The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) (14 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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“How is this?” Taran exclaimed, turning to Morgant in shock and reproach. “Sire,” he added quickly, “your warriors had no right to use him so ill! This is shameful and dishonorable treatment.”
“Do you question my conduct?” Morgant replied. “You have much to learn of obedience. My warriors heed my orders and so shall you. Prince Ellidyr dared to resist me. I caution you not to follow his example.”
At a call from Morgant, armed guards strode quickly into the tent. The war-leader made a brief gesture toward Taran and his companions.
“Disarm them and bind them fast.”
The War Lord
B
efore the startled Taran could draw his blade, a guard seized him and quickly lashed his arms behind his back. The bard, too, was seized. Screaming and kicking, Eilonwy fought vainly. For an instant Gurgi broke loose from his captors and flung himself toward King Morgant. But a warrior struck him brutally to the ground, leaped astride the limp figure, and trussed him tightly.
“Traitor!” Eilonwy shrieked. “Liar! You dare to steal …”
“Silence her,” Morgant said coldly, and in another moment a gag muffled her cries.
Frantically Taran struggled to reach the girl’s side, before he was thrown down and his legs secured with thongs. Morgant watched silently, his features fixed and without expression. The guards stepped away from the helpless companions. Morgant gestured for the warriors to leave the tent.
Taran, whose head still spun with confusion and disbelief, strained against his bonds. “You are already a traitor,” he cried. “Will you now be a murderer? We are under the protection of Gwydion; you will not escape his wrath!”
“I do not fear Gwydion,” answered Morgant, “and his protection
is worthless to you now. Worthless, indeed, to all Prydain. Even Gwydion is powerless against the Cauldron-Born.”
Taran stared at him in horror. “You would not dare to use the Crochan against your own kinsmen, your own people. This is even more foul than treachery and murder!”
“Do you believe so?” Morgant replied. “Then you have more lessons to learn than that of obedience. The cauldron belongs to him who knows how to keep it and how to use it. It is a weapon ready for a hand. For years Arawn was master of the cauldron, yet he lost it. Is this not proof he was unworthy, that he did not have the strength or cunning to prevent its slipping from his grasp? Ellidyr, the proud fool, believed he could keep it. He is hardly fit to be cast into it.”
“What,” Taran cried, “will you set yourself to rival Arawn?”
“To rival him?” Morgant asked with a hard smile. “No. To surpass him. I know my worth, though I have chafed in the service of lesser men than I. Now I see the moment is ripe. There are few,” he continued haughtily, “who understand the uses of power. And few who dare use it when it is offered them.
“Power such as this was offered once to Gwydion,” Morgant went on. “He refused it. I shall not fail to take it. Shall you?”
“I?” asked Taran, with a terrified glance at Morgant.
King Morgant nodded. His eyes were hooded, but his falcon’s face was keen and avid. “Gwydion has spoken of you,” he said. “He told me little, but that little is of interest. You are a bold youth—and perhaps more than that. How much more, I do not know. But I do know you are without family, without name or future. You can expect nothing. And yet,” Morgant added, “you can expect everything.
“I would not offer this to one such as Ellidyr,” Morgant continued. “He is too prideful, weakest where he believes himself strong. Do you remember I told you that I know good mettle? There is much that is possible with you, Taran of Caer Dallben. And this is what I offer—swear that you shall serve me as your liege lord and when the time is right you shall be my war-leader, second only to me in all Prydain.”
“Why do you offer me this?” Taran cried. “Why should you choose me?”
“As I have said,” Morgant answered, “there is much you might achieve, if the way is opened for you. Do not deny you have dreamed long of glory. It is not impossible for you to find it, if I judge you well.”
“Judge me well,” Taran flung back, “and you would know I scorn to serve an evil traitor!”
“I have no time to hear you vent your rage,” Morgant said. “Many plans must be made between now and dawn. I shall leave you with this to consider: will you be first among my warriors—or first among my Cauldron-Born?”
