CHAPTER 5
The Huntsmen of Annuvin
THE PACK HORSES SHRIEKED in terror. Melynlas reared, as arrows rattled among the branches. Fflewddur, sword in hand, spun his mount and plunged against the attackers.
Adaon’s voice rang above the din. “These are Huntsmen! Fight free of them!”
At first it seemed to Taran the shadows had sprung to life. Formless, they drove against him, seeking to tear him from his saddle. He swung his sword blindly. Melynlas pitched furiously, trying to break away from the press of warriors.
The sky had begun to unravel in scarlet threads. The sun, rising against black pines and leafless trees, filled the grove with a baleful light.
Taran now saw the attackers numbered about a dozen. They wore jackets and leggings of animal skins. Long knives were thrust into their belts, and from the neck of one warrior hung a curved hunting horn. As the men swirled around him, Taran caught his breath in horror. Each Huntsman bore a crimson brand on his forehead. The sight of it filled Taran with dread, for he knew the strange symbol must be a mark of Arawn’s power.
He fought against the fear that chilled his heart and drained his strength.
Behind him, he heard Eilonwy cry out. Then he was seized by the belt and dragged from Melynlas. A Huntsman tumbled with him to the ground. Closely grappled, Taran could not bring his sword into play. The Huntsman raised himself abruptly and thrust a knee against Taran’s chest. The warrior’s eyes glinted; he bared his teeth in a horrible grin as he raised a dagger.
The Huntsman’s voice froze in the midst of a shout of triumph and he suddenly fell backward. Ellidyr, seeing Taran’s plight, had brought down his sword in one powerful blow. Thrusting the lifeless body aside, he heaved Taran to his feet.
For an instant their eyes met. Ellidyr’s face, below a bloodstained mat of tawny hair, held a look of scorn and pride. He seemed about to speak, but turned quickly without a word and ran toward the fray.
In the grove there was a sudden moment of silence. Then a long sigh rippled among the attackers as though each man had drawn breath. Taran’s heart sank as he remembered Gwydion’s warning. With a roar, the Huntsmen renewed their attack with even greater ferocity, dashing themselves against the struggling companions in a surge of fury.
From astride Melynlas, Eilonwy fitted an arrow to her bow. Taran hurried to her side. “Do not slay them!” he cried. “Defend yourself but do not slay them!”
Just then a hairy, twiggy figure burst from the scrub. Gurgi had snatched up a sword nearly as tall as himself. His eyes shut tightly, he stamped his feet, shouted, and swung the weapon about him like a scythe. Furious as a hornet, he raced back and forth among the Huntsmen, bobbing up and down, his blade never still.
As the warriors sprang aside, Taran saw one of them clutch the air and spin head over heels. Another Huntsman doubled up and fell, pounded by invisible fists. He rolled across the ground in an attempt to escape the buffeting, but no sooner did he climb to his feet than a shouting, thrashing warrior was flung against him. The Huntsmen lashed out with their weapons, only to have them ripped from their hands and tossed into the scrub. Against this charge they fell back in alarm.
“Doli!” Taran cried. “It’s Doli!”
Adaon took this moment to plunge forward. He seized Gurgi and hoisted him to Lluagor’s back. “Follow me!” Adaon shouted. He turned his mount and shot past the struggling warriors.
Taran leaped to the back of Melynlas. With Eilonwy clinging to his belt, he bent low over the horse’s silver mane. Arrows flew past him as Melynlas streaked ahead. Then the stallion was clear of the grove and pounding across open ground.
Ears back, Melynlas galloped past a line of trees. Dry leaves flew in a whirlwind beneath churning hooves, as the stallion sped to the brown crest of a hill. For a moment Taran dared to glance behind him. Below, a number of Huntsmen had separated from the band, and with great strides held to the track of the fleeing companions. They were swift, even as Gwydion had warned. In their jackets of bristling skins they seemed wild beasts rather than men, as they spread in a wide arc across the slope. As they ran, they called out to one another in a weird, wordless cry that echoed almost from the brooding crags of Dark Gate itself.
Cold with dread, Taran urged Melynlas on. Clumps of grass rose high among fallen tree trunks and withered branches. Ahead, Lluagor galloped down an embankment.
Adaon had brought them to a river bed. Dark water lay in a few shallow pools, but for the most part it was dry and the clay banks rose high enough to offer concealment. Adaon reined in Lluagor and cast a quick glance behind him to make sure all had followed, then beckoned the companions to move forward. They set off at a rapid gait. The river bed wound its way through high-standing firs and tattered alders, but after a little time the embankment fell away and a sparse forest became their only cover.
