In Morgant's company, the night seemed to stretch out almost to eternity, the minutes crawling by intolerably. The horses stamped and became more restless as the warriors waited, listening intently for Gwydion's signal.
Suddenly, several horns split the night air, startling many almost from their saddles. Instantly the drowsy feeling evaporated, as nerves went on edge, and muscles tensed for the call to move forward.
"Hold," said Morgant. "None of those is the horn of Gwydion."
Maelmadog realized that Gwydion's band must have been discovered, and knew that enemy forces were being mustered. Without Gwydion's signal though, what action should they take?
Then came the sound of horses crashing through the forest, and the whole band wheeled to face what sounded at first like an enemy charge. Rather than an attack, however, they saw Morgant's six warriors.
"Sire!" their leader called, and he galloped directly to Morgant's side. "The cauldron of Arawn is not in Annuvin! Apparently, it simply disappeared, some days ago! Arawn's servants do not seem to know how, or who could have taken it. Perhaps even Arawn himself does not know."
Maelmadog gasped, as did many of the men. Who could have beaten them to this, he wondered—and who could have known such a raid was in the offing? It had to be more than coincidence.
Morgant glowered and his countenance darkened. "You are sure of this? What information do you have?"
The band leader quickly recounted the foray into Annuvin, and what Doli had seen and overheard.
Morgant's face was like grey stone, almost sullen. To Maelmadog's mind, he looked like a man who had suddenly lost great riches.
At that moment, another horn sounded; very close. Morgant's chin shot up; it was clearly the horn of Gwydion. Again, as a man, the war band wheeled forward. Maelmadog looked to Morgant for his command. He sat his steed in silence for a moment, clearly cursing under his breath. Then his back straightened.
"Forward!" he finally directed, and urged his mount into a gallop. Maelmadog breathed at least a momentary sigh of relief, and moved up beside his king.
The war band emerged from the forest, and met Gwydion, Fflewddur, Coll and Doli's pony—with the apparently invisible dwarf in the saddle—coming at full gallop in the opposite direction. Closing behind them was a line of mounted warriors of Annuvin, and following them, huntsmen. They ran at scarcely slower a pace, their cries echoing through the night as they called to each other in their guttural language.
The war band met the vanguard from Annuvin at full gallop, and Arawn's warriors looked in surprise and apprehension at this new foe. Side by side, Morgant and Maelmadog cut down four of the warriors with sweeping blows of their longswords from the saddle. Maelmadog glanced to his right, and saw a white horse and a glittering sword. Gwydion, and his company had turned to enter the battle, and threw themselves against their former pursuers. The bard and the farmer were no less fierce than Gwydion, and many of Arawn's warriors that faced them screamed in fear before they were cut down.
The combined force made short work of the small first wave, with only a few injuries among Morgant's men. The trailing huntsmen pulled up short, for the moment not sure how to proceed, and awaited reinforcements that were arriving by the minute. In the distance, Dark Gate was now flung wide, and a much larger force was amassing outside the wall.
Gwydion rode to Morgant's side. "Thank you once again, my friend," Gwydion said, "there is nothing more to be done here; the Crochan is gone from Annuvin before us some days ago—and for all we know, has fallen into other evil hands. Let us make for Caer Cadarn without delay. We will regroup and organize a new search from there, together with King Smoit."
"As you command, my Lord," returned Morgant, without hesitation. "Warriors of Madoc! After me!" he called, and the entire force changed direction and returned toward the forest, as the forces of Annuvin grouped to follow.
Gwydion turned to his companions riding beside him. "Fflewddur, you and Doli are to return to the site of the reserve band and depart without delay toward Cantrev Cadiffor. Warriors or huntsmen will be upon their position in a very short time. We will meet up with you on the journey, or at Caer Cadarn. Heed the counsel of Adaon; he is wise far beyond his years. Farewell, until we meet again."
"As you command!" spoke Fflewddur, echoing Morgant. "Have no worries, we will be together again in no time."
"I'll keep them out of trouble," the voice of Doli said, still invisible in his saddle. "Oh my ears! Can't wait to be away from this accursed place."
Fflewddur and Doli broke off and galloped southwest as fast as their mounts could carry them. Gwydion, Coll, and Morgant's band took a more southeasterly path, directly toward Cantrev Cadiffor. It was less than an hour before sunrise, the moon had set, and the eastern sky was beginning to lighten in crimson and blue streaks.
