CHAPTER 20
The Final Price
ELLIDYR!” TARAN CRIED. “Have you strength enough to break your bonds and free the rest of us?”
Ellidyr rolled on his side and strained desperately against the tight cords. The bard and Taran tried to aid him, but at last Ellidyr fell back, exhausted and gasping with the pain of his efforts.
“Too much of my strength is gone,” he murmured. “I fear Morgant has given me my death wound. I can do no more.”
The curtain blew open again. An instant later Taran was flung full length and roughly spun around. He kicked wildly with his bound legs and tried to right himself.
“Stop struggling, you clot!” a voice shouted in his ear.
“Doli!” Taran’s heart leaped. “Is it you?”
“Clever question!” snapped the voice. “Stop trying to fight me! Things are hard enough without your squirming! Whoever tied these knots, I wish he had them about his neck!”
Taran felt firm hands drawing at the thongs. “Doli! How did you come here?”
“Don’t bother me with silly chatter,” growled the dwarf. Taran felt a knee jabbing into the small of his back as Doli took a better grip on the bonds. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” muttered the dwarf. “No, of course you can’t, but that doesn’t matter. Drat! If I hadn’t lost my axe I’d be through this in no time! Oh, my ears! I’ve never stayed invisible so long at one go! Hornets! Wasps!”
Suddenly the thongs parted. Taran sat up and began as best he could to unbind his legs. In another moment Doli himself flashed into sight and set about freeing the bard. The stout dwarf was grimy, muddy, and his ears were tinged bright blue. Doli stopped his exertions to clap his hands to his head. “Enough invisibility is enough!” he cried. “No need for it here. Not yet. Bumblebees! A whole hive of them in my ears!”
“How did you ever find us?” cried Eilonwy, as the dwarf ripped away her bonds.
“If you must know,” the dwarf snapped impatiently, “I didn’t find you. Not at first. I found Ellidyr. Saw him come up from the river a little before Morgant reached him. I was on my way to Caer Cadarn, after I shook off the Huntsmen, to get help from Gwydion. I didn’t dare waste time chasing through the Marshes after you. Ellidyr had the cauldron. And your horses, too. That got my suspicions up. So I went invisible and followed him on foot. As soon as I understood what had happened, I turned back to look for you. My pony had run off—dratted beast, we never liked each other—and you got here ahead of me.”
The dwarf knelt and untied Gurgi, who had begun to show some signs of life, but hesitated when he came to Ellidyr. “What about this one?” Doli asked. “I have an idea he’s better off as he is,” he added gruffly. “I know what he tried to do.”
Ellidyr raised his head.
Taran met his glance and gestured quickly to Doli. “Free him,” Taran ordered.
Doli paused, doubtful. Taran repeated his words. The dwarf shook his head, then shrugged. “If you say so,” he muttered, setting to work on Ellidyr’s bonds.
While Eilonwy chafed Gurgi’s wrists, the bard hurried to the tent flap and cautiously peered out. Taran searched vainly for weapons.
“I can see Morgant,” Fflewddur called. “He’s on his way here. Well, he shall have a surprise.”
“We are unarmed!” Taran cried. “They far outnumber us and can slay us at their pleasure!”
“Rip up the back of the tent!” Doli exclaimed. “Make a run for it through the forest!”
“And leave the Crochan in Morgant’s hands?” replied Taran. “No, that we dare not do!”
Ellidyr had risen to his feet. “I had not strength enough to break my own bonds,” he said, “but I can still serve you.”
Before Taran could stop him, Ellidyr plunged from the tent. The guards shouted the alarm. Taran saw Morgant fall back in astonishment, then draw his sword.
“Slay him!” Morgant commanded. “Slay him! Keep him from the cauldron!”
With the bard and Doli at his heels, Taran raced from the tent and flung himself against King Morgant, fighting furiously to wrest the sword from the war lord’s hands. With a savage snarl, Morgant caught him by the throat and tossed him to the ground, then turned to pursue Ellidyr. The horsemen had broken ranks and hastened to close upon the running figure.
Taran scrambled to his feet. Ahead, he saw Ellidyr grappling fiercely with one of the warriors. Fighting as he had never fought before, the Prince of Pen-Llarcau, Taran knew, was calling on all the strength remaining to him. Ellidyr threw the warrior down, but faltered and cried out as the man’s sword thrust deep into his side. Clutching the wound, Ellidyr stumbled ahead.
“No! No!” Taran shouted. “Ellidyr! Save yourself!”
A few paces from the cauldron, struggling madly, Ellidyr broke free of the warriors. Then, with a cry, he flung himself into the Crochan’s gaping mouth.
