“Llyan shall carry her back with us,” Taran said. “She will need more healing herbs than I have brought; more than her wounds, a fever has weakened her. She has gone long without food or drink.”
“Her shoes are in ribbons,” Eilonwy said. “How far must she have wandered in this awful place? Poor Achren! I can’t say I’m fond of her, but it makes my toes curl up just imagining what could have happened.”
Fflewddur, after helping move the unconscious Queen to more level ground, had stayed a few paces away. Gurgi, too, chose to keep some distance between Achren and himself. Nevertheless, at Taran’s bidding they drew closer and the bard, with many soothing words, held Llyan steady while the other companions lifted Achren to the great cat’s back.
“Hurry along,” called the voice of Doli. “It’s starting to snow.”
White flakes had begun drifting from the heavy sky; within little time a biting wind swirled around the companions and snow drove against them in an ever-thickening cloud. Needles of ice stung their faces, it grew more and more difficult to see, and as the storm gained in fury even Doli could no longer be sure of the path. The companions staggered blindly in a file, each clutching the other, with Taran gripping an end of Doli’s staff. Kaw, almost entirely covered with snow, hunched up his wings and tried desperately to keep his perch on Taran’s shoulder. Llyan, burdened with the motionless Queen, bent her great head against the gale and plodded onward; but the surefooted cat often stumbled over hidden boulders and snow-filled pits. Once Gurgi yelled in terror and vanished as suddenly as if the earth had swallowed him. He had tumbled into a deep crevice and by the time the companions were able to haul him out, the hapless creature had nearly turned into a shaggy icicle. He trembled so violently he could scarcely walk, and between them, Taran and Fflewddur bore him along.
The wind did not slacken, the snow fell in an impenetrable curtain; and the cold, already bitter, grew even more intense. Breathing was painful and with each labored gasp Taran felt the frigid draft like daggers in his lungs. Eilonwy half-sobbed with cold and exhaustion, and she clung to Taran, striving to keep her footing as Doli led them through drifts that now had risen more than knee-high.
“We can’t go on,” the dwarf shouted above the wind. “Find shelter. Make our way to the horsemen when the snow lets up.”
“But the warriors, how shall they fare?” Taran replied anxiously.
“Better than we!” the dwarf cried. “Where they are, there’s a good-sized cave I noticed along the cliff wall. Your young shepherd is bound to find it, never fear. Our trouble is finding something for ourselves.”
However, even after long and painful searching, the dwarf discovered nothing more than a shallow gully below an overhanging ledge. The companions stumbled gratefully into it; here they were protected against the worst battering of the wind and snow. But the cold still gripped them, and no sooner had they halted than their bodies seemed to stiffen and they moved arms and legs only with the greatest difficulty. They clung together for warmth and pressed against Llyan’s thick coat of fur. Even this gave them little comfort for, as night fell, the chill deepened. Taran stripped off his cloak and covered Eilonwy and Achren; Gurgi insisted on adding his sheepskin jacket and he crouched with his shaggy arms wrapped around himself, his teeth chattering loudly.
“I fear that Achren will not live the night,” Taran murmured to Fflewddur. “She was too close to death when we found her. She will not have strength to stand such cold.”
“Will any of us?” answered the bard. “Without a fire, we might just as well say farewell to each other right now.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Eilonwy sighed. “I’ve never been so comfortable in all my life.”
Taran looked at her in alarm. The girl did not stir under the cloak. Her eyes were half-shut, her voice faltered with drowsiness.
“Quite warm,” she rambled on happily. “What a lovely goosefeather quilt I have. How odd. I dreamed we were all caught in a terrible storm. It wasn’t pleasant at all. Or am I still dreaming? No matter. When I wake up, it will all be gone away.”
Taran, his face drawn with anxiety, shook her roughly. “Don’t sleep!” he cried. “If you sleep it will be your death.”
Eilonwy did not answer him, but only turned her head away and closed her eyes. Gurgi had curled up beside her and could not be roused. Taran himself felt a fatal drowsiness spreading over him. “Fire,” he said, “we must build a fire.”
