The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company))

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Will they never flourish?” Taran asked, looking with dismay at the wasted expanse. “Prydain could be a rich land with the abundance they might bear. It would be a shame worse than bloodshed to leave these fields thus. Would the soil not yield again if it were labored well?”

  “Who can say?” answered Coll. “Perhaps. No man has tilled it for years long past. But for us now that is all by-the-by.” He gestured toward the heights rising sharply at the distant edge of the fields. “The Red Fallows stretch along the Hills of Bran-Galedd, southwestward almost to Annuvin. From here it is the longest but easiest path to Arawn’s realm, and if I judge aright the Cauldron-Born will follow it swiftly to their master.”

  “We must not let them pass,” Taran replied. “Here we must make our first stand and hinder them as best we can.” He glanced toward the heights. “We must force them into the hills. Among rocks and broken ground, we might set snares or lure them into ambush. It is all we can hope to do.”

  “Perhaps,” said Coll. “Though before you choose, know this: the Hills of Bran-Galedd also give a path to Annuvin, and a shorter one. They rise sharper as they go westward and turn soon to steep crags. There stands Mount Dragon, the highest peak, guarding the Iron Portals of the Land of Death. It is a harsh passage, cruel and dangerous—more so for us than for the deathless Cauldron-Born. We can lose our lives. They cannot.”

  Taran frowned anxiously, then said with a bitter laugh, “Indeed, there is no happy choice, old friend. The path of the Red Fallows is easier but longer; the mountain way, harder and shorter!” He shook his head. “I have not the wisdom to decide. Have you no counsel for me?”

  “The choice must be yours, war-leader,” answered Coll. “Yet, as a grower of turnips and cabbages, I might say if you trust your strength, the mountains may be friend as much as foe.”

  Taran smiled at him sorrowfully. “Little trust do I put in the strength of an Assistant Pig-Keeper alone,” he said after a long moment, “but much in the strength and wisdom of his companions. So be it. We must drive the Cauldron warriors into the hills.”

  “Know this, too,” said Coll. “If such is your choice, it must be done at this place and at all cost. Farther southward the Fallows widen, the plain grows broad and flat; and there is danger the Cauldron-Born may escape our reach if we fail here.”

  Taran grinned. “Now that is simple enough for an Assistant Pig-Keeper to understand.”

  Taran rode back through the column of warriors to tell them of the plan they were to follow. Though he cautioned Eilonwy and Gurgi to hold themselves as far as possible from the fray, he could judge, with little difficulty, that the Princess of Llyr had no intention of heeding his warning. As for Taran himself, the decision he had taken lay heavily on him; his doubts and fears only sharpened as the horsemen rallied at the fringe of woodland and as the moment for their advance across the Fallows drew closer. He felt cold; the wind muttering across the rutted fields seeped through his cloak like an icy flood. He caught sight of Coll, who winked at him and nodded his bald crown in a quick gesture. Taran raised the horn to his lips and signaled the warriors forward.

  At Coll’s counsel the companions and each horseman had cut stout branches from the trees. Now, like ants burdened with straws, the column entered the wasteland, struggling across the ruts and gullies. To their right rose the ruins of a wall, some ancient boundary, useless now, whose broken slabs stretched over much of the Fallows’ width and ended near the steep ascent of the Hills of Bran-Galedd.

  It was there that Taran, with all haste, led the toiling band of warriors. The Cauldron-Born, it seemed to him, had already glimpsed them, for the dark column quickened its own pace, thrusting rapidly across the Fallows. Taran’s horsemen had dismounted and raced to fling their branches between the gaps in the wall. The column of Cauldron-Born marched closer. Beside them rode mounted Huntsmen garbed in heavy jackets of wolfskin, the troop captains whose harsh commands reached Taran’s ears like the snapping of a lash. Their orders rang in a language unknown to him, but Taran well understood their scornful tone and the brutal laughter that spat from their lips.

