Taran Wanderer (3 page)

“Hasten!” Gurgi pleaded. “Gurgi has his fill of questings. Now he is ready for returnings
to safe and happy Caer Dallben, yes, yes! Oh, do not make useless peekings and seekings!”

Taran hesitated a moment longer. Of the Llawgadarn Mountains he knew only that they rose
far to the east. With nothing to guide his search the journey might indeed prove useless.
Gurgi looked imploringly at him. Taran patted the creature's shoulder, then turned and
strode to Melynlas.

“The Mirror of Llunet is the only hope Orddu has given me,” Taran said. “I must find it.”

While Gurgi hastily mounted his pony, Taran swung astride Melynlas. He glanced once again
at the cottage, his heart suddenly uneasy. “Given me?” he murmured. “Does Orddu give
anything for nothing?”

Cantrev Cadiffor

T
HE TWO COMPANIONS LEFT
the Marshes of Morva, pressing southeastward to the Valley Cantrevs along the Ystrad
River, for Taran had decided to break his journey at Caer Cadarn, fortress of King Smoit,
and ask the red-bearded King to refit them with gear sturdier than what they had brought
from Caer Dallben. “From there,” Taran told Gurgi, “we can only search as the moment
guides us. My poor tender head is full of questions,” he sighed, with a wry and regretful
smile, “but of plans, alas, none at all.”

With the Marshes many days behind, the two companions crossed the borders of Cadiffor,
Smoit's realm and largest of the Valley Cantrevs. The countryside had long since changed
from gray moors to green meadows and pleasantly wooded lands with farmholds nestled in the
clearings. Though Gurgi eyed the dells longingly, sniffing the smoke of cookfires wafting
from the cottage chimneys, Taran did not turn from the path he had chosen. By keeping a
brisk pace, another three days of travel would bring them to Caer Cadarn. A little before
sundown, seeing the clouds growing heavy and dark, Taran halted to find shelter in a pine
grove.

He had scarcely dismounted, and Gurgi had only begun to unlash the saddlebags; when a band
of horsemen cantered into the grove. Taran spun around and drew his blade. Gurgi, yelping
in alarm, scurried to his master's side.

There were five riders, well-mounted and armed, their rough-bearded faces sun-blackened,
their bearing that of men long used to the saddle. The colors they wore were not those of
the House of Smoit, and Taran guessed the horsemen to be warriors in the service of one of
Smoit's liegemen.

“Put up your blade,” commanded the leading rider, nevertheless drawing his own, reining up
before the wayfarers and glancing scornfully at them. “Who are you? Who do you serve?”

“They're outlaws,” cried another. “Strike them down.”

“They look more like scarecrows than outlaws,” replied the leader. “I take them for a pair
of churls who have run away from their master.”

Taran lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. “I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper...”

“Where then are your pigs?” cried the first rider with a coarse laugh. “And why are you
not at keeping them?” He gestured with a thumb toward Gurgi. “Or will you tell me this---
this sorry thing is one of your charges?”

“He is no piggy!” indignantly retorted Gurgi. “No piggy at all! He is Gurgi, bold and
clever to serve kindly master!”

The creature's outburst brought only more laughter from the horsemen. But now the first
rider spied Melynlas. “Your steed is above your station, pig-keeper,” he said. “How do you
come by it?”

“Melynlas is mine by right,” Taran replied sharply. “A gift of Gwydion Prince of Don.”

“Lord Gwydion?” cried the warrior. “Given? Stolen from him, rather,” he jeered. “Have a
care; your lies will cost you a beating.”

“I tell no lie and seek no quarrel,” Taran answered. “We journey in peace to King Smoit's
castle.”

“Smoit needs no pig-keeper,” one of the warriors broke in.

“Nor do we,” said the first rider. He swung around to his fellows. “What say you? Shall we
take his horse or his head? Or both?”

“Lord Goryon will welcome a fresh mount and reward us all the more for this one,” answered
a rider. “But the head of a pig-keeper serves no use, not even to himself.”

“Well said, and so be it!” cried the warrior. “Besides, he can better mind his pigs
afoot,” he added, reaching for the stallion's bridle.

