The Book of Three

Chapter 5
The Broken Sword

GURGI RAN OFF, yelping in terror. Gwydion was at Taran’s side as the first rider bore down on them. With a quick gesture, Gwydion thrust a hand into his jacket and pulled out the net of grass. Suddenly the withered wisps grew larger, longer, shimmering and crackling, nearly blinding Taran with streaks of liquid flame. The rider raised his sword. With a shout, Gwydion hurled the dazzling mesh into the warrior’s face. Shrieking, the rider dropped his sword and grappled the air. He tumbled from his saddle while the mesh spread over his body and clung to him like an enormous spiderweb.
Gwydion dragged the stupefied Taran to an ash tree and from his belt drew the hunting knife which he thrust in Taran’s hand. “This is the only weapon I can spare,” he cried. “Use it as well as you can.”
His back to the tree, Gwydion faced the four remaining warriors. The great sword swung a glittering arc, the flashing blade sang above Gwydion’s head. The attackers drove against them. One horse reared. For Taran there was only a vision of hoofs plunging at his face. The rider chopped viciously at Taran’s head, swung around, and struck again. Blindly, Taran lashed out with the knife. Shouting in rage and pain, the rider clutched his leg and wheeled his horse away.
There was no sign of Gurgi, but a white streak sped across the field. Melyngar now had entered the fray. Her golden mane tossing, the white mare whinnied fearsomely and flung herself among the riders. Her mighty flanks dashed against them, crowding, pressing, while the steeds of the war party rolled their eyes in panic. One warrior jerked frantically at his reins to turn his mount away. The animal sank to its haunches. Melyngar reared to her full height; her forelegs churned the air, and her sharp hoofs slashed at the rider, who fell heavily to earth. Melyngar spun about, trampling the cowering horseman.
The three mounted warriors forced their way past the frenzied mare. At the ash tree, Gwydion’s blade rang and clashed among the leaves. His legs were as though planted in the earth; the shock of the galloping riders could not dislodge him. His eyes shone with a terrible light.
“Hold your ground but a little while,” he called to Taran. The sword whistled, one rider gave a choking cry. The other two did not press the attack, but hung back for a moment.
Hoofbeats pounded over the meadow. Even as the attackers had begun to withdraw, two more riders galloped forward. They reined their horses sharply, dismounted without hesitation, and ran swiftly toward Gwydion. Their faces were pallid; their eyes like stones. Heavy bands of bronze circled their waists, and from these belts hung the black thongs of whips. Knobs of bronze studded their breastplates. They did not bear shield or helmet. Their mouths were frozen in the hideous grin of death.
Gwydion’s sword flashed up once more. “Fly!” he cried to Taran. “These are the Cauldron-Born! Take Melyngar and ride from here!”
Taran set himself more firmly against the ash tree and raised his knife. In another instant, the Cauldron-Born were upon them.
For Taran, the horror beating in him like black wings came not from the livid features of the Cauldron warriors or their lightless eyes but from their ghostly silence. The mute men swung their swords, metal grated against metal. The relentless warriors struck and struck again. Gwydion’s blade leaped past one opponent’s guard and drove deep into his heart. The pale warrior made no outcry. No blood followed as Gwydion ripped the weapon free; the Cauldron-Born shook himself once, without a grimace, and moved again to the attack.
Gwydion stood as a wolf at bay, his green eyes glittering, his teeth bared. The swords of the Cauldron-Born beat against his guard. Taran thrust at one of the livid warriors; a sword point ripped his arm and sent the small knife hurtling into the bracken.
Blood streaked Gwydion’s face where an unlucky blow had slashed his cheekbone and forehead. Once, his blade faltered and a Cauldron-Born thrust at his breast. Gwydion turned, taking the sword point in his side. The pale warriors doubled their assault.
The great shaggy head bowed wearily as Gwydion stumbled forward. With a mighty cry, he lunged, then dropped to one knee. With his flagging strength, he fought to raise the blade again. The Cauldron-Born flung aside their weapons, seized him, threw him to the ground, and quickly bound him.
Now the other two warriors approached. One grasped Taran by the throat, the other tied his hands behind him. Taran was dragged to Melyngar and thrown across her back, where he lay side by side with Gwydion.
“Are you badly hurt?” asked Gwydion, striving to raise his head.
“No,” Taran said, “but your own wound is grave.”
“It is not the wound that pains me,” said Gwydion with a bitter smile. “I have taken worse and lived. Why did you not flee, as I ordered? I knew I was powerless against the Cauldron-Born, but I could have held the ground for you. Yet, you fought well enough, Taran of Caer Dallben.”
“You are more than a war leader,” Taran whispered. “Why do you keep the truth from me? I remember the net of grass you wove before we crossed Avren. But in your hands today it was no grass I have ever seen.”
“I am what I told you. The wisp of grass—yes, it is a little more than that. Dallben himself taught me the use of it.”
“You, too, are an enchanter!”
“I have certain skills. Alas, they are not great enough to defend myself against the powers of Arawn. Today,” he added, “they were not enough to protect a brave companion.”
One of the Cauldron-Born spurred his horse alongside Melyngar. Snatching the whip from his belt, he lashed brutally at the captives.
“Say no more,” Gwydion whispered. “You will only bring yourself pain. If we should not meet again, farewell.”

