The Book of Three: Chapters 3–5

Crestfallen, Taran peered at Gwydion’s map and said no more.

“Here,” continued Gwydion, “not far from Annuvin, lies Spiral Castle. This, too, Hen Wen would avoid at all cost. It is the abode of Queen Achren. She is as dangerous as Arawn himself; as evil as she is beautiful. But there are secrets concerning Achren which are better left untold."

The more careful he attempted to be, the louder the leaves rattled and crackled. Wherever he put his foot, there seemed to be a hole or spiteful branch to trip him up.

Even Melyngar turned and gave him a reproachful look.

“Oh, afterward!” cried Gurgi. “Poor Gurgi can wait, long, long for his crunchings and munchings. Many years from now, when the great princes revel in their halls—what feastings—they will remember hungry, wretched Gurgi waiting for them.”

A crafty look gleamed in Gurgi’s close-set little eyes. “For the seeking of a piggy, there are many great lords in the forest, riding with frightening shouts. They would not be cruel to starving Gurgi—oh, no—they would feed him...”

Gurgi snatched the food, thrust it between his teeth, and scuttled up a tree trunk, leaping from tree to tree until he was out of sight.

Clutching Melyngar’s saddle horn, Taran stepped gingerly from the bank.

“Let go the saddle!” Gwydion shouted above the torrent. “Swim clear of her!”

Gwydion swung into the saddle and pulled up the soaked, bedraggled Taran.

The glittering wings beat against the foliage. Taran glimpsed curving beaks and talons merciless as daggers.

“They are the dead whose bodies Arawn steals from their resting places in the long barrows. It is said he steeps them in a cauldron to give them life again—if it can be called life. Like death, they are forever silent; and their only thought is to bring others to the same bondage."

“They are the dead whose bodies Arawn steals from their resting places in the long barrows. It is said he steeps them in a cauldron to give them life again—if it can be called life. Like death, they are forever silent; and their only thought is to bring others to the same bondage."

“Arawn keeps them as his guards in Annuvin, for their power wanes the longer and farther they be from their master. Yet from time to time Arawn sends certain of them outside Annuvin to perform his most ruthless tasks."

Slowly and painstakingly he quartered the land on either side of the ravine.

Gwydion tethered Melyngar in a thicket.

He lashed out, seized what felt like someone’s head, and an unmistakable odor of wet wolfhound assailed his nose.

Gurgi led the way, loping ahead, bent forward, his long arms dangling. They crossed one deep valley, then another, before Gurgi halted on a ridge.

Horses whickered; there came the shouts of men and the clank of weapons. Gwydion crouched in the bracken, watching intently.

“They are the Proud Walkers,” Gwydion answered, “in a dance of battle, an ancient rite of war from the days when men were no more than savages. The baskets-—another ancient custom best forgotten."

From a corner of woodland, five mounted warriors cantered into the field. Taran sprang up.

There was no sign of Gurgi, but a white streak sped across the field. Melyngar now had entered the fray.

The animal sank to its haunches. Melyngar reared to her full height; her forelegs churned the air, and her sharp hoofs slashed at the rider, who fell heavily to earth.

Their faces were pallid; their eyes like stones.

For Taran, the horror beating in him like black wings came not from the livid features of the Cauldron warriors or their lightless eyes but from their ghostly silence.

Blood streaked Gwydion’s face where an unlucky blow had slashed his cheekbone and forehead. Once, his blade faltered and a Cauldron-Born thrust at his breast. Gwydion turned, taking the sword point in his side.

Fording the shallow River Ystrad, the Cauldron-Born pressed tightly on either side of the captives.

At length, the captives were led into a spacious council chamber. Torches flickered from walls hung with scarlet tapestries.

She turned again to Taran. “Poor boy,” she said, with a pitying smile, “there has been grievous mischief done today.” She touched his wound with a soft, pale hand.

Instead of pain, a delicious sensation of repose came over him, repose as he remembered it from days long forgotten in Caer Dallben, the warm bed of his childhood, drowsy summer afternoons.