Chronicles of Corum (20 page)

“Did some hero wear it once?” Corum asked. It was the only explanation for the reverence with which King Fiachadh handled the tattered robe.

“Aye, a hero has worn it, according to our legends, during the first fights with the Fhoi Myore.” King Fiachadh seemed puzzled by Corum’s question. “It is often called just ‘The Mantle,’ but sometimes it is called Arianrod’s Cloak—so that strictly speaking it is a heroine’s mantle, for Arianrod was a female Sidhi, of great fame and much loved by the Mabden.”

“And so you treasure it,” said Corum. “And well you might…”

Medhbh was laughing, for she knew what he thought. “You come close to condescending to us, Sir Silverhand,” she said. “Do you think King Fiachadh a fool?” “Far from it, but
…”

“If you knew our legends you would understand the power of that much-worn mantle. Arianrod used it for many great feats before she herself was slain by some Fhoi Myore during the last great battle between the Sidhi and the Cold Folk. Some say she slew a whole army of Fhoi Myore singlehanded while wearing that cloak.”

“It makes the wearer invulnerable?”

‘ ‘Not exactly,” said King Fiachadh, still proffering the mantle to Corum. “Will you accept it, Prince Corum?”

“Gladly will I accept a gift from your hand, King Fiachadh,” said Corum, remembering his manners, and he reached out and took the cloak gently, in his fleshly hand and his hand of gleaming silver.

And both hands vanished at the wrists so that it seemed he was again crippled, though this time twice-crippled. Yet he could feel his fleshly hand and feel the texture of the cloth with his fingers, for all that the mantle had made his hands disappear.

“It does work, then/’ said King Fiachadh in tones of great satisfaction. ‘ ‘I am glad you accepted it with hesitation, Sir Sidhi. ‘’

Corum began to understand. He drew his fleshly hand away from under the cloak and there was his hand again!

“A mantle of invisibility?”

‘ ‘Aye,” said Medhbh in awe.’ ‘The same mantle used by Gyfech to enter the bedchamber of Ben while her father slept across the door. That mantle was much prized, even amongst the Sidhi.”

Corum said: “I believe I know how it must work. It comes from another plane. Just as Hy-Breasail is part of another world, so is this mantle. It shifts the wearer into another plane, just as the Vadhagh could once move from plane to plane and remain aware of activities on different planes
…”

They knew not of what he spoke, but they were too delighted to question him. He laughed. ‘ ‘Brought from the Sidhi plane, it has no true existence here. Yet why will it not work for Mabden?”

‘ ‘It will not always work for Sidhi,’ ‘ said King Fiachadh.’ ‘There are some—Mabden or others—possessed of a sixth sense which makes them aware of you even when you are invisible to all others. Very few possess this sixth sense so that you may wear the mantle without detection most of the time. However, someone whose sixth sense is well-developed will see you just as I see you now.”

“And this is the disguise I must use to go to the Tower of the High King?” Corum said, handling the cloak with care and equally as much reverence as had King Fiachadh, marveling as its folds hid first one portion and then another of his anatomy.’ ‘Yes, it is a good disguise.” He smiled. “There is none better.” He handed the mantle back to the King. “Best keep it safely in its chest until it is needed.”

And when the chest was locked with all five keys, Corum sank back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Now,” he said, “there is much to be planned.”

So it was late before Corum and Medhbh lay together, in their wide, low bed, looking out through the windows at the summer moon.

“It was prophesied,” said Medhbh sleepily, “that Cremm Croich should go upon three quests, face three great dangers, make three strong friendships
…”

“Prophesied where?”

“In the old legends.”

“You have not mentioned this before.”

“There seemed no point. Legends are vague. You are not what the legends led us to expect, after all.” She smiled quietly.

He returned her smile. “Well, then, I begin the second quest tomorrow.”

“And you will be gone long from my side,” said Medhbh.

“That is my fate, I fear. I came for duty, not for love, sweet Medhbh. The love must be enjoyed while it does not interfere with duty.”

“You could be killed could you not? For all you are an elfin lord?”

“Aye, killed by sword, or poison. I could even fall from my horse and break my neck!”

“Do not mock my fears, Corum.”

“I am sorry.” He rose on one elbow and looked into her lovely eyes. He bent and kissed her lips. “I am sorry, Medhbh.”

He rode a red horse, such as he had ridden when he first came to Cremmsmound. Its coat shone in the early morning sunshine. From beyond the walls of Caer Mahlod came the sound of bird song.

