The Book Of Three (6 page)

Fflewddur Fflam

TARAN'S SWORD LEAPED OUT

. The man in the cloak hurriedly dropped Melyngar's bridle and darted behind a tree. Taran swung the blade. Pieces of bark sprayed the air. While the stranger ducked back and forth, Taran slashed and thrust, hacking wildly at bushes and branches. “You're not Gwydion!” he shouted.

“Never claimed I was,” the stranger shouted back. “If you think I'm Gwydion, you're dreadfully mistaken.”

“Come out of there,” Taran ordered, thrusting again.

“Certainly not while you're swinging that enormous--- here now, watch that! Great Belin, I was safer in Achren's dungeon!”

“Come out now or you won't be able to,” Taran shouted. He redoubled his attack, ripping furiously through the underbrush.

“Truce! Truce!” called the stranger. “You can't smite an unarmed man!”

Eilonwy, who had been a few paces behind Taran, ran up and seized his arm. “Stop it!” she cried. “That's no way to treat your friend, after I went to all the bother of rescuing him.”

Taran shook off Eilonwy. “What treachery is this!” he shouted. “You left my companion to die! You've been with Achren all along. I should have known it. You're no better than she is!” With a cry of anguish, he raised his sword.

Eilonwy ran sobbing into the woods. Taran dropped the blade and stood with bowed head.

The stranger ventured from behind the tree. “Truce?” he inquired again. “Believe me, if I'd known it was going to cause all this trouble I wouldn't have listened to that redheaded girl.”

Taran did not raise his head.

The stranger took a few more cautious steps. “Humblest apologies for disappointing you,” he said. “I'm awfully flattered you mistook me for Prince Gwydion. There's hardly any resemblance, except possibly a certain air of...”

“I do not know who you are,” Taran said bitterly. “I do know that a brave man has bought your life for you.”

“I am Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo,” the stranger said, bowing deeply, “a bard of the harp at your service.”

“I have no need of bards,” Taran said. “A harp will not bring my companion to life.”

“Lord Gwydion is dead?” Fflewddur Fflam asked. “Those are sorrowful tidings. He is a kinsman and I owe allegiance to the House of Don. But why do you blame his death on me? If Gwydion has bought my life, at least tell me how, and I shall mourn with you.”

“Go your way,” said Taran. “It is no fault of yours. I trusted Gwydion's life to a traitor and liar. My own life should be forfeit.”

“Those are hard words to apply to a winsome lass,” said the bard. “Especially one who isn't here to defend herself.”

“I want no explanation from her,” he said. “There is nothing she can tell me. She can lose herself in the forest, for all I care.”

“If she's as much of a traitor and a liar as you say,” Fflewddur remarked, “then you're letting her off easily. You may not want her explanation, but I'm quite sure Gwydion would. Allow me to suggest you go and find her before she strays too far.”

Taran nodded. “Yes,” he said coldly, “Gwydion shall have justice.”

He turned on his heel and walked toward the trees. Eilonwy had gone no great distance; he could see the glow of the sphere a few paces ahead, where the girl sat on a boulder in a clearing. She looked small and thin; her head was pressed into her hands, and her shoulders shook.

“Now you've made me cry!” she burst out, as Taran approached. “I hate crying; it makes my nose feel like a melted icicle. You've hurt my feelings, you stupid Assistant Pig-Keeper, and all for something that's your own fault to begin with.”

Taran was so taken aback that he began to stammer.

“Yes,” cried Eilonwy, “it's every bit your fault! You were so close-mouthed about the man you wanted me to rescue, and you kept talking about your friend in the other cell. Very well, I rescued whoever it was in the other cell.”

“You didn't tell me there was anyone else in the dungeon.”

“There wasn't,” Eilonwy insisted. “Fflewddur Fflam or whatever he calls himself was the only one.”

“Then where is my companion?” Taran demanded. “Where is Gwydion?”

“I don't know,” Eilonwy said. “He wasn't in Achren's dungeon, that's sure. What's more, he never was.”

Taran realized the girl was speaking the truth. As his memory returned, he recalled that Gwydion had been with him only briefly; he had not seen the guards put him in a cell; Taran had only guessed at that. “What could she have done with him?”

“I haven't any idea in the world,” Eilonwy said and sniffed. “She could have brought him to her chambers, or locked him in the tower--- there's a dozen places she could have hidden him. All you needed to say was, 'Go and rescue a man named Gwydion,' and I would have found him. But no, you had to be so clever about it and keep everything to yourself...”

