The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) (13 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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Until then Ellidyr’s eyes had burned with triumph, but now his face changed.
“My cauldron has been won back from the river,” he said, with a curious glance at Taran. “But I think perhaps I was too hasty. You met my terms too quickly,” he added. “Tell me, what is in your mind, pig-boy?” Rage filled him again. “I know well enough! Once more you would try to cheat me!”
“You have my oath,” Taran began.
“What is the oath of a pig-boy?” Ellidyr said. “You gave it; you will break it!”
“Speak for yourself,” Eilonwy said angrily. “That’s what you would do, Prince of Pen-Llarcau. But we are not like you.”
“The cauldron needed all of us to raise it,” Ellidyr continued, lowering his voice. “But does it now need all of us to carry it? A few would serve,” he added. “Yes, yes—only a few. Perhaps only one, if he were strong enough.
“Was my price too low?” he went on, spinning around to face Taran.
“Ellidyr,” Taran cried, “you are truly mad.”
“Yes!” laughed Ellidyr. “Mad to believe your word alone! The price must be silence, utter silence!” His hand moved to his sword.
“Yes, pig-boy, I knew in time we should have to face one another.”
He lunged forward, his sword out and raised. Before Taran could draw his own blade, Ellidyr swung viciously and pressed to the attack. Taran stumbled down the riverbank and leaped to a boulder, feverishly grasping for his weapon. Ellidyr strode into the water while the companions raced to stop him.
As Ellidyr swung his blade again, Taran lost his footing and toppled from the boulder. He tried to rise, but the stones slipped from under him and he stumbled backward. He threw up his hands. The current was clutching at him and he fell. The sharp edge of a rock loomed up, and he knew no more.
The Loss
I
t was night when Taran came to his senses. He found himself propped against a log, a cloak wrapped around him. His head throbbed; his body ached. Eilonwy was bending over him anxiously. Taran blinked his eyes and tried to sit up. For some moments his memory held only a mingling of sights and sounds, of rushing water, a stone, a shout; his head still whirled. A yellow light shone in his eyes. He realized, as his mind gradually cleared, that the girl had lit the golden sphere and had set it on the log. Beside him, a small fire blazed. Crouched next to it, the bard and Gurgi fed twigs to the flames.
“I’m glad you decided to wake up,” Eilonwy said, trying to appear cheerful, as Fflewddur and Gurgi came to kneel beside Taran. “You swallowed so much of the river we were afraid we’d never be able to pump it out of you, and that rap on your head didn’t help matters.”
“The Crochan!” Taran gasped. “Ellidyr!” He looked around him. “This fire,” he murmured, “we dare not show a light—Arawn’s warriors …”
“It was either build a fire or let you freeze to death,” said the bard, “so of course we decided on the first. At this point,” he added with a wry grin, “I doubt it can make too much difference. Since
the cauldron is out of our hands, I don’t believe Arawn will have quite the same interest in us. Happily, I might say.”
“Where is the Crochan?” Taran asked. Despite his spinning head, he raised himself from the log.
“It is with Ellidyr,” said Eilonwy.
“And if you ask where
he
is,” put in the bard, “we can answer you very quickly: we do not know.”
“Wicked prince goes off with wicked pot,” Gurgi added. “Yes, yes, with ridings and stridings!”
“Good riddance to them,” agreed Fflewddur. “I don’t know which is worse, the Crochan or Ellidyr. Now, at least, they’re both together.”
“You let him go?” Taran cried in alarm. He put his hands to his head. “You let him steal the Crochan?”
“Let is hardly the word, my friend,” the bard answered ruefully.
“You seem to have forgotten,” Eilonwy added. “Ellidyr was trying to kill you. It’s a good thing you fell into the river, because I can tell you the goings-on weren’t very pleasant on the shore.
“It was terrible, as a matter of fact,” the girl went on. “We’d all started after Ellidyr—by that time you were already floating down the river like a twig in a—well, like a twig in a river. We tried to save you, but Ellidyr turned on us.
“I’m certain he meant to kill us,” Eilonwy said. “You should have seen his face, and his eyes. He was furious. Worse than that. Fflewddur tried to stand against him …”
“That villain has the strength of ten!” said the bard. “I could barely draw my sword—it’s clumsy when you have a broken arm, you understand. But I faced him! A dreadful clash of weapons! You’ve never seen the prowess of an outraged Fflam! Another
moment and I should have had him at my mercy—in a manner of speaking,” the bard added quickly. “He knocked me sprawling.”
“And Gurgi fought, too! Yes, yes, with smitings and bitings!”
“Poor Gurgi,” said Eilonwy, “he did his best. But Ellidyr picked him up and tossed him against a tree. When I tried to draw my bow, he snatched it away and snapped it in his hands.”