The warriors and huntsmen of Annuvin pressed the war band sharply, mounting several charges with huntsmen harassing their flanks and slower riders, as they retreated south toward Caer Cadarn. Still, as the march continued through the morning and into the afternoon, it appeared to Gwydion that the force pursuing them did not have the numbers, nor the spirit, that he might have expected. He sensed a distraction, almost a resignation within the forces of Annuvin.
He assumed it was because the pursuing soldiers knew that he and Morgant did not have the prize that they sought—they had arrived too late. Another enemy had apparently made off with that prize—and that worried Gwydion all the more. He mused on how many warriors and bands of huntsmen might have pursued Fflewddur and Doli, and what might have befallen them—and the reserve band of Adaon, Taran and Ellidyr.
He recalled a meeting with Adaon, before leaving Caer Dathyl for Caer Dallben. Adaon was already a legend in the northern realms, not only because of his famous father Taliesin, but as a great musician and poet in his own right—although yet to be initiated as a bard—and as a capable and fearless warrior.
Although quite young at the time, Adaon had fought at Gwydion's side in the last great war against Arawn, as had King Morgant and Fflewddur Fflam. Adaon clearly possessed a vast store of insight and knowledge, both learned and innate, that seemed to grow by the day. He seemed to absorb wisdom as a sponge absorbs water. In recent years however, his remarkable intellect was further augmented by a wondrous gift that Arianllyn, his betrothed, had bestowed upon him. The brooch Adaon wore had been fashioned long ago by Menwy Son of Tiergwaedd, first of the bards. He had laid a great enchantment upon it, and filled it with wisdom, dreams and visions, that were passed to whomever possessed it.
In Gwydion's mind, the brooch was a treasure as great as Dyrnwyn itself, if not greater—and now, he often relied upon Adaon's counsel almost as much as he did Dallben's. Adaon seemed to have a broader view of any given situation than almost anyone, and he offered a greater perspective. This had been true even before he possessed the brooch, Gwydion knew. But with it, he felt that he was receiving guidance not only from Adaon, but from the wisdom of all the bards; their whole history and lore.
Another advantage was that he was often at Caer Dathyl with his father, so his counsel was often available. He recalled the day of their conversation at Caer Dathyl almost a month before.
"I tell you this in strict confidence," he had said, "To this day, no one but the High King and Dallben know of my plans. I have decided that we can afford to wait no longer. Arawn's deathless host grows, while we watch, and his ultimate victory is closer to hand. At least, we must stop him from adding to their numbers—and the only way to accomplish that is to wrest the Crochan from him. Not by force, but by stealth."
Gwydion then told him much of his plan—and also that he wished to assign him command of the third and smallest band that would make the trek to Annuvin—the reserve, or support band.
Adaon had looked at him questioningly. "Surely, my Prince, my experience might recommend me for a more substantial role in this venture?"
"I plan to assign a young man to your command," Gwydion began. "Taran, of Caer Dallben."
"Ah yes," Adaon nodded his head in recognition. The young farm boy who helped deliver to you the oracular pig—and thus aided in the defeat of the Horned King—this past year."
"The same," Gwydion said. "I have spoken of this with Dallben, as well. Although he has learned and grown much from the events of the last year, he is still very young, his heart and conscience yet not fully formed. He has a good head and a good heart—but still looks at heroism and manhood through the prism of a boy's romantic and egotistical vision. Still, in spite of our misgiving for his safety, we think he should be given the opportunity." Gwydion looked at Adaon pointedly. "Only though, with the proper guidance. I had thought to give this task to Coll Son of Collfrewr, but his experience within the walls of Annuvin makes him invaluable for the first band. You, my friend, are really the only other choice that we would be satisfied with."
Adaon looked at Gwydion thoughtfully, his hand fingering the brooch at his throat. His clear grey eyes looked miles away; a look Gwydion had seen before. He did not prompt him, but waited patiently for Adaon to return from his reverie.
"Yes. Taran of Caer Dallben. I can see that you and Dallben place more importance on this lad than might be usual for one in his position—and I sense there is more to this story than you are telling me."
"Indeed, there is," Gwydion smiled. "And truly, truly my friend, I would like nothing better than to share it with you. But to do so would be to betray the trust the Dallben has placed in me; so I will not. That is the other reason I have chosen you for this task—and I will tell you I consider this task as vital, and as important as the capture and destruction of the cauldron itself. I have chosen you, because I know that without telling you everything, you will discover what you need to know for yourself."
