The ten riders neared the edge of the woods, their mounts rustling the fresh fallen leaves of autumn in spite of their best efforts to remain silent. They were perhaps a mile north of where the rest of Morgant's war band waited in a large dark clearing, in preparation for their feint attack on Dark Gate. The riders looked out over the blighted and barren field, and at the far side, Dark Gate loomed.
There was tower on either side of a passage between two bare and craggy mountain peaks, which rose to a great and almost equal height at their summits—mountains not so lofty as Mt. Dragon, but still forbidding. Stout towers rose on either side, built of a dark grayish-black stone, taken from some unknown quarry, their color and tone somehow different from all others in Prydain that Gwydion was familiar with. Lanterns shone through the balistrarias, the openings giving the impression of eye slits in an awakening pair of multi-eyed monstrous beasts. Between the towers, a high wall of the same dark stone stretched across the narrow valley, built with a great double-doored wooden gate at its center. Gwydion knew that guards were posted at the turrets of the towers, and along the walk at the top of the great wall, which was lined with lit torches.
Gwydion's lined face was set in a grim mask, his jaw hard, his green-flecked eyes fearsome to behold, as he looked upon the stronghold of his sworn enemies—and longed to bring it down. Not today, he thought. But someday soon. He thought for a moment of an old wizard, and a prophesy, and a young man with a stout and good heart, but still so much to learn, and so many unknowns to face.
Arrogant of Arawn, he thought, with the appraisal of a practiced warrior. All those torches and lanterns made for an imposing sight, but limited the visibility of his own men. Beyond the narrow reach of the light, Gwydion and his men would be all but invisible to them, the enemies' eyes not able to adjust to the dim starlight. He looked away from the towers, lest he lose his own night vision from the glow.
The half-moon was rising in the east, and in the space of a few moments the meadow went back and forth several times from almost dark to more brightly lit, as thick wisps of cloud occasionally obscured her glow. Bright enough with the moon, Gwydion thought, to possibly make out his troop's movements, even with the encumbrance of the torchlight.
On his word, the ten warriors dismounted, and retreated back into the woods a short distance to tie their mounts in a dense thicket. There, they girded on their swords and further armed themselves, whispering a bit between each other. Gwydion bore a hunting horn, which he would use at the right moment to signal King Morgant and his company to attack Dark Gate. At his belt were daggers, and at his side the great black sword Dyrnwyn.
In addition to his sword and a spear, Fflewddur still carried his harp strapped tightly to his back—as much part of him as his arms and legs, Gwydion thought with an inward smile. Doli—mumbling as usual about insects accosting his ears—had made himself visible for the moment, and his short frame bristled with weapons, including his axe, bow and arrows, and daggers.
Coll son of Collfrewr tightened the strap of his close-fitting conical helmet, his face beaming with an internal light as if he were remembering some pleasant autumn festival, instead of returning to the place where he had almost been killed once before. At his waist was a sword; in his hand, an ancient spear, still stained with a bit of soil from his garden, and with the remnants of a dried bean vine from the previous summer entwined about it, and trailing like a sort of banner.
The six warriors of Madoc, whom Morgant had assigned to accompany Gwydion's band, armed themselves similarly. They kept to themselves, as they normally did. They were a sullen and quiet lot, Gwydion thought to himself—and he was familiar with none of them. He would have chosen the stalwart War Leader Maelmadog and some of his top warriors, but Morgant had decided to keep Maelmadog with him to help lead the feint attack, much to Gwydion's surprise—and seemingly to Maelmadog's as well. But he had decided not to argue with Morgant's decisions in the matter, as he was here risking his life and that of his men on what many would call a fool's errand.
On foot, the ten men returned to the edge of the field before the wall. Doli, complaining as loudly as he dared about his ears, finally flickered out of sight.
Coll came to Gwydion's side, and spoke quietly in his deep and patient voice. "As I well recall, just beyond the west end of the wall there is a hidden passageway, that leads up a short distance onto the mountain, before descending again beyond the wall onto the plain of Annuvin."
"Great Belin, how did you ever find it?" Fflewddur exclaimed in a fierce and slightly nervous whisper. "I can't imagine how such a thing could escape Arawn's notice."
A smile flickered across Coll's broad face, as he recalled an old memory. "I did have wonderfully keen-eyed help at the time…"
The nine men and the invisible dwarf positioned themselves at the narrowest point to cross. The end of the wall was only a few hundred yards away, where it terminated into the mountain itself beyond the near tower.
