Taran Wanderer (15 page)

Taran nodded. “I will carry your ware to Isav.” He turned away, knowing that his happiness
was ended, like a flawed vessel shattered in the firing.

The Spoilers

N
EXT MORNING, AS TARAN
had promised, he loaded Melynlas and Gurgi's pony with the potter's ware and, Gurgi
beside him, set out for Commot Isav. Annlaw, he knew, could as well have sent word to the
Commot folk, asking them to come and bear away their own vessels.

“This is not an errand I do for him, but a kindness he does for me,” Taran told Gurgi. “I
think he means to give me time to myself, to find my own thoughts. As for that,” he added
sorrowfully, “so far I've found none. I long to stay in Merin, yet there's little to keep
me here. I prize Annlaw as my friend and as a master of his craft. But his craft will
never be mine.”

Still pondering and troubled at heart Taran reached Isav some while before dusk. It was
the smallest Commot of all he had seen, with fewer than half-a-dozen cottages and a little
grazing plot for a handful of sheep and cattle. A knot of men were gathered by the
sheepfold. As Taran rode closer he saw their faces tightly drawn and grim.

Perplexed at this he called out his name and told them he brought pottery from Annlaw
Clay-Shaper.

“Greetings to you,” said one man, naming himself as Drudwas Son of Pebyr. “And farewell in
the same breath,” he added. "Our thanks to Annlaw and yourself. But stay to share our
hospitality and you may stay to shed your blood.

“Outlaws rove the hills,” Drudwas went on quickly, answering Taran's questioning frown, “a
band, perhaps a dozen strong. We have heard they plundered two Commots already, and not
content were they with a sheep or cow for their own food, but slaughtered all the herd for
the joy of it. Today, not long past, I saw horsemen over the rise, and leading them a
yellow-haired ruffian on a sorrel mare.”

“Dorath!” Taran cried.

“How then?” asked one of the Commot men. “Do you know this band?”

“If it's Dorath's Company, I know them well enough,” Taran answered. “They are paid
swords; and if none will hire them, I judge them glad to kill even without fee. Hard
warriors they are, as I have seen them, and cruel as the Huntsmen of Annuvin.”

Drudwas nodded gravely. “So it is said. It may be they will pass us by,” he went on, “but
this I doubt. Commot Isav is small prey, but where defenders are few the reasons to attack
are all the more.”

Taran glanced at the men. From their faces and bearing he knew their courage would not
lack; but once more he heard Dorath's laughter and recalled the man's cunning and
ruthlessness. “And if they attack,” he asked, “what shall you do?”

“What would you have us do?” Drudwas angrily burst out. “Offer tribute and beg them to
spare us? Give our animals to their swords and our homes to their torches? Commot Isav has
ever been at peace; our pride is husbandry not warfare. But we mean to stand against them.
Have we better choice?”

“I can ride back to Merin,” Taran replied, “and bring you help.”

“Too far and too long,” Drudwas answered. “Nor would I do so, even then, for it would
leave Merin ill-defended. No, we stand as we are. Against twelve, seven. My son Llassar,”
he began, indicating a tall, eager-faced boy scarcely older than Taran had been when Coll
first dubbed him Assistant Pig-Keeper.

“Your count is amiss,” Taran interrupted. “You are not seven, but nine. Gurgi and I stand
with you.”

Drudwas shook his head. “You owe us no service or duty, Wanderer. We welcome your swords,
but will not ask for them.”

“They are yours nonetheless,” Taran replied, and Gurgi nodded agreement. “Will you heed
me? Nine may stand against a dozen and win the day. But with Dorath, number counts less
than skill. Were he alone I would still fear him as much as twelve. He will fight shrewdly
and strive to gain the most at least cost. We must answer him in kind.” The Commot men
listened carefully as Taran then spoke of a ruse to make the raiders believe themselves
outnumbered, and to attack where Dorath would expect no more than feeble defense.

