A clarion call of trumpets sounded, and carried across the plains before Caer Dathyl, clear and triumphant, echoing back from the distant hills with a fading tone even more beautiful and unforgettable. Taran and his companions, who had just departed the great gates with Prince Gwydion and his company, turned and stared in amazement at the trumpeters, their horns above the battlements high above the gates. Gwydion's mind flashed back to the last horn he could remember hearing, that of Gwyn the Hunter, and for a moment thought of how this sound evoked such vastly different emotions – courage and hope, as opposed to despair and hopelessness.
After the trumpet fanfare, the guards lining the ramparts of the front walls of the fortress began to cheer. Gwydion turned Melyngar to face them, and lifted his hand. The guards cheered even louder, and Gwydion nodded to the companions, encouraging them to do likewise. As the companions raised their own hands, the cheer reached a crescendo. From the high central tower of the great fortress, a tall figure with a long white beard appeared and raised his hand, appearing to Taran's suddenly blurred vision much like his master Dallben. Gwydion saw the bright tears in Taran's dark green eyes, and even in the Princess Eilonwy's crystal blue ones.
"Well," began Eilonwy. "That's like…that's like…oh, I hate it when I have absolutely nothing to compare something to!"
"That, my dear Princess," Gwydion smiled, "is just a small token of thanks from the Royal Guard of Caer Dathyl; all of you are heroes now in their eyes. Were it not for your bravery and ingenuity, Caer Dathyl most probably would now lie in ruins, and all of us might well be enslaved, dead, or worse. Enjoy that victory while you can, and may it help sustain you for whatever lies ahead." With that, Gwydion waved once again to the walls in farewell, and turned Melyngar south toward the valley of the Ystrad. The trumpets called out once again, and then were silent as the companions followed.
"So it shall be," Gwydion had said to Taran a few days before, when granting his wish to return home. And as there was no time to waste, he arranged to depart quickly. Gwydion had picked four of his best men from among the elite guards of Caer Dathyl and set out to escort the company to Caer Dallben.
The first day of the journey passed quickly in golden sunlight. It was such a joyous outing, almost a summer lark. After the battle had ended and the danger of Annuvin pushed away for the moment, it seemed that all of Prydain was rejoicing — even the green hills and blue skies seemed ebullient. All the company, even Gwydion, were in the highest of spirits. It was not normally his nature to enjoy anything too much…even now, his eyes darted everywhere, looking for gwythaints against the white clouds, or renegade splinter bands of cantrev rebels under the trees. But so far at least, none were to be found.
"All clear to the east, My Lord," Captain Gwaednerth called, and the prince acknowledged with a nod. Gwaednerth saluted, turned and galloped back toward the Ystrad and east side of the valley.
Taran had brought Melynlas up to ride beside Gwydion, and asked, "Lord Gwydion, may I ride with Captain Gwaednerth this afternoon? I would like to try crossing the river with Melynlas…as you know, my fording skills could use some practice, and the Ystrad is very shallow here."
Gwydion hesitated, but Taran's earnest look led him to give an affirmative answer. "Very well," his leathered face creasing into a smile, "but return to the main group within a few hours. I am sure Dallben would never forgive me if I lost you again, and assistant pig-keepers of your skill and reputation are hard to come by."
Taran grinned broadly and swiftly galloped to join Gwaednerth, Melynlas easily closing the distance.
Gwydion was glad to be re-united with Melyngar, after the longest separation he could remember in a dozen or more years. Melyngar, his saddle and saddlebags, his worn travel cloak, and his sword were all he usually needed to feel complete and purposeful. After his recent experiences, the most significant and profound of his long life, he felt that he knew his enemy as never before. In his mind he had seen him, he had known his thoughts. Arawn, he knew, could not be defeated by well-fed nobles within Caer Dathyl, plotting behind thick stone walls, but only by men with long experience in the field, men who knew Prydain from north to south, from east to west. Men who understood how the enemy's many servants and allies operated, what their strengths and weaknesses were, what motivated them, and how Arawn would most likely next deploy them.
