"It is an alloy," said Hisak proudly. "Partly steel, partly Sidhi metal."
"I thought there was no Sidhi metal left upon this plane," Medhbh said. "I thought it all gone, save for that in Ilbrec's and Goffanon's weapons."
"It is what remains of an old Sidhi sword," said Goffanon. "Hisak had it. When we met he told me that he had kept it for many years, knowing no way in which to temper it. He got it from some miners who found it while they were digging for iron ore. It had been buried deep. I recognized it as one of a hundred swords I forged for the Sidhi before the Nine Fights. Only part of the blade remained. We shall never know how it came to be buried. Together Hisak and I conceived a way in which to blend the Sidhi metal with your Mabden metal and produce a sword containing the best properties of both."
Hisak Sunthief frowned. '‘And certain other properties, I understand."
''Possibly," said Goffanon. "We shall learn more in time." "It is a fine sword," said Jhary, reaching toward it. "May I try it?"
But Goffanon withdrew it swiftly, almost nervously, shaking his head. "Only Corum," he said. "Only Corum."
"Then ..." Corum made to take the sword. Goffanon raised his hand.
"Not yet," said the dwarf. "I have still to sing the song." "Song?" Medhbh was curious.
"My sword song. A song was always sung at such a time as this.'' Goffanon lifted the sword toward the moon and it took on the aspect, for a moment, of a living thing; then it was a solid black cross framed against the great disc of the moon. "Each sword I make is different. Each must have a different song. Thus its identity is established. But I shall not name the blade. That task is Corum's. He must name the sword with the only name right for it. And when it is named, then the sword will fulfill its ultimate destiny."
"And what is that?" asked Corum.
Goffanon smiled.’’ I do not know. Only the sword will know. "
"I thought you above such superstition, Sir Sidhi!" Jhary-a-Conel stroked his cat's neck.
"It is not superstition. It is something to do with an ability, at such times as these, to see into other planes, into other periods of time. What will happen will happen. Nothing we do here will change that, but we will have some sense of what is to come and that knowledge could be of use to us. I must sing my song, that is all I know." Goffanon looked defensive. Then he relaxed, turning his face to the moon. "You must listen and be silent while I sing."
"And what will you sing?" asked Medhbh.
"As yet," murmured Goffanon, "I do not know. My heart will tell me."
And, instinctively, they all fell back into the shadows of the oaks while Goffanon climbed slowly to the crest of Cremmsmound, the sword held by the blade in his two hands and lifted toward the moon. On the top of the mound he paused.
The night was full of heavy scents, of rustlings and the voices of small animals. The darkness in the surrounding grove was almost impenetrable. The oak trees were still. Then the sounds of the forest seemed to die away and Corum heard only the breathing of his companions.
For a long moment Goffanon neither moved nor spoke. His huge chest rose and fell rapidly and his eyes had closed. Then he moved slowly, lifting the sword to eight separate points before returning to his original position.
Then he began to sing. He sang in the beautiful, liquid speech of the Sidhi which was so like the Vadhagh tongue and which Corum could easily understand. This is what Goffanon sang:
Lo! I made the great swords
Of a hundred Sidhi knights. Nine and ninety broke in battle.
Only one came home.
Some did rot in earth; some in ice;
Some in trees; some under seas; Some melted in fire or were eaten.
Only one came home.
One blade, all broken, all torn,
Of the Sidhi metal Not enough for a sword,
So iron was added.
Sidhi strength and Mabden strength
Combine in Goffanon ‘s blade, His gift for Corum.
Weakness, too, this war-knife holds.
Now Goffanon shifted his grip slightly upon the sword, raising it a little higher. He swayed, as one in a trance, before continuing:
Forged in fire, tempered in frost,
Power from the sun, wisdom from the moon,
Fine and fallible, This brand is fated.
Ah! They will hate it,
Those ghosts of the yet-to-come!
Even now the sword thirsts for them. Their blood grows chill.
And it seemed almost that Goffanon balanced the blade by its tip and that it stood upright under its own volition.
