Taran Wanderer (4 page)

The bard, with a sweep of his harp, named the companions to Lord Gast. “These are two who
sought the Black Cauldron from Arawn of Annuvin and fought at the side of Gwydion Prince
of Don. Let your hospitality match their boldness.”

“And so it shall!” Gast loudly cried. “No wayfarer can fault the hospitality of Gast the
Generous!” He made place for the companions at his table and, sweeping aside the empty
bowls and dishes before him, clapped his hands and bawled for the Steward. When the
servitor arrived, Lord Gast commanded him to bring such an array of food and drink that
Taran could hardly imagine himself eating half of it. Gurgi, hungry as always, smacked his
lips in gleeful anticipation.

As the Steward left, Lord Gast took up a tale, whose matter Taran found difficult to
follow, concerning the costliness of his food and his openhandedness toward travelers.
Taran listened courteously through it all, surprised and delighted at his good luck in
finding Gast's stronghold. Feeling more at ease, thanks to the presence of Fflewddur,
Taran at last ventured to speak of his meeting with Lord Goryon.

“Goryon!” snorted Gast. “Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of
what?” He snatched up a drinking horn. “See this?” he cried. “The name of Gast carved upon
it and the letters worked in gold! See this cup! This bowl! These ornament my common
table. My storehouse holds even finer, as you shall see. Goryon! Horseflesh is all he
knows, and little enough of that!”

Fflewddur, meanwhile, had raised the harp to his shoulder and began to strike up a tune.
“It's a small thing I composed myself,” he explained. “Though I must say it's been cheered
and praised by thousands...”

No sooner were the words past his lips than the harp bent like an overdrawn bow and a
string broke with a loud twang. “Drat the thing!” muttered the bard. “Will it give me no
peace? I swear it's getting worse. The slightest bit of color added to the facts and it
costs me a string. Yes, as I meant to say, I know full half-a-dozen who deemed the song---
ah--- rather well done.” With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up
the broken string.

Taran, glancing around the Hall this while, was surprised to realize the plates and
drinking horns of the guests were more than half-empty and, in fact, showed no sign of
ever having been full. His perplexity grew when the Steward returned to set the food-laden
tray before Lord Gast, who planted his elbows on either side of it.

“Eat your fill,” cried Gast to Taran and Gurgi, pushing a small hunch of gravy-spotted
bread toward them and keeping the rest for himself. “Gast the Generous is ever openhanded!
A sad fault that may turn me into a pauper, but it's my nature to be free with all my
goods; I can't fight against it!”

“Generous?” Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the
skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. “I think he'd make a miser seem a prodigal
in comparison.”

So passed the meal, with Gast loudly urging the companions to stuff themselves, yet all
the while grudgingly offering them no more than a few morsels of stringy meat from the
heaped platter. Only at the end, when Gast has swallowed all he could and his head nodded
sleepily and his beard straggled into his drinking horn, were the companions able to down
the meager leavings. At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped
their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like
stones.

In the morning Taran was impatient to start once more for Caer Cadarn, and Fflewddur
agreed to ride with him. But Lord Gast would hear none of it until the companions marveled
at his storerooms. The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons,
horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap
that he could scarcely tell one from another. Among all these goods Taran's eyes lingered
on a gracefully fashioned wine bowl, the most beautiful Taran had ever seen. He had,
however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly
ornamented horse bridle into Taran's hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of
stirrups which he praised equally.

“That wine bowl is worth all the rest put together,” Fflewddur whispered to Taran, as Lord
Gast now led the three companions from the storehouse to a large cow pen just outside the
barricade. “I recognize the work from the hand of Annlaw Clay-Shaper, a master craftsman,
the most skilled potter in Prydain. I swear his wheel is enchanted! Poor Gast!” Fflewddur
added. “To count himself rich and know so little of what he owns!”

“But how has he gained such treasure?” Taran said.

“On that score, I should hesitate to ask,” Fflewddur murmured with a grin. “Very likely
the same way Goryon gained your horse.”

