The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company))

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Well done,” said Annlaw in a quiet voice, then added, “I have heard how smiths and weavers throughout the Commots labor to give you arms and raiment. But my wheel cannot forge a blade nor weave a warrior’s cloak, and my clay is shaped only for peaceful tasks. Alas, I can offer nothing that will serve you now.”

  “You have given me more than all the others,” Taran answered, “and I treasure it the most. My way is not the warrior’s way; yet, if I do not bear my sword now, there will be no place in Prydain for the usefulness and beauty of any craftsman’s handiwork. And if I fail, I will have lost all I gained from you.”

  His hand faltered, for Coll’s booming voice was shouting his name. Taran sprang from the wheel and, while Annlaw watched in alarm, strode out of the hut, calling a hurried farewell to the potter. Coll had already drawn his sword. In another moment, Llassar joined them. They galloped toward the camp a little way from Merin, as Coll hastily told Taran that the guard posts had sighted a band of marauders.

  “They shall soon be upon us,” Coll warned. “We should meet them before they attack our trains. As a grower of turnips, I advise you to rouse a company of bowmen and a troop of good riders. Llassar and I shall try to lure them with a smaller band of warriors.”

  Quickly they set their plans. Taran rode ahead, calling to the horsemen and foot soldiers, who hastily caught up their weapons and followed after him. He ordered Eilonwy and Gurgi to safety among the carts; without waiting to hear their protests, he galloped toward the fir forest covering the outlying hills.

  The marauders were armed more heavily than Taran had expected. Swiftly they sped down from the snow-covered ridge. At a sign from Taran, the bowmen raced and flung themselves into a shallow gully, and the mounted warriors of the Commots wheeled to the charge. The riders met in a turmoil of hoofs and clash of blades. Then Taran raised his horn to his lips. At the piercing, echoing signal, the bowmen rose from cover.

  It was, Taran knew, little more than a skirmish, but sharply and hotly fought; only at the last, when Coll and Llassar’s band drew off many of the foe, did the marauders break and flee. Yet it was the first battle Taran had commanded as a war leader for the Prince of Don. The Commot folk had carried the day, with none of their number slain and only a few wounded. Though weary and drained of his strength, Taran’s heart pounded with the joy of victory as he led the exulting warriors from the forest and back toward Merin.

  As he reached the hill crest he saw flames and black billows of smoke.

  At first he thought the camp had taken fire. He spurred Melynlas at top speed down the slope. As he drew closer, as the crimson tongues wavered against the sky in a bloodstained sunset and the smoke rose and spread over the valley, he saw it was the Commot burning.

  Outdistancing the troop, he galloped into Merin. Among the warriors from the camp, Taran glimpsed Eilonwy and Gurgi struggling vainly to quench the flames. Coll had reached the village before him. Taran leaped from Melynlas and ran to his side.

  “Too late!” Coll cried. “The raiders circled and stormed the Commot from the rear. Merin has been put to the torch, and its folk to the sword.”

  With a terrible cry of grief and rage Taran ran past the blazing cottages. The thatch had burned from the roofs, and many of the walls had split and crumbled. So it was with the hut of Annlaw, which still smouldered, its ruins open to the sky. The body of the potter lay amid the rubble. Of the work of his hands, all had been shattered. The wheel was overturned, the bowl flung into pieces.

  Taran dropped to his knees. Coll’s hand was on his shoulder, but he drew himself away and stared up at the old warrior. “Did I shout for victory today?” he whispered hoarsely. “Small comfort to folk who once befriended me. Have I served them well? The blood of Merin is on my hands.”

  Later, Llassar spoke apart with Coll. “The Wanderer has not stirred from the potter’s hut,” the shepherd murmured. “It is harsh enough for each man to bear his own wound. But he who leads bears the wounds of all who follow him.”

  Coll nodded. “Leave him where he chooses to be. In the morning he will be well,” he added, “though likely never healed.”

  By midwinter, the last of the war bands had been gathered and the Commot warriors dispatched to Caer Dathyl. In addition to a troop of horsemen, Llassar, Hevydd, and Llonio still remained with Taran, who now led the companions northwestward through the Llawgadarn Mountains. The force was strong enough to safeguard their progress without slowing their journey.

