9 
9 CORUM REALIZED THAT the position upon the battlements was all but lost and he smashed through the Pine Warriors to stand beside Goffanon, crying: “To the hall, Goffanon! Fall back to the hall!”
Goffanon’s song ended and he looked at Corum with calm eyes.
“Very well,” he said.
Together they went slowly back to the steps, fighting all the way, the People of the Pines crowding in on all sides, fixed grins, fixed eyes, sword-arms rising and falling. And the rustling, terrifying laughter hissing forever from their lips.
The knights and warriors who survived followed Corum’s example and barely made the street as the timbers of the gates burst and the brass-shod battering ram smashed through. Two knights escorted King Daffyn who was still weeping and at length they reached the king’s hall and drew the great brass doors closed, barring them.
The signs of festivity were still everywhere about the hall. There were even a few too drunk to be roused who would probably die without realizing what had happened. Brands guttered, jeweled flags drooped. Corum went to peer through the narrow windows and saw that Gaynor was there, riding triumphantly at the head of his half-dead army, the eight-arrowed Sign of Chaos glowing as radiantly as ever upon his chest. For a while at least, Corum hoped, the people of the city would be reasonably safe while Gaynor concentrated his attack upon the hall. Corum saw the Ghoolegh behind Gaynor. They still carried their battering rams. And still the Fhoi Myore had not moved forward. Corum wondered if they would advance at all, knowing that Gaynor, the Ghoolegh and the People of the Pines would accomplish the defeat of Caer Garanhir without their help.
Yet even if, by hard fighting, the Fhoi Myore vassals could be vanquished, Corum knew that the Fhoi Myore could not be.
Pale green faces began to appear at the windows and stained glass smashed as the People of the Pines attempted to gain entrance to the hall. Again the knights and warriors of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir ran to defend themselves against the inhuman invaders.
Swords of notched and shining iron met the pale green swords of the Pine Warriors and the fight continued while outside the steady pounding of the battering rams began to sound on the bronze doors of the hall.
And while the fight raged, King Daffyn sat upon his throne, his head upon his hands, and wept for the death of Prince Guwinn, taking no interest in how the battle progressed.
Corum ran to where at least ten of the Pine Warriors bore down on two of King Daffyn’s war-knights. His axe was blunted now and his fleshly hand was sore and bleeding. If it had not been for his silver hand, he might long since have been forced to drop the weapon. As it was, his arms were weary as he lifted the double-bladed axe to chop at the neck of a Pine Warrior who was about to slide his sword into the unprotected side of a tall knight already engaged with two more of the Pine Folk.
Several of the Pine Warriors came at Corum then, swords slashing, laughter rustling from their pale green lips, and Corum took first one step backward and then another as they pressed him towards the far wall of the hall. Elsewhere Goffanon was engaged with three of the warriors and unable to help Corum. The Vadhagh prince swung the axe back and forth, up and down, and swords ripped his byrnie and found his flesh and began to draw blood from a dozen shallow wounds.
Then Corum felt the stones of the wall behind him and knew he could retreat no further. Above him a brand flickered, casting his shadow over the bodies of the Pine Folk as, grinning, they moved to finish him.
A sword bit into the haft of his axe. Desperately he wrenched the weapon free and struck at the one who held the sword, a warrior who had been handsome but whose face was now pierced by three red-fletched arrows. He struck the axe deep into the skull, splitting it. Green gore spouted, the warrior fell but he took the head and part of the haft of Corum’s axe with him. Corum turned and leapt for the ledge above his head, getting his balance and drawing his sword, steadying himself with his silver hand by clinging to the bracket in which the brand flared. The Pine Warriors began to move up the wall towards him. He kicked one back, chopped at another with his sword, but they were clutching at his feet now, still grinning, still laughing, cold eyes still staring. Desperately he released his grip upon the bracket and seized the brand, plunging it into the face of the nearest warrior.
And the warrior screamed.
