The Black Cauldron: Chapters 15–20

Fflewddur nodded. “I suppose that’s the only safe thing. But it’s a cumbersome beast. I don’t see the four of us lugging it along some of those mountain trails.”

“Not at all, not at all,” grunted Fflewddur. “It’s not as heavy as all that. In fact, I find the exercise bracing, quite invigorating. A Fflam never flags!”

“Not at all, not at all,” grunted Fflewddur. “It’s not as heavy as all that. In fact, I find the exercise bracing, quite invigorating. A Fflam never flags!”

They camped on an open heath, cold and barren, shrouded with mist drifting from the Marshes of Morva.

They camped on an open heath, cold and barren, shrouded with mist drifting from the Marshes of Morva.

They camped on an open heath, cold and barren, shrouded with mist drifting from the Marshes of Morva.

“I realize it’s no consolation to you,” she said, “but if you look at it in one way, you didn’t give up a thing to the enchantresses, not really. You did exchange the clasp and everything that went along with it. But, don’t you see, all those things came from the clasp itself; they weren’t inside of you."

“Lead on, then,” said Fflewddur. “A Fflam never falters! Though what my aching bones might do is another matter!”

Taran gritted his teeth, as the rough branches bit into his shoulders. To him, too, it seemed as if the ugly, heavy cauldron had gained some strange life of its own. The Crochan, squat and blood-darkened, lurched behind him as he stumbled through the brush.

It caught on jutting tree limbs, as though eagerly clutching them to itself. Often, at these sudden checks, the companions lost their footing and went sprawling.

“Gwystyl!” cried the bard, looking ruefully at his blistered hands. “I envy that fellow in his rabbit warren! Sometimes I think he had quite the right idea.”

“Gwystyl!” cried the bard, looking ruefully at his blistered hands. “I envy that fellow in his rabbit warren! Sometimes I think he had quite the right idea.”

Closer to the bank the river bottom turned stony. Blindly, Taran picked his way through the treacherous rocks. Ahead rose a number of high boulders and he warily guided the Crochan past them.

At this the bard set up a loud lament and bowed his head. “Terrible, terrible,” he groaned. “A Fflam is always cheerful, but this is too much to bear.”

He struggled to raise himself from the ground, winced, and fell back again. Gasping with the pain of his exertion, he looked dolefully at his injury.

The Crochan lay half submerged in the water. The current eddied around its gaping mouth and the cauldron seemed to be muttering defiance.

He looked toward the river, where the cauldron crouched like a glowering beast of prey.

“Well met,” he said in a hoarse voice, “brave company of scarecrows.” His lips drew back in a taut, bitter grin.

Ellidyr seemed to strangle on his rage. He stood without moving, his face working and twitching. But he soon forced himself to seem again cold and haughty, though his hands still trembled.

“Help you? So that a pig-boy may strut before Gwydion and boast of his deeds? And a Prince of Pen-Llarcau play the churl? No, you shall have no help from me! I warned you to take your own part! Do it now, pig-boy!”

“You, pig-boy, dared reproach me for seeking glory,” said Ellidyr. “Yet you yourself cling to it with your dirty hands. I shall not tarry here. My terms or nothing. Make your choice.”

With a cry, he pitched forward into the water, stumbling to gain his balance. Then he gave an exultant shout. The cauldron had lifted free.

“It was either build a fire or let you freeze to death,” said the bard, “so of course we decided on the first. At this point,” he added with a wry grin, “I doubt it can make too much difference. Since the cauldron is out of our hands, I don’t believe Arawn will have quite the same interest in us. Happily, I might say.”

"You’ve never seen the prowess of an outraged Fflam! Another moment and I should have had him at my mercy—in a manner of speaking,” the bard added quickly.

As he spoke, his heart seemed to lighten. “I see now that what he said was true above all. I do not begrudge Ellidyr his prize. I, too, shall seek honor. But I shall seek it where I know it will be found.”

Morgant nodded curtly.

Morgant turned to her. “You speak without knowledge, Princess. Among all who hold the way posts, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk is the shrewdest and bravest. Did you believe King Eiddileg would trust a lesser servant so close to Annuvin? But,” he added, “if you misjudged him, it was his intention that you do so."

Taran saw Lluagor and Melynlas tethered among the steeds of the warriors; a little apart, Islimach pawed the ground nervously and pulled at her halter.

A warrior drew aside the curtain of one of the pavilions, and the war lord led them inside.

There, bound hand and foot, lay the still form of Ellidyr. His face was covered with blood and he appeared so grievously battered that Eilonwy could not stifle a cry of pity.

For an instant Gurgi broke loose from his captors and flung himself toward King Morgant. But a warrior struck him brutally to the ground, leaped astride the limp figure, and trussed him tightly.

Taran stared at him in horror. “You would not dare to use the Crochan against your own kinsmen, your own people. This is even more foul than treachery and murder!”

“To rival him?” Morgant asked with a hard smile. “No. To surpass him. I know my worth, though I have chafed in the service of lesser men than I. Now I see the moment is ripe."

King Morgant nodded. His eyes were hooded, but his falcon’s face was keen and avid.

“I would not offer this to one such as Ellidyr,” Morgant continued. “He is too prideful, weakest where he believes himself strong. Do you remember I told you that I know good mettle? There is much that is possible with you, Taran of Caer Dallben. And this is what I offer—swear that you shall serve me as your liege lord and when the time is right you shall be my war-leader, second only to me in all Prydain.”

They rested a while, hoping to gain new energy, but the night moved as a heavy, tormented dream and the moments they passed in fitful drowsing did nothing to restore them, nor did they dare lose too much precious time; morning, Taran knew, would come swiftly.

In another moment Doli himself flashed into sight and set about freeing the bard. The stout dwarf was grimy, muddy, and his ears were tinged bright blue.

At length Gwydion spoke. “Fflewddur has told me all that befell you. My heart is grieved that Coll and I found you only now. Yet, without King Smoit and his warriors, I fear we might not have prevailed. He grew impatient and came seeking us. Had I been able to send him word, I would have summoned him long before this. I am grateful to him for his impatience."

“Poor tender head is filled with breakings and achings,” Gurgi said, with a wan smile at Taran. “He is sad not to fight at side of kindly master. He would have struck down wicked warriors, oh, yes!”

In surprise Taran turned and saw Gwystyl, sitting alone and morose.