Taran sprang between Melynlas and the horseman. Gurgi leaped forward and furiously
grappled the rider's leg. The other warriors spurred their mounts, and Taran found himself
in the midst of rearing horses, driven from the side of his own steed. He fought to bring
up his sword. One of the riders wheeled and drove his mount's flank heavily against Taran,
who lost his footing. At the same instant another of his assailants fetched him a blow
that would surely have cost Taran his head had the warrior not struck with the flat of his
sword. As it was, Taran fell stunned to the ground, his ears ringing, thoughts spinning,
and the horsemen seeming to burst into comets before his eyes. He was dimly aware of Gurgi
frantically yelling, of Melynlas whinnying, and it seemed to him that another figure had
joined the fray. By the time he could stagger to his feet, the horsemen had vanished,
dragging Melynlas with them.

Taran, crying out in dismay and anger, stumbled toward the path they had taken. A broad
hand grasped his shoulder. He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of
coarse wool girt with a plaited rope. His bare arms were knotted and sinewy, and his back
bent, though less by years than by labor. A shock of gray, uncropped hair hung about a
face that was stern but not unkind.

“Hold, hold,” the man said. “You'll not overtake them now. Your horse will come to no ill.
The henchmen of Lord Goryon treat steeds better than strangers.” He patted the oaken staff
he carried. “Two of Goryon's border-band will have heads to mend. But so will you, from
the look of you.” He picked up a sack and slung it over his shoulder. “I am Aeddan Son of
Aedd,” he said. “Come, both of you. My farm is no distance.”

“Without Melynlas my quest will fail,” Taran cried. “I must find---” He stopped short. The
warriors' mockery still rankled him, and he was reluctant to tell more than need be, even
to this man who had befriended him.

But the farmer showed no interest in questioning him. “What you seek,” replied Aeddan, “is
more your business than mine. I saw five set upon two and only put some fairness in the
match. Will you heal your hurt? Then follow me.”

So saying, the farmer set off down the hillside, Taran and Gurgi behind him. Gurgi turned
often to shake his fist in the direction of the departed horsemen, while Taran trudged
along the darkening path, speaking not a word, deep in despair over Melynlas, and thinking
bitterly that in his quest he had done no more than lose his horse and gain a broken head.
His bones ached; his muscles throbbed. To worsen matters, the clouds had thickened;
nightfall brought pelting rain; and by the time he reached Aeddan's farmhold Taran was as
drenched and bedraggled as ever he had been in all his life.

The dwelling into which Aeddan led the companions was only a hut of wattle and daub, but
Taran was surprised at its snugness and neat furnishings. Never before in all his
adventures had he shared hospitality with the farmer folk of Prydain, and he glanced
around as wondering as a stranger in a new land. Now that he could look more closely at
Aeddan, he sensed honesty and good nature in the man's weathered face. The farmer gave him
a warm grin and Taran, despite the smart of his wounds, grinned back, feeling indeed that
he had come upon a friend.

The farm wife, a tall, work-hardened woman with features as lined as her husband's, threw
up her hands at the sight of Gurgi, whose dripping, matted hair had gathered a blanket of
twigs and pine needles, and cried out at Taran's blood-smeared face. While Aeddan told of
the fray, the woman, Alarca, opened a wooden chest and drew out a sturdy, warm jacket,
well worn but lovingly mended, which Taran gratefully took in place of his own sodden
garment.

Alarca set about mixing a potion of healing herbs, and Aeddan, meantime, poured onto a
table the contents of his sack: hunches of bread, a cheese, and some dried fruit.

“You come to small comfort,” he said. “My land yields little, so I toil part of my days in
my neighbors' fields to earn what I cannot grow.”

“And yet,” Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan's plight, “I have heard it told there was
rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs.”

“Was, indeed,” replied Aeddan with a dour laugh. “In the time of my forefathers, not in
mine. As the Hill Cantrevs were famed for their long-fleeced sheep, so the Valley Cantrevs
of Ystrad were known far and wide for the finest oats and barley, and Cantrev Cadiffor
itself for wheat bright and heavy as gold. And golden days there must have been in all
Prydain,” Aeddan went on, cutting the bread and cheese into portions and handing them to
Taran and Gurgi. “My father's father told a tale, already old when it was told to him, of
plows that worked of themselves, of scythes that reaped a harvest without even the touch
of a man's hand.”

