The High King

by Lloyd Alexander

  “No, no!” squealed Gwystyl, snatching for the bag. “Don’t do it! They’re not eggs. Not eggs, at all!”

  “I say, they surely look like it,” remarked Rhun, peering into the sack. “If they aren’t, then what are they?”

  Gwystyl choked, then went into a fit of violent coughing and sighing before he answered. “Smoke,” he gasped.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Clutch of Eggs

  “Amazing!” cried King Rhun. “Smoke made of egg! Or is it egg made of smoke?”

  “The smoke is inside,” Gwystyl muttered, drawing his shabby cloak about him. “Good-bye. Crack the shell and the smoke comes out—in considerable quantity. Keep them. A gift. If you should ever see Lord Gwydion, warn him to shun Annuvin at all cost. For myself, I’m glad to leave the place behind me and hope never to return. Good-bye.”

  “Gwystyl,” Eilonwy said sharply, gripping the melancholy creature’s arm, “something tells me there’s more to that cloak of yours than meets the eye. What else have you hidden away? The truth, now. Or I promise you such squeezing …”

  “Nothing!” Gwystyl choked. Despite the chill wind, he had begun perspiring heavily. His cobwebby hair hung limp and his brow dripped as if he had been caught in a downpour. “Nothing, that is, but a few little personal things of my own. Odds and ends. If they interest you, by all means …”

  Gwystyl raised his arms and spread his cloak on either side, a gesture which made him resemble a long-nosed and dismal bat. He sighed and groaned miserably while the companions stared in surprise.

  “Odd indeed!” said Fflewddur. “And, Great Belin, there’s no end of them!”

  Neatly attached within the folds of the cloak hung a dozen cloth sacks, mesh bags, and carefully wrapped packets. Most of them seemed to contain clutches of eggs of the sort Fflewddur had narrowly avoided eating. Gwystyl pulled off one of the mesh bags and handed it to Eilonwy.

  “I say,” exclaimed Rhun. “First eggs, now mushrooms!”

  As far as the Princess could see, the mesh bag held nothing more than a few large, brown-speckled toadstools; but Gwystyl waved his arms desperately, and moaned.

  “Beware, beware! Break them and they’ll singe your hair off! They make a handsome puff of flame, if you should ever need such a thing. Take them all. I’m well pleased to be rid of them.”

  “It is what we need!” Eilonwy cried. “Gwystyl, forgive me for threatening to squeeze you.” She turned to the bard who was examining the sacks with an air of uneasiness. “Yes! These will help us. Now, if we can find a way into the castle …”

  “My dear Princess,” replied Fflewddur, “a Fflam is dauntless, but I hardly think it practical, overcoming a stronghold with little more than eggs and mushrooms in our hands, even eggs and mushrooms of this particular sort. And yet …” He hesitated, then snapped his fingers. “Great Belin, we might pull it off at that! Wait! I’m beginning to see the possibilities.”

  Gwystyl, meantime, had unfastened the remaining packets from his voluminous cloak. “Here,” he sighed, “since you have most of them, you might as well have the rest. All of it. Go on, it makes no difference to me now.”

  The packets which Gwystyl held out in a trembling hand were filled with a quantity of what appeared to be dark, powdery earth. “Put this on your feet, and no one can see your tracks—that is, if someone’s looking for your tracks. That’s really what it’s for. But if you throw it into someone’s eyes, they can’t see anything at all—for a short while at least.”

  “Better and better!” cried Fflewddur. “We’ll have our friends out of the spider’s clutches in no time. A daring deed! Clouds of smoke! Billows of fire! Blinding powder! And a Fflam to the rescue! That will give the bards something to sing about. Ah—tell me, old fellow,” he added uneasily to Gwystyl, “you’re quite sure those mushrooms work?”

  The companions hurriedly returned to the cover of the thicket to set their plans. Gwystyl, after much coaxing and cajoling, as well as hints of further squeezing and suggestions of King Eiddileg’s displeasure, at last agreed—with many a racking sigh and moan—to help in the rescue. The bard was eager to begin immediately.

  “In my long experience,” Fflewddur said, “I’ve found it best to go at this kind of business head-on. First, I shall return to the castle. Since the warriors know me, they’ll open the gates without a second thought. Under my cloak I’ll have Gwystyl’s eggs and mushrooms. Directly the gates are open—clouds of smoke, a blast of fire! The rest of you will be lurking behind me in the shadows. At my signal, we all rush in, swords drawn, shouting at the top of our voices!”

