Corum nodded. What else could the rock be? It was not of this plane. Perhaps, like the island of Hy-Breasail, it had come with the Sidhi when they journeyed here to fight the Cold Folk. He had seen things like it before—objects which had no real place upon this plane and which had part of themselves in another plane altogether.
The wind blew the water against his face. It blew their hair and their cloaks about them and they had difficulty climbing the smooth, worn stone and standing at last on the top of the rock. Huge waves rolled down upon the coast. Great gusts threatened to blow them from their perch. Rain washed down them and cascaded over the rock so that small waterfalls were formed.
“Now take the spear, Bryionak, in your silver hand,” directed Medhbh. ‘ ‘Raise it high. ‘’
Corum obeyed her.
“Now you must translate what I tell you into your speech, the pure Vadhagh tongue, for that is the same tongue as the Sidhi.”
“I know,” said Corum. “What must I say?”
“Before you speak you must think of the bull, the Black Bull of Crinanass. He is as tall at the shoulder as you are at the head. He has a long coat of black hair. His horns are wider from tip to tip than you can stretch your arms, and they are sharp, those horns. Can you picture such a creature?”
“I think so.”
“Then speak this and speak it clearly”: All around them the day was turning gray, save for the great rock on which they stood.
“You shall pass through tall gates of stone, you,
Black Bull You shall come forth from where you dwell
when Cremm Croich calls. If you sleep, Black Bull, awaken now. If you wake, Black Bull, then rise now. If you rise, Black Bull, (hen walk. Shake
the earth, Black Bull. Come to the rock where you were sired, where
you were born, Black Bull. For he who holds the spear is master of your
fate.
Bryionak, forged at Crinanass and mined from Sidhi stone,
Fights once more the dread Fhoi Myore, whom
you must fight, Black Bull. Come, Black Bull. Come, Black Bull. Come home.”
Medhbh had spoken this whole thing without drawing breath. Now her gray-green eyes looked anxiously into his single eye. “Can you translate that into your own speech?”
“Aye,” said Corum. “But why would a beast come to answer such chanting?”
“Do not question that, Corum.”
The Vadhagh shrugged.
“Do you still see the Bull in your mind’s eye?” He paused. Then he nodded. “I do.”
‘ ‘Then I will speak the lines again and you will repeat them in the Vadhagh tongue.”
And Corum obeyed, though the chant seemed a crude one to him and hardly Vadhagh in origin. Slowly he repeated what she told him and, as he chanted, he began to feel light-headed. The words began to trip from his lips. He declaimed them. He stood at his full height, clothing and hair blown this way and that by the gray wind, and he held the spear, Bryionak, high, and he called for the Bull of Crinanass. His voice grew louder and louder and sounded above the wind’s snore.
“Come, Black Bull! Come, Black Bull! Come home!”
Speaking the words in his own tongue somehow seemed to give them more weight, though the language Medhbh spoke was scarcely different from the Vadhagh language.
And when the words were finished she put a hand on his arm and a lip to her fingers and they listened through the howling wind and the crashing sea and the cascading rain. Then they heard a distant lowing from somewhere and the Sidhi Rock seemed to glow with richer colors and tremble a little.
The lowing came again, closer.
Medhbh was grinning at him, holding his arm very tightly now.
“The Bull,” she whispered. “The Bull comes.”
But still they could not tell from which direction the lowing reached their ears.
The rain fell in even heavier sheets until they could barely see beyond the rock at all and it was as if the sea had engulfed them.
But the sounds began to merge into one sound and that sound gradually became identified as the deep, reflective lowing of a bull, and they peered from where they stood on the top of the Sidhi Rock. It seemed to them that they saw the great bull bring its great, black bulk up out of the waters of the sea and stand shaking itself upon the shore, turning its huge, intelligent eyes from side to side as it sought the source of the chant which had brought it here.
“Black Bull!” cried Medhbh. “Black Bull of Crinanass! Here stands Cremm Croich and the spear, Bryionak. Here stands your destiny!”
