There was no time to react. Before Eilonwy, or any of her companions, had even comprehended the words, Morgant's men had leapt into action with the efficiency of those who knew precisely what was coming. She was seized from behind, her arms pulled behind her back, wrists bound. She screamed and kicked at her assailants, writhing in the strong grip of the man who held her; she saw Taran similarly grappled nearby, and Fflewddur already on the ground in agony, his broken arm twisted behind him. Gurgi, wildly struggling with tooth and claw, broke free and leapt at Morgant. A warrior clouted him over the head with the pommel of his sword and he crumpled to the ground, where his limp figure was trussed tightly.
The utter horror of it drove Eilonwy almost out of her wits; she knew nothing, in that moment, but rage. "Traitor! Liar!" she screamed at the impassive Morgant, who stood looking upon the scene without expression. He made an almost lazy gesture toward her.
"Silence her."
"You dare to—" Too late she thought of magic, as rough hands gripped her head, and a reeking length of cloth was forced between her teeth until she gagged. Heat surged in her gut and limbs and throat, and singed the edges of the air around her, but words of power were no more use than words of rage when both emerged as muffled screeching, and her bound hands could not move in the patterns and symbols that commanded the elements. Oh, why could she not have thought faster?
She saw Taran trying to get to her; a warrior threw him to the ground and tied his legs with thongs. There would be no special treatment of her by the men of Madoc; she was likewise lifted from her feet and tossed face-down onto the ground next to her friends, where she lay still, too stunned by the impact to do more than whimper.
Dimly through the cloud of confusion and pain, she heard Taran shout. "You are already a traitor. Will you now be a murderer? We are under the protection of Gwydion; you will not escape his wrath!"
"I do not fear Gwydion," came the answer, "and his protection is worthless to you now. Worthless, indeed, to all Prydain. Even Gwydion is powerless against the Cauldron-Born."
All froze, and time itself seemed to slow, to listen in horror. "You…" Taran stammered, "you would not dare to use the Crochan against your own kinsmen. Your own people! This is even more foul than treachery and murder!"
Eilonwy turned her head enough to watch as the cold king spoke, his dark silhouette pacing at the edge of her vision like a predator. "Do you believe so?" he said. "Then you have more lessons to learn than that of obedience. The cauldron belongs to him who knows how to keep it and how to use it. It is a weapon ready for a hand. For years Arawn was master of the cauldron, yet he lost it. Is this not proof he was unworthy, that he did not have the strength or cunning to prevent its slipping from his grasp ? Ellidyr, the proud fool, believed he could keep it. He is hardly fit to be cast into it."
"What," Taran cried, "will you set yourself to rival Arawn?"
"To rival him?" Morgant stopped pacing, his voice growing low with passion. "No. To surpass him. I know my worth, though I have chafed in the service of lesser men than I. Now I see the moment is ripe. There are few who understand the uses of power. And few who dare use it when it is offered them."
He stepped near them and crouched next to Taran, his large frame looming over them. "Power such as this was offered once to Gwydion. He refused it. I shall not fail to take it. Shall you?"
Eilowny watched in terror as Taran blanched. "I?"
Morgant nodded. "Gwydion has spoken of you," he said. "He told me little, but that little is of interest. You are a bold youth—and perhaps more than that. How much more, I do not know. But I do know you are without family, without name or future. You can expect nothing. And yet, you can expect everything.
"I would not offer this to one such as Ellidyr," Morgant continued. "He is too prideful, weakest where he believes himself strong. Do you remember I told you that I know good mettle? There is much that is possible with you, Taran of Caer Dallben. And this is what I offer—swear that you shall serve me as your liege lord and when the time is right you shall be my war leader, second only to me in all Prydain."
A stunned silence fell over them; Eilonwy would have gasped if she could. What could he mean by all this? Surely if he knew anything about Taran at all, he would know that his proposal was out of the question. Taran would die before betraying his allegiances. Morgant was a fool.
"Why do you offer me this?" Taran cried. "Why should you choose me?"
"As I have said," Morgant answered, "there is much you might achieve, if the way is opened for you. Do not deny you have dreamed long of glory. It is not impossible for you to find it, if I judge you well."
"Judge me well," Taran flung back, "and you would know I scorn to serve an evil traitor!"
There it was. Despite her pain, Eilonwy swelled with pride in him.
