The Chronicles of Corum

  Corum was, himself, disconcerted to find his normally insouciant friend in such a mood. He tried to smile. "Come now, Jhary, this brooding demeanor suits you ill. Normally it is Corum who mopes and Jhary who grins ..."

  Jhary sighed.

  "Aye," he said, almost bitterly, "it would not do, I suppose, to forget our roles at this particular time."

  And he moved away from them, pacing along the battlements until he reached a spot where he paused, staring into the middle distance, plainly desiring no further conversation with his comrades.

  Goffanon glanced at the sun.

  "Nearly noon. I am promised to advise the blacksmiths of the Tuha-na-Anu on the special problems involved in the casting and weighting of a kind of hammer we have devised together. I hope to talk with you further this evening, Corum, when we all meet to debate our plans."

  Corum raised his silver hand in a salute as the dwarf went down the steps and strode through a narrow street in the direction of the main gate.

  For a moment Corum had the impulse to join Jhary, but it was most obvious that Jhary required no company at this time. After a while Corum, too, descended the steps, going in search of Medhbh, for suddenly he felt a great need to seek the consolation of the woman he loved.

  It occurred to him as he made his way toward the king's hall that perhaps he was becoming too dependent upon the girl. Sometimes he felt that he needed her as another man might need drink or a drug. While she seemed to respond eagerly to this need, it could be that it was not fair to her to make the demands he did. As he walked to find her, he saw clearly that there were the seeds of considerable tragedy in the relationship which had developed between them. He shrugged. The seeds need not be nurtured. They could be destroyed. Even if his main destiny was pre-determined there were certain aspects of his personal life which he could control.

  "Surely that must be so," he muttered to himself. A woman passing him on the street glanced at him, believing herself to be addressed. She was carrying a sheaf of staves which would be used for spears.

  "My lord?"

  "I observed that our preparations go well," Corum told her, embarrassed.

  "Aye, my lord. We all work for the defeat of the Fhoi Myore." She shifted her load in her arms. "Thank you, my lord ..."

  "Aye." Corum nodded, hesitating. "Aye, good. Well, good morning to you."

  "Good morning, my lord." She seemed amused.

  Corum strode on, his head down, his lips firmly shut until he reached the hall of King Mannach, Medhbh's father.

  But Medhbh was not there. A servant said to Corum: "She is at her weapons, Prince Corum, with some of the other women."

  Prince Corum walked through a tunnel and into a high, wide chamber decorated with old battle flags and antique arms and armor, where a score of women practiced with bow, with spear, with sword and with sling. Medhbh herself was there, whirling her sling at a target at the far end of the chamber. She was famous for her skill with the sling and the tathlum, that awful missile made from the brains of a fallen enemy and thought to be of considerable supernatural effectiveness. As Corum entered, Medhbh let fly at the target and the tathlum struck it dead center, causing the thin bronze to ring and the target, which hung by a rope from the ceiling, to spin round and round, flashing in the light from the brands which helped light the chamber.

  "Greetings," called Corum, his voice echoing, "Medhbh of the Long Arm!"

  She turned, glad that he had witnessed her skill. "Greetings, Prince Corum." She dropped the sling and ran to him, embracing him, looking deep into his face. She frowned. "Are you melancholy, my love? What thoughts disturb you? Is there fresh news of the Fhoi Myore?"

  "No." He held her to him, conscious that others of the women glanced at them. He said quietly: "I merely felt the need to see you."

  She smiled tenderly back at him. "I am honored, Sidhi prince."

  This particular choice of words, emphasizing the differences of blood and background between them, had the effect of disturbing him still more. He looked hard into her eyes and the look was not a kind one. She, recognizing this stare, looked surprised, taking a step back from him, her arms falling to her sides. He knew that he had failed in the purpose of his visit, for she, in turn, was disturbed. He had driven her from him. Yet had not she first created the alienation by her remark? For all that her smile had been tender, the phrase itself had somehow cut him. He turned away, saying distantly:

  "Now that need is satisfied," he said; "I go to visit Ilbrec."

  He wanted her to tell him to stay, but he knew she could not, no more than he could bear to remain. He left the hall without a further word.

  And he cursed Jhary-a-Conel for introducing his gloomy thoughts into the day. He expected better of Jhary.

