Each day after Rhodri's arrival felt like a tensely held breath, restrained hour after hour in wary anticipation of an attack that might or might not come to pass that day, exhaled only upon dropping into sleep when the sun set without incident, then drawn in again before dawn—an interminable cycle of waiting. Taran and Eilonwy worked ceaselessly to set in motion a plan for the castle's defense, but the toil did little to blunt their anxiety. There were so many unknowns: How long until the attack? How many warriors had Meilyr recruited in addition to his formidable standing garrison? Would they mount a direct assault, or lie in wait and try to starve Caer Dathyl into submission? Would Gurgi and the scouts make their way back in time for their information to be of any use? For all that Iscawin had spoken the truth about Meilyr's plans, could they trust him as an ally? All they could do was wait—minute after minute, day after day, keeping a vigilant eye trained on the horizon.

More than a week passed. Still, no great hordes of warriors shadowed that skyline, nor even the figures of three returning scouts. One afternoon, though, the guards in one of the southern towers spotted two riders in the distance, coming up through the Valley of Ystrad. Eilonwy, checking in on the hasty fortifications being added to the outer walls, was closest at hand that day and alerted first. Soon thereafter, she headed up to the tower to see for herself who approached. The very moment the riders' faces came into view, she raced right back down the stairs again to seek out Taran.

After searching the barracks and the armory, she found him at last in Hevydd's workshop, talking with the master smith about how the store of additional weapons was progressing.

"Taran!" she cried out breathlessly as she burst across the threshold.

Immediately, he whirled around with a look of dread in his eyes, fearful that Meilyr's attack was at last upon them. An instant later, though, confusion set in when he saw that she was not fearful, but grinning widely.

"Fflewddur has returned!" she shouted above the din of Hevydd's apprentices, who'd continued toiling furiously despite the interruption. "And Telyn is with him!" she added, her eyes dancing even in the low light of the workshop.

After his first flash of surprise, Taran felt himself break into a similar grin—an odd sensation after so many days of intense worry. He hastily excused himself from the discussion with Hevydd and bolted with Eilonwy toward the gates. With each footfall, he felt his spirit rise a little higher. Two friends might not turn the tide of whatever battle lay ahead, but their presence heartened him like a shaft of sun piercing dark clouds, reminding him that somewhere, beyond the storm, a bright light still shone.

By the time they reached the gatehouse, the portcullis was already being lowered again. Fflewddur and Telyn were waiting just inside, passing off the reins of their steeds to the young groom who had come to take them. Both companions were looking around, awestruck and perplexed, at the bustle of battle preparations taking place throughout the outer courtyard and along the ramparts above.

"Fflewddur! Telyn!" Eilonwy called out joyously the moment they came in sight.

"Welcome, a hundred times over!" Taran shouted as he jogged alongside her.

An instant later, both had reached their companions' sides, welcoming them heartily with a round of embraces. As Eilonwy closed her arms around Fflewddur, though, her smile faltered. She pulled away and scrutinized her old friend more closely, frowning. "Fflewddur, you look… terrible!" she exclaimed. "Pardon my saying so—we're no less happy to see you, of course—but you're as thin as a reed. What happened?"

While Fflewddur looked a shade embarrassed, Telyn seemed positively chagrined. "Too much traveling and not enough eating," she muttered, her eyes downcast. "To both his credit and harm, a Fflam doesn't know when to give up…"

"Yes, well, I suppose I am rather more travel-worn than usual," the bard cut in, running his hands through his windblown hair in a futile attempt to rein it in, "but it's nothing a haircut and a few solid meals won't remedy. As for the cause of it… well, that's a story for another time," he demurred, much to the surprise and disappointment of Taran and Eilonwy. "By the looks of things, far more important and sinister matters are at hand," he continued. "Why, when I left, Caer Dathyl was a burgeoning royal court—but it now seems to have more daggers than dignitaries about."

"Alas, that it does," Taran replied. "I'm afraid you've come at the best time for our sake, but the worst time for your own. We've received word that Meilyr has amassed an army and seeks to claim the high throne of Prydain for himself. Any day now, he and his warriors may arrive at our gates."

Fflewddur gave a low whistle of disapproving astonishment. "Taking the notion of following in his uncle's footsteps a bit too literally, isn't he?" he remarked, shaking his head in dismay. "I'd gotten the impression his head is a bit too large for his shoulders, but I didn't expect he'd go quite that far with it… How did you catch wind of this in the first place?"