"Hold here, and await my signal," Gwydion said. For several moments, the ten stood in silence, waiting for the right moment. The tops of the towers were also well lit, and he could make out guards there peering in their direction. Perhaps, he hoped, jaded by months and years of seeing nothing but shadows and the edge of the woods. Who would dare attack Arawn in his own stronghold? Certainly no living man could remember such an event, except perhaps Dallben. Gwydion kept an eye on the clouds, and gauged when the coverage would give them the best opportunity. A streak of clear sky surrounded the moon for a few minutes, and the palpable tension drew out like the blade of a knife. Finally, the right moment approached.
"Now!" he said, and the ten broke into a brisk jog to cross the field in darkness, their hands to their weapons to quiet the sound of their jostling as much as possible. At the last moment, as the moon began to emerge and the looming wall and gate became much more visible, the band broke into a dead run.
The moon shone brightly once again as they stood in the shadows at the end of the wall, breathing heavily. After their pulses had slowed, they began quietly poking about in the brambles in search of the entrance of the passage, Morgant's men conversing softly between themselves as they searched.
The entrance was so well hidden that it took quite a few minutes for even Doli to find it, and they heard his low voice calling urgently as he shook a bush at the edge of the trail. The narrow path rose steeply, and the company pressed upward in silence.
The thorns and brambles and every living thing fell away as they climbed, and at the summit of the path, they were fully exposed, save for low boulders that lined the way. The turret of the west tower was scarcely more than a hundred yards away—a saucer of stone and flame that it appeared they could almost leap to—and there was a least a score of armed warriors standing upon it. But the low moon and long shadows hid them well, as the band moved swiftly and silently on, and finally began their descent toward the great plain beyond. There, a huge building built of similar grey and black stone stood close. Gwydion knew it for the Hall of Warriors, and their goal. Just north of the Hall, the towers of the stronghold of Arawn rose, their smooth stone glistening almost black in the moonlight, their turrets like dragon heads, now sleeping, that they must avoid awakening at all costs.
Gwydion thought suddenly not of Arawn, but of Achren, and imagined her raising this monstrosity so many long years ago; a monument to herself, and the darkness that seemed to consume her. Why she had chosen to be who she was, when she—at least once—had the power to be anything she wished, was a question that had long haunted him.
At length the company neared the end of the path, which halted uncertainly in a field of broken stone. Gwydion whispered for the men to halt.
"Doli!" he called in a fierce whisper, and the dwarf's voice immediately sounded almost in his ear.
"No need to shout, I'm right here."
"We will wait here; there is cover and I can see the rear portal of the Hall. May Belin guide you and keep you safe."
"Best of luck, old boy!" Fflewddur whispered encouragingly, and Coll nodded his approval, as unflappable as always.
"Just looking forward to getting all this over with," the dwarf gruffly returned. "Oh, my ears! They'll never be the same again. I'm off— this shouldn't take long."
Gwydion heard the soft padding footsteps of the dwarf for only a second, and he was gone.
Maelmadog Son of Maelgwn, War Leader of Madoc, rode next to his king at the head of the war band, fifty of Madoc's finest. The company had moved forward as silently as possible in the moonlight, and the edge of the forest and the lackluster field before Dark Gate were dimly in sight. Occasionally, through the twisting and shifting branches—bare except for the occasional dry forlorn leaf—he could see flickers of light from the twin towers at each end of the long wall.
He was proud as a father of these men, most of whom he had personally trained, yet he was still nervous. That was not so much about the looming Dark Gate, and the overwhelming forces of Arawn that awaited their feigned attack. He had faith enough in Gwydion's scheme, although it did seem as outlandish as it was audacious. Their goal, of course, was not to force entry—but to make trouble and noise enough that the warriors of Arawn thought that all of Prydain had come to overpower them at last. Their assumption was that the enemy would open the great gate to pursue. They would then—hopefully—be led on a wild goose chase through the forest, as the fastest horses of Cantrev Madoc flew before them. While that happened, Gwydion and his small band would come brazenly straight out of the open gate after them with the cauldron, and make for the forest. Morgant and Maelmadog, and the small elite company with a specially devised horse sling to carry the cauldron, would circle around and rendezvous with them at this very spot, and rejoin the rest of the war band at the location of the support band. All would then ride for Caer Dallben at the greatest pace possible.