“From what?” Doli brusquely replied. “There’s not a twig to be found in this wilderness. What will you burn? Our boots? Our cloaks? We’ll freeze all the faster.” He flickered back into sight. “And if I’m going to freeze, I won’t do it with hornets buzzing in my ears.”
Fflewddur, who had been silent this while, reached behind him and unslung his harp. At this, Doli gave a furious shout.
“Harp music!” he cried. “My friend, your wits are frozen solid as ice!”
“It shall give us the tune we need,” replied Fflewddur.
Taran dragged himself to the side of the bard. “Fflewddur, what do you mean to do?”
The bard did not answer. For a long moment he held the harp lovingly in his hands and gently touched the strings, then with a quick motion raised the beautiful instrument and smashed it across his knee.
Taran cried out in anguish as the wood shattered into splinters and the harp strings tore loose with a discordant burst of sound. Fflewddur let the broken fragments drop from his hands.
“Burn it,” he said. “It is wood well-seasoned.”
Taran seized the bard by the shoulders. “What have you done?” he sobbed. “Gallant, foolish Fflam! You have destroyed your harp for the sake of a moment’s warmth. We need a greater fire than this wood can ever give us.”
Doli, however, had quickly taken flint from his pouch and had struck a spark into the pitiful heap of splinters. Instantly, the wood blazed up and sudden warmth poured over the companions. Taran stared amazed at the rising flames. The bits of wood seemed hardly to be consumed, yet the fire burned all the more brightly. Gurgi stirred and raised his head. His teeth had ceased their chattering and color was returning to his frost-pinched face. Eilonwy, too, sat up and looked about her as though waking from a dream. At a glance she understood what fuel the bard had offered, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” cried Fflewddur. “The truth of the matter is that I’m delighted to be rid of it. I could never really play the thing, and it was more a burden than anything else. Great Belin, I feel light as a feather without it. Believe me, I was never meant to be a bard in the first place, so all is for the best.”
In the depths of the flame several harp strings split in two and a puff of sparks flew into the air.
“But it gives a foul smoke,” Fflewddur muttered, though the fire was burning clear and brilliant. “It makes my eyes water horribly.”
The flames had now spread to all the fragments, and as the harp strings blazed a melody sprang suddenly from the heart of the fire. Louder and more beautiful it grew, and the strains of music filled the air, echoing endlessly among the crags. Dying, the harp seemed to be pouring forth all the songs ever played upon it, and the sound shimmered like the fire.
All night the harp sang, and its melodies were of joy, sorrow, love, and valor. The fire never abated, and little by little new life and strength returned to the companions. And as the notes soared upward a wind rose from the south, parting the falling snow like a curtain and flooding the hills with warmth. Only at dawn did the flame sink into glowing embers and the voice of the harp fall silent. The storm had ended, the crags glistened with melting snow.
Wordless and wondering, the companions left their shelter. Fflewddur lingered behind for a moment. Of the harp, nothing remained but a single string, the one unbreakable string which Gwydion had given the bard long ago. Fflewddur knelt and drew it from the ashes. In the heat of the fire the harp string had twisted and coiled around itself,
but it glittered like pure gold.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mount Dragon
As Doli had foretold, Llassar had led the warriors to shelter in a cave and had saved them from the full fury of the snowstorm. The companions now made ready to continue their journey. The sharp crags that were their last obstacle lay not far distant. The crest of Mount Dragon loomed dark and forbidding. With the help of Taran’s healing potions and Eilonwy’s care, Achren had regained consciousness. Fflewddur was still reluctant to come within fewer than three paces of the black-robed Queen, but Gurgi had finally taken enough courage to open his wallet and offer food to the half-starved woman—although the creature’s face wrinkled uneasily and he held out the morsels at arm’s length, as if fearful of being bitten. Achren, however, ate sparingly; Glew, for his part, lost no time in snatching up what remained, popping it into his mouth and glancing about to see whether more might be forthcoming.
Achren’s fever had left her weakened in body, yet her face had lost none of its haughtiness; and after Taran had briefly recounted what had brought the companions so close to Annuvin it was with ill-disguised scorn that she answered him.
