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

by Lloyd Alexander

  The flames vanished. Dallben, about to turn away, glimpsed one figure which still pressed across the empty field. Alarmed, the old man gripped his staff and hobbled as quickly as he could into the cottage. The warrior was striding past the stables and into the dooryard. With footfalls pounding behind him, Dallben hurried across the threshold, but the old man had no sooner gained the refuge of his chamber than the warrior burst through the doorway. Dallben spun about to face his assailant.

  “Beware!” cried the enchanter. “Beware! Take no step closer.”

  Dallben had drawn himself up to his full height, his eyes flashed, and his voice rang with such a commanding tone that the warrior hesitated. The man’s hood had fallen back and the firelight played over the golden hair and proud features of Pryderi Son of Pwyll.

  Dallben’s eyes never faltered. “I have long awaited you, King of the West Domains.”

  Pryderi made as if to take a step forward. His hand dropped to the pommel of the naked sword at his belt. Yet the old man’s glance held him. “You mistake my rank,” Pryderi said mockingly. “Now I rule a larger realm. Prydain itself.”

  “What then,” replied Dallben, feigning surprise, “is Gwydion of the House of Don no longer High King of Prydain?”

  Pryderi laughed harshly. “A king without a kingdom? A king in rags, hunted like a fox? Caer Dathyl has fallen, the Sons of Don are scattered to the wind. This you already know, though it seems the tidings have reached you swiftly.”

  “All tidings reach me swiftly,” Dallben said. “Swifter, perhaps, than they reach you.”

  “Do you boast of your powers?” Pryderi answered scornfully. “At the last, when you most needed them, they failed. Your spells did no more than frighten a handful of warriors. Does the crafty Dallben take pride in putting churls to flight?”

  “My spells were not meant to destroy, only to warn,” Dallben replied. “This is a place of danger to all who enter against my will. Your followers heeded my warning. Alas, Lord Pryderi, that you did not. These churls are wiser than their king, for it is not wisdom that a man should seek his own death.”

  “Again you are mistaken, wizard,” Pryderi said. “It is your death I seek.”

  Dallben tugged at the wisps of his beard. “What you may seek and what you may find are not always one, Son of Pwyll,” he said quietly. “Yes, you would take my life. That is no secret to me. Has Caer Dathyl fallen? That victory is hollow so long as Caer Dallben stands and so long as I live. Two strongholds have long stood against the Lord of Annuvin: a golden castle and a farmer’s cottage. One lies in ruins. But the other is still a shield against evil, and a sword ever pointed at Arawn’s heart. The Death-Lord knows this, and knows as well that he cannot enter here, nor can his Huntsmen and Cauldron-Born.

  “Thus have you come,” Dallben added, “to do your master’s bidding.”

  A flush of anger spread over Pryderi’s face. “I am my own master,” he cried. “If power is given me to serve Prydain, shall I fear to use it? I am no Huntsman, who kills for the joy of killing. I do what must be done, and shrink not from it. My purpose is greater than the life of a man, or a thousand men. And if you must die, Dallben, then so be it.”

  Pryderi ripped the sword from his belt, and in a sudden movement struck at the enchanter. But Dallben had taken a firmer grip on his staff and raised it against the blow. Pryderi’s blade shattered upon the slender wood, and the shards fell ringing to the ground.

  Pryderi cast the broken hilt from him. Yet it was not fear that filled his eyes, but scorn. “I have been warned of your powers, wizard. I chose to prove them for myself.”

  Dallben had not moved. “Have you been truly warned? I think not. Had you been, you would not have dared to face me.”

  “Your strength is great, wizard,” Pryderi said, “but not so great as your weakness. Your secret is known to me. Strive against me as you will. At the end it is I who must conquer. Of all powers, one is forbidden you on pain of your own death. Are you master of winds? Can you make the earth tremble? This is useless toying. You cannot do what the lowest warrior can do: you cannot kill.”

  From his cloak Pryderi had drawn a short black dagger whose pommel bore the seal of Annuvin. “No such ban is laid upon me,” he said. “As I have been warned, so have I been armed. This blade comes from the hand of Arawn himself. It can be wielded despite all your spells.”

  A look of pity and deep sorrow had come over Dallben’s wrinkled face. “Poor foolish man,” he murmured. “It is true. This weapon of Annuvin can take my life and I cannot stay your hand. But you are blind as the mole that toils in the earth. Ask now, Lord Pryderi, which the master and which the slave. Arawn has betrayed you.