"Most reliably, from Rhodri. He, in turn, heard of it from Lady Ffion," Taran answered.

"Lady Ffion… The name strikes a familiar note, but I can't recall why," mused the bard.

"She is Meilyr's cousin—well, Morgant's cousin, to be absolutely precise about it," Eilonwy clarified. "Although, she seems nothing like either of them, from what we saw of her. Regardless, when she learned of Meilyr's plot, she secretly urged Rhodri to come to our aid."

Still, Fflewddur looked perplexed. "Well, I can understand not being fond of Meilyr, but why would she turn to Rhodri? What tie do they have?"

"She was his wife for a good many years," explained Eilonwy, "and we believe he wishes to win her back. Whether or not she wants the same, she must have guessed he would oblige her."

A quiet, involuntary grunt came from Telyn, who stood a few paces apart from Fflewddur, worrying her lower lip. Fflewddur cast a furtive glance her way, and a knowing expression skated across his own countenance. "Ahh," he said. "So that's the way the wind blows… I wouldn't have thought it strong enough to sway a man like Rhodri, but appearances can be deceiving, as they say."

The unspoken implications were not lost on Eilonwy. She studied her companions more closely, further taking in the bard's ragged state, the tension in Telyn's shoulders and vague melancholy in her eyes, and the unwonted distance between them. Fflewddur's reluctance to tell of their reunion spoke volumes more. Her heart twinged; they had returned in each other's company, but it was painfully clear that not all was mended between them. Lips tightening in concern, she glanced over at Taran to see if there was any indication that he'd noticed as well. By his subtle looks back and forth from friend to friend, he had.

"You said you heard this 'most reliably' from Rhodri… Others brought similar news, I gather?" Telyn interjected, shifting the conversation away from matters of the heart and back to more pressing concerns.

Taran shifted on his feet, looking discomfited. "One other did: Iscawin," he admitted. Seeing his friends' expressions darken, he hastily pressed onward to explain. "He claimed to have heard Meilyr himself crowing about an imminent attack, although the young king did not say outright that he was the one planning it. He arrived before Rhodri, in fact, with nearly two hundred warriors to pledge to our defense."

"Obviously, we didn't much believe his report, until Rhodri turned up with his warriors and confirmed it," Eilonwy noted. "Now, it seems he was right—and it also seems that we are stuck with him for want of warriors."

"Hmph," Fflewddur grunted, scowling furiously. "If it were up to me, I'd lock him in the dungeon until your need for his warriors has passed, and then send him off with an unceremonious kick to the backside—if not worse. Or, keep him locked up indefinitely."

"Not a bad idea at all," Telyn muttered, so low and vehemently that it was nearly a growl.

Taran's own scowl of worry and frustration deepened. "As tempting and neat a solution as that is, I fear it would be no real solution at all. Iscawin's warriors would be unlikely to serve us faithfully if their cantrev king were being held in a dungeon without cause."

"Oh, there's cause enough—you can be certain of that," Fflewddur contended. "It's only the proof that is missing, really. And that often doesn't come to light until a villain has spent some time chained up amid plenty of dampness and draught. Sadly, I've been forced to such measures countless times, but it always worked quite well…" A pointed cough from Telyn cut him off. "Yes, well, it was only a handful of times, in strict point of fact," Fflewddur amended. "And it never proved terribly effective, to be perfectly honest. I think the culprits knew I hadn't the stomach for doling out torment, and they simply waited it out. But Iscawin is another case entirely."

"That may be, but he will remain free for now," Taran asserted. "His message appears to be true, and for that he has earned our cautious acceptance. Besides, we hope to gain further confirmation soon. More than a week ago, now, we sent forth two scouts, along with Gurgi, to uncover what they could about how quickly Meilyr's army is approaching."

"Gurgi?" Telyn asked, surprised. "The same Gurgi who is forever worrying about his poor, tender head?"

The hint of a smile appeared on Taran's lips. "The same," he replied.

"He volunteered," Eilonwy added. "Pleaded, really. Neither of us wanted him put in such danger, but he wouldn't hear of staying behind—not even when his task would have been to help Medyr gather up provisions."

"Well, good on him," said the bard, grinning. "I always knew he had a solid spine when it came down to it. That keen nose of his should do well at sniffing out villains, too."

