The Book of Three

Chapter 11
Flight Through the Hills

AT FIRST, TARAN OFFERED to let Eilonwy ride Melyngar, but the girl refused.
“I can walk as well as any of you,” she cried, so angrily that Taran made no more of it; he had learned to be wary of the girl’s sharp tongue. It was agreed that the white mare would carry the weapons taken from Spiral Castle—except the sword Dyrnwyn, of which Eilonwy had appointed herself guardian.
Scratching in the dirt with his dagger point, Fflewddur Fflam showed Taran the path he intended to follow. “The hosts of the Horned King will surely stay in the Valley of Ystrad. It’s the easiest way for an army on the march. Spiral Castle was here,” he added, with an angry jab to mark the spot, “west of the River Ystrad. Now, the shortest road would be straight north over these hills.”
“That is the one we must take,” said Taran, trying hard to make sense of Fflewddur’s crisscrossing lines.
“Wouldn’t recommend it, my friend. We should be passing a little too near Annuvin. Arawn’s strongholds are close to Spiral Castle; and I suggest we keep clear of them. No, what I believe we should do is this: stay on the high ground of the western bank of the Ystrad; we can go quite directly, since we needn’t follow the valley itself. That way, we can avoid both Annuvin and the Horned King. The four of us can move faster than heavily armed warriors. We shall come out well ahead of them, not too far from Caer Dathyl. From there, we make a dash for it—and our task is done.” Fflewddur straightened up, beaming with satisfaction. “There you have it,” he said, wiping the dirt from his dagger. “A brilliant strategy. My own war leader couldn’t have arranged it better.”
“Yes,” said Taran, his head still muddled with the bard’s talk of high ground and western banks, “that sounds very reasonable.”

THEY DESCENDED to a broad, sun-swept meadow. The morning had turned bright and warm; dew still clung to bending blades of grass. At the head of the travelers strode Fflewddur, stepping out briskly on his long, spindly shanks. The harp jogged on his back; his shabby cloak was rolled over his shoulder. Eilonwy, hair disheveled by the breeze, the great black sword slung behind her, followed next, with Gurgi immediately after. So many new leaves and twigs had stuck in Gurgi’s hair that he had begun to look like a walking beaver dam; he loped along, swinging his arms, shaking his head from side to side, moaning and muttering.
Holding Melyngar’s bridle, Taran marched last in line. Except for the weapons lashed to the horse’s saddle, these travelers might have been on a spring ramble. Eilonwy chattered gaily; now and then Fflewddur burst into a snatch of song. Taran alone was uneasy. To him, the bright morning felt deceptively gentle; the golden trees seemed to cover dark shadows. He shuddered even in the warmth. His heart was troubled, too, as he watched his companions. In Caer Dallben, he had dreamed of being a hero. But dreaming, he had come to learn, was easy; and at Caer Dallben no lives depended on his judgment. He longed for Gwydion’s strength and guidance. His own strength, he feared, was not equal to his task. He turned once for a last look in the direction of Spiral Castle, Gwydion’s burial mound. Over the hill crest, stark against the clouds, rose two figures on horseback.
Taran shouted and gestured for his companions to take cover in the woods. Melyngar galloped forward. In another moment, they were all crouching in a thicket. The horsemen followed along the crest, too far away for Taran to see their faces clearly; but from their rigid postures he could guess at the livid features and dull eyes of the Cauldron-Born.
“How long have they been behind us?” asked Fflewddur. “Have they seen us?”
Taran looked cautiously through the screen of leaves. He pointed toward the slope. “There is your answer,” he said.
From the crest the pale Cauldron warriors had turned their horses toward the meadow and were steadily picking their way down the hill. “Hurry,” ordered Taran. “We must outrun them.”
The group did not return to the meadow, but struck out across the woods. The appearance of the Cauldron-Born now forced them to abandon the path Fflewddur had chosen, but the bard hoped they might throw the warriors off the track and circle back again to higher ground.
Staying close to one another, they moved at a dog trot, not daring to stop even for water. The forest offered a measure of protection from the sun, but after a time the pace began to tell on them. Only Gurgi did not seem fatigued or uncomfortable. He loped steadily along, and the swarms of midges and stinging insects could not penetrate his matted hair. Eilonwy, who proudly insisted she enjoyed running, clung to Melyngar’s stirrup.
Taran could not be sure how close the warriors were; he knew the Cauldron-Born could hardly fail to track them, by sound if nothing else, for they no longer attempted to move silently. Speed was their only hope, and long after nightfall they pressed on.