  “Yes, betrayed you,” Dallben said, his voice sharp and cold. “You thought to make him serve you. Yet all unwitting you have served him better than any of his hirelings. He sent you to slay me, and gave you the means to do it. Indeed, perhaps you shall slay me. But it will be Arawn’s triumph, not yours. Once you have done his bidding, you are a useless husk to the Lord of Annuvin. He knows full well that never will I let you depart alive from Caer Dallben. You are a dead man, Lord Pryderi, even as you stand here.”

  Pryderi raised the black dagger. “With words you seek to ward off your death.”

  “See from the window,” Dallben answered.

  As he spoke, a crimson glow poured through the casement. A broad belt of flames had sprung up to circle Caer Dallben. Pryderi faltered and stepped back. “You have believed half-truths,” Dallben said. “No man has ever suffered death at my hands. But those who scorn my spells do so at their own peril. Slay me, Lord Pryderi, and the flames you see will sweep over Caer Dallben in an instant. There is no escape for you.”

  Pryderi’s golden features were drawn in a look of disbelief, mingled with growing fear at the enchanter’s words. “You lie,” he whispered hoarsely. “The flames will die, even as you will die.”

  “That, Lord, you must prove for yourself,” Dallben said.

  “I have my proof!” Pryderi cried. “Arawn would not destroy what he seeks most. There were two tasks! In all your wisdom you did not guess them. Your death was only one. The other, to gain The Book of Three.”

  Dallben shook his head sadly and glanced at the heavy, leather-bound tome. “You have been doubly betrayed, then. This book will no more serve Arawn than it will serve any evil end. Nor will it serve you, Lord Pryderi.”

  The force of the old man’s voice was like a cold wind. “You have steeped your hands in blood, and in your pride sought to pass judgment on your fellow men. Was it your concern to serve Prydain? You chose an evil means to do it. Good cannot come from evil. You leagued yourself with Arawn for what you deemed a noble cause. Now you are a prisoner of the very evil you hoped to overcome, prisoner and victim. For in The Book of Three you are already marked for death.”

  Dallben’s eyes blazed and the truth of his words seemed to grip Pryderi’s throat. The King’s face had turned ashen. With a cry, he flung away the dagger and clutched at the huge book. Desperately his hands reached out as if they would rip it asunder.

  “Touch it not!” Dallben commanded.

  But Pryderi had already seized it. As he did so a blinding bolt of lightning sprang like a blazing tree from the ancient tome. Pryderi’s death shriek rang through the chamber.

  Dallben turned away and bowed his head as though some heavy grief had come upon him. Beyond the little farm the circle of fire dwindled and faded in the quiet dawn.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Snowstorm

  The Fair Folk warriors, all save Doli, had turned back at the line of treeless crags marking the westernmost edge of the Hills of Bran-Galedd, for beyond that point the land lay under the sway of Arawn Death-Lord. For some days now the companions had toiled painfully through a wilderness of stone, where not even moss or lichen flourished. The sky was gray, and the few thin clouds no more than shreds of darker gray. It was as though an evil mist had seeped from the stronghold of Annuvin, s
tifling all living things and leaving only this rocky waste.

  The companions spoke little, husbanding their strength. From the first day within the borders of the Land of Death, they had been obliged to dismount and go on foot, leading the weary horses through the treacherous passes. Even the stallion Melynlas showed signs of fatigue; the steed’s powerful neck drooped and his gait sometimes faltered. Llyan, however, padded skillfully along the narrowest and most dangerous of ledges. Often, while the companions labored down one sharp descent to clamber up an even sharper slope, the enormous cat leaped from one crag to the next, and they would come upon her sitting with her tail coiled about her haunches, waiting for Fflewddur to scratch her ears, after which she would bound off once more.

  Doli, firmly gripping his staff, his white hood pulled well down over his face, trudged at the head of the little band. Taran had never ceased to wonder at the tireless dwarf who found, as though by secret sense, hidden footpaths and narrow ways that helped speed the harsh journey.

  Yet, after a time, Doli’s pace seemed to flag. Taran saw with growing concern and uneasiness that from time to time the dwarf would lose his footing and his step turn suddenly unsure. When Doli staggered and dropped to one knee, Taran ran to his side, alarmed, and tried to lift up the dwarf. The companions hurried to join him.