“Give me to the cauldron, then!” Taran shouted. “Cast me in it now, even as I live!”
“You have called me traitor,” Morgant answered, smiling. “Do not call me fool. I, too, know the secret of the cauldron. Do you think I would have the Crochan shatter even before it began its work? Yes,” he went on, “I, too, have been to the Marshes of Morva, long before the cauldron was taken from Annuvin. For I knew that sooner or later Gwydion must make this move against Arawn. And so I prepared myself. Did you pay a price for the Crochan? I, too, paid a price for the knowledge of its workings. I
know how to destroy it, and I know how to make it yield a harvest of power.
“But you were bold, nonetheless, to hope to trick me,” Morgant added. “You fear me,” he said, drawing closer to Taran, “and there are many in Prydain who do. Yet you defy me. To dare that, there are few. This is rare metal indeed, ready to be tempered.”
Taran was about to speak, but the war lord raised his hand. “Say no more. Instead, think carefully. If you refuse, you shall become a voiceless, mindless slave, without even hope of death to release you from your bondage.”
Taran’s heart sank, but he raised his head proudly. “If that is the destiny laid on me …”
“It will be a harder destiny than you believe,” Morgant said, his eyes flickering. “A warrior does not fear to give up his own life. But will he sacrifice that of his comrades?”
Taran gasped with horror as Morgant went on.
“Yes,” said the war lord, “one by one your companions shall be slain and given to the Crochan. Who will it devour before you cry a halt? Will it be the bard? Or the shabby creature that serves you? Or the young Princess? They shall go before you, even as you watch. And, at the last, yourself.
“Weigh this carefully,” said the war lord. “I shall return for your answer.” He flung his black cloak about his shoulders and strode from the tent.
Taran struggled against his bonds, but they held firm. He sank back and bowed his head.
The bard, who had been silent this while, heaved a sorrowful sigh. “In the Marshes of Morva,” he said, “if I had only known, I should have asked Orddu to change me into a toad. At the time I
didn’t care for the idea. As I think of it now, it’s a happier life than being a Cauldron warrior. At least there would have been dew circles to dance in.”
“He will not succeed in this,” Taran said. “Somehow, we must find a way to escape. We dare not lose hope.”
“I agree absolutely,” Fflewddur answered. “Your general idea is excellent; it’s only the details that are lacking. Lose hope? By no means! A Fflam is always hopeful! I intend to go on hoping,” he added ruefully, “even when they come and pop me into the Crochan.”
Gurgi and Ellidyr still lay unconscious, but Eilonwy had not ceased working furiously at the gag and now at last she succeeded in forcing it out of her mouth.
“Morgant!” she gasped. “He’ll pay for this! Why, I thought I’d stifle! He might have kept me from talking, but he didn’t keep me from listening. When he comes back, I hope he tries to put me in the cauldron first! He’ll soon find out who he’s dealing with. He’ll wish he’d never thought of making his own Cauldron-Born!”
Taran shook his head. “By then it will be too late. We shall be slain before we are taken to the Crochan. No, there is only one hope. None of you shall be sacrificed because of me. I have decided what I must do.”
“Decided!” Eilonwy burst out. “The only thing you have to decide is how we shall escape from this tent. If you’re thinking of anything else, you’re wasting your time. That’s like wondering whether to scratch your head when a boulder’s about to fall on it.”
“This is my decision,” Taran said slowly. “I will accept what Morgant offers.”
“What?” Eilonwy exclaimed in disbelief. “For a while I thought
you’d actually learned something from Adaon’s brooch. How can you think to accept?”
“I shall swear my allegiance to Morgant,” Taran went on. “He shall have my word, but shall not make me keep it. An oath given under threat of death cannot bind me. This way, at least, we may gain a little time.”
