1 
1 THEY HAD REACHED the beach before Corum became aware that Goffanon was lagging behind. He craned his head back and saw that the Sidhi dwarf was some distance off, almost stumbling now and shaking his shaggy head from side to side.
“What ails Goffanon?” Corum asked.
Ilbrec had not noticed. Now he, too, looked back. “Perhaps he tires. He has fought long today and he has run many miles.” Ilbrec looked west, to where the sun was sinking. “Should we rest before crossing the sea?”
The gigantic horse Splendid Mane tossed his head as if to say that he did not wish to rest, but Ilbrec laughed and patted his neck.
“Splendid Mane hates to rest and loves only to be galloping the world. He has slept for so long in the caverns beneath the sea that he is impatient to be on the move! But we must let Goffanon catch up with us and then ask him what he feels.”
Corum heard Goffanon’s panting breath behind him and turned again, smiling, to ask the Sidhi smith what he wished to do.
But Goffanon’s eyes were glaring and Goffanon’s lips were curled back in a foam-flecked snarl and the great double-bladed war-axe was aimed directly at Ilbrec’s skull.
“Ilbrec!” Corum flung himself towards the ground and landed with a crash, managing to keep the chest containing the Oak and the Ram tucked firmly under his left arm. He drew his sword as he sprang upright, while Ilbrec turned, calling in puzzlement:
“Goffanon! Old friend? What’s this?”
“He is enchanted!” Corum yelled. “A Mabden wizard has put him under a glamour. Calatin must be nearby!”
Ilbrec reached out to grasp the haft of the dwarf’s war-axe, but Goffanon was strong. He pulled the giant from his saddle and the two immortals began to struggle upon the ground, close to the sea-washed beach, while Corum and Splendid Mane looked on, the horse severely puzzled by his master’s behaviour.
Corum cried: “Goffanon! Goffanon! You fight a brother!”
Another voice floated down from above and looking up Corum saw a tall man standing on the edge of the cliff, a tendril or two of white, clinging mist above his shoulders.
The world grew grey as the sun sank.
The figure on the cliff edge was the wizard Calatin, in a long-pleated surcoat of soft leather stained a rich, deep blue. Upon his slender, gloved fingers were jeweled rings and at his throat a collar of jeweled gold, while his samite robe was embroidered with mystical designs. He stroked his grey beard and he smiled his secret smile.
“He is my ally now, Corum of the Silver Hand,” said the wizard Calatin.
“And thus the ally of the Fhoi Myore!” Corum looked for a pathway up the cliff which would take him to the wizard and all the while Goffanon and Ilbrec tumbled over and over on the sand, grunting and snorting in their exertions.
“For the moment, at least,” said Calatin. “But one does not have to be loyal to either Mabden or Fhoi Myore—or Sidhi—there are other loyalties, loyalties to oneself among them, are there not? And, who knows, but you could be an ally of mine soon!”
“Never that!” Corum began to run up a steep cliff path towards the wizard, his sword in his fleshly hand. “Never that, Calatin!”
Out of breath, Corum reached the top of the cliff and approached the wizard, who smiled and began to retreat slowly.
It was then that Corum saw the mist behind the wizard and he recognized the mist for what it was.
“Fhoi Myore! One of them is free!”
“He was never trapped by Ilbrec’s sword. We followed behind the main force. This is Sreng. Sreng of the Seven Swords.”
And the mist began to move towards Corum as darkness covered the world and from below on the beach he still heard the pantings and the gruntings of the two fighting Sidhi.
And through the mist he saw a huge wicker battle-cart, large enough to take one as large as Ilbrec himself. The cart was drawn by two massive creatures which seemed most to resemble lizards, though they were not lizards. And from the cart now stepped a vast being with a white body all covered in red, pulsing warts, and the body was naked save for a belt. The belt was festooned with swords, making a sort of kilt. Corum looked up and he saw a face which was human in some respects and resembled the face of one he had known, long ago. The eyes were fierce and tragic. They were the eyes of the Earl of Krae, of Glandyth who had first struck off Corum’s hand and put out his eye and so begun the long history of the fight against the Sword Rulers. But the eyes did not know Corum, though there was a flicker of recognition as they saw the silver hand fixed to his left wrist.