  Doli’s usually ruddy face had grown mottled and he breathed only in painful gasps. He struggled to regain his feet.

  “Curse this evil realm,” he muttered. “Can’t stand it as well as I thought. Don’t gawk! Give me a hand up.”

  Stubbornly, the dwarf refused to mount one of the horses, insisting he felt better when his feet were on the ground. When Taran urged him to rest, Doli angrily shook his head. “I said I’d find a passage for you,” he snapped. “And I mean to. Can’t stand a botched job. When the Fair Folk set about a task, they do it right, and don’t dawdle over it.”

  Nevertheless, after a short while Doli reluctantly consented to climb astride Melynlas. He fumbled with the stirrups but grumbled irritably when Fflewddur helped him into the saddle.

  Even this relief was not long lasting. The dwarf’s head soon dropped weakly forward, he swayed unsteadily and, before Taran could reach him, lurched from the stallion’s back and pitched to the ground.

  Taran quickly signaled a halt. “We’ll go no farther today,” he told the dwarf. “By morning you’ll have your strength again.”

  Doli shook his head. His face was white, his crimson eyes had turned dull. “No use waiting,” he gasped. “I’ve been too long here. It will grow worse. Must keep on while I can still guide you.”

  “Not at the cost of your life,” Taran said. “Hevydd the Smith will ride with you to the border. Llassar Son of Drudwas will help the rest of us find our way.”

  “Won’t do,” muttered the dwarf. “Take too long without Fair Folk skill. Tie me to the saddle,” he commanded.

  He strove to raise himself from the ground, but fell back and lay motionless. His breathing grew rasping and violent.

  Taran cried out in alarm, “He’s dying. Hurry, Fflewddur. Help me put him on Llyan. She is the swiftest mount. Ride back with him. There may still be time.”

  “Leave me here,” Doli gasped. “You can’t spare Fflewddur. His sword is worth ten. Or six, at least. Go quickly.”

  “That I will not do,” replied Taran.

  “Fool!” choked the dwarf. “Heed me!” he commanded. “It must be done. Are you a war-leader or an Assistant Pig-Keeper?”

  Taran knelt by the dwarf, whose eyes were half-closed, and gently put a hand on Doli’s shoulder. “Need you ask, old friend? I’m an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”

  Taran rose to meet the bard, who had hastened up with Llyan, but when he turned back to the dwarf, the ground was empty. Doli had vanished.

  “Where has he gone?” shouted Fflewddur.

  An irritable voice came from somewhere near a boulder. “Here! Where else do you think?”

  “Doli!” cried Taran. “You were close to your death, and now …”

  “I’ve turned invisible, as any clodpole with half an ounce of sense can plainly see,” snorted Doli. “Should have thought of it before. Last time in Annuvin, I was invisible most of the way. Never realized how it protected me.”

  “Can it serve you now?” asked Taran, still a little bewildered. “Dare you keep on?”

  “Of course,” the dwarf retorted. “I’m better already. But I’ll have to stay invisible. As long as I can stand it, that is! Invisible! Hornets and wasps in my ears!”

  “Good old Doli!” Taran cried, seeking vainly to pump the dwarf’s unseen hand.

  “Not that again!” snapped the dwarf. “I’d not do this willingly—oh, my ears—for any mortal in Prydain—oh, my head—but you! And don’t shout! My ears won’t stand it!”

  Doli’s staff, which had dropped to the ground, seemed to rise of itself, as the invisible dwarf picked it up. From the motion of the staff Taran could see that Doli had once more begun trudging ahead.

  Guiding themselves by the length of wood, the companions followed. Yet even without sight of the staff they could have found their way, led by the sound of loud and furious grumbling.

  Fflewddur was first to sight the gwythaints. In the distance, above a shallow ravine three black-winged shapes soared and circled. “What have they found?” the bard cried. “Whatever it is, I hope we’re not the ones to be found next!”

  Taran sounded his horn and signaled the war band to find whatever protection they could among the huge boulders. Eilonwy, disregarding Taran’s orders, scrambled to the top of a high, jutting stone and shaded her eyes.

  “I can’t tell for sure,” Eilonwy said, “but it looks to me as though they’ve cornered something. Poor creature. It will not last long against them.”

