Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain)

by Lloyd Alexander

  “Greetings to you,” said one man, naming himself as Drudwas Son of Pebyr. “And farewell in the same breath,” he added. “Our thanks to Annlaw and yourself. But stay to share our hospitality and you may stay to shed your blood.

  “Outlaws rove the hills,” Drudwas went on quickly, answering Taran’s questioning frown, “a band, perhaps a dozen strong. We have heard they plundered two Commots already, and not content were they with a sheep or cow for their own food, but slaughtered all the herd for the joy of it. Today, not long past, I saw horsemen over the rise, and leading them a yellow-haired ruffian on a sorrel mare.”

  “Dorath!” Taran cried.

  “How then?” asked one of the Commot men. “Do you know this band?”

  “If it’s Dorath’s Company, I know them well enough,” Taran answered. “They are paid swords; and if none will hire them, I judge them glad to kill even without fee. Hard warriors they are, as I have seen them, and cruel as the Huntsmen of Annuvin.”

  Drudwas nodded gravely. “So it is said. It may be they will pass us by,” he went on, “but this I doubt. Commot Isav is small prey, but where defenders are few the reasons to attack are all the more.”

  Taran glanced at the men. From their faces and bearing he knew their courage would not lack; but once more he heard Dorath’s laughter and recalled the man’s cunning and ruthlessness. “And if they attack,” he asked, “what shall you do?”

  “What would you have us do?” Drudwas angrily burst out. “Offer tribute and beg them to spare us? Give our animals to their swords and our homes to their torches? Commot Isav has ever been at peace; our pride is husbandry not warfare. But we mean to stand against them. Have we better choice?”

  “I can ride back to Merin,” Taran replied, “and bring you help.”

  “Too far and too long,” Drudwas answered. “Nor would I do so, even then, for it would leave Merin ill-defended. No, we stand as we are. Against twelve, seven. My son Llassar,” he began, indicating a tall, eager-faced boy scarcely older than Taran had been when Coll first dubbed him Assistant Pig-Keeper.

  “Your count is amiss,” Taran interrupted. “You are not seven, but nine. Gurgi and I stand with you.”

  Drudwas shook his head. “You owe us no service or duty, Wanderer. We welcome your swords, but will not ask for them.”

  “They are yours nonetheless,” Taran replied, and Gurgi nodded agreement. “Will you heed me? Nine may stand against a dozen and win the day. But with Dorath, number counts less than skill. Were he alone I would still fear him as much as twelve. He will fight shrewdly and strive to gain the most at least cost. We must answer him in kind.” The Commot men listened carefully as Taran then spoke of a ruse to make the raiders believe themselves outnumbered, and to attack where Dorath would expect no more than feeble defense.

  “If two men were to lie waiting in the sheepfold and two in the cattle pen, ready to spring up,” Taran said, “they might take the band unawares and hold them a few moments while the rest of us attack from ambush in the rear. At the same time, if the women of your households set up a din with rakes and hoes, it would seem other swordsmen had hastened to join us.”

  Drudwas thought a long moment, then nodded. “Your plan may be sound, Wanderer. But I fear for those in the pens, as they must bear the brunt for all of us. If aught should go awry, small chance of escape would they have.”

  “I shall be one to keep watch in the sheepfold,” Taran began.

  “And I the other,” Llassar broke in quickly.

  Drudwas frowned. “I would not spare you because you are my son. You are a good lad and gentle with the flock. I think of your years …”

  “The flock is in my charge,” Llassar cried. “By right my place is with the Wanderer.”

  The men spoke hurriedly among themselves, at last agreeing that Llassar would keep watch with Taran, while Drudwas stood guard over the cattle along with Gurgi who, fearful though he was, refused to be any farther from Taran’s side. By the time all plans were set and the Commot men posted among the trees just beyond the sheepfold, a full moon had risen above thin clouds. The cold light sharpened the edges of the shadows and the outlines of brush and branches. In the fold Taran and Llassar crouched amid the restless flock.

  For a time neither spoke. In the bright moonlight the face of Llassar seemed to Taran more boyish than before; he saw the youth was afraid and making all effort to hide it. Though uneasy himself, he grinned assuringly at Llassar. Drudwas had been right. The boy was young, untried. And yet—Taran smiled, knowing that he himself, at Llassar’s age, would have claimed the same right.

