Taran Wanderer (10 page)

Dorath

A
FTER EATING,
the Companions stretched themselves on the turf and slept solidly the rest of the day and
all that night. In the morning Doli took his leave of them. Kaw, at Doli's request, had
already begun flying to the Fair Folk realm with tidings that all was well; from there,
the crow would rejoin Taran.

“I'd go with you if I could,” the dwarf said to Taran. “The thought of an Assistant
Pig-Keeper blundering his way through the Llawgadarn Mountains makes my hair stand on end.
But I dare not. Eiddileg must have the jewel safely. And who's to bring it to him? Good
old Doli! Humph!”

“It saddens me to part with you,” Taran said, “but you've helped me more than I could
hope. The Lake of Llunet bears the same name as the Mirror and perhaps will lead me to it.”

“Farewell, then,” said Doli. “You've kept us all from being frogs or worse and restored a
treasure to us. You'll not regret it. We Fair Folk have long memories.”

The dwarf clasped hands with the travelers, and pulled his leather cap tighter on his
head. Doli waved one last time, and Taran watched the dwarf's stumpy figure trudging
steadily across a broad meadow, growing smaller in the distance until he vanished into the
skirting woods and Taran saw him no more.

Through the day the companions bore northeastward again. Taran would have been glad for
Doli's guidance and keenly missed the gruff dwarf, but his spirits had never been higher;
he rode eagerly, light-heartedly; the battle horn swinging from his shoulder gave him
fresh courage and confidence.

“Eilonwy's gift is more precious even than I thought,” he told Fflewddur. “I'm grateful to
Doli for telling me its power. And more than that, for telling me of the Lake of Llunet.
It's a strange thing, Fflewddur,” Taran went on, “but somehow I feel closer to the end of
my quest. I believe more than ever that I'll find what I'm looking for.”

“Eh? How's that?” Fflewddur answered, blinking as if he had just come awake. Though Gurgi
had put all thoughts of Morda behind him, the bard seemed still shaken by his ordeal, and
often lapsed into thoughtful silence when he would morosely finger his ears as though
expecting them to lengthen at any moment. “Dreadful experience!” he muttered now. “A Fflam
into a rabbit! What were you saying? The quest? Yes, of course.”

“Smell with whiffings!” interrupted Gurgi. “Someone cooks tasty crunchings and munchings!”

“You're right,” Fflewddur agreed, sniffing the air. “Oh, blast! There goes my nose
twitching again!”

Taran reined Melynlas to a walk. Llyan, too, had caught the scent; her ears forward, she
licked hungrily at her whiskers.

“Shall we see who it is?” asked Fflewddur. “I wouldn't say no to a hot meal--- so long as
it isn't rabbit!”

Taran nodded and the companions rode cautiously through the glade. He had meant to catch a
first glimpse of the strangers without himself being seen; but he had gone no more than a
few paces when two roughly bearded men rose from the shadows of the bushes. Taran started.
The two evidently posted as guards, quickly drew their swords. One of the men whistled a
bird call and stared sharply at the companions, but made no attempt to hinder them.

In the clearing Taran saw some dozen men sprawled around a cook fire, where collops of
meat hung sizzling on a spit. Though armed heavily as warriors, the men wore neither the
badge nor colors of any cantrev lord. Some were chewing at their food, some sharpening
their blades or waxing their bowstrings. Closest to the fire, stretched at his ease, a
heavy-faced man leaned on one elbow and toyed with a long dagger, which he tossed and
twirled, catching it first by the hilt, then by the point. He wore a horsehide jacket
whose sleeves had been ripped out; his muddy boots were thick-soled and studded with iron
nails. His yellowish hair fell below his shoulders; his cold blue eyes seemed to measure
the three companions with an unhurried glance.

“Welcome, lordships,” he drawled as Taran dismounted. “What lucky wind blows you to the
camp of Dorath?”

“I am no lord,” replied Taran. “I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper...”

