The High King: Chapters 4–6

Fflewddur was to accompany him, for the bard knew the shallow fording places across the river and the swiftest paths on the opposite bank.

The bard shook his tousled, yellow head.

Fflewddur clapped Taran on the shoulder and ran to climb astride Llyan, who was frisking gaily in the bright, cold sun and pouncing at the tip of her own tail.

However, as the day waned, Taran realized that Rhun, a slow horseman at best, was by now outdistanced.

“Smoit will be at his meat,” Taran said. “His breakfast lasts till high noon.” He laughed. “He says it whets his appetite for the rest of his meals. Gwydion will get no word out of him until we ourselves are stuffed.”

A guard seized him by the scruff of his shaggy neck, buffeting him until the poor creature could barely stagger to his feet.

Taran saw that Magg’s garments were even richer than those the lank-haired man had worn as Chief Steward to the Court of Mona.

“More powerful than Smoit or the King of Mona, more powerful than Queen Achren is my liege lord,” Magg said with a yellow smile.

“I serve no lesser liege,” Magg said haughtily, “than the King of Annuvin, Arawn Death-Lord himself.”

“Long I wandered after I sailed from the Isle of Mona. There were those I served humbly, biding my time. One sought even to cast me in a dungeon—I, Magg, who once held a kingdom in his grasp.”

His face had gone livid and his eyes started from their sockets.

“Perhaps,” Magg said slyly. “Perhaps what he learned from me was less than what I learned from him. For I soon discovered that his power was dangerously balanced. His champion, the Horned King, had long been defeated. Even the Black Crochan, the cauldron that gave him the deathless CauldronBorn, was shattered...."

“Lord Arawn has many secret liege men among the cantrev kings,” Magg went on. “He has promised them great riches and domains, and they are sworn to serve him. But his defeats turned them restive. It was I who showed him the means to win stronger allegiance...."

“I, Magg, have wrought this!” the Chief Steward cried. “I, Magg, second only to the Death-Lord! I, Magg, speak in his name. I am his trusted emissary, and I ride from realm to realm, gathering armies to destroy the Sons of Don and those who give them allegiance. All Prydain will be his dominion. And those who stand against him—if Lord Arawn chooses to be merciful, he will slay them. His Huntsmen will drink their blood. The others will grovel in bondage forever!”

“I, Magg, have wrought this!” the Chief Steward cried. “I, Magg, second only to the Death-Lord! I, Magg, speak in his name. I am his trusted emissary, and I ride from realm to realm, gathering armies to destroy the Sons of Don and those who give them allegiance. All Prydain will be his dominion. And those who stand against him—if Lord Arawn chooses to be merciful, he will slay them. His Huntsmen will drink their blood. The others will grovel in bondage forever!”

“Smoit lives,” answered Magg. “I care nothing for his allegiance. I seek the fealty of the liege men in his cantrev. Smoit shall order them, in his name, to serve my cause.”

As they groped blindly Taran stumbled on a prostrate form that stirred and bellowed loudly.

As they groped blindly Taran stumbled on a prostrate form that stirred and bellowed loudly.

Smoit groaned heavily. “And ill met, too. How has that simpering sop trapped you? The lard-lipped, squirming lackey has snared us all!”

Smoit groaned heavily. “And ill met, too. How has that simpering sop trapped you? The lard-lipped, squirming lackey has snared us all!”

The red-bearded King growled furiously. “Magg caught me as easily as he did you. Yesterday I was at breakfast, and had barely set myself to my meat, when my steward brought tidings that a messenger from Lord Goryon sought words with me...."

I’ve no more dungeons in Caer Cadarn. When last we met, you called my dungeons useless. Right you were, and so I walled them up. Now there’s no wrongdoing in my cantrev that I can’t settle quicker and easier with a few words. Who hears my voice will mend his ways—or mend his head. Dungeon indeed! It’s a spare larder.

Gwystyl gave a heartrending sob and feebly endeavored to defend himself.

Gwystyl gave a heartrending sob and feebly endeavored to defend himself.

“Great Belin,” murmured the bard, “what a tangle of oddments. Worse than a snail with his household on his back.”

Gwystyl, after much coaxing and cajoling, as well as hints of further squeezing and suggestions of King Eiddileg’s displeasure, at last agreed—with many a racking sigh and moan—to help in the rescue.

Fflewddur shrugged, not a little crestfallen that his own suggestion had been dismissed.

Rhun turned away and sat dejectedly on a hummock, his sword trailing at his side.

Rhun turned away and sat dejectedly on a hummock, his sword trailing at his side.

Each carried a share of Gwystyl’s mushrooms and eggs, and a packet of his black, loamy powder.

Fascinated, King Rhun watched as Gwystyl with a deft movement flung the line into the air.

From the parapet high above came a faint rasping sound, then a dry click as the hooks caught on a projecting stone.

Pulling himself up on the line and scrabbling with his feet against the sheer side of the castle, Gwystyl was soon out of sight.

Gwystyl had already scuttled toward the rear of the castle.

But the warriors, Eilonwy saw with sinking heart, ran not to Gwystyl’s false attack but to the Great Hall. The courtyard seethed with shadows.