He wore all his ceremonial fighting gear, the ancient gear of the Vadhagh. He wore a shirt of blue samite and his breeks were doeskin. He wore a peaked, conical silver helm with his runic name set into it (the runes were indecipherable to the Mabden) and he wore his byrnie, a layer of silver upon a layer of brass. He wore all save his Scarlet Robe, his Name-robe, for that he had traded to the Wizard Calatin at the place he knew as Moidel’s Mount. Upon the horse was a mantle of yellow velvet and harness and saddle were of crimson leather with designs picked out in white.

For weapons Corum took a lance, an axe, a sword and a dirk. The lance was tall, its shaft strengthened with gleaming brass, its head of polished iron. The axe was double-headed, plain and long-hafted, also bound with bands of brass. The sword hung in a scabbard matching the horse’s harness and its hilt was dressed in leather, bound with fine gold and silver wire, with a heavy round pommel of bronze. The dirk had been made by the same craftsman and matched the sword.

^‘
‘
Who could mistake you for anything but a demigod,” said King Fiachadh approvingly.

Prince Corum made a small smile and clutched his reins in his silver hand. He reached with his other hand to adjust the plain war-board which hung behind his saddle over one of the panniers containing as well as his provisions a tightly rolled fur cape which he would need as he advanced into Fhoi Myore lands. The other cape, the Sidhi Cloak, that of Arianrod, he had rolled and wrapped about his waist. Tucked into this were the gauntlets he would wear later, to protect one hand from the cold and to disguise the other so that he would not be easily recognized by any enemy.

Medhbh tossed back her long red hair and came forward to kiss his fleshly hand, looking up at him with eyes that were both proud and troubled. “Have care with your life, Corum,” she murmured. “Preserve it if you can, for all of us will need you even when this quest is over.”

“I shall not throw my life away,” he promised. “Life has become good for me, Medhbh. But neither do I fear death at this moment.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. All his gear made him hot beneath the sun which was already blazing down, but he knew he would not be warmed for long. He adjusted the embroidered eye-patch over the blind socket. He touched her gently upon her brown arm. “I shall come back to you,” he promised.

King Mannach folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat. “Bring Amergin to us, Prince Corum. Bring our High King with you.”

“Only if Amergin is with me will I come back to Caer Mahlod. And if I cannot bring him, then I will make every effort to send him to you, King Mannach.”

“This is a great quest, this quest,” said King Mannach. “Farewell, Corum.”

“Farewell, Corum,” said Fiachadh the red-bearded, putting a large strong hand upon the Vadhagh’s knee. “Good luck in this.”

“Farewell, Corum,” said Medhbh, and her voice was now as steady as her gaze.

Then Corum kicked at the flanks of his red horse and he went from them.

It was with a calm mind that Corum rode from Caer Mahlod, across the gentle hills, into the deep, cool forest, going East to Caer Llud, listening to the birds, the rush of the little shining streams over old rocks, the whisper of the oaks and the elms.

Not once did Corum look back; not once did he feel a pang of regret, nor grieve or know fear or reluctance concerning his quest, for he knew that he fulfilled his destiny and that he represented a great ideal. He was, at that moment, content.

Such contentment was rare, thought Corum, for one destined to take part in the eternal struggle. Perhaps because he did not fight against his destiny this time; because he accepted his duty, he was rewarded with this peculiar peace of mind. He began to wonder if he would find peace only by accepting his fate. It would be a strange paradox—tranquility attained in strife.

By the evening the sky had begun to grow gray, and heavy clouds could be seen in the horizon towards the East.

Shivering, Corum pulled the heavy fur cloak around his shoulders and drew the hood over his helmeted head. Then he drove his fleshly hand deep into the fur-lined gauntlet he held ready and covered his silver hand with the other gauntlet. He stamped out the remains of his fire and looked this way and that across the landscape, his breath billowing white in the air. The sky was a hard, flat blue and it was sunless, for it was not yet true dawn. The land was almost featureless and the ground was dead, black, with a coating of pale frost. Here and there a stark, leafless tree stood out. In the distance was a line of snow-topped hills, as black as the ground. Corum sniffed the wind.

It was a dead wind.

The only scent on the wind was that of the killing frost. This part of the land was so desolate that it was evident the Cold Folk had spent some time here. Perhaps this was where they had camped before moving against Caer Mahlod in their war with that city.

Now Corum heard the sound he thought he had heard before. This sound had caused him to spring up from his fire and disperse the smoke. The sound of hoofbeats. He looked to the southeast. There was a place where the ground rose and obscured his view. It was from beyond the rise that the hoofbeats were coming.

