He saw the horrified faces of the companions above him and knew he was beyond their reach. His muscles trembling, his lungs bursting with his efforts, he fought to climb upward to the path.
His foot slipped and he twisted about to regain his balance. It was then that he saw, plunging from the peak of Mount Dragon, the gwythaint speeding toward him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Death-Lord
The gwythaint, greater than any Taran had ever seen, screamed and beat its wings, churning a wind like a gale of death. Taran saw the curved, gaping beak and blood-red eyes, and in another instant the gwythaint’s talons sank into his shoulders, seeking to grip the flesh beneath his cloak. The relentless bird pressed so closely that the reek of its feathers filled Taran’s nostrils. Its head, deeply scarred by an old wound, thrust against him.
Taran turned his face away and waited for the beak to rend his throat. Yet the gwythaint did not strike. Instead, it was pulling him from the rocks with a strength Taran could not resist. The gwythaint no longer screamed, but made soft keening sounds, and the bird’s eyes fixed upon him not in fury but in a strange gaze of recognition.
The bird seemed to be urging him to loosen his grasp. A sudden memory from his boyhood flooded Taran, and again he saw a fledgling gwythaint in a thombush—a young bird wounded and dying. Was this the ragged bundle of feathers he had nursed back to life? Had the creature come at last to pay a debt so long remembered? Taran dared not hope, yet as he clung, weakening, to the side of Mount Dragon, it was his only hope. He relaxed his grip and let himself fall free.
The weight of its burden made the gwythaint falter and drop earthward for a moment. Below Taran, the crags reeled. With all its strength, the huge bird beat its wings and Taran felt himself borne upward, higher and higher, as the wind whistled in his ears. Its black wings heaving and straining, the gwythaint pressed steadily aloft until at last its talons opened and Taran fell to the stone-crested peak of Mount Dragon.
Achren had spoken the truth. The short, downward slope lay before him, clear and unhindered to the Iron Portals, which now swung open as the hastening army of Cauldron-Born streamed into Annuvin. The deathless host had drawn their swords. Within the stronghold, Gwydion’s warriors had seen the foe, and shouts of despair rose from the embattled Sons of Don.
A troop of Cauldron-Born, sighting the lone figure of Taran atop the mountain’s summit and the companions who now had crossed the ridge, broke from the main body of the host and turned their attack upon Mount Dragon. Brandishing their weapons, they sped up the slope.
The gwythaint, circling overhead, screamed a war cry. Sweeping its wings, the giant bird flew straight to the onrushing warriors and plunged into their ranks, striking out with beak and claws. Under the violence of the gwythaint’s unexpected charge, the first rank of Cauldron-Born fell back and stumbled to the ground, but one of the mute warriors lashed out with his sword, striking again and again until the gwythaint dropped at his feet. The huge wings fluttered and trembled, then the battered body lay still.
Three of the Cauldron-Born had leaped past their comrades and raced toward Taran, who read his own death in their livid faces. His eyes darted about the summit, vainly seeking a last means of defense.
At the highest peak of the dragon’s crest rose a tall rock. Time and tempest had gnawed it into a grotesque shape. The wind, blowing through the eroded crannies and hollows, set up a baleful keening, and the stone shrieked and moaned as if with human tongue. The weird wail seemed to command, to beseech, to draw Taran closer. Here was his only weapon. He flung himself against the rock and wrestled against the unyielding bulk, struggling to uproot it. The Cauldron-Born were nearly upon him.
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 Arawn 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.
The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company)) Page 18