And the monstrous bull lowered its head with the sharp, wide-spaced horns, and it shook its shaggy black body, and it pawed at the sand with its heavy hooves. And they could smell its warm body; they could smell the comforting, familiar stink of cattle. But this was like no familiar farmyard beast. This was a war-beast, proud and confident, a beast which served not a master but an ideal.
It swung its black-tufted tail from side to side as it stared up at the two people who stood side by side on the Sidhi Stone and who stared back at it in wonder.
‘ ‘Now I know why the Fhoi Myore fear that beast,” said Corum.
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
THE BLOOD-HARVESTING
As Corum and Medhbh descended somewhat nervously from the Sidhi Stone, the Bull’s eyes remained fixed on the spear which Corum carried. Now the animal stood very still, looming over them as they approached it, its head still slightly lowered. It seemed as suspicious of them as they were fearful of it, yet it was plain that it recognized the spear, Bryionak, and had respect for it.
‘ ‘Bull,” said Corum, and he did not feel foolish for speaking to a beast in this way, “will you come with us to Caer Mahlod?”
The rain had turned to sleet now and the sleet glistened on the Bull’s black flanks. Further along the beach the horses were showing signs of fear. They were more than suspicious of the Black Bull of Crinanass: they were in stark terror of it. But the Bull ignored the horses. It shook its head and droplets of moisture flew from the tips of its two sharp horns. Its nostrils quivered. Its hard, intelligent eyes glanced once at the horses and then returned to gaze upon the spear.
Although Corum had, in the past, been in the presence of much larger creatures, he had never confronted an animal which gave such a strong impression of power. It seemed to him at that moment that nothing on Earth could stand against the massive Bull.
Corum and Medhbh left the Bull watching them and crossed the wind-blown sand to calm their horses. They succeeded eventually in soothing them enough so that they could be ridden, but they were still skittish. Then, for there was naught else they could do, they began to ride up the cliff-paths, going back towards Caer Mahlod.
After a few minutes, when it remained stockstill, as if considering a problem, the Black Bull of Crinanass started to follow them, its hooves moving surely along the narrow path, though it never came very close to them. Perhaps, thought Corum, such a beast as that disdained to keep intimate company with mortals as weak as themselves. And the sleet soon turned to snow and the snow blew cold and fierce upon the cliffs of the West, and Corum and Medhbh knew that these were signs that the Fhoi Myore approached and might, even now, have reached the walls of Caer Mahlod.
It was indeed a horrid massing which had collected at the walls of the Mabden fortress, as scum might collect around a proud ship’s hull. The white mist was thick, almost viscous, but it still clung largely to the forest and usually in parts of the forest where there were conifers. Here hid the Fhoi Myore themselves, and the mist was necessary to them—it was a Limbo sort of mist which sustained them. Without it they would be ill at ease. Corum saw the seven dark shapes moving about in it. They had left their chariots and seemed to be conferring. Kerenos himself, Chief of the Fhoi Myore, must be there. And Balahr who, like Corum, had but one eye, but a deadly eye. And Goim, the female Fhoi Myore, with a taste for the manhood of mortals. And the others.
Corum and Medhbh reined in the
ir horses and turned to see if the Black Bull still followed.
It did. It stopped when they stopped, its eyes still upon the spear, Bryionak.
The fight had begun. The Hounds of Kerenos leapt at the walls as they had leapt before. But the Ghoolegh ran against the Mabden, too, with bows and spears. And the pale green riders charged the gate, led by one who was unmistakably Hew Argech, whom Corum should have slain. Even from where they watched upon an eminence looking down upon Caer Mahlod, Corum and Medhbh could hear the cries of the defenders and the bowlings of the dreadful dogs.
“How can we reach our folk now?” Medhbh said in despair.
“Even if we reached the gates they would be fools to open them to admit us,” Corum agreed. “We must confine ourselves, I suppose, to attacking them from the rear until they realize that we are behind them.”