“No lord?” Dorath interrupted in mock surprise, a half-smile on his mouth. “If you hadn't
told me, I'd never have guessed.”

“These are my comrades,” Taran went on, vexed that he had let Dorath make sport of him.
“Gurgi. Fflewddur Fflam--- he wanders as a bard of the harp, but in his own land he is a
king.”

“And Dorath is king wherever he rides,” answered the yellow-haired man, laughing. “Now,
Lord Swineherd, will you share humble fare?” With his dagger he gestured toward the
roasting collops. “Eat your fill. Dorath's Company never goes short of commons. Then we'll
want to know more about three such as you.”

“The harper rides a strange steed, Dorath,” called a man with a badly scarred face. “I
wager my mare could stand against the beast, no matter, for she's an evil-tempered brute
and a killer born. Would it not be a merry match? What say you, Dorath? Will you have the
cat show us some sport?”

“Hold your tongue, Gloff,” Dorath answered, carefully eyeing Llyan. “You're a fool and
always were.” He pulled the meat from the spit and thrust it toward the companions.
Fflewddur, having assured himself the roast was not rabbit, ate with a good will; Gurgi,
as usual, needed no urging to finish his meal; and Taran was glad to swallow his own
share, washed down with a mouthful of harsh-tasting wine Dorath poured from a leather
flask. The sun was dropping quickly. One of the band flung more branches on the fire.
Dorath stuck his dagger into the ground before him and looked up sharply at Taran.

“And so, Lord,” said Dorath, “have you no traveler's tales to pass the time for my friends
and me? Where do you come from? Where do you go? And why? The Hill Cantrevs are dangerous
unless a man knows what he's about.”

Taran did not answer immediately; Dorath's tone and the look of the men around the fire
made Taran guard his words. “We journey northward--- through the Llawgadarn Mountains.”

Dorath grinned at him. “And where then?” he asked. “Or do you call my questions
discourteous?”

“To the Lake of Llunet,” Taran answered with some reluctance.

“I've heard of treasure in those parts,” put in the man called Gloff. “Is that what they
seek?”

“Is it indeed?” Dorath said to Taran. “Treasure?” He laughed loudly. “Small wonder you're
a miser with your words!”

Taran shook his head. “If I find what I seek, it will be more to me than gold.”

“So?” Dorath bent close to him. “But what would such a treasure be, Lord? Jewels?
Fine-fashioned ornaments?”

“Neither,” Taran answered. He hesitated, then said, “I seek my parents.”

Dorath was quiet a moment. The grin did not leave his face, but when he spoke again his
voice was cold. “When Dorath asks a question, he wants a truthful answer, Lord Swineherd.”

Taran flushed angrily. “I have given you one. Say I have not and you call me liar.”

There was a sudden silence between the two. Dorath had half-risen, his heavy face
darkened. Taran's hand moved to the pommel of his sword. But in that instant a merry burst
of music rose from Fflewddur's harp and the bard called out, “Gently, friends! Hear a gay
tune to settle our supper!”

He leaned the beautifully curved harp against his shoulders and as his fingers danced over
the strings the men around the fire clapped their hands and urged him on. Dorath settled
back on the turf, but he glanced at the bard and spat into the fire.

“Have done, harper,” Dorath said after a time. “Your tune jangles from that crooked pot.
We'll take our rest. You'll stay with us and in the morning my Company will guide you to
the Lake of Llunet.”

Taran glanced at Fflewddur and caught the bard's quick frown. He rose to his feet. “We
thank you for your courtesy,” he said to Dorath, “but time presses and we mean to travel
during the night.”

“Ah, yes--- so we do,” Fflewddur put in, while Gurgi vigorously agreed. “As for the
Lake--- yes, well--- we wouldn't think of putting you to the trouble. It's a long journey,
far beyond your cantrev.”