Taran's heart sank. “I must go back to the castle and find him. Will you show me where Achren might have imprisoned him?”

“There's nothing left of the castle,” said Eilonwy. “Besides, I'm not sure I'm going to help you any more at all, after the way you've behaved; and calling me those horrid names, that's like putting caterpillars in somebody's hair.” She tossed her head, put her chin in the air, and refused to look at him.

“I accused you falsely,” Taran said. “My shame is as deep as my sorrow.”

Eilonwy, without lowering her chin, gave him a sidelong glance. “I should think it would be.”

“I shall seek him alone,” said Taran. “You are right in refusing to help. It is no concern of yours.” He turned and started out of the clearing.

“Well, you don't have to agree with me so quickly,” Eilonwy cried. She slid off the boulder and hastened after him.

Fflewddur Fflam was still waiting when they returned. In the light of Eilonwy's sphere, Taran had a better view of this unexpected arrival. The bard was tall and lanky, with a long, pointed nose. His great shock of bright yellow hair burst out in all directions, like a ragged sun. His jacket and leggings were patched at knees and elbows, and sewn with large, clumsy stitches--- the work, Taran was certain, of the bard himself. A harp with a beautiful, sweeping curve was slung from his shoulders, but otherwise he looked nothing at all like the bards Taran had learned about from The Book of Three.

“So it seems that I've been rescued by mistake,” Fflewddur said, after Taran explained what had happened. “I should have known it would turn out to be something like that. I kept asking myself, crawling along those beastly tunnels, who could possibly be interested whether I was languishing in a dungeon or not?”

“I am going back to the castle,” Taran said. “There may be hope that Gwydion still lives.”

“By all means,” cried the bard, his eyes lighting up. “A Fflam to the rescue! Storm the castle! Carry it by assault! Batter down the gates!”

“There's not much of it left to storm,” said Eilonwy.

“Oh?” said Fflewddur, with disappointment. “Very well, we shall do the best we can.”

AT THE SUMMIT

of the hill, the mighty blocks of stone lay as if crushed by a giant fist. Only the square arch of the gate remained upright, gaunt as a bone. In the moonlight, the ruins seemed already ancient. Shreds of mist hung over the shattered tower. Achren had learned of his escape, Taran guessed, for at the moment of the castle's destruction, she had sent out a company of guards. Amid the rubble, their bodies sprawled motionless as the stones. With growing despair, Taran climbed over the ruins. The foundations of the castle had collapsed. The walls had fallen inward. The bard and Eilonwy helped Taran try to shift one or two of the broken rocks, but the work was beyond their strength.

At last, the exhausted Taran shook his head. “We can do no more,” he murmured. “This shall stand as Gwydion's burial mound.” He stood a moment, looking silently over the desolation, then turned away.

Fflewddur suggested taking weapons from the bodies of the guards. He equipped himself with a dagger, sword, and spear; in addition to the blade she had taken from the barrow, Eilonwy carried a slim dagger at her waist. Taran collected as many bows and quivers of arrows as he could carry. The group was now lightly but effectively armed.

With heavy hearts, the little band made their way down the slope. Melyngar followed docilely, her head bowed, as if she understood that she would not see her master again.

“I must leave this evil place,” Taran cried. “I am impatient to be gone from here. Spiral Castle has brought me only grief; I have no wish to see it again.”

“What has it brought the rest of us?” Eilonwy asked. “You make it sound as though we were just sitting around having a splendid time while you moan and take on.”

Taran stopped abruptly. “I--- I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“Furthermore,” said Eilonwy; “you're mistaken if you think I'm going to go marching through the woods in the middle of the night.”

“And I,” put in Fflewddur, “I don't mind telling you I'm so tired I could sleep on Achren's doorstep.”

“We all need rest,” Taran said. “But I don't trust Achren, alive or dead, and we still know nothing of the Cauldron-Born. If they escaped, they may be looking for us right now. No matter how tired we are, it would be foolhardy to stay this close.”

Eilonwy and Fflewddur agreed to continue on for a little distance. After a time, they found a spot well protected by trees, and flung themselves wearily to the turf. Taran unsaddled Melyngar, thankful the girl had thought to bring along Gwydion's gear. He found a cloak in the saddlebag and handed it to Eilonwy. The bard wrapped himself in his own tattered garment and set his harp carefully on a gnarled root.

