The Book of Three

Chapter 18
The Flame of Dyrnwyn

NO SOONER HAD THE NOTES of Gwyn’s horn sunk into the hills than Taran started, as though waking from a fearful dream. Hoofbeats drummed across the meadow.
“The Homed King’s scouts!” cried Fflewddur, pointing to the mounted warriors galloping toward them. “They’ve seen us!”
Up from the plains the riders sped, bent over their saddles, urging on their steeds. They drew closer, lances leveled as if each gleaming point sought its own target.
“I could try to make another web,” Eilonwy suggested, then added, “but I’m afraid the last one wasn’t too useful.”
Taran’s sword flashed out. “There are only four of them,” he said. “We match them in numbers at least.”
“Put up your blade,” Fflewddur said. “Arrows first. We’ll have work enough for swords later.”
They unslung their bows. Under Fflewddur’s orders, they formed a line and knelt shoulder to shoulder. The bard’s spiky yellow hair blew in the wind; his face shone with excitement. “I haven’t had a good fight in years,” he said. “That’s one of the things I miss, being a bard. They’ll see what it means to attack a Fflam!”
Taran nocked an arrow to the string. At a word from the bard, the companions drew their bows and took aim.
“Loose!” shouted Fflewddur.
Taran saw his own shaft fly wide of the leading horseman. With a cry of anger, he seized another arrow from the quiver. Beside him, he heard Gurgi shout triumphantly. Of the volley, only Gurgi’s bolt had found its mark. A warrior toppled from his home, the shaft deep in his throat.
“They know we can sting!” Fflewddur cried. “Loose again!”
The horsemen veered. More cautious now, the warriors raised their bucklers. Of the three, two drove directly for the companions; the third turned his mount’s head and galloped to the flank of the defenders.
“Now, friends,” shouted the bard, “back to back!”
Taran heard Doli grunt as the dwarf loosed an arrow at the nearest warrior. Gurgi’s shot had been lucky; now the shafts hissed through the air only to glance off the attackers’ light shields. Behind Taran, Melyngar whinnied and pawed the ground frantically. Taran remembered how valiantly she had fought for Gwydion, but she was tethered now and he dared not break away from the defenders to untie her.
The horsemen circled. One turned his exposed side to the companions. Doli’s arrow leaped from the bowstring and buried itself in the warrior’s neck. The other horsemen spun their mounts and galloped across the meadow.
“We’ve beaten them!” cried Eilonwy. “That’s like bees driving away eagles!”
The panting Fflewddur shook his head. “They’ll spend no more men on us. When they come back, they’ll come back with a war band. That’s highly complimentary to our bravery, but I don’t think we should wait for them. A Fflam knows when to fight and when to run. At this point, we had better run.”
“I won’t leave Hen Wen,” cried Taran.
“Go look for her,” growled Doli. “You’ll lose your head as well as your pig.”
“Crafty Gurgi will go,” suggested Gurgi, “with bold seekings and peekings.”
“In all likelihood,” said the bard, “they’ll attack us again. We can’t afford to lose what little strength we have. A Fflam never worries about being outnumbered, but one sword less could be fatal. I’m sure your pig is able to look out for herself; wherever she may be, she is in less danger than we are.”
Taran nodded. “It is true. But it grieves me to lose her for the second time. I had chosen to abandon my search and go to Caer Dathyl; then, after Gurgi found Hen Wen, I had hoped to accomplish both tasks. But I fear it must be one or the other.”
“The question is,” said Fflewddur, “is there any chance at all of warning the Sons of Don before the Horned King attacks? Doli is the only one who can answer that.”
The dwarf scowled and thought for a few moments. “Possible,” he said, “but we’ll have to go into the valley. We’ll be in the middle of the Horned King’s vanguard if we do.”
“Can we get through?” asked Taran.
“Won’t know until you’ve tried,” grunted Doli.
“The decision is yours,” said the bard, glancing at Taran.
“We shall try,” Taran answered.
For the rest of that day they traveled without a halt. At nightfall, Taran would have been glad to rest, but the dwarf warned against it. The companions pressed on in weary silence. They had escaped the attack Fflewddur expected, but a column of horsemen bearing torches passed within bowshot of them. The companions crouched in the fringe of trees until the streaks of flame wound behind a hill and vanished. In a short time, Doli led the little band into the valley, where they found concealment in the wooded groves.
But the dawn revealed a sight that filled Taran with despair. The valley roiled with warriors wherever he turned his eyes. Black banners whipped against the sky. The host of the Horned King was like the body of an armed giant restlessly stirring.
For a moment, Taran stared in disbelief. He turned his face away. “Too late,” he murmured. “Too late. We have failed.”

