The Sword and the Stallion - 06

by Michael Moorcock

  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."

  And do you give us advice, Sir Sidhi?" Amergin asked.

  Goffanon looked up from where he had been staring broodingly into his drinking beaker. His eyes were hard and sharp; they burned with a fire none had previously seen there. 'Only that you should fear heroes," he said.

  And no one asked him what he meant, for all were profoundly disturbed and perplexed by his remark.

  At length King Mannach spoke. "It is agreed that we march directly for Caer Llud and make our first attack there. There are disadvantages to this plan—we go into the coldest of the Fhoi Myore territories—yet we have the chance of surprising them."

  "Then we retreat again," said Corum. 'Making the best speed we can for Craig Don, where we shall have left extra weapons, riding beasts, and food. From Craig Don we can make forays against the Fhoi Myore knowing that they will be unwilling to follow us through the seven circles. Our only danger will be if the Fhoi Myore are strong enough to hold Craig Don in siege until our food is gone."

  "And that is why we must strike hard and strike swiftly at Caer Llud, taking as many of them as we can and conserving our own strength," said Morkyan of the Two Smiles, fingering his pointed beard. ''There must be no displays of courage—no glory-deeds at Caer Llud."

  His words were not particularly well-received by many in the company. "War-making is an art," said Kernyn the Ragged, his long face seeming to grow still longer, "though a terrible and immoral art. And most of us gathered here are artists, priding ourselves upon our skills—aye, and our style, too. If we cannot express ourselves in our individual ways, then is there any point to fighting at all?"

  "Mabden fights are one thing," said Corum quietly, "but a war of Mabden against Fhoi Myore is another. There is more to lose than pride in the battles we contemplate tonight."

  ‘ T understand you,'' said Kernyn the Ragged, ‘ 'but I am not sure I entirely agree with you, Sir Sidhi."

  "We could give up too much in order to save our lives," said Sheonan the Axe-maiden, disengaging herself from Grynion’s embrace.

  "You spoke of what you admired in the Mabden." The Branch Hero, Phadrac, addressed Goffanon. "Yet there is a danger that we should sacrifice all the virtues of our folk merely in order to continue to exist."

  "You must sacrifice nothing of that," Goffanon told him. "We merely counsel prudence during the assault on Caer Llud. One of the reasons that the Mabden lost so badly to the Fhoi Myore was because the Mabden warriors fight as individuals whereas the Fhoi Myore organize their forces as a single unit. At Caer Llud, if nowhere else, we must emulate these methods, using cavalry for fast-striking, using chariots as moving platforms from which to cast missiles. It would be pointless to stand and fight against Rhannon's horrible breath, would it not?"

  "The Sidhi speak wisely," agreed Amergin, "and I beg all my folk to listen to them. That is why we are gathered here tonight, after all. I saw Caer Llud fall. I saw fine, brave war-knights fall before they could strike a single blow against their enemies. In the old times, in the times of the Nine Fights, Sidhi fought Fhoi Myore, one to one, tout we are not Sidhi. We are Mabden. We must, in this instance, fight as a single folk."

  The Branch Hero leant his great body backwards on the bench, nodding. "If Amergin decrees this, then I will fight as the Sidhi suggest. It is enough," he said.

  And the others murmured their assent.

  Now Ilbrec reached into his jerkin and drew out a rolled sheet of vellum.' 'Here, ‘ ‘ he said, ‘ 'is a map of Caer Llud.'' He unrolled the sheet and turned, displaying it. "We attack simultaneously from four sides. Each force will be led by its king. This wall is considered the weakest and so two kings and their people will attack it. Ideally, we could move in to crush the Fhoi Myore and their slaves at the center of the city, but in actuality we shall probably not be successful in this and, having struck as hard as we can, will be forced to retreat, saving as many of our lives as possible for the second fight, at Craig Don ..." And Ilbrec went on to explain the details of the plan.

  Although one of those mainly responsible for the plan, Corum privately considered it over-optimistic, yet there was no better plan and so it would have to stand. He poured himself more mead from the pitcher at his elbow, passing the pitcher to Goffanon. Corum still wished that Goffanon had allowed Ilbrec to speak of the mysterious magical allies he considered top dangerous to enlist. As he accepted the pitcher, Goffanon said quietly: "We must leave here soon, for midnight approaches. The sword will be ready."

