The High King Page 18

  The stone crest seemed to move a little as Taran redoubled his efforts. Then suddenly it rolled from its socket. With a final heave Taran sent it crashing amid his assailants. Two of the Cauldron-Born tumbled backward and their blades spun from their hands, but the third warrior did not falter in his upward climb.

  Driven by despair, as a man casts pebbles at the lightning that would strike him down, Taran groped for a handful of stones, of loose earth, even a broken twig to fling in defiance of the Cauldron warrior who strode closer, blade upraised.

  The socket from which the dragon's crest had been torn was lined with flat stones, and in it as in a narrow grave, lay Dyrnwyn, the black sword.

  Taran snatched it up. For an instant, his mind reeling, he did not recognize the blade. Once, long before, he had sought to draw Dyrnwyn and his life had been almost forfeit to his rashness. Now, heedless of the cost, seeing no more than a weapon come to his hand, he ripped the sword from its sheath. Dyrnwyn flamed with a white and blinding light. It was only then, in some distant corner of his mind, Taran dimly understood that Dyrnwyn was blazing in his grasp and that he was still alive.

  Dazzled, the Cauldron-Born dropped his sword and flung his hands to his face. Taran leaped forward and with all his strength drove the blazing weapon deep into the warrior's heart.

  The Cauldron-Born stumbled and fell; and from lips long mute burst a shriek that echoed and re-echoed from the Death-Lord's stronghold as though rising from a thousand tongues. Taran staggered back. The Cauldron-Born lay motionless.

  Along the path and at the Iron Portals the Cauldron warriors toppled as one body. Within the stronghold the deathless men locked in combat with the Sons of Don screamed and crumpled to earth even as Taran's foe had fallen. A troop hastening to fill the breach at Dark Gate pitched headlong at the feet of Gwydion's warriors, and those who strove to slay the soldiers at the western wall dropped in mid-stride and their weapons clattered on the stones. Death at last had overcome the deathless Cauldron-Born.

  Shouting for the companions, Taran raced from the peak of Mount Dragon. The Commot horsemen leaped to their saddles and urged their steeds to a gallop, plunging after Taran and into the fray.

  Taran sped across the courtyard. At the death of the Cauldron-Born, many of Arawn's mortal guards threw down their weapons and sought vainly to flee the stronghold. Others fought with the frenzy of men whose lives were already lost; and the remaining Huntsmen, who had gained new strength as their comrades fell under the blades of the Sons of Don, still shouted their war cry and flung themselves against Gwydion's warriors. One of the Huntsmen troop captains, his branded face twisted in rage, slashed at Taran, then shouted in horror and fled at the sight of the flaming sword.

  Taran fought his way through the press of warriors that swirled about him and raced toward the Great Hall where he had first glimpsed Gwydion. He burst through the portals and as he did so, sudden fear and loathing plucked at him. Torches flared along the dark, glittering corridors. For a moment he faltered, as though a black wave had engulfed him. From the far end of the corridor Gwydion had seen him and he strode quickly to Taran's side. Taran ran to meet him, shouting triumphantly that Dyrnwyn had been found.

  "Sheathe the blade!" Gwydion cried, shielding his eyes with a hand. "Sheathe the blade, or it will cost your life!"

  Taran obeyed.

  Gwydion's face was drawn and pale, his green-flecked eyes burned feverishly. "How have you drawn this blade, Pig-Keeper?" Gwydion demanded. "My hands alone dare touch it. Give me the sword."

  The voice of Gwydion rang harsh and commanding, yet Taran hesitated, his heart pounding with a strange dread.

  "Quickly!" Gwydion ordered. "Will you destroy what I have fought to win? Arawn's treasure trove lies open to our hands, and power greater than any man has dreamed awaits us. You will share with me in it, Pig-Keeper. I trust no other.

  "Shall some base-born warrior keep these treasures from us?" Gwydion cried. "Arawn has fled his realm, Pryderi is slain and his army scattered. None has strength to stand against us now. Give me the sword, Pig-Keeper. Half a kingdom is in your grasp, seize it now before it is too late."

  Gwydion reached out his hand.

  Taran flung himself back, his eyes wide with horror. "Lord Gwydion, this is not the counsel of a friend. It is betrayal..."

  Only then, as he stared bewildered at this man he had honored since boyhood, did he understand the ruse.

  In another instant Taran ripped Dyrnwyn from its sheath and raised the glittering blade.

  "Arawn!" Taran gasped, and swung the weapon downward.