For the first time a Pine Warrior yelled in pain. And his face began to burn, the sap sizzling from the wounds he had already received but which had not appeared to harm him.
The other warriors fell away in panic, avoiding their blazing comrade as he ran about the hall screaming and burning until at last he fell over the remains of another of his kind. The brown body caught, too, and began to burn.
And then Corum cursed himself for not understanding that the only weapon likely to be feared by tree folk was fire. He called to the others:
“Get brands! Fire will destroy them! Take the torches from the walls!”
And he saw that the bronze doors of the hall were bulging now and could not last much longer before the onslaught of the Ghoolegh battering rams.
Now all who could still move were springing to the torches and tearing them down, turning them upon their enemies, and soon the hall was full of cloudy smoke—smoke which choked Corum and the others—sweet, pine-scented smoke.
The People of the Pines began to retreat, trying to reach the windows, but the war-knights of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir stopped them, thrusting the brands into their bodies and making them shriek and fall upon the bloody flagstones as they burned.
And then there fell a silence in the hall—a silence broken only by the steady beating of the rams upon the door. And there were no more People of the Pines, only grey ash and smoke and a sweet, nauseating stink.
Here and there the jeweled flags had caught and were beginning to smoulder. Elsewhere wooden beams were burning, but the defenders ignored them as they massed near the front of the hall and waited for the Ghoolegh to come.
And this time each surviving warrior, including Corum and the battered Sidhi smith, Goffanon, had a brand in his hand.
The bronze door bulged. The hinges and the bars creaked.
Light began to show through as the doors were beaten out of shape.
Again the rams struck. Again the doors creaked.
Through the gap Corum thought he saw Gaynor directing the work of the Ghoolegh.
Another blow and one of the bars snapped and flew across the hall to land at the feet of the king who still wept in his throne at the far end.
Another blow and the second bar snapped and a hinge clattered to the flagstones, the door tilting and beginning to swing inward.
Another blow.
And the bronze doors fell and the Ghoolegh paused in surprise as a wedge of men came running towards them from the smoky gloom of the hall at Caer Garanhir, brands in their left hands, swords or axes in their right hands, moving to attack.
Gaynor’s black horse reared and the damned prince almost dropped his glowing sword in astonishment as he saw the battle-weary, smoke-blackened, tattered force, led by the Vadhagh Corum and the Sidhi Goffanon, rushing at him. “What? What? Some still live?”
Corum ran straight for Gaynor, but still Gaynor refused to do combat with him, turning the rearing horse and seeking to cut a path through his own Ghoolegh half-dead so that he might escape.
“Come back, Gaynor! Fight me! Oh, fight me, Gaynor!” cried Corum.
But Gaynor laughed his bleak laugh as he retreated. “I shall not return to limbo—not while the prospect of death awaits me in this realm.”
“You forget that the Fhoi Myore are already dying. What if you outlive them? What if they perish and the world is renewed?”
“That cannot happen, Corum. Their poisons spread and are permanent! You fight for nothing, you see!”
Then Gaynor had gone and the Ghoolegh with their cutlasses and their knives were lumbering forward, nervous of the brand-fire, for fire had no place in the Fhoi Myore lands. Though the Ghoolegh did not burn as the People of the Pines had burned, they feared the flames heartily and were loath to move forward, particularly now that Gaynor had retreated and could be seen in the distance turning his horse to watch the fray from safety.
The Ghoolegh outnumbered the survivors of Garanhir by more than ten to one, yet the war-knights and the warriors were forcing them backward, yelling their battle-cries, shouting their battle-songs, hacking and stabbing at the half-dead warriors, shoving the brands deep into their faces so that they grumbled and whined and put up their hands to ward away the flames.
And Goffanon was no longer singing his own death-song. He was laughing and shouting out to Corum:
“They retreat! They retreat! See how they retreat, Corum!”
But Corum felt no gaiety, for he knew that the Fhoi Myore had not yet attacked.