  Yet, in fairness, he knew that too much was expected of Jhary and that Jhary had begun to resent it—if only momentarily—and he understood that he, Corum, was placing too much reliance on the strength of others and not enough upon himself. What right had he to demand such strength if he indulged his weaknesses?

  ''Eternal Champion I might be," he murmured, as he reached his own chambers, which he now shared with Medhbh, "but eternal pitier of myself, also, it sometimes seems."

  And he lay down upon his bed and he considered his own character and at length he smiled and the mood began to leave him,

  "It's obvious," he said. "Inaction suits me poorly and encourages the baser aspects of my character. My destiny is that of a warrior. Perhaps I should consider deeds and leave the question of thoughts to those better able to think.'' He laughed, then, becoming tolerant of his own weaknesses and resolving to indulge them no further.

  Then he left his bed and went to find Ilbrec.

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  A RED SWORD IS LIFTED

  Corum crossed the field, stepping over guy ropes and around the billowing walls of the tents on its way to Ilbrec's pavilion. He arrived, at last, outside the pavilion whose sea-blue silk rippled like little waves, and he called:

  "Ilbrec! Son of Manannan, are you within?''

  He was answered by a regular scraping noise which he was hard put, at first, to recognize, then he smiled, raising his voice:

  "Ilbrec—I hear you preparing for battle. May I enter?"

  The scraping noise ceased and the young giant's cheerful, booming voice replied:

  "Enter, Corum. You are welcome."

  Corum pushed aside the tent-flap. The only light within was the sunlight itself, piercing the silk, and giving the impression of a blue and watery cavern, not unlike part of Ilbrec's own domain beneath the waves. Ilbrec sat upon a great chest, his huge sword Retaliator across his knees. In his other hand was a whetstone with which he had been honing the sword. Ilbrec's golden hair hung in loose braids to his chest and today his beard was also plaited. He wore a simple green smock and sandals laced to his knees. In one corner of his tent lay his armor, his breastplate of bronze with its reliefs showing a great, stylized sun whose circle was filled with pictures of ships and of fish; his shield, which bore only the symbol of the sun; and his helmet, which had a similar motif. His lightly tanned arms had several heavy bracelets, both above and below the elbows; they were of gold and also matched the design of the breastplate. Ilbrec, son of the greatest of the Sidhi heroes, was a full sixteen feet high and perfectly proportioned.

  Ilbrec grinned at Corum and began, again, to hone his sword.

  "You look gloomy, friend."

  Corum crossed the floor of the tent and stood beside Ilbrec's helmet, running his fleshly hand over the beautifully worked bronze. "Perhaps a premonition of my doom," he said.

  "But you are immortal, are you not, Prince Corum?"

  Corum turned at this new voice which was even younger in timbre than Ilbrec's.

  A youth of no more than fourteen summers had entered the tent. Corum recognized him as King Fiachadh's youngest son, called Young Fean by all. Young Fean resembled his father in looks, but his body was lithe where King Fiachadh's was bu
rly and his features were delicate where his father's were heavy. His hair was as red as Fiachadh's and he had something of the same humor almost constantly in his eyes. He smiled at Corum, and Corum, as he always did, thought there was no creature in the world more charming than this young warrior who had already proved himself one of the cleverest and most proficient knights in all the company gathered here.

  Corum laughed."Possibly, Young Fean, aye. But somehow that thought does not console me."

  Young Fean was sober for a moment, pushing back his light cloak of orange samite and removing his plain, steel helmet. He was sweating and had evidently just come from weapons practice. "I can understand that, Prince Corum." He made a slight bow in the direction of Ilbrec, who was plainly glad to see him. "Greetings to you, Lord Sidhi."

  "Greetings, Young Fean. Is there some service I can do you?" Ilbrec continued to hone Retaliator with long, sweeping movements.

  "None, I thank you. I merely came to talk." Young Fean hesitated, then replaced his helmet on his head. "But I see that I intrude."

  "Not at all," said Corum. "How, in your opinion, do our men show."

  "They are all good fighters. There is not one who is poor. But they are few, I think," said Young Fean.

  "I agree with both your judgements,'' said Ilbrec. "I was considering the problem as I sat here."

  "I have also discussed it," said Corum.

  There was a long pause.

