be no Pony Tribes living there now. No Mabden to plague him.
Again he recalled the evil Glandyth. Why did evil always come from the eastern shores? Was it some special doom that this land had to suffer, through cycle upon cycle of history?
And so, with such idle speculation consuming his thoughts, Corum rode into the snowy tangle of the forest.
Dark and bleak, the oaks, the alders, the elms and the quickens stretched on all sides of him now. And of the trees in the forest, only the yews seemed to be bearing the burden of the snow with any fortitude. Corum recalled the reference to the People of the Pines. Could it be true that the Fhoi Myore slew broadleafed trees and left only the conifers? What reason could they have for destroying mere trees? How could trees be a threat to them?
Shrugging, Corum continued his ride. It was not an easy ride. Huge drifts of snow had banked up everywhere. Elsewhere trees had cracked and fallen, one upon the other, so that he was forced to make wide circles around them, until he was in great danger of losing his way. But he forced himself to continue, praying that beyond the forest, where the sea was, the weather would improve.
For two days Corum plunged on through the Forest of Laahr until he admitted to himself that he was completely lost.
The cold, it was true, seemed just a little less intense; but that was no real indication that he was heading west. It was quite possible that he had simply grown used to it.
But, warmer though it might be, the journey had become gruelling. At night he had to clear away the snow to sleep and he had long since forgotten his earlier caution concerning the lighting of fires. A big fire was the easiest way of melting the snow, and he hoped that the snow-heavy tree boughs would disperse the smoke enough so that it would not be seen from the edge of the forest.
He camped one night in a small clearing, built his fire of dead branches, using melted snow to water his horse and searching beneath the snow for a few surviving blades of grass on which the beast might feed. He had begun to feel the benefit of the flames upon his frozen bones, when he thought he detected a familiar howling coming from the depths of the forest in what he took to be the North. Instantly he got up, hurling handfuls of snow upon the fire to extinguish it, and listening carefully for the sound to come again.
It came.
It was unmistakable. There were at least a dozen canine throats baying in unison, and the only throats which could make that particular sound belonged to the hunting dogs of the Fhoi Myore, the Hounds of Kerenos.
Corum got his bow and quiver of arrows from where he had stacked them with the rest of his gear when unsaddling his horse. The nearest tree was an ancient oak. It had not completely died and he guessed that its branches would probably support his weight. He tied his lances together with a cord, put the cord between his teeth, cleared snow as best he could from the lower branches and began to climb.
Slipping and almost falling twice, he got as high as he could and, by carefully shaking the branches, managed to clear some of the snow so that he could see into the glade below without being easily seen himself.
He had hoped that the horse might try to escape when it scented the hounds, but it was too well trained. It waited trustingly for him, cropping at the sparse grass. He heard the hounds come closer. He was now almost sure that they had detected him. He hung the quiver on a branch within easy reach of his hand and selected an arrow. He could hear the dogs, now, crashing through the forest: The horse snorted and flattened its ears, its eyes rolling as it looked this way and that for its master.
Now Corum saw mist beginning to form on the edges of the glade. He thought he detected a white, slinking shape. He began to draw back the bowstring, lying flat along the branch and bracing himself with his feet.
The first hound, its red tongue lolling, its red ears
Again he recalled the evil Glandyth. Why did evil always come from the eastern shores? Was it some special doom that this land had to suffer, through cycle upon cycle of history?
And so, with such idle speculation consuming his thoughts, Corum rode into the snowy tangle of the forest.
Dark and bleak, the oaks, the alders, the elms and the quickens stretched on all sides of him now. And of the trees in the forest, only the yews seemed to be bearing the burden of the snow with any fortitude. Corum recalled the reference to the People of the Pines. Could it be true that the Fhoi Myore slew broadleafed trees and left only the conifers? What reason could they have for destroying mere trees? How could trees be a threat to them?
Shrugging, Corum continued his ride. It was not an easy ride. Huge drifts of snow had banked up everywhere. Elsewhere trees had cracked and fallen, one upon the other, so that he was forced to make wide circles around them, until he was in great danger of losing his way. But he forced himself to continue, praying that beyond the forest, where the sea was, the weather would improve.
For two days Corum plunged on through the Forest of Laahr until he admitted to himself that he was completely lost.
The cold, it was true, seemed just a little less intense; but that was no real indication that he was heading west. It was quite possible that he had simply grown used to it.
But, warmer though it might be, the journey had become gruelling. At night he had to clear away the snow to sleep and he had long since forgotten his earlier caution concerning the lighting of fires. A big fire was the easiest way of melting the snow, and he hoped that the snow-heavy tree boughs would disperse the smoke enough so that it would not be seen from the edge of the forest.
He camped one night in a small clearing, built his fire of dead branches, using melted snow to water his horse and searching beneath the snow for a few surviving blades of grass on which the beast might feed. He had begun to feel the benefit of the flames upon his frozen bones, when he thought he detected a familiar howling coming from the depths of the forest in what he took to be the North. Instantly he got up, hurling handfuls of snow upon the fire to extinguish it, and listening carefully for the sound to come again.
It came.
It was unmistakable. There were at least a dozen canine throats baying in unison, and the only throats which could make that particular sound belonged to the hunting dogs of the Fhoi Myore, the Hounds of Kerenos.
Corum got his bow and quiver of arrows from where he had stacked them with the rest of his gear when unsaddling his horse. The nearest tree was an ancient oak. It had not completely died and he guessed that its branches would probably support his weight. He tied his lances together with a cord, put the cord between his teeth, cleared snow as best he could from the lower branches and began to climb.
Slipping and almost falling twice, he got as high as he could and, by carefully shaking the branches, managed to clear some of the snow so that he could see into the glade below without being easily seen himself.
He had hoped that the horse might try to escape when it scented the hounds, but it was too well trained. It waited trustingly for him, cropping at the sparse grass. He heard the hounds come closer. He was now almost sure that they had detected him. He hung the quiver on a branch within easy reach of his hand and selected an arrow. He could hear the dogs, now, crashing through the forest: The horse snorted and flattened its ears, its eyes rolling as it looked this way and that for its master.
Now Corum saw mist beginning to form on the edges of the glade. He thought he detected a white, slinking shape. He began to draw back the bowstring, lying flat along the branch and bracing himself with his feet.
The first hound, its red tongue lolling, its red ears
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