(And Corum recalled a dream and he recoiled. When had he handled such a sword before?)
Soon will come the naming,
Then the foe shall shudder! Here is a handsome needle,
To stitch the Fhoi Myore shroud!
Glaive! Goffanon made thee!
Now you go to Corum! Worms and carrion eaters
Will call you 'Friend.’
Harsh shall Be the slaughter,
Ere the winter's vanquished, Good, red reaping
For a Sidhi scythe!
Then must come the naming;
Then must come the tally. Sidhi and Vadhagh both shall
Pay the score.
Now a frightful shuddering possessed Goffanon's bulky body and he came close to losing his grip on the sword.
Corum wondered why the others did not seem to hear Goffanon when he groaned. He looked at their faces. They stood entranced, uncomprehending, over-awed.
Goffanon hesitated, rallied himself, and went on:
Unnamed blade, I call thee Corum’s sword!
Hisak and Goffanon claim thee not! Black winds cry through Limbo!
Blind rivers await my soul!
These last words Goffanon screamed. He appeared terrified by what he saw through his closed eyes, but his sword-song still issued from his bearded lips.
(Had Corum ever seen this sword? No. But there had been another like it. This sword would prove useful against the Fhoi Myore, he knew. But was the sword really a friend? Why did he consider it an enemy?)
This was a fated forging;
But now that it is done The blade, like its destiny,
Cannot be broken.
Corum could see only the sword. He found that he was moving toward it, climbing the mound. It was as if Goffanon had disappeared and the blade hung in the air, burning sometimes white like the moon, sometimes red like the sun.
Corum reached out for the handle with his silver fingers, but the sword seemed to retreat. Only when Corum stretched his left hand, his hand of flesh, toward it did it allow him to approach.
Corum still heard Goffanon's song. The song had begun as a proud chant; now it was a melancholy dirge. And was the dirge accompanied, in the far distance, by the strains of a harp?
Here is a fitting sword,
Half mortal, half immortal, For the Vadhagh hero.
Here is Corum's sword.
There is no comfort in the blade I made,
It was forged for more than war; It will kill more than flesh;
It will grant both more and less than death.
Fly, blade! Rush to Corum’s grip!
Forget Goffanon made thee! Doom only the Mabden’s foes!
Learn loyalty, shun treachery!
And suddenly the sword was in Corum's left hand and it was as if he had known such a sword all his life. It fitted his grasp perfectly; its balance was superb. He turned it this way and that in the light of the moon, wondering at its sharpness and its handling.
"It is my sword," he said. He felt that he was united with something he had lost long since and then forgotten about. "It is my sword."
Serve well the knight who knoweth thee!
Abruptly, Goffanon's song ended. The great dwarf's eyes opened; his expression was a mixture of tormented guilt, sympathy for Corum, and triumph. Then Goffanon turned to peer at the moon. Corum followed his gaze and was transfixed by the great silver disc which apparently f
illed the whole sky. Corum felt as though he were being drawn into the moon. He saw faces there, scenes of fighting armies, wastelands, ruined cities and fields. He saw himself, though the face was not his. He saw a sword not unlike the one he now held, but the other sword was black whereas his was white. He saw Jhary-a-Conel. He saw Medhbh. He saw Rhalina and he saw other women, and he loved them all, but of Medhbh alone he felt fear. Then the Dagdagh Harp appeared and changed into the form of a youth whose body shone with a strange golden color and who, in some way, was also the harp. Then he saw a great, pale horse and he knew that the horse was his but he was wary of where the horse would take him. Then Corum saw a plain all white with snow and across this plain came a single rider whose robe was scarlet and whose arms and armor were those of the Vadhagh and who had one hand of flesh and one of metal and whose right eye was covered by an elaborately embroidered patch and whose features were the features of a Vadhagh, of Corum. And Corum knew that this rider was not himself and he gasped in terror and tried not to look as the rider came closer and closer, an expression of mocking hatred upon his face and in his single eye the unequivocal determination to kill Corum and take his place.
"No!" cried Corum.