No, that plan did not overly concern him. It was just insane enough to possibly work, and these were desperate times. Besides, those choices were completely out of his hands. What did make him nervous were the mystifying actions of his king. Maelmadog should himself be accompanying Gwydion, along with Madoc's five finest warriors that he had chosen. That had been Gwydion's request, back at Caer Dallben. The six that Morgant had chosen were basically strangers to him, part of Morgant's personal palace guard that he had formed a little more than a year ago. By the king's order, they answered to no one but Morgant – not even to Morgant's War Leader. Some, he knew, were men of Madoc, others he was not sure. They kept their own counsel with Morgant, and did not train with him or his men. Although they were aloof and secretive, they had never caused him any real problems. Just one of Morgant's idiosyncrasies, he had thought.
Another thought that pestered him was that there was no need for both he and Morgant to be here with the larger band—Morgant was a fine war leader in his own right, and could have led this company as well as he.
Briefly, his mind shifted to what type of enemy they would be facing. Would it be conventional warriors? Huntsmen? Cauldron-Born? It was quite interesting that no Cauldron-Born had been sighted at all so far, or on their approach to Annuvin—but no huntsmen or conventional forces either, for that matter. Something was off. Everything about the approach had been too easy. Arawn was no fool; it was as if something was already distracting him.
Suddenly, his reverie was interrupted by the urgent voice of King Morgant beside him. "Maelmadog! Troop Captains! I have decided that a change in plans will be necessary."
A mixture of surprise and foreboding twisted in Maelmadog's gut, as he and the four captains approached the king and circled him with their mounts. Morgant stood tall in his stirrups, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. "After considering the trail on our journey here, I have decided that Gwydion's plan to retreat to Caer Dallben with the cauldron is just too risky. The way is too long—and also unprotected—and the risk of open warfare between Arawn's army and our own small band is too obvious.
" It will be a simple matter for Arawn to retrieve the cauldron, and the price we will pay for our folly is the loss of all our lives. I am sure that Lord Gwydion will realize this as well…" and Morgant paused briefly before continuing, "… in very short order. So, when his band returns, assuming they have the cauldron, our new plan will be to repair to Caer Cynfael at all possible speed. With good luck, we can be in our stronghold by tomorrow night.
"If for any reason Gwydion and his band do not have the cauldron, there will be no need for the change in plans—and therefore no need to discuss further. Are there any questions?"
Morgant looked at him in particular, pointedly.
Maelmadog felt stunned, but finally spoke. "No Sire. It will be as you command."
The four troop leaders glanced at Maelmadog and at each other, but nodded their agreement in turn.
"Very well then," spoke Morgant. "Back to your positions; Prince Gwydion's signal to attack should come soon."
As Maelmadog rode back to his place, a sudden realization flooded over him, and he nearly toppled from his saddle.
Last winter, when Lord Gwydion had arrived, Maelmadog's perimeter scouts had reported to the king as soon as the prince was seen entering Cantrev Madoc from the east in the snow—at least an hour before he had arrived at the gates. Later that night, when King Morgant had tasked him to marshal troops to accompany Gwydion on the trail of the war band from Annuvin, four of the six warriors that now accompanied Gwydion had been notably missing from Caer Cynfael—although they were not under his control, he had sought them out to request their participation. But only two were to be found, and they had declined to take part. King's orders, they had said.
The reports that had come from the village near the Red Fallows…there would have been time for swift riders to reach the village, fabricate a story about an approaching army from Arawn—which would quickly be passed by the panicked villagers to his own scouts— and then disappear. Those same two warriors had ridden out to tell him of the impending attack on Caer Cynfael, when he had pulled his war band away from Gwydion by order of the king, to return and defend the fortress.
Maelmadog recalled the look in Morgant's eyes when they had left the Marshes of Morva this past spring. Although it was dark, he was sure he had just seen the same look in those avian predator eyes.
He wondered briefly why Morgant had chosen him for the journey to the Marshes, instead of some of this new personal guard. Just as quickly, he realized that Morgant must have the same misgivings about these men that he did…possibly more, since he knew much more about what they were; and what their past was.
He did not fully trust them. No, it was the faithful dog Maelmadog that he would trust for such a journey; to lay down his life for his king if necessary. Not these men, who had another purpose.
The king knew though, he had no doubt. He could not trust Maelmadog for this.