Taran nodded, serious once again. "So long as he returns safely, and soon. I am anxious to hear what he has learned, and also to have another faithful friend close by."

"Indeed," Fflewddur concurred. "And on that note, it's a good thing Telyn and I came straight here, instead of stopping in my realm first. With a snake like Iscawin underfoot, you could use two more loyal sets of eyes to keep watch on him—and two more swords, for that matter."

"I hope those swords can be saved for Meilyr's army—or spared any use at all," Taran noted ruefully.

"But for now," Eilonwy put in, "come and make yourselves at home as best you can amid this mess. I'm afraid the guest chambers are occupied now, but we can set up pavilions we have for each of you, just beside the Middle Tower. And while that's being taken care of, good Llyr, Fflewddur, we must have you eat something before you topple over like a blade of grass in a stiff breeze. If you plan to wield any sword at all, you'll need the strength to lift it first!"


The next few days passed without incident, although the press of nervous anticipation continued to grow, disrupting sleep and cutting tempers short throughout the harried stronghold. Each evening, Taran and Eilonwy gathered in the Council Chamber with their companions and allies to take stock of where the battle preparations stood.

At one such meeting, just at the close of day, as all were discussing how best to divide and command the warriors in smaller, more nimble bands, the door to the chamber swung wide without even a single knock as warning. Llassar and a fellow guardsman staggered in, bearing up a third, gravely wounded, man between them.

It was Powel, Iscawin's scout. Fflewddur rushed to help Llassar and the guardsman ease him down, grimacing, to lie flat upon the floor, and placed a cloak beneath his head. Telyn immediately raced off to bring bandages and healing herbs while the others in the chamber drew in close. The scout was pallid and clammy from blood loss, and bore a multitude of slashes across his face and arms. His garments looked as though he'd dragged himself a fair way over muddy ground, and were in rent in several places; one crimson-stained slash bespoke another wound in his side, which Iscawin rushed to stanch with his own cloak. His breaths came only in shallow, rapid, ragged pants.

"Powel! What happened? Where are Gurgi and Erim?" Eilonwy cried out, kneeling over him to better look him in the eyes.

"Slain," he rasped. "By Meilyr's men."

The moment the words sliced through the air, a collective gasp shuddered among the companions. Eilonwy cried out as though she'd been struck. Grief and guilt slammed into Taran with the force of a battering ram, crushing his heart and shattering his thoughts. Gurgi, slain. Slain. Humble, faithful, good-hearted Gurgi. Slain. In service to him. Because he had allowed him to go forth as a scout.

Seemingly far in the distance, muted by a wall of shock, Taran heard Powel struggling to explain what had occurred: some of Meilyr's advance guard had spotted them… a desperate skirmish… a narrow escape after Gurgi and Erim fell… warriors advancing eastward through the valley… Dazed, Taran looked away from him and glanced toward Eilonwy, who had pulled back and was now standing with her hands clapped over her mouth, equally anguished. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks as she listened intently to the report—tears she could not afford to give voice, nor even acknowledge by the act of wiping them away. She had no time for grief. He, himself, had no time for grief. There was no time for anything, now. Meilyr's army was mere hours away.

Pushing through the fog of sorrow and shoving the fragments of his heart and mind back together by force, Taran went to kneel beside Powel and clasp his hand. "Where, exactly, were Meilyr's forces when last you saw them?" he asked, his voice flat with suppressed alarm.

"Just past Blackwing Stream… coming straight through… center of the valley. They'll be… camped for the night."

"And how many? Mounted? On foot?"

The scout was fading quickly, his eyes glassy and unfocused, each breath a struggle as he fought to push the words out. Taran squeezed his hand, urging him to hold fast to life. "Didn't get… a good count… before we were attacked," Powel continued. "Well over a thousand… Center valley…"

Rapidly, Taran made a rough mental tally of the forces at his command: two hundred in his own garrison; that many again among the cottagers and workmen; around five hundred all told from Iscawin; six hundred or so from Rhodri… Enough, if they fought wisely and well, to throw back Meilyr's attack in the field before he reached Caer Dathyl. Perhaps. If fortune was on their side.

He looked up and around at the faces of the others in the room. To a person, they were drawn with worry. Even Iscawin, still kneeling across from him, looked shaken by the sight of his bloodied scout, now fallen unconscious and scarcely breathing.

