Gwydion shifted himself in the saddle as Melyngar plodded dutifully onward through the swirling snow. The beautiful white horse was as stealthy as her master, barely visible or audible in the twilight, the sounds of her hooves masked by the light evening wind and the soft sound of snowflakes meeting earth. Gwydion's green-flecked eyes squinted through the storm in the growing darkness, and he pulled the hood close over his shaggy head. Shielding his eyes, he could see the Hills of Bran-Galedd to his left, as he followed the curve of the valley to the northwest. Far to the west and slightly south, at the very limit of his vision, the last of the day's sun glinted red from the snow on the crest of Mount Dragon, the northern gate of Annuvin. Ahead of him, he could make out the spires of Caer Cynfael in the far distance, still miles away, barely visible in the falling snow. The high spires were magnificent, silhouetted against the sunset.
The trail of trampled earth and snow he had followed for days meandered to his left closer to the hills, but the fortress was his destination now.
He wondered how Morgant would receive him—although he was the High Prince of the land, he sometimes felt like a beggar, appearing at some king's stronghold, asking for support—and never having as much to offer in return as he would like.
The last five months had passed swiftly. After leaving Caer Dallben in the late summer, Gwydion and his men had returned directly to Caer Dathyl.
Upon his return, he had sent scouts to every corner of Prydain; searching for signs of Achren, and where she might be hiding. So far, she seemed to have disappeared from the earth, and he wondered if she had abandoned Prydain altogether. It disquieted him much more; not knowing where she was, than when he was aware of her presence at Spiral Castle, as he had been for the past score of years or more…since his time with her. During those years, in his weaker moments, when his journeys brought him close to Spiral Castle for one reason or another…he had thought more than once of paying her a visit, in spite of the terrible way they had parted, like a crystal mirror suddenly shattered. Always though, he had resisted that temptation.
Based on the rumors of disappearances that had reached his ears before he had departed for Caer Dallben, he had also sent scouts to comb Prydain for news of more such occurrences, or any obvious movements of the enemy. Some of the scouts had returned to give him information on men that had vanished in the northeast limits of Pryderi's realm, not far from Caer Dathyl. In almost every case, it was able bodied men in their prime that would disappear without a trace; usually leaving distraught and grieving wives and children, with no one to provide for them except family and friends—if they were fortunate.
Gwydion of course suspected the hand of Arawn, but he was not sure of the fate of the men. Were they captured, to be forced into the servitude of Arawn's mortal army—and so might possibly be rescued? Were those with the proper natural aptitudes of bloodlust and cruelty branded and forever sworn into the ranks of the Huntsmen of Annuvin? Or was their fate even worse? The third possibility was perhaps the most disquieting of all, and Gwydion had prayed it was not so.
From the reports of his scouts, it seemed that the disappearances were striking further eastward, along the northern coast of Prydain; and this news was particularly alarming. There were secrets of the Children of Don hidden there, near the mouth of the river Kynvael. Gwydion had formed some plans— and had conferred with High King Math, Chief Bard Taliesin, and other trusted advisors. However, there were also many unwelcome but necessary duties to be performed—affairs of State, official visits, and all the other myriad requirements of his station—and those duties dragged on and consumed a few months.
Finally, he and a force of some fifty of his most trusted warriors had set out north two weeks ago, through the Kynvael valley.
In a few days' time they were close to the river mouth. Sure enough, they were soon approached by villagers in the area, who brought fresh reports of disappearances of their neighbors and fellow villagers just to the west.
Gwydion and his war band had turned westward from the river mouth, and within a few hours, ran headlong into a band of around eighty of Arawn's mortal warriors. Gwydion's men were strong, skilled and well trained, but the battle had been fierce. A score and five of Arawn's men were slain before the enemy band fled to the southwest, and sadly, he had lost eight of his own warriors.
It was strange that as the enemy force had fled, they had picked up their own dead and strapped them across the backs of the large number of pack horses they had brought with them, two bodies to a horse. Gwydion had never seen such unusual behavior in warfare. There were many other bodies already being carried—the bodies, he suspected, of men who had gone missing. The fifty or more remaining warriors, all mounted, were leading some thirty loaded pack horses, and there were spare horses as well.
Normally Gwydion would have had his dead buried with field ceremonies and honors after a battle, as was the standard custom. But his sharp eyes had noticed that two enemy scouts remained, high on a hill a good distance away, observing he and his war band. On this occasion, he decided differently.
"Gather wood," he had said. "We will burn the bodies."
One of the dead was Captain Colwyn; recently promoted by Gwydion—in part for his bravery against the band of huntsmen on the road to Caer Dallben, six months before. Gwydion paused and momentarily put a hand on his shoulder, and then turned and nodded to the torchman to light the pyre.
After he had said words in tribute to all the fallen, he recited an ancient lament of the Children of Don, as his company listened in respectful silence. As he chanted, in the far distance he observed the enemy scouts withdrawing to the southwest, to join their main force.
Gwydion had left Captain Gwaednerth in charge of the remaining war band, with orders to defend the mouth of the Kynvael at all costs from any other possible hostile forces in the area. He set out alone on the trail of the force from Annuvin, with only a vague plan in mind. From a distance, he observed them daily. They moved with haste on forced marches through the northern hills, and in only a few days' time, entered Cantrev Madoc.