Adaon stood a moment longer, his eyes like wells into the depths of his soul. "I see. It will be as you command, my Lord. I will do my utmost to guide this young man, and to keep him from harm as necessary."
"Thank you, and I could ask for no more. I would also like for you to choose another, as part of this third band. Whom would you choose?"
Adaon regarded him, again lost in thought for a moment, before responding.
"I have thought often of the youngest prince of Pen-Llarcau, named Ellidyr. I met him at his father's court last year, when I was wandering the northern countryside as a musician and apprentice bard, with no particular destination in mind. The family is in quite desperate straits, as you know, and young Ellidyr is left with virtually nothing, after his older brothers squabbled over their own meager portions of the inheritance. I will tell you that he is very self-conscious of his weak position, and also quite arrogant and hot-headed. On the other hand, he is an immensely strong and quite capable warrior. He would like nothing better than an opportunity to prove himself..."
Adaon's hand moved to his brooch again, and he stood quietly for a moment, before continuing. "…and also, I feel that he may have an important part to play in your quest. I beg you give him this opportunity… although I ask you this with some misgivings as well."
Gwydion paused. Although he was familiar with old Pen-Llarcau, he could not recall the youngest son. It was not a family he would have chosen to rely on—and it sounded like a choice fraught with problems. Still, he had learned to trust Adaon's advice. He seemed to see the pattern on the loom close to fully formed, while others could still see only fragments. He nodded his shaggy grey head.
"Very well then, if that is your decision. Send word to the young prince to meet us at Caer Dallben at the appointed time."
Gwydion surveyed the field to the north. It was the third morning since they had departed Dark Gate, and the exhausted war band had camped and rested through the previous night. The first night they had camped late, and a band of huntsmen attacked in the early hours of the morning. They had been repulsed quickly by Morgant's well trained warriors, under the leadership of the war leader Maelmadog. The second day, huntsmen and mounted warriors had been sighted, but they kept their distance, and no further skirmishes had occurred.
Of Adaon, Taran and the others, there had been no sign—and Gwydion's concern and alarm grew by the hour, as he inwardly began questioning the wisdom of putting especially Taran and Ellidyr into such a dangerous situation, even with Adaon's guidance.
They were now only another couple of days from the safety of Caer Cadarn, and he expected to see King Smoit's outriders before too much longer, scouts from the camp where he knew they waited near the forest of Idris.
As he looked west, however, he saw an unusual sight. A figure had emerged from the trees that looked like nothing so much as a small scarecrow come to life. This scarecrow was apparently an unsuccessful one though, as a crow perched on his shoulder, occasionally flapping his wings and clacking his beak. Long, thin silver hair streamed behind him like cobwebs, but he moved at a speed that belied his apparent fragility.
Two of Morgant's men had spotted the unusual creature as well, and galloped out to meet him. He raised his hands in surrender, and nervously gestured as he spoke quickly to the horsemen. They looked at each other in confusion, but then bid the strange little man to follow them.
Morgant strode to Gwydion's side. "I believe he is Gwystyl, of the Fair Folk. He maintains an outpost for his people not far from Annuvin." As the riders and the thin figure approached, the two men walked out to greet him in the open field.
"Prince Gwydion—King Morgant," the fae said, bowing so deeply that Gwydion thought that his long and drooping nose must have touched the ground. He wore a dirty cloak, and his eyes blinked nervously as he spoke, as if he were unused to the sunlight. "As the King recognized, I am Gwystyl—a servant of King Eiddileg," he began slowly, as if somewhat unused to speaking with humans, and unsure of how to proceed. Gwydion nodded encouragingly though, and he proceeded. "I bring you news that you may find interesting— although I'm not sure it will do you much good," he continued, his nasal voice matching the mournful expression on his face. "I had visitors at my way post day before yesterday—members of your party I believe, with Doli of the Fair Folk. "Adaon Son of Taliesin, Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo"—Gwystyl grimaced and his eyes screwed shut, as if he were remembering something unpleasant—"Prince Ellidyr of Pen-Llarcau…a lad named Taran, a young lady named Eilonwy, and a rather hairy fellow named Gurgi."
Gwydion started visibly. "Eilonwy and Gurgi?"