“Are you sure Morgant’s warriors didn’t strike you on the head and you didn’t notice it?” Eilonwy asked sharply. “Do you imagine Morgant won’t guess what you plan? He has no intention of keeping his part of the bargain; he’ll slay us all anyway. Once you’re in his clutches—I mean more than you are—you won’t get out of them. Morgant might have been one of the greatest war-leaders in Prydain; but he’s turned evil, and if you try coming to terms with him, well, you’ll find it’s worse than being a Cauldron warrior. Though I admit that isn’t very attractive either.”
Taran was silent for a time. “I fear you are right,” he said. “But I don’t know what else we can do.”
“Get out first,” Eilonwy advised. “We can decide what else when the time comes. Somehow it’s hard to think about where to run as long as your hands and feet are tied up.”
With much difficulty, the tightly bound companions struggled closer and sought to undo each other’s thongs. The knots refused to yield, slipped from their numb fingers, and only bit more deeply into their flesh.
Again and again the companions returned to their labors until they lay breathless and exhausted. Even Eilonwy no longer had the strength to speak. They rested a while, hoping to gain new energy, but the night moved as a heavy, tormented dream and the moments they passed in fitful drowsing did nothing to restore
them, nor did they dare lose too much precious time; morning, Taran knew, would come swiftly. The cold, gray trickle of dawn had already begun to seep into the tent.
All night, as they had toiled, Taran had heard the movements of warriors in the clearing, the voice of Morgant crying harsh, urgent commands. Now he dragged himself painfully to the curtain at the entrance of the tent, pressed his cheek against the cold ground, and tried to peer out. He could see little, for the rising mists swirled above the turf, and he made out only shadow shapes hastening back and forth. The warriors, he imagined, were gathering their gear, perhaps making ready to strike camp. A long, pitiful whinny came from the line of tethered horses and he recognized it as that of Islimach. The Crochan still squatted where it had been; Taran made out the dark, brooding mass, and it seemed to him, in a flare of horror, that its mouth gaped greedily.
Taran rolled over and pulled himself back to the companions. The bard’s features were pale; he appeared half-dazed by fatigue and suffering. Eilonwy raised her head and looked silently at him.
“What,” murmured Fflewddur, “has the moment already come for us to say farewell?”
“Not yet,” Taran said, “though Morgant will be here soon enough, I fear. Then our time will be upon us. How does Gurgi fare?”
“The poor thing is still unconscious,” Eilonwy answered. “Leave him as he is, it is kinder thus.”
Ellidyr stirred and groaned feebly. Slowly his eyes opened; he winced, turned his bloodstained, broken face to Taran, and studied him for a time as though without recognition. Then his torn lips moved in his familiar, bitter grimace.
“And so we are together again, Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said. “I did not expect us to meet so soon.”
“Have no fear, Son of Pen-Llarcau,” Taran answered. “It shall not be for long.”
Ellidyr bowed his head. “For that I am truly sorry. I would make up the ill I have done all of you.”
“Would you have said the same if the cauldron were still in your hands?” Taran asked quietly.
Ellidyr hesitated. “I shall speak the truth—I do not know. The black beast you saw is a harsh master; its claws are sharp. Yet I did not feel them until now.
“But I tell you this,” Ellidyr continued, trying to lift himself, “I stole the cauldron out of pride, not evil. I swear to you, on whatever honor remains to me, I would not have used it. Yes, I would have taken your glory for my own. But I, too, would have borne the Crochan to Gwydion and offered it for destruction. Believe this much of me.”
Taran nodded. “I believe you, Prince of Pen-Llarcau. And now perhaps even more than you believe it yourself.”
A wind had risen, moaning through the trees and shaking the tent. The curtain blew back. Taran saw the warriors forming in ranks behind the cauldron.
The Final Price
“E
llidyr!” Taran cried. “Have you strength enough to break your bonds and free the rest of us?”
Ellidyr rolled on his side and strained desperately against the tight cords. The bard and Taran tried to aid him, but at last Ellidyr fell back, exhausted and gasping with the pain of his efforts.
“Too much of my strength is gone,” he murmured. “I fear Morgant has given me my death wound. I can do no more.”
