The dwelling into which Aeddan led the companions was only a hut of wattle and daub, but Taran was surprised at its snugness and neat furnishings. Never before in all his adventures had he shared hospitality with the farmer folk of Prydain, and he glanced around as wondering as a stranger in a new land. Now that he could look more closely at Aeddan, he sensed honesty and good nature in the man’s weathered face. The farmer gave him a warm grin and Taran, despite the smart of his wounds, grinned back, feeling indeed that he had come upon a friend.
The farm wife, a tall, work-hardened woman with features as lined as her husband’s, threw up her hands at the sight of Gurgi, whose dripping, matted hair had gathered a blanket of twigs and pine needles, and cried out at Taran’s blood-smeared face. While Aeddan told of the fray, the woman, Alarca, opened a wooden chest and drew out a sturdy, warm jacket, well worn but lovingly mended, which Taran gratefully took in place of his own sodden garment.
Alarca set about mixing a potion of healing herbs, and Aeddan, meantime, poured onto a table the contents of his sack: hunches of bread, a cheese, and some dried fruit.
“You come to small comfort,” he said. “My land yields little, so I toil part of my days in my neighbors’ fields to earn what I cannot grow.”
“And yet,” Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan’s plight, “I have heard it told there was rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs.”
“Was, indeed,” replied Aeddan with a dour laugh. “In the time of my forefathers, not in mine. As the Hill Cantrevs were famed for their long-fleeced sheep, so the Valley Cantrevs of Ystrad were known far and wide for the finest oats and barley, and Cantrev Cadiffor itself for wheat bright and heavy as gold. And golden days there must have been in all Prydain,” Aeddan went on, cutting the bread and cheese into portions and handing them to Taran and Gurgi. “My father’s father told a tale, already old when it was told to him, of plows that worked of themselves, of scythes that reaped a harvest without even the touch of a man’s hand.”
“So, too, have I heard,” Taran said. “But Arawn Death-Lord stole those treasures, and now they lie unused and hidden deep in the fastness of Annuvin.”
The farmer nodded. “Arawn’s hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few. Enchanted tools did Arawn steal? Many secrets there were of making the earth yield richly, and of these, too, the Lord of Annuvin robbed us.
“Twice in two years have my crops failed,” Aeddan went on, as Taran listened with heartfelt concern. “My granary is empty. And the more I must toil for others, the less I may work my own fields. Even so, my knowledge is too slight. What I most need is locked forever in the treasure hoard of Annuvin.”
“It is not altogether your skill that lacks,” Alarca said, putting a hand on the farmer’s knotted shoulder. “Before the first planting the plow ox and cow sickened and died. And the second,” her voice lowered. “For the second we were without the help of Amren.”
Taran glanced questioningly at the woman, whose eyes had clouded.
She said, “Amren, our son. He was of your years, and it is his jacket you wear. He needs it no longer. Winter and summer are alike to him. He sleeps under a burial mound among other fallen warriors. Yes, he is gone,” the woman added. “He rode with the battle host when they fought off raiders who sought to plunder us.”
“I share your sorrow,” Taran said. Then, to console her, added, “But he died with honor. Your son is a hero …”
“My son is slain,” the woman answered sharply. “The raiders fought because they were starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than when they began. Now, for us the labor is too great for one pair of hands, even for two. The secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole could well serve us. Alas, we cannot regain them.”
“No matter. Even without the secrets my harvest will not fail this year,” Aeddan said. “All save one of my fields lies fallow; but in this one have I spent all my toil.” He looked proudly at Taran. “When my wife and I could no longer pull the plow ourselves, I broke the earth with my own hands and sowed it grain by grain.” The farmer laughed. “Yes, and weeded it blade by blade, as niggling as a granddam with her favorite patch of herbs. It will not fail. Indeed, it must not,” he added, frowning. “This season our livelihood hangs on it.”
Little more was said then, and when the meager meal ended, Taran gladly stretched his aching bones beside the hearth, while Gurgi curled up next to him. Weariness overcame even his despair for Melynlas, and with the patter of rain on the thatch and the hiss of the dying embers Taran soon fell asleep.