  “Amazing!” put in Rhun. “It can’t fail.” The King of Mona frowned. “On the other hand, it would almost seem—not that I know anything about these matters—we’d be rushing into our own smoke and fire. I mean to say, the warriors couldn’t see us; but neither could we see them.”

  Fflewddur shook his head in disagreement. “Believe me, my friend, this is the best and quickest way. I’ve rescued more captives than I have fingers on my hands.” The harp tensed and shuddered, and a number of strings would have given way had not Fflewddur added in the same breath: “Planned to rescue, that is. I’ve never, in strict point of fact, actually done so.”

  “Rhun is right,” Eilonwy declared. “It would be worse than stumbling over your own feet. Besides, we’d be risking everything at one go. No, we must have a better plan than that.”

  King Rhun beamed, surprised and delighted that his words had found agreement. He blinked his pale blue eyes, grinned shyly, and ventured to raise his voice once more. “I suddenly think of the seawall I’ve been rebuilding,” he began, in some hesitation. “I mean, starting it from both ends. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out quite as I had hoped. But the idea was a good one. Now, if we might try the same kind of thing. Not building a wall, of course. I mean going at Caer Cadarn from different ways.”

  Fflewddur shrugged, not a little crestfallen that his own suggestion had been dismissed.

  But Eilonwy nodded. “Yes. It’s the only sensible thing.”

  Glew snorted. “The only sensible thing is to get an army behind you. When I was a giant, I’d have been willing to help you. But I mean to have no part in this scheme.”

  The little man was about to say more, but a glance from the bard silenced him. “Never fear,” said Fflewddur. “You and I will be together at every moment. You’ll be in good hands.”

  “Now then,” broke in Rhun, impatient to speak again. “There are five of us. Some should climb over the rear wall, the others enter at the gate.” The young King rose to his feet and his eyes flashed eagerly. “Fflewddur Fflam shall have the gates opened. Then, while the others attack from the far wall, I shall ride straight through the gates.”

  Rhun’s hand had gone to his sword. His head was thrown back and he stood before the companions as proudly as if all the Kings of Mona were at his side. He spoke on, firmly and clearly, with such joyful enthusiasm that Eilonwy had no heart to stop him.

  But at last she interrupted. “Rhun, I’m sorry,” Eilonwy said. “But—and I think Fflewddur will agree with me—you will serve better if you stay out of the actual fighting unless it’s absolutely necessary. That way, you’ll be on hand when you’re needed, but it won’t be quite so dangerous for you.”

  Rhun’s face clouded with disappointment and dismay. “But, I say …”

  “You’re not a Prince any more,” Eilonwy added, before Rhun could continue his protest. “You’re King of Mona. Your life isn’t altogether your own, don’t you see? You have a whole realm of people to think of, and we shan’t let you take any more risks than you have to. You’ll be in far too much danger as it is. If Queen Teleria could have guessed the way things would turn out,” Eilonwy added, “you wouldn’t have sailed to Caer Dallben in the first place.”

  “I don’t see what my mother has to do with it,” cried Rhun. “I’m sure my father would have wanted …”

  “Your father understood what it means to be a ki
ng,” Eilonwy said gently. “You must learn as well as he did.”

  “Taran of Caer Dallben saved my life on Mona,” Rhun said urgently. “I am in his debt, and it is a debt that I alone can pay.”

  “You owe another kind of debt to the fisher folk of Mona,” Eilonwy replied. “And theirs is the greater claim.”

  Rhun turned away and sat dejectedly on a hummock, his sword trailing at his side. Fflewddur gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder.

  “Don’t despair,” said the bard. “If our friend Gwystyl’s eggs and mushrooms fail, you’ll have more than your share of trouble. So will we all.”

  It was nearly dawn and bitter cold when the little band left the concealment of the thicket and moved stealthily toward the lightless castle. Each carried a share of Gwystyl’s mushrooms and eggs, and a packet of his black, loamy powder. Making a wide circle, they now approached Caer Cadarn from its darkest, most shadowed side.