"I have no time to hear you vent your rage," Morgant said, rising from his crouch and pacing once more. "Many plans must be made between now and dawn. I shall leave you with this to consider: will you be first among my warriors—or first among my Cauldron-Born?"
"Give me to the cauldron, then!" Taran shouted. "Cast me in it now, even as I live!"
Eilonwy cried out in protest, muffled by the gag. Idiot boy! Surely it need not come to that!
But Morgant smiled thinly. "You have called me traitor. Do not call me fool. I, too, know the secret of the cauldron. Do you think I would have the Crochan shatter even before it began its work? Yes," he went on, "I, too, have been to the Marshes of Morva, long before the cauldron was taken from Annuvin. For I knew that sooner or later Gwydion must make this move against Arawn. And so I prepared myself. Did you pay a price for the Crochan? I, too, paid a price for the knowledge of its workings. I know how to destroy it, and I know how to make it yield a harvest of power.
"But you were bold, nonetheless, to hope to trick me," Morgant added. "You fear me, and there are many in Prydain who do. Yet you defy me. To dare that, there are few. This is rare metal indeed, ready to be tempered."
Eilonwy writhed, listening in disgust. To hear such praise twisted to such dark purpose! It was intolerable. She heard Taran take a breath, but Morgant raised his hand. "Say no more. Instead, think carefully. If you refuse, you shall become a voiceless, mindless slave, without even hope of death to release you from your bondage."
Taran gulped. "If that is the destiny laid on me..."
"It will be a harder destiny than you believe," Morgant interrupted coldly. "A warrior does not fear to give up his own life. But will he sacrifice that of his comrades?"
Eilonwy froze in her struggling. A jolt of dread flooded her from head to foot, leaving her cold with horror. She heard Taran gasp as Morgant went on.
"Yes," said the war lord, "one by one your companions shall be slain and given to the Crochan. Who will it devour before you cry a halt? Will it be the bard? Or the shabby creature that serves you? Or the young Princess? They shall go before you, even as you watch. And, at the last, yourself."
The images Eilonwy had fought to the back of her mind—the imagined forms of her mother and father, of Fflewddur's slain brothers, of sons and lovers breaking down doors, weapons raised against their own, oblivious to the pleadings of wives and children and parents—all came flooding back in a wave of terrible potential. Did the cauldron-born know what they did? Would she feel it, when her body was filled with that mindless evil? What horrors would an uncaring thing with her face inflict upon a living soul? She turned her face to the earth again, numb and mute with terror, her limbs turned to ice. No. This cannot be. It cannot. Yet it was already the reality for untold legions --why should she be spared? If only she could speak! The cloth in her mouth tasted like it had been in someone's armpit for a week, but she forced down her revulsion and pushed at it violently with her tongue, chewed it like dried beef until it was mush between her teeth.
"Weigh this carefully," Morgant ordered. "I shall return for your answer." He flung his black cloak about his shoulders and strode from the tent.
Eilonwy heard Taran struggle and then sink back wearily. Oh, surely, he would not give up!
Fflewddur, who had been silent this while, heaved a sorrowful sigh. "In the Marshes of Morva," he said, "if I had only known, I should have asked Orddu to change me into a toad. At the time I didn't care for the idea. As I think of it now, it's a happier life than being a Cauldron warrior. At least there would have been dew circles to dance in."
"He will not succeed in this," Taran protested, renewing his efforts to free his hands. "Somehow, we must find a way to escape. We dare not lose hope."
"Oh, I agree absolutely," Fflewddur answered. "Your general idea is excellent; it's only the details that are lacking. Lose hope? By no means! A Fflam is always hopeful! I intend to go on hoping," he added ruefully, "even when they come and pop me into the Crochan."
Eilonwy pushed herself up, working her jaw furiously to stretch the cloth bound around it. Don't think about the taste, the feel, just keep trying. There! She spat the horrid thing out with a gasp of relief.
"Morgant!" she growled. "He'll pay for this! I thought I'd stifle! He might have kept me from talking, but he didn't keep me from listening. When he comes back, I hope he tries to put me in the cauldron first! He'll soon find out who he's dealing with. He'll wish he'd never thought of making his own Cauldron-Born!" She strained furiously at her bonds —with free hands there would be no stopping her, now that she could speak. A few words, a few gestures, and she would set the camp ablaze.
But Taran shook his head. "By then it will be too late. We shall be slain before we are taken to the Crochan. No, there is only one hope. None of you shall be sacrificed because of me. I have decided what I must do."