Several fraught moments later, the door to the Council Chamber flew open once again, and Telyn rushed in with bandages and a pail of water in hand. In an instant, she took Iscawin's place at Powel's side and, with a flurry of hands, began checking his sundry wounds. A beat or two later, she froze; then pressed her fingertips to the side of his throat, frowning; then sat back on her heels with a grim sigh. She was too late. Powel was already lost, and whatever else he knew along with him.

Heavily, Iscawin rose and draped the cloak he still held over the scout's body. Eilonwy pulled aside the guardsman who'd accompanied Llassar, and sent him to summon others to bear Powel's body away for burial. Rhodri stood a pace apart, stance wide and arms crossed, his dark brow deeply furrowed.

Somberly, Taran rose as well. Three dead already… How many more would fall within the next day? He, himself, felt nearly as stiff and still as a corpse without, but his guts and mind both churned away furiously within. He now knew exactly how little time they had, roughly how many warriors they would face, and the exact route by which they came. So, what options lay before him? Would they confront Meilyr in the valley, or remain in Caer Dathyl and trust that its still-ruptured defenses could hold? Which would be the wisest course? All eyes were on him, now, awaiting the command of their King.

Rhodri cleared his throat and addressed the room, although the words themselves could be answered only by two of those present. "All right," he began brusquely. "We have now heard all that we will, have assembled what warriors are to be had, and have discussed what battle strategies we can undertake. The well of time remaining to us has run dry. What action shall we now take?"

"The decision, of course, is yours," Iscawin said to Taran. "But if you would accept my own counsel, I would advise that you weigh that decision carefully against the state of Caer Dathyl. It's gates and towers are sound, but several of the walls are unfinished. The preparations you've made for a siege will not last long. If you face Meilyr here, the stronghold will be too weak to defend effectively—and even if you are victorious, the assault will tear asunder much of what you have worked for an entire year to rebuild. Yet, Meilyr will not expect a counterattack in the field—the fact that he moves directly through the valley center, with no care for being seen or maintaining a strategic position, attests to that. If you move to intercept them and sweep alongside their flanks from higher ground, you may quash this uprising before it truly begins."

"There is some truth to that," Rhodri agreed grimly. "By no means is it a perfect choice; we all remember how such an offensive went two winters past. That said, Meilyr has nowhere near the number of warriors Pryderi commanded, and there is no worry of deathless Cauldron-Born coming to his aid."

Taran stood silently for a long while, mulling over the cantrev kings' words. Indeed, he felt cast back in time, reliving the brutal memory of Pryderi's assault, Gwydion's preemptive counterattack, and the slaughter that followed. Ghastly images flashed through his mind: of surging warriors, and flashing blades, and crimson blood on snow-flecked earth; the anguished cries of the dying; a defiant High King Math overcome by Cauldron-Born… Once more his stomach lurched with the wrenching terror and despair of that day. More than a year now had passed, and still the damage to Caer Dathyl stood as haunting testament—to say nothing of the fallen warriors, never more to rise, who lay beneath the valley's soil. It made Taran sick at heart to think he might lead still more to the same fate on the very same ground.

Yet, Gwydion had led his warriors as he had because he'd sought to defend Caer Dathyl above all. It was, and had ever been, far more than a fortress. It was a bastion of memory, of knowledge—an emblem of peace and goodness standing mightily against the forces of evil and ruin. To lose it twice over… To lose what all had fought so desperately to protect before, and what they had since worked so hard to regain…

"We will ride out to confront Meilyr," Taran announced, the force of conviction behind his words surprising even him as they passed his lips. "Rhodri, Iscawin, Cadfan—go to your warriors and tell them to prepare for a field offensive; we march at dawn. Llassar, see to it that the cottagers fighting with us are told the same. Eilonwy and I will further refine the battle strategy and relay it to you in an hour's time."

The men nodded in agreement and hurried off. Behind their backs, Taran motioned for Fflewddur and Telyn to remain with him and Eilonwy.

"What were you thinking?!" Eilonwy hissed as soon as the four of them were safely alone. "Just leaping to that decision before you and I had a chance to speak privately?"

At first, Taran was too stunned to reply. Then, he felt his face grow hot with a blend of dismay and indignation. "How much is there to discuss?" he countered. "We have two roads open to us, and I agree that Caer Dathyl must be spared above all. The exact way in which we will disperse the warriors and set against Meilyr must be worked out, but aside from that…"

Eilonwy cut in before he could utter another infuriating syllable. "You don't find it a bit suspicious that Iscawin's man is the only one who returned?" she asked. "Or that Iscawin was the first to suggest you confront Meilyr in the field?"