Although Melynlas did not slacken speed, Taran saw the pace had begun to tell on the other horses. Taran himself longed to rest. Doli’s shaggy pony labored through the trees; the bard had ridden his own mount into a lather. Ellidyr’s face was deathly pale, and he was bleeding heavily from his forehead.
They had not, as far as Taran could tell, stopped hastening westward, and Dark Gate lay some distance behind them, though its peaks no longer could be seen. Taran had hoped Adaon could have fallen back toward the path they had used earlier with Gwydion, but he knew now they were far from it and traveling still farther.
Adaon led them to a dense thicket and signaled them to dismount. “We dare not stay here long,” he warned. “There are few hiding places Arawn’s hunters will not discover.”
“Then stand and face them!” cried the bard. “A Fflam never shrinks!”
“Yes, yes! Gurgi will face them too!” put in Gurgi, although he seemed barely able to lift his head.
“We shall stand against them only if we must,” Adaon said. “They are stronger now than before and will not tire as quickly as we will.”
“We should make our stand now,” Ellidyr cried. “Is this the honor we gain from following Gwydion? To let ourselves be tracked down like animals? Or do you fear them too much?”
“I do not fear them,” Taran retorted, “but it is no dishonor to shun them. This is what Gwydion himself would order.”
Eilonwy, though exhausted and disheveled, had not lost the use of her tongue. “Oh be quiet, both of you!” she commanded. “You worry so much about honor when you’d be better off thinking of away to get back to Caer Cadarn.”
Taran, who had been crouched against a tree, raised his head from his hands. From a distance came a long, wavering cry. Another voice answered it, then another. “Are they giving up the hunt?” he asked. “Have we outrun them?”
Adaon shook his head. “I doubt it. They would not pursue us this far only to let us escape.” He swung stiffly to Lluagor’s back. “We must ride until we find a safer place to rest. We would have little hope if we let them come upon us now.”
As Ellidyr strode to the weary Islimach, Taran took him by the arm. “You fought well, Son of Pen-Llarcau,” he said quietly. “I think that I owe you my life.”
Ellidyr turned to him with the same glance of contempt Taran had seen in the grove. “It is a small debt,” he replied. “You value it more than I do.”
They set out once again, moving deeper into the forest, as rapidly as their strength allowed. The day had turned heavy with dampness and chill. The sun was feeble, wrapped in ragged gray clouds. Their progress slowed in the tangle of underbrush and the wet leaves mired the struggling animals. Doli, who had been bent over his saddle, straightened abruptly. He looked sharply around him. Whatever he saw caused him to be strangely elated.
“There are Fair Folk here,” he declared, as Taran rode up beside him.
“Are you sure?” Taran asked. “How do you know?”
Though he looked closely, he could see no difference between this stretch of forest and the one they had just passed through.
“How do I know? How do I know?” snapped Doli. “How do you know how to swallow your dinner?”
He kicked his heels against the pony’s flanks and hurried past Adaon, who halted in surprise. Doli jumped down, and after examining several trees ran quickly to the ruins of an enormous hollow oak. He thrust his head inside and began shouting at the top of his voice. Taran, too, dismounted. With Eilonwy at his heels, he ran to the tree, fearful the fatigue and strain of the day had at last driven the dwarf out of his wits.
“Ridiculous!” muttered Doli, pulling his head out of the tree. “I can’t be that far wrong!”
He bent, sighted along the ground, and made incomprehensible calculations on his fingers. “It must be!” he cried. “King Eiddileg wouldn’t let things run down this badly.”
With that, he gave a number of furious kicks against the tree roots. Taran was sure the angry dwarf would have climbed into the tree itself had the opening in the trunk been larger.
“I’ll report it,” Doli cried, “yes, to Eiddileg himself! Unheard of! Impossible!”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Eilonwy said, brushing past the dwarf and stepping up to the oak, “but if you’d tell us, we might be able to help you.”
As the dwarf had done, she peered into the hollow trunk. “I don’t know who’s down there,” she called, “but we’re up here and Doli wants to talk to you. At least you can answer! Do you hear me?”
Eilonwy turned away and shook her head. “They’re impolite, whoever they are. That’s worse than somebody shutting their eyes so you can’t see them!”
A faint but distinct voice rose from the tree. “Go away,” it said.