The huntsmen of Annuvin
T
he pack horses shrieked in terror. Melynlas reared, as arrows rattled among the branches. Fflewddur, sword in hand, spun his mount and plunged against the attackers.
Adaon’s voice rang above the din. “These are Huntsmen! Fight free of them!”
At first it seemed to Taran the shadows had sprung to life. Formless, they drove against him, seeking to tear him from his saddle. He swung his sword blindly. Melynlas pitched furiously, trying to break away from the press of warriors.
The sky had begun to unravel in scarlet threads. The sun, rising against black pines and leafless trees, filled the grove with a baleful light.
Taran now saw the attackers numbered about a dozen. They wore jackets and leggings of animal skins. Long knives were thrust into their belts, and from the neck of one warrior hung a curved hunting horn. As the men swirled around him, Taran caught his breath in horror. Each Huntsman bore a crimson brand on his forehead. The sight of it filled Taran with dread, for he knew the strange symbol must be a mark of Arawn’s power. He fought against the fear that chilled his heart and drained his strength.
Behind him, he heard Eilonwy cry out. Then he was seized by the belt and dragged from Melynlas. A Huntsman tumbled with him to the ground. Closely grappled, Taran could not bring his sword into play. The Huntsman raised himself abruptly and thrust a knee against Taran’s chest. The warrior’s eyes glinted; he bared his teeth in a horrible grin as he raised a dagger.
The Huntsman’s voice froze in the midst of a shout of triumph and he suddenly fell backward. Ellidyr, seeing Taran’s plight, had brought down his sword in one powerful blow. Thrusting the lifeless body aside, he heaved Taran to his feet.
For an instant their eyes met. Ellidyr’s face, below a bloodstained mat of tawny hair, held a look of scorn and pride. He seemed about to speak, but turned quickly without a word and ran toward the fray.
In the grove there was a sudden moment of silence. Then a long sigh rippled among the attackers as though each man had drawn breath. Taran’s heart sank as he remembered Gwydion’s warning. With a roar, the Huntsmen renewed their attack with even greater ferocity, dashing themselves against the struggling companions in a surge of fury.
From astride Melynlas, Eilonwy fitted an arrow to her bow. Taran hurried to her side. “Do not slay them!” he cried. “Defend yourself but do not slay them!”
Just then a hairy, twiggy figure burst from the scrub. Gurgi had snatched up a sword nearly as tall as himself. His eyes shut tightly, he stamped his feet, shouted, and swung the weapon about him like a scythe. Furious as a hornet, he raced back and forth among the Huntsmen, bobbing up and down, his blade never still.
As the warriors sprang aside, Taran saw one of them clutch the
air and spin head over heels. Another Huntsman doubled up and fell, pounded by invisible fists. He rolled across the ground in an attempt to escape the buffeting, but no sooner did he climb to his feet than a shouting, thrashing warrior was flung against him. The Huntsmen lashed out with their weapons, only to have them ripped from their hands and tossed into the scrub. Against this charge they fell back in alarm.
“Doli!” Taran cried. “It’s Doli!”
Adaon took this moment to plunge forward. He seized Gurgi and hoisted him to Lluagor’s back. “Follow me!” Adaon shouted. He turned his mount and shot past the struggling warriors.
Taran leaped to the back of Melynlas. With Eilonwy clinging to his belt, he bent low over the horse’s silver mane. Arrows flew past him as Melynlas streaked ahead. Then the stallion was clear of the grove and pounding across open ground.
Ears back, Melynlas galloped past a line of trees. Dry leaves flew in a whirlwind beneath churning hooves, as the stallion sped to the brown crest of a hill. For a moment Taran dared to glance behind him. Below, a number of Huntsmen had separated from the band, and with great strides held to the track of the fleeing companions. They were swift, even as Gwydion had warned. In their jackets of bristling skins they seemed wild beasts rather than men, as they spread in a wide arc across the slope. As they ran, they called out to one another in a weird, wordless cry that echoed almost from the brooding crags of Dark Gate itself.
Cold with dread, Taran urged Melynlas on. Clumps of grass rose high among fallen tree trunks and withered branches. Ahead, Lluagor galloped down an embankment.