  "But there is nowhere we can recruit more soldiers," said Young Fean, looking at Corum as if he hoped Corum would deny this statement.

  "Nowhere at all," said Corum.

  He noticed that Ilbrec said nothing and that the Sidhi giant was frowning.

  "There is one place I heard of," said Ilbrec. "Long ago, when I was younger than Young Fean. A place where allies of the Sidhi might be found. But I heard, too, that it is a dangerous place, even for the Sidhi, and that the allies are fickle. I will consult with Goffanon later and ask him if he recalls more."

  "Allies?" Young Fean laughed. "Supernatural allies? We have need of any allies, no matter how fickle."

  "I will talk with Goffanon," said Ilbrec, and he returned to the honing of his sword.

  Young Fean made to leave. "I will say nothing, then," he told them. "And I look forward to seeing you at the feast tonight."

  When Young Fean had left Corum looked enquiringly at Ilbrec, but Ilbrec pretended an intense interest in honing his sword and would not meet Corum's eye.

  Corum rubbed at his face. "I recall a time when I would have smiled at the very idea of magical forces at work in the world," he said.

  Ilbrec nodded abstractedly, as if he did not really hear what Corum said.

  ''But now I have come to rely on such things.'' Corum's expression was ironic. "And must, perforce, believe in them. I have lost my faith in logic and the power of reason."

  Ilbrec looked up. "Perhaps your logic was too narrow and your reason limited, friend Corum?" he said quietly.

  "Maybe." Corum sighed and moved to follow Young Fean through the tent-flap. Then, suddenly, he stopped short, putting his head on one side and listening hard. "Did you hear that sound?"

  Ilbrec listened. "There are many sounds in the camp."

  "I thought I heard the sound of a harp playing."

  Ilbrec shook his head. "Pipes—in the distance—but no harp." Then he frowned, listening again. "Possibly, very faint, the strains of a harp. No." He laughed."You are making me hear it, Corum.''

  But Corum knew he had heard the Dagdagh harp for a few moments and he was, again, troubled. He said nothing more of it to Ilbrec, but went out of the tent and across the field, hearing a distant voice crying his name:

  "Corum! Corum!"

  He turned. Behind him a group of kilted warriors were resting, sharing a bottle and conversing amongst themselves. Beyond these warriors Corum saw Medhbh running over the grass. It was Medhbh he had heard.

  She ran round the group of warriors and stopped a foot or so from him, hesitantly stretching out her arm and touching his shoulder."I sought you out in our chambers," she said softly, "but you had gone. We must not quarrel, Corum."

  At once Corum's spirits lifted and he laughed and embraced her, careless of the warriors who had turned their attention upon the couple.

  "We shall not quarrel again," he said. "Blame me, Medhbh.''

  "Blame no one. Blame nothing. Unless it be Fate." She kissed him. Her lips were warm. They were soft. He forgot his fears.

  "What a great power women have," he said. "I have recently been speaking with Ilbrec of magic, but the greatest magic of all is in the kiss of a woman."

  She pretended astonishment. "You become sentimental, Sir Sidhi."

  And again, momentarily, he sensed that she withdrew from him. Then she laughed and kissed him again. "Almost as sentimental as Medhbh!"

  Hand in hand they wandered through the camp, waving to those they recognized or those who recognized them. At the edge of the camp several smithies had been set up. Furnaces roared as bellows forced their flames higher and higher. Hammers clanged on anvils. Huge, sweating men in aprons plunged iron into the fires and brought it out white and glowing and making the air shimmer. And in the center of all this activity was Goffanon, also in a great leathern apron, with a massive hammer in his hand, a pair of tongs in the other, deep in conversation with a black-bearded Mabden whom Corum recognized as the master smith Hisak, whose nickname was Sunthief, for it was said he stole the stuff of the sun itself and made bright weapons with it. In the nearby furnace a narrow piece of metal was immersed even now. Goffanon and Hisak watched this with considerable concentration as they talked and plainly it was this piece of metal they discussed.

  Corum and Medhbh did not greet the two, but stood to one side and watched and listened.

  "Six more heartbeats," they heard Hisak say, "and it will be ready."

  Goffanon smiled. "Six and one-quarter heartbeats, believe me, Hisak."

  "I believe you, Sidhi. I have learned to respect your wisdom and your skills."