“And this,” cried the cantrev lord, halting beside a black cow who stood peacefully
grazing amid the rest of the herd, “and this is Cornillo, the finest cow in all the land!”

Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had
been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled in the sun.

Lord Gast proudly stroked the animal's sleek flanks. “Gentle as a lamb! Strong as an ox!
Swift as a horse and wise as an owl!” Gast went on, while Cornillo, calmly munching her
cud, turned patient eyes to Taran, as though hoping not to be mistaken for anything other
than a cow.

“She leads my cattle,” declared Lord Gast, “better than any herdsman can. She'll pull a
plow or turn a grist mill, if need be. Her calves are always twins! As for milk, she gives
the sweetest! Cream, every drop! So rich the dairy maids can scarcely churn it!”

Cornillo blew out her breath almost in a sigh, switched her tail, and went back to
grazing. From the pasture Lord Gast pressed the companions to the hen roost, and from
there to the hawk mews, and the morning was half-spent and Taran had begun to despair of
ever leaving the stronghold, when Gast finally ordered their mounts readied.

Fflewddur, Taran saw, still rode Llyan, the huge, golden-tawny cat who had saved the
companions' lives on the Isle of Mona. “Yes, I decided to keep her--- rather, she's
decided to keep me,” said the bard, as Llyan, recognizing Taran, padded forward and began
happily rubbing her head against his shoulder. “'She loves the harp more than ever,”
Fflewddur went on. “Can't hear enough of it.” No sooner did he say this than Llyan flicked
her long whiskers and turned to give the bard a forceful nudge; so that Fflewddur then and
there had to unsling his instrument and strike a few chords, while Llyan, purring loudly,
blinked fondly at him with great yellow eyes.

“Farewell,” called the cantrev lord as the companions mounted. “At the stronghold of Gast
the Generous you'll ever find an openhanded welcome!”

“It's a generosity that could starve us to death,” Taran, laughing, remarked to the bard
as they rode eastward again. “Gast thinks himself openhanded as Goryon thinks himself
valorous; and as far as I can judge, neither one has the truth of it. Yet,” he added,
“they both seem pleased with themselves. Indeed, is a man truly what he sees himself to
be?”

“Only if what he sees is true,” answered Fflewddur. "If there's too great a difference
between his own opinion and the facts--- ah--- then, my friend, I should say that such a
man had no more substance to him than Goryon's giants!

“But don't judge them too harshly,” the bard went on. “These cantrev nobles are much
alike, prickly as porcupines one moment and friendly as puppies the next. They all hoard
their possessions, yet they can be generous to a fault if the mood strikes them. As for
valor, they're no cowards. Death rides in the saddle with them and they count it nothing,
and in battle I've seen them gladly lay down their lives for a comrade. At the same time,”
he added, "it's also been my experience, in all my wanderings, that the further from the
deed, the greater it grows, and the most glorious battle is the one longest past. So it's
hardly surprising how many heroes you run into.

“Had they harps like mine,” said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, “what a din
you'd hear from every stronghold in Prydain!”

A Matter of Cows

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON
the companions sighted the crimson banner of the House of Smoit, its black bear emblem
flying bravely above the towers of Caer Cadarn. Unlike the palisaded strongholds of the
cantrev lords, Smoit's castle was a fortress with walls of hewn stone and iron-studded
gates thick enough to withstand all attack; the chips in the stones and the dents in the
portal told Taran the castle had indeed thrown back not a few assaults. For the three
travelers, however, the gates were flung open willingly and an honor guard of spearmen
hastened to escort the companions.

The red-bearded King sat at the dining table in his Great Hall, and from the array of
dishes, platters, and drinking horns both full and empty Taran judged Smoit could scarcely
have left off eating since morning. Seeing the companions, the King leaped from his throne
of oakwood, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic bear looking much like Smoit himself.