  Twice, marauders attacked them, and twice Taran’s followers beat them off, inflicting heavy losses. The raiders, having learned a bitter lesson from the war-leader who rode under the ensign of the White Pig, slunk away and dared harass the columns no further. The companions passed swiftly and unhindered through the foothills of the Eagle Mountains. Gurgi still proudly carried the banner which snapped and fluttered in the sharp winds lashing from the distant heights. In his cloak Taran bore one talisman: a shard of broken, fire-blackened pottery from Commot Merin.

  At the approaches to Caer Dathyl outriders brought word of still another host. Taran galloped ahead. In a vanguard of spearmen rode Fflewddur Fflam.

  “Great Belin!” shouted the bard, urging Llyan to Taran’s side, “Gwydion shall rejoice! The northern lords arm in all their strength. When a Fflam commands—yes, well, I did rally them in the name of Gwydion, otherwise they might not have been so willing. But no matter, they’re on the way. I’ve heard King Pryderi, too, has raised his armies. Then you’ll see a battle host! I daresay half the western cantrevs are under his command.

  “Oh, yes,” Fflewddur added, as Taran caught sight of Glew perched atop a swaybacked, heavy-hoofed, gray horse, “the little fellow is still with us.”

  The former giant, busily gnawing a bone, gave Taran only a scant sign of recognition.

  “I didn’t know what to do with him,” said Fflewddur in a low voice. “I hadn’t the heart to send him packing, not in the midst of all the armies gathering. So, here he is. He’s not stopped whining and complaining; his feet hurt one day, his head the next, and little by little all the rest of him. Then, in between meals, he goes on with his endless tales of when he was a giant.

  “The worst of it is,” Fflewddur went on in some dismay, “he’s given my ears such a drubbing that he’s made me almost feel sorry for him. He’s a small-hearted weasel, always was and always will be. But as you stop and think on it—he has been considerably mistreated and put upon. Now, when Glew was a giant …” The bard interrupted himself and clapped a hand to his forehead. “Enough! Any more of his chatter, and I’ll end by believing it! Come, join us,” he cried, unslinging his harp from the tangle of bows, quivers of arrows, bucklers, and leather strapping he bore on his back. “All friends are met again. I’ll play you a tune to celebrate and keep us warm at the same time!”

  Cheered by the bard’s music, the companions journeyed on together. Soon the high fortress of Caer Dathyl rose golden in the winter sunlight. Its mighty bastions sprang up like eagles impatient for the sky. Beyond the walls and circling the fortress stood the camps and flag-decked pavilions of lords come in allegiance to the Royal House of Don. Yet it was not the sight of the banners or the wind-tossed emblems of the Golden Sunburst that made Taran’s heart leap, but rather the knowledge that the companions and Commot warriors had come safe to the end of one journey, to warmth and rest for a little time at least. Safe—Taran halted in his own thoughts, and the memories returned: of Rhun King of Mona who slept silent before the gates of Caer Cadarn; of Annlaw Clay-Shaper. And his fingers clenched around the fragment of pottery.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Coming of Pryderi

  Caer Dathyl was an armed camp, where sparks like blazing snowflakes whirled from the armorers’ forges. Its widespreading courtyards rang with the iron-shod hooves of war horses and the sharp notes of signal horns. Although the companions were now safe within its walls, the Princess Eilonwy declined to exchange her warrior’s rough garb for more befitting attire. T
he most she agreed to do—and that reluctantly—was to wash her hair. A few ladies of the court remained, the rest having been sent to the protection of the eastern strongholds, but Eilonwy flatly refused to join them in their spinning and weaving chambers.

  “Caer Dathyl may be the most glorious castle in Prydain,” she declared, “but court ladies are court ladies wherever you find them, and I’ve had more than my share with Queen Teleria’s hen flock. Listening to their giggling and gossiping—why, it’s worse than having your ears tickled with feathers. For the sake of being a Princess, I’ve been half-drowned with soapy water and that’s quite enough. My hair still feels clammy as seaweed. As for skirts, I’m comfortable just as I am. I’ve lost all my robes, anyway, and I certainly shan’t bother to be measured for others. The clothes I’m wearing will do very nicely.”