  Already Goffanon was extending his tongs into the fire. With a strange gentleness he gripped the metal and then swiftly withdrew it, his eye traveling up and down its length. "It is right," he said.

  Hisak, too, inspected the white-hot metal, nodding."It is right.''

  Goffanon's smile was almost ecstatic and he half turned, seeing Corum. "Aha, Prince Corum. You come at the perfect moment. See!" He lifted the strip of metal high. Now it glowed red hot, the color of fresh blood. "See, Corum! What do you see?"

  "I see a sword blade."

  "You see the finest sword blade made in Mabden lands. It has taken us a week to achieve this. Between us, Hisak and I have made it. It is a symbol of the old alliance between Mabden and Sidhi. Is it not fine?"

  "It is very fine."

  Goffanon swept the red sword back and forth through the air and the metal hummed. "It has yet to be fully tempered, but it is almost ready. It has yet to be given a name, but that will be left to you."

  "To me?"

  "Of course!" Goffanon laughed in delight. "Of course! It is your sword, Corum. It is the sword you will use when you lead the Mabden into battle."

  "Mine?" Corum was taken aback.

  ''Our gift to you. Tonight, after the feast, we will return here and the sword will be ready for you. It will be a good friend to you, this sword, but only after you have named it will it be able to give you all its strength."

  "I am honored, Goffanon," said Corum. "I had not guessed..."

  The great dwarf tossed the blade into a trough of water and steam hissed. "Half of Sidhi manufacture, half of Mabden. The right sword for you, Corum."

  "Indeed." Corum agreed. He was deeply moved by Goffanon's revelation. "Indeed, you are right, Goffanon." He turned to look shyly at the grinning Hisak. "I thank you, Hisak. I thank you both."

  And then Goffanon said quietly and somewhat mysteriously: "It is not for nothing that Hisak is nicknamed the Sunthief. But still there is a son
g to be sung and a sign to be placed."

  Respecting the rituals, but privately believing that they had no real significance, Corum nodded his head, convinced that an important honor had been done to him, but unable to define the exact nature of that honor.

  ' I thank you again,'' he said sincerely. ‘ "There are no words, for language is a poor thing which does no justice to the emotions I should like to express."

  ''Let there be no further words on this matter until the time comes for the sword-naming," said Hisak, speaking for the first time, his voice gruff and understanding.

  "I had come to consult you upon another matter," said Corum. "Ilbrec spoke of possible allies earlier. I wondered if this meant anything to you."

  Goffanon shrugged. "I have already said that I can think of none."

  "Then we will let the subject pass until Ilbrec has had time to speak to you himself," said Medhbh?> touching Corum's sleeve. "We will see you tonight at the feast, my friends. Now we go to rest."

  And she led a thoughtful Corum back toward the walls of Caer Mahlod.

