The High King

by Lloyd Alexander

  Gwydion warned them to silence. “Our fire is risk enough, without adding noise to it. I can only hope Arawn’s Huntsmen are not abroad. We are too few to withstand even a handful of them. They are not common warriors,” Gwydion added, seeing Rhun’s questioning expression, “but an evil brotherhood. Slay one of their band, and the strength of the others grows that much greater.”

  Taran nodded. “They are as much to be feared as the Cauldron-Born,” he cautioned Rhun, “the deathless, voiceless creatures that guard Annuvin. Perhaps more to be feared. The Cauldron-Born cannot be slain, yet their power dwindles if they journey too far, or stay too long beyond Arawn’s realm.”

  Rhun blinked and Gurgi fell silent, glancing behind him uncomfortably. Memory of the ruthless Cauldron-Born turned Taran’s thoughts once more to Hen Wen’s prophecy. “The flame of Dyrnwyn quenched,” Taran murmured. “Yet how shall Arawn achieve this? For all his power, I will not believe he can even draw the blade.”

  “Prophecy is more than words that shape it,” Gwydion said. “Seek the meaning that underlies it. For us, the flame of Dyrnwyn will be as good as quenched if Arawn keeps it from my hands. Its power will indeed vanish, for all it may avail us, should the blade be locked forever in his treasure hoard.”

  “Treasure?” said Glew, stopping his munching only long enough to speak the word.

  “The Death-Lord’s domain is as much a treasure-house as a stronghold of evil,” Gwydion said. “Long has it been filled with all the fair and useful things Arawn has stolen from Prydain. These treasures do not serve him; his purpose is to deprive, to keep their use from men, to sap our strength by denying us what might yield a richer harvest than any of us here has known.” Gwydion paused. “Is this not death in but another guise?”

  “I have been told,” Taran said, “the treasure troves of Annuvin hold all that men could wish for. Plows, there are said to be, that work of themselves, scythes that reap with no hand to guide them, magical tools, and more,” Taran went on. “For Arawn stole the craft secrets of metalsmiths and potters, the lore of herdsmen and farmers. This knowledge, too, lies locked forever in his hoard.”

  Glew sucked his teeth. The morsel of food stayed untouched in his chubby fingers. For a long while he said nothing. At last he cleared his throat. “I mean to forgive your slights and humiliations. It would not have happened when I was a giant, I assure you. But no matter. I pardon you all. In token of my good will, I too shall journey with you.”

  Gwydion looked at him sharply. “Perhaps you shall,” he said quietly after a time.

  “No question of it now!” Fflewddur snorted. “The little weasel hopes to sniff out something for himself. I can see his nose trembling! I never thought the day would come when I should want him at our side. But I think that’s safer than having him at our backs.”

  Glew smiled blandly. “I forgive you, too,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  King Smoit’s Castle

  At dawn, King Rhun made ready to part from the companions and ride farther westward to Avren harbor, where he would advise his shipmaster of the change in plans. Fflewddur was to accompany him, for the bard knew the shallow fording places across the river and the swiftest paths on the opposite bank.

  Eilonwy had decided to go with them. “I’ve forgotten half my embroidery thread in Rhun’s ship, and must have it if I’m to finish Hen Wen properly. Neither of you can find it, for I’m not sure myself where it might be. I believe I’ve left a warmer traveling cloak, too; and a few other things—I don’t remember what they are right now, but I’m bound to think of them once I get there.”

  Coll grinned and rubbed his bald crown. “The Princess,” he remarked, “becomes more the lady in every way.”

  “Since I’m not staying on the ship,” said Glew, whose decision of the night before remained unshaken, “I see no reason to be taken out of my way. I shall follow with Lord Gwydion.”

  “That, my puny giant, is where you’re wrong,” the bard replied. “Mount up behind the King of Mona, if he can stand your company, and be quick about it. Don’t think I’ll let you out of my sight for a moment. Where I go, you go. And the other way around, too, for the matter of that.”

  “Surely, Fflewddur,” Taran said, drawing the bard aside, “Glew can’t trouble us. I myself shall watch over him.”

  The bard shook his tousled, yellow head. “No, my friend. I’ll be easier in my mind if I see him with my own eyes. And at all times. No, the little weasel is in my charge. Ride on ahead, and we’ll catch up with you on the other side of Avren well before midday.

  “I’ll be glad to see Smoit again,” Fflewddur added. “That red-bearded old bear is dear to my heart. We shall feast well at Caer Cadarn, for Smoit eats as bravely as he fights.”

  Gwydion had already mounted Melyngar and signaled them to hasten. 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.

  King Rhun, Fflewddur, Eilonwy, and Glew soon were out of sight. Bearing westward, Taran rode between Gwydion and Coll, while Gurgi, on his pony, trotted at the rear.

  They halted on the far bank of Great Avren. Midday passed without a sign of the other companions. Though Taran was anxious about them, he preferred to believe they had not come to harm. “Rhun has likely stopped to look at a badger tunnel or anthill,” he said. “I hope it is no more than that.”