Gwydion glanced to his side at the sword he now carried—still a little strange to him, and he was at times a little reluctant to draw it; as if it still belonged to someone else in the long past. Sometimes he missed his old sword, that elegant, well-balanced and understated weapon, the pale gold color of the pommel deliberately muted, and its lovely simple pattern of ash leaves. It had belonged to his father, King Math's younger brother, before his untimely death. His father had named the sword Euraidd, and it had carried its own enchantment — the Sons of Don were not without such powers, but they were used sparingly, only when necessary. Euraidd had died well, resisting Achren's attempts to shatter it to the very end, when she had called on words of power much older than the sword, words from the dark early history of Prydain, long before the Sons of Don had first landed on these shores.
The sword's enchantment had burst out like the sun, emblazoned on every banner of his house, the emblem of the Sons of Don. The enchantment Euraidd had carried was understated, like the sword itself, but it was not insignificant. It was a microcosm of what made the Sons of Don what they were, and Gwydion thought if it could be summed up in a word, what might make them special, and different from some other men, the word would be conscience. And Achren he sensed, whether she willed it or not, now carried some small part of that conscience with her.
The thought of Achren's conscience had come to him while he was suffering horrors in the prison of Oeth-Anoeth. Strangely, it seemed that Achren was not only his torturer, but was also suffering with him. He had felt her presence, he felt and saw how she had been humiliated, and how she had suffered herself at Arawn's hands. He sensed however, that it was not her presence in its current form; but some echo of her memories of the past.
Since Oeth-Anoeth, he felt that he could occasionally sense her thoughts; although it was difficult to be sure, and could only be an echo of her past memories that he had experienced. He feared that the connection might be reciprocal — that possibly, Achren could sense his own thoughts—which could of course be dangerous.
Also, he mused—perhaps through Euraidd, Achren might now feel just a vestige of what it might be like to be one of the Children of Don.
It was conscience that had first brought the Children of Don to Prydain, so long ago. The Lady Don and her consort Lord Belin, King of the Sun, had seen from afar the evil that befell the fair land of Prydain. First from Achren, who had reigned and oppressed for a long age, and then from Arawn, after he had gained most of Achren's power, and then betrayed her. Arawn had then set about betraying and deceiving the race of men, stealing their treasures of knowledge, in agriculture, in metallurgy, in medicine, hiding them away in Annuvin or bending them to his own evil uses.
Don and Belin had everything a heart could desire in the Summer Country; they and their children lived never-ending lives of bliss and joy. But they could feel the pain in Prydain - and see the suffering of its people. Their love and their conscience could not accept what they saw and felt, and they resolved to send their own children to challenge Arawn, and repair what they could of the damage that had been done. But this decision was not without pain and cost — their children would suffer the pain of normal men, and the cost would be their children's lives, for they must live as mortals outside the Summer Country.
But the decision was made, and the Children of Don agreed and understood — they obeyed their parents, built golden ships, and bravely sailed for Prydain. They built a majestic stronghold in the Eagle Mountains, an echo of the beauty they had left in the Summer Country, and named it Caer Dathyl. The people of Prydain, for the most part, recognized their worth and rallied to their banner, and the Sons of Don came to rule Prydain — except for Annuvin itself, and a few realms also under Arawn's control. The Sons of Don did challenge Arawn, and succeeded in wresting some of mankind's stolen treasures back from him. But the battle was ongoing; it seemed never ending, and Arawn was a formidable foe.
The sword Gwydion now carried had a scabbard almost black with age, with mysterious mars and scratches. The hilt was jeweled, not in an ornate way, detracting from the blade's utility, but simply done, in a way that spoke of nobility of purpose. Dyrnwyn was very different from Euraidd; it was an ancient treasure of Prydain, one that Arawn had not touched. It was almost as old as Prydain itself. In a way, he felt the blade was Prydain, the heart and soul of his beloved adopted country — and the enchantment laid on it, he believed, could not be undone by Achren, or even by Arawn.
