The Book of Three

Chapter 17
The Fledgling

THE GWYTHAINT HUNG like a crumpled black rag, one wing upraised, the other folded awkwardly on its breast. No larger than a raven, it was young and barely out of its first moult; the head seemed a little too big for its body, the feathers thin and quilly. As Taran cautiously approached, the gwythaint fluttered vainly, unable to free itself. The bird opened its curved beak and hissed warningly; but its eyes were dull and half-closed.
The companions had followed Taran. As soon as Gurgi saw what it was, he hunched up his shoulders, and with many fearful glances behind him, turned and crept off to a safe distance. Melyngar whinnied nervously. The white pig, undisturbed, sat on her haunches and looked cheerful.
Fflewddur, on seeing the bird, gave a low whistle. “It’s a stroke of luck the parents aren’t about,” he said. “Those creatures will tear a man to shreds if their young are in danger.”
“It reminds me of Achren,” Eilonwy said, “especially around the eyes, on days when she was in a bad temper.”
Doli pulled his axe from his belt.
“What are you going to do?” Taran asked.
The dwarf looked at him with surprise. “Going to do? Do you have any other stupid questions? You can’t imagine I’d let it sit there, can you? I’m going to chop off its head, to begin with.”
“No!” cried Taran, seizing the dwarfs arm. “It’s badly hurt.”
“Be glad of that,” snapped Doli. “If it weren’t, neither you nor I nor any of us would be standing here.”
“I will not have it killed,” Taran declared. “It’s in pain and it needs help.”
“That’s true,” Eilonwy said, “it doesn’t look comfortable at all. For the matter of that, it looks even worse than Achren.”
The dwarf threw his axe to the ground and put his hands on his hips. “I can’t make myself invisible,” he snorted, “but at least I’m no fool. Go ahead. Pick up the vicious little thing. Give it a drink. Pat its head. Then you’ll see what happens. As soon as it’s got strength enough, the first thing it’ll do is slice you to bits. And next thing, fly straight to Arawn. Then we’ll be in a fine stew.”
“What Doli says is true,” Fflewddur added. “I myself don’t enjoy chopping things up—the bird is interesting, in a disagreeable sort of way. But we’ve been lucky so far, with no trouble from gwythaints, at least. I don’t see the use of bringing one of Arawn’s spies right into our bosom, as you might say. A Fflam is always kind-hearted, but it seems to me this is overdoing it.”
“Medwyn would not say so,” Taran answered. “In the hills, he spoke of kindness for all creatures; and he told me much about the gwythaints. I think it’s important to bring this one to Caer Dathyl. No one has ever captured a live gwythaint, as far as I know. Who can tell what value it may have?”
The bard scratched his head. “Well, yes, I suppose if it had any use at all, it would be better alive than dead. But the proposition is risky, no matter what.”
Taran gestured for the others to stand away from the bush. He saw the gwythaint was wounded by more than thorns; perhaps an eagle had challenged it, for blood flecked its back and a number of feathers had been torn out. He reached in carefully. The gwythaint hissed again, and a long, rasping rattle sounded in its throat. Taran feared the bird might be dying even then. He put a hand under its feverish body. The gwythaint struck with beak and talons, but its strength had gone. Taran lifted it free of the thornbush.
“If I can find the right herbs, I’ll make a poultice,’’ Taran told Eilonwy. “But I’ll need hot water to steep them.” While the girl prepared a nest of grass and leaves, Taran asked Gurgi to build a fire and heat some stones, which could be dropped into a cup of water. Then, with Hen Wen at his heels, he quickly set out to search for the plants.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Doli shouted after him. “Not that I care. You’re the ones in a hurry, not I. Humph!” He thrust his axe into his belt, jammed his cap tight on his head, and furiously held his breath.
Taran was again grateful for what Coll had taught him of herbs. He found most of what he needed growing nearby. Hen Wen joined the hunt with enthusiasm, grunting happily, rooting under leaves and stones. Indeed, the white pig was the first to discover an important variety Taran had overlooked.
The gwythaint did not struggle when Taran applied the poultice; soaking a piece of cloth torn from his jacket in another healing brew, he squeezed the liquid drop by drop into the bird’s beak.