The companions woke before first light, but Taran found Aeddan already working in his field. The rain had stopped, leaving the earth fresh and moist. Taran knelt and took up a handful. Aeddan had spoken the truth. The soil had been tilled with utmost pains, and Taran watched the farmer with growing respect and admiration. The farm could indeed yield richly, and Taran stood a moment looking toward the fallow ground, barren for lack of hands to labor it. With a sigh he turned quickly away, his thoughts once more on Melynlas.
How he might regain the silver-maned stallion Taran could not foresee, but he had determined to make his way to the stronghold of Lord Goryon where, in Aeddan’s judgment, the warriors had surely taken the animal. Though more than ever anxious over his beloved steed, Taran worked through the morning beside Aeddan. The farm couple had kept scarcely a morsel of the evening’s fare for themselves, and Taran saw no other means to repay them. By midday, however, he dared delay no longer, and made ready to take his leave.
Alarca had come to the door of the hut. Like her husband, the woman had asked nothing beyond what little Taran had chosen to tell of his quest, but now she said, “Will you still follow your own path? Have you turned from home and kinsmen? What mother’s heart longs for her son as I long for mine?”
“Alas, none that I know,” Taran answered, folding Amren’s jacket and gently putting it in her hands. “And none that knows me.”
“You have been well taught in the ways of farming,” Aeddan said. “If you seek a place of welcome, you have already found one.”
“Whatever other welcomes I find, may they be as openhearted as yours,” Taran replied, and it was not without regret that he and Gurgi said farewell.
CHAPTER THREE
Goryon and Gast
Aeddan had pointed out the shortest path to Lord Goryon’s stronghold, and the two wayfarers reached it by midafternoon. It was not a castle, Taran saw, but a large huddle of buildings circled by a barricade of wooden stakes lashed with osier and chinked up with hard-packed earth. The gate of heavy palings stood open, and there was much going and coming of horsemen, of warriors on foot, of herdsmen driving in their cows from pasture.
Though Gurgi was far from eager, Taran led on, keeping as bold a face as he could, and amid the busy crowd the two entered the stronghold unnoticed and unchallenged. Without difficulty Taran found the stables, which were larger, cleaner, and in better repair than the rest of the buildings; and strode quickly to a young boy raking straw, calling out in a firm voice, “Tell me, friend, is there not a gray stallion here that Lord Goryon’s warriors captured? A handsome steed, they say, and a rare one.”
“Gray stallion?” cried the stable boy. “Gray dragon, rather! The beast half-kicked his stall down and gave me a bite I’ll not forget. Lord Goryon will have broken bones before the day ends.”
“How then?” Taran hurriedly asked. “What has he done with the steed?”
“What has the steed done with him!” answered the boy, grinning. “Thrown him the most of a dozen times already! The Master of Horse himself cannot sit three moments on the creature’s back, but Goryon tries to ride it even now. Goryon the Valorous he is called,” the boy chuckled; then added behind his hand, “though to my mind he has little stomach for this task. But his henchmen egg him on, and so Goryon means to break the beast to his will even if he must first break its back.”
Taran’s face had paled at the boy’s words. Caer Cadarn was too far; Smoit’s help would come too late. “Where is the steed?” he asked, hiding his concern. “This would be a sight worth the seeing.”
The stable boy pointed his rake toward a long, low-roofed building. “In the training field behind the Great Hall. But take heed,” he added, rubbing his shoulder, “keep your distance, or the beast will give you worse than he gave me.”
Setting off instantly Taran no sooner passed the Great Hall than he heard shouting and the furious whinny of Melynlas. His pace quickened into a run. A grassless, hoof-beaten turf was ahead. He glimpsed warriors circling the gray stallion who reared, bucked, and spun about with heels flying. In another moment the burly, thickset figure atop the stallion’s back was flung loose; then, arms and legs flailing, Lord Goryon plummeted to earth and lay there like a sack of lead.