Gwydion tried to put the Land of Death from his mind for the moment. The danger from Arawn was, at least for the moment, remote, and this trek was not a foray against him — the next would need to wait a little while longer. He saw to the east, Taran galloping to return to the company, in accordance with his orders. The lad certainly seemed to have a way about him, despite his youth and inexperience, that inspired an impressive amount of loyalty. Gwydion himself felt the same way, since the day he and Taran had stood together against five living warriors and two of the Cauldron-born, and then were dragged before Achren in Spiral Castle. The boy had fought bravely against both, armed only with a dagger, and had stayed with him to fight in a battle they could not win — even after ordered to take Melyngar and fly. Even under Achren's interrogation and narcotic spell, with Gwydion's urging he had maintained his courage and his silence, not revealing the nature of their mission.
Gwydion's mind drifted back to the musings of Dallben, when they had spoken years ago, and Taran had been a youth of just seven or eight. He was just a typical lad by all appearances, doing his best to help Coll with the daily farm chores, his arms full of freshly pulled turnips — and obviously, with no idea at all about who was the tall stranger who spoke with his master. The Book of Three was full of riddles, it all seemed so unlikely then. But now, like Dallben, he could see the possibilities.
The company followed the direct route of the Valley of Ystrad, trying to avoid the trampled earth of the Horned King's army, which had been traveling in the opposite direction only a few short days before. Gwaednerth, Captain of the guards of Caer Dathyl, and Lieutenant Tomos were outriding on the east side of the valley, and on the west side were Lieutenants Eirian and Colwyn. Gwydion stayed near the companions, either riding at the front or at the rear of the column, often preferring the rear so he could keep an eye on all, including his outriders.
Gwydion considered each of Taran's new companions in turn — none of whom would be denied this visit to the old farm of Caer Dallben. All rode on fine mounts he himself had gifted, with Taran on the finest, Melnygar's own magnificent foal Melynlas. First, the impetuous sometime-king but more-often-bard Flewddur Fflam — who was also his own kinsman and, like his father before him, a valiant and stalwart ally among the northern cantrevs — in contrast to his carefree ways. Next to Flewddur on a sturdy pony rode Doli of the Fair Folk, whom Gwydion had surmised to be trusted servant of King Eiddileg, despite his sometimes surly manner and bluster. Fflewddur and Doli spoke in low voices and occasionally burst into laughter, and Gwydion smiled to himself at the growing friendship between what seemed to be two complete opposites. He thought Doli's fondness for all of these mortals a bit unusual, the Fair Folk were not normally given to consorting with humans for long periods. On the few occasions that their eyes met, Doli had given him a knowing look — he surmised, conveying a mutual understanding that there was more to this outwardly motley company than met the eye. Which meant that had probably been obvious to King Eiddileg as well, in the short time he had observed the companions.
Next rode Gurgi of the Forest, with whom Gwydion had long been familiar, but who now seemed almost made anew, grown in stature and belief in his own self-worth, thanks to the kindness of his new friends. Now, he was also extremely excited at Taran's invitation for him to stay at Caer Dallben, the first real home he had ever known. Gurgi proudly led the two horses carrying the oracular pig Hen Wen on a litter, who was looking very satisfied to be heading homeward.
Finally, there came the Princess Eilonwy, Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat, whom Gwydion had only met recently at Caer Dathyl—strangely, after having seen a vision of her in Oeth-Anoeth—which he wished to discuss with Dallben.
Eilonwy always seemed to be riding somewhere close to Taran — but did not wish to appear so, he had noticed with some amusement. Gwydion had also noticed that young Lieutenant Eirian, who was as handsome and precocious as he was capable, was keeping a very close eye on the princess, and never failed to pay his respects whenever he returned to the central column or to camp in the evenings. Taran for his part was keeping just as close an eye on Eirian — and always kept the princess within his sight.