Adaon had brought them to a riverbed. Dark water lay in a few
shallow pools, but for the most part it was dry and the clay banks rose high enough to offer concealment. Adaon reined in Lluagor and cast a quick glance behind him to make sure all had followed, then beckoned the companions to move forward. They set off at a rapid gait. The riverbed wound its way through high-standing firs and tattered alders, but after a little time the embankment fell away and a sparse forest became their only cover.
Although Melynlas did not slacken speed, Taran saw the pace had begun to tell on the other horses. Taran himself longed to rest. Doli’s shaggy pony labored through the trees; the bard had ridden his own mount into a lather. Ellidyr’s face was deathly pale, and he was bleeding heavily from his forehead.
They had not, as far as Taran could tell, stopped hastening westward, and Dark Gate lay some distance behind them, though its peaks no longer could be seen. Taran had hoped Adaon could have fallen back toward the path they had used earlier with Gwydion, but he knew now they were far from it and traveling still further.
Adaon led them to a dense thicket and signaled them to dismount. “We dare not stay here long,” he warned. “There are few hiding places Arawn’s hunters will not discover.”
“Then stand and face them!” cried the bard. “A Fflam never shrinks!”
“Yes, yes! Gurgi will face them too!” put in Gurgi, although he seemed barely able to lift his head.
“We shall stand against them only if we must,” Adaon said. “They are stronger now than before and will not tire as quickly as we will.”
“We should make our stand now,” Ellidyr cried. “Is this the
honor we gain from following Gwydion? To let ourselves be tracked down like animals? Or do you fear them too much?”
“I do not fear them,” Taran retorted, “but it is no dishonor to shun them. This is what Gwydion himself would order.”
Eilonwy, though exhausted and disheveled, had not lost the use of her tongue. “Oh be quiet, both of you!” she commanded. “You worry so much about honor when you’d be better off thinking of a way to get back to Caer Cadarn.”
Taran, who had been crouched against a tree, raised his head from his hands. From a distance came a long, wavering cry. Another voice answered it, then another. “Are they giving up the hunt?” he asked. “Have we outrun them?”
Adaon shook his head. “I doubt it. They would not pursue us this far only to let us escape.” He swung stiffly to Lluagor’s back. “We must ride until we find a safer place to rest. We would have little hope if we let them come upon us now.”
As Ellidyr strode to the weary Islimach, Taran took him by the arm. “You fought well, Son of Pen-Llarcau,” he said quietly. “I think that I owe you my life.”
Ellidyr turned to him with the same glance of contempt Taran had seen in the grove. “It is a small debt,” he replied. “You value it more than I do.”
They set out once again, moving deeper into the forest, as rapidly as their strength allowed. The day had turned heavy with dampness and chill. The sun was feeble, wrapped in ragged gray clouds. Their progress slowed in the tangle of underbrush and the wet leaves mired the struggling animals. Doli, who had been bent over his saddle, straightened abruptly. He looked sharply around him. Whatever he saw caused him to be strangely elated.
“There are Fair Folk here,” he declared, as Taran rode up beside him.
“Are you sure?” Taran asked. “How do you know?”
Though he looked closely, he could see no difference between this stretch of forest and the one they had just passed through.
“How do I know? How do I know?” snapped Doli. “How do you know how to swallow your dinner?”
He kicked his heels against the pony’s flanks and hurried past Adaon, who halted in surprise. Doli jumped down, and after examining several trees ran quickly to the ruins of an enormous hollow oak. He thrust his head inside and began shouting at the top of his voice.
Taran, too, dismounted. With Eilonwy at his heels, he ran to the tree, fearful the fatigue and strain of the day had at last driven the dwarf out of his wits.
“Ridiculous!” muttered Doli, pulling his head out of the tree. “I can’t be that far wrong!”
He bent, sighted along the ground, and made incomprehensible calculations on his fingers. “It must be!” he cried. “King Eiddileg wouldn’t let things run down this badly.”
With that, he gave a number of furious kicks against the tree roots. Taran was sure the angry dwarf would have climbed into the tree itself had the opening in the trunk been larger.