The fae nodded. "Yes…I gathered from some of their conversation that perhaps they had followed you, after you and your riders left Caer Dallben. It made no sense to me…no sense at all, to be completely honest, but that's what I understood."
"Morva!" suddenly the crow croaked, and the usually unflappable Morgant appeared a bit startled.
"What was that?" Morgant demanded.
"Oh, that is the other part of my message," Gwystyl went on. "I received word —through a chain of very unusual informants, you might say, but normally quite reliable—that the cauldron you seek is in the marshes of Morva. In the hands of—well, you probably know what they are as well as I do. Your guess is as good as mine, actually." The mournful fellow gave a brief shudder, before continuing. "Your friends left the way post and went after it, in spite of my warnings that no good could possibly come of it—and I believe in spite of your orders to head for Caer Cadarn as well…Ellidyr clearly is not to be reasoned with, and Taran, sadly, seems affected the same way in his company. So neither took my well-intended advice. This was more than two days ago, so whatever was going to befall them has probably happened by now…Oh, I forgot to mention that there was a band of huntsmen on their tail. I gave them what magical protection I could, powder to hide their footprints and hoofprints and so forth. But it only does so much good. Doli was with them though—and Adaon seemed a very sensible fellow, so there is that…although he allowed Taran to be the one to make this harebrained decision. Again, I told them not to go, but nothing to be done about it now. Nothing at all."
The unusual creature looked so woeful and distraught that Gwydion almost felt the need to comfort him. "We are most grateful you have brought us this news. Very well, we shall search for them."
Morgant turned to Gwydion. "My Lord, now that it appears the immediate threat from Annuvin has diminished, perhaps it would be advantageous that we separate to search for the lost party. Yours and Coll's tracking skills are well known; no doubt you could find a trace that eludes my own men's attention. On the other hand, my men make up in numbers what we lack in woodcraft. The ground between here and the marshes is wide, and we must cover a great deal of ground quickly. As I have the larger band, I will take my warriors southwest in the direction of Morva, and search along and across the river Tevvyn. We will continue toward the marshes if no trace is found. I would suggest you and Coll search the trails further to the northwest, and ford the Tevvyn further north.
Gwydion considered for a moment, before nodding his head affirmatively. "I believe it is a sound plan. There is more area to be covered to the southwest, and you can spread out your men to cover it sufficiently. Coll and I will take the northern flank—along with Gwystyl, if you would do us the favor of joining us," with a nod to the fae, who hesitated a moment, but then nodded affirmatively. "King Morgant, if you are successful in finding the lost band, the cauldron, or both, send riders north to intercept us—and then march for a rendezvous at Caer Cadarn. We will meet again at Morva, if neither of us are successful before we reach there."
Morgant nodded in return. "By your command, my Lord. With your leave, we will depart immediately."
By midmorning, camp was struck and both bands were mounted. Gwydion, Coll and Gwystyl watched, as Morgant and his men departed to the southwest, the purple and black banner of Madoc proudly displayed before them. Gwydion made out the substantial figure of Maelmadog, who waved a hand to the prince in farewell. The King was already out of sight.
Gwydion and Coll made their way alone northwest in the bright Autumn sunlight, eager to get on with the search. Coll was equally excited—and concerned—with the news that Taran and company had been seen, and just as flabbergasted that Eilonwy and Gurgi were with them.
Melyngar was also carrying Gwystyl, his limp hands clinging to Gwydion's back. They had been traveling for only a few hours when, suddenly, the clinging became a thumping. "Horses behind us," the fae said nervously, and his sensitive ears were not mistaken. Soon, they all heard the sound of a large band of horsemen approaching on their trail.
Coll and Gwydion turned and drew their swords, but had only just done so when the jolly bear banner of Cantrev Cadiffor burst into view. With relief and joy, they sheathed their swords and galloped toward the approaching horsemen. King Smoit himself rode in the vanguard of the great war band from Caer Cadarn.
"Well met!" Smoit bellowed as he drew up his horse before them. "Sorry for—well, for ignoring orders, but when no word came, I became a bit impatient—I'm sure you can understand. I figured by now, you might be needing help. So I came looking for you. Good thing my master of horse knows Melyngar's tracks so well, or we would have been chasing after Morgant and his men."
"In this instance, I am more than grateful for your impatience," Gwydion said with a little smile, and quickly explained to Smoit all that had happened since King Smoit's forces had split off near the forest of Idris.