Medhbh nodded. She pointed.’ ‘Let us ride over there, where the walls are almost breached. We might be able to give our folk time to repair the damage
Corum saw that her suggestion had sense in it. Without a word he spurred his horse down the hill, the spear, Bryionak, poised for a cast at the first of his foes that he should meet. He was almost certain that he and Medhbh would die, but at that moment he did not care. All he regretted was that he would not die in his Name-robe, the scarlet robe he had given to Calatin on the coast of Moidel’s Mount.
As he rode nearer, he was able to see that the ice phantoms were not in this army. Perhaps those creatures were not the creations of the Fhoi Myore, after all? But the Ghoolegh were, that was certain. Being almost indestructible they were proving a hard enemy for the Mabden to cope with. And who led them into battle? A rider on a tall horse. A rider who was not pale green, like Hew Argech, yet still familiar. How many men were familiar to him in this world? Very few. The light caught the armor of the rider. In a moment it had changed from bright gold to dull silver, from scarlet to flickering blue.
And Corum knew he had seen the armor before and that he, himself, had sent its wearer to Limbo in a great fight at the camp of Queen Xiombarg’s forces; to Limbo—where the Fhoi Myore, perhaps, were still secure, before the disruption of the fabric of the multiverse had sent them into this world to poison it. And had it sent that rider with them? It was a likely explanation. The dark yellow plume still nodded on the rider’s helm which, as before, completely obscured the face. The breastplate was still engraved with the Arms of Chaos, the eight arrows radiating from a central hub. And in his glove of metal was a sword which also shone sometimes gold, sometimes silver, sometimes blue or scarlet.
“Gaynor,” said Corum, and he recalled the terror of Gaynor’s death. “It is Prince Gaynor the Damned.”
“You know that warrior?” Medhbh questioned,
“I slew him once,” said Corum grimly. “Or, at least, I banished him—I thought from this world, at least. But here he is—my old enemy. Could he be the ‘brother’, I wonder, of whom the old woman spoke?” This last question was addressed to himself. He had already drawn back his arm and flung Bryionak towards Prince Gaynor, who had once been a champion (perhaps the Champion Eternal himself) but was now pledged wholly to evil.
Bryionak went flying to its target and it struck Prince Gaynor’s shoulder and made him stagger in his saddle. The faceless helm turned and watched as the spear flew back to Corum’s hand. Gaynor had been directing his Ghoolegh against the weak parts of Caer Mahlod’s walls. They ran through snow which had been stained red by blood and black by mud, and many were missing limbs, features and even innards, but still they worked. Corum gripped the spear, Bryionak, and he knew that, as before, Gaynor was not easily beaten, even by magic.
He heard Gaynor’s laughter from within the helm. Gaynor seemed almost pleased to see him, as if glad to see a familiar face whether it was friend’s or foe’s. “Prince Corum, the Champion of the Mabden! We were speculating on your absence, thinking that you had sensibly fled, perhaps even returning to your own world. But here you are. How whimsical is Fate that she wills us to continue our silly squabble.”
Corum looked back for a moment and saw the Bull of Crinanass still followed. He looked beyond Gaynor at the battered walls of Caer Mahlod. He saw many dead men on the battlements.
”Indeed She is,” he said.’ ‘But would you fight me again, Prince Gaynor? Would you beg me for mercy again? Would you have me send you to Limbo again?”
Prince Gaynor laughed his bitter laugh and said:
“Ask the Fhoi Myore that last question. They would be only too pleased to return to their dreadful homeland. And if they left me and if I had no loyalties, now that Chaos and Law no longer war upon this plane, I should be pleased to join with you, Corum. As it is, as usual, we must battle.”
Corum remembered what he had seen on Gaynor’s face the time he had opened the man’s helm. He shuddered. Again he feltpity for Gaynor the Damned who was bound to live out many existences in many different planes, just as was he—though Gaynor was destined to serve the meanest, the most treacherous of masters. And now his soldiers were half-dead things. Previously they had been beast-things.
“The quality of your infantry seems up to standard,” said Corum.
Gaynor laughed again, his voice muffled from within his never-opened helm. “Even better, in some respects, I’d say.”
“Would you not call them off and join with me, Gaynor. You know that I had little hatred for you at the end. We have more in common than any others here.”