It was well after dark when Gwydion finally ascended the long winding path to the massive gates of Caer Cynfael. It was an impressive fortress to be sure, second only in Prydain to Caer Dathyl itself—outside of the fortress of Annuvin, which he had seen only from a distance; and he could only guess at what kind of grandeur would appeal to Arawn.
As he arrived at the gate, a guard far above called out, "Who calls at the Fortress of Madoc, at this late hour?"
Just a beggar at the door, he thought.
"Prince Gwydion, Son of Don. I would speak with your king immediately."
After only a few moments, the gate creaked open, and the Chief Steward appeared. "Right this way, your Highness," he said, showing no surprise at the lone, worn warrior appearing at the gate—Gwydion had arrived in a similar manner before. A hostler appeared to lead Melyngar toward the great stables, and the steward accompanied Gwydion through the labyrinth of a fortress inward toward the Great Hall. Caer Cynfael was a small city in itself; filled with servants, workshops, and merchants of various sorts. Wide eyed noblemen and ladies of the court, out for an evening's repast or shopping, quickly bowed or curtsied once the High Prince of Prydain was recognized. He and the steward strode onward, with only a brief nod from Gwydion in acknowledgement. Everywhere was evidence of wealth and opulence. Gwydion had never quite understood how the House of Madoc had come to be so rich; it had been so since before the time of the Children of Don in Prydain. They had ever prospered, even on the very northern doorstep of Annuvin. Some assumed it was through arrangement and trade with the Lord of Annuvin himself, and perhaps in the past, that had been so. Gwydion knew one thing for certain however—Morgant was no friend of Arawn.
It was a long walk to the end of the Great Hall, under a lofty ceiling draped with the colors and banners of the House of Madoc. Gwydion moved with the stride of one long accustomed to covering huge expanses of wilderness in a short time, the portly steward struggling to keep up. At the end of the Hall, on a high dais was King Morgant, seated alone, but flanked by formidable warriors on each side of the platform. The tall king wore his usual rich, dark raiment; his golden crown on his brow, his keen, hooded falcon-like eyes watching Gwydion as he approached.
"My lord—Prince Gwydion, Son of Gwynuther, Son of Mathonwy, Son of Don—requires an audience," announced the steward, and could not resist the opportunity to say his own King's full title. "My lord Gwydion, may I present King Morgant, Son of Mabsant, Son of Madoc."
Morgant moved lithely with a warrior's practiced grace, stepped quickly from the dais, and bowed slightly before offering both hands. "My Lord, as is your custom, you arrive alone and unexpected." He said with his usual half smile, showing only the tips of his sharp white teeth.
Gwydion clasped his hands and smiled, tamping down a surge of embarrassment and anger. It was his right to arrive however he chose, after all.
"Yes, my friend. I apologize for the abruptness of my arrival, but I am pressed…and as you might expect, in need of your immediate support."
Morgant nodded, "And as always, my lord, you will have it. Please join me for my evening repast, and we will discuss it."
Gwydion's discomfort passed as the two were seated at Morgant's table. Servants brought plates of delicious and elegant courses, and waited nearby to provide for their every need. Not even the cuisine at Caer Dathyl could compare to what Morgant had to offer. Gwydion ate and drank gratefully, as the two men spoke.
"I am on the trail of a war band of Annuvin, that I have pursued from the Kynvael valley," Gwydion began, and he proceeded to tell Morgant of the rumors that had sent him northward, the battle, and of his ongoing pursuit.
"So, you believe Arawn is sending these bands to gather the bodies of able-bodied men to swell the ranks of his deathless host," Morgant said quite directly, although Gwydion had somewhat skirted the subject. Gwydion nodded in agreement. "Yes, and this band I mean to stop before they reach Annuvin. My own men I left to guard the mouth of the Kynvael, for reasons that you know." Gwydion smiled grimly. "I knew if I were lucky enough to have the pursuit proceed through your realm, I could rely on you, as I have done so often in the past."
Morgant's dark eyes glinted in the torchlight. Indeed, Gwydion was much in his debt. In battle, Morgant's army had once saved his entire force from annihilation…and on another occasion, Morgant had saved his life directly. It was common knowledge, and had become the stories of legend and the songs of bards.
The first time had been during a war fomented by Arawn some fifteen years ago. Arawn was ever careful to not waste his own resources, although he had them in abundance. It was much easier to incite other cantrevs against the Children of Don, using a combination of weapons: Patriotic pride, by painting the Children of Don as outsiders and usurpers; greed, through direct bribery of targeted cantrev kings; or fear, by threats both physical and magical. In addition to direct destruction, Arawn could, if he chose, bring a lethal arsenal of dark enchantment to bear against any king or queen that opposed him.
Using a combination of these three weapons, Arawn had assembled a confederation of cantrevs from all areas of Prydain, strategically chosen to wreak the most havoc and spread out the forces of the Children of Don to the maximum extent possible. Gwydion, a younger and much less experienced war leader at the time, had raised a host that included Morgant, Smoit, Pryderi and many others. Although outnumbered, he had proven himself Arawn's equal in planning and strategy, and it was this war that established his reputation as the finest war leader in Prydain. Battles had occurred in many areas and on many fronts, and the war left open wounds to Prydain itself that continued to fester for years afterward. Many warriors, villagers and noblemen were killed in the ruthless conflict, including King Godo of Caer Fflam, and his three eldest sons. That war, Gwydion now knew, had also resulted in Taran's orphanage. Arawn's malignant campaign against Llyr during that same time had helped bring about its downfall—and a few years later, Eilonwy's apparent orphanage, as well.