The stout king frowned when Gwydion told him of the reserve band, and their decision to pursue the trail of the cauldron. "That ill-tempered prince is at the bottom of this addle-pated decision-making, I'll warrant!" Smoit said. "But perhaps it will still turn out well… or at least not as badly as it might. With our numbers, in any case, we can help speed the search."
Smoit provided Gwystyl with a spare mount, and soon the war band was combing the area—while moving steadily west, in the direction of Morva.
Morgant and his band searched throughout the day, while also moving west toward the marshes, following a path further south than Gwydion's company. The men of Madoc had split into two groups, led by Morgant and Maelmadog, to cover the most ground on parallel tracks.
Late the next evening, Morgant's half of the company searched along the west bank—having forded the River Tevvyn hours before—while Maelmadog's band searched the east bank. It was only an hour until sunset, the sky in the west a soft haze of pink and gold, over an uneven line that Maelmadog knew to be the Marshes of Morva. Maelmadog looked across the river in their direction with distaste, and with a bit of fear. After his last sojourn there, he had no desire to enter again. But if they must, to save these lads (and apparently now, also the bonny princess lass he had glimpsed at Caer Dallben, barely older than his own daughter) then enter they would, three witches or no.
Suddenly to the north, he saw two of his outriders approaching at a fast gallop. He could sense their excitement, even before they drew up their mounts short before him, nostrils flaring and snorting. "Sir! We have found one of them near the river – and he has the cauldron!"
Maelmadog's heart leaped into his mouth—and immediately sank with foreboding—but he acted without hesitation. "Make ready the horse sling that was devised for the raid," he said to another of his captains. "We ride north."
Along the bank of the Tevvyn they rode, in and out from under copses of bare limbed trees. In only a few miles they glimpsed two more of his outriders. With them, walking slowly, was a team of three horses. The Prince of Pen-Llarcau, who had been under Adaon's command in the reserve band, rode the lead horse. Behind him, Maelmadog recognized the fine grey stallion Melynlas, foal of Melyngar, who belonged to the young lad Taran of Caer Dallben. On the other side was Lluagor, whom he recognized as the mount of the bard Adaon. All of the horses looked exhausted, but especially Melynlas and Lluagor, their heads drooping in resignation.
Between the three horses, on a rudely improvised sling of vines and branches, was the Crochan.
Maelmadog had of course never seen it, but there could be no mistake. A grim dark aura surrounded it, and in his mind, it was as if he could hear the groaning of a thousand tortured souls as he looked upon it. The Crochan of Annuvin, of Arawn. Seeing it was to live a nightmare, even while awake.
A shadow passed between them and the setting sun. He looked to the west, and saw a flight of gwythaints, streaking toward Annuvin. It would not be long until huntsmen or worse arrived, he knew. Time was becoming precious.
"My Lord," he said to the young prince, riding up beside him. "You bear a great burden; let us assist you."
The prince looked at him haughtily, his sunken eyes burning with something worse than pride, in spite of his terribly disheveled appearance. Indeed, he looked barely able to ride. His cheeks, hands and arms were covered with deep gashes. His shoulders were cut, and still dripping blood. His jacket was a ruin, and he wore no cloak. His face was a deathly white, his lips pursed and almost blue, although still curled into a sneer.
"I need no help," the young man said scornfully, "and I have no time to bandy words with underlings. Take me to your king, and send him tidings that Ellidyr, Prince of Pen-Llarcau, brings Prince Gwydion and him a mighty gift."
Maelmadog gave him a stern look, and even the prideful Ellidyr dropped his gaze at the stare from the huge man facing him, as imposing as King Smoit himself. This was no time for foolish pride, or for games. "We have been searching long and hard; some gratitude from you might be in order. Where are your companions? Adaon son of Taliesin, and Taran of Caer Dallben? The bard Fflewddur Fflam, and Doli of the Fair Folk? Also, we received word that the Princess Eilonwy of Llyr and the shaggy fellow Gurgi from Caer Dallben also were with you when you departed from the Fair Folk way post."