  “Your plan is good, Wanderer,” Llassar said at last in a hushed voice, speaking, Taran knew, more to ease his own disquiet than anything else. “Better than we should have done. It cannot fail.”

  “All plans can fail,” Taran said, almost harshly. He fell silent then. Fears had begun stirring in him like leaves in a chill wind. Sweat drenched his body under the fleece jacket. He had come to Isav unknown, unproven, yet the men of the Commot had willingly heeded him and willingly put their fate in his hands. They had accepted his plan when another might have served better; should it fail, though all their lives could be forfeit, the blame would be his alone. He gripped the hilt of his sword and strained his eyes to peer into the darkness. There was no movement, and even the shadows seemed frozen.

  “You are called Wanderer,” Llassar went on quietly, with some shyness. “To my mind, one who wanders must as well be one who seeks. Is this true?”

  Taran shook his head. “I sought once to be a smith and once to be a weaver. And once a potter. But that is over. Now, perhaps I must wander without seeking.”

  “If you seek nothing,” Llassar said with a friendly laugh, “then you have little chance of finding it. Our life is not easy here,” he went on. “It is not willingness that lacks, but knowledge. The Sons of Don have long held Prydain against the Lord of Annuvin, and for their protection we are grateful; yet the secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole from us—to regain them, my father says, would give us stouter shield and sword than even the battle hosts of Prince Gwydion himself. But for all that, Isav is my home and I am well-content in it.” Llassar grinned. “I do not envy you, Wanderer.”

  Taran did not answer for a time. Then he murmured, “No, it is I who envy you.”

  They said no more, listening alertly to every sound as the night wore away and the moon, fading behind thickening clouds, lost shape and its light spread like pale mist. In a while Llassar blew out his breath in relief. “They will not come,” he said. “They will pass us by.”

  Even as he spoke, the darkness shattered in fragments that turned into the figures of armed warriors. Taran sprang to his feet as the gate burst open.

  Taran sounded his battle horn, then flung himself upon the warrior who cried out in surprise and stumbled backward. Llassar had leaped up at the same instant as Taran, and the shepherd plunged against the press of the attackers at the gate, thrusting with his spear. Taran struck out blindly, struggling not only against the raiders but against the sudden terror that his plan had failed, that the outlaws had come too silently, too swiftly. In another moment, above the frantic bleating of the frightened animals, a great shout burst from the Commot men as they rose from the cover of the trees, and from the huts came the clash of iron upon iron.

  At the sheepfold the outlaws hesitated. Llassar’s opponent had fallen. Taran glimpsed the boy spring past him and strike again with his spear. The attack wavered at the gate, as the raiders turned their weapons against the men of Isav. But one warrior, growling like a wild beast, long knife upraised, raced into the pen as if to wreak all the destruction he could, and Taran grappled with the man who spun about and slashed at him. It was Gloff.

  The warrior recognized him; Gloff’s first astonishment changed to an ugly grin almost of pleasure and eagerness, as he shifted the knife in his hand. Gloff lunged and Taran flung up his weapon to ward against the blow. But the warrior leaped forward, his free hand
clawing at Taran’s eyes, and his blade flickered as its point drove swiftly in a killing stroke. A figure plunged between them. It was Llassar. Taran shouted a warning as the boy strove to catch the blow on his spear shaft. Snarling, Gloff turned his attack and struck viciously at Llassar. The shepherd fell. With a cry of rage Taran raised his sword. Suddenly, Drudwas was beside him. Gloff shrieked as the blade of the husbandman chopped downward.

  Under the onslaught of the Commot folk Dorath’s warriors fell back. Amid the turmoil of racing men Taran found himself borne away from the fold. Daring a backward glance he could glimpse neither Drudwas nor Llassar; in fury, he pressed onward. Torches flared, and he saw that the women and girls of Isav had joined their men, flailing with hoes, rakes, and pitchforks at the raiders. Taran cast about for Gurgi and shouted his name, but his voice was drowned in the tumult.