In a battle so bloody it extended the foul blight of the Red Fallows for miles, Arawn's forces were turned and retreated to Annuvin, so diminished that it was years before they regained their previous strength. Morgant's army covered a huge distance in just a day from the scene of their last conflict in Madoc, and turned the tide of the battle—saving Gwydion and the rest of the host from complete destruction. Unfortunately however, it was not before a third of Gwydion's host was killed. Coll son of Collfrewr had also answered his call for warriors and fought valiantly there, and had been seriously wounded.
The second time had occurred five years ago, when Caer Dathyl had intervened in a conflict between the southern cantrevs Mawr and Dau Gleddyn—both of which had joined the host of the Horned King this last summer. On this occasion, the king of Mawr, goaded by Arawn, tried to swallow up his smaller neighbor—part of Arawn's goal to turn both cantrevs into satellites of Annuvin. Gwydion had brought a host from Caer Dathyl to prevent this, even the bards Taliesin and his son Adaon had ridden with him. Unfortunately, half of his own forces had fallen ill with a terrible illness that plagued all of Prydain at the time. Morgant had once again answered his call for aid, as had Smoit and a young King Fflewddur, at the head of a small band of stouthearted warriors from Caer Fflam.
During the final battle of that conflict, Gwydion had been cut off, surrounded and wounded. Only a brave—even foolhardy—charge through enemy ranks by King Morgant and his personal guard had prevented him from being cut down. Morgant himself had been seriously wounded in the charge, but he and his men fought their way through fearlessly, with astounding skill and valor, and brought Gwydion to safety.
For a few minutes, the two men spoke of the second and smaller war, and its aftermath.
"I pleaded with you, my Lord, after that battle, to hang the bodies of those worthless traitors from the walls of Caer Dathyl," Morgant said with his half smile. "It would have prevented you much hardship this past summer. Even now, after their latest treachery, you have not done so. At times, I do not understand why my advice is so hard for you to accept."
As Morgant had more than earned the right, Gwydion would accept more rebuke from him than possibly anyone else in Prydain. "The former King of Mawr will be a guest in the dungeon of Caer Dathyl for fourteen more years," he smiled, "…or longer, if there is any more trouble from the cantrev. He chose that to banishment for life. His son, who unfortunately followed his example, died in the battle of Caer Dathyl last summer…so his punishment has already been exacted. His sister has sworn her oath to me, I accepted it and she seems much more reasonable—and intelligent—than either of her two predecessors on the throne. Perhaps you are right of course…but as you know, punishing crime with death, if it can be avoided, is not my way, and it is not the way of my people. Taking that path, we often create two enemies, where before there was one. I am always hopeful for the best in men—or women—and the heart of anyone can change.
"That said, your advice is always appreciated. Never think that I am ungrateful for the wisdom of your counsel."
Morgant nodded in acknowledgement. "So, to the business at hand. How many men do you need for the pursuit of Arawn's war band?"
"They number more than fifty, so I think a force of one hundred would ensure a quick victory, and spare the lives of your own men. "
Morgant hesitated for a moment. "It is a large number to gather on short notice, my Prince. However, I will do my best to accommodate."
"It is most appreciated. How soon can your men be ready? We should leave within a few hours, to track them down before dawn. Soon after that, they will be well into the hills."
Morgant stood. "There is no time to waste then. Let me speak with my war leader to see to the mustering of the force. I will return shortly."
Gwydion nodded. "Thank you again, old friend. I know it is no small favor that I ask of you."
Morgant bowed courteously, and strode swiftly from the Great Hall. In only a few minutes, he returned. "Maelmadog is summoning men now—but the hour is late, and it will take some time. Please, rest yourself for a little while longer, and enjoy some ale while we wait. I am anxious to hear more of what befell you last summer—whatever you are inclined to tell me."
Servants filled their glasses, and for a time, the two men spoke freely. Gwydion told him of his quest for Hen Wen, and of Taran of Caer Dallben and his own quest. He was careful to be guarded in his words, and did not mention what he knew of him from Dallben, and from his own visions. Still, it was difficult not to convey his pride in him, and his affection. He spoke briefly of Eilonwy; her parentage, and how she had grown up as a captive of Achren in Spiral Castle. He told Morgant that Achren had tried to tempt him the Throne of Annuvin—and how he had responded. Of Oeth-Anoeth; he told him what little he could bear to speak of, and how he was able to overcome the Horned King.
"The Throne of Annuvin," Morgant mused, half in jest. "Perhaps you should have taken the offer. I can only imagine a Son of Don sitting there...just think of the power you could have wielded, as King of Annuvin and Heir Apparent to Caer Dathyl. Prydain would be at complete peace at last."
"Nay, I would have become as corrupt as anyone who has ever ruled there," Gwydion said with a grim smile—although he was somewhat surprised at the suggestion from Morgant, even as a joke. "No, we must find a way to overcome our enemies without abandoning our honor…and becoming our own enemy."