And from the torn folds of the mouth there sounded a booming noise.
“Lord Sreng,” said the wizard Calatin. “This is he who helped in the destruction at Caer Mahlod. This is he who engineered this day’s defeat. This is Corum.”
And Corum put down the casket in which reposed the Oak of Gold and the Ram of Silver and he spread his legs so that he stood firmly over the casket, and he reached to his belt and he took his dirk in his silver hand, and he prepared to defend himself against Sreng of the Seven Swords.
Sreng moved slowly, as if in pain, drawing two of his great swords from his belt.
“Slay Corum, Lord Sreng, and give me his body. Slay Corum and the Fhoi Myore will no longer be plagued by the resistance of the Mabden.”
Again the strained, booming noise came from the ragged mouth. The red warts pulsed on the vast expanse of pale flesh. Corum noted that one of the giant’s legs was shorter than the other so that his gait was rolling as he moved. He saw that Sreng had only three teeth in his mouth and that the little finger of his right hand was covered in a yellow mould speckled with white and black. Then Corum saw that other parts of the giant’s body, particularly about the thighs covered by the swords, also had patches of this mould growing upon them. And from Sreng of the Seven Swords there escaped a foulness of stench reminding Corum of long-dead fish and the excrement of cats.
From the dark below came the grunts of the fighting Sidhi. Calatin was barely visible, chuckling from the night. Only Sreng, framed against the mist he must carry always with him, was clearly seen.
Corum felt that he did not wish to die at the hands of this decrepit god, this Sreng. Sreng himself was already dying, as were the other Fhoi Myore, of diseases which might take a thousand years to kill him.
“Sreng,” said Corum, “would you return to limbo, return to your realm where you would not perish? I could help you go back to your world, the plane where your disease will not flourish. Leave this realm to enjoy its natural state. Take back your coldness and your death.”
“He deceives you, Lord Sreng,” said the wizard Calatin from the darkness. “Believe me. He deceives you.”
And then a word, a booming word escaped the torn lips. And that word echoed the word Corum had spoken, as if it were the only word in human speech which the lips could form.
The word was: “Death.”
“Your own realm awaits you—there is a way through.”
A diseased arm began to raise a crude sword of roughly cast iron. Corum knew that he could not block any blow from that sword. It whistled down at his head and then struck the ground near his feet with horrible force. He realized that Sreng had not deliberately missed him but that the Fhoi Myore was hard put to control his limbs. Knowing this Corum stooped, picked up the casket containing the Oak and the Ram, and ran inside Sreng’s guard, driving his sword deep into the giant’s shin.
The Fhoi Myore’s voice boomed in pain. Corum ran under his legs and hacked at him behind his knee where grew more of the disgusting mildew. Sreng began to turn, but then the leg buckled and he fell, searching for Corum while Calatin yelled:
“There, Lord Sreng! There! Behind you!”
Now Corum shuddered as the chilling mist began to eat at his bones. All his instincts made him wish to run clear of the mist and into the night, but he held his ground as a gigantic hand came hunting for him. He hacked at the sinews of the hand and then another huge sword whistled over his head forcing him to duck, almost striking him.
And Sreng fell backward upon Corum, his neck pressing the Vadhagh prince to the ground, his hand still searching for the mortal who fought him with such temerity.
Corum sweated to pull himself free, not knowing if any of his bones were broken, while the diseased fingers brushed his shoulder, sought to pluck him up, missed and began to search again. The stench of the Fhoi Myore’s rotting flesh almost robbed Corum of his consciousness; the texture of that flesh made him shudder; the chilling mist robbed him of the last of his strength, but at least, he assured himself, he would have died valiantly against one of the great enemies of those whose cause he championed.
Was the voice he now heard Calatin’s?
“Sreng! I know you, Sreng!”
No, the voice was Ilbrec’s. So Ilbrec had won the fight and doubtless Goffanon now lay dead upon the beach. Corum had the impression of a huge hand coming down upon him, but then it seized Sreng by what was left of the Fhoi Myore’s hair and pulled the head up so that Corum was able to scramble free. Then, as Corum staggered back, still keeping his hold upon the casket containing the Oak and the Ram, he saw golden Ilbrec draw the great sword Retaliator, the sword of his father, from his belt and place the point against Sreng’s breast and drive that point deep into the Fhoi Myore’s corrupting heart so that Sreng let forth a yell.