As incredible as his own tale had been, from the moment he and Taran were dragged from the throne room in Spiral Castle, the tale of the companions was just as incredible, and in some ways even more so. Taran had somehow come by these friendships through twists of both good fortune and fate. Taran, Eilonwy and Fflewddur had all escaped Spiral Castle…and in the process, brought about not only the destruction of Achren's fortress, but also the discovery of the ancient weapon of power he now carried, thought by many to be no more than a legend.
He looked again to his side, and he could feel it even now, its heart seemed to be singing and rejoicing in the fine day almost as much as his own. So old, but so alive — sensing, he felt, a looming final struggle, and eager for the challenge. He knew fragments of the blade's lineage — and had spoken with the Chief Bard Taliesin to learn more, in the days after the fall of the Horned King. Much was still unknown, or long forgotten. But with the blade in his hands, so much more was possible, he thought. It was possible the power the blade wielded was so great, it could shift the balance of power, turn the tide against Arawn, in the long struggle between the black power of Annuvin and the strength and nobility of the Sons of Don. Such things he now sensed. Keen awareness and inner wisdom were native to his people, a birthright, but lately that wisdom and knowledge had been so augmented by what he had gained as a result of his ordeal at Oeth-Anoeth. That brilliance was still there, but now fading somewhat, he feared. It was true he was descended from immortals, but that was many generations ago. He was perhaps more gifted than most men, but he was no god himself, not now. Now he was a mortal man, and some thoughts and revelations were still beyond his grasp, he could not hold on for long to the wonders of the universe. But now at least, he could conceive what they were, even if only for a short time.
He had heard whispered words the month before, as he rode bound to a saddle, being led toward the ancient fortress of Oeth-Anoeth. Achren and one of her captains rode ahead, speaking in low voices as the miles passed slowly by, under the dark trees. The whispers had given him some clues about why Achren was in Spiral Castle — it was apparently as part of some overall scheme with Arawn. She was still in league with him, despite being betrayed by him, and the deep hatred she felt for him.
Achren had spoken of her long and fruitless search for the ancient sword — she had called it by name — and had also named the ancient King Rhitta. It seemed that every time Achren had thought the blade was located, somehow the catacombs beneath Spiral Castle swallowed it up again.
Achren was still speaking in frustrated tones, when a low rumble came to them through the forest, like a summer thunderstorm many miles to the southeast, the direction from which they had come. The horses stood for a few moments, Achren and her servant frozen and listening, but no more sounds were forthcoming. Then, Achren spoke sharply in a harsh language to one of her guards following Gwydion in the small procession, and with a word of acknowledgement he turned his mount and began to gallop back in the direction of Spiral Castle. Gwydion sensed that something of enormous import had occurred; he was not sure what, but he suspected the sound was more than a thunderstorm. The horses began moving again, deeper along the trail into the dark forest - drawing closer, Gwydion sensed, to Oeth-Anoeth. He knew it to be a place of torture, of death, for hundreds before him; it had existed stewing in its own evil long before Arawn, or even possibly before Achren. The thought of what awaited him there filled him with a deep dread unlike any he had known before. Perhaps better, he had thought, if Achren had taken his life in the throne room of Spiral Castle.
In the here and now, the company was passing through a lovely copse of ancient oak trees near the river, many of their huge roots reaching toward the water. Wildflowers jeweled the floor of the little forest, with the river to the east and bright green hills to the west. Gwydion saw Eilonwy speaking and laughing with Taran and the others on the trail just ahead. He urged Melyngar up to join them.
"Oh, this way is so much more pleasant than the path we followed toward Caer Dathyl," Eilonwy said. "I think I might have mentioned that possibility at the time, not that anyone was listening to me!"