Morgant listened intently to Gwydion's account, and with great interest. He offered intelligent insight at every turning point; on every decision. After he had spoken, Gwydion thought that perhaps he had revealed too much. Normally he was very taciturn, but there were so few men in Prydain that he felt could share his thoughts and burdens with, besides Dallben and High King Math himself. Morgant was one of the few that he felt was truly his equal—not in a prideful way, but in intellect and depth of understanding. They were both solitary men for the most part, for one reason or another. Like himself, Morgant had never married. Perhaps, he thought, their friendship was based on their similarities, and similar senses of responsibility.
Or perhaps, loneliness shared was better than loneliness alone.
Morgant had demonstrated his loyalty multiple times and in the noblest way possible, Gwydion reminded himself, chiding the faint warning that whispered in his head, begging him to limit his words. Morgant was a proven and stalwart comrade…there was nothing to fear.
"Ah, Achren," Morgant said. "She is not what she was. Still though, not one to be trifled with."
"I will ask you, as I ask everyone—have you heard any current information on her whereabouts, if even just a rumor? There has been no sign since I saw her at Oeth-Anoeth… I still fear her, and the damage she could do. "
"I have not," Morgant replied. "So sad, she who once ruled Prydain, now apparently on the run and in hiding. As evil as she was, she was one that understood the use of power—and in some ways, Prydain was more at peace under her rule."
Again, Gwydion ignored the insult—most in his position, he knew, would take offense at the implication that the rule of the Sons of Don could compare in any way to the cruel and iron fisted rule of Achren—he did not delude himself on this point; it was the history, and the truth about her reign.
In Morgant's case, he allowed him much leeway to speak his mind—he was only speaking what he felt to be true, from his point of view.
Gwydion was lost in his own thoughts for a few moments. He wondered again, where Achren might be hiding. At first, after he had escaped Oeth-Anoeth, he had thought she might be dead; killed by Arawn perhaps for allowing Dyrnwyn to slip through her fingers, or for not killing him outright. After the battle with the huntsmen on the road to Caer Dallben, it had become clear that she lived, and had been granted at least one last chance by Arawn. As he had discussed with Dallben, when that plot failed, Arawn had been infuriated—and Achren likely had gone into hiding to escape his wrath. Where would she go, he wondered? First, he thought, to those whom owed her favors, whoever that might be…and there might be many, as she had ruled Prydain for a long age. If that failed, she might flee Prydain altogether…but only as a last resort, since she would have limited influence and power beyond its borders.
If she were alive, she would continue stalking Eilonwy; of that he and Dallben were certain. Eilonwy contained latent power; power that she craved. She dreamed of ruling Prydain again, as she had for so long. He had heard this from her, and felt it from her, this past year. She had said it directly, as she tried to tempt him, and he could see the self-righteous fury—and the pain— in her eyes.
Finally, he addressed Morgant again. "In regard to Arawn…this current campaign makes it very clear that he now plans to go to great lengths to expand the size of his deathless host. He has lost in battle to us with mortal warriors on more than one occasion, and fears it would happen again. He still values the intelligence and capabilities of the living; although they probably join the ranks of the Cauldron-Born as they perish. He needs to expand his deathless army by thousands to overcome us completely…so now he will murder able-bodied men, or despoil their barrows, to feed them to the cauldron. Every such raid will expand his power, and weaken our own. I can and will resist these raids…but a more permanent solution is required, before we are indeed overrun. We must make plans soon—to take the Cauldron itself, and destroy it. I know the strength of Madoc will be required, my friend, in addition to many others. Still, I would rather rely on stealth than force of arms.
"We will speak again of this soon. Only now, after this trek, have I made this decision, now that we can see Arawn's design beyond a doubt…but I have made no solid plans as of yet."
Morgant was a man who was quite difficult to surprise, and this time was no different. "I wondered myself when you would arrive at this plan, my Prince. Indeed it is bold, but an attack on Annuvin itself will not come without great cost. Is there no other way, no incantation of Dallben perhaps, that could destroy this evil thing? I have always heard that Dallben's powers of enchantment were the greatest in Prydain—perhaps even greater than Arawn's."
"The cauldron is not the work of Arawn," Gwydion said, again silencing the small internal voice of warning. Belin, must he trust no one to satisfy his conscience? "Its enchantment is much older…and apparently comes from the three sisters that are eldest in Prydain…and live somewhere in the depths of the Marshes of Morva."
Ah," Morgant said. "Always willing to trade are the Three, or so I have heard. I do wonder what Arawn had to trade for it."
"I'm sure it was substantial," Gwydion said, "Perhaps his soul itself, as he had no other use for it. Our concern though, is only with its destruction—but that is a plan for another day. Today, I wish to stop this band, and free the remains of those good men of Prydain that they carry from this horrible and unending bondage."
Maelmadog, Morgant's War Leader, arrived at the table. He was a man as strong and stout as a walrus, with a mustache to match. "My lords, the men are ready…but my king, we have also just received word from our scouts that another band of armed men, perhaps from Annuvin, approaches Madoc from the Southeast and the Red Fallows."
Morgant stood. "The timing is impeccable; surely meant to distract us from Lord Gwydion's mission."
Morgant and Maelmadog spoke quietly to each other for a few minutes, before Morgant turned to Gwydion.
