red eyes glared. His bloodless lips curved in something which could have been a smile or a snarl.
Corum had met his kind before. This was one of the Fhoi Myore's living dead vassals, called the Ghoolegh. Often they rode as huntsmen with the Hounds of Kerenos, for they were drawn from the ranks of those who had been foresters before the Fhoi Myore came.
This must be the test, thought Corum. He stood less than a foot from the red-eyed Ghoolegh and assumed a martial position, hand on sword.
But the Ghoolegh did not respond. He continued to stare through Corum and plainly could not see him.
In some relief, his faith in the Sidhi Cloak restored, Corum passed around the Ghoolegh guard and continued until he reached the entrance to the tower itself.
Here stood two more Ghoolegh and they were as unaware of Corum's presence as their fellow. He was almost cheerful as he walked through and began to mount the curving stairway leading up into the heart of the tower. The tower was wide and roughly square in shape. The steps were old and worn and the walls on both sides were either painted or carved with pictures of exceptionally beautiful workmanship. As with most Mabden art, they depicted famous deeds, great heroes, love stories and the doings of gods, and demigods, yet they had a purity of conception, a beauty, which showed none of the darker aspects of superstition and religiosity. The metaphorical content of the old stories was completely understood by these Mabden and appreciated for what it was.
Here and there were the remains of tapestries which had been torn from the walls. Frost-coated, mist-rotted, it was possible to see that they had been of immeasurable value, worked in gold and silver thread as well as rich scarlets, yellows and blues. Corum mourned at the destruction the Fhoi Myore and their minions had wrought.
He reached the first story of the tower and found himself on a wide stone-flagged landing, almost a room in itself, with benches lined along the walls and decorative shields set above them. And from one of the rooms off this landing he heard voices.
Confident now in the powers of his cloak he approached the half-open door and to his surprise felt warmth issuing from it. He was grateful for the warmth, but puzzled, too. Becoming more cautious, he peered around the door and was shocked.
Two figures sat beside a big fire which had been built in the stone hearth. Both were swathed in layers of thick, white fur. Both wore fur gauntlets. Both had no business being in Caer Llud at all. On the other side of the room food was being set out by a girl who had the same white flesh and red eyes of the Ghoolegh guards and was doubtless, like them, one of the living dead. It meant that the two by the fire were not in Caer Llud illicitly. They were obviously guests, with servants put at their disposal.
One of these guests of the Fhoi Myore was a tall, slender Mabden with jeweled rings on his gloved hands and a jeweled, golden collar at his throat. His long hair and his long beard were both gray, framing a handsome, old face. And worn by a thong passed over his head so that it rested upon his chest was a horn. It was a long horn and there were bands of silver and gold around it. Corum knew that every one of those hands represented a different forest beast. The Mabden was the one he had met near Moidel’s Mount and with whom he had traded a cloak—in exchange for the horn which the Mabden had, apparently, recovered. It was the Wizard Calatin, who planned secret plans which had nothing to do with loyalty either to his Mabden countrymen or their Fhoi Myore enemies—or so Corum had thought.
But still more shocking to Corum was the sight of the wizard's companion—the one who had sworn he would never involve himself in the affairs of the world. And this man must truly be a renegade, for it was the one who called himself a dwarf yet was eight feet tall and at least four feet broad at the shoulder—who had the fine, sensitive
Corum had met his kind before. This was one of the Fhoi Myore's living dead vassals, called the Ghoolegh. Often they rode as huntsmen with the Hounds of Kerenos, for they were drawn from the ranks of those who had been foresters before the Fhoi Myore came.
This must be the test, thought Corum. He stood less than a foot from the red-eyed Ghoolegh and assumed a martial position, hand on sword.
But the Ghoolegh did not respond. He continued to stare through Corum and plainly could not see him.
In some relief, his faith in the Sidhi Cloak restored, Corum passed around the Ghoolegh guard and continued until he reached the entrance to the tower itself.
Here stood two more Ghoolegh and they were as unaware of Corum's presence as their fellow. He was almost cheerful as he walked through and began to mount the curving stairway leading up into the heart of the tower. The tower was wide and roughly square in shape. The steps were old and worn and the walls on both sides were either painted or carved with pictures of exceptionally beautiful workmanship. As with most Mabden art, they depicted famous deeds, great heroes, love stories and the doings of gods, and demigods, yet they had a purity of conception, a beauty, which showed none of the darker aspects of superstition and religiosity. The metaphorical content of the old stories was completely understood by these Mabden and appreciated for what it was.
Here and there were the remains of tapestries which had been torn from the walls. Frost-coated, mist-rotted, it was possible to see that they had been of immeasurable value, worked in gold and silver thread as well as rich scarlets, yellows and blues. Corum mourned at the destruction the Fhoi Myore and their minions had wrought.
He reached the first story of the tower and found himself on a wide stone-flagged landing, almost a room in itself, with benches lined along the walls and decorative shields set above them. And from one of the rooms off this landing he heard voices.
Confident now in the powers of his cloak he approached the half-open door and to his surprise felt warmth issuing from it. He was grateful for the warmth, but puzzled, too. Becoming more cautious, he peered around the door and was shocked.
Two figures sat beside a big fire which had been built in the stone hearth. Both were swathed in layers of thick, white fur. Both wore fur gauntlets. Both had no business being in Caer Llud at all. On the other side of the room food was being set out by a girl who had the same white flesh and red eyes of the Ghoolegh guards and was doubtless, like them, one of the living dead. It meant that the two by the fire were not in Caer Llud illicitly. They were obviously guests, with servants put at their disposal.
One of these guests of the Fhoi Myore was a tall, slender Mabden with jeweled rings on his gloved hands and a jeweled, golden collar at his throat. His long hair and his long beard were both gray, framing a handsome, old face. And worn by a thong passed over his head so that it rested upon his chest was a horn. It was a long horn and there were bands of silver and gold around it. Corum knew that every one of those hands represented a different forest beast. The Mabden was the one he had met near Moidel’s Mount and with whom he had traded a cloak—in exchange for the horn which the Mabden had, apparently, recovered. It was the Wizard Calatin, who planned secret plans which had nothing to do with loyalty either to his Mabden countrymen or their Fhoi Myore enemies—or so Corum had thought.
But still more shocking to Corum was the sight of the wizard's companion—the one who had sworn he would never involve himself in the affairs of the world. And this man must truly be a renegade, for it was the one who called himself a dwarf yet was eight feet tall and at least four feet broad at the shoulder—who had the fine, sensitive
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