"Yes," interjected Taran with a sarcastic grin, "only if it hadn't been for the Cauldron-Born who were chasing us, surely we would have stuck closer to this path near the river. Of course, in that case we never would have found Hen Wen — and we would all be much worse off now."
"All in all, I think my guidance and navigation proved to be quite successful for our little venture," added Fflewddur. "And as I believe I mentioned before, my own war leader could not have planned it better!" Gwydion imagined he heard the sounds of harp strings tensing, but they did not quite break.
Gwydion smiled. "None of us quite followed the path to Caer Dathyl we had originally planned, it seems. But fate was kind to us all. I don't recall this area ever looking finer," and to the Princess, "or having a lovelier traveling companion."
In Caer Dathyl, they had spoken of her mother Angharad, and Eilonwy was so much like her, both in appearance and in manner. Eilonwy knew little of her parents — apparently, she had been kidnapped by Achren at quite a young age, and only tiny fragments of memories remained.
While his outer senses remained vigilant to the possible dangers of the road, inwardly Gwydion again traveled back in time. He had never met Eilonwy's father, but he could only imagine that he had to be a remarkable man to capture Angharad's heart. He knew her only too well. He recalled her luminous green eyes, eyes that glowed with all the power and mystery of the sea. He could see them in the day and the night, when awake and when in his deepest dreams. Eyes that had looked at him with respect, with friendship, with compassion, and sometimes even with pity. But never with love.
Had she thought him not capable of the kind of love she yearned for? If he could have, he would have given it to her - he would have given her anything, given up everything, and lived only to cherish her, in long flights of fancy that only the bards could properly put into words. If he could have. But he knew, and she knew, he could not. He had voluntarily chosen to follow the path that had been set before him. He had a mission in Prydain that his ancestors had laid out for him long ago — and as much as he might wish it at times, he could not turn from that path. She could see that in him, she knew him for what he was — and it was not the kind of life, nor the kind of love that she wanted.
"Why did she not give a thought to her people, when your union might have saved them?" queried King Math many years ago, "…as well as everyone in Prydain. Really, I expected your numerous visits to Llyr to bear fruit — in the form of a marriage, and children. I had never seen you so eager to make the journey over and over to the same destination… an alliance with Llyr could have helped us hem in Arawn for at least a while longer. And think of your descendants. You are as worthy an heir as has been born since our ancestors first sailed to Prydain — if Belin himself could have taken wolf form, he would have been you. But as mighty and wise as you usually are, the power of the children of the Sun and the Moon could have been glorious — and could have ruled Prydain well in their own time. Her thoughts were simply of herself and her own desires. "
Gwydion was quick to defend Princess Angharad to the old King. "Do not speak of her so," he said. "I knew her well; she was noble, kind and courageous. Yes, I cared deeply for her; I wanted nothing but the best for her. But for her, the best — the best simply was not me. I was older than her, in body yes, but even more so in spirit. Like me, she carried heavy responsibilities — but her heart was still very young. It was called elsewhere; and yearned for something I could not give."
"Poetic and gracious sentiments," had replied Math, "and in my youth perhaps I could have been more sympathetic to them. But now Llyr is destroyed, and there is no power to the west that can challenge Arawn. All his thought and energy can now be bent upon us, and we are not what we once were. You know as well as I that the Sons of Don are not destined to be a power much longer in Prydain. How much longer I do not know – perhaps another generation or two; perhaps only a few more years. The fall of Llyr seems to make the latter more likely. But the question is what will come after – a bright new dawn for men, or a bleak and cheerless sun over a dark land ruled by death."
For the travelers, the next handful of days passed quickly, the daylight hours in scenic and peaceful travel, and the evenings in conversation and song around a cooking fire. Fflewddur proved himself to be a wonderful entertainer; Gwydion had seen many accomplished bards who were less skilled on the harp or in song, and certainly who were less humorous. Also, Doli proved himself to be quite a storyteller and regaled the travelers with many fantastic and mysterious tales of the Fair Folk, the like of which none of them, even Gwydion in all his travels, had ever heard.