THE PARTY RODE LONG without a halt. Fording the shallow River Ystrad, the Cauldron-Born pressed tightly on either side of the captives. Taran dared once again to speak to Gwydion, but the lash cut his words short. Taran’s throat was parched, waves of dizziness threatened to drown him. He could not be sure how long they had ridden, for he lapsed often into feverish dreams. The sun was still high and he was dimly aware of a hill with a tall, gray fortress looming at its crest. Melyngar’s hoofs rang on stones as a courtyard opened before him. Rough hands pulled him from Melyngar’s back and drove him, stumbling, down an arching corridor. Gwydion was half-dragged, half-carried before him. Taran tried to catch up with his companion, but the lash of the Cauldron-Born beat him to his knees. A guard hauled him upright again and kicked him forward.
At length, the captives were led into a spacious council chamber. Torches flickered from walls hung with scarlet tapestries. Outside, it had been full daylight; here in the great, windowless hall, the chill and dampness of night rose from the cold flagstones like mist. At the far end of the hall, on a throne carved of black wood, sat a woman. Her long hair glittered silver in the torchlight. Her face was young and beautiful; her pale skin seemed paler still above her crimson robe. Jeweled necklaces hung at her throat, gem-studded bracelets circled her wrists, and heavy rings threw back the flickering torches. Gwydion’s sword lay at her feet.
The woman rose quickly. “What shame to my household is this?” she cried at the warriors. “The wounds of these men are fresh and untended. Someone shall answer for this neglect!” She stopped in front of Taran. “And this lad can barely keep his feet.” She clapped her hands. “Bring food and wine and medicine for their injuries.”
She turned again to Taran. “Poor boy,” she said, with a pitying smile, “there has been grievous mischief done today.” She touched his wound with a soft, pale hand. At the pressure of her fingers, a comforting warmth filled Taran’s aching body. Instead of pain, a delicious sensation of repose came over him, repose as he remembered it from days long forgotten in Caer Dallben, the warm bed of his childhood, drowsy summer afternoons. “How do you come here?” she asked quietly.
“We crossed Great Avren,” Taran began. “You see, what had happened…”
“Silence!” Gwydion’s voice rang out. “She is Achren! She sets a trap for you!”
Taran gasped. For an instant he could not believe such beauty concealed the evil of which he had been warned. Had Gwydion mistaken her? Nevertheless, he shut his lips tightly.
The woman, in surprise, turned to Gwydion. “This is not courtesy to accuse me thus. Your wound excuses your conduct, but there is no need for anger. Who are you? Why do you…”
Gwydion’s eyes flashed. “You know me as well as I know you, Achren!” He spat the name through his bleeding lips.
“I have heard Lord Gwydion was traveling in my realm. Beyond that…”
“Arawn sent his warriors to slay us,” cried Gwydion, “and here they stand in your council hall. Do you say that you know nothing more?”
“Arawn sent warriors to find, not slay you,” answered Achren, “or you would not be alive at this moment. Now that I see you face to face,” she said, her eyes on Gwydion, “I am glad such a man is not bleeding out his life in a ditch. For there is much we have to discuss, and much that you can profit from.”
“If you would treat with me,” said Gwydion, “unbind me and return my sword.”
“You make demands?” Achren asked gently. “Perhaps you do not understand. I offer you something you cannot have even if I loosened your hands and gave back your weapon. By that, Lord Gwydion, I mean—your life.”
“In exchange for what?”
“I had thought to bargain with another life,” said Achren, glancing at Taran. “But I see he is of no consequence, alive or dead. No,” she said, “there are other, pleasanter ways to bargain. You do not know me as well as you think, Gwydion. There is no future for you beyond these gates. Here, I can promise…”
“Your promises reek of Annuvin!” cried Gwydion. “I scorn them. It is no secret what you are!”
Achren’s face turned livid. Hissing, she struck at Gwydion and her blood-red nails raked his cheek. Achren unsheathed Gwydion’s sword; holding it in both hands she drove the point toward his throat, stopping only a hair’s breadth from it. Gwydion stood proudly, his eyes blazing.
“No,” cried Achren, “I will not slay you; you shall come to wish I had, and beg the mercy of a sword! You scorn my promises! This promise will be well kept!”
Achren raised the sword above her head and smote with all her force against a stone pillar. Sparks flashed, the blade rang unbroken. With a scream of rage, she dashed the weapon to the ground.
The sword shone, still undamaged. Achren seized it again, gripping the sharp blade itself until her hands ran scarlet. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her lips moved and twisted. A thunderclap filled the hall, a light burst like a crimson sun, and the broken weapon fell in pieces to the ground.
“So shall I break you!” Achren shrieked. She raised her hand to the Cauldron-Born and called out in a strange, harsh language.
The pale warriors strode forward and dragged Taran and Gwydion from the hall. In a dark passageway of stone, Taran struggled with his captors, fighting to reach Gwydion’s side. One of the Cauldron-Born brought a whip handle down on Taran’s head.