  A fierce bellowing had risen from the cattle pen as a dark shape burst through the bars. Taran gasped in astonishment to see a furious black bull heaving and plunging among the raiders. On its back clung Gurgi, yelling at the top of his voice, kicking his heels against the powerful animal’s flanks, turning its charge against the terrified remainder of Dorath’s band.

  “They flee!” shouted one of the Commot men.

  Taran pressed ahead. The raiders, who had left their mounts at the fringe of trees, now hastened to gain them, caught between the Commot folk and the slashing horns of the enraged bull. Taran glimpsed Dorath astride the sorrel mare and ran to overtake him. But Dorath spurred the steed and galloped into the wood.

  Taran turned and raced to the stables, whistling for Melynlas. One of the Commot men caught at his arm and cried, “The day is ours, Wanderer!” Only then did Taran realize the sounds of the fray had ceased. Dorath himself had vanished. Taran hurried to the sheepfold where the wife of Drudwas knelt, her arms about her son.

  “Llassar!” Taran cried in dismay, dropping beside the shepherd. The boy’s eyes opened and he strove to grin at Taran.

  “His wound is not deep,” said Drudwas. “He will live to tend his flock.”

  “And so I will,” Llassar said to Taran, “and thanks to you, I’ll have a flock to tend.”

  Taran put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And to you,” he answered, “to you I owe much more than sheep.”

  “Full half the band will plunder no longer,” said Drudwas, “neither Commot Isav nor any Commot. The rest are scattered, and it will be long before their wounds heal. You have well served us, Wanderer, you and your companion. You came among us strangers. We count you strangers no longer, but friends.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Mirror

  Although the folk of Isav urged him to linger, Taran took leave of them and rode slowly back to Merin. The defeat of Dorath’s Company held no savor, for his thoughts still turned restlessly; his questions still found no answers; and he was more downhearted than ever. To Annlaw he said little of his deeds in Isav, and it was Gurgi, bursting with pride, who told what had befallen them.

  “Yes, yes!” cried Gurgi. “Wicked robbers fled with yellings! Oh, they feared kindly master. And feared bold Gurgi, too! And great bull with stampings and trampings, sharp horns with jabbings and stabbings!”

  “You should be well-content, Wanderer,” Annlaw said to Taran, who had remained silent all the while. “You’ve saved honest folk their lives and homes.”

  “Drudwas told me I was no stranger, but a friend. For that I am glad,” Taran answered. “I only wish,” he added, “that I weren’t a stranger to myself. What use am I?” he burst out. “To myself, to anyone? None that I can see.”

  “The folk of Isav would gainsay you,” the potter answered. “And there might be others who would welcome a stout blade and a bold heart.”

  “A hired sword?” Taran replied bitterly. “And follow the same way as Dorath?” He shook his head. “When I was a child I dreamed of adventure, glory, of honor in feats of arms. I think now that these things are shadows.”

  “If you see them as shadows then you see them for what they are,” Annlaw agreed. “Many have pursued honor, and in the pursuit lost more of it than ever they could gain. But I did not mean a hired sword …” He stopped abruptly and was thoughtful a moment. “To see them for what they are,” he murmured, returning to his first words. “Perhaps—perhaps …” The potter looked closely at Taran.

  “The Commot lore tells how one may see himself for what he is. Whether it be true or no more than an old wives’ tale I will not judge,” the potter went on slowly. “But the lore says that he who would know himself need only gaze in the Mirror of Llunet.”

  Though Annlaw had spoken quietly, Taran heard the potter’s words like a thunderclap.

  “The Mirror of Llunet?” Taran cried. Since leaving Craddoc’s valley he had put away all thought of the Mirror, hidden and forgotten it, and the days had covered it as dead leaves on a burial mound. “The Mirror,” he repeated in a stifled voice, “the goal of my quest from the beginning. I had given up searching. Now do I find it when I seek it least of all?”

  “Your quest?” Annlaw said, perplexed. He had risen and was watching Taran with concern. “Of this you have told me nothing, Wanderer.”

  “I would have no pride in the telling,” Taran replied.

  But now, as Annlaw listened quietly, a look of kindness on his face, little by little Taran was able to speak of Caer Dallben, of Orddu, of where the quest had led him, of Craddoc’s death and his own despair. “Once,” Taran concluded, “I would have asked nothing better than to find the Mirror. Now, even if it were in my hand, I would dread to look in it.”

