.
One or two of the knights gasped and fell back, unable to accept this sight. Corum hardly blamed them. Nearby Goffanon growled in distaste.
And the first of the pale green warriors, eyes still fixed, grin still rigid reached the battlements and began to attempt to climb over.
Corum’s war-axe flashed in the sunlight and its blade smashed the head completely from the first warrior he saw. That warrior he pushed backward and it fell, but immediately another appeared and Corum’s axe again struck off the head. Green sap spouted from the neck and clung to the head of the axe, spattered across the stones of the battlements as he drew back his arms to strike again at the next head. He knew that he must tire of this soon or that parts of the defenses would weaken and he would be attacked from both sides, but he did what he could while the People of the Pines swarmed up the walls, in apparently inexhaustible numbers.
There came a momentary pause when Corum was able to look beyond the Pine Warriors and see Gaynor ordering his Ghoolegh forward. They carried great logs in leathern harnesses, which swung between them, and they were plainly intent on battering down the gates of the city. Knowing that the Mabden were not, these days, used to fighting sieges, Corum could think of no way to resist the battering rams. The Mabden had fought hand to hand for centuries, each man picking another from the ranks of his enemies. Many tribes had not even fought to kill, feeling it ignoble to slay a man after defeating him. And while this was a Mabden strength, it was in any fight with Fhoi Myore forces a great weakness.
Corum yelled to King Daffyn to prepare his people for the appearance of the Ghoolegh in their streets, but King Daffyn was kneeling, his face gleaming with tears, and a Pine Warrior was running along the battlements toward Corum.
Corum saw that King Daffyn knelt beside the body of one whom the Pine Warrior had just slain. The body was dressed in white samite and a mail coat. Prince Guwinn would not be returning to his marriage bed.
Corum swung the axe low and chopped the Pine Warrior at the waist so that the torso toppled from the legs as a tree might topple. For moments the warrior continued to live, the legs moving forward, the arms waving from where the torso lay upon the flagstones. Then it died and turned brown almost immediately.
Corum ran up to King Daffyn crying savagely:’ ‘Do not weep for your son—avenge him. Fight on, King Daffyn, or you and your folk are surely lost.”
“Fight on? Why? What I lived for has died. And we shall all die soon, Prince Corum. Why not now? I care not how I perish.”
‘ ‘For love /’ said Corum,’ ‘and for beauty. For those things must you fight. For courage and pride!” But even as he spoke such words they rang hollow as he looked upon the corpse of the youth and he saw the tears spring again into the eyes of the youth’s father. He turned away.
From below came the crashing and creaking noises as the battering rams repeatedly struck the gates. On the battlements Pine Warriors were now almost as thick as the defenders.
Goffanon could be seen, his huge bulk rising above a mass of the People of the Pines, his double-bladed axe swinging with the regularity of a pendulum as it chopped and chopped at the tree folk. There seemed to be a song on Goffanon’s lips, almost a dirge, as he fought, and Corum caught some of the words.
I have been in the place where was slain Gwendolen, The son of Ceidaw, the pillar of songs, When ravens screamed over blood.
I have been in the place where Bran was killed, The son of Iweridd, of far extending fame, When the ravens of the battlefield screamed.
I have been where Llacheu was slain, The son of Urtu, extolled in songs, When the ravens screamed over blood.
I have been where Meurig was killed, The son of Carreian, of honorable fame, When the ravens screamed over flesh.
I have been where Gwallawg was killed, The son of Goholeth, the accomplished, The resister of Lloegyr, the son of Lleynawg.
I have been where the soldiers of the Mabden were slain, From the East to the North: I am the escort of the grave.
I have been where the soldiers of the Mabden were slain, From the East to the South: I am alive, they in death!
And Corum realized that this was Goffanon’s deathsong, that the Sidhi Smith prepared himself for his own inevitable slaying.
I have been to the graves of the Sidhi, From the East to the West:
Now the ravens scream for me!
THE NINTH CHAPTER
THE DEFENSE OF THE KING’S HALL
Corum realized that the position upon the battlements was all but lost and he smashed through the Pine Warriors to stand beside Goffanon, crying: ‘ To the hall, Goffanon! Fall back to the hall!”
Goffanon’s song ended and he looked at Corum with calm eyes. “Very well,” he said.
Together they went slowly back to the steps, fighting all the way, the People of the Pines crowding in on all sides, fixed grins, fixed eyes, sword-arms rising and falling. And the rustling, terrifying laughter hissing forever from their li
ps.
The knights and warriors who survived followed Corum’s example and barely made the street as the timbers of the gates burst and the brass-shod battering ram smashed through. Two knights escorted King Daffyn who was still weeping and at length they reached the King’s hall and drew the great brass doors closed, barring them.
The signs of festivity were still everywhere about the Hall. There were even a few too drunk to be roused who would probably die without realizing what had happened. Brands guttered, jeweled flags drooped. Corum went to peer through the narrow windows and saw that Gaynor was there, riding triumphantly at the head of his half-dead army, the eight-arrowed Sign of Chaos glowing as radiantly as ever upon his chest. For a while at least, Corum hoped, the people of the city would be reasonably safe while Gaynor concentrated his attack upon the hall. Corum saw the Ghoolegh behind Gaynor. They still carried their battering rams. And still the Fhoi Myore had not moved forward. Corum wondered if they would advance at all, knowing that Gaynor, the Ghoolegh and the People of the Pines could accomplish the defeat of Caer Garanhir without their help.
Yet even if the Fhoi Myore vassals could be vanquished by hard fighting, Corum knew that the Fhoi Myore could not be. Pale green faces began to appear at the windows and stained glass smashed as the People of the Pines attempted to gain entrance to the hall. Again the knights and warriors of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir ran to defend themselves against the inhuman invaders.
Swords of notched and shining iron met the pale green swords of the Pine Warriors and the fight continued while outside the steady pounding of the battering rams began to sound on the bronze doors of the hail.
And while the fight raged, King Daffyn sat upon his throne, his head upon his hand, and wept for the death of Prince Guwinn, taking no interest in how the battle progressed.