  “Never fear,” said Coll. “Fflewddur will jog him along. They’ll be here at any moment.”

  Taran sounded his horn, hoping the signal would guide the bard in case Fflewddur had mistaken the path. Still they did not come. Gwydion, having waited as long as he dared, chose to press on to Caer Cadarn. They continued at a brisk pace for the rest of the day.

  Taran turned often in his saddle, expecting always to glimpse Rhun and the other companions galloping up behind them, or suddenly to hear the King of Mona’s cheerful “Hullo, hullo!” However, as the day waned, Taran realized that Rhun, a slow horseman at best, was by now outdistanced. Fflewddur, he was sure, would not travel after nightfall.

  “They have camped somewhere behind us,” Coll assured Taran. “Were aught amiss, one of them would have reached us. Fflewddur Fflam knows the way to Smoit’s castle. We shall all meet there. And if they seem too long delayed, Smoit will raise a searching party.” The stout warrior put a hand on Taran’s shoulder. “Ease your spirit until there is clear cause for alarm. Or,” he added, with a wink, “is it the company of Princess Eilonwy you long for?”

  “She should not have come with us,” Taran replied, half angrily.

  “No doubt.” Coll grinned. “Yet you were not the one to speak against her.”

  Taran grinned back at him. “As for doing that,” he said, “I have given it up long since.”

  At mid-morning of the following day, Caer Cadarn rose before them, and from a stone tower Smoit’s crimson banner with its emblem of a black bear snapped in the wind. The stronghold had been built in a clearing, and the heavy walls jutted like the bearded King’s own brows, scarred and pitted by many a battle. Coll, urging Llamrei ahead, shouted to the guards in the name of Gwydion Prince of Don. The massive gates opened and the companions galloped into the courtyard, where men-at-arms tethered the horses and a party of warriors led the way to Smoit’s Great Hall.

  Gwydion strode quickly down the corridor. Flanked by the guards, Taran, Coll, and Gurgi followed. “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.”

  “Yes, yes!” Gurgi cried. “Gurgi longs for tasty crunchings and munchings!”

  “You shall have them, old friend,” Taran answered. “Be sure of it.”

  They entered the Great Hall. At one end stood Smoit’s huge throne, cut from half an oak tree and carved in the shape of a bear with paws upraised on either side.

&nbs
p; The man seated there was not King Smoit.

  “Magg!” Taran gasped.

  Guards fell upon them instantly. Taran’s sword was ripped from his belt. With a great cry, Gwydion flung himself against the warriors, but they pressed about him and bore the Prince of Don to his knees. Coll, too, was borne down and a spear pressed against his back. Gurgi yelled in rage and terror. A guard seized him by the scruff of his shaggy neck, buffeting him until the poor creature could barely stagger to his feet.

  Magg grinned like a skull. With a slight movement of his skinny fingers, he gestured the warriors to stand away. His gray, pinched face twitched with pleasure. “Our meeting, Lord Gwydion, is one I did not foresee. My warriors hold Caer Cadarn, but this is an added prize, and a richer one than I had hoped.”

  Gwydion’s green eyes blazed. “Have you dared even to enter King Smoit’s cantrev? Begone from here before he returns. He shall deal with you less gently than I.”

  “You will join King Smoit,” Magg replied. “Though King I scorn to call this rude cantrev lord.” Magg’s thin lips curled. Caressingly he put a hand to his embroidered cloak. 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. “And mightier now than the Prince of Don.” He touched the iron chain hanging from his neck and fondled the heavy badge of office. In horror Taran saw it bore the same symbol that was branded on the foreheads of the Huntsmen.

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

  Gwydion’s glance did not falter. “You have found your true master, Magg.”

  “When last we parted, Lord Gwydion,” said Magg, “I believed you dead. It was my joy, later, to learn that you were not.” The Chief Steward licked his lips. “Seldom is one given to savor his revenge twice, and I was patient until the day we should meet again.

  “Patient, yes,” Magg hissed. “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.” The voice of the Chief Steward rose shrilly. His face had gone livid and his eyes started from their sockets. But in a moment he gained control of his trembling hands and sank back on Smoit’s throne. Now the words came from his lips as if he were tasting each one.

  “At length, I made my way to Annuvin,” Magg said, “to the very threshold of Dark Gate. Lord Arawn did not know me then, as he knows me now.” Magg nodded in satisfaction. “There was much he learned from me.

  “Lord Arawn knew the history of Dyrnwyn,” Magg continued. “He knew it had been lost and found again, and that Gwydion Son of Don bore it. But it was I, Magg, who told him how best to gain it.”

  “Even your treachery is paltry,” Taran said. “Late or soon, with or without you, Arawn would have struck on that evil scheme himself.”

  “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 Cauldron-Born, 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. It was my plan, mine alone that put Dyrnwyn in his hands!

  “Word now spreads throughout the cantrevs that Arawn Death-Lord holds the mightiest weapon in Prydain. He knows its secrets, far better than you do, Lord Gwydion, and knows he cannot be defeated. His liege men rejoice, for they will soon taste victory. Other war lords will rally to his banner and his host of warriors will grow.