“If two men were to lie waiting in the sheepfold and two in the cattle pen, ready to
spring up,” Taran said, “they might take the band unawares and hold them a few moments
while the rest of us attack from ambush in the rear. At the same time, if the women of
your households set up a din with rakes and hoes, it would seem other swordsmen had
hastened to join us.”

Drudwas thought a long moment, then nodded. “Your plan may be sound, Wanderer. But I fear
for those in the pens, as they must bear the brunt for all of us. If aught should go awry,
small chance of escape would they have.”

“I shall be one to keep watch in the sheepfold,” Taran began.

“And I the other,” Llassar broke in quickly.

Drudwas frowned. “I would not spare you because you are my son. You are a good lad and
gentle with the flock. I think of your years...”

“The flock is in my charge,” Llassar cried. “By right my place is with the Wanderer.”

The men spoke hurriedly among themselves, at last agreeing that Llassar would keep watch
with Taran, while Drudwas stood guard over the cattle along with Gurgi who, fearful though
he was, refused to be any farther from Taran's side. By the time all plans were set and
the Commot men posted among the trees just beyond the sheepfold, a full moon had risen
above thin clouds. The cold light sharpened the edges of the shadows and the outlines of
brush and branches. In the fold Taran and Llassar crouched amid the restless flock.

For a time neither spoke. In the bright moonlight the face of Llassar seemed to Taran more
boyish than before; he saw the youth was afraid and making all effort to hide it. Though
uneasy himself, he grinned assuringly at Llassar. Drudwas had been right. The boy was
young, untried. And yet--- Taran smiled, knowing that he himself, at Llassar's age, would
have claimed the same right.

“Your plan is good, Wanderer,” Llassar said at last in a hushed voice, speaking, Taran
knew, more to ease his own disquiet than anything else. “Better than we should have done.
It cannot fail.”

“All plans can fail,” Taran said, almost harshly. He fell silent then. Fears had begun
stirring in him like leaves in a chill wind. Sweat drenched his body under the fleece
jacket. He had come to Isav unknown, unproven, yet the men of the Commot had willingly
heeded him and willingly put their fate in his hands. They had accepted his plan when
another might have served better; should it fail, though all their lives could be forfeit,
the blame would be his alone. He gripped the hilt of his sword and strained his eyes to
peer into the darkness. There was no movement, and even the shadows seemed frozen.

“You are called Wanderer,” Llassar went on quietly, with some shyness. “To my mind, one
who wanders must as well be one who seeks. Is this true?”

Taran shook his head. “I sought once to be a smith and once to be a weaver. And once a
potter. But that is over. Now, perhaps I must wander without seeking.”

“If you seek nothing,” Llassar said with a friendly laugh, “then you have little chance of
finding it. Our life is not easy here,” he went on. “It is not willingness that lacks, but
knowledge. The Sons of Don have long held Prydain against the Lord of Annuvin, and for
their protection we are grateful; yet the secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole from us--- to
regain them, my father says, would give us stouter shield and sword than even the battle
hosts of Prince Gwydion himself. But for all that, Isav is my home and I am well-content
in it.” Llassar grinned. “I do not envy you, Wanderer.”

Taran did not answer for a time. Then he murmured, “No, it is I who envy you.”

They said no more, listening alertly to every sound as the night wore away and the moon,
fading behind thickening clouds, lost shape and its light spread like pale mist. In a
while Llassar blew out his breath in relief. “They will not come,” he said. “They will
pass us by.”

Even as he spoke, the darkness shattered in fragments that turned into the figures of
armed warriors. Taran sprang to his feet as the gate burst open.

Taran sounded his battle horn, then flung himself upon the warrior who cried out in
surprise and stumbled backward. Llassar had leaped up at the same instant as Taran, and
the shepherd plunged against the press of the attackers at the gate, thrusting with his
spear. Taran struck out blindly, struggling not only against the raiders but against the
sudden terror that his plan had failed, that the outlaws had come too silently, too
swiftly. In another moment, above the frantic bleating of the frightened animals, a great
shout burst from the Commot men as they rose from the cover of the trees, and from the
huts came the clash of iron upon iron.