  Gurgi crouched fearfully against a rock and tried to make himself as flat as a fish. “Nor will Gurgi, if they see him,” he wailed. “They will seize his poor tender head with gashings and slashings!”

  “Pass on! Pass on!” Glew shouted, his little face puckered in fright. “They’re busy with their prey. Don’t stop here like fools. Get as far away as we can. Oh, if I were a giant again, you’d not find me lingering!”

  The gwythaints narrowed their circle and had begun to swoop downward, seeking their kill. But suddenly what appeared to be a black cloud, with a dark shape leading it, streaked down from the eastern quarter of the sky. Before the surprised companions could follow its swift movement overhead, the cloud shattered as if at its leader’s command into winged fragments that drove straight upon the huge birds. Even at this distance Taran could hear the furious screams of the gwythaints as they veered aloft to face these strange assailants.

  Fflewddur had leaped up beside Eilonwy and, as Taran and Doli clambered to a vantage point, the bard shouted excitedly: “Crows! Great Belin, I’ve never seen so many!”

  Like great black hornets, the crows swarmed over their enemy; it was not a single combat of bird against bird, but a battle in which whole troops of crows grappled and clung to the gwythaints’ lashing wings, heedless of sharp beaks and talons, forcing the creatures earthward. When, by sheer strength, the gwythaints shook off their attackers, a new troop would form and renew the charge. The gwythaints sought to break free of their burden by plunging downward, scraping as closely as they dared against the sharp stones. But as they did, the crows pecked furiously at them and the gwythaints spun and fluttered dizzily, losing their course and falling once again victim to the relentless onslaught.

  In a last burst of power, the gwythaints beat their way aloft; they turned and sped desperately northward, with the crows in hot pursuit. They vanished over the horizon, all save a solitary crow that flew swiftly toward the companions.

  “Kaw!” Taran shouted and held out his arm.

  Jabbering at the top of his voice, the crow swooped down. His eyes glittered in triumph and he flapped his shiny wings more proudly than a rooster. He gabbled, croaked, squawked, and poured forth such
a torrent of yammering that Gurgi clapped his hands over his ears.

  From his perch on Taran’s wrist, Kaw bobbed his head and clacked his beak, thoroughly delighted with himself and never for a moment ceasing his chatter.

  Taran, trying vainly to interrupt the crow’s raucous and boastful clamor, had despaired of learning any tidings from the roguish bird when Kaw flapped his wings and sought to fly off again.

  “Achren!” Kaw croaked. “Achren! Queen!”

  “You’ve seen her?” Taran caught his breath. He had given little thought to the once-powerful Queen since her flight from Caer Dallben. “Where is she?”

  The crow fluttered a little distance away, then returned, his beating wings urging Taran to follow him. “Close! Close! Gwythaints!”

  Eilonwy gasped. “That’s what we saw. The gwythaints have slain her!”

  “Alive!” Kaw answered. “Hurt!”

  Taran ordered the Commot horsemen to await him, then leaped to the ground to follow after Kaw. Eilonwy, Doli, and Gurgi hastened to join him. Glew refused to budge, remarking that he had already skinned himself on enough rocks and had no intention of going out of his way for anyone.

  Fflewddur hesitated a moment. “Yes, well, I suppose I shall go along, too, should you need help in carrying her. But it doesn’t sit well with me. Achren was eager enough to go her own way, and I rather think we shouldn’t meddle. Not that I fear her, not for a moment—ah, the truth of it is,” he hurriedly added, as the harp strings tensed, “the woman makes me shudder. Since the day she threw me into her dungeon, I’ve noticed something unfriendly about her. She has no fondness for music, I can tell you. Nevertheless,” he cried, “a Fflam to the rescue!”

  Like a tattered bundle of black rags the still form of Queen Achren lay in the fissure of a massive rock where she had, in her last hope, pressed to escape the gwythaints’ vicious beaks and talons. Yet her refuge, Taran saw pityingly, had offered the Queen scant protection. Achren moaned faintly as the companions carefully lifted her from the crevice. Llyan, who had followed along with the bard, crouched silently nearby, and lashed her tail uneasily. Achren’s face, drawn and deathly pale, had been badly slashed, and her arms bore many deep and bleeding wounds. Eilonwy held the woman and tried to revive her.