Chronicles of Corum (25 page)

Corum dreamed of a field of sheep; a pleasant scene, save when all the sheep looked up at once and had the faces of men and women he had known.

He dreamed that he ran for the safety of his old home, Castle Erom by the sea, but when he neared it he found that a great chasm had fallen between him and the entrance to the castle. He dreamed that he blew upon a horn and that this horn called all the gods to the Earth and the Earth became the field of their final battle. And he was consumed by an enormous sense of guilt, recalling many deeds which Corum awake could never recall: tragic deeds, the murder of friends and lovers, the betrayal of races, the destruction of the weak and of the innocent. And while a small voice reminded him that he had also destroyed the strong and the evil in his long career through a thousand incarnations, he was not consoled, for now he recalled Amergin and soon he would have Amergin’s death upon his conscience. Once again his idealism had led to the destruction of another soul and he could not reconcile his tortured spirit.

And now gleeful music began to sound; mocking music, sweet music—the music of a harp.

And Corum turned from the chasm and he saw three figures standing there. One of the figures he recognized with pleasure. It was Medhbh, lovely Medhbh, in a smock of blue samite, with her red hair braided and bracelets of red gold upon her arms and ankles, a sword in one hand and a sling in the other. He smiled at her, but she did not return his smile. The figure next to her he also recognized now, and he recognized that figure with horror. It was a youth whose flesh shone with the color of pale gold. A youth who smiled without kindness and played upon the mocking harp.

Corum dreamed that he made to draw his sword, moving to attack the youth with the flesh of gold, but then the third figure advanced, raising a hand. This figure was the most shadowy of the three and Corum realized that he feared it more than he feared the youth with the harp, though he could not see the face at all. He saw that the raised hand was of silver and that the cloak the figure wore was of scarlet and then he turned his back again in horror, not daring to look upon the face because he was afraid he would see his own face there.

And Corum leapt into the chasm while the music of the harp grew louder and louder, more and more triumphant, and he fell through a night which had no ending.

And then there was a blinding whiteness which swallowed him and he realized that he had opened his eyes upon the dawn.

Slowly the great stones of Craig Don came into focus, dark and grim against the snow which surrounded them. He felt something gripping him and he tried to struggle free, fearing that Gaynor had found him, but then he heard Goffanon’s deep voice saying: “It is over, Corum. You are awake.”

Corum gasped. “Such dreadful dreams Goffanon
…”

“What else do you expect if you sleep at the center of Craig Don?” growled the Sidhi dwarf. “Particularly after witnessing Jhary-a-Conel’s work of last night.”

“It was similar to a dream I had when I first came to Hy-Breasail,” Corum said, rubbing at his frozen face and taking deep breaths of cold air as if he hoped thus to dispel the memory of the dreams.

‘ ‘Because Hy-Breasail has similar properties to Craig Don, there is every reason why your dreams should be the same,” said Goffanon. He rose, his great bulk looming over Corum. “Though some have pleasant dreams at Craig Don, and others have magnificent, inspiring dreams, I’m told.”

“I have need of such dreams at present,” said Corum.

Goffanon shifted his war-axe from his right hand to his left and offered the free hand to Corum who took it and let the Sidhi Smith help him to his feet. Amergin still slept upon the altar, covered by a cloak, and Jhary slept near the ashes of the fire, his cat curled up close to his face.

“We must go to the land of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir,” said Goffanon. “I have been considering the problem.”

Corum smiled with his frozen lips. “You league yourself fully with our cause, then?”

Goffanon shrugged with poor grace. “It seems so. I’ve little choice. To reach that land we must go part of the way by sea. It will be the quickest way of making the journey.”

‘ ‘But we are much burdened, ‘’ said Corum,’ ‘and will make slow progress with Amergin.”

‘ ‘Then one of us must take Amergin to the relative safety of Caer Mahlod,” said Goffanon, “while the others make the longer journey to Caer Garanhir. Returning by sea, assuming that we have succeeded in finding the Golden Oak and the Silvern Ram, we should be able to get to Caer Mahlod with relative ease. It is the only way we have, if Amergin is to have even the faintest hope of living.”

“Then it is the way we must take,” said Corum simply.

Jhary-a-Conel had begun to stir. A hand reached out and found a wide-brimmed hat, cramming it on the head. He sat up, blinking. The cat made a small, complaining noise and curled itself sleepily upon his lap while Jhary stretched and rubbed at his eyes. ‘ ‘How is Amergin?” he said. “I dreamed of him. He led a great gathering here, at Craig Don, and all the Mabden spoke with a single voice. It was a fine dream.”

“Amergin still sleeps,” said Corum. And he told Jhary what he and Goffanon had discussed.

Jhary nodded his agreement.’ ‘But which of us is to take Amergin to Caer Mahlod?” He got to his feet, cradling the black and white cat in his arm. “I think it should be me.”

“Why so?”

“It is a simple task, for one thing, to travel from this point to another and deliver our sheepish friend. Secondly I play no important part in the destinies involved. The folk of Gwyddneu Garanhir are more likely to show respect for two Sidhi heroes than for one.’ ‘

“Very well,” Corum agreed, “you shall ride with Amergin for Caer Mahlod and there tell them all that has taken place and all we intend to do. Warn them, too, that the Fhoi Myore come again. With Amergin within the walls of Caer Mahlod, they could be saved from Balahr’s frigid gaze and time might be bought as a result. Happily the Fhoi Myore do not travel with particular swiftness and there is a chance we can return before they reach Caer Mahlod
…”

“If they do, indeed, head for Caer Mahlod,” said Goffanon. ‘ ‘We know only that they plan to march West. It could even be that Craig Don itself is their destination, that they have some idea of destroying the place.”

“Why do they fear it so?” Corum said. “Have they, any longer, the need?”