The trip had so far proven uneventful in terms of sighting possible hostile forces, and Gwydion had decided that two outriders were now sufficient; one east and one west, with the other two remaining with the main company. They drew closer to Caer Dallben, and not far from the ruins of Spiral Castle – which Gwydion did not mention, as he reasoned the thought might possibly unnerve Eilonwy.
That evening Fflewddur struck up a lively tune on his harp, accompanied by his excellent voice. The song spoke of a fair young lady going to a dance, and Eilonwy seemed especially enraptured.
Bold young Eirian approached her where she was seated on a fallen log, and with a wink and a deep and courtly bow, asked her, "My Lady, I know a commoner has no right to ask a princess to dance, but as you are the only lady present, would you honor me with the pleasure? It will be something to tell my children about one day, you see, the night I danced with a princess." His dark eyes sparkled and Eilonwy's eyes widened in both surprise and delight, and they darted quickly to Taran, who was seated close to her. Gwydion choked back a laugh when he saw Taran's face, which looked as if he had just swallowed a wasp.
Eilonwy looked to Eirian and said, "Of course! Although I warn you, I have never danced before, and I am afraid I will be as awkward as Hen Wen walking across a frozen stream."
Eirian responded with his most winning grin, revealing an almost perfect set of white teeth — with only one missing — misplaced in a drunken but relatively good-natured brawl in a tavern near Caer Dathyl a year or so ago, as Gwydion recalled. "My Lady," he responded, "I will be happy to lead you, and with your natural grace, I am sure you will be dancing as well as the finest ladies in Prydain, in no time at all!"
Eilonwy smiled, took his hand and stood, and with a nod to Fflewddur, they began. Sure enough, Eilonwy was so light on her feet, and Eirian such a good leader, that as promised in practically no time at all, she danced as if she were born to it. As the pair moved gracefully next to the fire, Gwydion smiled and all the company began to clap — even Taran, and although his eyes still glinted a bit with jealousy, he forced a smile, for even he could see that Eilonwy was having a wonderful time. She was indeed a lovely vision, none could ever recall seeing the like… except Gwydion, who had seen something quite similar. His eyes glazed a bit and deep in his memory, he saw a figure — with hair more of a flaming red but moving with the same grace and beauty — at a formal ball in Caer Dathyl when the Princess Angharad was visiting as an ambassador from Llyr. With many noble ladies of Prydain in attendance, she stood out like an exotic red-gold bird among ravens.
Fflewddur brought the lively composition to a close and smiled toward the dancers as he gave a nod, which they returned. Eirian again bowed deeply to Eilonwy. "Thank you, my Lady. I am most grateful for the dance, and I hope you will grace me with another sometime," he said with another friendly but saucy wink.
"Thank you, Sir Eirian," Eilonwy smiled, "You are as good a teacher as you are a dancer, and I certainly enjoyed it!" Eilonwy glanced rapidly at Taran, who managed a dim smile over gritted teeth.
"This has been a memorable evening, "Gwydion smiled. "It is not every day you get to see such a spirited dance — and such a lovely flower in full bloom. But I think it is time to have our evening meal, and then get some rest. Tomorrow late in the day, with good luck we shall cross the Avren, and Caer Dallben is not far away. Eirian and Colwyn, you have the first watch."
They had camped near the tree line on the west side of the Ystrad valley, and it was well before midnight when Gwydion awoke with a start. His sleep had been restless, and he had again dreamed of Achren — in ways mostly cold and painful, but in others, warm, sultry, pleasant and maddening. He could feel her touch on the old wound in his side, warmth spreading throughout his body like poisoned honey, and he could feel her presence — she felt close, as if she sensed him, and as if she coveted something. Suddenly he felt another presence as well, one he had not felt for many long years, as strong as Achren's, and it seemed to be opposing her. Behind the second, there was another strong presence, but much, much older.