“My body and bones!” Smoit roared so loudly the dishes rattled on the table. “It's better
than a feast to see all of you!” His battle-scarred face beamed with delight and he flung
his burly arms around the companions in a joint-cracking hug. “Scrape out a tune from that
old pot of yours,” he cried to Fflewddur. “A merry tune for a merry meeting! And you, my
lad,” he went on, seizing Taran's shoulders with his heavy, red-furred hands, “when last
we met you looked scrawny as a plucked chicken. And your shaggy friend--- what, has he
rolled in the bushes all the way from Caer Dallben?”

Smoit clapped his hands, shouted for more food and drink, and would hear nothing of
Taran's news until the companions had eaten and the King had downed another full meal.

“The Mirror of Llunet?” said Smoit, when Taran at last was able to tell of his quest.
“I've heard of no such thing. As well seek a needle in a haystack as a looking glass in
the Llawgadarn Mountains.” The King's heavy brow furrowed and he shook his head. “The
Llawgadarns rise in the land of the Free Commots, and whether the folk there will be of a
mind to help you...”

“The Free Commots?” Taran asked. “I've heard them named, but know little else about them.”

“They're hamlets and small villages,” Fflewddur put in. “They start to the east of the
Hill Cantrevs and spread as far as Great Avren. I've never journeyed there myself; the
Free Commots are a bit far even for my ramblings. But the land itself is the pleasantest
in Prydain--- fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing.
There's iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments. Annlaw Clay-Shaper is
said to dwell among the Commot folk, as do many other craftsmen: master weavers,
metalsmiths--- from time out of mind their skills have been the Commots' pride.”

“A proud folk they are,” said Smoit. “And a stiff-necked breed. They bow to no cantrev
lords, but only to the High King Math himself.”

“No cantrev lords?” asked Taran, puzzled. “Who, then, rules them?”

“Why, they rule themselves,” answered Smoit. “Strong and steadfast they are, too. And, by
my beard, I'm sure there's more peace and neighborliness in the Free Commots than anywhere
else in Prydain. And so what need have they for kings or lords? When you come to the meat
of it,” he added, “a king's strength lies in the will of those he rules.”

Taran, who had been listening closely to these words of Smoit, nodded his head. “I had not
thought of it thus,” he said, half to himself. “Indeed, true allegiance is only given
willingly.”

“Enough talk!” cried Smoit. “It hurts my head and dries my gullet. Let's have more meat
and drink. Forget the Mirror. Tarry with me in my cantrev, lad. We'll ride to the hunt,
feast, and make merry. You'll put more flesh on your bones here than scrambling about on a
fool's errand. And that, my boy, is good counsel to you.”

Nevertheless, when he finally saw that Taran would not be dissuaded, Smoit goodnaturedly
agreed to give the companions all they needed for the journey. Next morning, after a huge
breakfast, which Smoit declared would serve to whet their appetites for dinner, the King
threw open his storehouse to them and went with them to be sure they chose the best of
gear.

Taran had only begun sorting through coils of rope, saddlebags, and harness leather when
one of the castle guards burst into the storeroom, calling, “Sire! A horseman of Lord Gast
is come. Raiders from Lord Goryon's stronghold have stolen Gast's prize cow and the rest
of the herd with her!”

“My pulse!” roared Smoit. “My breath and blood!” The King's tangled bush of eyebrows
knotted and his face turned as red as his beard. “How does he dare stir trouble in my
cantrev!”

“The men of Gast have armed. They ride against Goryon,” the guard hastened on. “Gast
craves your help. Will you speak to his messenger?”

“Speak to him?” bellowed Smoit. “I'll clap his master in irons for breaking the peace. And
worse! For breaking it without my leave!”

“Put Gast in irons?” Taran asked with some perplexity. “But Goryon stole his cow...”

“
His
cow?” cried Smoit. “His cow, indeed! Gast stole her from Goryon himself last year. And
before that, the other way around. Neither of them knows whose beast it rightly is. Those
two brawlers have ever been at loggerheads. Now the warm weather heats their blood again.
But I'll cool their tempers. In my dungeon! Gast and Goryon both!”

Smoit snatched up a mighty double-edged battle axe. “I'll fetch them back by the ears!” he
roared. “They know my dungeons; they've been there often enough. Who rides with me?”

