defeated.”
“Of the Fhoi Myore I can tell you little, save that it is said they were not always united against us—that they are not all of the same blood. They do not make war as we once made war. It was our way to choose champions from the ranks of the contesting armies. Those champions would fight for us, man to man, matching skills until one was beaten. Then his life would be spared if he had not sustained bad injuries from his fight. Often no weapons at all would be used— bard would match bard, composing satires against their enemies until the best satirist sent the others slinking away in shame. But the Fhoi Myore had no such notion of battle when they came against us. That is why we were defeated so easily. We are not killers. They want Death—crave for Death—follow Death—cry after Him to turn and face them. That folk, the Cold Folk, are like that. Those People of the Pines, they ride willy-nilly in pursuit of Death and herald the Reign of Death, of the Winter Lord, across all the land you ancients called Bro-an-Mabden, the Land in the West. This land. Now we have people in the North, the South and the West. Only in the East have we no people left, for they are cold now, fallen before the People of the Pines …”
King Mannach’s voice began to take on the aspects of a dirge, a lament for his people in their defeat.’ ‘O Corum, do not judge us by what you see now. I know that we were once a great folk with many powers, but we became poor after our first fights with the Fhoi Myore, when they took away the land of Lwym-an-Esh and all our books and lore with it …”
‘ ‘This sounds like a legend to explain a natural disaster,” Corum said gently.
“So thought I until now,” King Mannach told him, and Corum was bound to accept this.
“Though we are poor,” continued the king, “and though much of our control over the inanimate world is lost—for all this, we are still the same folk. Our minds are the same. We do not lack intelligence, Prince Corum.”
Corum had not considered that they had. Indeed, he had been astonished at the king’s clear thinking, having expected to meet a race much more primitive in its ideas. And though this people had come to accept magic and wizardry as a fact, they were not otherwise superstitious.
“Yours is a proud and noble people, King Mannach,” he said sincerely. “And I will serve them as best I can. But it is for you to tell me how to serve, for I have less knowledge of the Fhoi Myore than have you.”
‘ ‘The Fhoi Myore have great fear of our old magical treasures,” King Mannach said. “To us they had become little more than objects of interesting antiquity, but now we believe that they mean more—that they do have powers and represent a danger to the Fhoi Myore. And all here will agree on one thing—that the Bull of Crinanass has been seen in these parts.”
“This bull has been mentioned before.”
“Aye. A giant black bull which will kill any who seeks to capture it, save one.”
“And is that one called Corum?” asked Corum with a smile. “His name is not mentioned in the old texts. All the texts say is that he will bear the spear called Bryionak, clutched in a fist which shines like the moon.”
“And what is the spear Bryionak?”
“A magical spear, made by the Sidhi Smith, Goffanon, and now again in his possession. You see, Prince Corum, after the Fhoi Myore came to Caer Llud and captured the High King, a warrior called Onragh, whose duty had been to protect the ancient treasures, fled with them in a chariot. But as he fled the treasures fell, one by one, from the chariot. Some were captured by the pursuing Fhoi Myore, we heard. Others were found by Mabden. And the rest, if the rumors are to be trusted, were found by folk older than the Mabden or the Fhoi Myore—the Sidhi, whose gifts to us they originally were. We cast many runes and our wizards sought many oracles before we learned that the spear called Bryionak was once
“Of the Fhoi Myore I can tell you little, save that it is said they were not always united against us—that they are not all of the same blood. They do not make war as we once made war. It was our way to choose champions from the ranks of the contesting armies. Those champions would fight for us, man to man, matching skills until one was beaten. Then his life would be spared if he had not sustained bad injuries from his fight. Often no weapons at all would be used— bard would match bard, composing satires against their enemies until the best satirist sent the others slinking away in shame. But the Fhoi Myore had no such notion of battle when they came against us. That is why we were defeated so easily. We are not killers. They want Death—crave for Death—follow Death—cry after Him to turn and face them. That folk, the Cold Folk, are like that. Those People of the Pines, they ride willy-nilly in pursuit of Death and herald the Reign of Death, of the Winter Lord, across all the land you ancients called Bro-an-Mabden, the Land in the West. This land. Now we have people in the North, the South and the West. Only in the East have we no people left, for they are cold now, fallen before the People of the Pines …”
King Mannach’s voice began to take on the aspects of a dirge, a lament for his people in their defeat.’ ‘O Corum, do not judge us by what you see now. I know that we were once a great folk with many powers, but we became poor after our first fights with the Fhoi Myore, when they took away the land of Lwym-an-Esh and all our books and lore with it …”
‘ ‘This sounds like a legend to explain a natural disaster,” Corum said gently.
“So thought I until now,” King Mannach told him, and Corum was bound to accept this.
“Though we are poor,” continued the king, “and though much of our control over the inanimate world is lost—for all this, we are still the same folk. Our minds are the same. We do not lack intelligence, Prince Corum.”
Corum had not considered that they had. Indeed, he had been astonished at the king’s clear thinking, having expected to meet a race much more primitive in its ideas. And though this people had come to accept magic and wizardry as a fact, they were not otherwise superstitious.
“Yours is a proud and noble people, King Mannach,” he said sincerely. “And I will serve them as best I can. But it is for you to tell me how to serve, for I have less knowledge of the Fhoi Myore than have you.”
‘ ‘The Fhoi Myore have great fear of our old magical treasures,” King Mannach said. “To us they had become little more than objects of interesting antiquity, but now we believe that they mean more—that they do have powers and represent a danger to the Fhoi Myore. And all here will agree on one thing—that the Bull of Crinanass has been seen in these parts.”
“This bull has been mentioned before.”
“Aye. A giant black bull which will kill any who seeks to capture it, save one.”
“And is that one called Corum?” asked Corum with a smile. “His name is not mentioned in the old texts. All the texts say is that he will bear the spear called Bryionak, clutched in a fist which shines like the moon.”
“And what is the spear Bryionak?”
“A magical spear, made by the Sidhi Smith, Goffanon, and now again in his possession. You see, Prince Corum, after the Fhoi Myore came to Caer Llud and captured the High King, a warrior called Onragh, whose duty had been to protect the ancient treasures, fled with them in a chariot. But as he fled the treasures fell, one by one, from the chariot. Some were captured by the pursuing Fhoi Myore, we heard. Others were found by Mabden. And the rest, if the rumors are to be trusted, were found by folk older than the Mabden or the Fhoi Myore—the Sidhi, whose gifts to us they originally were. We cast many runes and our wizards sought many oracles before we learned that the spear called Bryionak was once
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