“Prydain is my cantrev,” Dorath answered. “Have you not heard of Dorath's Company? We
serve any who pay us to serve: a weak lord who craves a strong war band, or three
wayfarers who need protection against the dangers of their journey. The many dangers,
harper,” he grimly added. “Llunet is no more than a step and a jump for my men; and I know
how the land lies. Will you go safely? I ask only a little part of the treasure you seek,
a small reward to your humble servants.”

“We thank you,” Taran said again. “It is already past nightfall and we must find our path.”

“How then!” cried Dorath in a great show of indignation. “Do you scorn my poor
hospitality? You wound my feelings, lords. Is it beneath you to sleep beside the likes of
us? Ah, ah, swineherd, do not insult my men. They might take it amiss.”

Indeed, as Dorath spoke, an ugly grumble rose from the band, and Taran saw some of the
warriors finger their swords. He stood uncertain, though well aware of the bard's
discomfort. Dorath watched him closely. Two of the men had drifted quietly to the horse
lines, and Taran could imagine that in the shadows they were easing their weapons from
their sheaths.

“So be it,” Taran said, looking Dorath squarely between the eyes. "We welcome your
hospitality for the night, and tomorrow we take leave of you.

Dorath grinned. “There will be time to speak of that again. Sleep well.”

“Sleep well?” muttered Fflewddur as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and uneasily
stretched out on the ground. “Great Belin, I'll not sleep a wink. I never liked the Hill
Cantrevs and this is one reason more for liking them less.” He. glanced around him. Dorath
had flung himself down near the fire; undoubtedly following his leader's order, the man
named Gloff lay close by the companions. “I know of such roaming war bands,” Fflewddur
went on in a hushed voice. “Ruffians and looters, all of them. The cantrev lord who hires
their swords to fight his neighbor soon finds them at his own throat. Dorath protect us
from dangers? The worst danger is Dorath himself!”

“He's sure we're after treasure,” Taran whispered. “It's in his mind and he'll not believe
otherwise. Lucky it is, in a way,” he added ruefully. “As long as he thinks we can lead
him to gold or jewels he won't kill us out of hand.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” answered Fflewddur. “He may not cut our throats, but he might
just as well decide to--- ah--- shall we say persuade us to tell him where the treasure
is, and I fear he'd do considerably more than tweak our toes.”

“I'm not sure,” Taran replied: “If he meant to torture us, I think he'd have tried before
this. He's put us in a tight corner and we dare not let him travel with us. Still, I don't
believe Dorath is all that sure of himself. We're only three against a dozen, but don't
forget Llyan. If it comes to a fight, Dorath has an excellent chance of killing us all.
Yet I think he's shrewd enough to see it would cost him too dearly, perhaps most of his
band and himself as well. I doubt he'll risk it unless he has to.”

“I hope you're right,” sighed the bard. “I'd rather not stay to find out. I'd sooner spend
the night in a nest of serpents. We must get free of these villains! But how?”

Taran frowned and bit his lip. “Eilonwy's horn,” he began.

“Yes, yes!” whispered Gurgi. “Oh, yes, magic horn of tootings and hootings! Help comes
with rescuings! Sound it, wise master!”

“Eilonwy's horn,” Taran said slowly. “Yes, that was first in my thoughts. Must I use it
now? It's a precious gift, too precious to waste. If all else fails...” He shook his head.
“Before I sound it let us try with our own strength. Sleep now,” he urged. “Rest as much
as you can. Before first light Gurgi can go silently to the horse lines and cut the
tethers of all Dorath's steeds while Fflewddur and I try to stun the guards. Frighten the
mounts, scatter them in all directions. Then...”

“We ride for dear life!” put in Fflewddur. He nodded. “Good. It's our best chance. Without
blowing that horn of yours, I daresay it's our only chance. Dorath!” he added, cradling
his harp fondly in his arms. “My tunes jangle indeed! My harp a crooked pot! That ruffian
has neither ears nor eyes! A Fflam is forebearing, but when he insults my harp Dorath goes
too far. Though, alas,” Fflewddur admitted, “I've heard the same opinion from a few
others.”