  As at Caer Dathyl, the Cauldron-Born held their ranks, striding onward, unwavering. They had drawn their swords from their belts of heavy bronze. The bronze studs covering their leather breastplates glinted dully. Their pallid faces were frozen, as empty as their staring eyes.

  Suddenly the horns of the captains screamed like hawks. The Cauldron warriors stiffened, and in another moment lunged forward at a faster gait, running heavily across the dark red earth.

  The men of the Commots leaped to their makeshift barrier of rocks and branches. The Cauldron-Born flung themselves against the ruined wall and strove to clamber upward. Fflewddur, leaving Llyan with Glew amid the other steeds, had snatched up a long branch and, shouting at the top of his voice, thrust it like a spear into the mass of climbing warriors. Beside him, Gurgi flailed a huge staff, striking desperately at the rising wave. 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. Taran’s band redoubled their efforts, slashing, sweeping, fending off the mute foe with all their strength.

  Others among the deathless troops lost their footing as the surging attackers threw themselves blindly against the barrier, only to be struck down by the lashing staves and spear shafts of the Commot men.

  “They fear us!” cried the bard in frenzied joy. “See! They turn away! If we can’t slay them, Great Belin, we can still push them back!”

  In the turmoil of warriors and the shrilling of the Huntsmen’s horns, Taran glimpsed the ranks of Cauldron-Born veer from the threatening hedge of spears. His heart leaped. Were the captains indeed fearful of the hindrance, of the waning power of their mute host? Even now the attacking wave seemed weaker, though he could not be sure that it was no more than his hope that made it appear so. No longer was he even sure how long they struggled at the wall. Wearied by the endless thrusts of his spear, he felt it had been forever, although the sky was still light.

  Of a sudden, he realized Fflewddur was right. The silent mass of deathless warriors had fallen back. The Huntsmen captains had taken their decision. Like beasts that find their prey too well hidden, and unworthy of their efforts, the mounted leaders sounded a long, wavering note on their horns. The ranks of Cauldron-Born swung toward the Hills of Bran-Galedd.

  Cheers burst from the Commot warriors. Taran spun about to find Coll. But the old warrior was hastening farther along the wall. Taran cried out to him, then in dismay realized what Coll had seen. A band of Cauldron-Born had broken from the main force and now strove to clamber through an undefended breach.

  Coll reached it as the first Cauldron warrior had begun to force himself over the stones. The old man was upon him in an instant and, dropping his spear, seized the warrior in his burly arms and flung him downward. While other Cauldron-Born swarmed to the breach, Coll snatched out his sword and laid about him right and left, heedless of the attackers’ hacking and stabbing blades. Shouting in wrath as the weapon shattered in his hands, the stout farmer cast it away and struck out with his heavy fists. The deathless warriors clung to him, striving to pull him into their midst, but he shook them off, ripped a sword from the grasp of a tottering Cauldron-Born, and swung it as if he meant to fell an oak with a single blow.

  Taran was at Coll’s side in a moment. The horns of the Huntsmen screamed the signal to retreat. Now Taran realized the attack had truly ended with this last convulsion. The Cauldron-Born had begun to scale the heights. The Red Fallows were barred to them.

  Coll was bleeding heavily from the head; his fleece-lined coat, bloodsoaked, was slashed and tattered by the blades of the Cauldron-Born. Quickly, Taran and Fflewddur carried him between them to the bottom of the wall. Gurgi, whimpering in distress, hurried to aid them. Eilonwy had torn off her cloak to cushion the old farmer against the harsh
stones.

  “After them, my boy,” Coll gasped. “Give them no rest. The twigs have turned the flood, but it must be turned again, and many times, if you would block the way to Annuvin.”

  “One stout oak tree has turned it,” Taran replied. “Once again, I have leaned on it.” He took Coll’s work-hardened hands and gently tried to lift him.

