clay and lay there unsuccessfully trying to regain an upright position. This helped confuse the next rider who came at Corum and was unable to strike a clean blow without snaring his horse's legs in those of the wounded animal. The scent of pines was now almost overpowering as the sap oozed from the wounds Corum wrought. It was a scent he had once loved but which now sickened him. It was sweet and odious.
Goffanon had brought at least three of the Pine Folk down and was chopping at their bodies, slicing off limbs so that they could not move, though they still lived, their green eyes glaring, their green lips snarling. These had once been the flower of Mabden warriors, probably from Caer Llud itself, but the human blood had been drawn from their veins and pine sap poured into them instead, and now they served the Fhoi Myore. Although they were ashamed of what they had become, they were at the same time most proud of their distinction.
As he fought, Corum tried to glance about him to see if there was any means of escaping from the gorge, but Gaynor had chosen the best place to attack—where the sides were steepest and the passage narrowest. This meant that Corum and Goffanon could defend themselves longer but could never hope to get away. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the People of the Pines—vanquished by these living trees, these brothers of the oak's oldest enemy. Like a rustling, marching forest, they rushed again at the one-eyed Vadhagh with the silver hand and at the eight-foot Sidhi with the bristling black beard.
And Gaynor, at a safe distance, laughed on. He was indulging in his favorite sport—the destruction of heroes, the conquest of honor, the extermination of virtue and idealism. And he indulged himself thus because he had never quite succeeded in driving these qualities from his own self. Thus Gaynor sought to still any voice which dared remind him of the hope he dared not hope, the ambition he feared to entertain—the possibility of his own salvation.
Corum's arms grew weary and he staggered now as he chopped at green arms, slashed at green heads, cracked the skulls of green horses and grew dizzy with the scent of the pine sap which was now sticky underfoot.
"Farewell, Goffanon," he shouted to his comrade. "It heartened me much when you joined our cause, but I fear your decision has led you to your death."
And Corum was astonished when he heard Goffanon's laughter blending with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned.
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
A LONG-LOST BROTHER
Then Corum realized that only Goffanon laughed. Gaynor laughed no longer.
Corum tried to peer through the mass of green warriors to the far end of the pass where he had last seen Gaynor, but there was no sign of the flickering, fiery armor. It seemed that Prince Gaynor the Damned had deserted the scene of his triumph.
And now the Warriors of the Pine were falling back, looking fearfully into the sky. And Corum risked glancing up and he saw a rider there. The rider was seated upon a shining black horse dressed completely in red and gilded leather, the buckles of its harness of sea-ivory and the edges all stitched with large and perfect pearls.
And overwhelming the stink of the pines came the fresh, warm smell of the sea. And Corum knew that the smell came from the smiling rider who sat astride the horse with one hand upon his hip and the other upon his bridle.
And then, casually, the rider stepped his horse over the gorge and turned so that he could look down into the pass from the other side. It gave Corum some idea of the size of horse and rider.
The rider had a light, golden beard and his face was that of a youth of some eighteen summers. His golden hair was braided and hung down his chest. He wore a breastplate which was fashioned from some kind of bronze and decorated with motifs of the sun and of ships, as well as whales and fish and sea-serpents. Upon the rider's great, fair-skinned arms were bands of gold whose
Goffanon had brought at least three of the Pine Folk down and was chopping at their bodies, slicing off limbs so that they could not move, though they still lived, their green eyes glaring, their green lips snarling. These had once been the flower of Mabden warriors, probably from Caer Llud itself, but the human blood had been drawn from their veins and pine sap poured into them instead, and now they served the Fhoi Myore. Although they were ashamed of what they had become, they were at the same time most proud of their distinction.
As he fought, Corum tried to glance about him to see if there was any means of escaping from the gorge, but Gaynor had chosen the best place to attack—where the sides were steepest and the passage narrowest. This meant that Corum and Goffanon could defend themselves longer but could never hope to get away. Eventually they would be overwhelmed by the People of the Pines—vanquished by these living trees, these brothers of the oak's oldest enemy. Like a rustling, marching forest, they rushed again at the one-eyed Vadhagh with the silver hand and at the eight-foot Sidhi with the bristling black beard.
And Gaynor, at a safe distance, laughed on. He was indulging in his favorite sport—the destruction of heroes, the conquest of honor, the extermination of virtue and idealism. And he indulged himself thus because he had never quite succeeded in driving these qualities from his own self. Thus Gaynor sought to still any voice which dared remind him of the hope he dared not hope, the ambition he feared to entertain—the possibility of his own salvation.
Corum's arms grew weary and he staggered now as he chopped at green arms, slashed at green heads, cracked the skulls of green horses and grew dizzy with the scent of the pine sap which was now sticky underfoot.
"Farewell, Goffanon," he shouted to his comrade. "It heartened me much when you joined our cause, but I fear your decision has led you to your death."
And Corum was astonished when he heard Goffanon's laughter blending with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned.
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
A LONG-LOST BROTHER
Then Corum realized that only Goffanon laughed. Gaynor laughed no longer.
Corum tried to peer through the mass of green warriors to the far end of the pass where he had last seen Gaynor, but there was no sign of the flickering, fiery armor. It seemed that Prince Gaynor the Damned had deserted the scene of his triumph.
And now the Warriors of the Pine were falling back, looking fearfully into the sky. And Corum risked glancing up and he saw a rider there. The rider was seated upon a shining black horse dressed completely in red and gilded leather, the buckles of its harness of sea-ivory and the edges all stitched with large and perfect pearls.
And overwhelming the stink of the pines came the fresh, warm smell of the sea. And Corum knew that the smell came from the smiling rider who sat astride the horse with one hand upon his hip and the other upon his bridle.
And then, casually, the rider stepped his horse over the gorge and turned so that he could look down into the pass from the other side. It gave Corum some idea of the size of horse and rider.
The rider had a light, golden beard and his face was that of a youth of some eighteen summers. His golden hair was braided and hung down his chest. He wore a breastplate which was fashioned from some kind of bronze and decorated with motifs of the sun and of ships, as well as whales and fish and sea-serpents. Upon the rider's great, fair-skinned arms were bands of gold whose
Similar Books