"My Prince, I apologize, but I cannot spare the one hundred until this crisis is past. My own army is scattered; many are on leave at this moment, and it appears we cannot leave Caer Cynfael unguarded. I must remain here, and will gather more men as quickly as possible. For now, I hope fifty will suffice for your quest, with yourself and Maelmadog to lead them. These men are well trained; the mortal warriors of Arawn will be no match for them. They will be ready in half an hour outside the main gate, and Melyngar has been well fed and watered, and restocked with provisions. Please forgive me for being unable to provide more for your mission at the moment."
Gwydion nodded. "You are more than generous; I can ask no more. We will return as quickly as possible to help see to the defense of Caer Cynfael, if necessary."
Within the hour, now in the small hours of the morning, the force of fifty had departed the castle. The snow had dissipated, and the moon shone coldly on the frozen white hills as the horsemen retraced Gwydion's path, and headed southeast to pick up the trail of the Annuvin war band. As promised, Morgant's soldiers were a fine and competent group; well-armed, well mounted and clearly well trained. It was not long before they intercepted the tracks, making their way southwest into the Hills. Gwydion hoped they would have made camp for the night not long after he had left their trail, and perhaps the current force could overtake them before they broke camp, or very soon after.
Within another hour, the riders came upon the remains of the enemy camp; a trampled area in the snow with the remains of a fire, still smoldering. The band had clearly stopped relatively early the evening before, and broke camp again shortly after midnight. The pursuers continued on.
It was not long before the tracks deviated sharply to the west, no longer following the most direct route back to Annuvin. Maelmadog pulled his mount close to Melyngar.
"Lord Gwydion. One of the last villages of Madoc lies in that direction. A village of around a hundred."
"Let us ride quickly," Gwydion said, picturing in his mind more dead fathers and sons, more widows and destitute families. The horsemen followed his lead, pushing their mounts as hard as they could in the six inches of snow. The snow had now stopped completely, and the waning moon provided some light, illuminating the white hills with patches of forest.
When they crossed the next rise, flames were visible; clearly the band of Annuvin had put the village to the torch. "Ride now!", Gwydion cried, and he and the men raced toward the village at full gallop. Soon screams were heard, and the metallic clash of weapons. The men of the village were fighting valiantly against the invaders, who now turned in amazement at the sound of the thundering hooves approaching. As Gwydion and the horsemen of Madoc closed the last half mile, a horn sounding retreat was already heard, and the men of Annuvin were remounting their horses and fleeing at full speed to the south.
"Maelmadog—take twenty of your men into the village and ensure it is clear. The rest will ride with me after the invaders." Maelmadog nodded and shouted to his men, and soon the force had split, with Gwydion leading thirty toward the enemy stragglers as they headed south.
Gwydion's force overtook fifteen of the slower riders quickly, who turned to give battle. Dyrnwyn was out and flaming, and his companions unsheathed their own blades with exultant shouts. In five minutes, all fifteen were lifeless in the snow, but three of the men of Madoc had also fallen.
The other warriors of Annuvin had far outpaced them, the sounds of their hooves now fading in the distant hills.
From the north, Maelmadog and his men again approached. "Lord Gwydion, the village is secure," he said, "although five men were slain and taken…but my Lord, another rider arrived from Caer Cynfael. The force of the enemy approaching the fortress is much larger than original reports; apparently warriors and huntsmen of Annuvin, and possibly accompanied by Cauldron-Born. Our king has summoned us back for the defense, and sends you his deepest apologies and regrets."
Gwydion nodded, although his heart sank. "Morgant is quite right, and I trust that you and he will repel this attack handily. I will continue my pursuit of the war band, although to what end now, I do not know. They carry the bodies of many men, that will kill many more of the living in Arawn's cycle of death. I do not know how I can stop them, but I feel I must try. Perhaps something will present itself."
"It is a noble quest, and I regret that we cannot aid you more," Maelmadog said, "but for now, we must withdraw. My lord, please keep yourself safe, and I wish you good fortune."
"I wish you the same. Go now, and defend your king and your home. I will return as soon as possible."
Maelmadog turned his mount as he saluted, and he and his men departed back toward Caer Cynfael.
Gwydion tracked the band of Annuvin further into the morning hours, both he and Melyngar fighting their weariness. Finally, the band stopped and made camp out of the wind, in a small valley. A stream meandered through, where they could water their horses and themselves, and their actions left no doubt that they considered themselves safe from further pursuit. The cadavers they carried were unloaded from the horses to rest them, and unceremoniously placed in a great pile in the middle of the valley—now as many as seventy-five, Gwydion estimated.
He made his own small camp on a hilltop where he could continue to observe them, and decided he must get a few hours of sleep before resuming his vigil. He was no longer at his best, he knew, and the back of his mind was questioning his actions. He did not know how much further it would be practical to track them; it seemed a fool's errand at this point. He was only one man against some forty that were left. He despised the notion that Arawn would be enriched by these evil spoils, but events seemed to have left him powerless to stop it from happening. Exhaustion finally overcame him, and he slept at last.
The sound of nervous whickers from Melyngar brought him wide awake an hour later; perhaps two hours before dawn. Gwydion reached for his sword, and stood rapidly, but he did not unsheathe the blade. Around him in in the dim light, he saw the silhouettes of some twenty warriors; half with blades drawn, and half with bows at the ready. He was captured, but resolved to sell his life dearly. He feared most the loss of Dyrnwyn to Arawn; more than he feared losing his own life, and he cursed himself a fool.