  “No one has considered asking me whether my clothing is suitable,” Glew testily remarked, although the former giant’s garments, as far as Taran could judge, were in better repair than those of the companions. “But shabby treatment is something I’ve grown used to. In my cavern, when I was a giant, things were much different. Generosity! Alas, gone forever. Now, I recall when the bats and I …”

  Taran had neither strength to dispute Eilonwy’s words nor time to listen to Glew’s. Gwydion, hearing of the companions’ arrival, had summoned Taran to the Hall of Thrones. While Coll, Fflewddur, and Gurgi secured gear and provisions for the warriors who had journeyed with them, Taran followed a guard to the Hall. Finding Gwydion in council with Math Son of Mathonwy, Taran hesitated to draw closer; but Math beckoned to him, and Taran dropped to one knee before the whitebearded ruler.

  The High King touched Taran’s shoulder with a hand withered but firm, and bade him rise. Not since the battle between the Sons of Don and the armies of the Horned King had Taran been in the presence of Math Son of Mathonwy, and he saw the years had borne heavily upon the monarch of the Royal House. The face of Math was even more careworn and more deeply furrowed than Dallben’s; upon his brow the Gold Crown of Don seemed a cruel burden. Yet his eyes were keen and filled with stern pride. More than this, Taran sensed a sorrow so profound that his own heart grieved and he bowed his head.

  “Face me, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Math commanded in a quiet voice. “Fear not to see what I myself know. The hand of death reaches toward mine and I am not loath to clasp it. I have long heard the horn of Gwyn the Hunter, that summons even a king to his barrow home.

  “With a glad heart would I answer it,” said Math, “for a crown is a pitiless master, harsher than the staff of a pig-keeper; while a staff bears up, a crown weighs down, beyond the strength of any man to wear it lightly. What grieves me is not my death; but at the end of my life to see blood spilled in the land where I sought only peace.

  “You know the history of our Royal House; how, long ago, the Sons of Don voyaged in their golden ships to Prydain, and how men sought their protection against Arawn Death-Lord, who had robbed Prydain of its treasures and turned a rich, fair land into a fallow field. Since then the Sons of Don have stood as a shield against the ravages of Annuvin. But if the shield now be riven, then all shatters with it.”

  “We will gain victory,” Gwydion said. “The Lord of Annuvin stakes all upon this venture, but his strength is also his weakness, for it may be that if we withstand him his power will shatter forever.

  “Good tidings, as well as bad, have reached us,” Gwydion went on. “For the latter, King Smoit and his armies are embattled in the Valley of Ystrad. He cannot, for all his boldness, force his way farther northward before the end of winter. He serves us well, nonetheless, since his warriors engage the traitors among the southern lords and keep them from joining Arawn’s other battle hosts. The more distant kings in the northern realms come but slowly, for winter, to them, is a sterner enemy than Arawn.

  “More heartening is word that the armies of the West Domains are but a few days’ march from our stronghold. Scouts have already sighted them. It is a host greater than any ever raised in Prydain, and Lord Pryderi himself commands them. He has done all I prayed from him, and more. My only unease is that Arawn’s liege men may give battle and turn him aside before he reaches Caer Dathyl. But, if so, we will have warning and our forces will march to relieve him.

  “Not least among our good tidings,” Gwydion added, a smile lightening his drawn and haggard features, “is the coming of Taran of Caer Dallben and the warriors led from the Commots. I have counted heavily upon him and shall ask still more.”

  Gwydion spoke then of the ordering of Taran’s horsemen and unmounted troops. The High King listened closely and nodded his agreement.

  “Go now to your task,” said Math to Taran. “For the day is come when an Assistant Pig-Keeper must help bear the burden of a king.”

  During the days that followed, the companions served wherever need arose and as Gwydion commanded them. Even Glew shared, to some extent, in the toil—at the forceful insistence of Fflewddur Fflam and not through his own choice. Under the watchful eye of Hevydd the Smith, the former giant was set to pumping bellows at the forges, where he complained unstintingly of the blisters on his pudgy hands.

