The High King: Chapters 10–13

“Face me, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Math commanded in a quiet voice. “Fear not to see what I myself know. The hand of death reaches toward mine and I am not loath to clasp it. I have long heard the horn of Gwyn the Hunter, that summons even a king to his barrow home...."

Under the watchful eye of Hevydd the Smith, the former giant was set to pumping bellows at the forges, where he complained unstintingly of the blisters on his pudgy hands.

Halls of carved and ornamented timbers held panoplies of weapons of long and noble lineage, and banners whose emblems were famed in the songs of the bards.

He hesitated some while, looking dolefully at the newly broken strings of his own instrument, at the scratches and chips scarring the frame.

Taran was about to speak, but the notes of a signal horn rang from the Middle Tower and shouts rose from the guardians at the turrets.

Against the rolling meadow, the leading rider of the band was sharply brilliant in trappings of crimson, black, and gold, and sunlight sparkled on his golden helmet.

Pryderi did not move. His retainers had unsheathed their blades and formed a circle about him.

Taran felt uneasy. As a boy, he had dreamed of taking a man’s place among men; and, as a boy, had deemed himself well fit to do so. Now, amid the grizzled, battle-wise warriors, his strength seemed feeble, his knowledge clouded.

But Taran could not tell the instant of the first clash of arms; for in a moment, instead of two tides there was only one that spun and shifted in a great convulsion, a whirlpool of spears and swords.

Eilonwy, for it was she, half-halted. She had tucked her plaited hair under a leather helmet.

Taran was vaguely aware of someone seizing his mount’s bridle and dragging him to the side.

From Annuvin they had journeyed as though from the grave, their task only to bring death, unpitying, implacable as their own lifeless faces.

The first of the pallid warriors was upon him. Grasping the flashing sword in his frail hands, the High King swung it downward in a sweeping blow.

Llyan, with Fflewddur beside her, crouched in the scant shelter of a rocky outcropping; her tail twitched and her yellow eyes still glowed with anger.

One of the handful of survivors from the inner defenses of the fortress was Glew. A warrior of Don, finding him lost and dazed outside the walls, had taken pity on his plight and brought him to the camp.

Taliesin came to stand before them and, taking up Fflewddur’s harp, sang a lament for the slain.

Gwydion’s blood-streaked face was hard as stone. “They must not reach Annuvin. As their power dwindles the longer they remain beyond the Death-Lord’s realm, so at all cost must they be hindered, delayed, turned from every path they follow.”

“Then it is my will to do so,” Taran answered.
The companions murmured their assent.

The Cauldron warriors stiffened, and in another moment lunged forward at a faster gait, running heavily across the dark red earth.

Heedless of Taran’s warning outcry, Eilonwy plied her spear and it was under her furious onslaught that the first Cauldron warrior toppled and fell, struggling to regain his footing amid the ranks that streamed silently over him.

The ravines held deep pits filled with snow, where horse and rider might founder beyond rescue.

“She seems to be enjoying herself,” Fflewddur sighed, huddling in his cloak. He had been obliged to dismount, for Llyan had suddenly taken it into her head to sharpen her huge claws against a tree trunk. “And so should I,” he added, “if I had her coat.” Gurgi ruefully agreed. Since entering the hills, the poor creature had grown more and more to resemble a drift of hairy snow.

Eilonwy, too, was unwontedly silent. Her heart, Taran knew, was as heavy as his own.

Yet Taran forced himself, as far as he was able, to put grief aside. His dogged pursuit had at last brought his warriors within striking distance of the Cauldron-Born, and now he thought only of the means to slow their march to Annuvin.

The nights were frozen with hopelessness, and like exhausted animals the companions found respite amid rocky overhangs and the scant shelter of the mountain passes.

Each passing day showed more clearly the Cauldron-Born were turning south, away from the Hills of Bran-Galedd and once again toward the swifter, easier way of the Red Fallows. With dour satisfaction, Taran judged this to mean the enemy still feared the pursuers and would strive to any lengths to be rid of them.

Great gawks! Lumbering oafs! Giant clodpoles! All his usual opinions about humans. But he agreed willingly enough despite his bluster. He’s really fond of you, no matter what he says.

Doli, for all his gruffness, was obviously proud of his own tidings.

For their own part, the Fair Folk seemed not the least uneasy; the tallest of Eiddileg’s warriors stood barely higher than Llassar’s knee, but the Fair Folk soldiers looked on their human comrades with the friendly indulgence they might show to overgrown children.

Just above the arch leading to the next chamber a sparkling gem as big as his own head was embedded amid the rocks; Glew, having swung precariously to a narrow ledge, was trying with all his might to dislodge it.