“So, too, have I heard,” Taran said. “But Arawn Death-Lord stole those treasures, and now
they lie unused and hidden deep in the fastness of Annuvin.”

The farmer nodded. "Arawn's hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the
land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few. Enchanted tools
did Arawn steal? Many secrets there were of making the earth yield richly, and of these,
too, the Lord of Annuvin robbed us.

“Twice in two years have my crops failed,” Aeddan went on, as Taran listened with
heartfelt concern. “My granary is empty. And the more I must toil for others, the less I
may work my own fields. Even so, my knowledge is too slight. What I most need is locked
forever in the treasure hoard of Annuvin.”

“It is not altogether your skill that lacks,” Alarca said, putting a hand on the farmer's
knotted shoulder. “Before the first planting the plow ox and cow sickened and died. And
the second,” her voice lowered. “For the second we were without the help of Amren.”

Taran glanced questioningly at the woman, whose eyes had clouded.

She said, “Amren, our son. He was of your years, and it is his jacket you wear. He needs
it no longer. Winter and summer are alike to him. He sleeps under a burial mound among
other fallen warriors. Yes, he is gone,” the woman added. “He rode with the battle host
when they fought off raiders who sought to plunder us.”

“I share your sorrow,” Taran said; then, to console her, added, “But he died with honor.
Your son is a hero...”

“My son is slain,” the woman answered sharply. “The raiders fought because they were
starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than
when they began. Now, for us the labor is too great for one pair of hands, even for two.
The secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole could well serve us. Alas, we cannot regain them.”

“No matter. Even without the secrets my harvest will not fail this year,” Aeddan said.
“All save one of my fields lies fallow; but in this one have I spent all my toil.” He
looked proudly at Taran. “When my wife and I could no longer pull the plow ourselves, I
broke the earth with my own hands and sowed it grain by grain.” The farmer laughed. “Yes,
and weeded it blade by blade, as niggling as a granddam with her favorite patch of herbs.
It will not fail. Indeed, it must not,” he added, frowning. “This season our livelihood
hangs on it.”

Little more was said then, and when the meager meal ended, Taran gladly stretched his
aching bones besides the hearth, while Gurgi curled up next to him. Weariness overcame
even his despair for Melynlas, and with the patter of rain on the thatch and the hiss of
the dying embers Taran soon fell asleep.

The companions woke before first light, but Taran found Aeddan already working in his
field. The rain had stopped, leaving the earth fresh and moist. Taran knelt and took up a
handful. Aeddan had spoken the truth. The soil had been tilled with utmost pains, and
Taran watched the farmer with growing respect and admiration. The farm could indeed yield
richly, and Taran stood a moment looking toward the fallow ground, barren for lack of
hands to labor it. With a sigh he turned quickly away, his thoughts once more on Melynlas.

How he might regain the silver-maned stallion Taran could not foresee, but he had
determined to make his way to the stronghold of Lord Goryon where, in Aeddan's judgment,
the warriors had surely taken the animal. Though more than ever anxious over his beloved
steed, Taran worked through the morning beside Aeddan. The farm couple had kept scarcely a
morsel of the evening's fare for themselves, and Taran saw no other means to repay them.
By midday, however, he dared delay no longer, and made ready to take his leave.

Alarca had come to the door of the hut. Like her husband, the woman had asked nothing
beyond what little Taran had chosen to tell of his quest, but now she said, “Will you
still follow your own path? Have you turned from home and kinsmen? What mother's heart
longs for her son as I long for mine?”

“Alas, none that I know,” Taran answered, folding Amren's jacket and gently putting it in
her hands. “And none that knows me.”

“You have been well taught in the ways of farming,” Aeddan said. “If you seek a place of
welcome, you have already found one.”

“Whatever other welcomes I find, may they be as openhearted as yours,” Taran replied, and
it was not without regret that he and Gurgi said farewell.