Eilonwy ceased struggling to stare at him. "Decided! The only thing you have to decide is how we shall escape from this tent. If you're thinking of anything else, you're wasting your time. That's like wondering whether to scratch your head when a boulder's about to fall on it."
He did not look at her. "This is my decision. I will accept what Morgant offers."
Had he gone crazy? "What?" she exclaimed. "For a while I thought you'd actually learned something from Adaon's brooch. How can you think to accept?"
"Just listen," he protested. "I shall swear my allegiance to Morgant. He shall have my word, but shall not make me keep it. An oath given under threat of death cannot bind me. This way, at least, we may gain a little time."
"Oh, now you admit there are oaths worth breaking!" she burst out in exasperation. "Are you sure Morgant's warriors didn't strike you on the head and you didn't notice it? Do you imagine Morgant won't guess what you plan? He has no intention of keeping his part of the bargain; he'll slay us all anyway. Once you're in his clutches— I mean more than you are— you won't get out of them. Morgant might have been one of the greatest war leaders in Prydain, but he's turned evil, and if you try coming to terms with him, you may find it's worse than being a Cauldron warrior." She gulped, and amended, "Though I admit that isn't very attractive either."
Taran bowed his head, looking desperate; by his expression she knew that if his hands were free he would be running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I fear you are right," he admitted, "but I don't know what else we can do."
"Get out first," she said. "We can decide what else when the time comes. Somehow it's hard to think about where to run as long as your hands and feet are tied up."
"Fair enough. But I've been trying," Taran said ruefully, and I can't make any headway. See if you can get 'round my back and make anything of these bonds."
Eilonwy scooted around him and with much difficulty they arranged themselves back to back. Blindly she fumbled for his hands and found the thongs that bound his wrists, struggled to find some logic in them that would guide her. Her fingers were almost numb; any knot she managed to find slipped from her grip within moments, and her efforts seemed to make her even clumsier as her hands swelled. Taran attempted to help with her bonds, with no better result, and at last they agreed to rest for a while.
But even rest was difficult, for there is no comfortable position when one's hands are bound behind one's back. Eilonwy curled on her side, head on the ground at an awkward angle, until Fflewddur suggested she lean on him; eventually they all huddled together, gratefully accepting what comfort the contact offered. Time and again, they tried working at one another's thongs, she and Taran each making the attempt for Fflewddur, whose lame arm would not let him even pretend to be helpful. But they made no progress, and at last were so exhausted that no one suggested another attempt.
Drained, Eilonwy drifted in and out of a fitful semi-consciousness, a merciful oblivion cast by fatigue and despair. Now and then Ellidyr moaned, the only evidence that he still lived. She tried to recall his harsh words and horrible ravings, to fend off the guilt that pricked at her. How much of his current condition was her doing, versus that of Morgant's warriors? At least she had sought only to defend herself and her friends. Yet even Ellidyr did not deserve this torment, to be consigned to the ranks of the undead. He had been selfish, and out of his mind, but never had he expressed a plan to use the cauldron —and much of his rage had been borne of the cauldron itself. The Crochan made monsters out of all men, it seemed…one way or another.
The night wore on, an eternity that yet slipped by too quickly. There came a moment when she woke from a half-dream to see Taran dragging himself from the curtain, which swung shut upon the faint light of a misty, overcast dawn. He saw her watching him; she read the despair in his face, and found herself too grieved and exhausted even to care what happened next.
Fflewddur stirred, and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "What? Has the moment already come for us to say farewell?"
"Not yet," Taran said, "though Morgant will be here soon enough, I fear. Then our time will be upon us. How does Gurgi fare?"
Eilonwy glanced at the pitiful heap of fur that was Gurgi, unmoved from the place he had been thrown. "The poor thing is still unconscious. Leave him as he is, it is kinder thus."
Ellidyr groaned, and then stirred feebly for the first time. Slowly his eyes opened; he winced, turned his bloodstained, broken face to Taran, and studied him for a time as though without recognition. Then his torn lips moved in his familiar, bitter grimace.
"And so we are together again, Taran of Caer Dallben," he said, in a voice as dry and rough as sand. "I did not expect us to meet so soon."
"Have no fear, Son of Pen-Llarcau," Taran answered bitterly. "It shall not be for long."
Ellidyr bowed his head. Had he ever bowed his head? "For that," he murmured, "I am truly sorry. I would make up the ill I have done all of you."