  “I understand your fears,” the potter answered quietly. “The Mirror may put your heart at ease—or trouble you all the more. Such is the risk. The choice must be yours.

  “But know this, Wanderer,” Annlaw went on, as Taran bit his lips in silence, “it is not such a mirror as you think. It lies close by here in the Llawgadarn Mountains, no more than two days’ distance, in a cave at the head of the Lake of Llunet. The Mirror of Llunet is a pool of water.”

  “A pool of water?” Taran cried. “What enchantment gives it power? For enchanted it must be.”

  “It is,” answered the potter, “to those who deem it so.”

  “What of yourself?” Taran asked in a low voice. “Have you sought to look in it?”

  “That I have not,” replied Annlaw. “For I well know who I am. Annlaw Clay-Shaper. For better or worse, that knowledge must serve me my lifetime.”

  “And I,” Taran murmured, “what knowledge will serve mine?” He said nothing for a time. At last he raised his head. “It is true. I fear to look in the Mirror, and fear to know what it might tell me. But I have already known shame,” he flung out bitterly. “Must I know cowardice as well?

  “In the morning,” Taran continued, “in the morning I journey to the Mirror of Llunet.”

  His decision gave him little comfort. At first light, as he and Gurgi saddled their mounts, his doubts chilled him more than the cold mist of late autumn. Nevertheless, having made his choice he set a swift pace, riding northward from Merin to the Llawgadarn Mountains, taking his bearings on the high peak of Mount Meledin, for it was at the foot of Meledin, as Annlaw told him, that he would find the cave. The companions rode silently and steadily, halting only when the day had so far waned they could no longer guide the steeds along the paths. They camped on the soft carpet of pine needles, but a deep uneasiness had settled on the two wayfarers and they slept little.

  At dawn of the next day they gathered up their gear and rode at a good pace along the crest of a ridge. Soon Taran called out and pointed downward. The Lake of Llunet stretched in a long oval, gleaming in the early sun. Its waters were calm, blue, and the Lake itself seemed a perfect mirror that held the tree-lined shore in its depths. At some distance Mount Meledin rose, tall but seeming almost weightless in the mist still clinging to its long slopes.

  Taran’s heart beat faster as the companions made their way downward to
the shore. Closer to Meledin the land fell in sharp drops, and short stretches of meadow broke into shallow ravines. Near a stream tumbling from the upper reaches of the mountain the companions tethered their steeds. Taran had already sighted the cave and hastened toward it, with Gurgi scrambling after him.

  “There!” Taran cried. “There! The Mirror!”

  At the foot of Meledin wind and weather had carved an arching cave little more than a few paces deep. Rivulets trickled from the moss-grown rocks of its overhanging brow. Taran raced toward it. His heart pounded; his pulse burnt in his wrists. Yet as he drew closer his pace slowed, and fear weighed heavy as a chain about his legs. At the mouth of the cave he halted a long moment. Gurgi glanced anxiously at him.

  “It is here,” Taran murmured. He stepped forward.

  Within, a shallow basin hollowed in the floor of smooth stones, lay the Mirror of Llunet like a shield of polished silver, gleaming of itself despite the shadows. Taran slowly knelt at the rim. The basin held no more than a finger’s depth of water, fed drop by drop from a thread of moisture twining down the rocky wall. The passing of countless years had not filled it to the brim. Yet shallow though it was, the water seemed a depthless crystal whose facets turned one upon the other, each catching brilliant beams of white.

  Scarcely daring to breathe lest he trouble the shining surface, Taran bent closer. The cave was utterly silent, and it seemed that even the falling of a wisp of dry moss would shatter the reflection. His hands trembled as he saw his own face, travel-worn and sun-scorched. With all his heart he longed to turn away, but forced himself to look more deeply. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Closer he knelt. What he saw made him cry out in disbelief.

  At the same instant Gurgi shrieked in terror. Taran leaped to his feet and spun around as Gurgi ran and cowered at his side. Before him stood Dorath.

  The man’s face was stubble-bearded, his dirty yellow hair hung into his eyes. The horsehide jacket was slashed along one side and mud crusted his boots. In one hand he held food which he scooped up with his fingers and crammed into his mouth. He grinned at Taran.