Melynlas galloped desperately, seeking escape from the circle of warriors, one of whom hastened to snatch at the horse’s reins. All caution forgotten, Taran cried out and raced to the stallion’s side. He grasped the bridle before the surprised man could think of drawing his sword, and threw his arms about the neck of Melynlas, who whickered in greeting. The other onlookers ran toward Taran, as he strove to mount and pull Gurgi up after him. A hand seized his jacket. Taran fought free and set his back against the stallion’s flank. Lord Goryon had meanwhile picked himself up and now burst through the press of warriors.
“Insolence! Impudence!” roared Goryon. His dark, gray-shot beard bristled like a furious hedgehog. His heavy face was mottled purple, whether from bruises, lack of breath, blind anger, or all three at once Taran could not judge. “Does a churl lay hand on my horse? Away with him! Thrash him soundly for his insult!”
“I do no more than claim my own steed,” Taran cried. “Melynlas foal of Melyngar …”
A tall, raw-boned man with one arm bound up in a sling, whom Taran guessed to be the Master of Horse, peered sharply at him. “Foal of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion’s war horse? That is noble lineage. How do you know this?”
“I know it as well as I know Melynlas was stolen from me,” Taran declared, “near Aeddan’s farmhold at the borders of your cantrev, and my comrade robbed of his pony.” He tried then to explain who he was and the purpose of his journey, but the cantrev lord, unheeding, broke in angrily.
“Impudence!” cried Goryon, his beard bristling all the more furiously. “How dares a pig-keeper insult me with a liar’s tale? My border-band gained these mounts nearly at the cost of their lives.”
“The cost of our lives,” Taran retorted, glancing hurriedly at the faces around him. “Where are the riders? I beg you call them to witness.”
“More insolence!” snapped the cantrev lord. “They ride the borders, as they are commanded. Do you mean to tell me I keep idle men and shirkers in my service?”
“And full service have they given you,” one of the warriors said to Goryon. “Heroes, all of them, to stand against six giants …”
“Giants?” repeated Taran, scarcely believing his ears.
“Giants indeed!” cried Goryon. “It will not be forgotten how the brave riders of Goryon the Valorous were beset by enemies, outnumbered two to one. By worse than giants! For one was a fierce monster with sharp claws and fangs. Another carried an oak tree in his fist and swept it about him as if it were no more than a twig. But the riders of Goryon overcame them all with glory and honor!”
“The stallion, too, was bewitched,” put in another of Goryon’s henchmen, “and fought as fiercely as the giants. The beast is a man-killer, vicious as a starving wolf.”
“But Goryon the Valorous will tame the creature,” added another, turning to the cantrev lord. “You’ll ride the brute, will you not, Goryon?”
“Eh?” said Goryon, a painful and unhappy grimace suddenly marking his face. “So I will, so I will,” he growled; then flung out angrily, “You insult my honor if you think I cannot.”
As Taran stood among these rough warriors, he began to despair of finding any means of convincing the prickly tempered cantrev lord; the thought crossed his mind to draw blade and fight his way out as best he could. But another glance at the stern faces of the henchmen gave him only more cause for dismay.
“My lord,” Taran said firmly, “I speak the truth. There were no giants, but my companion and myself, and a farmer who fought beside us.”
“No giants?” shouted Goryon. “But more insults!” He stamped his foot as if the turf itself had given him some impertinence. “You call my men liars? As well call me one!”
“My lord,” Taran began again, bowing deeply, for it was growing clear to him that Goryon’s touchy honor could scarcely allow the cantrev lord to believe an account of simple horse-stealing; and there was, Taran realized, even for the border-band themselves, considerably more honor in overcoming giants than in robbing Assistant Pig-Keepers. “I call no man liar and your men spoke the truth. The truth,” he added, “as they saw it.”
“Insolence!” cried Goryon. “The truth as it is! There were giants, monsters, uprooted oaks. My men were well-rewarded for their valor, but you shall have a beating for your impudence!”