At the sheepfold the outlaws hesitated. Llassar's opponent had fallen. Taran glimpsed the
boy spring past him and strike again with his spear. The attack wavered at the gate, as
the raiders turned their weapons against the men of Isav. But one warrior, growling like a
wild beast, long knife upraised, raced into the pen as if to wreak all the destruction he
could, and Taran grappled with the man who spun about and slashed at him. It was Gloff.

The warrior recognized him; Gloff's first astonishment changed to an ugly grin almost of
pleasure and eagerness as he shifted the knife in his hand. Gloff lunged and Taran flung
up his weapon to ward against the blow. But the warrior leaped forward, his free hand
clawing at Taran's eyes, and his blade flickered as its point drove swiftly in a killing
stroke. A figure plunged between them. It was Llassar. Taran shouted a warning as the boy
strove to catch the blow on his spear shaft. Snarling, Gloff turned his attack and struck
viciously at Llassar. The shepherd fell. With a cry of rage Taran raised his sword.
Suddenly, Drudwas was beside him. Gloff shrieked as the blade of the husbandman chopped
downward.

Under the onslaught of the Commot folk Dorath's warriors fell back. Amid the turmoil of
racing men Taran found himself borne away from the fold. Daring a backward glance he could
glimpse neither Drudwas nor Llassar; in fury, he pressed onward. Torches flared, and he
saw that the women and girls of Isav had joined their men, flailing with hoes, rakes, and
pitchforks at the raiders. Taran cast about for Gurgi and shouted his name, but his voice
was drowned in the tumult.

A fierce bellowing had risen from the cattle pen as a dark shape burst through the bars.
Taran gasped in astonishment to see a furious black bull heaving and plunging among the
raiders. On its back clung Gurgi, yelling at the top of his voice, kicking his heels
against the powerful animal's flanks, turning its charge against the terrified remainder
of Dorath's band.

“They flee!” shouted one of the Commot men.

Taran pressed ahead. The raiders, who had left their mounts at the fringe of trees, now
hastened to gain them, caught between the Commot folk and the slashing horns of the
enraged bull. Taran glimpsed Dorath astride the sorrel mare and ran to overtake him. But
Dorath spurred the steed and galloped into the wood.

Taran turned and raced to the stables, whistling for Melynlas. One of the Commot men
caught at his arm and cried, “The day is ours, Wanderer!” Only then did Taran realize the
sounds of the fray had ceased. Dorath himself had vanished. Taran hurried to the sheepfold
where the wife of Drudwas knelt, her arms about her son.

“Llassar!” Taran cried in dismay, dropping beside the shepherd. The boy's eyes opened and
he strove to grin at Taran.

“His wound is not deep,” said Drudwas. “He will live to tend his flock.”

“And so I will,” Llassar said to Taran, “and thanks to you, I'll have a flock to tend.”

Taran put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “And to you,” he answered, “to you I owe much more
than sheep.”

“Full half the band will plunder no longer,” said Drudwas, “neither Commot Isav nor any
Commot. The rest are scattered, and it will be long before their wounds heal. You have
well served us, Wanderer, you and your companion. You came among us strangers. We count
you strangers no longer, but friends.”

The Mirror

A
LTHOUGH THE FOLK OF ISAV
urged him to linger, Taran took leave of them and rode slowly back to Merin. The defeat
of Dorath's Company held no savor, for his thoughts still turned restlessly; his questions
still found no answers; and he was more downhearted than ever. To Annlaw he said little of
his deeds in Isav, and it was Gurgi, bursting with pride, who told what had befallen them.

“Yes, yes!” cried Gurgi. “Wicked robbers fled with yellings! Oh, they feared kindly
master. And feared bold Gurgi, too! And great bull with stampings and trampings, sharp
horns with jabbings and stabbings!”

“You should be well-content, Wanderer,” Annlaw said to Taran, who had remained silent all
the while. “You've saved honest folk their lives and homes.”

“Drudwas told me I was no stranger, but a friend. For that I am glad,” Taran answered. “I
only wish,” he added, “that I weren't a stranger to myself. What use am I?” he burst out.
“To myself, to anyone? None that I can see.”

