CHAPTER 19
The War Lord
BEFORE 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 succeeding 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.