Goryon and Gast

A
EDDAN HAD POINT OUT
the shortest path to Lord Goryon's stronghold, and the two wayfarers reached it by
midafternoon. It was not a castle, Taran saw, but a large huddle of buildings circled by a
barricade of wooden stakes lashed with osier and chinked up with hard-packed earth. The
gate of heavy palings stood open, and there was much going and coming of horsemen, of
warriors on foot, of herdsmen driving in their cows from pasture.

Though Gurgi was far from eager, Taran led on, keeping as bold a face as he could, and
amid the busy crowd the two entered the stronghold unnoticed and unchallenged. Without
difficulty Taran found the stables, which were larger, cleaner, and in better repair than
the rest of the buildings; and strode quickly to a young boy raking straw, calling out in
a firm voice, “Tell me, friend, is there not a gray stallion here that Lord Goryon's
warriors captured? A handsome steed, they say, and a rare one.”

“Gray stallion?” cried the stable boy. “Gray dragon, rather! The beast half-kicked his
stall down and gave me a bite I'll not forget. Lord Goryon will have broken bones before
the day ends.”

“How then?” Taran hurriedly asked. “What has he done with the steed?”

“What has the steed done with him!” answered the boy, grinning. “Thrown him the most of a
dozen times already! The Master of Horse himself cannot sit three moments on the
creature's back, but Goryon tries to ride it even now. Goryon the Valorous he is called,”
the boy chuckled; then added behind his hand, “though to my mind he has little stomach for
this task. But his henchmen egg him on, and so Goryon means to break the beast to his will
even if he must first break its back.”

“Master, master,” Gurgi whispered frantically, “hasten to King Smoit for helpings!”

Taran's face had paled at the boy's words. Caer Cadarn was too far; Smoit's help would
come too late. “Where is the steed?” he asked, hiding his concern. “This would be a sight
worth the seeing.”

The stable boy pointed his rake toward a long, low-roofed building. “In the training field
behind the Great Hall. But take heed,” he added, rubbing his shoulder, “keep your
distance, or the beast will give you worse than he gave me.”

Setting off instantly Taran no sooner passed the Great Hall than he heard shouting and the
furious whinny of Melynlas. His pace quickened into a run. A grassless, hoofbeaten turf
was ahead. He glimpsed warriors circling the gray stallion who reared, bucked, and spun
about with heels flying. In another moment the burly, thickset figure atop the stallion's
back was flung loose; then, arms and legs flailing, Lord Goryon plummeted to earth and lay
there like a sack of lead.

Melynlas galloped desperately, seeking escape from the circle of warriors, one of whom
hastened to snatch at the horse's reins. All caution forgotten, Taran cried out and raced
to the stallion's side. He grasped the bridle before the surprised man could think of
drawing his sword, and threw his arms about the neck of Melynlas, who whickered in
greeting. The other onlookers ran toward Taran, as he strove to mount and pull Gurgi up
after him. A hand seized his jacket. Taran fought free and set his back against the
stallion's flank. Lord Goryon had meanwhile picked himself up and now burst through the
press of warriors.

“Insolence! Impudence!” roared Goryon. His dark, gray-shot beard bristled like a furious
hedgehog. His heavy face was mottled purple, whether from bruises, lack of breath, blind
anger, or all three at once Taran could not judge. “Does a churl lay hand on my horse?
Away with him! Thrash him soundly for his insult!”

“I do no more than claim my own steed,” Taran cried. “Melynlas foal of Melyngar...”

A tall, raw-boned man with one arm bound up in a sling, whom Taran guessed to be the
Master of Horse, peered sharply at him. “Foal of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion's war horse?
That is noble lineage. How do you know this?”

“I know it as well as I know Melynlas was stolen from me,” Taran declared, “near Aeddan's
farmhold at the borders of your cantrev, and my comrade robbed of his pony.” He tried then
to explain who he was and the purpose of his journey, but the cantrev lord, unheeding,
broke in angrily.

“Impudence!” cried Goryon, his beard bristling all the more furiously. “How dares a
pig-keeper insult me with a liar's tale? My border-band gained these mounts nearly at the
cost of their lives.”