"Rhodri recommended the same," he reminded her. "And as for Powel, the poor man is dead, Eilonwy. You think a mortally wounded man was lying about being attacked?"

"I don't know what to think, exactly," she retorted. "I only know that I still don't trust Iscawin. And since he clearly wants you and the warriors away from Caer Dathyl, I think it best to remain here."

"As do I, for what it is worth," Fflewddur chimed in. "Mark my words, that gwythaint is out to feather his own foul nest somehow. He's slyer than a fox—managed to make me suspicious of Telyn herself despite my distrust and contempt for him. That's an uncommon breed of villain, that."

Telyn's attention turned sharply to the bard, with a look of consternation. "What? When? Iscawin spoke to you about me? You said nothing of that…"

"It was before—ah—before things went awry between us," Fflewddur replied sheepishly.

"What did he say? You believed him?" Telyn asked, aghast.

"Well not believed, exactly, but he somehow managed to plant some thoughts in my mind that would never have taken root otherwise…"

"There, you see?" Eilonwy cut back in. "His word is not to be trusted. His advice is not to be trusted, Taran."

"I do not trust him," Taran asserted, pushing down the defensive anger he felt rising in his chest. "I am trying to act upon what information we have, and what we can guess at. In truth, like you, I fear Iscawin is attempting to draw us away from Caer Dathyl. Perhaps he has additional forces of his own lying in wait, ready to lay siege to Caer Dathyl while we are embattled with Meilyr. Perhaps he is in league with Meilyr and they have planned it thus, with Powel acting as an unwitting pawn. Or, perhaps Meilyr's campaign is exactly as it appears, and as Powel reported. We do not know. Were there time, we could send forth another, more trusted, scout. But there is not time, and there is too much to risk if we fail to act quickly and forcefully."

"So, what, then? We simply walk straight into what might be a trap?" Eilonwy argued.

"No. We attempt to keep one eye on where we step, and another over our shoulder," Taran countered. "It is true, as Iscawin said, that Caer Dathyl is still weak. Yet, it is not wholly indefensible, given sound strategy and good warriors. We shall leave a substantial guard behind for defense while the bulk of the warriors set out to confront Meilyr. I do trust Rhodri, and with his warriors pledged to us, we should be a strong enough force even when divided. If Meilyr's advance proves to be a ruse, we shall know soon enough, and will return immediately to attack from behind whomever has beset Caer Dathyl. It is far from a perfect plan, I know, but I believe it is the best we can manage."

Eilonwy, Fflewddur, and Telyn pondered that in smoldering silence for a time. Then, at last, Fflewddur nodded in agreement. "It is a sound enough strategy—given the choices we have, that is. Meilyr hasn't impressed me all that much in the way of cleverness or skill, so you shouldn't need a full force to overcome him, even with the numbers he has under his command. Who knows," he added with a shrug, "by some lucky chance, you might even find a way to talk him out of his misguided treachery. You do seem to have a knack for that sort of diplomacy, you know. In which case, so much the better! A Fflam never shrinks from battle, but I'd take sharp words over sharp swords given the choice."

Taran looked to his other companions for their assent.

Eilonwy flicked her braid testily over her shoulder and crossed her arms. "I don't like it one bit," she said. "It seems like the most reasonable plan would be to stick together. If a small host of warriors is enough to defend Caer Dathyl, wouldn't an entire army be that much better? Splitting up sounds like cutting off one of our arms so we can reach farther. If you really believe that Iscawin has plotted a surprise attack on the castle itself…"

"I fear it, but we cannot be certain," Taran replied. He shook his head ruefully. "If Iscawin does have a sinister game, he has played it well—we have no sure path, nor even a certain enemy. But listen," he continued, raising his hands beseechingly, "for all that Iscawin might be a liar, he was right that an attack on Caer Dathyl would lay to waste to our repairs, even if we do win the day. Imagine that. Imagine having to begin everything anew a second time. Imagine how brutally that would crush the spirits of all who have given a year of their lives to the work. They might have no will left to help us again. They might have no faith left in us at all. If Powel spoke truth about Meilyr's position and we can defeat him in the field, imagine the damage it would spare."