“I’ll report it,” Doli cried, “yes, to Eiddileg himself! Unheard of! Impossible!”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Eilonwy said, brushing past the dwarf and stepping up to the oak, “but if you’d tell us, we might be able to help you.”
As the dwarf had done, she peered into the hollow trunk.
“I don’t know who’s down there,” she called, “but we’re up here and Doli wants to talk to you. At least you can answer! Do you hear me?”
Eilonwy turned away and shook her head. “They’re impolite, whoever they are. That’s worse than somebody shutting their eyes so you can’t see them!”
A faint but distinct voice rose from the tree. “Go away,” it said.
Gwystyl
D
oli hurriedly pushed Eilonwy aside and ducked his head back into the tree trunk. He began shouting again, but the dead wood so muffled the sound that Taran could distinguish nothing of the conversation, which consisted mainly of long outbursts from the dwarf followed by brief and reluctant answers.
At length Doli straightened up and beckoned the others to follow. He set off at a great rate directly across the woodland, and after little more than a hundred paces, he jumped down a jutting bank. Taran, leading the dwarf’s pony as well as Melynlas, hastened to join him. Adaon, Ellidyr, and the bard turned their mounts rapidly and were soon behind them.
The bank was so steeply inclined and overgrown that the horses could barely keep their footing. They stepped delicately among the brambles and exposed rocks. Islimach tossed her mane and whinnied nervously. The bard’s mount came near to falling onto her haunches, and even Melynlas snorted a protest against the difficult slope.
By the time Taran reached a shelf of level ground, Doli had run to the protected face of the embankment and was fuming impatiently before a huge tangle of thornbushes. To Taran’s amazement
the brambles began to shudder as though being pushed from inside; then, with much scraping and snapping of twigs, the whole mass opened a crack.
“It’s a way post of the Fair Folk,” Eilonwy cried. “I knew they had them every which where, but leave it to good old Doli to find one!”
As Taran reached the dwarf’s side, the portal opened wide enough for him to glimpse a figure behind it.
Doli peered inside. “So it’s you, Gwystyl,” he said. “I might have known.”
“So it’s you, Doli,” a sad voice replied. “I wish you’d given me a little warning.”
“Warning!” cried the dwarf. “I’ll give you more than a warning if you don’t open up! Eiddileg will hear of this. What good’s a way post if you can’t get into it when you have to? You know the rules: if any of the Fair Folk are in danger … Well, that’s what we’re in right now! On top of everything else, I could have shouted myself hoarse!” He gave a furious kick at the brambles.
The figure heaved a long and melancholy sigh, and the portal opened wider. Taran saw a creature which, at first glance, looked like a bundle of sticks with cobwebs floating at the top. He realized quickly the strange doorkeeper resembled certain of the Fair Folk he had once seen in Eiddileg’s kingdom; only this individual seemed in a woeful state of disrepair.
Unlike Doli, Gwystyl was not of the dwarf kindred. Though taller, he was extremely thin. His sparse hair was long and stringy; his nose drooped wearily above his upper lip, which in turn drooped toward his chin in a most mournful expression. Wrinkles puckered his forehead; his eyes blinked anxiously; and he seemed on the verge of bursting into tears. Around his bent shoulders
was draped a shabby, grimy robe, which he fingered nervously. He sniffed several times, sighed again, and grudgingly beckoned Doli to enter.
Gurgi and Fflewddur had come up behind Taran. Gwystyl, noticing them for the first time, gave a stifled moan.
“Oh, no,” he said, “not humans. Another day, perhaps. I’m sorry, Doli, believe me. But not the humans.”
“They’re with me,” snapped the dwarf. “They claim Fair Folk protection, and I’ll see they get it.”
Fflewddur’s horse, slipping among the branches, whinnied loudly, and at this Gwystyl clapped a hand to his forehead.
“Horses!” he sobbed. “That’s out of the question! Bring in your humans if you must. But not horses. Not horses today, Doli, I’m simply not up to horses today. Please, Doli,” he moaned, “don’t do this to me. I’m not well, not at all well, really. I couldn’t think of it. All the snorting and stamping and big bony heads. Besides, there’s no room. No room at all.”