  ‘ "there is little more to discuss," Corum agreed. ‘ 'Let me know when you wish to go and I will make our excuses."

  Now Ilbrec was answering the close questioning of some of the number who wished to hear how such and such a wall would be breached, and how long ordinary mortals might be expected to survive in the Fhoi Myore mist, and what kind of clothing would offer the best protection, and so on.

  Seeing that he had no more to add to the discussion Corum stood up, courteously taking his leave of the High King and the rest of the gathering and, with Medhbh, Goffanon and Hisak Sunthief beside him, strolled from the crowded hall into narrow streets and a cool night.

  The sky was almost as light as day and the heavy buildings of the fortress-city were outlined blackly against it. A few pale, blue-tinted clouds flowed over the moon and onto the horizon, in the direction of the sea. They walked to the gate and crossed the bridge which spanned the moat, making their way round the edge of the camp and going toward the trees beyond. Somewhere a great owl hooted and there was the crack of wings) the squeal of a young rabbit. Insects chittered in the tall grass as they waded through it and entered the forest.

  While the trees were still thin, Corum looked up into the clear sky, noting that once again, as it had been the last time he had entered this wood, the moon was full.

  ''Now," said Goffanon,' 'we go to the place of power where the sword awaits us."

  And Corum found that he paused, reluctant to visit that mound where he had first entered this strange Mabden dream.

  There came a sound from behind. Corum turned nervously, seeing, to his relief, that Jhary-a-Conel came to join them, his winged cat on his shoulder. Jhary grinned.' 'The hall was becoming too stuffy for Whiskers here ."He stroked the cat's head.' 'I thought I might join you."

  Goffanon seemed a trifle suspicious, but he nodded. "You are a welcome witness to what will transpire tonight, Jhary-a-Conel."

  Jhary gave a bow. "I thank you."

  Corum said:' 'Is there no other place we can go, Goffanon? Must it be Cremmsmound?"

  "Cremmsmound is the nearest place of power," said Goffanon simply. "It would be too far to travel elsewhere."

  Corum still did not move. He listened carefully to the sounds of the forest. "Do you hear the strains of a harp?" he asked.

  ' 'We are not close enough to the hall to hear the musicians,'' said Hisak Sunthief.

  "You hear no harp in the wood?"

  "I hear nothing," said Goffanon.

  "Then I do not hear it," said Corum. "I thought for a moment it was the Dagdagh harp. The harp we heard when we summoned Oak Woman."

  "An animal cry," said Medhbh.

  "I fear that harp." Corum's voice was almost a whisper.

  'There would be no need,'' Medhbh told him.' Tor the Dagdagh harp is wise. It is our friend."

  Corum reached out and took her warm hand, "It is your friend, Medhbh of the Long Arm, but it is not mine. The old seeress told me to fear a harp, and that is the harp of which she spoke."

  "Forget that prophecy. The old woman was plainly deranged. It was not a true prophecy." Medhbh stepped closer to him, her grip tightening. "You, of all of us, should not give in to superstition now, Corum,"

  Corum made a great effort and pushed the fear into the back of his mind. Then, momentarily, he met
Jhary's eye. Jhary was troubled. He turned away, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat on his head.

  "Now we must go quickly," growled Goffanon. "The time is near."

  And, fighting off that morbid sense of doom, Corum followed the Sidhi dwarf deeper into the forest.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  THE SWORD SONG OF THE SIDHI

  It was as Corum had seen it before, Cremmsmound, with the white rays of the moon striking it, with the leaves of the oak trees shining like dark silver, all still. Corum studied the mound and wondered what lay beneath it. Did the mound really hide the bones of one who had been called Corum of the Silver Hand? And could those bones indeed be his own? The thought barely disturbed him at that moment. He watched Goffanon and Hisak Sunthief digging in the soft earth at the base of the mound, eventually drawing out a finished sword, a heavy, finely-tempered sword whose hilt was of plaited ribbons of iron. The sword seemed to attract the light of the moon and reflect it with increased brightness.

  Careful not to touch the handle, holding the sword below the hilt, Goffanon inspected it, showing it to Hisak who nodded his approval.

  "It will take much to dull the edge of this," said Goffanon. "Save for Ilbrec's sword Retaliator, there is no blade like it now in all the world.''

  ' 'Is it steel?" Jhary-a-Conel stepped closer, peering at the sword. "It does not shine like steel”

  "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 t
o 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 filled 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.