The warriors stood watching him for a moment, but made no move to disarm him. They maintained a respectful distance, although arrows could leap out at him at any second. Finally, their leader spoke. "Mount your horse, we have orders to take you to Captain Aeron," he said.
A few moments later, Gwydion and Melyngar were walking slowly down the hillside toward the camp, surround by the warriors with their bows and blades held ready. He watched for any chance to escape, but the terrain was open, with only occasional stunted trees and brush. He would clearly be brought down quickly if he made an attempt to escape.
They arrived at the enemy camp, and the circle of warriors surrounding him was augmented by the rest of the band. They stood in the open field, with the gruesome pile of dead men on one side, and a bonfire on the other; their horses gathered and hobbled nearby.
The men began to goad him, and gloating, laughing shouts of triumph echoed across the valley, as Gwydion stood in impotent fury and despair.
A smooth shaven, darkly clad, fair haired warrior came forth within the circle, with a band of iron with the seal of Annuvin at his forehead, and armed with a long black sword strapped across his back. His face was cruelly handsome; hard and angular, and his slate colored eyes were filled with both malice and intelligence. He raised a hand, and the other warriors immediately became silent.
"I am Captain Aeron," he said, "and I am very pleased to meet you, Prince Gwydion."
Gwydion nodded in return, but said nothing.
"As you have been tracking us, so we have been tracking you. Unlike what you may be used to seeing from Arawn's war leaders, I am not a fool.
"I was second in command in the Horned King's Army," he continued. "I was looking forward to seeing you do battle with him; that would have been amusing, but at the end I saw you had a more cowardly way to deal with your enemy."
"Cowardly?" Gwydion said. "I would call it effective. I was interested in ending the conflict with as little bloodshed as possible, and it seemed the most expeditious manner."
"Yes, no doubt it was effective, and the spirit of our attack was definitely broken; with our men seeing their leader burning like a tree in a forest fire before them. The cowards from the Southern cantrevs turned tail and ran, and our own men were little better, in spite of my screaming at them that the battle was not lost; it was only the loss of one man.
"One animal of a man, with little on his mind but the joy of killing—only the most rudimentary thought of strategy, and hiding a great weakness…that you with your foxlike cunning, were able to discover."
Gwydion nodded, acknowledging the cynical compliment. "I take it that you do not consider yourself to be encumbered by any such weakness."
"Indeed not," Aeron said. "After I returned with the remains of our mortal army, Arawn put me in the Horned King's place. I was always his most skilled warrior, and am now his War Leader—leader of all his mortal hosts.
"With that excellent decision, Arawn sealed not only your own fate, but also the fate of your people; to be followed quickly by the subjugation of all of Prydain. No, I have no such weakness. No secret name by which to destroy me; you know the only name I have ever carried, and you are powerless to stop me.
"Also, I have a mind that can think beyond brute force and the obvious, which is something that the Horned King never enjoyed; he never listened to my counsel. Your entire quest, ever since leaving Caer Dathyl, has been orchestrated by me.
"Yes, we were after the corpses as well. In the end however, our foray was a trap and a ruse to capture or kill you—and relieve you of your sword, which our lord has taken a great interest in. Your own fate is less important to him, although it is true that he loathes you—but I have not yet decided if I will kill you here or if I should march you to Annuvin for our lord's sport. Either way, the sword is mine…but you may die sword in hand, if you wish. It is said that the Sons of Don have grown soft and afraid of battle. You now have an opportunity to prove otherwise."
"Perhaps you are not as well informed as you believe," Gwydion said, as his own anger and pride erupted inside him, like molten lava.
In a flash he unsheathed the sword, and the flame glittered in the darkness, glowing even the brighter with scorn for his enemies; so close, and there was an audible gasp from Aeron's men.
Aeron scowled, and took a small step back, before he smiled and spoke again. "Then again, perhaps marching you in your shame to Annuvin is the better course, and Arawn himself can deal with the enchantment of your blade."
The jeers and taunts around him in the circle rose once again, growing uglier and more perilous.
Of all things, Gwydion knew that the sword must not fall into Arawn's hands; whether he could use its power directly or not. He felt an ultimate defeat looming; for himself, for those he loved, for all of Prydain. All because of his own folly.
As desperation hammered on the doors of his thoughts, he struggled to quiet his mind. Suddenly, his thoughts expanded and reached out, seeking the consciousness and wisdom he had felt at Oeth-Anoeth.
He felt the mind of Hen Wen, and close by, the mind of her master. He uttered a request of only a few words, but he knew he had been heard, as the feeling of infinite consciousness faded, and his mind returned to that of a mortal man.
Far to the south, Dallben awoke, and heeded the nervous squealing of Hen Wen, close by in her pen. His eyes cleared quickly, and became sharp blue crystal points of light as he rose, and drew his shawl over his bony form.
In his chamber, leaning against one wall and surrounded by other curiosities, he drew out a bow, its golden color long faded, and a long golden arrow. The bow had a history that stretched back into the ancient days of Prydain. It was said to have been held by many famous warriors, and was once touched by Govannion himself.
Dallben closed his eyes, and sighed deeply for a brief moment.