“Does a pig-keeper and his shabby followers hope to triumph where a Queen failed? I would have reached Annuvin long since, had it not been for Magg and his warriors. By chance, his war band came upon me in Cantrev Cadiffor.” Her broken lips drew back in a bitter grimace. “They left me for dead. I heard Magg laugh when they told him I had been slain. He, too, shall know my vengeance.
“Yes, I lay in the forest like a wounded beast. But my hatred was sharper than their sword thrusts. I would have crept after them on hands and knees and given my last strength to strike them down, though indeed I feared that I would die unrevenged. But I found refuge. There are still those in Prydain who pay homage to Achren. Until I could journey once again, they sheltered me; and for that service they shall be rewarded.
“Yet I failed even within sight of my goal. The gwythaints were more ruthless than Magg. They would have made certain of my death—I, who once commanded them. Sharp will be their punishment.”
“I have the awful feeling,” Eilonwy whispered to Taran, “that Achren sometimes thinks she’s still Queen of Prydain. Not that I mind, so long as she doesn’t take it into her head to try to punish us.”
Achren, overhearing Eilonwy’s remarks, turned to the girl. “Forgive me, Princess of Llyr,” she said quickly. “I spoke half in a rambling dream and the cold comforts of memory. I am grateful to you for my life and shall repay you far beyond its worth. Hear me well. Would you pass the mountain bastions of Annuvin? You follow the wrong path.”
“Humph!” Doli cried, popping visible for a moment. “Don’t tell one of the Fair Folk he’s on the wrong path.”
“Yet it is true,” Achren replied. “There are secrets unknown even to your people.”
“It’s no secret that if you cross mountains you choose the easiest way,” Doli snapped back. “And that’s what I plan. I’m taking my bearings from Mount Dragon, but you can believe me, once we’re closer, we’ll turn aside and find a passage through the lower slopes. Do you think I’m such a fool as to do otherwise?”
Achren smiled contemptuously. “In so doing, dwarf, you would indeed be a fool. Of all the peaks surrounding Annuvin, Mount Dragon alone can be breached. Heed me,” she added, as Taran murmured in disbelief. “The crags are lures and traps. Others have been deceived, and their bones lie in the pitfalls. The lower mountains beckon with promise of easier passage, but no sooner are they crossed than they fall away into sheer cliffs. Does Mount Dragon warn you to shun its heights? The western descent is a very roadway to the Iron Portals of Annuvin. To reach it there is a hidden trail, where I shall guide you.”
Taran looked closely at the Queen. “Such are your words, Achren. Do you ask us to stake our lives on them?”
Achren’s eyes glittered. “In your heart you fear me, Pig-Keeper. But which do you fear the more—the path I offer you or the certain death of Lord Gwydion? Do you seek to overtake Arawn’s Cauldron warriors? This you cannot do, for time will defeat you unless you follow where I lead. This is my gift to you, Pig-Keeper. Scorn it if you choose, and we shall go our separate ways.”
Achren turned and muffled herself with her ragged cloak. The companions drew away from her and spoke among themselves. Doli, thoroughly vexed and disgruntled by Achren’s judgment of his skill, nonetheless admitted that he could have unwittingly led them astray. “We Fair Folk have never dared to journey here, and I can’t prove what she says one way or the other. But I’ve seen mountains that look sheer on one side—and on the other you could roll down without so much as a bump. So she could be telling the truth.”
“And she could be trying to get rid of us the fastest way she knows,” the bard put in. “Those pitfalls with bones in them make my flesh creep. I think Achren would be delighted if some of those bones were ours. She’s playing her own game, you can be sure of that.” He shook his head uneasily. “A Fflam is fearless, but with Achren, I prefer being wary.”
Taran was silent a moment, searching for the wisdom to choose one way or the other, and again felt the weight of the burden Gwydion had set upon him to be more than he could bear. Achren’s face was a pallid mask; he could read nothing of her heart in it. More than once the Queen would have taken the lives of the companions. But, as he knew, she had served Dallben well and faithfully after her own powers had been shattered. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that we can do no less than trust her until she gives us clear reason to doubt. I fear her,” he added, “as do all of us. Yet I will not let fear blind me to hope.”