The ragged prince regarded him again with annoyance, as if trying to decide whether he should bother to reply or not. Finally, he spoke. "Huntsmen and gwythaints set upon us. The pig-boy I believe is drowned in the river, and as to whereabouts of the others, I would not hazard a guess. The strange creature Gwystyl told us that the cauldron was to be found in Morva. I set out immediately, while the others tagged along behind. They would have preferred to turn tail and head for Caer Cadarn, but I believe they were afraid to be without the benefit of my sword. The huntsmen found us anyway, in spite of my valiant efforts to throw them off, and I believe Adaon was lost to them— I have not seen him since. The others are scattered, or perhaps drowned like the pig-boy; again I do not know. I was fortunate enough to catch two of their mounts, and ventured into the marshes alone. There, I found the cauldron—which had already been discovered, and was being guarded, by a band of the Huntsmen of Annuvin."
Ellidyr hesitated for a moment, and then continued. "I killed them all, to a man…and as you can see, I did not escape unscathed. But that is the worth and courage of a prince of Pen-Llarcau—and I hope that such does not go unnoticed by the Prince of Don, or by your own King Morgant."
Maelmadog regarded him shrewdly, and with skepticism. Most of his injuries were clearly the work of gwythaints, not huntsmen.
"If that is what happened, then we must continue the search for your remaining companions—if they live. I am sure your bravery will be recognized and highly rewarded. For now, we will take the Crochan and carry it in our sling, this one appears ready to fall to pieces, and your steeds—especially these two that are not your own—are long past spent. We will ride to meet the king, and you can give the account of your deeds to him. Also, we will send word to Prince Gwydion, who searches for you and the others to our north."
Although he continued to scowl, Ellidyr finally nodded his head curtly in agreement. In a few moments, the heavy Crochan had been transferred to the expertly crafted sling, and was being carried by two large draft horses. The band forded the river at a shallow point without incident. Maelmadog led Melyngar and Lluagor behind him, taking care that the exhausted horses were not overtaxed.
The sun had long since set, and the wet warriors and horses were suddenly quite chilled. They rode toward the west and Morgant's camp in the wan starlight, making their way carefully with the cauldron through silver meadow and grey forest. They followed the war band's trail—and clearly Morgant had proceeded further west than Maelmadog had originally thought.
In addition to the ill effects of the cold, Maelmadog's stomach was again churning. In his mind, his wife Eryla's face appeared, with a worried frown. He's not like his father, she had said—and indeed he was not. Mabsant had not been a perfect king, but he was always a steadfast and faithful ally to the Children of Don. As Morgant had been—until recently.
Maelmadog thought of the old king, and how well he had been treated when he had joined Mabsant's guard. He thought of how proudly and faithfully he had served Mabsant and Morgant all of these years. He loved the house of Madoc; he had devoted his life to it. When Mabsant had passed, and Morgant had become king, things had continued in much the same way—for many years. Morgant and Gwydion had enjoyed such a special friendship—and still did, as far as anyone but himself knew. As much as he would like to deny it, however, he knew that the revelations that had struck him before the Dark Gate were sound. In all likelihood, Morgant had planned for the massacre of Gwydion and his company before they ever emerged from the gates of Annuvin; the six warriors he had assigned little more than paid assassins. Thus, Morgant would be free to return to Madoc with his prize, the Crochan. Only the strange disappearance of the cauldron had thwarted that plan.
Which was better, to continue to believe as you always have—to serve as you always have—or to turn traitor in the eyes of all you have known? But was continuing to serve blindly not also being traitor to a higher cause? Was he not also, in turn, a liege to the House of Don—and a leader he could still believe in?
Inwardly he wished that Gwydion could have encountered Ellidyr, instead of his own band. The Prince of Don would have known what to do. For the moment though, there was nothing to be done but to move forward. Like the story that Ellidyr had told of young Taran's drowning; Maelmadog felt that he was flowing with the current, with no way to change direction. Morgant would have his cauldron, he knew. He closed his eyes for a brief second, as dread and darkness closed in upon him. He silently prayed to the Lady Don and Lord Belin, for wisdom.
It was the early morning hours before they reached the camp. Morgant's company had set up in a clearing in the woods, past a deep ravine that guarded the approach. Tents had been pitched along the brush line, blended in well—as he himself had taught his men—to help avoid detection from scouts on the ground, or from gwythaints overhead.
Maelmadog led the company as they entered the clearing, and tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind. The future felt balanced on the edge of a knife. Perhaps his Lord would come to his senses; there was still hope.