  Before the blade struck home, the Death-Lord's disguised shape blurred suddenly and vanished. A shadow writhed along the corridor and faded away.

  THE COMPANIONS NOW PRESSED

  into the Great Hall and Taran hurried toward them, crying the warning that Arawm still lived and had escaped. Achren's eyes blazed with hatred. "Escaped you, Pig-Keeper, but not my vengeance. The secret chambers of Arawn are no secret to me. I shall seek him out wherever he has taken refuge."

  Without waiting for the companions, who ran to follow her, Achren set off with all speed down the winding halls. She sprang past a heavy portal which bore the Death-Lord's seal branded deeply in the iron-studded wood. At the far end of the long chamber Taran glimpsed a hunched, spidery figure scuttling to a high, skull-shaped throne.

  It was Magg. The Chief Steward's face was ghastly white, his lips trembled and slavered, and his eyes rolled in his head. He stumbled to the foot of the throne, snatched at an object that lay on the flagstones, clutched it to him, and whirled to face the companions.

  "No closer!" shrieked Magg, in such a tone that even Achren halted and Taran, about to draw Dyrnwyn from its scabbard, was gripped in horror at Magg's contorted features.

  "Will you keep your lives?" Magg cried. "To your knees, then! Humble yourselves and beg mercy.

  I, Magg, shall favor you by making you my slaves."

  "Your master has abandoned you," replied Taran. "And your own treachery has ended." He strode forward.

  Magg's spidery hands thrust out in warning, and Taran saw that the Chief Steward held a strangely wrought crown.

  "I am master here," Magg shouted. "I, Magg, Lord of Annuvin. Arawn pledged that I should wear the Iron Crown. Has it slipped from his fingers? It is mine, mine by right and promise!"

  "He has gone mad," Taran murmured to Fflewddur, who stared in revulsion as the Chief Steward raised high the crown and gibbered to himself. "Help me take him prisoner!"

  "No prisoner shall he be," cried Achren, drawing a dagger from her cloak. "His life is mine for the taking, and he shall die as all who have betrayed me. My vengeance begins here, with a treacherous slave, and next, his master."

  "Harm him not," commanded Taran, as the Queen struggled to make her way past him to the throne. "Let him find justice from Gwydion."

  Achren fought against him, but Eilonwy and Doli hastened to hold the raging Queen's arms. Taran and the bard strode toward Magg, who flung himself to the seat of the throne.

  "Do you tell me Arawn's promises' are lies?" the Chief Steward hissed, fondling and fingering the heavy crown. "It was promised I should wear this. Now it is given into my hands. So shall it be!" Quickly, Magg lifted the crown and set it on his brow.

  "Magg!" he shouted. "Magg the Magnificent! Magg the Death-Lord!"

  The Chief Steward's triumphant laughter turned to a shriek as he clawed suddenly at the iron-band circling his forehead. Taran and Fflewddur gasped and drew back.

  The crown glowed like red iron in a forge. Writhing in agony, Magg clutched vainly at the burning metal which now had turned white hot, and with a last scream toppled from the throne.

  Eilonwy cried out and turned her face away.

  GURGI AND GLEW HAD LOST TRACK

  of the companions and were now pelting through the maze of winding corridors trying vainly to find them. Gurgi was terrified at being in the heart of Annuvin and at every step shouted Taran's
name. Only the echoes from the torch-lit halls came back to him. Glew was no less fearful. Between gasps, the former giant also found enough breath to complain bitterly. "It's too much to bear!" he cried. "Too much! Is there no end to the wretched burdens put upon me? Thrown aboard a ship, hustled off to Caer Dallben, half frozen to death, dragged through mountains at the risk of my life, a fortune snatched from my hands! And now this! Oh, when I was a giant I'd not have stood for such high-handed treatment!"

  "Oh, giant, leave off pinings and whinings!" replied Gurgi, miserable enough at being separated from the companions. "Gurgi is lost and lorn, but he tries to find kindly master with seekings. Do not fear," he added reassuringly, though it was all he could do to keep his voice from trembling, "bold Gurgi will keep plaintful little giant safe, oh, yes."

  "You're not doing very well at it," snapped Glew. Nevertheless, the pudgy little man clung to the side of the shaggy creature and, his stubby legs pumping, matched him stride for stride.