“True,” said Gaynor. “So why not side with me, Corum. After all, the Fhoi Myore conquest is inevitable.”
“And will inevitably lead to death.”
“That is what I have been promised,” said Gaynor simply.
And Corum knew that Gaynor wanted death more than anything and that he could not argue with the Damned Prince unless he, Corum, could offer Gaynor a death that was still quicker.
“When the world dies,” Gaynor continued, “shall not I die, too?”
Corum looked beyond Prince Gaynor the Damned at the battlements of Caer Mahlod and the handful of Mabden fighting for their lives against half-dead Ghoolegh, snapping devil dogs and creatures who were more trees than men. “It is possible, Gaynor,” he said thoughtfully, ‘ ‘that it is your doom to be forever siding with evil in an effort to gain your ends when, if you achieved a noble deed your wishes would be granted.”
“A romantic view, I fear, Prince Corum.” Gaynor turned his horse away.
“What?” said Corum. “You will not fight me?”
“Nay—nor your bovine friend,” said Gaynor. He rode back towards the cover of the mist. ‘ ‘I wish to remain on this world until the finish. I’ll not be sent back to Limbo again by you!” His tone was equable, even friendly, as he cried: ’ ‘But I’ll return later to look upon your corpse, Corum.”
“You think it will be here?”
“We think that perhaps thirty of your folk are left alive and that before the evening our hounds will be feasting within your walls. Therefore—yes, I think your corpse will be here. Farewell, Corum.”
And Gaynor had gone and Corum and Medhbh were riding on for the broken wall. And now they heard the Black Bull of Crinanass snorting behind them, so they thought at first it chased them for daring to summon it. But it had veered off and was charging at a knot of pale green riders who had sighted Corum and Medhbh and had intended to ride them down.
The Black Bull of Crinanass lowered its head and drove straight into the group of riders, scattering their beasts, tossing men high into the air and then charging onward, straight into a rank of Ghoolegh and trampling every one of them, turning, its tail high and its head nodding, to spike a devil dog on each horn.
It dominated the whole battlefield, that Black Bull of Crinanass. It shook off any weapons which might find a mark in its hide. It charged with fearful speed thrice around the walls of Caer Mahlod while Corum and Medhbh, forgotten by their enemies, looked on with stunned delight. And Corum held the spear, Bryionak, high into the air, and cheered the
Black Bull of Crinanass. Then he saw that there was a gap in the ranks of the stunned besiegers and he lowered his head, bade Medhbh to follow him, and urged his horse towards Caer Mahlod. He leapt it through the breach and stopped it, by chance, directly before a weary and much-wounded King Mannach, who sat upon a rock trying to stop the blood flowing from his mouth while an old man tried to remove the arrowhead from his lung.
There were tears in King Mannach’s eyes as he lifted his old, noble head to stare at Corum. ”But the Bull has come too late,” he said.
“Too late, perhaps,” said Corum, “but at least you will see the Bull destroy those who have destroyed your folk.”
‘ ‘No,” said King Mannach. ”I will not watch. I am tired of it.”
While Medhbh comforted her father, Corum went around the walls of Caer Mahlod, taking stock of their situation while the Bull of Crinanass occupied the enemy outside.
Prince Gaynor had been wrong. There were not thirty able-bodied men left on the walls, but forty. And outside were still many of the hounds, several squadrons of pale green riders and a fair number of Ghoolegh. Moreover the Fhoi Myore themselves had yet to move upon Caer Mahlod, and any one of the Gods of Limbo probably had the power to destroy the city if he cared to leave his misty sanctuary for a few moments.
Corum climbed to the highest tower of the battlements, now partially in ruins. The Bull was chasing little groups of their enemies all over the muddy battlefield. Many were fleeing, heedless of the chilling, booming noises which came from the mist over the forest—the voices, no doubt, of the Fhoi Myore. And those who did not heed the voices were as doomed as those who paused, turned and were destroyed by the mighty Bull, for they did not run far before they fell dead, slain by their own masters.
The Chronicles of Corum Page 14