“He chased us into the woods, after that,” Fflewddur said. “I’ve never seen a man in such a frenzy. Shouting at the top of his voice, calling us robbers and oath-breakers, and that we were trying to keep him in second place, that’s all he’s able to say or think now, if you choose to call that thinking.”
Taran shook his head sadly. “I fear the black beast has swallowed him up as Adaon warned,” he said. “I pity Ellidyr from the bottom of my heart.”
“I should pity him more,” muttered Fflewddur, “if he hadn’t tried to slice off my head.”
“For long, I hated him,” Taran said, “but in the little while I bore Adaon’s brooch, I believe I saw him more clearly. His heart is unhappy and tormented. Nor shall I forget what he said to me: that I taunted him for seeking glory yet clung to it myself.” Taran spread his hands in front of him. “With dirty hands,” he said heavily.
“Pay no heed to what Ellidyr says,” Eilonwy cried. “After what he made us do, he has no right to blame anyone for anything.”
“And yet,” Taran said softly, almost to himself, “he spoke the truth.”
“Did he?” said Eilonwy. “It was only too true, for his own honor he would have slain us all.”
“We managed to escape from him,” Fflewddur continued. “That is, he finally stopped pursuing us. When we came back, the horses,
the Crochan, and Ellidyr were gone. After that we followed down the river looking for you. You hadn’t gone far. But I’m still amazed that anyone can swallow so much water in such a short distance.”
“We must find him!” Taran cried. “We dare not let him keep the Crochan! You should have left me and gone after him.” He tried to climb to his feet. “Come now, there is no time to lose!”
Fflewddur shook his head “I’m afraid there’s no use in it, as our friend Gwystyl might say. There’s not a sign of him anywhere. We have no idea where he planned to go or what he had in mind to do. He has too long a start on us. And, though I hate to admit it, I don’t believe any one of us, or all of us together, could do very much against him.” The bard glanced at his broken arm. “We’re hardly in the best way to deal with the Crochan or Ellidyr, even if we found them.”
Taran stared silently into the fire. “You, too, speak the truth, my friend,” he said with great gloom. “You have all done more than I could ever ask. Alas, much better than I. Yes, it would be useless now to seek Ellidyr, as useless as our quest has been. We have forfeited all for nothing—Adaon’s brooch, our honor, and now the Crochan itself. We shall return to Caer Dallben empty-handed. Perhaps Ellidyr was right,” he murmured. “It is not fitting for a pig-boy to seek the same honor as a prince.”
“Pig-boy!” Eilonwy cried indignantly. “Don’t ever speak of yourself that way, Taran of Caer Dallben. No matter what has happened, you’re not a pig-boy; you’re an Assistant Pig-Keeper! That’s honor in itself! Not that they don’t mean the same thing, when you come right down to it,” she said, “but one is proud and the other isn’t. Since you have a choice, take the proud one!”
Taran said nothing for a time, then raised his head to Eilonwy.
“Adaon once told me there is more honor in a field well plowed than in a field steeped in blood.” As he spoke, his heart seemed to lighten. “I see now that what he said was true above all. I do not begrudge Ellidyr his prize. I, too, shall seek honor. But I shall seek it where I know it will be found.”
 
 
The companions passed the night in the forest and next morning turned southward across gentler land. They saw neither Huntsmen nor gwythaints, and they made little attempt at concealment; for, as the bard had said, the forces of Arawn sought the Crochan and not a pitiful band of stragglers. Unburdened, they moved more easily, though without Lluagor and Melynlas their pace on foot was slow and painful. Taran trudged silently, his head bowed against the bitter wind. Dead leaves drove against his face, but he paid them no heed, filled as he was with the distress of his own thoughts.
Some while after midday Taran caught sight of movement among the trees covering a hill crest. Foreseeing danger, he urged the companions to hurry across the open meadow and find cover in a thicket. But before they could reach it, a party of horsemen appeared at the rise and galloped toward them. Taran and the bard drew their swords, Gurgi nocked an arrow into his bowstring, and the weary band made ready to defend themselves as best they could.
Fflewddur suddenly gave a great shout and waved his sword excitedly. “Put up your weapons!” he cried. “We’re safe at last! These are Morgant’s warriors! They bear the colors of the House of Madoc!”
The warriors pounded closer. Taran, too, cried out with relief. They were indeed King Morgant’s riders, and at their head rode
King Morgant himself. As they reined up beside the companions, Taran hurried to Morgant’s steed and dropped to one knee.
“Well met, Sire,” he cried. “We feared your men were servants of Arawn.”