“What place is this?” Ellidyr questioned angrily. “Where have you led us, dwarf? My horse does not leave my side. Climb into this rathole, the rest of you. I shall guard Islimach myself.”
“We can’t leave the horses above ground,” Doli told Gwystyl, who had already begun to retreat into the passageway. “Find room or make room,” he ordered. “That’s flat!”
Sniffing, groaning, shaking his head, Gwystyl with great reluctance heaved the doorway open to its full width.
“Very well,” he sighed, “bring them in. Bring them all in. And if you know any others, invite them, too. It doesn’t matter. I only suggested—an appeal to your generous heart, Doli. But I don’t care now. It makes no difference.”
Taran had begun to think Gwystyl had good reason for concern. The portal was barely high enough for the animals to pass through. Only with difficulty did Adaon’s tall steed enter; and Islimach rolled her eyes frantically as the thorns tore at her flanks.
Once past this barrier, however, Taran saw they had entered a kind of gallery, long and low-ceilinged. One side of it was solid earth, the other a dense screen of thorns and branches impossible to see through but with enough cracks and crevices to admit a little air.
“You can put the horses in there, I suppose,” sighed Gwystyl, fluttering his hands in the direction of the gallery. “I cleaned it not long ago. I wasn’t expecting to have it turned into a stable. But go ahead, it doesn’t make any difference.”
Choking and sighing to himself, Gwystyl then led the companions through a damp-smelling passageway. On one side, Taran noticed, an alcove had been hollowed out; it was filled with roots, lichens, and mushrooms—the food stock, he guessed, of the melancholy inhabitant. Water dripped from the dirt roof or ran in rivulets down the wall. An odor of loam and dead leaves hung in the corridor. Farther on, the passage opened into a round chamber.
Here, a small fire of sod flickered on a tiny, ash-laden hearth, and gave out frequent puffs of sharp, nose-tingling smoke. A disorderly pallet of straw lay nearby. There was a broken table, two stools, and a vast number of bunches of herbs hung against the wall drying. Some attempt had been made to smooth the sides of the wall itself, but here and there the twisting fingers of roots poked through. Though the chamber was intensely hot and stuffy, Gwystyl shuddered and pulled his robe closer about his shoulders.
“Very cozy,” Fflewddur remarked, coughing violently.
Gurgi hurried to the fireplace and, despite the smoke, flung himself down beside it. Adaon, who could barely stand to his full height, seemingly paid no attention to the disorder but went to Gwystyl and bowed courteously.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” Adaon said. “We have been hard pressed.”
“Hospitality!” snapped Doli. “We’ve seen precious little of that! Get along, Gwystyl, and fetch something to eat and drink.”
“Oh, to be sure, to be sure,” mumbled Gwystyl, “if you really want to take the time. When did you say you were leaving?”
Eilonwy gave a cry of delight. “Look, he has a tame crow!”
Near the fire, on a tree limb fashioned into a crude perch, crouched a heap of shadows which Taran realized was indeed a large crow. With Eilonwy, he hurried over to look at it. The crow resembled more a humpy ball with straggling tail feathers, feathers as wispy and disordered as Gwystyl’s cobwebby hair. But its eyes were sharp and bright and they peered at Taran critically. With a few dry clicks, the bird polished its beak on the perch and cocked its head.
“It’s a lovely crow,” Eilonwy said, “though I’ve never seen one with feathers quite like it. They’re unusual, but very handsome once you get used to them.”
Since the crow did not object, Taran gently stirred the feathers around its neck and ran a finger under the bird’s sharp and gleaming beak. With sudden sadness, he remembered the fledgling gwythaint he had befriended—long ago, it seemed—and wondered how the bird had fared. The crow, meantime, was enjoying an attention it evidently did not usually receive. It bobbed its head, blinked happily, and attempted to run its beak through Taran’s hair.
“What’s its name?” Eilonwy asked.
“Name?” answered Gwystyl. “Oh, his name is Kaw. Because of the noise he makes, you see. Something like that,” he added vaguely.