Then he heard Gaynor’s voice calling:
“Balahr! Kerenos! Goim!” Gaynor called. “It is time! It is time!”
Gaynor the Damned rode back to the gates of Caer Garanhir.
“Rhannon! Arek! Sreng! It is time! It is time!”
And Gaynor went shouting through the ruined gates of Caer Garanhir, his Ghoolegh creeping behind him, thinking that he retreated.
Corum and Goffanon and the few knights and warriors of the Tuha-na-Gwyddneu Garanhir roared their triumph as they saw their enemies flee.
“For all that it shall be our only victory this day,” said Corum to Goffanon, “I savour it greatly, my Sidhi friend.”
And then they waited for the Fhoi Myore to come.
But the Fhoi Myore did not come, though it began to grow dark. In the distance the Fhoi Myore mist remained and a few Ghoolegh milled here and there, mixing with the People of the Pines, but the Fhoi Myore, unused to defeat, were perhaps debating what to do next. Perhaps they recalled the spear Bryionak and the Black Bull of Crinanass which had defeated them once, slaying their comrade, and seeing their vassals driven back, became fearful that another Bull came against them. Just as they avoided Craig Dôn it was possible that they now avoided Caer Mahlod because they associated it with defeat and were considering avoiding Caer Garanhir for the same reason.
Whatever made the Fhoi Myore remain upon the horizon Corum did not care. He was glad for the reprieve and the time for the dead to be counted, the wounded tended, the old and the children to be taken to places of greater security, the warriors and knights (many of whom were women) to be properly equipped and for the gates to be shored up as well as possible.
“They are cautious, the Fhoi Myore,” said Goffanon reminiscently. “They are like cowardly carrion dogs. It is what has allowed them to survive so long, I think.”
“And Gaynor follows their example. As far as I know he has no great reason to fear me, but it worked to our advantage this day. Yet the Fhoi Myore will come soon, I think,” said Corum.
“I think so,” agreed the Sidhi. He stood on the battlements beside Corum and sharpened the blades of his axe with the whetstone he carried, his great, black brows drawn together. “Yet do you see something which flickers close to the mist? And do you see a darker mist blending with that of the Fhoi Myore?”
“I saw it earlier,” Corum said, “and cannot explain it. I think it is some other Fhoi Myore tool which they shall send against us before long.”
“Ah,” said Goffanon pointing. “Here comes Ilbrec. Doubtless he saw that our battle went well and comes to join us again.” Goffanon’s tone was bitter.
They watched the gigantic, golden youth riding the proud black stallion towards them. Ilbrec was smiling and he carried a sword in his hand. The sword was not that which he still bore at his belt, but another. And it made the sword he bore at his belt seem crude and poor by comparison, for it blazed as brightly as the sun and its hilt was all worked in fine gold and there were jewels in it and a pommel which glowed like a ruby and yet was the size of Corum’s head. Ilbrec tossed his braids and waved the sword high.
“You were right to remind me of the Weapons of Light, Goffanon! I found the chest and I found the sword. Here it is! Here is Retaliator, my father’s sword with which he fought the Fhoi Myore. Here is Retaliator!”
And Goffanon said sullenly, as Ilbrec came closer to the walls, his huge head level with theirs as they stood upon the battlements: “But you came with it too late, Ilbrec. We have finished our fight now.”
“Too late? Did I not use the sword to draw a circle around the Fhoi Myore ranks so that even now they are confused, unable to move towards the city, unable to direct their troops?”
“So it was your work!” Corum began to laugh. “You saved us, after all, Ilbrec, when you seemed to have deserted us.”
Ilbrec was puzzled. “Desert you? Leave what will be the last struggle between Sidhi and Fhoi Myore ever to take place? I would not do that, little Vadhagh!”
And Goffanon was laughing now.
“I know you would not, Ilbrec. Welcome back to us! And welcome, too, to the great sword Retaliator!”