Sreng’s last yell frightened Corum more than any of the previous events had done. For Sreng’s last yell had been a shout of pleasure, a wavering, delighted sound as Sreng found the death he had longed for.
Ilbrec stepped back from the Fhoi Myore body.
“Corum? Are you safe?”
“Safe enough, thanks to you, Ilbrec. I am bruised, that is all.”
“Thank yourself. What you did against Sreng was valiant. You have brains and great courage, Vadhagh. You saved yourself, for I should not have come in time otherwise.”
“Calatin,” said Corum. “Where is he?”
“Fled. There is nothing we can do at present, for it becomes urgent to leave this place.”
“Why did Calatin want my body from Sreng?”
“Is that what he asked?” Ilbrec drew Corum up in the crook of his huge arm while he sheathed the sword Retaliator. “I have no idea. I know nothing of Mabden needs.”
Ilbrec returned to the beach where the black horse Splendid Mane cropped at the grass of the cliff, its pearl harness sparkling in the light of the moon which had now risen in the sky.
Corum saw a dark shape lying upon the beach.
“Goffanon?” he said. “You were forced to slay him?”
“He showed every intention of slaying me,” said Ilbrec. “I remembered what he told me of Calatin’s enchantment. I suppose Calatin followed us and came close enough to Goffanon to re-exert his sorcerous influence. Poor Goffanon.”
“Should we bury him here?” said Corum. He was full of misery, only now realizing the strength of his affection for the Sidhi smith. “I would not like the Fhoi Myore to find him. Neither would I care for Calatin to—to make use of the body.”
“I agree that that would not be good,” said Ilbrec. “But I think it unwise to bury him, you know.” He placed Corum again upon the saddle of Splendid Mane and he crossed to where Goffanon’s body lay, heaving it up with some difficulty by placing Goffanon’s limp arm around his neck and carrying the dwarf upon his back. “He is a very heavy dwarf,” Ilbrec said.
Corum was distressed by Ilbrec’s lightness of tone. But perhaps the giant simply hid his melancholy well.
“Then what shall we do?”
“Take him with us, I think, to Caer Mahlod.” Ilbrec put his foot in his stirrup and prepared to mount. He grunted and cursed as he got into the saddle after several attempts. “Ach! The dwarf has bruised me all over. Damn him!” Then he smiled in his golden beard as he looked down and saw the expression upon Corum’s face. “Do not grieve, yet, for Goffanon the smith. Sidhi dwarfs are very hard to slay. This one, for instance, has merely had his silly senses knocked from him for a while.”
Ilbrec leaned back in his saddle, letting Splendid Mane take some of the weight of the dwarf. He held Goffanon’s war-axe in the same hand which held the reins, resting it behind Corum across his saddle. “Well, Splendid Mane, you carry three with you. I hope that you have lost none of your old skills.”
Corum’s face broke into a smile. “So he lives! Yet still we shall have to move swiftly to escape Calatin’s power. And our boat was abandoned out there. How shall we cross the water?”
“Splendid Mane knows certain paths,” said Ilbrec. “Paths not quite of this dimension, if you understand me. Now, horse of my father, gallop. And gallop straight. Find the pathways through the sea.”
Splendid Mane snorted, lifted himself on his hind legs for a moment, and plunged towards the sea.
Ilbrec laughed in delight, then, at Corum’s considerable astonishment as Splendid Mane’s hoofs touched the sea but did not sink.
Soon they were galloping out over the ocean, over the surface, beneath a huge moon which made the water shine, galloping for Caer Mahlod, galloping along the road across the water.
“You understand much concerning the Fifteen Planes, Vadhagh,” said Ilbrec as they rode, “so you will understand that it is Splendid Mane’s great talent to find certain veins, as it were, which do not belong exactly in this realm, just as my sea-caverns do not belong. These veins can be found most particularly upon the surface of the sea and sometimes in the air itself. A Mabden would marvel and call such abilities sorcery, but we know otherwise. They make, however, a good spectacle when one wishes to impress the poor Mabden.”
And Ilbrec laughed again as Splendid Mane galloped on. “We shall be in Caer Mahlod before morning!”