“The folk of Isav would gainsay you,” the potter answered. “And there might be others who
would welcome a stout blade and a bold heart.”

“A hired sword?” Taran replied bitterly. “And follow the same way as Dorath?” He shook his
head. “When I was a child I dreamed of adventure, glory, of honor in feats of arms. I
think now that these things are shadows.”

“If you see them as shadows then you see them for what they are,” Annlaw agreed. “Many
have pursued honor, and in the pursuit lost more of it than ever they could gain. But I
did not mean a hired sword...” He stopped abruptly and was thoughtful a moment. “To see
them for what they are,” he murmured, returning to his first words. “Perhaps---
perhaps...” The potter looked closely at Taran.

“The Commot lore tells how one may see himself for what he is. Whether it be true or no
more than an old wives' tale I will not judge,” the potter went on slowly. “But the lore
says that he who would know himself need only gaze in the Mirror of Llunet.”

Though Annlaw had spoken quietly, Taran heard the potter's words like a thunderclap.

“The Mirror of Llunet?” Taran cried. Since leaving Craddoc's valley he had put away all
thought of the Mirror, hidden and forgotten it, and the days had covered it as dead leaves
on a burial mound. “The Mirror,” he repeated in a stifled voice, “the goal of my quest
from the beginning. I had given up searching. Now do I find it when I seek it least of
all?”

“Your quest?” Annlaw said, perplexed. He had risen and was watching Taran with concern.
“Of this you have told me nothing, Wanderer.”

“I would have no pride in the telling,” Taran replied.

But now, as Annlaw listened quietly, a look of kindness on his face, little by little
Taran was able to speak of Caer Dallben, of Orddu, of where the quest had led him, of
Craddoc's death and his own despair. “Once,” Taran concluded, “I would have asked nothing
better than to find the Mirror. Now, even if it were in my hand, I would dread to look in
it.”

“I understand your fears,” the potter answered quietly. "The Mirror may put your heart at
ease--- or trouble you all the more. Such is the risk. The choice must be yours.

“But know this, Wanderer,” Annlaw went on, as Taran bit his lips in silence, “it is not
such a mirror as you think. It lies close by here in the Llawgadarn Mountains, no more
than two days' distance, in a cave at the head of the Lake of Llunet. The Mirror of Llunet
is a pool of water.”

“A pool of water?” Taran cried. “What enchantment gives it power? For enchanted it must
be.”

“It is,” answered the potter, “to those who deem it so.”

“What of yourself?” Taran asked in a low voice. “Have you sought to look in it?”

“That I have not,” replied Annlaw. “For I well know who I am. Annlaw Clay-Shaper. For
better or worse, that knowledge must serve me my lifetime.”

“And I,” Taran murmured, “what knowledge will serve mine?” He said nothing for a time. At
last he raised his head. “It is true. I fear to look in the Mirror, and fear to know what
it might tell me. But I have already known shame,” he flung out bitterly. "Must I know
cowardice as well?

“In the morning,” Taran continued, “in the morning I journey to the Mirror of Llunet.”

His decision gave him little comfort. At first light, as he and Gurgi saddled their
mounts, his doubts chilled him more than the cold mist of late autumn. Nevertheless,
having made his choice he set a swift pace, riding northward from Merin to the Llawgadarn
Mountains, taking his bearings on the high peak of Mount Meledin, for it was at the foot
of Meledin, as Annlaw told him, that he would find the cave. The companions rode silently
and steadily, halting only when the day had so far waned they could no longer guide the
steeds along the paths. They camped on the soft carpet of pine needles, but a deep
uneasiness had settled on the two wayfarers and they slept little.

At dawn of the next day they gathered up their gear and rode at a good pace along the
crest of a ridge. Soon Taran called out and pointed downward. The Lake of Llunet stretched
in a long oval, gleaming in the early sun. Its waters were calm, blue, and the Lake itself
seemed a perfect mirror that held the tree-lined shore in its depths. At some distance
Mount Meledin rose, tall but seeming almost weightless in the mist still clinging to its
long slopes.