While Gurgi and Fflewddur drowsed fitfully, Taran stayed wakeful and uneasy. The campfire
burned to embers. He heard the heavy breathing of Dorath's men. Gloff sprawled motionless,
snoring atrociously. For a little time Taran closed his eyes. Had he chosen wrongly by not
sounding the battle horn? He knew, painfully, that three lives hung in the balance. Doli
had warned him not to squander the gift. But was the gamble too great? Should the gift be
spent now, when its need was clearest? These thoughts pressed upon him heavier than the
moonless night.

As the black sky began to show the first pale traces of gray, Taran silently roused Gurgi
and the bard. Cautiously they made their way to the tethered steeds. Taran's heart leaped
with hope. The two guards were sleeping soundly, their swords across their knees. He
turned, meaning to help Gurgi cut the lines. The dark bole of an oak tree loomed, and he
clung to the safety of its shadow.

A booted leg thrust out to bar Taran's way. Dorath was leaning against the tree, a dagger
in his hand.

The Wager

“W
HAT, ARE YOU SO IMPATIENT
to be gone, Lord Swineherd?” said Dorath, an edge of mockery in his tone. The dagger
twirled in his hands and he clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Without a farewell?
Without a word of thanks?” He shook his head. “This is grave discourtesy to me and to my
men. Their feelings are tender. I fear you've deeply wounded them.”

The men of Dorath's Company had begun to stir. In a moment of panic Taran glanced at
Fflewddur and Gurgi. Gloff had climbed to his feet and held his sword lightly, almost
carelessly. Taran knew the man could bring up the blade in a flash before his own weapon
left its sheath. Taran's eyes darted to the horse lines. Another of Dorath's band had
drifted close by the steeds, where he stood idly paring his nails with the point of a
hunting knife. Taran gestured for the companions to make no move.

Dorath straightened. His eyes were cold. “Truly, do you mean to part with us? Even warned
of the dangers in the hills?” He shrugged. “Never say Dorath forces hospitality on
unwilling guests. Go, if that's in your head. Seek your treasure and a speedy journey to
you.”

“We meant you no discourtesy,” Taran answered. “Bear us no ill will, for we bear you none.
Farewell to you and your Company.”

Much relieved, he beckoned Gurgi and the bard and turned away.

Dorath's hand gripped his shoulder. “How then!” Dorath cried, “will you go your way
without settling the small matter between us?”

Taran halted, surprised, as Dorath went on.

“Why, there is payment to be reckoned, Lord Swineherd. Will you cheat me of my fee? We are
poor men, Lord; too poor to give where we do not receive.”

The warriors laughed harshly. Dorath's heavy face had twisted into a leering humility,
which Taran found all the more fearsome by its falsity, and the man cried out in an
accusing, begging tone, “You have eaten our meat and drunk our wine. All night you slept
safely under our protection. Is this worth nothing to you?”

Taran stared at him in astonishment and sudden alarm. Dorath's men had come to gather near
their leader. Gurgi edged closer to Taran. “Protection!” Fflewddur muttered under his
breath. “Who'll protect us from Dorath? Protection? Great Belin, I'd call it robbery!”

“And there is more, Lord Swineherd,” Dorath quickly continued. “The matter of payment for
guiding you to the Lake of Llunet. It is no light journey for my Company; the paths are
long and harsh...”

Taran faced the man squarely. “You have given us food, drink, and shelter,” he said, his
thoughts racing to seek escape from Dorath's trap. “We will pay their worth. As for your
protection on our journey, we neither ask it nor want it.”

“My men are willing, waiting, and ready to guide you,” replied Dorath. “It is you who
breaks the bargain.”

“I struck no bargain with you, Dorath,” Taran answered.

Dorath's eyes narrowed. “Did you not? But you will keep it nonetheless.”