IT HAD BECOME a blind race into darkness, under a moon drowned in heavy clouds. Invisible branches grasped at them or slashed their faces. Eilonwy stumbled once, and Taran pulled her to her feet. The girl faltered again; her head drooped. Taran unstrapped the weapons on Melyngar’s saddle, shared out the burden with Fflewddur and Gurgi, and hoisted the protesting Eilonwy to Melyngar’s back. She slumped forward, her cheek pressed against the horse’s golden mane.
All night they struggled through the forest, which grew denser the closer they approached the Ystrad valley. By the time the first hesitating light of day appeared, even Gurgi had begun to stumble with fatigue and could barely put one hairy foot in front of the other. Eilonwy had fallen into a slumber so deep that Taran feared she was ill. Her hair lay bedraggled and damp upon her forehead; her face was pallid. With the bard’s help, Taran lifted her from the saddle and propped her against a mossy bank. When he ventured to unbuckle the cumbersome sword, Eilonwy opened one eye, made an irritated face, and pulled the blade away from him—with more determination than he had expected.
“You never understand things the first time,” Eilonwy murmured, her grip firm on the weapon. “But I imagine Assistant Pig-Keepers are all alike. I told you before you’re not to have it, and now I’ll tell you for the second time—or is it the third, or fourth? I must have lost count.” So saying, she wrapped her arms around the scabbard and dropped back to sleep.
“We must rest here,” Taran said to the bard, “if only a little while.”
“At the moment,” groaned Fflewddur, who had stretched out full length with his toes and nose pointing straight into the air, “I don’t care who catches me. I’d welcome Arawn himself, and ask whether he had any breakfast with him.”
“The Cauldron-Born might have lost track of us during the night,” Taran said hopefully, but without great conviction. “I wish I knew how far we’ve left them behind—if we’ve left them behind at all.”
Gurgi brightened a little. “Clever Gurgi will know,” he cried, “with seekings and peekings!”
In another moment, Gurgi was halfway up a tall pine. He clambered easily to the top and perched there like an enormous crow, scanning the land in the direction they had traveled.
Taran, meanwhile, opened the saddlebags. So little food remained that it was hardly worth dividing. He and Fflewddur agreed to give Eilonwy the last of the provisions.
Gurgi had scented food even at the top of the pine tree, and he came scuttling down, snuffling eagerly at the prospect of his crunchings and munchings.
“Stop thinking about eating for a moment,” Taran cried. “What did you see?”
“Two warriors are far, but Gurgi sees them—yes, yes, they are riding full of wickedness and fierceness. But there is time for a small crunching,” Gurgi pleaded. “Oh, very small for clever, valiant Gurgi.”
“There are no more crunchings,” said Taran. “If the Cauldron-Born are still on our heels, you had better worry less about food and more about your own skin.”
“But Gurgi will find munchings! Very quickly—oh, yes—he is so wise to get them, to comfort the bellies of great noble lords. But they will forget poor Gurgi, and not even give him snips and snaps for his eatings.”
After a hurried discussion with Fflewddur, who looked as ravenous as Gurgi, Taran agreed they might take a little time to search for berries and edible roots.
“Quite right,” said the bard. “Better eat what we can get now, while the Cauldron-Born give us a chance to do it. I shall help you. I know all about foraging in the woods, do it constantly…” The harp tensed and one string showed signs of giving way. “No,” he added quickly, “I had better stay with Eilonwy. The truth is, I can’t tell a mushroom from a toadstool. I wish I could; it would make the life of a wandering bard considerably more filling.”
With cloaks in which to carry back whatever they might find, Taran and Gurgi set off. At a small stream Taran halted to fill Gwydion’s leather water flask. Gurgi, sniffing hungrily, ran ahead and disappeared into a stand of rowans. Near the bank of the stream Taran discovered mushrooms, and gathered them hurriedly. Bent on his own search, he paid little heed to Gurgi, until he suddenly heard anguished yelps from behind the trees. Clutching his precious mushrooms, Taran hastened to see what had happened, and came upon Gurgi lying in the middle of the grove, writhing and whimpering, a honeycomb beside him.
At first, Taran thought Gurgi had got himself stung by bees. Then, he saw the creature was in more serious trouble. While Gurgi had climbed for the honey, a dead branch had snapped under his weight. His twisted leg was pinned to the ground with the heavy wood on top of it. Taran heaved the branch away.
The panting Gurgi shook his head. “Poor Gurgi’s leg is broken,” he moaned. “There will be no more amblings and ramblings for him now!”
Taran bent and examined the injury. The leg was not broken, though badly torn, and swelling rapidly.
“Now Gurgi’s head must be chopped off,” the creature moaned. “Do it, great lord, do it quickly. Gurgi will squeeze up his eyes so as not to see hurtful slashings.”
Taran looked closely at Gurgi. The creature was in earnest. His eyes pleaded with Taran. “Yes, yes,” cried Gurgi. “Now, before silent warriors arrive. Gurgi is better dead at your sword than in their hands. Gurgi cannot walk! All will be killed with fearful smitings and bitings. It is better…”
“No,” said Taran. “You won’t be left in the woods, and you won’t have your head chopped off—by me or anyone else.” For a moment Taran almost regretted his words. The poor creature was right, he knew. The injury would slow their pace. And Gurgi, like all of them, would be better off dead than in Arawn’s grasp. Still, Taran could not bring himself to draw his sword.
“You and Eilonwy can ride Melyngar,” Taran said, lifting Gurgi to his feet and putting one of the creature’s hairy arms about his shoulder. “Come on now. One step at a time…”
Taran was exhausted when they reached Eilonwy and the bard. The girl had recovered noticeably and was chattering even faster than before. While Gurgi lay silently on the grass, Taran divided the honeycomb. The portions were pitifully small.
Fflewddur called Taran aside. “Your hairy friend is going to make things difficult,” he said quietly. “If Melyngar carries two riders, I don’t know how much longer she can keep up.”
“That is true,” said Taran. “Yet I see nothing else we can do. Would you abandon him? Would you have cut off his head?”
“Absolutely,” cried the bard, “in a flash! A Fflam never hesitates. Fortunes of war and all that. Oh, drat and blast! There goes another string. A thick one, too.”
When Taran went back to rearrange the weapons they would now be obliged to bear, he was surprised to find a large oak leaf on the ground before his cloak. On the leaf lay Gurgi’s tiny portion of honeycomb.
“For great lord,” murmured Gurgi. “Gurgi is not hungry for crunchings and munchings today.”
Taran looked at the eager face of Guru. For the first time they smiled at one another.
“Your gift is generous,” Taran said softly, “but you travel as one of us and you will need all your strength. Keep your share; it is yours by right; and you have more than earned it.”
He put his hand gently on Gurgi’s shoulder. The wet wolfhound odor did not seem as objectionable as before.