When he re-opened them, his body was that of a young man; beautiful, lean and muscled. His face was smooth and handsome; his beard just a memory. He grasped the bow, and its golden color glowed bright once more. He put the bow to the instep of his foot and quickly strung it with a powerful motion, and in another few seconds was outside in the courtyard.
Eilonwy, up in her loft, had awoken as suddenly as Hen Wen and Dallben. She had been stirred from sleep this way in Spiral Castle more than once; and for a brief moment she found herself back there in her chamber, awakening to the tingling of magic in the air, as Achren cast some spell. This magic though, she quickly realized, was not of Achren; the smell and taste were entirely different. She had felt this enchantment before in the presence of Dallben; but always muted, never so strong and out in the open.
She rose and moved quickly to the window, and in the courtyard, she saw the form of a young man. He was uttering words of strong enchantment over a bow and arrow, and she quickly felt the spell as akin to one she had almost learned from Achren, and had deployed without complete success last summer against the Cauldron-Born.
Entirely on instinct, she closed her eyes and uttered her own words. For some reason, she remembered them all now, even those she had forgotten in her attempt last year...and even some new ones that she had never uttered before. Had she heard Dallben say them, perhaps? She was not sure.
She felt her own enchantment suddenly rise and join with the powerful spell she felt in the air around her. Dallben's enchantment was gold, hers was silver, and they mingled to make a new color and taste.
When she opened her eyes again and peered out, the youth was already drawing the bow; the powerful muscles in his back rippling in the dim starlight. He faced north, the arrow pointed halfway to the zenith, and he released.
The arrow was a streak of silver and gold in the predawn sky, but it did not fall to earth. Instead, it traveled onward, far north, like a shooting star, soon crossing the horizon. The young man quickly unstrung the bow and strode back to Dallben's cottage, and as she watched, his form faded; still tall but now wizened, with back slightly bowed, and a flowing white beard.
Dallben leaned heavily on the now faded bow like a walking stick, as he walked slowly to the doorway. He looked up at her, his sharp blue eyes still glowing with the power and light she had seen in the youth, and silently acknowledged her.
She felt so drained, so tired and sleepy—but she resolved to question Dallben further about this in the morning; it was sure to be something quite interesting. The bright colors and tastes were fading now, as her pallet became even more deliciously warm and comfortable…she laid her head on her soft pillow, and knew nothing more.
Still surrounded by the taunting warriors, who moved ever closer as their fear of the flaming sword diminished; Gwydion sensed rather than saw the streak of light that came to earth in the morbid pile of broken corpses, and his heart leaped.
A tall sheet of flame shot up; immediately engulfing the bodies, that burned as if soaked with oil. The taunts of the warriors turned to screams of terror, and the circle was broken as more than half the men raced for their horses, and were soon galloping from the valley in spite of Aeron's cries and calls for order.
Gwydion moved quickly, taking advantage of the confusion, with Melyngar rearing at his side, her hooves like hammers, striking down warriors of her own accord. He moved like a grey shadow to the nearest bowman and cut him down, not wasting strokes, shifting quickly to the next that dared nock an arrow, until the one remaining threw down his bow and fled. He crossed swords with two men, who looked at him blankly as he moved past them. They did not know their wounds were mortal. The aorta lay only a finger's breadth beneath the skin; the carotid even less.
Soon all the remaining warriors were either dead or fleeing for their lives, and only Captain Aeron remained, as Gwydion turned to face him. He smiled, reached over his shoulder and drew his long black sword; slimly built, like an evil needle.
"Prince Gwydion, it seems you still have a few surprises left to offer. Your famous friendship with the wizard in the south has cost me one of my prizes…but not the other. Guard yourself well, for what little good it will do you. This sword comes from the forge of Arawn himself, and the next few moments will be your last. Never fear, in short order Arawn shall have your sword and its spell will be broken—or even better, bent to his will. I might even fancy carrying it myself…very soon."
Aeron struck like a viper, moving with a speed and skill Gwydion had never seen. He was quickly put on defense, struggling to parry the lightning thrusts of his opponent, and swinging his blade only to strike the air, as Aeron had already moved to another position, and readied another thrust or strike. For several moments, Aeron moved around him like a maddening satellite, seemingly reading his thoughts, anticipating his every move, and answering his every counterattack with practiced ease.
Gwydion saw an opportunity, and made a rapid backswing, only to see his agile opponent duck the blow, and strike him in the waist as he moved quickly past. Gwydion reeled, but readied his defense again. He felt his blood and skin burning at the point of the strike, and knew that the blade was poisoned, or perhaps enchanted.
With blinding speed, Aeron struck again. Gwydion parried deftly, but once more Aeron was faster, the point of his blade ripping a gouge into Gwydion's left forearm as he flew past and behind.
For a second time, Gwydion felt the burning as the blood trickled down to his hand. He noted grimly that the trampled snow around them was now sprinkled and stained pink with his blood, draining away…as was his hope.
He was exhausted and his mind was losing its focus, but he forced himself again to be calm. He had only a few moments of life left; he must change the game. Aeron was the superior swordsman; he knew every attack, defense and feint Gwydion had ever learned, and much more. Perhaps he had learned too much, Gwydion thought suddenly. Also, he harbored a great avarice for Dyrnwyn; although he knew himself to be unworthy to carry the blade.