  They had come to the end of one corridor where a squat and heavy iron portal stood open. Gurgi fearfully halted. A bright cold light poured from the chamber. Gurgi took a few cautious paces and peered within. Beyond the doorway stretched what seemed to be an endless tunnel. The light came from heaps of precious stones and golden ornaments. Farther on, he glimpsed strange objects half-hidden by shadows. Gurgi drew back, his eyes popping in wonder and terror.

  "Oh, it is treasure house of evil Death-Lord," he whispered. "Oh, glimmerings and shimmerings! This is a very secret place and fearsome, and not wise for bold Gurgi to stay."

  Glew, however, pressed forward, and at the sight of the gems his pale cheeks twitched and his eyes glittered. "Treasure, indeed!" he said, choking in his excitement. "I've been cheated of one fortune, but now I'll be repaid. It's mine!" he cried. "All of it! I spoke first! No one shall deprive me of it!"

  "No, no," protested Gurgi. "It cannot be yours, greedy giant! It is for mighty Prince to give or take. Come with hastenings and seek companions even faster. Come with tellings and warnings, for Gurgi also fears snappings and trappings. Costly treasures without guardings? No, no, clever Gurgi sniffs evil enchantments."

  Heedless of the creature's words, Glew thrust him aside. With an eager cry the former giant sprang past the threshold and into the tunnel, where he plunged his hands into the largest heap of jewels. Gurgi, seizing him by the collar, tried vainly to drag him back, as flames burst from the walls of the treasure-trove.

  BEFORE THE GREAT HALL OF ANNUVIN

  , Gwydion rallied the last survivors of the Sons of Don and the Commot horsemen. There the companions, with Kaw squawking jubilantly overhead, joined them. For a moment, Taran stared searchingly at Gwydion, but his doubts vanished when the tall warrior strode quickly to him and clasped his hand. "We have much to tell each other," Gwydion said, "but no time for the telling. Though Annuvin is in our hands the Death-Lord himself has escaped us. He must be found and slain, if it is in our power to do so."

  "Gurgi and Glew are lost in the Great Hall," Taran said. "Give us leave to find them first."

  "Go quickly, then," answered Gwydion. "If the Death-Lord is still in Annuvin, their lives are in as much danger as ours."

  Taran had unbuckled Dyrnwyn from, his belt and held out the sword to Gwydion. "I understand now why Arawn sought possession of it--- not for his own use but because he knew it threatened his power. Only Dyrnwyn could destroy his Cauldron-Born. Indeed, he dared not even keep it in his stronghold, and believed it harmless buried atop Mount Dragon. When Arawn disguised himself in your shape; he nearly tricked me into giving him the weapon. Take it now. The blade is safer in your hands."

  Gwydion shook his head. "You have earned the right to draw it, Assistant Pig-Keeper," he said, "and thus the right to wear it."

  "Indeed so!" put in Fflewddur. "It was magnificent the way you struck down that Cauldron-Born. A Fflam couldn't have done better. We're rid of those foul brutes forever."

  Taran nodded. "Yet I hate them no longer. It was not their wish to bend in slavery to another's will. Now they are at peace."

  "In any case, Hen Wen's prophecy came true after all," Fflewddur said. "Not that I ever doubted it for a moment." He glanced instinctively over his shoulder, but this time there came no jangling of harp strings. "But she did have a curious way of putting things. I still haven't heard any stones speaking."

  "I have," answered Taran. "Atop Mount Dragon, the sound from the crest was like a voice. Without it, I'd have paid no heed to the stone. Then, when I saw how hollowed and eaten away it was, I believed I might be able to move it. Yes, Fflewddur, the voiceless stone spoke clearly."

  "I suppose so, if you think about it in that way," Eilonwy agreed. "As for Dyrnwyn's flame being quenched, Hen was quite mistaken. Understandably. She was very upset at the time..."

  Before the girl could finish, two frightened figures burst from the Great Hall and raced to the companions. Much of Gurgi's hair had been singed away in ragged patches; his shaggy eyebrows were charred and his garments still smouldered. The former giant had fared worse, for he seemed little more than a heap of grime and ashes.

  Taran had no time to welcome the lost companions, for the voice of Achren rose in a terrible cry.

  "Do you seek Arawn? He is here!"

  Achren flung herself at Taran's feet. Taran gasped and froze in horror. Behind him coiled a serpent ready to strike.

  Taran sprang aside. Dyrnwyn flashed from its scabbard. Achren had clutched the serpent in both hands, as though to strangle or tear it asunder. The head of the snake darted toward her, the scaly body lashed like a whip, and the fangs sank deep into Achren's throat. With a cry she fell back. In an instant, the serpent coiled again; its eyes glittered with a cold, deadly flame. Hissing in rage, jaws gaping and fangs bared, the serpent shot forward, striking at Taran. Eilonwy screamed. Taran swung the flashing sword with all his strength. The blade clove the serpent in two.