The Crochan shuddered like a living thing. In horror and dismay, Taran cried out again to Ellidyr. He fought his way toward the cauldron, but in another instant a sharp clap, louder than thunder, rang above the clearing. The leafless trees trembled to their roots; the branches writhed as if in agony. Then, while echoes ripped the air and a whirlwind screamed overhead, the cauldron split and shattered. The jagged shards fell away from the lifeless form of Ellidyr.
A war horse burst from the thicket. Astride it rode King Smoit, a naked sword in his fist, a shout of battle on his lips. Behind the red-bearded King streamed mounted warriors, who plunged against the men of Morgant. In the press of combat, Taran glimpsed a white steed galloping to the charge.
“Gwydion!” Taran shouted and struggled to reach his side. He caught sight of Coll, then; the stout old warrior had drawn his sword and struck mightily about him. Gwystyl, with Kaw clinging to his shoulder, dashed into the fray.
Bellowing with rage, King Smoit drove straight for Morgant, who raised his sword and lashed viciously at the rearing steed. Smoit leaped to the ground. Two of Morgant’s warriors threw themselves in front of him to defend their lord, but Smoit cut them down with powerful blows and strode past.
Eyes unhooded and blazing, his teeth bared, Morgant fought savagely amid the shattered pieces of the cauldron, as though he sought defiantly to claim them. His sword had broken under the force of Smoit’s attack, yet he slashed and thrust again and again with the jagged blade, the grimace of hatred and arrogance frozen upon his features, his hand still clutching the bloodstained weapon even as he fell.
Morgant’s riders had been slain or captured as Gwydion’s voice rose in command to cease the combat. Taran stumbled to Ellidyr’s side and tried to raise him. He bowed his head in grief. “The black beast is gone from you, Prince of Pen-Llarcau,” he murmured.
A high-pitched whinny behind him made Taran turn. It was Islimach who had broken her tether and now stood over the body of her master. The roan lifted her lean, bony head, tossed her mane, spun about, and galloped from the clearing.
Taran, understanding the frenzied look in the roan’s eyes, cried out and ran after her. Islimach plunged through the undergrowth. Taran strove to overtake her and seize the hanging bridle, but the roan sped onward to the ravine. She did not check her speed even at the brink. Islimach made a mighty leap, hung poised in the air a moment, then plummeted to the rocks below. Taran covered his face with his hands and turned away.
IN THE CLEARING the bodies of King Morgant and Ellidyr lay side by side, and the remainder of King Smoit’s horsemen rode in a slow, mournful circle around them. Alone and apart, Gwydion leaned heavily on the black sword Dyrnwyn, his shaggy head bent, his weathered face filled with sorrow. Taran drew near and stood silently.
At length Gwydion spoke. “Fflewddur has told me all that befell you. My heart is grieved that Coll and I found you only now. Yet, without King Smoit and his warriors, I fear we might not have prevailed. He grew impatient and came seeking us. Had I been able to send him word, I would have summoned him long before this. I am grateful to him for his impatience.
“And to you, too, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” he added. “The Crochan is destroyed, and with it Arawn’s power to add to the number of his Cauldron-Born. It is one of the gravest defeats Arawn has ever suffered. But I know the price you paid.”
“It is Ellidyr who paid the final price,” Taran said slowly. “The last honor belongs to him.” He spoke then of Islimach. “He has lost all else, even his steed.”
“Or perhaps gained all,” Gwydion answered. “And his honor shall be certain. We shall raise a barrow to his memory. Islimach, too, shall rest with him, for they are both now at peace. Smoit’s dead shall also sleep in honor, and a barrow be raised above Morgant King of Madoc.”
“Morgant?” Taran asked, turning a puzzled glance to Gwydion. “How can there be honor for such a man?”
“It is easy to judge evil unmixed,” replied Gwydion. “But, alas, in most of us good and bad are closely woven as the threads on a loom; greater wisdom than mine is needed for the judging.
“King Morgant served the Sons of Don long and well,” he went on. “Until the thirst for power parched his throat, he was a fearless and noble lord. In battle he saved my life more than once. These things are part of him and cannot be put aside or forgotten.
“And so shall I honor Morgant,” Gwydion said, “for what he used to be, and Ellidyr Prince of Pen-Llarcau for what he became.”
NEAR THE TENTS of Morgant, Taran found the companions again. Under Eilonwy’s care, Gurgi had recovered from the guard’s blow and looked only a little shaken.
“Poor tender head is filled with breakings and achings,” Gurgi said, with a wan smile at Taran. “He is sad not to fight at side of kindly master. He would have struck down wicked warriors, oh, yes!”
“There’s been more than enough fighting,” Eilonwy said. “I found your sword again,” she added, handing the weapon to Taran. “But sometimes I wish Dallben hadn’t given it to you in the first place. It’s bound to lead to trouble.”