The two watched each other in silence for a moment. The warriors stirred restlessly. From
Dorath's expression Taran could not judge whether the man indeed meant to risk battle. If
he did, Taran realized coldly the companions had little chance to escape unharmed. At last
he said, “What do you want from us?”

Dorath grinned. “Now you speak wisely. Small scores are quickly settled. We are humble
men, Lord. We ask little, far less than what our fee should be. But, for the sake of the
friendship between us, Dorath will be generous. What shall you give me?” His eyes went to
Taran's belt. “You carry a fair blade,” he said. “It will be mine.”

Taran's hand clenched on the pommel. “That you shall not have,” he answered quickly. “I
offer you bridles and harness from our gear, and even these we can ill afford. Dallben my
master gave me this blade, the first that was truly mine and the first of my manhood. The
one I love girded it on me with her own hands. No, Dorath, I do not bargain with my sword.”

Dorath threw back his head and laughed. “You make much ado for a piece of iron. Your
sweetling girded it to your side! Your first blade! This adds no worth. It is a fair
weapon, no more. I've cast away better than that. But the look of this one suits me well
enough. Give it into my hand and we are quit.”

Dorath's face filled with cruel pleasure as he reached out. Sudden anger goaded Taran.
Caution forgotten, he snatched the blade from its sheath and drew back a pace.

“Have a care, Dorath!” Taran cried. “Will you take my sword? It will be a costly bargain.
You may not live to claim it.”

“Nor you to keep it,” Dorath answered, undisturbed. "We know each other's thoughts,
swineherd. Am I fool enough to risk lives for a trinket? Are you fool enough to stop me?

“We can learn this easily,” Dorath added. “To your grief or to mine. Wilt you try me? My
Company against yours?” When Taran did not answer, Dorath continued. “My trade is to spill
another's blood, not waste my own. And here the matter is easily settled. Pit one of your
number against one of mine. A friendly wager, swineherd. Do you dare? The stakes? Your
sword!”

Gloff had been listening all this while; his villainous face lit up and he struck his
hands together. “Well spoken, Dorath! We'll see sport after all!”

“The choice is yours, swineherd,” Dorath said to Taran. “Who is your champion? Will that
hairy brute you call comrade stand against Gloff? They're both ill-favored enough to be
well-matched. Or the harper...”

“The matter is between you and me, Dorath,” Taran replied, “and none other.”

“All the better,” Dorath answered. “Do you take the wager, then? We two unarmed, win or
lose, and the score paid. You have Dorath's word.”

“Is your word as true as your claim?” Taran flung back. “I trust no bargain with you.”

Dorath shrugged. “My men will withdraw beyond the trees where they'll be no help to me,
if, that's what you fear. And so will yours. What say you now? Yes or no?”

“No, no!” shouted Gurgi. “Kindly master, beware!”

Taran looked long at the sword. The blade was plain, the hilt and pommel unadorned, yet
even Dorath had seen the craftsmanship in its making. The day Dallben had put it in his
hands shone bright in Taran's memory as the untarnished metal itself; and Eilonwy--- her
tart words had not hidden her blush of pride. Still, treasure it though he did, he forced
himself to see the blade coldly as indeed no more than a strip of metal. Doubt rose in his
heart. Win or lose, he felt unsure whether Dorath would let the companions free without a
pitched battle. He nodded curtly. “So be it.”

Dorath signaled to his band and Taran watched cautiously until all had made their way a
good distance into the woods. At Taran's orders Fflewddur and Gurgi untethered Llyan and
the two steeds and reluctantly withdrew in the opposite direction. Taran flung down his
cloak and dropped Eilonwy's horn beside it. Dorath waited, a crafty glint in his eyes, as
Taran slowly ungirded the scabbard and thrust the sword into the ground.