The curtain blew open again. An instant later Taran was flung full length and roughly spun around. He kicked wildly with his bound legs and tried to right himself.
“Stop struggling, you clot!” a voice shouted in his ear.
“Doli!” Taran’s heart leaped. “Is it you?”
“Clever question!” snapped the voice. “Stop trying to fight me! Things are hard enough without your squirming! Whoever tied these knots, I wish he had them about his neck!”
Taran felt firm hands drawing at the thongs. “Doli! How did you come here?”
“Don’t bother me with silly chatter,” growled the dwarf. Taran felt a knee jabbing into the small of his back as Doli took a better grip on the bonds. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” muttered the dwarf.
“No, of course you can’t, but that doesn’t matter. Drat! If I hadn’t lost my axe I’d be through this in no time! Oh, my ears! I’ve never stayed invisible so long at one go! Hornets! Wasps!”
Suddenly the thongs parted. Taran sat up and began as best he could to unbind his legs. In another moment Doli himself flashed into sight and set about freeing the bard. The stout dwarf was grimy, muddy, and his ears were tinged bright blue. Doli stopped his exertions to clap his hands to his head. “Enough invisibility is enough!” he cried. “No need for it here. Not yet. Bumblebees! A whole hive of them in my ears!”
“How did you ever find us?” cried Eilonwy, as the dwarf ripped away her bonds.
“If you must know,” the dwarf snapped impatiently, “I didn’t find you. Not at first. I found Ellidyr. Saw him come up from the river a little before Morgant reached him. I was on my way to Caer Cadarn, after I shook off the Huntsmen, to get help from Gwydion. I didn’t dare waste time chasing through the Marshes after you. Ellidyr had the cauldron. And your horses, too. That got my suspicions up. So I went invisible and followed him on foot. As soon as I understood what had happened, I turned back to look for you. My pony had run off—dratted beast, we never liked each other—and you got here ahead of me.”
The dwarf knelt and untied Gurgi, who had begun to show some signs of life, but hesitated when he came to Ellidyr. “What about this one?” Doli asked. “I have an idea he’s better off as he is,” he added gruffly. “I know what he tried to do.”
Ellidyr raised his head.
Taran met his glance and gestured quickly to Doli. “Free him,” Taran ordered.
Doli paused, doubtful. Taran repeated his words. The dwarf shook his head, then shrugged. “If you say so,” he muttered, setting to work on Ellidyr’s bonds.
While Eilonwy chafed Gurgi’s wrists, the bard hurried to the tent flap and cautiously peered out. Taran searched vainly for weapons.
“I can see Morgant,” Fflewddur called. “He’s on his way here. Well, he shall have a surprise.”
“We are unarmed!” Taran cried. “They far outnumber us and can slay us at their pleasure!”
“Rip up the back of the tent!” Doli exclaimed. “Make a run for it through the forest!”
“And leave the Crochan in Morgant’s hands?” replied Taran. “No, that we dare not do!”
Ellidyr had risen to his feet. “I had not strength enough to break my own bonds,” he said, “but I can still serve you.”
Before Taran could stop him, Ellidyr plunged from the tent. The guards shouted the alarm. Taran saw Morgant fall back in astonishment, then draw his sword.
“Slay him!” Morgant commanded. “Slay him! Keep him from the cauldron!”
With the bard and Doli at his heels, Taran raced from the tent and flung himself against King Morgant, fighting furiously to wrest the sword from the war lord’s hands. With a savage snarl, Morgant caught him by the throat and tossed him to the ground, then turned to pursue Ellidyr. The horsemen had broken ranks and hastened to close upon the running figure.
Taran scrambled to his feet. Ahead, he saw Ellidyr grappling fiercely with one of the warriors. Fighting as he had never fought before, the Prince of Pen-Llarcau, Taran knew, was calling on all
the strength remaining to him. Ellidyr threw the warrior down, but faltered and cried out as the man’s sword thrust deep into his side. Clutching the wound, Ellidyr stumbled ahead.