  “Remember the plan,” Fflewddur warned under his breath. “It must go exactly as we set it. When we are all in position, Gwystyl is to pop open one of those famous mushrooms of his; the fire should draw the guards to the rear of the courtyard. That will be your signal,” he said to Eilonwy and Rhun. “Then—and not before, mind you—be ready to force the gates open as soon as possible, for I imagine we shall be rather in a hurry to get out. At the same time, I’ll free Smoit’s men locked up in the guardroom. They’ll help you if you need them, while I make my way to the larder and loose our friends. We must hope that villainous spider hasn’t already taken them away somewhere. If he has, well, we shall have to make new plans on the spot.

  “And you, old fellow,” Fflewddur added to Gwystyl, as the dark walls loomed ahead, “I think it’s time for you to do as you promised.”

  Gwystyl sighed heavily and his mouth drooped more wretchedly than ever. “I’m not up to climbing, not today. If only you could have waited. Next week, perhaps. Or when the weather turns better. Well, no matter. There’s little a person can do about it.”

  Still shaking his head dubiously, the gloomy creature set down the coils of rope he carried over his shoulder. The large fish hooks, taken from his bundle, he now attached at various angles to the end of a slender line. Fascinated, King Rhun watched as Gwystyl with a deft movement flung the line into the air. From the parapet high above came a faint rasping sound, then a dry click as the hooks caught on a projecting stone. Gwystyl tugged at the cord and slung the remaining coils of rope about his neck.

  “I say,” Rhun whispered, “will that fishing line hold you?”

  Gwystyl sighed and looked mournfully at him. “I doubt it.”

  Nevertheless, mumbling and moaning, he quickly hoisted himself into the air, hanging an instant before his feet found the stones of the wall. Pulling himself up on the line and scrabbling with his feet against the sheer side of the castle, Gwystyl was soon out of sight.

  “Amazing!” cried Rhun.

  The bard frantically cautioned him to silence.

  A moment later the fishing line was hauled up and the end of one of the heavier ropes came swinging down. The bard lifted Glew, who was protesting as loudly as he dared, and boosted him onto the dangling cord.

  “Up you go,” Fflewddur muttered. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Rhun followed, as the bard and the former giant disappeared into the shadows. Eilonwy seized the rope and felt herself rapidly drawn aloft. She swung herself over the parapet and dropped to a projecting ledge. Gwystyl had already scuttled toward the rear of the castle. Fflewddur and Glew slid into the darkness below. King Rhun grinned at Eilonwy and crouched against the cold stones.

  The moon was down; the sky had turned black. Amid the shadows of the silent buildings, the stables, and the long dark mass which Eilonwy guessed to be Smoit’s Great Hall, the low flames of a watch fire gleamed. Farther along the parapet, in the direction of the gates, the figures of the guards stood motionless, drowsing.

  “I say, it’s dark enough!” Rhun whispered cheerfully. “We shan’t need Gwystyl’s powder, at this rate. I can hardly see as it is.”

  Eilonwy turned her eyes in the direction Gwystyl had taken, waiting from one endless moment to the next for the signal. Rhun was tensed, ready to fling himself down the rope.

  A shout rang from the courtyard. At the same instant, a cloud of crimson flame burst in the shadows of the Great Hall.

  Eilonwy jumped to her feet. “Something’s amiss!” she cried. “Fflewddur attacks too soon!”

  It was only then that she saw a burst of fire at the far end of the castle. More shouts of alarm rose above the clatter of racing footsteps. But the warriors, Eilonwy saw with sinking heart, ran not to Gwystyl’s false attack but to the Great Hall. The courtyard seethed with shadows. Torches sprang to light.

  “Quickly!” Eilonwy shouted. “The gates!”

  Rhun swung from the ledge. Eilonwy was about to follow him when she glimpsed a bowman at one of the guard posts on the wall. He raced toward her, then halted to take aim.

  Hastily, Eilonwy drew a mushroom from her cloak and flung it at the warrior. It fell short and split against the stones; fire spurted, blinding her. The flames leaped in a roaring, searing cloud. The bowman shouted in terror and staggered back. His arrow whistled past her head.

  The girl seized the rope and dropped into the courtyard below.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The King of Mona

  In the larder which had become a prison, Gurgi was first to hear the shouts of alarm. Though muffled by the heavy walls, the cries brought him to his feet before the other companions were aware of the tumult beyond their cell. All night, fearing the arrival of Magg from one moment to the next, they had vainly sought escape. Exhausted from their efforts, they dozed fitfully by turns; hoping only to sell their lives dearly when the guards at last came for them.