“I will!” cried Fflewddur, his eyes lighting up. “Great Belin, a Fflam never shuns a
fight!”

“If you ask our help, Sire,” Taran began, “we give it willingly. But...”

“Mount up, then, my lad!” shouted Smoit. “You'll see justice done. And I'll have peace
between Gast and Goryon if I have to break their heads to gain it!”

Swinging his battle axe, Smoit bolted from the store-room bellowing orders right and left.
A dozen warriors sprang to horse. Smoit leaped astride a tall, barrel-chested steed,
whistled through his teeth almost loudly enough to break them, and waved his men onward;
amid the shouting and confusion, Taran, bewildered, found himself atop Melynlas galloping
across the courtyard and out the castle gate.

T
HE RED-BEARDED KING
set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up;
while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his
frantically galloping pony. Smoit's war horse was in a lather, and so was Melynlas before
the cantrev King signaled a halt.

“To meat!” Smoit cried, swinging out of the saddle and looking as unwearied as if he had
just begun a morning's trot. The companions, still catching their breath, had by no means
found their appetites, but Smoit clapped his hands to the heavy bronze belt around his
middle. “Hunger makes a man gloomy and saps all the spirit from a battle.”

“Sire, must we battle with Lord Gast?” Taran asked with some concern, for Smoit's war band
numbered only the dozen who had ridden from Caer Cadarn. “And if Lord Goryon's men have
armed, we may be too few to stand against all of them.”

“Battle?” Smoit retorted. “No, more's the pity. I'll have those troublemakers by the nose
and into my dungeons before nightfall. They'll do as I command. I'm their king, by my
beard! There's brawn enough here,” he added, shaking a mighty fist, “to make them remember
it.”

“And yet,” Taran ventured to say. “You yourself told me a king's true strength lay in the
will of those he ruled.”

“How's that?” cried Smoit, who had settled his bulk against a tree trunk and was about to
attack the joint of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag. “Don't puzzle me with my own
words! My body and bones, a king is a king!”

“I meant only that you've locked Gast and Goryon in your dungeon many times before,” Taran
answered. “And still they quarrel. Is there no way to keep peace between them? Or make
them understand...”

“I'll reason them reasons!” bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his
jutting brows. “But, true enough it is,” he admitted, frowning and seeming to chew at the
thought as if it were gristle in his meat, “they go surly to the dungeon and surly leave
it. You've struck on something, my lad. The dungeon's useless against that pair. And, my
pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I'll have the place
well watered down tonight.”

Taran was about to remark that his own thought was otherwise, but Fflewddur called out and
pointed to a horseman galloping across the meadow.

“He wears the colors of Goryon,” shouted Smoit, jumping to his feet, still holding the
joint in one hand and the battle axe in the other. Two of the warriors quickly mounted
and, drawing swords, spurred to engage the rider. But the horseman, brandishing his weapon
hilt downward, cried out that he bore tidings from the cantrev lord.

“You rogue!” Smoit bellowed, dropping both meat and axe and collaring the rider to haul
him bodily from the saddle. “What other mischief's afoot? Speak! Give me your news, man,
or I'll have it out of you along with your gizzard!”

“Sire!” gasped the messenger, “Lord Gast attacks in strength. My Lord Goryon is
hard-pressed; he has ordered more of his warriors to arm and calls on you to help him as
well.”

“What of the cows?” cried Smoit. “Has Gast won them back? Does Goryon still hold them?”

“Neither, Sire,” answered the messenger as well as he could with Smoit shaking him between
every word. “Lord Gast attacked Lord Goryon to regain his own herd and take Lord Goryon's,
too. But as they fought, all the beasts frighted and ran off. The cows? Sire, both herds
are gone, lost, every soul of them, and Cornillo herself!”

“Let that be the end of it!” declared Smoit, “and a good lesson for all cow-robbers. Gast
and Goryon shall cry peace and I'll spare them from my dungeon.”