Some in the camp were still awake, and he saw Morgant's silhouette near the campfire. The king saw the riders—and what they carried— at the same time. He strode quickly to Maelmadog. "By all the Gods, well done! We have the Crochan, for the glory of Madoc!" he cried, his eyes lighting up with what could only be described as avarice. His eyes feasted on the cauldron greedily. Maelmadog's stomach again turned in fear and distaste.
"Yes, my Lord," Maelmadog returned. "Our outriders encountered Prince Ellidyr further north, on the bank of the Tevvyn."
"The cauldron is my prize, and it is by my hand, and my hand alone, that it is recovered, my Lord," spoke Ellidyr, still boastful in spite of his injuries, as he swung down from his steed. "By my deeds and my courage, is Arawn's vessel delivered. And it will remain my prize, until it is delivered to Lord Gwydion himself."
Morgant's eyes narrowed as Ellidyr gave his account of the cauldron and the fate of the companions, telling the story much as he had to Maelmadog.
"Indeed, that is a tale of rare courage," Morgant said, his eyes suddenly far away, and his hand stroking his chin. "Tell me again, how is it that only you survived, and only you come here—with the lathered mounts of your companions?
"Your tale has the feel of a falsehood. I believe you slew your companions, stole their horses, and came here with the hope of convincing me—and Lord Gwydion also, were he here—that you are something more than the arrogant, pathetic, pauper fool of a prince that I took you for from the moment I met you at Caer Dallben."
"How dare you speak such words to a Prince of Pen-Llarcau?" Ellidyr said through gritted teeth, his ashen face turning even whiter. His hand moved to his sword—but before he could draw it, the pommel of Morgant's blade smashed him in the face, and he fell to his knees.
Maelmadog watched in horror, and the other warriors of Madoc drew back in shock.
The prince still struggled to draw his sword. Even in his condition, he was stronger than most men. He fought to rise several times, as Morgant continued to beat him about the head and shoulders with the pommel and flat of his blade. The edge scored him even further, until his face was a bloody pulp, almost unrecognizable. Finally he collapsed in a heap on the ground, still breathing heavily.
"Your prize?" Morgant hissed. "The Crochan is mine, you clutching pretender. I have paid for it, and paid dearly. Arawn was too weak to keep it, and Gwydion would be weak enough to destroy it. You have been useful in delivering it to its rightful owner—and for that, you will be allowed to live another night, if you have the strength. Have no fear though, even after your death you will continue to serve me. Such is the fitting end of a Prince of Pen-Llarcau, a family of dotards and bedraggled fools. You will make a fine example as one of the first of my cauldron warriors."
"Take him to a tent, and leave him bound," Morgant spoke to one of his personal guard. "We have many preparations to make."
Ellidyr's unconscious form was finally dragged away.
Morgant looked around, at the reaction of his warriors. Most stood in shock and mute silence, not understanding what they had seen, nor the sudden change in their king.
"Warriors of Madoc! Now is our time! No more will we serve those who only deserve to be our servants!" Morgant shouted, and raised his sword. "The House of Don has become old and weak, and Arawn as well. Using his own weapon, we will grow in strength, until we surpass him. Under my leadership, all of Prydain will finally be truly united—under the banner of Madoc!"
A few warriors immediately unsheathed their swords and raised them in salute, and shouted Morgant's name. Others, still confused, slowly began to do the same. He was their king. They knew no more, and all of them lived in fear of his wrath.
"Maelmadog! Have the Crochan taken from its sling, and set it in the clearing. We have no time to waste."
But no one answered. The warriors looked at each other, and all about, but their War Leader was nowhere to be found. His stallion was missing, as well.
"For such a beast, the man can certainly move quietly. The soft-hearted fool, he's gone in search of Gwydion—for all the good it will do him," Morgant cursed in a low voice. "Very well, he and his family shall pay dearly for his treason. For some time, I have been considering training a new war leader. Perhaps the opportunity will soon present itself."
After the cauldron had been set in place, Morgant retired to his pavilion. Tension still filled the air, but after a time, most of the exhausted company finally slept. In the clearing, the silhouette of the Crochan was visible against the trees, like a crouched beast, watchful in the dim moonlight.
Late the next day, Gwydion and Smoit were preparing for their evening meal—and in Smoit's company, suppers were usually quite substantial— when one of Smoit's outriders appeared. "Sire, we ran across one of Morgant's men on patrol this evening, and he requests an immediate audience with the prince and yourself."