Taran's heart beat faster as the companions made their way downward to the shore. Closer
to Meledin the land fell in sharp drops, and short stretches of meadow broke into shallow
ravines. Near a stream tumbling from the upper reaches of the mountain the companions
tethered their steeds. Taran had already sighted the cave and hastened toward it, with
Gurgi scrambling after him.

“There!” Taran cried. “There! The Mirror!”

At the foot of Meledin wind and weather had carved an arching cave little more than a few
paces deep. Rivulets trickled from the moss-grown rocks of its overhanging brow. Taran
raced toward it. His heart pounded; his pulse burnt in his wrists. Yet as he drew closer
his pace slowed, and fear weighed heavy as a chain about his legs. At the mouth of the
cave he halted a long moment. Gurgi glanced anxiously at him.

“It is here,” Taran murmured. He stepped forward.

Within, a shallow basin hollowed in the floor of smooth stones, lay the Mirror of Llunet
like a shield of polished silver, gleaming of itself despite the shadows. Taran slowly
knelt at the rim. The basin held no more than a finger's depth of water, fed drop by drop
from a thread of moisture twining down the rocky wall. The passing of countless years had
not filled it to the brim. Yet shallow though it was, the water seemed a depthless crystal
whose facets turned one upon the other, each catching brilliant beams of white.

Scarcely daring to breathe lest he trouble the shining surface, Taran bent closer. The
cave was utterly silent, and it seemed that even the falling of a wisp of dry moss would
shatter the reflection. His hands trembled as he saw his own face, travel-worn and
sun-scorched. With all his heart he longed to turn away, but forced himself to look more
deeply. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Closer he knelt. What he saw made him cry out
in disbelief.

At the same instant Gurgi shrieked in terror. Taran leaped to his feet and spun around as
Gurgi ran and cowered at his side. Before him stood Dorath.

The man's face was stubble-bearded, his dirty yellow hair hung into his eyes. The
horsehide jacket was slashed along one side and mud crusted his boots. In one hand he held
food which he scooped up with his fingers and crammed into his mouth. He grinned at Taran.

“Well met, Lord Swineherd,” Dorath said between mouthfuls.

“Ill-met, Dorath,” Taran cried, drawing his sword. “Will you call your Company to set upon
us? Call them, then, all who fled us at Commot Isav!” He raised the weapon and strode
forward.

Dorath laughed harshly. “Will you strike before my own blade is out?”

“Draw it, then,” Taran flung back at him.

“So I shall, when my meal is done,” Dorath said. He gave a scornful grunt. “Your blade is
ill-favored, swineherd, uglier than Gloff's face.” He grinned slyly. “Mine is the fairer
weapon, yet gained at no cost. My Company?” he added. “Would you have me call them? They
are deaf. For half of them, the dirt of their graves stops their ears. I saw you at Isav,
and guessed it was you who rallied the Commot clods. Alas, I had no time to linger and pay
my greetings to you.”

Dorath wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Of those who rode from Isav, two cowards
fled and I've seen none of them. Two were heavily wounded. Those, I myself sped on their
journey to the carrion crows, and they burden me no longer. But no matter. I'll soon find
others to join me.

“Meantime, so much the better,” he went on. “I'll share your treasure with none but
myself.”

“Treasure?” Taran cried. “There is no treasure! Draw your blade, Dorath, or I'll kill you
unarmed as you'd have done to me.”

“An end to your lying, swineherd,” Dorath growled. “Do you still take me for a fool? I've
known of your travels, and the bent path you followed here did not deceive me. Your
saddlebags hold nothing of worth; I've seen that for myself. So the prize is yet to be
claimed.”

He strode to the Mirror. “Is this your trove? What have you found, swineherd? A mud
puddle? What does it hide?”

Taran cried out, though before he could fling himself upon Dorath the warrior stamped his
heavy boot into the pool and, with a curse, sent the water spurting from the basin.

“It holds nothing!” Dorath burst out, his face twisting in rage.

Taran gasped and stumbled forward. Dorath drew his sword.

