The Black Cauldron: Chapters 5–8

Adaon’s voice rang above the din. "‘These are Huntsmen! Fight free of them!”

The Huntsman’s voice froze in the midst of a shout of triumph and he suddenly fell backward. Ellidyr, seeing Taran’s plight, had brought down his sword in one powerful blow. Thrusting the lifeless body aside, he heaved Taran to his feet.

For an instant their eyes met. Ellidyr’s face, below a bloodstained mat of tawny hair, held a look of scorn and pride. He seemed about to speak, but turned quickly without a word and ran toward the fray.

Ears back, Melynlas galloped past a line of trees. Dry leaves flew in a whirlwind beneath churning hooves, as the stallion sped to the brown crest of a hill.

The riverbed wound its way through high-standing firs and tattered alders, but after a little time the embankment fell away and a sparse forest became their only cover.

Taran, who had been crouched against a tree, raised his head from his hands. From a distance came a long, wavering cry. Another voice answered it, then another.

Ellidyr turned to him with the same glance of contempt Taran had seen in the grove. “It is a small debt,” he replied. “You value it more than I do.”

Their progress slowed in the tangle of underbrush and the wet leaves mired the struggling animals.

Doli, who had been bent over his saddle, straightened abruptly. He looked sharply around him. Whatever he saw caused him to be strangely elated.

The bank was so steeply inclined and overgrown that the horses could barely keep their footing. They stepped delicately among the brambles and exposed rocks.

Islimach tossed her mane and whinnied nervously. The bard’s mount came near to falling onto her haunches, and even Melynlas snorted a protest against the difficult slope.

Unlike Doli, Gwystyl was not of the dwarf kindred.

On one side, Taran noticed, an alcove had been hollowed out; it was filled with roots, lichens, and mushrooms—the food stock, he guessed, of the melancholy inhabitant.

On one side, Taran noticed, an alcove had been hollowed out; it was filled with roots, lichens, and mushrooms—the food stock, he guessed, of the melancholy inhabitant.

On one side, Taran noticed, an alcove had been hollowed out; it was filled with roots, lichens, and mushrooms—the food stock, he guessed, of the melancholy inhabitant.

Water dripped from the dirt roof or ran in rivulets down the wall.

An odor of loam and dead leaves hung in the corridor.

Here, a small fire of sod flickered on a tiny, ash- laden hearth, and gave out frequent puffs of sharp, nose-tingling smoke. A disorderly pallet of straw lay nearby.

Here, a small fire of sod flickered on a tiny, ash-laden hearth, and gave out frequent puffs of sharp, nose-tingling smoke. A disorderly pallet of straw lay nearby.

The crow resembled more a humpy ball with straggling tail feathers, feathers as wispy and disordered as Gwystyl’s cobwebby hair.

The crow resembled more a humpy ball with straggling tail feathers, feathers as wispy and disordered as Gwystyl’s cobwebby hair.

With sudden sadness, he remembered the fledgling gwythaint he had befriended—long ago, it seemed—and wondered how the bird had fared.

“Stop muttering about the drafts,” Doli ordered brusquely, “and think of some way to get us out of here safely. If you’re in charge of a way post, you’re supposed to be ready in emergencies.”

“I’ve often wondered that,” Gwystyl agreed, with a melancholy sigh. “It’s much too close to Annuvin for any decent kind of person to knock at your door—I don’t mean any of you,” he added hurriedly. “But it’s bleak. Nothing of interest, really. No, Doli, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. Except set you on your way as quickly as possible.”

“Gwystyl,” said the dwarf severely, “you have a skulking, sneaking look in your eyes. You might hoodwink my friends. But don’t forget you’re also dealing with one of the Fair Folk. I have a feeling,” Doli added, tightening his grip, “you’re far too anxious to see us gone. I’m beginning to wonder, if I squeezed you a little, what more might come out.”

“Gwystyl,” said the dwarf severely, “you have a skulking, sneaking look in your eyes. You might hoodwink my friends. But don’t forget you’re also dealing with one of the Fair Folk. I have a feeling,” Doli added, tightening his grip, “you’re far too anxious to see us gone. I’m beginning to wonder, if I squeezed you a little, what more might come out.”

The crow, who had been watching all this activity, turned a beady glance on his owner and flapped his wings with such vigor that Gurgi roused himself in alarm.

“I do!” interrupted Fflewddur. “A good day’s journey, I should say. I once came upon them during my wanderings. I recall them quite clearly. Unpleasant stretch of country and quite terrifying. Not that it bothered me, of course. Undaunted, I strode through.”

“I went around them,” the bard corrected himself hurriedly. “Dreadful, smelly, ugly-looking fens they were. But,” he added, “if that’s where the cauldron is, then I say with Taran: go there! A Fflam never hesitates!”

“I would be twice a fool, and so should we all, to be goaded by an idle taunt.
This much, at least, I have learned from Gwydion. But there is also this: Arawn seeks the cauldron even now. We do not dare lose the time it would take to bring help. If he finds the cauldron before we do.”

The companions dusted their feet and the hooves of their steeds with a black substance Gwystyl distributed from a moldering sack.

If Adaon shared Taran’s doubts, he showed no sign. In the saddle, he rode unbowed, as though he had gained new strength and the weariness of the journey could no longer touch him. On his face was a look Taran had never seen before and could not fathom.

“How long that sallow mealworm’s powder lasts I couldn’t guess,” said the dwarf.

“I commend your patience,” he said. “The black beast spurs Ellidyr cruelly.”

“I have few possessions, for I count them of little importance. But these few I treasure: Lluagor, my packets of healing herbs, and this,” he said, touching the clasp at his throat, “the brooch I wear, a precious gift from Arianllyn, my betrothed. Should any ill befall me, they are yours. I have watched you closely, Taran of Caer Dallben. In all my journeys I have met no one else to whom I would rather entrust them.”