“What I believe, my lord, is this,” Taran went on, choosing his words carefully, since all he had thus far managed to say Goryon had turned into one kind of insult or another. “The sun was low and our shadows made our number seem twice as great. Indeed, your men saw double what we truly were.
“As for giants,” Taran hurried on before the cantrev lord could cry out against another impertinence, “again, the long shadows of sunset gave us such height that any man could mistake our size.”
“The oak-tree cudgel,” Lord Goryon began.
“The farmer bore a stout oaken staff,” Taran said. “His arm was strong, his blows quick, as two of your men had good reason to know. He smote with such a mighty hand, small wonder they felt a tree had fallen on them.”
Lord Goryon said nothing for a moment, but sucked a tooth and rubbed his bristling beard. “What of the monster? A raving, ferocious creature they saw with their own eyes?”
“The monster stands before you,” Taran answered, pointing to Gurgi. “He has long been my companion. I know him to be gentle, but the fiercest foe when roused.”
“He is Gurgi! Yes, yes!” Gurgi shouted. “Bold, clever, and fierce to fight for kindly master!” With this he bared his teeth, shook his hairy arms, and yelled so frightfully that Goryon and his henchmen drew backward a pace.
The face of the cantrev lord had begun to furrow in deep perplexity. He shifted his bulk from one foot to another and glared at Taran. “Shadows!” he growled. “You mean to shadow the bravery of those who serve me. Another insult …”
“If your warriors believed they had seen what they claimed,” Taran said, “and fought accordingly, their bravery is no less. Indeed,” he added, half under his breath, “it is every bit as great as their truthfulness.”
“These are no more than words,” interrupted the Master of Horse. “Show me deeds. There is no creature on four hooves that I cannot ride, save this one. You, churl, will you dare to mount?”
For answer, Taran swung quickly into the saddle. Melynlas whinnied, pawed the ground, then stood calmly. Lord Goryon choked with amazement, and the Master of Horse stared in disbelief. A surprised murmur rose from Goryon’s henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh as one of them called, “So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and takes your horse and honor both!”
Taran thought he had seen a faint flicker of relief in Goryon’s bruised face, as though he were not altogether displeased to avoid riding Melynlas, but at the henchman’s words the cantrev lord’s features began to darken furiously.
“Not so!” Taran hastily cried out to the circle of men. “Would you have your liege lord ride a pig-keeper’s nag? Is that fitting to his honor?” He turned now to Go
ryon, for a bold thought had come to him. “And yet, my lord, were you to take him as a gift from me …”
“What?” shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. “Insults! Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower myself to mount the beast again.” He flung up an arm. “Begone! Out of my sight—your nag, your monster, and his pony along with you!”
Goryon snapped his jaws shut and said no more. Gurgi’s pony was led from the stable, and under the eyes of the cantrev lord and his henchmen the two companions passed unhindered through the gate.
Taran rode slowly, head high, with all the assurance he could muster. But once out of sight of the stronghold, the companions clapped heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped for dear life.
“Oh, wisdom that wins horses from prideful lord!” Gurgi cried, when they had ridden far enough to be safe from any change of heart on the part of Goryon. “Even Gurgi could not have been so clever. Oh, he wishes to be wise as kindly master, but his poor tender head has no skill in such thinkings!”
“My wisdom?” Taran laughed. “Barely enough to make up for losing Melynlas in the first place.” He scanned the valley anxiously. Night was falling and he had hoped by this time to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon’s border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills. But he saw neither cottage nor hut, and so pressed on through the purpling dusk.
Lights flared in a clearing ahead, and Taran reined Melynlas to a halt near a stronghold much like Lord Goryon’s. But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if in token of feasting and revelry within.
“Dare we stop here?” Taran said. “If this cantrev lord shows us Goryon’s courtesy, we’d sleep sounder in a gwythaint’s nest.” Nevertheless, the hope of a comfortable bed and the torches’ inviting glow made his weariness weigh all the heavier. He hesitated a moment, then urged Melynlas closer to the gate.
Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain) Page 3