  Coll’s broad face grinned and he shook his head. “I am a farmer,” he murmured, “but warrior enough to know my own death wound. Go along, my boy. Carry with you no more burdens than you must.”

  “What then,” answered Taran, “will you have me break the promise I made? That we will dig and weed together?” But the words came painfully as a dagger wound.

  Eilonwy, her face drawn, looked anxiously at Taran.

  “I had hoped one day to sleep in my own garden,” Coll said. “The drone of bees would have pleased me more than the horn of Gwyn the Hunter. But I see the choice was not to be mine.”

  “The horn of Gwyn does not blow for you,” said Taran. “You hear the Cauldron-Born summoned to retreat.” Yet even as he spoke, the faint notes of a horn rose above the hills and its dying echoes trembled like shadows over the wasteland. Eilonwy covered her face with her hands.

  “See to our plantings, my boy,” said Coll.

  “We shall both do so,” answered Taran. “The weeds will no more stand against you than did Arawn’s warriors.”

  The stout old farmer did not answer. It was a long moment before Taran realized that Coll was dead.

  While the grieving companions gathered stones from the ruined wall, with his own hands Taran hollowed out a grave in the harsh earth, allowing none other to aid him in this task. Even when the humble mound had risen above Coll Son of Collfrewr, he did not move from it, but ordered Fflewddur and the companions to press on into the Hills of Bran-Galedd, where he would join them before nightfall.

  For long he stood silently. As the sky darkened, at last he turned away and climbed heavily astride Melynlas. He halted another moment by the mound of red earth and rough stones.

  “Sleep well, grower of turnips and gatherer of apples,” Taran murmured. “You are far from where you longed to be. So, too, am I.”

  Alone he rode across the darkening Fallows to the waiting hills.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Darkness

  In the days that followed, the companions strove to overtake the Cauldron-Born and again fling themselves across the path of the retreating warriors, but their progress was agonizingly slow. Taran knew Coll had spoken truly when he had called the Hills of Bran-Galedd both friend and foe: the rocky troughs and narrow defiles, the sudden drops where the ground fell away sharply into frozen gorges offered the companions their only hope of delaying the deathless host moving onward like a river of iron. But at the same time, from the high crags of the west, gusts of snow-laden wind battered the struggling band with icy hammers. The winding trails were slippery and treacherous. The ravines held deep pits filled with snow, where horse and rider might founder beyond rescue.

  In the hills, Taran’s most trusted guide was Llassar. Surefooted, long used to mountain ways, the Commot youth was now shepherd to a different, grimmer flock. More than once, Llassar’s keen senses kept the companions from the icy traps of snow-hidden crevices, and he discovered pathways no other eye could see. But the progress of the ragged band was nonetheless slow, and all suffered cruelly from the cold, men and animals alike. Only the great cat, Llyan, showed no concern for the bitter blasts that drove frosty needles against the faces of the companions.

  “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. The cold had even stopped Glew’s endless whining; the former giant pulled his hood over his face and little could be seen of him but the frostbitten end of his flabby nose. 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. As at the Red Fallows, the companions labored to build barriers of tree limbs, and set them across a narrow gorge, toiling until the sweat drenched their garments and froze in the bitter wind. This time the livid warriors overran them, mutely hacking away the branches with their swords. In despair, the men of the Commots clashed hand-to-hand with the oncoming foe; but the Cauldron-Born slashed mercilessly through their ranks. Taran and the Commot men sought to block the way with heavy boulders; but even with the help of Hevydd’s mighty arms this labor was beyond their strength, and the toll of the slain only rose higher.

  The days were a white nightmare of snow and wind. 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. Yet concealment served little purpose, the presence of the Commot warriors was known and their movements quickly sighted by the enemy captains. At first, the Cauldron-Born had chosen to disregard the ragged band; now the deathless marchers not only quickened their pace, they swung closer to Taran’s riders as though eager to join battle.

  This puzzled Fflewddur, who rode beside Taran at the head of the column.

