Corum nodded wearily. He looked up. Red clouds boiled above, like a dome of fire. It seemed that all the world burned.
"Have you no spells for bringing on rain, Sir Hanafax?"
"I regret not. We priests scorn such primitive tricks."
"Useful tricks. Sorcerers seem to enjoy only the spectacular."
"I am afraid it is so.” Hanafax sighed. "What about your own powers? Can you not," he shuddered, "summon some kind of aid from whatever netherworld it is your horrid allies came?"
"I fear those allies are only useful in battle. I have no true conception of what they are or why they come. I have come to believe that the sorcerer who fitted me with this hand and this eye had no clearer idea himself. His work was something of an experiment, it seems."
"You have noticed, I take it, that the sun does not appear to set in the Flamelands. We can expect no night to come to relieve us."
Corum was about to reply when he saw something move on a rise of black obsidian a short distance away. "Hush, Sir Hanafax…"
Hanafax peered through the smoky heat. "What is it?"
And then they revealed themselves.
There were about a score of them, mounted on beasts whose bodies were covered in thick, scaly skin resembling plate armor. They had four short legs and cloven feet, a nest of horns jutted on heads and snouts, and small, red eyes gleamed at them. The riders were covered from head to foot in red garments of some shining material which hid even their faces and hands. They had long, barbed lances for weapons.
Silently, they surrounded Corum and Hanafax.
For a few moments there was silence, and then one of the riders spoke. "What do you in our Flamelands, Strangers?"
"We are not here from choice," replied Corum. "An accident brought us to your country. We are peaceful"
"You are not peaceful. You bear swords."
"We did not know there were any inhabitants to these lands," Hanafax said. "We seek help. We wish to leave."
"None may leave the Flamelands save to suffer a mighty doom." The voice was sonorous, even sad. "There is only one gateway and that is through the Lion's Mouth."
"Can we not…?"
The riders began to close in. Corum and Hanafax drew their swords.
"Well, Prince Corum, it seems we are to die."
Corum's face was grim. He pushed up his eye patch. For a moment his vision clouded and then he saw into the netherworld once again. He wondered for a moment if it would not be better to die at the hands of the Flameland dwellers but now he was looking at a cavern in which tall figures stood as if frozen.
With a shock Corum recognized them as the dead warriors of the Ragha-da-Kheta, their wounds now bloodless, their eyes glazed, their clothes and armor torn, their weapons still in their hands. They began to move toward him as his hand stretched out to summon them.
"NO! These, too, are my enemies!" Corum shouted.
Hanafax, unable to see what Corum saw, turned his head in astonishment.
The dead warriors came on. The scene behind them faded. They materialized on the obsidian rock of the Flamelands.
Corum backed away, gesticulating wildly. The Flameland warriors drew their mounts to a stop in surprise. Hanafax's face was a mask of fear.
"No! I…"
From the lips of the dead King TemgoI-Lep came a whispering voice. "We serve you, Master. Will you give us our prizes?"
Corum controlled himself. Slowly, he nodded. "Aye. You may take your prizes."
The long-limbed warriors turned to face the mounted warriors of the Flamelands. The beasts snorted and tried to move back but were forced to stand their ground by their riders. There were about fifty of the Ragha-da-Kheta. Dividing into groups of two or three, their clawed clubs raised, they flung themselves at the mounted beings.
Barbed lances came up and stabbed down at the Ragha-da-Kheta. Many were struck, but it did not deter them. They began to drag the struggling riders from their saddles.
Pale-faced, Corum watched. He knew now that he was consigning the Flamelands warriors to the same netherworld from which he had summoned the Ragha-da-Kheta. And his actions had sent the Ragha-da-Kheta to that netherworld in the first place.
On the gleaming rock, around which ran rivers of red rock, the ghastly battle continued. The clawed clubs ripped the cloaks from the riders, revealing a people whose faces were familiar.
"Stop!" Corum cried. "Stop! That is enough. Kill no more!"
Temgol-Lep turned his glazed eyes on Corum. The dead king had a barbed spear sticking completely through his body, but he seemed unaware of it. His dead lips moved. "These are our prizes, Master. We cannot stop."
"But they are Vadhaghl They are like me! They are my own people!"
Hanafax put an arm on Corum's shoulder. "They are all dead now, Prince Corum."
Sobbing, Corum ran toward the corpses, inspecting the faces. They had the same long skulls, the same huge, almond eyes, the same tapering ears.
"How came Vadhagh here?" Hanafax murmured.
Now Temgol-Lep was dragging one of the corpses away, aided by two of his minions. The scaled beasts scattered, some of them splashing through the lava uncaringly.
Through the Eye of Rhynn, Corum saw the Ragha-da-Kheta pull the corpses into their cave. With a shudder, he replaced the eye patch. Save for a few weapons and tatters of armor and clothing, save for the disappearing mounts, nothing remained of the Vadhagh of the Flamelands.
"I have destroyed my own folk!" Corum screamed. "I have consigned them to a frightful doom in that netherworld!"
"Sorcery has a way of recoiling suddenly upon its user," Hanafax said quietly. "It is an arbitrary power, as I said.”
Corum wheeled on Hanafax. "Stop your prattling, Mabden! Do you not realize what I have done?"
Hanafax nodded soberly. "Aye. But it is done, is it not? Our lives are saved."
"Now I add fratricide to my crimes." Corum fell to his knees, dropping his sword on the rock. And he wept.
"Who weeps?"
It was a woman's voice. A sad voice.
"Who weeps for Cira-an-Venl, the Lands That Are Now Flame? Who remembers her sweet meadows and her fair hills?"
Corum raised his head and got to his feet. Hanafax was already staring at the apparition on the rock above them.
"Who weeps, there?"
The woman was old. Her face was handsome and grim and white and lined. Her gray hair swirled about her and she was dressed in a red cloak such as the warriors had worn, mounted on a similar horned beast. She was a Vadhagh woman and very frail. Where her eyes had been were white, filmy pools of pain.
"I am Corum Jhaelen Irsei, Lady. Why are you blind?"
"I am blind through choice. Rather than witness what had become of my land, I plucked my eyes from my head. I am Oorese, Queen of Cira-an-Venl, and my people number twenty."
Corum's lips were dry. "I have slain your people, Lady. That is why I weep."
Her face did not alter. "They were doomed," she said, "to die. It is better that they are dead. I thank you, Stranger, for releasing them. Perhaps you would care to release me, also. I only live so that the memory of Cira-an-Venl may live." She paused. "Why do you use a Vedragh name?"
"I am of the Vadhagh-the Vedragh, as you call them-I am from the lands far to the south."
"So Vedragh did go south. And is their land sweet?"
"It is very sweet."
"And are your folk happy, Prince Corum in the Scarlet Robe?"
"They are dead, Queen Oorese. They are dead."
"All dead, then, now? Save you?"
"And save yourself, my queen."
A smile touched her lips. "He said we should all die, wherever we were, on whichever plane we existed. But there was another prophecy-that when we died, so would he. He chose to ignore it, as I remember.”
"Who said that, Lady?"
"The Knight of the Swords. Duke Arioch of Chaos. He who inherited these five planes for his part in that long-ago battle between Order and Chaos. Who came here and willed that smooth rock cover our pretty hills, that boiling lava run in our gentle streams, that flame spring where green forests had been. Duke Arioch, Prince, made that prediction. But, before he departed to the place of his banishment, Lord Arkyn made another."