“The cost of
our
lives,” Taran retorted, glancing hurriedly at the faces around him. “Where are the riders?
I beg you call them to witness.”

“More insolence!” snapped the cantrev lord. “They ride the borders, as they are commanded.
Do you mean to tell me I keep idle men and shirkers in my service?”

“And full service have they given you,” one of the warriors said to Goryon. “Heroes, all
of them, to stand against six giants...”

“Giants?” repeated Taran, scarcely believing his ears.

“Giants indeed!” cried Goryon. “It will not be forgotten how the brave riders of Goryon
the Valorous were beset by enemies, outnumbered two to one. By worse than giants! For one
was a fierce monster with sharp claws and fangs. Another carried an oak tree in his fist
and swept it about him as if it were no more than a twig. But the riders of Goryon
overcame them all with glory and honor!”

“The stallion, too, was bewitched,” put in another of Goryon's henchmen, “and fought as
fiercely as the giants. The beast is a man-killer, vicious as a starving wolf.”

“But Goryon the Valorous will tame the creature,” added another, turning to the cantrev
lord.

“You'll ride the brute, will you not, Goryon?”

“Eh?” said Goryon, a painful and unhappy grimace suddenly marking his face. “So I will, so
I will,” he growled; then flung out angrily “You insult my honor if you think I cannot.”

As Taran stood among these rough warriors, he began to despair of finding any means of
convincing the prickly-tempered cantrev lord; the thought crossed his mind to draw blade
and fight his way out as best he could. But another glance at the stern faces of the
henchmen gave him only more cause for dismay.

“My lord,” Taran said firmly, “I speak the truth. There were no giants, but my companion
and myself, and a farmer who fought beside us.”

“No giants?” shouted Goryon. “But more insults!” He stamped his foot as if the turf itself
had given him some impertinence. “You call my men liars? As well call me one!”

“My lord,” Taran began again, bowing deeply, for it was growing clear to him that Goryon's
touchy honor could scarcely allow the cantrev lord to believe an account of simple horse
stealing; and there was, Taran realized, even for the border-band themselves, considerably
more honor in overcoming giants than in robbing Assistant Pig-Keepers. “I call no man liar
and your men spoke the truth. The truth,” he added, “as they saw it.”

“Insolence!” cried Goryon. “The truth as it is! There were giants, monsters, uprooted
oaks. My men were well-rewarded for their valor, but you shall have a beating for your
impudence!”

“What I believe, my lord, is this,” Taran went on, choosing his words carefully, since all
he had thus far managed to say Goryon had turned into one kind of insult or another. "The
sun was low and our shadows made our number seem twice as great. Indeed, your men saw
double what we truly were.

“As for giants,” Taran hurried on before the cantrev lord could cry out against another
impertinence, “again, the long shadows of sunset gave us such height that any man could
mistake our size.”

“The oak-tree cudgel,” Lord Goryon began.

“The farmer bore a stout oaken staff,” Taran said. “His arm was strong, his blows quick,
as two of your men had good reason to know. He smote with such a mighty hand, small wonder
they felt a tree had fallen on them.”

Lord Goryon said nothing for a moment, but sucked a tooth and rubbed his bristling beard.
“What of the monster? A raving, ferocious creature they saw with their own eyes?”

“The monster stands before you,” Taran answered, pointing to Gurgi. “He has long been my
companion. I know him to be gentle, but the fiercest foe when roused.”

“He is Gurgi! Yes, yes!” Gurgi shouted. “Bold, clever, and fierce to fight for kindly
master!” With this he bared his teeth, shook his hairy arms, and yelled so frightfully
that Goryon and his henchmen drew backward a pace.

The face of the cantrev lord had begun to furrow in deep perplexity. He shifted his bulk
from one foot to another and glared at Taran. “Shadows!” he growled. “You mean to shadow
the bravery of those who serve me. Another insult...”

“If your warriors believed they had seen what they claimed,” Taran said, “and fought
accordingly, their bravery is no less. Indeed,” he added, half under his breath, “it is
every bit as great as their truthfulness.”