The full moon was still in the east, sending long shadows from the trees, pointing like fingers. His senses grew very sharp, more than human, as if he had awoken in the form of the wolf he resembled, and he felt the need to hunt. He felt an echo of the vast consciousness he had felt after he had escaped Oeth-Anoeth – he was still not quite sure how he had escaped, one moment he languishing in a deep cell, surrounded by unspeakable horrors, the next, it was as if the walls had melted, he was outside and walking toward the surrounding woods.
Now, as he looked to the full moon, it seemed incredibly bright, the brightest he had ever seen, brighter than seemed possible. He heard the bard snoring peacefully a few paces away. "Gwaednerth, Colwyn, Eirian, come with me," he whispered urgently, "Tomos, remain here to guard the camp, and let the others sleep." A pair of bright red eyes glinted at him from the darkness, and Doli appeared. "I'm coming with you," the dwarf said, and Gwydion nodded. "Arm yourselves, but leave your horses here. We need to move quietly, and we patrol to the west." Doli and his men nodded, and a few moments later, they were walking quietly under the trees, following the shadows, the moon at their backs.
As they approached the top of the rise at the edge of the valley, Gwydion froze. He heard low, rough voices, and the snap of twigs. Doli whispered quietly to him, "Stay here. Time to put that gift to work; I'll be right back," and then suddenly he was gone. "Hornets and Wasps!" Gwydion heard him grumble in the darkness. He and his men crouched quietly, and only moments later Doli reappeared. "Huntsmen," he whispered tersely. "Just over the rise, in a small clearing. A band of seven, making camp, but no fire. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but why are magical gifts never what they should be? You have no idea what turning invisible does to my ears!"
Gwydion smiled grimly but considered quickly. He knew the danger the Huntsmen of Annuvin represented; worse even than the Cauldron-Born. They were intelligent, capable and fierce fighters, both swift and tireless. He motioned for his men, and they all huddled together behind a thick tangle of trees and underbrush below the summit. "We must disable them all, but do not kill them," he whispered. "As you all know, the death of one will only add to the strength of the others. Bows first," and he nodded to Eirian — the finest bowman among his guards — and Colwyn and Doli, who also had their bows strung and ready, "then blades, but strike for their limbs, to disable them, but leave them alive. We must take all seven." All nodded in acknowledgement, and in a short line, they crept silently to the top of the rise.
In the bright silver light opposite the moon, the seven huntsmen were as visible as broad daylight, crouched facing each other, six clad in the skins of wolves, and one in bearskin – apparently their leader, for he was whispering fiercely to the others in the guttural speech of Annuvin. All were armed with short swords and four with bows, and their belts bristled with daggers. Gwydion knew that he and his men were still only shadows in the darkness to the war band, with the fierce moon shining from behind them.
He heard the bows next to him creak, and three arrows were at the ready. "Loose!" he whispered. Three arrows leaped across the forty yards separating them, and three of the enemy bowmen screamed in pain and rage. Gwydion and the band were already running, closing the distance quickly, while the bearskinned huntsman squinted across the darkness and saw the shadows beginning to take shape as they ran toward him. He drew his sword, and two of his companions followed suit, as the fourth bowman of the huntsmen dropped to his knee and prepared to release. But before he could, another bow sang from behind Gwydion and to his right, an arrow hissed and the bowman screamed, dropped his bow and clutched at his left shoulder. Eirian's second arrow had found its mark. The three remaining huntsmen closed ranks as Gwydion's five drew closer. Doli had his axe out, and Gwydion's men drew their swords — all except Eirian, who still covered the field with his longbow, looking for an opportunity. With his left hand, Gwydion drew a long dagger from his belt, leaving his sword sheathed. He approached the huntsmen, flanked by his men and Doli on each side.