Goffanon rubbed at his beard. “Possibly,” he said. “Craig Don was built by Sidhi and by Mabden both, at the time of our first great war with the Fhoi Myore. It was built according to certain metaphysical principles and it had several functions, both practical and symbolical. One of the practical functions was for it to act as a kind of trap which would swallow all the Fhoi Myore when they
were
lured here. It has the power—or, rather, it
had
the power—to restore those who do not belong in this Realm to the realms where they do belong. However, it does not work for the Sidhi or I should have departed this world long-since. It was our fate to accomplish its construction without being able to use it for our own ends. As it happened, we were not successful in luring all the Fhoi Myore here and ever since then, those who survived have given the place wide clearance. There are rituals involved, too …” Goffanon’s expression became distant, as if he recalled the old days when he and all his brothers fought the might of the Fhoi Myore in their epic struggle. He looked out at the widening circles of stone columns.’ ‘Aye,” he mused, “this was a place of great power once, was Craig Don.”

Corum handed two things to Jhary-a-Conel. The first was the long, curved horn and the second was the Sidhi Mantle. “Take these,” he said, “since you ride alone. The horn will protect you from the Hounds of Kerenos and the Ghoolegh huntsmen. The cloak will disguise you from the People of the Pines and others who pursue you. You will need both these things if you are to reach Caer Mahlod safely.”

‘ ‘But what of you and Goffanon? Will you not need protection?”

Corum shook his head. “We shall risk what we must risk. There are two of us and we are not burdened by Amergin,”

Jhary nodded. “I accept the gifts, then.”

Soon they had mounted their horses and were riding through the stone arches, Goffanon running ahead with his war-axe upon his fur-clad shoulder, his helm of polished iron glinting in the cold light from the sky.

“Now you ride southwest and we ride northwest,” said Corum. “Our ways will part soon, Jhary-a-Conel.” “Let us pray they’ll meet again.” “Let us hope so.”

They spurred their horses and rode together for a while, enjoying one another’s company but speaking little.

And a little later Corum watched from his motionless horse as Jhary rode rapidly for Caer Mahlod, his cloak billowing behind him, the semi-conscious figure of the enchanted High King tied across his horse’s neck.

Far across the snow-shrouded plain rode Jhary-a-Conel, growing smaller and smaller and finally becoming obscured by a gust of wind-borne snow, blotted from Corum’s sight but not from his thoughts.

Jhary and Jhary’s fate was often in Corum’s mind as he rode for the coast, the tireless Goffanon loping always beside him.

And sometimes, too, Corum would recall the dream he had dreamed at Craig Don, and then he would ride still harder, as if he hoped to leave such memories behind him.

Corum wiped his forehead free from the sweat which clung to it and gratefully dropped his byrnie and his helm into the bottom of the small boat. The sun was high in a cloudless sky and while the day was actually only as warm as a day in early spring it seemed to be almost tropically hot to both Corum and Goffanon who, in their ride to the coast, had become used to the aching cold of those lands conquered by the Fhoi Myore. Corum was clad now only in his shirt and his leggings, his sword and dirk strapped about his waist and the rest of his war-gear tied across the back of his horse. He was reluctant to leave the horse behind him, but there was no easy means of transporting it across the ocean which gleamed ahead. The boat they had found was barely large enough to take Goffanon’s great bulk, let alone Corum’s.

Corum stood on the quay of the abandoned fishing village and wondered if Fhoi Myore minions had come here or if the inhabitants had been among those who had fled to Caer Mahlod during the first invasion of the Cold Folk. Whatever the circumstances of their flight, they had left much behind them, including several small boats. The larger boats, Corum guessed, had been taken either to the land of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir or even further to the land of the Tuha-na-Manannan, King Fiachadh’s land. There were none of the usual signs of wanton Fhoi Myore slaying. It was his belief that the folk of the village had been hasty in their decision to leave. The white houses, the gardens in which flowers and vegetables grew, all looked as if they were still occupied and tended. The flight must have been comparatively recent.

Goffanon, complaining about the heat but refusing to remove his breastplate or war-cap and also keeping a firm grip on his double-headed axe, clambered from the short flight of stone steps and into the boat as Corum steadied it for him. Then Corum got cautiously into the bow and settled himself, laying his lance and his axe along the bottom of the boat and unshipping the oars (for Goffanon had insisted that he understood nothing of the art of rowing). Corum would dearly have given everything for a sail, but had been able to find nothing which would serve. He pushed off from the quay and maneuvered the boat until his back was to the distant shoreline over the water, their destination. He began to row with long strokes which at first wearied him but then, as he became used to the rhythm, involved seemingly less and less effort as Goffanon’s weight increased their momentum through the clear still waters of the sea.

The smell of the brine was good after the snow-laden air he had breathed so long, and there was a sense of peace upon the sea which he had not known for a long while, even when he had sailed Calatin’s boat for Hy-Breasail to meet (though he had not known it then) the huge self-styled dwarf who now sat in the stem and dangled a huge, heavily muscled hand in the water, for all the world like a maiden being taken for a pleasure trip by her swain. Corum grinned, his liking for the Sidhi Smith growing all the time.

‘ ‘Perhaps at Caer Mahlod they will find herbs which will sustain Amergin,” said Goffanon, staring idly over the water as the coastline disappeared behind him. “There, at least, they can grow such things. They grow in precious few parts of the old Mabden lands now.”

Corum, deciding to take a moment’s rest from rowing, drew in the oars and drew a deep breath.’ ‘Aye/’ he said
,’
‘it’s what I hope. Yet if the grass Amergin ate at Caer Llud was specially treated it might be hard to find something matching it exactly. However,” he grinned, “this sunshine makes me feel considerably more confident.”