“Oh, I should think our troubles are over,” put in Fflewddur, cradling his injured arm. “The beastly old kettle is smashed to bits, thanks to Ellidyr,” he went on sadly. “The bards shall sing of our deeds—and of his.”
“I don’t care about that,” grumbled Doli, rubbing his ears, which had only now begun to return to their natural color. “I just don’t want anyone, not even Gwydion, dreaming up another scheme to have me turn invisible.”
“Good old Doli,” Taran said. “The more you grumble, the more pleased you are with yourself.”
“Good old Doli,” replied the dwarf. “Humph!”
Taran caught sight of Coll and King Smoit resting beneath an oak. Coll had taken off his close-fitting helmet and, though bruised and slashed, his face beamed and his bald head glowed with pleasure, as he put an arm around Taran’s shoulders. “We did not meet as soon as I expected,” Coll said with a wink, “for I hear you were busy with other things.”
“My body and blood!” roared Smoit, giving Taran a clap on the back. “You looked like a skinned rabbit last time I saw you. Now the rabbit is gone and only the skin and bones are left!”
A loud squawk interrupted the red-bearded King. In surprise Taran turned and saw Gwystyl, sitting alone and morose. On his shoulder Kaw hopped up and down and bobbed his head in delight.
“So it’s you again,” Gwystyl remarked, sighing heavily as Taran hurried over. “Well, you shan’t blame me for what’s happened. I warned you. However, what’s done is done and there’s no sense complaining. No use in it at all.”
“You shall not deceive me again, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk,” Taran said. “I know who you are and the valiant service you have rendered.”
Kaw croaked joyfully as Taran smoothed his feathers and scratched him under the beak.
“Go on,” Gwystyl said, “put him on your shoulder. That’s what he wants. For the matter of that, you shall have him as a gift, with the thanks of the Fair Folk. For you have done us a service, too. We were uneasy with the Crochan knocking about here and there; one never knew what would happen. Yes, yes, pick him up,” Gwystyl added with a melancholy sigh. “He’s taken quite a fancy to you. It’s just as well. I’m simply not up to keeping crows any more, not up to it at all.”
“Taran!” croaked Kaw.
“Though I warn you again,” Gwystyl went on, “pay no attention to him. Most of the time he talks just to hear himself talk—like some others I could mention. The secret is: don’t listen. No use in it. No use whatever.”
AFTER THEY HAD RAISED the barrows, Gwystyl left to resume his guard at the way post; the companions, King Smoit, and his riders departed from the clearing and turned their horses toward the River Avren. High overhead, their wings darkening the sky, flight after flight of gwythaints retreated toward Annuvin. Of the Huntsmen there was no sign; and Gwydion believed that Arawn, learning of the Crochan’s destruction, had summoned them to return.
The companions rode not in triumphant joy but slowly and thoughtfully. The heart of King Smoit, too, was heavy, for he had suffered the loss of many warriors.
With Kaw perched on his shoulder, Taran rode beside Gwydion at the head of the column as it wound through hills rich with autumn’s colors. For a long while Taran did not speak.
“It is strange,” he said at last. “I had longed to enter the world of men. Now I see it filled with sorrow, with cruelty and treachery, with those who would destroy all around them.”
“Yet, enter it you must,” Gwydion answered, “for it is a destiny laid on each of us. True, you have seen these things. But there are equal parts of love and joy. Think of Adaon and believe this.
“Think, too, of your companions. Out of friendship for you, they would have given up all they valued; indeed, all they possessed.”
Taran nodded. “I see now the price I paid was the least of all, for the brooch was never truly mine. I wore it, but it was no part of me. I am thankful I kept it as long as I did; at least I knew, for a little while, how a bard must feel and what it must be like to be a hero.”
“That is why your sacrifice was all the more difficult,” Gwydion said. “You chose to be a hero not through enchantment but through your own manhood. And since you have chosen, for good or ill, you must take the risks of a man. You may win or you may lose. Time will decide.”
They had come into the Valley of Ystrad, and here Gwydion reined up the golden-maned steed.
“Melyngar and I must now return to Caer Dathyl,” he said, “and bring word to King Math. You shall tell Dallben all that has happened; indeed, this time you know more of these events than I.
“Go swiftly,” Gwydion said, reaching out, his hand. “Your comrades wait for you; and Coll, I know, is eager to ready his vegetable garden for winter. Farewell, Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper—and friend.”
Gwydion waved once and rode northward. Taran watched until he was out of sight. He turned Melynlas, then, and saw the faces of the companions smiling at him.
“Hurry along,” Eilonwy called. “Hen Wen will be wanting her bath. And I’m afraid Gurgi and I left in such a hurry I didn’t take time to straighten up the scullery. That’s worse than starting a journey and forgetting to put on your shoes!”
Taran galloped toward them.
The End
The Chronicles of Prydain Book Two
The Black Cauldron