  Taran frowned and shook his head grimly. “I understand it all too well,” he said. “Their power had waned when they were farther from Annuvin. Closer, it returns to them, and as we grow weaker, they grow stronger. Unless we halt them, one time for all, our efforts will do no more than sap our own strength. Soon,” he added bitterly, “we shall defeat ourselves more sharply than Arawn’s warriors could ever hope to do.”

  But he said nothing of another fear that lay in all their hearts. 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.

  Snow fell that night, and the companions halted, blinded by the whirling flakes and by their own weariness. Before dawn the Cauldron-Born attacked their camp.

  At first, Taran believed only one company of the mute warriors had overrun his outposts. As the Commot warriors sprang to arms amid the terrified shrieking of horses and the clang of blades, he quickly realized the entire enemy column was slashing across his lines. He spurred Melynlas into the fray. Fflewddur, with Glew clinging to his waist, was astride Llyan, who sped in great bounds to join the embattled defenders. Taran had lost sight of Eilonwy and Gurgi among the rush of warriors. Like a ruthless sword, the Cauldron-Born had split the Commot horsemen’s ranks and were streaming through unhindered, crushing all who stood against them.

  All day the uneven battle raged while the men of the Commots struggled vainly to rally their forces. By dusk the path of the Cauldron-Born was a bloody wake of wounded and slain. In one deadly blow, the Cauldron host had broken free of their pursuers to move swiftly and unfaltering from the hills.

  Eilonwy and Gurgi were missing.

  Fearful and dismayed, Taran and Fflewddur pressed their way through the shattered remnants of the war band struggling to regain their ranks. Torches had been lit to signal rallying points for the stragglers, who stumbled wounded and bewildered among the bodies of their fallen comrades. Throughout the night Taran searched frantically, sounding his horn and shouting the names of the lost companions. With Fflewddur, he had ridden beyond the battleground, hoping for some sign of either one of them. There was none, and the new snowfall, which began toward dawn, covered all tracks.

  By mid-morning, the survivors had gathered. The passage of the Cauld
ron-Born had taken heavy toll of both mounts and men; of the Commot warriors, one out of three had fallen beneath the swords of the deathless foe; and of the steeds, more than half. Lluagor galloped empty-saddled. Eilonwy and Gurgi were among neither the slain nor the living.

  Desperate now, Taran made ready to search through the farther hills. But Fflewddur, his face grave and filled with concern, took Taran’s arm and drew him back.

  “Alone, you can’t hope to find them,” warned the bard. “Neither can you spare time nor men for a search party. If we’re to stop those foul brutes before they reach the Fallows, we shall have to move with all speed. Your Commot friends are ready to march.”

  “You and Llassar must lead them,” Taran replied. “Once Eilonwy and Gurgi are found, we’ll join you somehow. Go quickly. We shall meet soon again.”

  The bard shook his head. “If that’s your command, so be it. But, as I have heard it, Taran Wanderer it was who called the Commot folk to his banner, and for the sake of Taran Wanderer they answered. They followed where you led. For none other would they have done as much.”

  “What, then,” Taran cried, “would you have me leave Eilonwy and Gurgi in danger?”

  “It is a heavy choice,” Fflewddur said. “Alas, none can lighten it for you.”

  Taran did not reply. Fflewddur’s words grieved him all the more because of their truth. Hevydd and Llassar had asked no more than to fight at his side. Llonio had given his life at Caer Dathyl. There was no Commot warrior who had not lost kinsman or comrade. If he left them to seek Eilonwy, would she herself deem his choice good? The horsemen awaited his orders. Melynlas impatiently pawed the ground.

  “If Eilonwy and Gurgi are slain,” Taran said in an anguished voice, “they are beyond my help. If they live, I must hope and trust they will find their way to us.” He swung heavily into the saddle. “If they live,” he murmured.

  Without daring a backward glance at the silent, empty hills, he rode toward the war band.