And now Corum heard another sound.

The faint baying of hounds.

The only hounds he might expect to hear in these parts were the devil hounds of Kerenos.

He ran to his red horse, who was showing signs of nervousness, and mounted himself in his saddle, shaking his lance free from its scabbard and laying it across his pommel. He leaned forward and patted his horse’s neck to calm the beast. He turned the horse toward the rise, ready to meet the danger.

A single rider appeared first, just as the sun began to rise behind him. The sun’s rays caught the rider’s armor and it flashed deep red. There was a naked sword in the rider’s hand and the sword also reflected the rays of the sun so that for a second Corum could barely see. Then the armor turned to a fierce, burning blue, and Corum guessed the identity of the horseman.

The baying of those frightful hounds became louder, but still they had not appeared.

Corum urged his horse towards the rise.

Suddenly there was silence.

The voices of the hounds were stilled; the rider sat unmoving on his horse, but his armor changed color again, from blue to greenish yellow.

Corum listened to the sound of his own breathing, the steady beating of his own horse’s hooves upon the hard, rimed earth. He began to ascend the rise, approaching the rider, his lance ready.

And then the rider spoke from within the featureless helm enclosing his head.

“Ha! I guessed so. It is you, Corum.”

“Good morning, Gaynor. Will you joust?”

Prince Gaynor the Damned threw back his head and laughed a bleak, hollow laugh and his armor changed from yellow to blazing black and he swept his sword into its scabbard. “You know me, Corum. I am become wary. I do not have it in mind to make another journey into Limbo just yet. Here, at least, I have matters to occupy my time. There—well, there is nothing at all there.”

“In Limbo?”

“Aye. In Limbo.”

“Join a noble cause, then? Fight for my cause? Thus you could win redemption.”

“Redemption? Oh, Corum, you are simple-minded indeed. Who would redeem me?”

“No one.”

“Then why do you speak of redemption?”

‘ ‘ You can redeem yourself. That is what I meant. I do not mean that you should placate the Lords of Law—if they still exist anywhere—or that you should bow to any authority save your own pride. I mean that there is within you, Prince Gaynor the Damned, something which could save you from the hopelessness now consuming you. You know those whom you serve to be degenerate, destructive, lacking in greatness of spirit. Yet willfully you follow them, fulfill their ends for them, perpetrate great crimes and create monstrous miseries, spread evil, carry death—you know what you do and you know, too, that for you such crimes bring further agony of spirit.”

The armor changed from black to angry crimson. Prince Gaynor’s faceless helm turned to stare directly into the rising sun. His horse stirred and he tightened his grip upon his reins.

“Join my cause, Prince Gaynor. I know that you respect it.”

“Law has rejected me,” said Prince Gaynor the Damned in a hard, weary voice. “All that I once followed, all that I once respected, all that I once admired and sought to emulate—all have rejected Gaynor. It is too late, you see, Prince Corum.”

“It is not too late,” said Corum urgently, “and you forget, Gaynor, that I alone have looked upon that face you hide behind your helm. I have seen all your guises, all your dreams, all your secret desires, Gaynor.”

“Aye,” said Prince Gaynor the Damned quietly, “and that is why you must perish, Corum. That is why I cannot bear to know that you are alive.”

“Then fight,” said Corum with a sigh. “Fight now.”

“I would not dare do that, not now that you have beaten me in combat once. I would not have you look upon all my faces again, Corum. No, you must die by other means than in single combat. The Hounds
…”

Then Corum, guessing what was in Gaynor’s mind, sent his horse into a sudden gallop, lance aimed directly at Gaynor’s featureless helm, and rushed upon his ancient enemy.

But Gaynor laughed and wheeled his steed, thundering down the hill so that the white frost rose in glistening shards on all sides of him and the ground seemed to crack as he crossed it.

And Gaynor rode straight down the hill toward where half-a-score of pale hounds squatted, their red tongues lolling, their yellow eyes glaring, their yellow fangs dripping yellow saliva, their long, feathery tails curled along their shaggy backs. And all their bodies were that glowing, leprous white, save for the tips of their ears which were the color of fresh-drawn blood. Some, the largest, were the size of small ponies.

And now they were getting to their feet as Gaynor rode toward them. And now they were panting and grinning as Gaynor yelled to them.