“No! No!” Taran shouted. “Ellidyr! Save yourself!”
A few paces from the cauldron, struggling madly, Ellidyr broke free of the warriors. Then, with a cry, he flung himself into the Crochan’s gaping mouth.
The Crochan shuddered like a living thing. In horror and dismay, Taran cried out again to Ellidyr. He fought his way toward the cauldron, but in another instant a sharp clap, louder than thunder, rang above the clearing. The leafless trees trembled to their roots; the branches writhed as if in agony. Then, while echoes ripped the air and a whirlwind screamed overhead, the cauldron split and shattered. The jagged shards fell away from the lifeless form of Ellidyr.
A war horse burst from the thicket. Astride it rode King Smoit, a naked sword in his fist, a shout of battle on his lips. Behind the red-bearded King streamed mounted warriors, who plunged against the men of Morgant. In the press of combat, Taran glimpsed a white steed galloping to the charge.
“Gwydion!” Taran shouted and struggled to reach his side. He caught sight of Coll, then; the stout old warrior had drawn his sword and struck mightily about him. Gwystyl, with Kaw clinging to his shoulder, dashed into the fray.
Bellowing with rage, King Smoit drove straight for Morgant, who raised his sword and lashed viciously at the rearing steed. Smoit leaped to the ground. Two of Morgant’s warriors threw themselves in front of him to defend their lord, but Smoit cut them down with powerful blows and strode past.
Eyes unhooded and blazing, his teeth bared, Morgant fought savagely amid the shattered pieces of the cauldron, as though he sought defiantly to claim them. His sword had broken under the force of Smoit’s attack, yet he slashed and thrust again and again with the jagged blade, the grimace of hatred and arrogance frozen upon his features, his hand still clutching the bloodstained weapon even as he fell.
Morgant’s riders had been slain or captured as Gwydion’s voice rose in command to cease the combat. Taran stumbled to Ellidyr’s side and tried to raise him. He bowed his head in grief. “The black beast is gone from you, Prince of Pen-Llarcau,” he murmured.
A high-pitched whinny behind him made Taran turn. It was Islimach who had broken her tether and now stood over the body of her master. The roan lifted her lean, bony head, tossed her mane, spun about, and galloped from the clearing.
Taran, understanding the frenzied look in the roan’s eyes, cried out and ran after her. Islimach plunged through the undergrowth. Taran strove to overtake her and seize the hanging bridle, but the roan sped onward to the ravine. She did not check her speed even at the brink. Islimach made a mighty leap, hung poised in the air a moment, then plummeted to the rocks below. Taran covered his face with his hands and turned away.
 
 
In the clearing the bodies of King Morgant and Ellidyr lay side by side, and the remainder of King Smoit’s horsemen rode in a slow, mournful circle around them. Alone and apart, Gwydion leaned heavily on the black sword Dyrnwyn, his shaggy head bent, his weathered face filled with sorrow. Taran drew near and stood silently.
At length Gwydion spoke. “Fflewddur has told me all that befell you. My heart is grieved that Coll and I found you only now. Yet, without King Smoit and his warriors, I fear we might not have prevailed. He grew impatient and came seeking us. Had I been able to send him word, I would have summoned him long before this. I am grateful to him for his impatience.
“And to you, too, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” he added. “The Crochan is destroyed, and with it Arawn’s power to add to the number of his Cauldron-Born. It is one of the gravest defeats Arawn has ever suffered. But I know the price you paid.”
“It is Ellidyr who paid the final price,” Taran said slowly. “The last honor belongs to him.” He spoke then of Islimach. “He has lost all else, even his steed.”
“Or perhaps gained all,” Gwydion answered. “And his honor shall be certain. We shall raise a barrow to his memory. Islimach, too, shall rest with him, for they are both now at peace. Smoit’s dead shall also sleep in honor, and a barrow be raised above Morgant King of Madoc.”
“Morgant?” Taran asked, turning a puzzled glance to Gwydion. “How can there be honor for such a man?”