WHILE THE DWARF surveyed the marching columns, Fflewddur strode forward. “There is one thing we can do,” he cried. “Caer Dathyl lies straight ahead. Let us go on, and make our last stand there.”
Taran nodded. “Yes. My place is at the side of Gwydion’s people. Doli shall lead Gurgi and Eilonwy to safety.” He took a deep breath and buckled his sword belt more tightly. “You have guided us well,” he said quietly to the dwarf. “Return to your king with our gratitude. Your work is done.”
The dwarf looked at him furiously. “Done!” he snorted. “Idiots and numbskulls! It’s not that I care what happens to you, but don’t think I’m going to watch you get hacked to pieces. I can’t stand a botched job. Like it or not, I’m going with you.”
Before the words were out of his mouth, an arrow sang past Doli’s head. Melyngar reared up. A party of foot soldiers sprang from the woods behind the companions. “Begone!” the bard shouted to Taran. “Ride as fast as you can, or it will be death for all of us!”
When Taran hesitated, the bard seized him by the shoulders, pitched him toward the horse, and thrust Eilonwy after him. Fflewddur drew his sword. “Do as I say!” shouted the bard, his eyes blazing.
Taran leaped to Melyngar’s saddle and pulled Eilonwy up behind him. The white horse shot forward. Eilonwy clung to Taran’s waist as the steed galloped straight across the bracken, toward the vanguard of the Horned King. Taran made no attempt to guide her; the horse had chosen her own path. Suddenly he was in the midst of the warriors. Melyngar reared and plunged. Taran’s sword was out and he struck right and left. A hand clutched at the stirrups, then was ripped away. Taran saw the warrior stumble back and drown in the press of struggling men. The white horse broke free and streaked for the brow of the hill. One mounted figure galloped behind them now. In a terrified glance, Taran saw the sweeping antlers of the Horned King.
The black steed gained on them. Melyngar turned sharply and drove toward the forest. The Horned King turned with her, and as they crashed through the underbrush and past the first rows of trees, the antlered giant drew closer until both steeds galloped side by side. In a final burst of speed, the horse of the Horned King plunged ahead; the animal’s flanks bore against Melyngar, who reared furiously and struck out with her hoofs. Taran and Eilonwy were flung from the saddle. The Horned King turned his mount, seeking to trample them.
Taran scrambled to his feet and struck blindly with his sword. Then, gripping Eilonwy’s arm, he pulled her deeper into the protection of the trees. The Horned King sprang heavily to the ground and was upon them in a few long strides.
Eilonwy screamed. Taran swung about to face the antlered man. Dark fears clutched Taran, as though the Lord of Annuvin himself had opened an abyss at his feet and he was hurtling downward. He gasped with pain, as though his old wound had opened once again. All the despair he had known as Achren’s captive returned to sap his strength.
Behind the bleached skull, the eyes of the Horned King flamed, as he raised a crimson-stained arm.
Blindly, Taran brought up his sword. It trembled in his hand. The Horned King’s blade lashed against the weapon and shattered it with a single blow.
Taran dropped the useless shards. The Horned King paused, a growl of savage joy rose in his throat, and he took a firmer grasp on his weapon.
Mortal terror goaded Taran into action. He leaped back and spun toward Eilonwy. “Dyrnwyn!” he cried. “Give me the sword!”
Before she could move, he tore belt and weapon from her shoulder. The Horned King saw the black scabbard and hesitated a moment, as if in fear.
Taran grasped the hilt. The blade would not come free. He pulled with all his strength. The sword moved only a little from its sheath. The Horned King raised his own weapon. As Taran gave a final wrench, the scabbard turned in his hand. A blinding flash split the air in front of him. Lightning seared his arm and he was thrown violently to the ground.
The sword Dyrnwyn, blazing white with flame, leaped from his hand, and fell beyond his reach. The Horned King stood over him. With a cry, Eilonwy sprang at the antlered man. Snarling, the giant tossed her aside.
A voice rang out behind the Horned King. Through eyes blurred with pain, Taran glimpsed a tall figure against the trees, and heard a shouted word he could not distinguish.
The Horned King stood motionless, his arm upraised. Lightning played about his sword. The giant flamed like a burning tree. The stag horns turned to crimson streaks, the skull mask ran like molten iron. A roar of pain and rage rose from the Antlered King’s throat.
With a cry, Taran flung an arm across his face. The ground rumbled and seemed to open beneath him. Then there was nothing.