They all looked at him in surprise. "Would you have said the same if the cauldron were still in your hands?" Taran asked quietly.
Ellidyr hesitated. "I shall speak the truth—I do not know. The black beast you saw is a harsh master; its claws are sharp. Yet I did not feel them until now.
"But I tell you this," he said, lifting his head, "l stole the cauldron out of pride, not evil. I swear to you, on whatever honor remains to me, I would not have used it. Yes, I would have taken your glory for my own. But I, too, would have borne the Crochan to Gwydion and offered it for destruction. Believe this much of me."
He said it, Eilonwy thought, as though it were somehow vitally important to him what they believed. When had he ever cared what any of them thought? But Taran nodded. "I believe you, Prince of Pen-Llarcau. And now perhaps even more than you believe it yourself."
A wind had risen, moaning ominously through the trees, shaking the tent. The curtain blew back. Outside, the warriors were forming in ranks behind the cauldron, and the sight of it made Eilonwy's heart stand still.
"Ellidyr," said Taran urgently, "have you strength enough to break your bonds and free the rest of us?"
The prince made a valiant attempt, but even aided by Taran and Fflewddur, could not free himself. "Too much of my strength is gone," he gasped. "I fear Morgant has given me my death wound. I can do no more."
Once again the curtain moved on a breath of air. Then suddenly Taran was tossed to the ground and spun roughly face-down. He cried out in alarm, kicking wildly, and a gruff voice grunted, "Stop struggling, you clot!"
The world tilted dizzily on a sudden burst of wondrous hope, and at least three exclamations of "Doli!" Eilonwy laughed aloud, almost hysterically, as Taran gasped again, "Doli! Is it really you?"
"Clever question!" snapped the dwarf—oh, had there ever been a more lovely sound than that growling voice! "Stop trying to fight me!" he groused. "Things are hard enough without your squirming! Whoever tied these knots, I wish he had them about his neck!"
Taran still repeated the name, dumbfounded. "Doli! How did you come here?"
"Don't bother me with silly chatter," the voice grunted. "Can't you see I'm busy? No, of course you can't…but that doesn't matter. Drat! If I hadn't lost my axe I'd be through this in no time! Oh, my ears! I've never stayed invisible so long at one go! Hornets! Wasps!"
At that moment Taran's bonds fell away and the boy shook his hands out with a groan before setting to work on his tied legs. And then Doli himself, begrimed, disheveled, his pointed ears blue-tipped, popped into view with the energy of an angry bee. Eilonwy could not suppress a little cry of delight; had her arms been free she would have swept him up in them. It was just as well that they were not; he would have been incensed by it, no doubt. He hurried to Fflewddur and made short work of his thongs, then clapped his hands to his head and moaned.
"Enough invisibility is enough!" he cried. "No need for it here. Not yet. Bumblebees! A whole hive of them in my ears!"
He disappeared behind her and she felt his tiny, sturdy hands tugging at her wrists. "How did you ever find us?" she asked.
"If you must know," he snapped impatiently, "I didn't find you. Not at first. I found Ellidyr. Saw him come up from the river a little before Morgant reached him. I was on my way to Caer Cadarn, after I shook off the Huntsmen, to get help from Gwydion. I didn't dare waste time chasing through the Marshes after you. Ellidyr had the cauldron. And your horses, too. That got my suspicions up. So I went invisible and followed him on foot. As soon as I understood what had happened, I turned back to look for you. My pony had run off—dratted beast, we never liked each other—and you got here ahead of me."
The dwarf knelt and untied Gurgi, who had begun to show some signs of life, but hesitated when he came to Ellidyr. "What about this one?" Doli asked. "I have an idea he's better off as he is. I know what he tried to do."
Eilonwy held her breath as Taran exchanged a glance with Ellidyr. The boy gestured to Doli. "Free him."
Doli hesitated, frowning, and Taran sighed. "There's no time to explain. Just free him."
The dwarf shrugged. "If you say so."
Gurgi was blinking confused eyes and whimpering. Eilonwy raised his head to her lap, sucking her teeth at sight of the swollen lump behind his ear. She chafed his wrists gently, anxious for him; they were unbound but not free yet, and he was in no condition to run.
Fflewddur was peeking from the tent flap. "I can see Morgant. He's on his way here! Well, he shall have a surprise."