“It still has all its powers,” said Ilbrec, turning the blade to make it blaze yet more brightly. “It is still the mightiest weapon ever drawn against the Fhoi Myore. And they know it! Ah, they know it, Goffanon! I drew this burning circle around their poison mist, containing the mist and containing them at the same time, for they cannot move unless their mist moves with them. And there they stay.”
“For ever?” Corum said hopefully.
Ilbrec shook his head and smiled. “No. Not for ever, but for a while. And before we leave I will draw a defense about Caer Garanhir so that the Fhoi Myore and their warriors will fear to attack.”
“We must go to King Daffyn and interrupt his grieving, I fear,” said Corum. “Time grows short if we are to save Amergin’s life. We need the Golden Oak and the Silvern Ram.”
* * *
King Daffyn raised his red eyes and looked upon Corum and Goffanon who stood in the hall before him. A slender girl of little more than sixteen summers sat upon the arm of the king’s chair and stroked the king’s head.
“Your city is safe now, King Daffyn, and will be so for some time. But now we ask a boon of you!”
“Go,” said King Daffyn. “I suppose that I shall be grateful to you later, but I am not grateful now. Please leave me. Sidhi warriors bring the Fhoi Myore upon us.”
“The Fhoi Myore marched before we came here,” said Corum. “It was our warning that saved you.”
“It did not save my son,” said King Daffyn.
“It did not save my husband,” said the maiden who sat beside the king.
“But other sons were saved—and other husbands—and more will be saved, King Daffyn, with your help. We seek two of the Mabden Treasures—the Oak of Gold and the Ram of Silver. Do you have them?”
“They are no longer mine,” said King Daffyn. “And I would not part with them if they were.”
“These are the only things which will revive your Archdruid Amergin from the enchantment put upon him by the Fhoi Myore,” said Corum.
“Amergin? He is a prisoner in Caer Llud. Or dead, by now.”
“No. Amergin lives—just. We saved him.”
“Did you?” King Daffyn looked at the two with a different expression in his eyes. “Amergin lives and is free?” The despair seemed to fall away as Fhoi Myore snow had melted when touched by the Black Bull’s blood. “Free? To guide us?”
“Aye—if we can get to Caer Mahlod in time. For that is where he is. At Caer Mahlod, but dying. The Oak and the Ram alone will save him. Yet if they are not yours, whom must we ask to give them to us?”
“They were our wedding gifts,” said the sweet-faced girl. “They were the king’s gifts to his son and me this morning, when Guwinn lived. You may have the Oak of Gold and the Ram of Silver.”
And she left the hall and returned shortly bearing a casket. And she opened the casket and revealed a model of a spreading oak tree all worked in gold and so fine as to seem completely real. And beside it rested the silver image of a ram, each curl of wool seeming to be set in relief by the craftsman who made it. A ram with great, sweeping horns. A rampant ram whose silver eyes stared with a strange wisdom from the silver head.
And the maiden bowed her fair head and she closed the lid of the casket and she handed it to Corum who accepted it with gratitude, thanking her, thanking King Daffyn.
“And now we go back to Caer Mahlod,” said Corum.
“Tell Amergin, if he revives, that we shall follow him in any decision he cares to make,” said King Daffyn.
“I will tell him,” said Corum.
Then the Vadhagh prince and the Sidhi dwarf left that hall of mourning and went out through the gates of Caer Garanhir and joined their comrade Ilbrec, son of Manannan, the greatest of the Sidhi heroes.
And the fire still flickered around the distant mist and now a peculiar fire had begun to sprout some distance from the walls of Caer Garanhir.
“The Sidhi fire protects this place,” said Ilbrec. “It will not last, but it will dissuade the Fhoi Myore from attacking, I think. Now, we ride!” He stuffed the sword Retaliator into his belt and bent to pick up Corum who clung to the casket as he was lifted into the air and sat upon Ilbrec’s saddle near the pommel.
“We shall need a boat when we reach the sea,” said Corum as they began to move.
“Oh, I think not,” said Ilbrec.