The Sword and the Stallion

  "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 song 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 alrea
dy 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.

  Now Amergin's clear, strong voice rang out, calling to Corum:

  "Well, Corum of the Silver Hand, are you satisfied with the company you lead to war?"

  Corum answered gracefully. "My only doubt is that there are many here better able to lead such great warriors than I. It is my honor that I am elected to this task."

  "Well-spoken!" King Fiachadh lifted his mead-horn. "I toast Corum, the slayer of Sreng of the Seven Swords, the savior of our High King. I toast Corum, who brought back the Mabden pride!"

  And Corum blushed as they cheered and drank his health and when they had finished he stood up and raised his own horn and he spoke these words:

  "I toast that pride! I toast the Mabden folk!"

  And again the company roared its approval and all drank.

  Then Amergin said:

  "We are fortunate in having Sidhi allies who have chosen to aid us in our struggle against the Fhoi Myore. We are fortunate in that many of our great Treasures were restored to us and used to defeat the Fhoi Myore when they sought to destroy us. I toast the Sidhi and the gifts of the Sidhi."

  And again the whole company, save an embarrassed Ilbrec and a bemused Goffanon, drank and cheered.

  Ilbrec was the next to speak. He said:

  "If the Mabden were not courageous; if they were not a fine-spirited folk, the Sidhi would not help them. We fight for that which is noble in all living beings."

  Goffanon grunted his agreement with this sentiment. "By and large," he said, "the Mabden are not a selfish folk. They are not mean. They respect one another. They are not greedy. They are not, in the main, self-righteous. Aye, I’ve a liking for this people. I am glad that finally I chose to fight in their cause. It will be good to die in such a cause."

  Amergin smiled. ‘ 'I hope you do not expect death, Sir Goffanon. You speak of it as if
it were an inevitable consequence of this venture."

  And Goffanon lowered his eyes, shrugging.

  King Mannach put in quickly: ' 'We shall defeat the Fhoi Myore. We must. But I'll admit we could make use of any further advantages that Fate cares to send us." He looked meaningly at Corum who nodded.

  "Magic is the best weapon against magic," he agreed, "if that is what you meant, King Mannach."

  "It is what I meant," said Medhbh's father.

  "Magic!" Goffanon laughed. "There's little of that left now, save the kind the Fhoi Myore and their friends can summon."

  "Yet I heard of something ..." Corum hardly realized he was speaking. He paused, reconsidering his impulse.

  "Heard what?" said Amergin, leaning forward.

  Corum looked at Ilbrec. "You spoke of a magical place, Ilbrec. Earlier today. You said you might know of somewhere where magical allies might be found."

  Ilbrec glanced at Goffanon, who frowned. "I said I might know of such a place. It was a dim memory ..."

  "It is too dangerous," said Goffanon. "As I told you before, Ilbrec, I wonder at you suggesting it. We are best engaged in using to fullest advantage the resources we have now."

  "Very well," said Hbrec. "You were ever cautious, Goffanon."

  "In this case rightly," grunted the Sidhi dwarf.

  But now there was a silence in the hall as everyone listened to the exchange between the two Sidhi. Ilbrec looked about him, addressing all. "I made a mistake," he said. "Magic and such stuff has a habit of recoiling on those who use it."

  "True," said Amergin. "We will respect your reserve, Sir Ilbrec."

  It is as well,'' said Ilbrec, but it was plain he did not really share Goffanon's caution. Caution was not part of the Sidhi youth's character, just as it had not been part of the great Manannan's nature.

  Your folk fought the Fhoi Myore in nine great fights," said King Fiachadh, wiping his mouth clean of the sticky mead which clung to it. You know them best, therefore. And therefore we respect any advice you give us."