  Flinging Dyrnwyn aside, Taran dropped to his knees beside Gwydion, who held the limp body of the Queen. The blood had drained from Achren's lips and her glazed eyes sought Gwydion's face.

  "Have I not kept my oath, Gwydion?" she murmured, smiling vaguely. "Is the Lord of Annuvin slain? It is good. My death comes easily upon me." Achren's lips parted as though she would speak again. but her head fell back and her body sagged in Gwydion's arms.

  A horrified gasp came from Eilonwy. Taran looked up as the girl pointed to the cloven serpent. Its body writhed, its shape blurred. In its place appeared the black-cloaked figure of a man whose severed head had rolled face downward on the earth. Yet in a m ment this shape too lost its form and the corpse sank like a shadow into the earth; and where it had lain was seared and fallow, the ground wasted, fissured as though by drought. Arawn Death-Lord had vanished.

  "The sword!" cried Fflewddur. "Look at the sword!"

  Quickly, Taran caught up the blade, but even as he grasped the hilt the flame of Dyrnwyn flickered, as though stirred by a wind. The white brilliance dimmed like a dying fire. Faster then the glow faded, no longer white but filled with swirling colors which danced and trembled. In another moment, Taran's hand held no more than a scarred and battered weapon whose blade glinted dully, not from the flame that once had burned within it but only from the mirrored rays of the setting sun.

  Eilonwy, hurrying to his side, called out, "The writing on the scabbard is fading, too. At least I think it is, unless it's just the dim light. Here, let me see better."

  She drew the bauble from her cloak and brought it closer to the black scabbard. Suddenly, in the golden rays, the marred inscription glittered.

  "My bauble brightens the lettering! There's more than what used to be there!" cried the surprised girl. "Even the part that was scratched out--- I can see most of it now!"

  The companions hastily gathered and, while Eilonwy held the bauble Taliesin took the scabbard and scanned it closely.

  "The writing is clear, but fading quickly," he said. "Indeed, Princess, your golden l
ight shows what was hidden.

  'DRAW DYRNWYN, ONLY THOU OF NOBLE WORTH, TO RULE WITH JUSTICE, TO STRIKE DOWN EVIL. WHO WIELDS IT IN GOOD CAUSE SHALL SLAY EVEN THE LORD OF DEATH.' "

  In another moment the inscription had vanished. Taliesin turned the black scabbard back and forth in his hands. "Perhaps now I understand what was only hinted in the lore, that once a mighty king came upon great power and strove to use it for his own advantage. I believe Dyrnwyn was that weapon, turned from its destiny, long lost and found again."

  "Dyrnwyn's task is ended," Gwydion said. "Let us leave this evil place."

  In death the face of Achren, no longer bitterly haughty, was at last tranquil. Shrouding the woman in her tattered black cloak, the companions bore the body to rest in the Great Hall, for she who had once ruled Prydain had died--- not without honor.

  At the pinnacle of the Death-Lord's tower, the dark banner suddenly burst into flames and fell away in blazing shreds. The walls of the Great Hall trembled, and the stronghold shuddered deep within itself.

  The companions and the warriors rode from the Iron Portals, behind them the walls shattered and the mighty towers crumbled. A sheet of flame reached skyward from the ruins where Annuvin had stood.

  *¤*nihua*¤*

  Chapter 20

  The Gift

  THEY WERE HOME AGAIN

  . Gwydion had led the companions westward to the coast where the golden ships waited. From there, with Kaw proudly perched on the highest mast, the great vessels with their gleaming sails bore them to Avren harbor. Word of Arawn's destruction had spread swiftly; and even as the companions disembarked, many cantrev lords and their battle hosts gathered to follow the Sons of Don, to do homage to King Gwydion, and to cry greetings to the Commot folk and Taran Wanderer. Gurgi unfurled what remained of the banner of the White Pig and raised it triumphantly. Yet Gwydion had been strangely silent. And Taran, as, the little farm came into sight, felt more heartache than joy. The winter had broken; thawing earth had begun to stir, and the first, hardly visible traces of green touched the hills like a faint mist. But Taran's eyes went to Coll's empty garden, and he grieved afresh for the stout grower of turnips, far distant in his lonely resting place.