Summoning all his remaining speed and strength, Gwydion went on the attack, and pressed Aeron back. Just the wrong moment, Gwydion hesitated, the two blades crossed in midair, the furious white flame sparking against the black metal, now glowing red.
By trained instinct to take advantage of the position, Aeron's gloved hand shot forward to bind the swords where they crossed. Gwydion twisted his wrist, and his opponent's hand struck the blade. He cried out; his hand involuntarily closing on the blade in reflex to push it away, and Gwydion released the hilt, leaving the glowing blade in Aeron's now clenched fist. His eyes grew wide, and he fell to the ground; Dyrnwyn still in his grasp, with the smell of burned leather and flesh in the air.
Aeron's cold eyes now reflected the early morning cloudless sky, focused on nothing.
Gwydion retrieved the sword and sheathed it, and stumbled toward Melyngar, struggling to stay conscious. He fumbled with his saddlebags, and pulled out healing herbs. They had been a gift to him from Adaon, son of Taliesin. Adaon had told him they were of great power, and to save them for the direst need. That time was certainly now.
There were still smoldering coals in the bonfire, and water in the stream nearby. With trembling hands that he forced to keep moving, to keep obeying his will; he steeped the herbs, and applied the poultice to the wounds on his arm and in his side.
Melyngar stood guard next to him, her nostrils flaring and blowing in concern, as he threw down his bedroll, and lay down on the snow covered ground to rest…he must rest, every movement had become an impossible effort.
He was almost asleep, when he saw the silhouettes of the warriors on the hilltop to the south, and his heart sank. The remaining warriors of Annuvin had regrouped; they saw their leader dead, but Gwydion clearly wounded. They began moving down the hillside toward him, and Gwydion fought to stand, hoping to at least die on his feet. His hands sought the sheath of his sword once again, but he had no strength to draw it.
Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the north reached his ears. From over the rise, as if from a fevered and wishful dream, a company of warriors of Madoc approached, their banner unfurled. At their head rode Maelmadog, and King Morgant himself.
Ever superb in battle, Morgant and his warriors charged the remaining force of Annuvin, while Gwydion stood and leaned on Melyngar, watching them gratefully.
Two of the enemy horsemen broke free of the melee; and galloped toward Gwydion, clearly aiming to run him down. Gwydion once again prepared to try and fight, but Morgant himself intervened. As he charged between the two riders, he placed expert blows left and right, and both horsemen fell.
Soon all of the enemy had been dispatched, and Morgant once again approached.
"My prince, we thought we had lost you," he said, as he dismounted. For a moment, they clasped hands. "Please, sit and rest," Morgant said, concern in his voice, and on his face. He called to his men, bidding them to tend Gwydion's wounds and wrap them, and bring him water.
"Likewise, I did not expect to see you," Gwydion said, trying to smile with a strength he did not feel. "…and as usual, I am in your debt. How did you fare in the attack?"
Morgant grimaced, and said, "I am both pleased and sorry to say that the attack never happened. We continued receiving reports of a large force approaching, several scouts confirmed it…but after two days, it never arrived. Apparently, the enemy force quickly withdrew under cover of darkness, for whatever reason. Of course now it is clear; it was sent to draw us away from your quest, and I was enraged to realize how I been fooled. We set out early this morning to find you—and such was our good fortune. We will stay with you here; until you are strong enough to travel."
Gwydion pondered the unusual behavior from the enemy, and what it might portend, but only nodded in response.
For another day, Morgant and his company remained at the camp with Gwydion, and tended him while he recovered his strength. Thanks to Adaon's herbs, his wounds now looked normal. The bodies of the war band's victims had burned to ash, and the bodies of Aeron and all of the dead from Annuvin were burned by Morgant's men.
When he was able, Gwydion took up the sword of Aeron, with the mark of Annuvin upon it. He laid it atop two tall stones the appropriate distance apart, unsheathed Dyrnwyn, and struck down viciously on the dark blade; cleaving it in two in an eruption of white and red sparks. The two halves were buried there, in the soft clay near the stream.
"Will you return with us to Caer Cynfael?" Morgant asked, as Gwydion saddled Melyngar later that day. "You are far from healed, and it is a long journey to Caer Dathyl."
"No," Gwydion said. Thank you, but I must return swiftly."
He looked Morgant in the eye, searching from some sign he could read, as Morgant directly returned his gaze.
"I am pleased that your fortress was spared an attack, and that more Madoc blood was not spilled. We will meet again soon…and until then, farewell. Once again, my valiant friend, I owe you my life."
"It is my highest honor to serve you, my lord," King Morgant said as he bowed. "Remember, you can always rely on the house of Madoc, and I look forward to making firm the plans we discussed. Please, take care on your homeward journey, and see to your wounds."
Morgant and his men mounted their own horses, and soon departed toward the Caer Cynfael. Gwydion watched them for a moment, deep in thought, and strangely saddened for some reason. Finally, he turned Melyngar to the east, toward the Eagle Mountains and home.
The next day, Maelmadog received a summons for an audience with his lord in the Great Hall of Caer Cynfael. When he arrived, he found Morgant looking thoughtful, stroking his chin, his hooded falcon eyes set on the far distance. Maelmadog felt a strange apprehension, as he had once or twice in the past in Morgant's presence, when his thoughts turned dark and inscrutable.
"Tell me Maelmadog, have you ever journeyed to the Marshes of Morva?"