“My meal is ended, swineherd,” Dorath cried.

He struck heavily and the force of his onslaught sent Taran reeling from the cave. Gurgi
yelled in fury and clutched at the warrior, who seized him with a powerful grasp and
dashed him against the rocky wall. Snarling, Dorath sprang after Taran.

Scrambling to his feet, Taran brought up his blade to meet the warrior's attack. Dorath
spat and lunged again, driving Taran toward the slope. As the warrior bore closer upon
him, Taran lost his footing, stumbled backward, and dropped to one knee.

With a mocking laugh Dorath raised his weapon, and Taran saw the blade that once had been
his own glint sharply as Dorath swung it down with all his strength. Taran saw his death
upon him and flung up his sword in a last attempt to ward against the blow.

The blades met with a grating, ringing clash. Taran's weapon shuddered in his hand, the
shock threw him to earth. Yet his blade held. The sword of Dorath shattered on it.

Cursing, Dorath flung the useless hilt at Taran's face, turned and ran to the cover of
pines along the shore. Hearing her master's whistle, Dorath's sorrel mare broke from the
trees. Taran sprang to pursue the fleeing warrior.

“Help, help!” Gurgi's voice cried from the cave. “Kindly master! Oh, help wounded Gurgi!”

Hearing this Taran halted even as Dorath leaped astride his mount and galloped away. Taran
raced to the cave. Within, Gurgi moaned and tried to sit up. Taran knelt quickly and saw
the creature's forehead was heavily gashed, but that Gurgi's pain came more from terror
than from his hurts. He carried him from the cave and propped him against a boulder.

Taran did not return to the Mirror of Llunet. Already he had seen it empty, its spattered
water spread over the stones, holding only the muddy print of Dorath's boot. He sank down
beside Gurgi and put his head in his hands. For long he. did not move or speak.

“Come,” he said at last, helping Gurgi to his feet. “Come. We have far to journey.”

A light glowed in Annlaw's hut. The night was nearly spent, yet Taran saw the potter still
bent over his wheel.

Annlaw rose to his feet as Taran slowly crossed the threshold. Neither spoke for some
while. The potter anxiously studied Taran's face, and said at last, “Have you looked into
the Mirror, Wanderer?”

Taran nodded. “For a few moments. But none shall look in it again. It is destroyed.” He
told of Dorath and the happenings at the Lake of Llunet. When Taran had done, the potter
sadly shook his head.

“You saw nothing then?” said Annlaw.

“I learned what I sought to learn,” Taran replied.

“I will not question you, Wanderer,” said Annlaw. “But if it is in your heart to tell me,
I will listen.”

“I saw myself,” Taran answered. "In the time I watched, I saw strength--- and frailty.
Pride and vanity, courage and fear. Of wisdom, a little. Of folly, much. Of intentions,
many good ones; but many more left undone. In this, alas, I saw myself a man like any
other.

“But this, too, I saw,” he went on. “Alike as men may seem, each is different as flakes of
snow, no two the same. You told me you had no need to seek the Mirror, knowing you were
Annlaw Clay-Shaper. Now I know who I am: myself and none other. I am Taran.”

Annlaw did not reply immediately. Then he said, “If you have learned this you have learned
the deepest secret the Mirror could tell you. Perhaps it was truly enchanted after all.”

“There was no enchantment,” Taran answered. He smiled. "It was a pool of water, the most
beautiful I have seen. But a pool of water, no more than that.

“At first,” he went on, "I thought Orddu had sent a fool on a fool's errand. She did not.
She meant me to see what the Mirror showed me. Any stream, any river would have given me
the same reflection, but I would not have understood it then as I understand it now.

“As for my parentage,” he added, "it makes little difference. True kinship has naught to
do with blood ties, however strong they be. I think we are all kin, brothers and sisters
one to the other, all children of all parents. And the birthright I once sought, I seek it
no longer. The folk of the Free Commots taught me well, that manhood is not given but
earned. Even King Smoit in Cantrev Cadiffor told me this, but I did not heed him.