And clouds moved across the moon and the light dimmed and Corum stood upon Cremmsmound in the oak grove, the place of power, with a sword in his hand that was unlike any sword forged before this day; and Corum looked down the mound and saw that Goffanon now stood with Hisak Sunthief and Jhary-a-Conel and Medhbh the red-haired, Medhbh of the Long Arm, and all four stared at Corum as if they wished to help him and could not.
Corum did not know why he replied to their expressions in the way he did when he raised the sword high over his head and said to them in a quiet, firm voice:
"I am Corum. This is my sword. I am alone."
Then the four walked up the mound and they took him back to Caer Mahlod where many still feasted, unaware of what had taken place in the oak grove when the moon had been at its fullest.
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
A COMPANY OF HORSEMEN
Corum slept long into the following morning, but it was not a dreamless sleep. Voices spoke to him of untrustworthy heroes and noble traitors; he had visions of swords, both the one he had been given during the ceremony in the oak grove and others, in particular one other, a black blade which seemed, like the Dagdagh Harp, to have a complex personality, as if inhabited by the spirit of a particularly powerful demon. And between hearing these voices and seeing these visions he heard the words repeated over and over again:
"You are the Champion. You are the Champion." And sometimes a chorus of voices would tell him: "You must follow the Champion's Way." And what, he would wonder, if that way were not the way of the Mabden whom he had sworn to help? And the chorus would repeat: "You must follow the Champion's Way." And Corum awoke, eventually, saying aloud: "I have no liking for this dream." He spoke of the dream into which he had awakened.
Medhbh, dressed, fresh-faced and determined, was standing beside the bed. "What dream is that, my love?"
He shrugged and tried to smile. "Nothing. Last night's events disturbed me, I suppose.'' He looked into her eyes and he felt a little fear creep into his mind. He reached out and took hold of her soft hands, her strong, cool hands. "Do you really love me, Medhbh ?''
She was disconcerted. "I do," she said.
He looked beyond her to the carved chest on the lid of which rested the sword Goffanon had given him. "How shall I name the sword?"
She smiled.'' You will know. Is that not what Goffanon told you? You will know what to call it when the time comes and then the sword will be informed with all its powers."
He sat up, the covers falling away from his broad, naked chest.
She went to the far side of the chamber and signalled to someone in the next room. "Prince Corum's bath. Is it ready?"
‘‘It is ready, my lady."
"Come, Corum," said Medhbh. ‘’Refresh yourself. Wash away your unpleasant dreams. In two days we shall be ready to march. There is little left for you to do until then. Let us spend those two days as enjoyably as we can. Let us ride, this morning, beyond the woods and over the moors."
He drew a deep breath. ‘ ‘ Aye," he said lightly. "lama fool to brood. If my destiny is set, then it is set."
Amergin met them as they mounted their horses an hour later. Amergin was tall, slender and youthful but had the dignity of a man much older than he looked. He wore the blue and gold robes of the Archdruid and there was a simple coronet of iron and raw gems set upon his head of long, fair hair.
"Greetings," said the High King. "Did your business go well last night, Prince Corum?"
"I think so," said Corum. ‘'Goffanon seemed satisfied."
"But you do not carry the sword he gave you."
"It is not a sword, I think, to be worn casually." Corum had his old, good sword at his side. "I shall carry Goffanon's gift into battle, however."
Amergin nodded. He looked down at the cobbles of the courtyard, apparently in deep thought. "Goffanon told you no more of those allies Ilbrec mentioned."
"I took it that Goffanon did not regard them, whoever they are, as allies, necessarily,'' said Medhbh.
"Just so," said Amergin. "However, it would seem to me it would be worth risking much if it meant that our chances of defeating the Fhoi Myore were improved."
Corum was surprised by what he guessed to be the import of Amergin's words. "You do not think we shall be successful?"
"The attack on Caer Llud will cost us dear," said Amergin quietly. "I meditated on our plan last night. I believe I had a vision."
"Of defeat?"