King Morgant swung down from the saddle. His black cloak was torn and travel-stained, his face haggard and grim, but his eyes still held the fierce pride of a hawk. A trace of a smile flickered on his lips. “But you would have stood against us nonetheless,” he said, raising Taran to his feet.
“What of Prince Gwydion, of Coll?” Taran asked quickly and with sudden uneasiness. “We were separated at Dark Gate and have had no word of them. Adaon, alas, is slain. And Doli, too, I fear.”
“Of the dwarf, there has been no trace,” answered Morgant. “Lord Gwydion and Coll Son of Collfrewr are safe. They seek you even now. Though,” Morgant added, with another half smile, “it has been my good fortune to find you.
“The Huntsmen of Annuvin pressed us sharply at Dark Gate,” Morgant went on. “At last we fought free of them and began to make our way toward Caer Cadarn, where Lord Gwydion hoped you would join us.
“We had not reached there,” said Morgant, “before we had word of you, and that you had taken it on yourselves to go to the Marshes of Morva. That was a bold venture, Taran of Caer Dallben,” Morgant added, “as bold, perhaps, as it was ill-advised. You should learn that a warrior owes obedience to his lord.”
“It did not seem we could do otherwise,” Taran protested. “We had to find the Crochan before Arawn. Would you not have done the same?”
Morgant nodded curtly. “I do not reproach your spirit, but would have you understand that Lord Gwydion himself would hesitate to make a decision of such weight. We would have known nothing of your movements had not Gwystyl of the Fair Folk brought us news. Lord Gwydion and I separated then to search for you.”
“Gwystyl?” Eilonwy interrupted. “Not Gwystyl! Why, he wouldn’t have done the least thing for us—until Doli threatened to squeeze him! Gwystyl! All he wanted was to be let alone and hide in his wretched burrow!”
Morgant turned to her. “You speak without knowledge, Princess. Among all who hold the way posts, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk is the shrewdest and bravest. Did you believe King Eiddileg would trust a lesser servant so close to Annuvin? But,” he added, “if you misjudged him, it was his intention that you do so.
“As for the Crochan itself,” Morgant went on, as Taran looked at him in amazement, “though you failed to bring it from Morva, Prince Ellidyr has done us noble service. Yes,” Morgant added quickly, “my warriors came upon him near the River Tevvyn in the course of our search. From his words, I understood that you were drowned and your companions scattered, and that he bore the cauldron from Morva.”
“That’s not true,” Eilonwy began, her eyes flashing angrily.
“Be silent!” Taran cried.
“No, I will not be silent,” retorted Eilonwy, spinning around to face Taran. “You aren’t going to tell me you still think you’re bound by that oath you made us all swear!”
“What does she mean?” Morgant asked. His eyes narrowed and he studied Taran closely.
“I’ll tell you what I mean!” Eilonwy answered, heedless of Taran’s
protest. “It’s very simple. Taran paid for it, and paid dearly. We carried it almost on our backs every step of the way from Morva, until Ellidyr came along. He helped us—he certainly did that, just the way a robber helps you tidy up your chamber! That’s the truth of it, and I don’t care what anybody else says!”
“Does she indeed speak the truth?” Morgant asked.
When Taran did not answer, Morgant nodded slowly and continued in a thoughtful tone. “I believe she does, though you stay silent. There was much of Prince Ellidyr’s tale which rang false to me. As I once told you, Taran of Caer Dallben, I am a warrior and I know my men. But when you face Ellidyr himself, I shall know beyond all doubt.
“Come,” said Morgant, helping Taran to his steed, “we shall ride to my camp. Your task is ended. The Crochan is in my hands.”
Morgant’s warriors took up the rest of the companions and they galloped swiftly into the wood. The war lord had made camp in a wide clearing, well protected by trees, its approach guarded by a deep ravine, and the tents had been blended in with a line of underbrush. Taran saw Lluagor and Melynlas tethered among the steeds of the warriors; a little apart, Islimach pawed the ground nervously and pulled at her halter.
Near the center of the clearing Taran caught his breath at the sight of the Black Crochan, which now had been removed from its sling. Though two of Morgant’s warriors stood by it with drawn swords, Taran could not shake off the sense of fear and foreboding that hung like a dark mist about the cauldron.
“Do you not fear Arawn will attack you here and gain the cauldron once again?” Taran whispered.
Morgant’s eyes hooded over and he gave Taran a glance both of
anger and pride. “Whoever challenges me shall be met,” he said coldly, “be it the Lord of Annuvin himself.”
A warrior drew aside the curtain of one of the pavilions, and the war lord led them inside.
There, bound hand and foot, lay the still form of Ellidyr. His face was covered with blood and he appeared so grievously battered that Eilonwy could not stifle a cry of pity.

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