“Kaw!” exclaimed Fflewddur, who had been watching with interest. “Excellent! How clever! I should never have thought of giving it a name like that.” He nodded in pleasure and approval.
While Taran smoothed the feathers of the delighted crow, Adaon set about examining Ellidyr’s wound. From a small wallet at his belt, he drew out a handful of dried herbs, which he ground into a powder.
“What,” said Ellidyr, “are you a healer as well as a dreamer? If it does not trouble me, why should it trouble you?”
“If you do not choose to take it as a kindness,” Adaon answered, unperturbed and continuing to treat the cut, “take it as a precaution. There is hard and dangerous travel before us. I would not have you fall ill and delay us.”
“I shall not be the one to delay you,” Ellidyr replied. “I would have stood my ground when the chance was offered. Now we have let ourselves be run to earth like foxes.”
Gwystyl had been peering anxiously over Adaon’s shoulder. “Do you have anything that might be useful for my condition?” he asked tremulously. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, no matter. There’s nothing to be done about the dampness and the drafts; no, they’ll last longer than I, you can be sure,” he added in a dismal voice.
“Stop muttering about the drafts,” Doli ordered brusquely, “and think of some way to get us out of here safely. If you’re in charge of a way post, you’re supposed to be ready in emergencies.” He turned
away, furious. “I don’t know what Eiddileg was thinking of when he put you here.”
“I’ve often wondered that,” Gwystyl agreed, with a melancholy sigh. “It’s much too close to Annuvin for any decent kind of person to knock at your door—I don’t mean any of you,” he added hurriedly. “But it’s bleak. Nothing of interest, really. No, Doli, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. Except set you on your way as quickly as possible.”
“What about the Huntsmen?” Taran put in. “If they’re still tracking us …”
“Huntsmen?” Gwystyl turned a sickly greenish-white and his hands trembled. “How on earth did you come across them? I’m sorry to hear that. If I had known before, it might have been possible—oh, it’s too late for that. They’ll be all over the place now. No, really, you could have shown a little more consideration.”
“You might think we wanted to have them after us!” cried Eilonwy, unable to curb her impatience. “That’s like inviting a bee to come and sting you.”
At the girl’s outburst, Gwystyl shriveled up in his robe and looked more dismal than ever. He choked, wiped his forehead with a trembling hand, and let a large tear roll down his nose. “I didn’t mean it that way, my dear child, believe me.” Gwystyl sniffed. “I just don’t see what’s to be done about it—if anything at all. You’ve got yourself into a dreadful predicament. How or why, I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“Gwydion had led us to attack Arawn,” Taran began.
Gwystyl hurriedly raised a hand. “Don’t tell me,” he interrupted with an anxious frown. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. I’d rather not know. I don’t want to be caught up in any of your
mad schemes. Gwydion? I’m surprised he, at least, didn’t know better. But it’s to be expected, I suppose. There’s no use complaining.”
“Our quest is urgent,” said Adaon, who had finished binding Ellidyr’s wound and had come to stand near Gwystyl. “We ask you to do nothing to endanger yourself. I would not tell you the circumstances that brought us here, but without knowing them you cannot realize how desperately we need your help.”
“We had come to seize the cauldron from Annuvin,” Taran said.
“Cauldron?” murmured Gwystyl.
“Yes, the cauldron!” shouted the furious dwarf. “You pale grub! You lightless lightning bug! The cauldron of Arawn’s Cauldron-Born!”
“Oh, that cauldron,” Gwystyl answered feebly. “Forgive me, Doli, I was thinking of something else. When did you say you were going?”
The dwarf seemed on the verge of seizing Gwystyl by his robe and shaking him, but Adaon stepped forward and quickly explained what had occurred at Dark Gate.
“It’s a shame,” Gwystyl murmured, with a sorrowful sigh. “You should never have got mixed up with the thing. It’s too late to think about that, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to make the best of it. I don’t envy you. Believe me, I don’t. It’s one of those unfortunate events.”
“But you don’t understand,” Taran said. “We aren’t mixed up with the cauldron. It isn’t in Annuvin any more. Someone has already stolen it.”
“Yes,” said Gwystyl, with a gloomy look at Taran, “yes, I know.”