He feared terribly now that Gwydion—and probably the dwarf, the bard, and the farmer as well—would be very lucky indeed to return from the gates of Annuvin alive.
Although the autumn night was chill, Maelmadog was sweating under his helm, perspiration dripping from the ends of his great mustache, and his mind swirled with conflicting thoughts and impulses.
Doli loosened his axe in its sheath and circled around, with the imposing side of the huge structure to his right, toward the great entrance that faced north toward Arawn's fortress. He had not expected his approach to be so easy. Surely Arawn was aware of this capability of some of the fae families. Might he possibly have ways to detect it?
His own family was among the main ones in which that trait ran strong. The ability had skipped him though, for some reason…the only one of his family, which had been an embarrassment to him almost all of his long life, until quite recently. That Gwydion had dipped into the relatively paltry trove of enchantments wielded by the Children of Don—for his benefit— was a constant amazement to him. It was probably the single kindest thing anyone had ever done for him, as long as he could remember. Eiddileg could have done it himself years ago, but just hadn't gotten around to it, he thought with great annoyance. Perhaps he enjoyed watching Doli struggle with this handicap, and laughed behind his back when he saw him holding his breath until his ears turned blue.
As it was, it was certainly a mixed blessing—he thought, as the noise of ringing and buzzing in his ears distracted him. Still, when Eiddileg had told him about Gwydion's council, he had agreed immediately. There was a part of him that enjoyed nothing better than being part of this motley group of humans, whom he had grudgingly come to appreciate and respect. He had never felt so much part of a family, not even his own, and although he would not admit it—even to himself— he knew somewhere deep down that he would do anything for these people. Even if it involved risking his life…which was a greater risk than these mayfly humans could possibly understand.
He had passed a few guards walking in the opposite direction, who did not speak, and seemed distracted by greater concerns. Suddenly he was before the great entrance, which he was amazed to discover was unguarded. In a split second, he was inside, the darkness of the cavernous structure interrupted only by a few torches placed on huge support columns along the center of the hall. Perhaps it was a trick of his mind, but he thought he saw his shadow moving as he walked toward and away from the flames, and he suddenly felt alone and exposed.
He saw a great platform at the opposite end, but to his dismay, could see nothing on top. As he continued to move forward, he scanned and searched all about the huge chamber, but nothing resembling a cauldron was in view.
His alarm continued to grow until he finally stood before the platform, his heart in his mouth. It was built of stone, stained in streaks by something that he did not want to contemplate. Still nothing, although it was hard to see the top for a dwarf of his stature. There was a set of broad wooden steps, worn in the middle by the passage of countless feet—both living and dead, he thought grimly. He climbed to the surface of the platform itself.
In the dim light he saw a lighter circular space where a large object had apparently stood, surrounded by even darker stains on the flagstones of the floor. Overhead, a huge iron chandelier was hung, now dark. It was suspended by a great chain, and could be raised and lowered by means of a windlass in the very back of the hall.
His fae eyes now accustomed to the near darkness, near the windlass he could make out the rear portal that Gwydion and Coll had spoken of, and that he had seen from the outside. No need to unbolt it though—there was nothing here to steal! No wonder, the lack of guards.
He had to find out what new hole Arawn had hidden it in, somehow. He refused to go back to Gwydion empty-handed. There was Fair Folk pride at stake.
A few moments later, he was out of the great doors, and leaned against one of them for a moment, looking toward Arawn's fortress itself with dread, but determination.
As soon as he stepped away in the direction of the fortress, a blinding flash shot through his eye and he was bowled over. Two guards carrying long spears had emerged from behind the door, muttering between themselves, and had walked right into him. He suppressed a grunt of pain and surprise and rolled to the side of the path, rubbing his eye. The guard on the right stopped, turned around and stared in his direction.
"I swear by Achren's cold kiss, I just walked into something," he said to the other, rubbing the front of his elbow. The men were speaking a base version of the common tongue that Doli could understand, not the dark language of Annuvin.
"…And I swear by Achren's cold bum, Barti, you're losing what's left of your mind," the other grunted. You need to lay off that crazy black ale. There's naught here, for sure."
Barti looked around for another moment, as Doli crouched and held his breath on the side of the path. "Ah well, I must be getting a touch of the winter in me elbow then, it's hurtin' like a bastard huntsman clubbed me."
He strode back next to the other guard, and the two continued their round about the Great Hall, as Doli crept onto the path and came up behind them.