“These are no more than words,” interrupted the Master of Horse. “Show me deeds. There is
no creature on four hooves that I cannot ride, save this one. You, churl, will you dare to
mount?”

For answer, Taran swung quickly into the saddle. Melynlas whinnied, pawed the ground, then
stood calmly. Lord Goryon choked with amazement, and the Master of Horse stared in
disbelief. A surprised murmur rose from Goryon's henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh
as one of them called, “So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and
takes your horse and honor both!”

Taran thought he had seen a faint flicker of relief in Goryon's bruised face, as though he
were not altogether displeased to avoid riding Melynlas, but at the henchman's words the
cantrev lord's features began to darken furiously.

“Not so!” Taran hastily cried out to the circle of men. “Would you have your liege lord
ride a pig-keeper's nag? Is that fitting to his honor?” He turned now to Goryon, for a
bold thought had come to him. “And yet, my lord, were you to take him as a gift from me...”

“What?” shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. “Insults!
Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower
myself to mount the beast again.” He flung up an arm. “Begone! Out of my sight--- your
nag, your monster, and his pony along with you!”

Goryon snapped his jaws shut and said no more. Gurgi's pony was led from the stable, and
under the eyes of the cantrev lord and his henchmen the two companions passed unhindered
through the gate.

Taran rode slowly, head high, with all the assurance he could muster. But once out of
sight of the stronghold, the companions clapped heels into their horses' flanks and
galloped for dear life.

“O
H, WISDOM THAT WINS
horses from prideful lord!” Gurgi cried, when they had ridden far enough to be safe from
any change of heart on the part of Goryon. “Even Gurgi could not have been so clever. Oh,
he wishes to be wise as kindly master, but his poor tender head has no skill in such
thinkings!”

“My wisdom?” Taran laughed. “Barely enough to make up for losing Melynlas in the first
place.” He scanned the valley anxiously. Night was falling and he had hoped by this time
to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon's
border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills. But he
saw neither cottage nor hut, and so pressed on through the purpling dusk.

Lights flared in a clearing ahead, and Taran reined Melynlas to a halt near a stronghold
much like Lord Goryon's. But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from
sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if
in token of feasting and revelry within.

“Dare we stop here?” Taran said. “If this cantrev lord shows us Goryon's courtesy, we'd
sleep sounder in a gwythaint's nest.” Nevertheless, the hope of a comfortable bed and the
torches' inviting glow made his weariness weigh all the heavier. He hesitated a moment,
then urged Melynlas closer to the gate.

To the men in the watchtower Taran called out that here were wayfarers journeying to Caer
Cadarn and known to King Smoit. He was relieved when the portal creaked open and the
guards beckoned the pair to enter. The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and
Gurgi to the Great Hall.

“Beg hospitality of my Lord Gast,” the Steward told them, “and he will grant what he deems
fitting.”

As he followed the Steward, Taran's spirits rose at the thought of a warm meal and a
comfortable couch. Loud voices, laughter, and the merry notes of a harp came from the
Hall. Stepping through the doorway Taran saw crowded tables on either side of a
low-ceilinged room. At the far end, flanked by his henchmen and their ladies, sat a richly
garbed war lord, a drinking horn in one fist and most of a joint of meat in the other.

Taran and Gurgi bowed deeply. Before they could draw closer, the harper standing in the
middle of the Hall turned, cried out in surprise, and ran to them. Taran, whose hand was
being shaken half off his arm, found himself blinking with happy astonishment at the long
pointed nose and spiky yellow hair of his old companion, Fflewddur Fflam.

“Well met, the two of you,” cried the bard, pulling them to the high table. “I've missed
you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona,”
Fflewddur hurriedly explained, “I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in
my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring's only once a year. And
here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings
later.”

Fflewddur had brought the companions to stand before Lord Gast, and Taran saw a
heavy-featured warrior with a beard the color of muddy flax. A handsome collarpiece
dangled from his neck; rings glittered on fingers stout enough to crack walnuts; and bands
of beaten silver circled his arms. The cantrev lord's raiment was costly and well-cut, but
Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long
past.