  “Fightings and smitings!” Gurgi cried. “Is it for weary tired captives? Yes, yes, it must be! Yes, we are here!” He ran to the door and began shouting through the iron grating.

  Now Taran heard what seemed to be a clash of swords. Coll and King Smoit were quickly beside him. Gwydion had already reached the door in two strides and drew away the excited Gurgi.

  “Beware,” Gwydion sharply warned. “Fflewddur Fflam may have found a way to free us, but if the castle is aroused, Magg may take our lives before our comrades can save us.”

  Footsteps rang outside, the lock of the heavy door began to rattle, and the companions fell back, crouched and ready to set upon their captors. The door was flung open. Into the cell burst Eilonwy.

  “Follow me!” she cried. In one upraised hand she held the brightly glowing bauble; and with the other, pulled a sack from her belt. “Take these. The mushrooms are fire, the eggs are smoke. Throw them at anyone who attacks you. And this powder—it will blind them.

  “I couldn’t find weapons,” she hurried on. “I’ve set Smoit’s warriors free, but Fflewddur’s trapped in the courtyard. Everything’s gone wrong. Our plan has failed!”

  Smoit, bellowing in rage, dashed to the door. “Away with your toadstools and rooster eggs!” he roared. “My hands are all I need to wring a traitor’s neck!”

  Gwydion sprang through the doorway. With Coll and Gurgi behind him, Taran sped after Eilonwy. From the corridors of the Great Hall, Taran raced into what was neither daylight nor darkness. Huge billows of dense, white smoke rose in the courtyard, blotting out the dawn sky. Like swaying, twisting waves, they shifted as the wind caught them, lifted a moment to show a struggling knot of warriors, then flooded back in an impenetrable tide. Here and there roaring columns of fire writhed through the smoke.

  Losing sight of Eilonwy, Taran plunged into the swirling clouds. A warrior brought up his sword and slashed at him. Taran stumbled to escape the blow. With outflung hand he cast his small store of powder in the man’s face. The warrior fell back as if stunned; his wide-open eyes stared blankly at nothing. Taran snatched the blade from the baffled guard and raced on.

  “
A Smoit! A Smoit!” The red-bearded King’s war cry rang from the stables. Before smoke filled his eyes again, Taran caught a fleeting glimpse of the furious Smoit, armed with a huge scythe and laying about him like a bear turned harvester.

  The luckless Gurgi, however, had stumbled with his eggs still clutched in his hands. Smoke poured over him. For an instant all Taran could see of him was a pair of waving, hairy arms before these, too, vanished in the billows. Yelling at the top of his voice, Gurgi spun about and dashed frantically wherever his feet led him. Warriors shouted and fled from this fearsome whirlwind.

  King Smoit, Taran realized, was trying to rally his own men around him, and Taran attempted to fight his way toward the stables. Coll, briefly, was at his side. The stout warrior had just gained a blade from a fallen opponent. Flinging aside the hoe which, until then, had served him as a weapon, Coll threw his bulk against the press of swordsmen besetting Fflewddur Fflam. Taran leaped into the fray, striking left and right with telling blows.

  Magg’s warriors fell back. The bard joined Taran as they raced across the court.

  “Where is Rhun?” Taran cried.

  “I don’t know!” Fflewddur gasped. “He and Eilonwy were to open the gates for us. But, Great Belin, what’s happened since then I can’t guess. Everything has changed. One of Magg’s men trod on Glew, and we were discovered before we could go another step. From then on the fat was in the fire. Where Glew is now I have no idea—though the little weasel gave a fair account of himself, I must say. So did Gwystyl.”

  “Gwystyl?” Taran stammered. “How …”

  “Never mind,” replied Fflewddur. “We’ll tell you later. If there is a later.”

  They had nearly reached the stables. Taran caught sight of Gwydion. The Prince of Don’s wolf-gray head towered above the milling warriors. But Taran’s relief at Gwydion’s safety turned to despair. He saw, through the shifting clouds, the tide of battle was turning against the companions. Only a handful of Smoit’s men had been able to rally for an attack; the others were cut off, locked in combat throughout the courtyard.