"So what do you think 'e'll do?" Barti asked the other guard, with a bit of trepidation.
"Dunno," said the other. Besides pullin' all the Cauldron-Born back…they're all hidin' in their stinkin' crypt of a barracks; it's like he's afraid to use'em now. Maybe he thinks they will just up and disappear too—like the old pot they came from."
Doli gasped, and clapped his hand over his mouth, but both guards seemed oblivious as their iron shod boots clattered on the stone walkway.
"I get the feelin' like 'e's not all that surprised though," Barti continued on. "Like 'e was expectin' this to happen sooner or later."
"Aye, I've heard that one too," said the other. "He's going to plan a search for sure, and the Huntsmen and gwythaints have all been turned out…but the quiet these last few days seems more like he's just accepted it, and now he's plottin' his next move. Anyone who could do this…" The guard just shrugged his shoulders, and continued on.
Doli fell back as the guards continued down the path, and began making his way back to where Gwydion and the others waited.
Gwydion stared, frowning at the rear portal of the Hall of Warriors from their hiding place behind the scattered boulders, silently willing it to open. It did not. The time he had expected this to take Doli had long been exceeded.
"Where could he be?" Fflewddur whispered beside him, his long face and brow wrinkled in concern. "It shouldn't take this long, for Belin's sake." Next to him, Coll wiped his broad brow, trying to conceal his worried expression under a forced smile. The six warriors of Madoc, huddled behind them, waited quietly.
Gwydion nodded to Fflewddur, and was considering the best plan to follow the dwarf, when suddenly a strong finger poked him in the side.
"It's me!" Doli spoke into his ear. "You're not going to believe it, but this is what I heard."
Quickly the dwarf told Gwydion and the others what he had seen in the Hall, and heard from the guards.
Fflewddur burst out, "So our task is done then," before his face fell back into a worried frown.
"Hardly," Gwydion spoke, and then unknowingly echoing the guards, "Anyone who could manage this, could be an enemy even more clever—and even more evil— than Arawn. The cauldron must be found and destroyed at all costs."
The six warriors of Morgant looked at each other in confusion, but as usual, said nothing.
"No need to waste Madoc warriors' lives now with an attack on Dark Gate," Gwydion went on. "We must return to King Morgant's camp, and quickly."
As Gwydion looked back at the path around Dark Gate, however, his face lined into a grimace. "The moon is now high in east, and there are no shadows to hide us. We will immediately be seen by the guards on the tower if we try to cross over. We cannot depart the way we came, unless we wait for hours—and that could be very dangerous for our companions. We must consider if there is another way."
Coll spoke up. "Well, there was another way…if it hasn't been destroyed."
The old farmer pointed to a low circular stone building, standing alone not far from the Hall of Warriors.
"There is a tunnel…which is how Hen-Wen and I escaped the last time. There was no building then, but the pit and the tunnel may still be there."
"Let me go see what's there," the voice of Doli spoke, and in a few minutes he returned. "No guards, and only a basic lock. Inside is the pit…but it's floored with flagstones. No way we could dig through, even if an old tunnel is still there. More than likely Arawn had it sealed off long ago. He may have thought that you entered that way, as well as escaped, since the other pathway is still there."
Gwydion looked again to the trail. "We will wait one hour—we can afford no more— and then attempt the trail. The moon will be more overhead, so perhaps shadows from the rocks above will help hide us from the tower."
As they waited in the concealment of the boulder field, to pass the time, Coll very quietly told the story of his first venture into Annuvin—how he ventured in search of Hen-Wen, how he found her, and how they both escaped, with some very unusual assistance.
Gwydion listened in wonder. He had heard the bards of the north sing of the tale on more than one occasion, but bards could be forgiven for "coloring the facts a bit," as Fflewddur sometimes said. Hearing the story told so matter-of-factly from Coll himself made it seem that much more amazing—but as incredible as it all seemed, he knew the story to be true. From his own experience at Oeth-Anoeth, he knew that learning the language of all creatures was possible—and in the hazelnuts, Coll had clearly run across a singular enchantment as old as Prydain itself.
If he had not found that tree, Gwydion thought, many things would be different now, and perhaps Arawn would be ruling Prydain. The course of history could turn on so small a thing as a chance glance left, instead of a glance right. Or perhaps, he thought again, it was not chance at all.