“It is easy to judge evil unmixed,” replied Gwydion. “But, alas, in most of us good and bad are closely woven as the threads on a loom; greater wisdom than mine is needed for the judging.
“King Morgant served the Sons of Don long and well,” he went on. “Until the thirst for power parched his throat, he was a fearless and noble lord. In battle he saved my life more than once. These things are part of him and cannot be put aside or forgotten.
“And so shall I honor Morgant,” Gwydion said, “for what he used to be, and Ellidyr Prince of Pen-Llarcau for what he became.”
 
 
Near the tents of Morgant, Taran found the companions again. Under Eilonwy’s care, Gurgi had recovered from the guard’s blow and looked only a little shaken.
“Poor tender head is filled with breakings and achings,” Gurgi said, with a wan smile at Taran. “He is sad not to fight at side of kindly master. He would have struck down wicked warriors, oh, yes!”
“There’s been more than enough fighting,” Eilonwy said. “I found your sword again,” she added, handing the weapon to Taran. “But sometimes I wish Dallben hadn’t given it to you in the first place. It’s bound to lead to trouble.”
“Oh, I should think our troubles are over,” put in Fflewddur, cradling his injured arm. “The beastly old kettle is smashed to bits, thanks to Ellidyr,” he went on sadly. “The bards shall sing of our deeds—and of his.”
“I don’t care about that,” grumbled Doli, rubbing his ears, which had only now begun to return to their natural color. “I just don’t want anyone, not even Gwydion, dreaming up another scheme to have me turn invisible.”
“Good old Doli,” Taran said. “The more you grumble, the more pleased you are with yourself.”
“Good old Doli,” replied the dwarf. “Humph!”
Taran caught sight of Coll and King Smoit resting beneath an oak. Coll had taken off his close-fitting helmet and, though bruised and slashed, his face beamed and his bald head glowed with pleasure, as he put an arm around Taran’s shoulders. “We did not meet as soon as I expected,” Coll said with a wink, “for I hear you were busy with other things.”
“My body and blood!” roared Smoit, giving Taran a clap on the back. “You looked like a skinned rabbit last time I saw you. Now the rabbit is gone and only the skin and bones are left!”
A loud squawk interrupted the red-bearded King. In surprise Taran turned and saw Gwystyl, sitting alone and morose. On his shoulder Kaw hopped up and down and bobbed his head in delight.
“So it’s you again,” Gwystyl remarked, sighing heavily as Taran hurried over. “Well, you shan’t blame me for what’s happened. I warned you. However, what’s done is done and there’s no sense complaining. No use in it at all.”
“You shall not deceive me again, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk,” Taran said. “I know who you are and the valiant service you have rendered.”
Kaw croaked joyfully as Taran smoothed his feathers and scratched him under the beak.
“Go on,” Gwystyl said, “put him on your shoulder. That’s what he wants. For the matter of that, you shall have him as a gift, with the thanks of the Fair Folk. For you have done us a service, too. We were uneasy with the Crochan knocking about here and there; one never knew what would happen. Yes, yes, pick him up,” Gwystyl added with a melancholy sigh. “He’s taken quite a fancy to you. It’s just as well. I’m simply not up to keeping crows any more, not up to it at all.”
“Taran!” croaked Kaw.
“Though I warn you again,” Gwystyl went on, “pay no attention to him. Most of the time he talks just to hear himself talk—like some others I could mention. The secret is: don’t listen. No use in it. No use whatever.”
 
 
After they had raised the barrows, Gwystyl left to resume his guard at the way post; the companions, King Smoit, and his riders departed from the clearing and turned their horses toward the Great Avren. High overhead, their wings darkening the sky, flight after flight of gwythaints retreated toward Annuvin. Of the Huntsmen there was no sign; and Gwydion believed that Arawn, learning of the Crochan’s destruction, had summoned them to return.
The companions rode not in triumphant joy but slowly and thoughtfully. The heart of King Smoit, too, was heavy, for he had suffered the loss of many warriors.

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