“I agree,” said Eilonwy, “which makes me think in this case, at least, your judgment is quite right. I admit that trusting Achren is like letting a hornet sit on your nose. But sometimes you only get stung when you try to brush it off—the hornet, I mean.”
Taran went to Achren’s side. “Lead us to Mount Dragon,” he said. “We will follow you.”
Another day’s travel brought the companions across a harsh, uneven valley that lay within the shadow of Mount Dragon itself. The summit had been well named, for Taran saw its peak was in the rough shape of a monstrous, crested head with gaping jaws, and on either side the lower slopes spread like outflung wings. The great blocks and shafts of stone that rose to form its jagged bulk were dark, mottled with patches of dull red. Before this last barrier, poised as though to swoop downward and crush them, the companions fearfully halted. Achren strode to the head of the waiting column and beckoned them onward.
“There are other, easier paths,” Achren said, as they entered a narrow defile that twisted between towering walls of sheer cliffs, “but they are longer and those who travel them can be seen before they reach the stronghold of Annuvin. This one is known only to Arawn and his most trusted servants. And to me, for it was I who showed him the secret ways of Mount Dragon.”
Taran, however, soon began to fear Achren had deceived them, for the path rose so steeply that men and horses could barely keep their footing. Achren seemed to be leading them deep into the heart of the mountain. Mighty shelves of overhanging rocks rose like arches above the toiling band, blotting the sky from their sight. At times, the path skirted yawning chasms and more than once Taran stumbled, buffeted by a sudden chill blast that flung him against the walls. His heart pounded and his head reeled at the sight of the deep gorges opening at his feet, and terrified he clung to the sharp edges of jutting rocks. Achren, whose step did not falter, only turned and silently glanced at him, a mocking smile on her ravaged face.
The path continued to rise, though not so abruptly, for it no longer followed the slope of the mountain but seemed almost to double back on itself, and the companions gained the higher reaches of the trail only by small degrees. The huge stone jaws of the dragon’s head loomed above. The trail that for some of its course had been hidden by grotesque formations of rocks now lay exposed, and Taran could see most of the mountain slope dropping sharply b
elow him. They were almost at the highest ridge of the dragon’s shoulder, and it was there that Kaw, scouting ahead, returned to them and clacked his beak frantically.
“Gwydion! Gwydion!” the crow jabbered at the top of his voice. “Annuvin! Haste!”
Taran sprang past Achren and raced to the ridge, clambering upward among the rocks, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the stronghold. Had the Sons of Don already begun their attack on Annuvin? Had Gwydion’s warriors themselves overtaken the Cauldron-Born? His heart pounding against his ribs, he struggled higher. Suddenly the dark towers of Arawn’s fastness were below him. Beyond the high walls, beyond the massive Iron Portals, ugly and brooding, he glimpsed the spreading courtyards, the Hall of Warriors where once the Black Cauldron had stood. Arawn’s Great Hall rose, glittering like black, polished marble, and above it, at the highest pinnacle, floated the Death-Lord’s banner.
The sight of Annuvin sickened him with the chill of death that hung over it, his head spun and shadows seemed to blind him. He pressed higher. Struggling shapes filled the courtyard, the clash of blades and shouted battle cries struck his ears. Men were scaling the western wall; Dark Gate itself had been breached, and Taran believed he saw the flash of Melyngar’s white flanks and golden mane, and the tall figures of Gwydion and Taliesin.
The Commot men had not failed! Arawn’s deathless host had been held back and victory was in Gwydion’s hands. But even as Taran turned to shout the joyous tidings, his heart froze. Southward he glimpsed the hastening army of Cauldron-Born. Their iron-shod boots rang and clattered as the mute warriors raced toward the heavy gates and the horns of the troop captains shrieked for vengeance.
Taran leaped from the ridge to join the companions. The shelf of stone crumbled at his feet. He pitched forward. Eilonwy’s scream rang in his ears, and the sharp rocks seemed to whirl upward against him. Desperately he clutched at them and strove to break his fall. With all his strength he clung to the sheer side of Mount Dragon, while jagged stones bit like teeth into his palms. His sword, ripped from his belt, clattered into the gorge.
The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company)) Page 17