Taran stepped back. In the instant Dorath sprang upon him without warning. The force of
the burly warrior's charge drove the breath from Taran's lungs and nearly felled him.
Dorath grappled with him and Taran realized the man strove to seize him by the belt and
hurl him to earth. Taran flung up his arms and slipped downward out of Dorath's clutches.
Cursing, Dorath struck at him with a hard fist, and though Taran escaped the full weight
of the blow, it glanced painfully from the side of his head. Ears ringing, Taran sought to
disengage himself and regain sure footing, but Dorath pressed his attack without respite.

He dared not, Taran understood, let his heavier opponent come to grips with him, for
Dorath's powerful arms could snap him in two; as the warrior plunged once more against
him, Taran snatched the man's forearm and with all his strength swung Dorath head over
heels to send him crashing to the ground.

But Dorath was on his feet in a flash. Taran crouched to meet the warrior's new attack.
For all his weight, Dorath moved quick as a cat; he dropped to one side, spun quickly, and
suddenly Taran saw the man's thick fingers gouging at his eyes. As Taran struggled to
escape the blinding thrust, Dorath seized him by the hair and wrenched his head backward.
The warrior's fist was raised to strike. Taran, gasping at the painful shock, flailed at
the man's grinning face. Dorath's hold loosened; Taran tore himself away. For an instant
Dorath seemed bewildered by the rain of blows, and Taran pressed his slight advantage,
darting from one side to the other, giving Dorath no chance to gain the upper hand again.

Dorath dropped suddenly to one knee and caught at Taran with an outflung arm. Striving to
tear himself away, Taran felt a sharp, stinging blow to his side. He fell backward,
clutching at the hurt. Dorath rose up. He gripped a short-bladed knife drawn from his boot.

“Disarm!” Taran cried. “We fight weaponless! You betray me, Dorath!”

The warrior looked down at him. “Have you learned which of us is the fool, Lord Swineherd?”

Eilonwy's horn lay within Taran's grasp and his fingers reached for it. How long, he
thought hurriedly, how long before the Fair Folk might answer his call? Could he hope to
keep Dorath at bay, or, at the last, could he do no more than turn and flee? He yearned
desperately to sound the notes, but with an angry shout he cast aside the battle horn,
snatched up his cloak for a shield, and plunged straight against Dorath.

The warrior's knife tangled in the folds of the garment. Gaining strength from his anger,
Taran ripped the blade from the hand of Dorath, who staggered under the fury of the
onslaught and fell to the ground. Taran followed him, seized Dorath by the shoulders, and
braced his knee against the warrior's chest.

“Cut-throat!” Taran shouted through clenched teeth. “You'd have taken my life for the sake
of a bit of iron.”

Dorath's fingers scrabbled in the earth. His arm shot up. A handful of dirt and stones
pelted against Taran's face.

“Find me now!” cried Dorath with a mighty heave. Taran clapped hands to his smarting eyes;
tears streamed down his face; and he groped for the warrior who sprang away in an instant.

Taran stumbled forward on hands and knees. Dorath's heavy boot drove into his ribs. Taran
cried out, then fell doubled up and panting. He strove to rise, but even the strength of
his anger could not bring him to his feet. He sank down, his face pressed against the
ground.

Dorath strode to the sword and plucked it from the turf. He turned to Taran. “I spare your
life, swineherd,” he cried scornfully. “It means naught to me and I have no wish for it.
Should we meet again, it may not go as well for you.”

Taran raised his head. In Dorath's eyes he saw only cold hatred that seemed to reach out
to blight or shatter all it touched. “You have won nothing,” Taran whispered. “What have
you gained worth more to you than to me?”

“The getting pleased me, swineherd. The taking pleases me all the more.” Dorath tossed the
sword in the air, caught it again, then threw back his head and burst into raw laughter.
He turned on his heel and strode into the forest.

Even after his strength had come back and the pain in his side had dwindled to a dull
ache, Taran sat a long while on the ground before gathering up his belongings--- the torn
cloak, the battle horn, the empty scabbard, and setting off to join Fflewddur and Gurgi.
Dorath had gone. There was no sign of him, but the laughter still rang in Taran's ears.