"It was not a vision of victory. You know Caer Llud, Corum, as do I. You know how utterly cold it is now that the Fhoi Myore inhabit it. Cold of that order affects men often in ways they do not fully comprehend.’'
"That is true. ‘ ‘ Corum nodded.
"That is all that I thought," said Amergin. "A simple thought. I cannot be more specific."
"You do not need to be, High King. But I fear there is no better means of making war against our enemies. If there were ..."
"We should all know it." Amergin shrugged and patted the neck of Corum's horse. "But if you have the opportunity to reason with Goffanon again, beg him at very least to tell us the nature of these allies."
"I promise you that I shall, Archdruid, but I do not anticipate any success."
"No," said Amergin, his hand falling away from the horse. "Neither do I."
They rode out from Caer Mahlod, leaving behind them a thoughtful Archdruid, and soon they were galloping through the oak woods and up into the high moorlands where curlews rose and sank above their heads and the smell of the bracken and the heather was sweet in their nostrils and it seemed that no power in the universe could change the simple beauties of the landscape. The sun was warm in a soft blue sky. It was a kindly day. And soon their spirits had risen higher than ever before and they dismounted from their horses and wandered through the knee-high bracken and then sank down into it so that all they could see was the sky and the cool, restful green of the ferns on all sides. And they held each other and they made gentle love then lay close together in silence, breathing the good air and listening to the quiet sounds of the moorlands.
They were allowed an hour of this peace before Corum detected a faint pulsing from the ground beneath him and put his ear to the source, knowing what it must mean.
"Horses," he said, "coming nearer."
"Fhoi Myore riders?" She sat up, reaching for her sling and her pouch which she carried everywhere.
"Perhaps. Gaynor, or the People of the Pines, or both. Yet we have outriders everywhere at present to warn us of an attack from the east and we know that all the Fhoi Myore gather in the east at present.'' Cautiously he began to raise his head. The horsemen were corning from the northwest, more or less from the direction of the coast. His view was blocked by the rise of a hill, but now, very faintly, he thought he could hear the jingle of
harness. Looking behind him, Corum could see that their horses would be clearly visible to anyone approaching over that hill. He drew his sword and began to creep towards the horses. Medhbh followed him.
Hastily, they clambered into their saddles, riding toward the hill, but at an angle to the approaching horsemen, so that, with luck, they would not immediately be seen if they crested the hill.
An outcrop of white limestone offered them some cover and they drew rein behind this, waiting until the riders came in sight.
Almost immediately the first three appeared. The ponies they rode were small and shaggy and dwarfed by the size of the broad-shouldered men on their backs. These men all had the same blazing pale red hair and sharp blue eyes. The hair of their beards was plaited into a dozen narrow braids and the hair of their heads hung in four or five very thick braids into which were bound strands of beads, glinting in the sunlight. They had long oval shields strapped to their left arms and these shields appeared to be of hide and wicker reinforced with rims and bands of brass hammered into bold, flowing designs. The shields appeared to have sheaths attached to their inner surfaces and into these were stuck two iron-headed spears shod with brass. On their hips the men sported short, wide-bladed swords in leather, iron-studded sheaths. Some wore their helmets and others carried them over their saddle pommels and the helmets were all roughly of the same design: conical caps of leather ribbed by iron or brass and decorated with the long, curving horns of the mountain ox. In some cases the original horn had been completely obscured by the polished pebbles, bits of iron or brass or even gold, set into it. Thick plaid cloaks predominantly of red, blue or green were flung over their shoulders. They had kilts either of plaid or of leather and their legs were naked; only a few wore any kind of footgear and of these most wore a simple sandal strapped at the ankle. They were, without doubt, warriors, but Corum had seen none quite like these, though to a degree they resembled the folk of Tir-nam-Beo and the ponies reminded him of those ridden by his old enemies of the forests near Moidel's Mount. Eventually all the riders came into sight—about a score of them—and as they rode closer it was evident they had lately experienced hardship. Some had broken limbs, others had wounds bound up and two of the men were strapped tightly to their saddles so that they would not fall from their horses.
Chronicles of Corum Page 31