“That’s all very well,” said Doli, whose curiosity had got the better of him, and who had come to observe the operation. “How do you imagine you’ll carry the nasty thing—perched on your shoulder?”
“I don’t know,” Taran said. “I thought I could wrap it in my cloak.”
Doli snorted. “That’s the trouble with you great clodhoppers. You don’t see beyond your noses. But if you expect me to build a cage for you, you’re mistaken.”
“A cage would be just the thing,” Taran agreed. “No, I wouldn’t want to bother you with that. I’ll try to make one myself.”
The dwarf watched contemptuously while Taran gathered saplings and attempted to weave them together.
“Oh, stop it!” Doli finally burst out. “I can’t stand looking at botched work. Here, get out of the way.” He shouldered Taran aside, squatted on the ground, and picked up the saplings. He trimmed them expertly with his knife, lashed them with braided vines, and in no time at all the dwarf held up a serviceable cage.
“That’s certainly more practical than making yourself invisible,” Eilonwy said.
The dwarf made no answer and only looked at her angrily.
Taran lined the bottom of the cage with leaves, gently put the gwythaint inside, and they resumed their march. Doli now led them at a faster pace, to make up for the time they had lost. He tramped steadily down the hill slopes without even turning to see whether Taran and the others were able to keep up with him. The speed of their pace, Taran realized, served little purpose, since they were obliged to halt more frequently. But he did not deem it wise to mention this to the dwarf.
Throughout the day the gwythaint steadily improved. At each halt, Taran fed the bird and applied the medicines. Gurgi was still too terrified to come near; Taran alone dared handle the creature. When Fflewddur, endeavoring to make friends, put his finger into the cage, the gwythaint roused and slashed at him with its beak.
“I warn you,” snapped Doli, “no good will come of this. But don’t pay any attention to what I say. Go right ahead. Cut your own throats. Then come running and complaining afterward. I’m just a guide; I do what I’m ordered to, and that’s all.”
At nightfall they made camp and discussed plans for the morrow. The gwythaint had entirely recovered, and had also developed an enormous appetite. It squawked furiously when Taran did not bring its food quickly enough, and rattled its beak against the cage. It gobbled up the morsels Taran gave it, then looked around for more. After eating, the gwythaint crouched at the bottom of the cage, its head cocked and listening, its eyes following every movement. Taran finally ventured to put a finger past the bars and scratch the gwythaint’s head. The creature no longer hissed, and it made no attempt to bite him. The gwythaint even allowed Eilonwy to feed it, but the bard’s attempts to make friends failed.
“It knows perfectly well you’d have agreed to chop off its head,” Eilonwy told Fflewddur, “so you can’t blame the poor thing for being annoyed at you. If somebody wanted to chop off my head, then came around afterward and wanted to be sociable, I’d peck at them too.”
“Gwydion told me the birds are trained when young,” Taran said. “I wish he were here. He would know best how to handle the creature. Perhaps it could be taught differently. But there’s bound to be a good falconer at Caer Dathyl, and we’ll see what he can do.”
But the next morning, the cage was empty.
Doli, who had risen long before the others, was the first to discover it. The furious dwarf thrust the cage under Taran’s nose. The sapling bars had been slashed to pieces by the gwythaint’s beak.
“And there you have it!” cried Doli. “I told you so! Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The treacherous creature’s halfway to Annuvin by now, after listening to every word we said. If Arawn didn’t know where we are, he’ll know soon enough. You’ve done well; oh, very well,” Doli snorted. “Spare me from fools and Assistant Pig-Keepers!”
Taran could not hide his disappointment or fear.
Fflewddur said nothing, but the bard’s face was grim.
“I’ve done the wrong thing again, as usual,” Taran said angrily. “Doli is right. There’s no difference between a fool and an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”
“That’s probably true,” agreed Eilonwy, whose remark did nothing to cheer Taran. “But,” she went on, “I can’t stand people who say ‘I told you so.’ That’s worse than somebody coming up and eating your dinner before you have a chance to sit down.
“Even so,” she added, “Doli means well. He’s not half as disagreeable as he pretends to be, and I’m sure he’s worried about us. He’s like a porcupine, all prickly on the outside, but very ticklish once you turn him over. If he’d only stop trying to make himself invisible, I think it should do a lot to improve his disposition.’’