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

  AT THE FEAST

  Now the great Hall of Caer Mahlod was filled. A stranger entering would not have guessed that the folk here prepared themselves for a final desperate war against an almost invincible foe; indeed the gathering seemed to have the spirit of a celebration. Four long oaken tables formed a hollow square in the center of which sat, not altogether comfortably, a golden-haired giant, Ilbrec, with his own beaker, plate and spoon set out before him. At the tables, facing inward, sat all the nobles of the Mabden, with the High King, slender, ascetic Amergin, in the place of greatest prominence, wearing his robe of silver thread and his crown of oak and holly leaves; Corum, with his embroidered eye-patch and his silver hand, was seated directly opposite the High King. On both sides of Amergin sat kings and beside the kings sat queens and princes and beside the princes sat princesses and great knights with their ladies. Corum had Medhbh on his right and Goffanon on his left, and beside Medhbh sat Jhary-a-Conel and beside Goffanon sat Hisak Sunthief the smith who had helped forge the unnamed blade. Rich silks and furs, garments of doeskin and plaid, ornaments of red gold and white silver, of polished iron and burnished bronze, of emerald and ruby and sapphire, brought blazing color to a hall lit by brightly burning brands of reeds soaked in oil. The air was full of smoke and the smell of food as whole beasts were roasted in the kitchens and brought quartered to the tables. Musicians, with harps and pipes and drums, sat in one corner playing sweet melodies which managed to blend with the voices of the company; the voices were cheerful and the conversation and the laughter were easy. The food was consumed lustily by all save Corum, who was in reasonable spirits but for some reason lacked an appetite. Exchanging a few words occasionally with Goffanon or Jhary-a-Conel, sipping from a golden drinking horn, he glanced around him at the gathering, recognizing all the great heroes and heroines of the Mabden folk who were there. Apart from the five kings, King Mannach, King Fiachadh, King Daffyn, King Khonun of the Tuha-na-Anu and King Ghachbes of the Tuha-na-Tir-nam-Beo, there were many who had known glory and were already celebrated in the ballads of their people. Amongst these were Fionha and Cahleen, two daughters of the great dead knight Milgan the White, blonde-haired, creamy-skinned, almost twins, dressed in costumes of identical cut and color save that one was predominantly red, trimmed with blue and the other blue, trimmed with red, warrior maidens both, with honey-colored eyes and their hair all wild and unbound, flirting with a pair of knights a-piece; and nearby was the one called the Branch Hero, Phadrac-at-the-Crag-at-Lyth, almost as huge and as broad-shouldered as Goffanon, with green, glaring eyes and a red laughing mouth, whose weapon was a whole tree with which he would sweep his enemies from their horses and stun them. The Branch Hero laughed rarely, for he mourned his friend Ayan the Hairy-handed, whom he had killed during a mock fight when drunk. And at the next table was Young Fean, eating and drinking and flirting as heartily as any man, the darling of the nobles' daughters, who giggled at every word he said and stroked his red hair and fed him tidbits of meat and fruit. Near him sat all of the Five Knights of Eralskee, brothers who, until recent times, had refused to have aught to do with the folk of the Tuha-na-Anu for they had harbored a blood grudge against their uncle, King Khonun, whom they believed to be their father's murderer. For years they had remained in their mountains, venturing out to raid King Khonun's lands or to try to raise an army against him. Now they were sworn to forget their grudge until the matter of the Fhoi Myore was done. They were all similar in appearance, save that the youngest had black hair and an expression not quite as grim as that of his brothers, all sporting the high-peaked conical helmets bearing the Owl Crest of Eralskee, all big and very hard men who smiled as if the action were new to them. Then there was Morkyan of the Two Smiles, a scar on his face turning the lip on the left side upward and the lip on the right side downward; but this was not why he was called Morkyan of the Two Smiles. It was said that only Morkyan's enemies saw those two smiles—the first smile meant that he intended to kill them and the second smile meant that they were dead. Morkyan was splendid in dark blue leather and a matching leathern cap, his black beard trimmed to a point and his moustaches curling upward. He wore his hair short and hidden entirely by the tight-fitting cap. Leaning across two friends and speaking to Morkyan was Kernyn the Ragged who looked like a beggar and had impoverished himself through his strange habit of giving generous amounts of money to the kin of men he had slain. A demon in battle, Kernyn was always remorseful after he had killed an enemy and would make a point of finding the man's widow or family and bestowing a gift upon them. Kernyn's brown hair was matted and his beard was untidy. He wore a patched leather jerkin and a helmet of plain iron, and his long, mournful face was presently lit up as he regaled Morkyan with some reminiscence of a battle in which they had fought on different sides. Grynion Ox-rider was there, too, his arm around the ample waist of Sheonan the Axe-maiden, another woman of outstanding martial abilities. Grynion had earned his nickname for riding a wild ox into the thick of a fight when he had lost his horse and weapons and was wounded almost mortally. Helping himself from a huge side of beef, which he attacked with a large, sharp knife, was Ossan the Bridlemaker, renowned for his leather-working skill. His jerkin and his cap were made of embossed, finely-tooled hide, covered in a variety of flowing designs. He was a man nearing old age but his movements were those of a youth. He grinned as he forced meat into his mouth, the grease running into his ginger beard, and turned to listen to the knight who told a joke to those within hearing of him. And there were many more: Fene the Legless, Uther of the Melancholy Dale, Pwyll Spinebreaker, Shamane the Tall and Shamane the Short, The Red Fox Meyahn, Old Dylann, Ronan the Pale and Clar from Beyond the West among them. Corum had met them all as they had come to Caer Mahlod and he knew that many of them would die when they battled, at last, with the Fhoi Myore.