And now they were running up the hill toward Corum. Corum spurred his horse to greater efforts, hoping to plunge through the dogs and reach Gaynor before he escaped. He struck the pack with an impact which bowled several of the hounds over and his lance skewered one directly through the skull. And both these things combined to slow Corum down as he tried to tug the lance from the dog he had slain. His horse reared, screaming, and lashed at the dogs with its iron-shod hooves. Corum abandoned his grip upon his lance and swung his double-bladed war-axe from his back, whirling it as he struck first to his left and then to his right, cleaving the head from one dog and cracking the spine of another. But the dogs kept up their chill baying, and this mixed with the horrible bowlings of the hound whose spine had been snapped, and yellow fangs clashed on Corum’s byrnie and ripped at his great fur cloak, trying to drag the whistling war-axe from his hands.

Corum kicked his right foot free from his stirrup and drove his heel into the snout of one hound while with his axe he smashed down a dog which had got a grip upon his horse’s harness. But the horse was tiring fast. Corum realized that it could not hold out against the hounds only a few moments more before it collapsed beneath him with its throat torn, and there were still some six dogs to contend with.

Five. Corum sliced the rear legs from a dog which sought to spring at him and misjudged its distance. The thing flopped to the ground near the one which still died from a broken spine. The dog with the broken spine dragged itself to where its comrade writhed and sank its fangs into the red, exposed flanks, tearing hungrily at the flesh, taking a final meal before it expired.

Then Corum heard a yell and got an impression of something black moving to the right of him. Gaynor’s men, no doubt, coming in to finish him. He tried a backswipe with the axe, but missed.

The Hounds of Kerenos were regrouping, readying themselves for a more organized attack upon him. Corum knew he could not fight both the hounds and the newcomers, whoever they were. He looked for a gap in the ranks of the dogs through which he might gallop. But his horse stood panting now, its legs trembling, and he knew he could get nothing more from the beast. He transferred his axe to his silver hand and drew his sword. Then he began to jog towards the hounds, preferring to die attacking them rather than to flee from them. And again something black swept past him—a fast-moving pony with a rider crouched low upon its back, a curved sword in both hands, slicing into the white pack so that they yelped in surprise and scattered. Whereupon Corum selected one and rode after it, bearing down on it. It turned going for his horse’s throat, but Corum stabbed and took the creature in the chest. Its long-clawed paws scrabbled at the body of the skittering horse for a moment before it fell to the ground.

And now only three hounds lived. Three hounds running after the black speck of a rider who could still be seen in the distance, his armor changing color even as he rode.

Then Corum dismounted from his horse and drew a deep breath. Then he regretted it, for the stink of the hounds was worse in death than in life. He looked around him at the ruin of white fur and red vitals, at the gore which soaked the ground, and then he turned to look at the ally who had appeared to save his life.

His ally was still mounted. Grinning, the ally sheathed first one curved sword and then another. He adjusted a broadbrimmed hat upon his long hair. He took a bag which hung from his saddle pommel and opened it. From the bag crept a small black and white cat which was unusual in that it had a pair of wings neatly folded along its back.

Corum’ s ally grinned even more widely as he noted Corum’s astonishment.

“This situation is not new to me, at least,” said Jhary-a-Conel, the self-styled Companion to Heroes. “I am often in time to save some champion’s life. It is my fate, just as it is his fate to struggle forever in the great wars of history. I sought you at Caer Mahlod, having some intimation that I would be useful, but you had already gone. I followed as swiftly as I could, sensing that your life was in peril.” Jhary-a-Conel swept off his wide-brimmed hat and bowed in his saddle. “Greetings, Prince Corum.”

Corum was still panting from his fight. He could not speak. But he managed to grin back at his old friend. “Do you quest with me, Jhary?” he said at last. “Do you come with me to Caer Llud?”

“If the fates so will it. Aye. How fare you, Corum, in this world?”

“Better than I thought. And better still now that you are here, Jhary.”

“You know I might not be enabled to stay here?”

“I understood as much from our last conversation. And you? Have you had adventures on other planes since we last met?”

“One or two. One or two. Where you are called Hawkmoon, I had one of the most peculiar experiences of my everlasting career.” And Jhary told Corum the story of his adventures with Hawkmoon, who had gained a friend, lost a bride, found himself inhabiting another’s body, and had spent what Corum considered a rather confusing time in a world which was not his own.

And as Jhary talked, the two old friends rode from the scene of the slaughter, following in the tracks of Prince Gay nor the Damned who appeared to be riding hastily for Caer Llud.

And Caer Llud was still many, many days distant.