Taran was frantically searching the stores in the tent for weapons. "We are unarmed! They far outnumber us and can slay us at their pleasure!"
Doli snorted. "So, rip up the back of the tent! Make a run for it through the forest."
"And leave the Crochan in Morgant's hands?" Taran protested. "No, that we dare not do!"
Eilonwy lowered Gurgi's head gently down and stood. They would not fall to Morgant; not if she used her magic again. Fear trickled down her spine—not of warriors, not of battle; she feared her own power. What would she do, if it pushed her beyond control? You think at the time you're using it, she had told Taran, but it often feels, later, like it's been using you.
Ellidyr, nearest her, caught her attention with a gesture. He held out a hand. "I cannot stand," he said hoarsely. "Will you help me, princess?"
She hesitated an instant, wincing at the burn marks on his wrist and arm, before she gripped his hand and helped him stagger to his feet. He paused, catching his breath, and she wanted to say something—to apologize, perhaps, or at least to explain what had happened, back there by the river, but he shook himself and stumbled forward, away from her, toward the curtain.
"I had not strength enough to break my own bonds," he said, as he passed Taran. "But I can still serve you."
He plunged from the door, and beyond it they heard shouts from the guards. Taran cried out in alarm and followed him, Doli and Fflewddur on his heels. Eilonwy crashed after them, and beheld the camp in utter chaos, men everywhere running and shouting, while beyond them all the Crochan squatted, presiding over the melee like a gross and hideous god of death.
Taran, nearest her, threw himself at Morgant and grappled for the king's sword. Eilonwy shrieked, her heart stuttering as the powerful man grabbed Taran by the throat and flung him aside. But the king did not slay him on the spot as she feared; his attention was on the flailing, struggling knot of warriors all trying to lay hold of Ellidyr, who was fighting like a thing possessed. The prince laid about him with his fists alone, and in her mind's eye he blazed like the sun at its last glorious setting, desperate to light up every leaf, every grass blade, every stone and pebble and peak before it burnt out.
The prince took a sword to the side, wrenched free and stumbled toward the Crochan. Taran cried out to him, but he was beyond sound or thought, ten steps from the cauldron, then five, three, two. With a final cry, Ellidyr flung himself into its open mouth.
The cauldron shuddered like a living thing. Above the shouting, a sound rose like the groaning of a thousand dying men, as though every corpse ever thrown into that iron-clad pit had suddenly been given voice to wail its torment. Eilonwy covered her ears and fell to her knees as a wave of magic, black as pitch, edged with blood and fire, rolled past her, shaking the earth. The trees shook. The very air rent itself with a shriek, and in a shattering thunderclap the cauldron fell apart, in shards like black teeth that pierced the ground around it. Within its ruin lay the battered body of Ellidyr.
At that moment there was a great shout, and a warhorse burst through the trees into the camp, bearing a giant of a man with a flaming red beard, followed by mounted warriors streaming behind. The giant flung himself, roaring, straight at Morgant, and Eilonwy saw the two of them locked in combat before she lost sight of them in the press of warriors. The chaos increased; everywhere she looked, men were clashing swords and grappling, and plunging, rearing horses blocked her view. Belin! What good would fire do, now? She could barely tell which side she should defend.
She ran to find higher ground, dodging horses, darting past individual skirmishes and pausing to despoil a fallen warrior of Madoc of his dagger, which could turn out to be just as useful as magic in close quarters. At the edge of the trees she found a convenient cluster of boulders, hoisted herself up, and scanned the swarming camp for her friends.
A white horse stood out like a star; Melyngar! Gwydion had come! And fighting with his left hand, Fflewddur protected his side. Morgant and the red-headed bear were still engaged in brutal combat, but even as she watched, the dark king fell; where was Taran? Finally she caught sight of him, stumbling weaponless into the wreckage of the cauldron; he fell to his knees beside the motionless body of Ellidyr, and bowed his head just as Gwydion's voice called out for an end to the combat.
A horse's high-pitched scream rang out, and a roan mare streaked from the edge of the camp toward the center, her broken tether trailing. She stopped over Ellidyr, her long head bowed, nose snuffling his clothes. Taran reached gently for her head, but she threw it high with another wild whinny, swerved and galloped away. Taran chased her, shouting, and many hands reached out, but Islimach took no notice. She made straight for the ravine, with no check in her speed. Eilonwy stifled a shriek as the mare disappeared over the edge. Taran turned and fell to his knees, covering his face.