“Sire, the fighting grows hotter,” the messenger said urgently. “Neither one will leave
off. Each blames the other for loss of his herd. Lord Goryon swears vengeance on Lord
Gast; and Lord Gast swears vengeance on Lord Goryon.”

“They've both been itching for battle,” Smoit burst out. “Now they find their excuse!” He
summoned one of his warriors, ordering him to take Goryon's messenger to Caer Cadarn,
there to be held as hostage. “To horse, the rest of you,” Smoit commanded. “My body and
bones, we'll see sport after all.” He gripped his axe. “Oh, there'll be heads broken
today!” he cried with relish, and his battered face brightened as if he were on his way to
a feast.

“The bards will sing of this,” exclaimed Fflewddur, carried away by Smoit's ardor. “A
Fflam in the thick of battle! The thicker the better!” The harp shuddered and a string
snapped in two. “I mean,” Fflewddur hastily added, “I hope we're not too badly
outnumbered.”

“Sire,” Taran called as Smoit strode to his war horse. “If Gast and Goryon won't stop
because their herds are lost, shouldn't we try to find the cows?”

“Yes, yes!” Gurgi put in. “Find cows gone with strayings! And put an end to fightings and
smitings!”

But Smoit had already mounted and was shouting for the war band to follow; and Taran could
do no more than gallop after him. To which stronghold Smoit was leading them, Taran did
not know. As far as Smoit was concerned, Taran decided, it made little difference whether
Gast or Goryon fell first into the King's hands.

In a while, however, Taran recognized the path he and Gurgi had taken from Aeddan's farm,
and he judged now that Smoit would make for Goryon's stronghold. But as they pounded
across an open field, the King veered sharply left and Taran glimpsed a troop of mounted
warriors some distance away.

At the sight of their banners, Smoit bellowed furiously and spurred his steed to overtake
the horsemen. But the riders, themselves galloping at top speed, quickly vanished into the
woodland. Smoit reined up, shouting after them and shaking his huge fist.

“Has Goryon put more warriors in the fray?” roared Smoit, his face crimson. “Then Gast has
done the same! Those louts wore his colors!”

“Sire,” Taran began, “if we can find the cows---”

“Cows!” burst out Smoit. “There's more than cows in this, my lad. Such a brawl can spread
like a spark through tinder. Those thick-skulled ruffians will set the whole of Cadiffor
ablaze and next thing you know we'll all be at one another's throats! But, by my beard,
they'll learn my fist smites harder than theirs! ”

Smoit hesitated and his face darkened with deep concern. He scowled and tugged at his
beard. “The lords of the next cantrev,” he muttered. “They'll not stand idle, but strike
against us when they see we're fighting each other!”

“But the cows,” Taran urged. “The three of us can seek them, while you---”

“The dungeon!” cried Smoit. “I'll have Gast and Goryon in it before their squabble gets
further out of hand.”

Smoit clapped heels to his horse and charged forward, making no attempt to hold to any
pathway, dashing at breakneck speed through bramble and thicket. With the companions and
the train of warriors pelting behind, Smoit clattered over the stones of a riverbank and
plunged his horse into the swift current. The King had ill chosen his fording place, for
in another moment Taran found himself in water up to his saddlehorn. Smoit, shouting
impatiently, pressed on across the river. Taran saw the King rise up in his stirrups to
beckon his followers and urge more haste. But an instant later the war horse lost footing
and lurched sideways; steed and rider toppled with a mighty splash, and before Taran could
spur Melynlas to him, Smoit had been torn loose from his mount and, like a barrel with
arms and legs, was being borne quickly downstream.

Behind Taran some of the warriors had turned back, seeking to overtake the King by
following along the riverbank. Taran, closer to the opposite bank, urged all strength from
Melynlas, leaped from the saddle to dry ground, and raced along the shore after Smoit. The
sound of rushing water filled his ears, and with dismay Taran realized the King was being
pulled relentlessly to a waterfall. Heart bursting in his chest, Taran doubled his pace;
though before he could set foot in the rapids, he saw the King's red beard sink below the
churning water, and he cried out in despair as Smoit vanished over the brink.