Coll's tale made the hour pass quickly, but soon it was time to attempt the climb. The band moved from the boulder field to the trail itself, and pressed themselves into the shadows as best they could. Before long, they were again at the zenith of the trail, at the closest point to the west tower. The shadows abandoned them, and there were no clouds. Gwydion looked with apprehension at the tower, and with the score of guards so close he could almost make out their faces.
"Forward then!" Gwydion urged the company. "We need to reach the lower section, where there is more concealment."
The band moved rapidly to the lower elevations. Gwydion was last in line, urging all possible speed, and looked over his shoulder once more at the tower. He saw a guard intently staring in his direction, leaning forward with his hands on the low stone railing.
Suddenly, a horn from the tower sounded, ripping through the night like the notes of Gwyn the hunter.
"On!" Gwydion cried to the band. "Our only hope now is speed." Now, occasional arrows could be heard careening off the rocks, but none had yet found their mark.
The horn continued its baleful wail, and in the next few moments the band was at the bottom of the trail and burst on to the field next to the end of the great wall. Gwydion could hear the sounds of troops beginning to form their ranks behind it.
In front of the great gates, Gwydion saw two heavily loaded wagons, their contents covered with blankets, apparently stocked with food and provisions brought from villages and farms enthralled to Arawn, or possibly stolen by his henchmen. The wagons had arrived at too late an hour, he thought, and so they waited, possibly for the gates to be opened in the morning.
"Fflewddur! Warriors of Madoc!" Gwydion called. "Fly to our steeds, and bring them here! Doli and Coll, to me!"
Fflewddur had already picked up his limber heels and was running across the dark meadow at top speed, followed by the men of Morgant. Gwydion, Coll and Doli ran toward the Great Gate.
The warning horn continued to sound, and Gwydion could hear now many more men beyond the wall. The coarse bellows of the warriors was now joined by the strange cries of the Huntsmen of Annuvin. In only a moment, the great gates would be pushed open, presumably by a large number of men.
Gwydion leaped onto the nearest wagon, startling its wide-eyed driver, who had already been alarmed by the horn. "Away from here, if you value your life!" he screamed at the man. He looked up at the Prince in terror, before leaping from the wagon and running away in the shadows.
"Coll! Doli!" The other wagon! To the gates!" He turned to see that Coll was already there, and that he clearly understood his plan.
Gwydion slapped the reins on his team of four resting horses, and they slowly began pulling the heavy wagon toward the gate. He turned his wagon as close to the left door as possible, and saw that Coll did the same with his wagon and the right door.
The great doors were beginning to open, with the voices and cries from the other side rising in intensity. They had opened only a few inches when they struck the heavy wagons. Gwydion leaped from his wagon seat and drew Dyrnwyn from its sheath. He quickly destroyed the outer wagon wheels, and the axles dropped to the ground. He saw the outer wheels of the other wagon almost explode, as an unseen Doli was doing the same with his axe. Both wagons tilted crazily, their contents of food and ale spilling onto the barren soil.
More men were pushing, possibly hundreds, and the axles dug in from the great pressure. They were effectively blocking the doors, Gwydion saw, but they were being pushed open slowly, inch by inch, as the axles plowed deep furrows from the tremendous force. The crack between the gates was now open more than a foot, and a single warrior leaped through the opening. He screamed in horror when the suddenly flaming sword found him. Another warrior emerged, and then another. One fell from an unseen axe, and the next from an old spear, wielded by an oak tree of a man that stood in the breach.
"A Fflam! A Fflam!" Gwydion saw Fflewddur galloping toward him at top speed on Melyngar, his eyes blazing and the war cry of his family on his lip, sword unsheathed. His own steed and those of Coll and Doli were being led behind him. The men of Morgant were nowhere to be seen.
A few more men emerged from the gate, only to drop under the companion's onslaught. The screams, bellows and horns from the other side of the wall were now deafening, and arrows were beginning to rain down from the walkway above.
"Ride to Morgant's camp!" Gwydion cried, and leaped astride Melynlas as Fflewddur mounted his own horse. Coll and Doli did the same, and fell in behind as the four galloped toward the safety of the forest. Behind them, arrows flew, the gates continued to creak open, and the sounds of battle horns filled the air, mingled with the keening cries of huntsmen. Mounted warriors in black armor began to emerge from the gates, and between them, darting bodies covered in animal skins. Gwydion raised his horn to his lips and blew a long blast, as the war band and huntsmen now pursued close behind.