  “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!”

  Magg’s eyes gleamed, his pale brow glistened, and his cheeks quivered violently. “For this,” he hissed, “for this, Lord Arawn has sworn to me by every oath: one day I, Magg, will wear the Iron Crown of Annuvin!”

  “You are as much a fool as a traitor,” Gwydion said, in a hard voice. “And doubly so. First, to believe Arawn. Then to believe King Smoit would heed your serpent’s words. Have you slain him? Only dead would he listen to you.”

  “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.”

  “King Smoit would sooner have his tongue ripped out,” Taran cried.

  “And so perhaps he shall,” replied Magg. “Mute, he will serve me as well. He will ride with me and I will speak on his behalf better than he would speak on his own. Yet,” he mused, “I would prefer the commands to come from his lips rather than mine. There are ways to loosen his tongue instead of cutting it from his head. Some have already been tried.”

  Magg narrowed his eyes. “The best means stand before me now. You, Lord Gwydion. And you, Pig-Keeper. Speak with him. Let Smoit see that he must yield to me.” Magg smiled crookedly. “Your lives hang on it.”

  The Chief Steward moved his head slightly. The guards stepped forward.

  Roughly the companions were prodded from the Great Hall. Shock and despair so filled Taran that he was hardly aware of the passages they were led down. The warriors halted. One flung open a heavy door. Others thrust the companions into a narrow chamber. The door grated shut and darkness swallowed them.

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

  “My body and blood!” roared the voice of King Smoit, and Taran was grappled by a pair of bone-cracking arms. “Are you come again, Magg? You’ll not take me alive!”

  Taran was nearly smothered and crushed before Gwydion called out his own name and the names of the companions. Smoit’s grip loosened and Taran felt a huge hand on his face.

  “My pulse, and so it is!” cried Smoit, as the companions gathered around him. “The Pig-Keeper! Lord Gwydion! Coll! I’d know that bald pate of yours anywhere!” His hand fell on Gurgi’s disheveled head. “And the little—whatever—it—is! Well met, my friends.” Smoit groaned heavily. “And ill met, too. How has that simpering sop trapped you? The lard-lipped, squirming lackey has snared us all!”

  Gwydion quickly told Smoit what had befallen them.

  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. Now then, I knew Goryon was at odds with Lord Gast. A matter of cow-stealing, as usual. Ah, will the cantrev lords of Prydain ever stop their endless bickering! However, since I’d heard Gast’s side of it, I deemed I should listen to Goryon’s.”

  Smoit snorted and struck his massive thigh. “Before I could swallow another mouthful, Magg’s warriors were about me. My heart and liver! Some of them will remember Smoit! Another troop had lain in ambush and stormed through the gate.” Smoit put his head in his hands. “Of my own men those not slain are prisoned in the guardrooms and armories.”

  “And you,” Taran asked anxiously, “are you in pain? Magg spoke of torture.”

  “Pain!” Smoit bellowed so loudly the chamber echoed. “Torture? I suffer till I sweat. But not at the hands of that long-nosed worm! My skin’s thick enough. Let Magg break his teeth on my bones! He troubles me no more than
a fleabite or bramble scratch. Why, I’ve taken worse in a friendly scuffle!

  “Do you speak of pain?” Smoit stormed on. “By every hair of my beard, I swear it pains me more than hot iron to be mewed up in my own castle! My own stronghold, and a captive in it! Gulled in my own Great Hall! My own food and drink snatched from my lips, and my breakfast ruined. Torment? Worse than that! It’s enough to sour a man out of his appetite!”

  Gwydion and Coll, meantime, had made their way to the walls and, as far as the dim light allowed, were hastily examining them for any sign of weakness. Taran, now that his eyes had grown a little more used to the gloom, feared that his companions were wasting their labors. The cell was windowless; what little air reached them came only from the tiny, heavily barred grating of the door. The floor was not of hard-packed earth, but of flagstones joined with barely a crack.

  Smoit himself, realizing the purpose of Gwydion’s efforts, shook his head and pounded his iron-shod boots on the floor. “Solid as a mountain,” he cried. “I know, for I built it myself. Spare yourself pains, my friends. It will crack no sooner than I!”

  “How far below ground is this dungeon?” Taran asked, though his hope for escape was fading with each moment. “Is there no way we can dig upward?”

  “Dungeon?” cried Smoit. “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.

  “Would that I had stocked it as solidly as I built it,” groaned Smoit. “Let Magg bring his irons and lashes. I’ll heed them not a bit in the midst of this other fiendish torment. The larder lies beside my scullery! I’ve not lined my belly for two days. Two years, it feels! The vile traitor has not left off his feasting! And for me? No more than the sniff of it! Oh, he shall pay for this,” Smoit cried. “I’ll beg him one thing only: a moment with my paws about his skinny neck. I’ll squeeze out all the puddings and pastries he’s ever gobbled!”