The huntsman clad in bearskin had a face covered in scars and a bristling black beard, and his forehead bore the scarlet brand of Annuvin. He smiled at Gwydion as if inviting him to parley. As Gwydion's warriors began to surround the three standing huntsmen, suddenly the leader gave a quick nod toward his wounded companions. Gwydion watched in horror as all four drew short daggers from their belts, and all at once, as if in a ritual long practiced, each plunged his dagger into his own heart, and each turned his face to the sky and gave a weird keening cry, even as they all fell.
The leader and his two companions were silent, and then there was a long sigh as each drew a deep breath. "Close on them quickly"! Gwydion cried, and leaped toward them. The three suddenly snarled like enraged beasts, and then the two wolfskin clad warriors furiously rushed toward them and began hacking with incredible speed and strength. The first broke the blade of Colwyn and drove him to his knees before another arrow from Eirian pierced his thigh, and Colwyn drew his own dagger and plunged it into the huntsman's sword arm. He bellowed like a madman, biting and snarling like a rabid dog as he fell, still attempting to crawl toward his foes.
The second huntsman had engaged Captain Gwaednerth, one of the finest swordsmen among all of Gwydion's warriors. He defended himself with great skill against brutal strength and fury, fending off blows that each sounded as if they would fell a tree. Gwaednerth was driven back, his sword blade notched, when suddenly an axe swung into the back of the huntsman's knee from an invisible hand. The huntsman screamed and fell to his knee, and the invisible hand with the axe struck his sword wrist as he stared open mouthed. The sword fell uselessly to the ground, and he fumbled to draw a dagger with his left hand. Doli reappeared before him, brandishing the axe, and the dagger fell from his nerveless fingers.
Gwydion had been holding the bearskinned warrior at bay with his dagger, and he had glanced around to gauge the tide of the surrounding battle, but now looked back toward the leader. He drew Dyrnwyn from its sheath just as the huntsman's hand shot forward. Gwydion saw the dagger glittering in the moonlight, spinning in the air as it flew at him fast as an arrow. At this distance the blade could not be evaded but only countered. Dyrnwyn crossed his waist and flicked upward in white flame; there was a ringing, sliding flash of sparks and the dagger was deflected from his breast, spinning into the ground to his right, smoldering with heat, the blade broken. In the next instant the huntsman was upon him, but the sight of the flaming sword had unnerved him; his eyes wide with wonder and fear, he raised his own blade but hesitated. Dyrnwyn swung back and shattered the weapon, and in the next instant Gwydion's dagger pierced his neck. For a brief second, he stared at Gwydion, his eyes still wide, and then he fell to his knees.
Gwydion glanced about and seeing the other remaining huntsmen disabled and surrounded, gave a cry to his men, "All at once now, finish them!" Blades struck and arrows hissed, and Dyrnwyn swung once more. There was a sudden whirlwind that crackled the dry leaves; it spun and rose high in the air, and drifted away into nothingness, and again all was silent. Somewhere in the far-reaching part of his mind, Gwydion sensed astonishment—and also an element of fear— from one quarter, and deep satisfaction and joy from the opposing twin spirits.
Gwydion looked down at the leader's lifeless body and noticed a leather cord around his neck. He tore open the bearskin cloak, and suspended from the cord was a small tile with a picture painted upon it. The likeness was crude, but the blue eyes and red-gold hair were unmistakable. "Do not speak of this to the others, or to anyone," he said grimly to his men and Doli. "The Princess Eilonwy has always moved from one danger to another, she has known nothing but fear all of her young life. I would not now have her know that she is already being pursued. Soon she will be at Caer Dallben, and there, for now at least, neither Achren nor Arawn can touch her."
The unearthly brightness of the moon seemed now to be fading. Somewhere far to the northwest in the direction of the dark mountains, he felt an awareness, and a growing and intense new fury.