Taran stood the first watch. Thoughts of the livid warriors still haunted him, and he saw their faces in every shadow. As the night wore on, the passage of a forest creature or the restless sighing of wind in the leaves made him start. The bushes rustled. This time it was not the wind. He heard a faint scratching, and his hand flew to his sword.

A figure bounded into the moonlight and rolled up to Taran.

“Crunchings and munchings?” whimpered a voice.

“Who is your peculiar friend?” asked the bard, sitting up and looking curiously at this new arrival.

“For an Assistant Pig-Keeper,” remarked Eilonwy, “you do keep strange company. Where did you find it? And what is it? I've never seen anything like that in my life.”

“He is no friend of mine,” cried Taran. “He is a miserable, sneaking wretch who deserted us as soon as we were attacked.”

“No, no!” Gurgi protested, whimpering and bobbing his matted head. “Poor humble Gurgi is always faithful to mighty lords--- what joy to serve them, even with shakings and breakings.”

“Tell the truth,” said Taran. “You ran off when we needed you most.”

“Slashings and gashings are for noble lords, not for poor, weak Gurgi. Oh, fearsome whistlings of blades! Gurgi ran to look for help, mighty lord.”

“You didn't succeed in finding any,” Taran said angrily.

“Oh, sadness!” Gurgi moaned. “There was no help for brave warriors. Gurgi went far, far, with great squeakings and shriekings.”

“I'm sure you did,” Taran said.

“What else can unhappy Gurgi do? He is sorry to see great warriors in distress, oh, tears of misery! But in battle, what would there be for poor Gurgi except hurtful guttings and cuttings of his throat?”

“It wasn't very brave,” said Eilonwy, “but it wasn't altogether stupid, either. I don't see what advantage there was for him to be chopped up, especially if he wasn't any help to you in the first place.”

“Oh, wisdom of a noble lady!” Gurgi cried, throwing himself at Eilonwy's feet. “If Gurgi had not gone seeking help, he would not be here to serve you now. But he is here! Yes, yes, faithful Gurgi returns to beatings and bruisings from the terrifying, warrior!”

“Just keep out of my sight,” Taran said, “or you really will have something to complain about.”

Gurgi snuffled. “Gurgi hastens to obey, mighty lord. He will say no more, not even whisperings of what he saw. No, he will not disturb the sleepings of powerful heroes. See how he leaves, with tearful farewells.”

“Come back here immediately,” Taran called.

Gurgi brightened. “Crunchings?”

“Listen to me,” Taran said, “there's hardly enough to go round, but I'll give you a fair share of what we have. After that, you'll have to find your own munchings.”

Gurgi nodded. “Many more hosts march in the valley with sharp spears--- oh, many more. Gurgi watches so quietly and cleverly, he does not ask them for help. No, they would only give harmful hurtings.”

“What's this, what's this?” cried Fflewddur. “A great host? I should love to see them. I always enjoy processions and that sort of thing.”

“The enemies of the House of Don are gathering,'' Taran hurriedly told the bard. ”Gwydion and I saw them before we were captured. Now, if Gurgi speaks the truth, they have gathered reinforcements."

The bard sprang to his feet. “A Fflam never shrinks from danger! The mightier the foe, the greater the glory! We shall seek them out, set upon them! The bards shall sing our praises forever!”

Carried away by Fflewddur's enthusiasm, Taran seized his sword. Then he shook his head, remembering Gwydion's words in the forest near Caer Dallben. “No--- no,” he said slowly, “it would be folly to think of attacking them.” He smiled quickly at Fflewddur. “The bards would sing of us,” he admitted, “but we'd be in no position to appreciate it.”

Fflewddur sat down again, disappointed.

“You can talk about the bards singing your praises all you want,” said Eilonwy. “I'm in no mood to do battle. I'm going to sleep.” With that, she curled up on the ground and pulled the cloak over her head.

Still unconvinced, Fflewddur settled himself against a tree root for his turn at guard. Gurgi curled up at Eilonwy's feet. Exhausted though he was, Taran lay awake. In his mind, he saw again the Horned King and heard the screams from the flaming cages.

He sat up quickly. Grieving for his companion, he had forgotten what had brought him here. His own quest had been for Hen Wen; Gwydion's, to warn the Sons of Don. Taran's head spun. With his companion surely dead, should he now try to make his way to Caer Dathyl? What, then, would become of Hen Wen? Everything had ceased to be simple. He yearned for the peacefulness of Caer Dallben, yearned even to weed the vegetable gardens and make horseshoes. He turned restlessly, finding no answer. At last, his weariness overcame him and he slept, plunged in nightmares.