"My body and blood! Let's hope it's good news, and our wanderers are found! Bring him here at once."
Both men were quite surprised when they saw the unmistakable figure of Maelmadog approaching on his great stallion, and the two stood to meet him.
"Maelmadog! Why you old brown tusked bone-crusher, what are you doing here alone? Also, I'm expecting you again in Cantrev Cadiffor soon for our re-match…although my shoulder is still aching from our last bout. Half the cantrev turned out the last time—and I'm expecting the rest for the next one!"
"I look forward to it, Sire," Maelmadog smiled, bowing to the king and to Prince Gwydion at the same time, "but I'm afraid wrestling will need to wait for better times. I have very ill news for both of you."
"Well met, in any case," Gwydion said. "I was hoping for good tidings in our search as well, but it appears not to be. Pray tell us, what news do you bear? "
"Sire…" Maelmadog dropped to his knee. "I offer you my service, for I can no longer serve King Morgant. Alas, he has fallen into evil."
The faces of both Gwydion and Smoit darkened as Maelmadog told them what had happened in the early hours that morning. He also told them his suspicions about the events of the previous winter when Gwydion had passed through Cantrev Madoc, about his and Morgant's visit to the Marshes of Morva—and what could have happened at Dark Gate, if Morgant's plans had succeeded.
When he had finished, still on his knee, he wept, and covered his face in his hands. "I wished to tell you earlier…but there was no opportunity, and I still saw my duty as loyalty to my king. I think I truly did love him, and his family, and never wished to be a traitor to him. Now, it is clear he is the traitor, and I feel my loyalty is owed to you and the High King alone."
Visibly shaken, Gwydion took his hands, and brought him to his feet. "You did well, and we owe you a great debt," he began, his voice low, and his own eyes bright with tears. "I loved him too…and love him still, for what he once was. As you well know, Morgant was a true friend and ally for many years, as was his father. Many men, even men of great worth and ability—indeed, especially those men—feel the lust for power. It is always there, beneath the surface—but just one part of them, and under the control of their reason and compassion. Alas though, for some, what were the quiet whisperings of the darker places in their heart become too loud, too strong, and finally overwhelm the brighter parts. What was seen as a means to an end, finally becomes an end in itself.
"As it is for you, it is hard for me to see him fall prey to those desires…but a man's duty is to the truth as he sees it, not just to one king—who is human, and may fall short of the ultimate truth himself. You were wise to recognize what has happened, and brave to act on it. Now, our duty is clear. We must do what we must. He must be stopped, and immediately. In the Marshes, he may have learned the ancient secrets of the Crochan, and is now bent on using it to magnify his own power."
"Why that worthless, cold-blooded traitor!" Smoit bellowed, beard bristling, his broad face red with anger. "Yes, you did the right thing, Maelmadog. A king who breaks his own sacred oaths—and who would aim to be a cauldron-master himself—is not worth serving. I'll muster my men immediately; no time to waste."
As Smoit strode away to ready his men, Maelmadog stood forlornly by the prince's side.
"You and your family are welcome in Caer Dathyl—and I will find a place of honor for you, if that is your choice. I would not see you and yours come to harm."
Maelmadog considered for a long moment. "Thank you, my prince…but no. I am a man of Madoc," he said proudly. "This king is no longer fit to lead her or to serve her, but the king's nephew is next in line, and I believe he holds promise. I will do what I can to support him, and to help make Madoc back into what it should be.
"My family and I will be fine; I believe most in Madoc will recognize the truth when they hear it…and I hope you can travel to Madoc soon—to help convince the rest, you might say. But I cannot return with you to Morgant's camp; I cannot fight against my own men. Please spare as many of their lives as you can. They are good men, only misled. They will worthy subjects to you once again.
"So I will return to Madoc directly, and do what I can to ready the kingdom for the news to come. Given the size of Smoit's band that I see here, I think we both know what the outcome will probably be. But if for any reason that isn't the case, and Morgant prevails…I will stand against him when he returns, with as many as will stand with me. To the last man."
"Then go with my blessings, my friend. Indeed, you are a true man of Madoc—and of Prydain."
After giving Gwydion the location of Morgant's camp, Maelmadog mounted his steed, and raised his hand to the Prince of Don in farewell. As the sun began to set, he urged his stallion into a gallop toward the north, and home.
Maelmadog (myle MAD og) - Welsh Meaning: "Servant of Madoc."