There was no time for further regrets. Doli set them an even swifter pace. They still followed the hills along the Ystrad valley, but at midday the dwarf turned west and once more began to descend toward the plains. The sky had grown as thick and gray as lead. Violent gusts of wind whipped at their faces. The pale sun gave no warmth. Melyngar neighed uneasily; Hen Wen, placid and agreeable until now, began to roll her eyes and mutter to herself.
While the companions rested briefly, Doli went ahead to scout the land. In a short time he was back again. He led them to the crest of a hill, motioned them to stay close to the ground, and pointed toward the Ystrad below.
The plain was covered with warriors, on foot and on horseback. Black banners snapped in the wind. Even at this distance, Taran could hear the clank of weapons, the steady, heavy drumming of marching feet. At the head of the winding columns rode the Horned King.
The giant figure towered above the men-at-arms, who galloped behind him. The curving antlers rose like eager claws. As Taran watched, terrified but unable to turn away, the Horned King’s head swung slowly in the direction of the heights. Taran pressed flat against the earth. Arawn’s champion, he was sure, could not see him; it was only a trick of his mind, a mirror of his own fear, but it seemed the Horned King’s eyes sought him out and thrust like daggers at his heart.
“They have overtaken us,” Taran said in a flat voice.
“Hurry,” snapped the dwarf. “Get hustling, instead of dawdling and moaning. We’re no more than a day away from Caer Dathyl and so are they. We can still move faster. If you hadn’t stopped for that ungrateful spy of Annuvin, we’d be well ahead of them by now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We should arm ourselves a little better,” the bard said. “The Horned King will have outriders on both sides of the valley.”
Taran unstrapped the weapons on Melyngar’s back and handed a bow and quiver of arrows to his companions, as well as a short spear for each. King Eiddileg had given them round bronze bucklers; they were dwarf-size and, after his view of the marching hosts, Taran found them pitifully small. Gurgi buckled a short sword around his waist. Of all the band, he was the most excited.
“Yes, yes!” he cried. “Now bold, valiant Gurgi is a mighty warrior, too! He has a grinding gasher and a pointed piercer! He is ready for great fightings and smitings!”
“And so am I!” Fflewddur declared. “Nothing withstands the onslaught of an angry Fflam!”
The dwarf clapped his hands to his head and gnashed his teeth. “Stop jabbering and move!” he sputtered. This time he was too furious to hold his breath.
Taran slung the buckler over his shoulder. Hen Wen hung back and grunted fearfully. “I know you’re afraid,” Taran whispered coaxingly, “but you’ll be safe in Caer Dathyl.”
The pig followed reluctantly; but as Doli set off once again, she lagged behind, and it was all Taran could do to urge her forward. Her pink snout trembled; her eyes darted from one side of the path to the other.
At the next halt Doli summoned Taran. “Keep on like this,” he cried, “and you’ll have no chance at all. First a gwythaint delays us, now a pig!”
“She’s frightened,” Taran tried to explain to the angry dwarf. “She knows the Horned King is near.”
“Then tie her up,” Doli said. “Put her on the horse.”
Taran nodded. “Yes. She won’t like it, but there’s nothing else we can do.” A few moments before, the pig had been crouched at the roots of a tree. Now there was no sign of her.
“Hen?” Taran called. He turned to the bard. “Where did she go?” he asked in alarm.
The bard shook his head. Neither he nor Eilonwy had seen her move; Gurgi had been watering Melyngar and had not noticed the pig at all.
“She can’t have run off again,” Taran cried. He raced back into the woods. When he returned, his face was pale.
“She’s gone,” he gasped. “She’s hiding somewhere, I know it.”
He sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight, not even for a moment,” he said bitterly. “I have failed twice.”
“Let the others go on,” Eilonwy said. “We’ll find her and catch up with them.”
Before Taran could answer, he heard a sound that chilled his blood. From the hills came the voices of a hunting pack in full cry and the long notes of a horn.
The companions stood frozen with dread. With the ice of terror in his throat, Taran looked at the silent faces around him. The dire music trembled in the air; a shadow flickered across the lowering sky.
“Where Gwyn the Hunter rides,” murmured Fflewddur, “death rides close behind.”