  More than a stronghold of war, Caer Dathyl was a place of memory and a place of beauty. Within its bastions, in the farther reaches of one of its many courtyards, grew a living glade of tall hemlocks, and among them rose mounds of honor to ancient kings and heroes. Halls of carved and ornamented timbers held panoplies of weapons of long and noble lineage, and banners whose emblems were famed in the songs of the bards. In other buildings were stored treasures of craftsmanship sent from every cantrev and Commot in Prydain; there, Taran saw, with a twinge of heart, a beautifully fashioned wine jar from the hands of Annlaw Clay-Shaper.

  The companions, when spared from their tasks, found much of wonder and delight. Coll had never before journeyed to Caer Dathyl, and he could not help staring at the archways and towers that seemed to soar higher than the snow-capped mountains beyond the walls.

  “Handsome enough it all is,” Coll admitted, “and skillfully worked. But the towers make me think my apple trees should have been better pruned. And left to itself, my garden will yield as much as the stones of this courtyard.”

  A man called out to them and beckoned from the doorway of one of the smallest and plainest of the buildings. He was tall, his face deeply weathered; white hair fell straight to his shoulders. The coarse cloak of a warrior was flung loosely about him, but neither sword nor dagger hung at his unadorned leather belt. As the companions followed, Fflewddur ran instantly to the man and, heedless of the snow, dropped to one knee before him.

  “Perhaps it is I who should bow to you, Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo,” said the man, smiling, “and ask your pardon.” He turned to the companions and offered his hand. “I know you better than you know me,” he said, and laughed good-heartedly at their surprise. “My name is Taliesin.”

  “The Chief Bard of Prydain,” said Fflewddur, beaming proudly and delightedly, “made me a gift of my harp. I am in his debt.”

  “Of that I am not altogether sure,” replied Taliesin, as the companions followed him through the doorway and into a spacious chamber lightly furnished with only a few sturdy seats and benches, and a long table of curiously grained wood that glowed in the light of a cheery hearthfire. Ancient volumes, stacks and rolls of parchment crowded the walls and rose high into the shadows of the raftered ceiling.

  “Yes, my friend,” the Chief Bard said to Fflewddur, “I have thought often of that gift. Indeed, it has been a little on my conscience.” He gave the bard a glance that was shrewd but filled with kindness and good humor. Taran at first had seen Taliesin as a man of many years; now he could not guess the Chief Bard’s age. Taliesin’s features, though heavily lined, seemed filled with a strange mixing of ancient wisdom and youthfulness. He wore nothing to betoken his rank; and Taran realized there was no need for such adornment. Like Adaon, his son and Taran’s companion of long ago, his eyes were gray, dee
p-set, seeming to look beyond what they saw, and there was, in the Chief Bard’s face and voice, a sense of authority far greater than a war-leader’s and more commanding than a king’s.

  “I knew the nature of the harp when I gave it to you,” the Chief Bard continued. “And, knowing your own nature, suspected that you would always have some small trouble with the strings.”

  “Trouble?” cried Fflewddur. “Why, not a bit of it! Never for a moment …” Two strings broke with such a twang that Gurgi started in alarm. Fflewddur’s face turned bright red to the tip of his nose. “The fact of the matter is, as I stop and think on it, the old pot’s forced me to tell the truth—ah, shall we say a little more than I normally would. But it does occur to me, telling the truth has harmed no one, least of all myself.”

  Taliesin smiled. “Then you have learned no small lesson. Nonetheless, my gift was in jest, yet not entirely in jest. Say, perhaps, the laughter of one heart to another. But you have borne it willingly. Now I offer you any of your choosing,” he said.

  Taliesin pointed to a shelf where stood a number of harps, some newer, some older, and a few even more gracefully curved than the instrument Fflewddur carried. With a joyful cry Fflewddur hastened to them, lovingly touching the strings of each, admiring the workmanship, turning from one to the next and back again.

  He hesitated some while, looking dolefully at the newly broken strings of his own instrument, at the scratches and chips scarring the frame. “Ah—yes, well, you honor me,” he murmured in some confusion, “but this old pot is quite good enough for me. There are times, I swear, when it seems to play of itself. None has a better tone; when the strings are fixed, that is. It sits well against my shoulder. Not to belittle these, but what I mean is that somehow we’re used to each other. Yes, I’m most grateful. But I would not change it.”