Eilonwy drew in a deep breath, then released it as something halfway between a huff and a sigh, wearily pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. "I suppose," she said dejectedly. "We are building our hopes on a giant pile of 'ifs' and I don't like that one bit… but so be it."

"It is settled, then," Taran stated, resolutely but without any trace of satisfaction. "The larger host, including all of Rhodri and Iscawin's forces, will ride to confront Meilyr. A smaller but highly skilled group of warriors from our own garrison will remain here to defend Caer Dathyl. Iscawin must know as little as possible about that second group—not their full number, nor who they are. If we can make him believe only a handful of archers has remained here, that would serve us best. I, myself, will ride out with the bulk of the warriors. You three will stay behind to lead the castle guard."

"Stay behind?!" Fflewddur sputtered. "Great Belin! Right when you most need trustworthy comrades by your side? Eilonwy knows more than enough to lead the castle defense… and with Telyn helping… Surely you don't need me to hold back as well!"

"I didn't stay behind last time Caer Dathyl was attacked, and I'm not keen on doing so this time, either!" Eilonwy protested.

"Easy… easy," Taran said, with firm tone but a pacifying gesture. "I need loyal companions here as much as I need them by my side. If Caer Dathyl is attacked—either in a surprise assault or because my own counterattack on Meilyr fails—it will need you, Eilonwy, as protector. You know that as well as I. In turn, you must have a steadfast war leader to assist you—and Fflewddur, there is no one I trust more than you for that. Telyn must also hold back, for she is too skilled a healer to risk in battle; she will be sorely needed in its aftermath, whatever the outcome. Rhodri, Cadfan, Hevydd, and Llassar will be with me in the field, and that will have to suffice."

Eilonwy locked eyes with him when he looked back to her—two bright blue pools, reflecting his own bewildering array of emotions. Therein, he saw the same worry, the same uncertainty, the same frustration, the same edge of despair… and also the same determination to endure, come what may. Her lips were pressed into a taught line, embodying the boundary of decision at which she hovered. He felt himself doing likewise while he held his breath, waiting.

"All right," she said at last, shearing through the hovering tension with just two clipped syllables. "It shall be as you wish. Fflewddur, Telyn, and I shall defend Caer Dathyl, while you lead the warriors in the field."

"Good," Taran exhaled, with a nod of gratitude. "I hope that this will prove to be the right choice—that we have wrongly guessed Iscawin's motives—and that I can somehow make Meilyr see reason without any bloodshed at all. But if not, we shall bravely meet whatever fate befalls us."

In the pensive silence that followed, a knock sounded upon the door.

"Gravediggers, Your Majesties," came the call. "Here to bear away the unfortunate."

Involuntarily, all four cast their eyes upon the slain scout, lying shrouded in his own cloak upon the cold flagstones. Without a word, Fflewddur went to open the door, revealing two coarsely garbed men bearing a sling between them. After just a terse, muttered greeting, they strode forward and unceremoniously heaved Powel's body onto it. Then, after a deferential nod to their lieges, they proceeded indifferently out the door as though they were merely hauling away a barrel of water or a bundle of sticks. The four companions looked on dolefully.

Taran himself moved toward the threshold. "We, too, must be on our way," he urged. "We have lost precious time already…"

"You two go ahead and divide up the warriors as planned," Telyn said to Taran and Fflewddur. "Eilonwy and I will go warn the women who are still here that they must truly decide now whether to flee or fight. We will join you thereafter."

The very moment the two men had quit the room, though, Telyn caught Eilonwy's arm. "Are you truly content with this plan?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Of course not!" Eilonwy whispered back, agitated. "It stretches our forces too thin. Whether Taran wants to believe it or not, that is the truth of it."

"Nor am I content," Telyn agreed. "Iscawin has laid some sort of snare, and I refuse to walk blindly toward it. Guessing at his plot is not enough—we must know for certain."

"But how? Just as Taran said, there isn't time for any more scouts," Eilonwy contended.

"Not enough to scout very far ahead and return in time. But what of that watchtower Gurgi discovered atop Hawk Hill?"

Instantly, a spark of comprehension ignited in Eilonwy's eyes. "Yes!" she breathed excitedly. "It gives a much broader view to the west than Caer Dathyl's towers do. If there is another army in hiding, it might be possible to spot them from there."

"I shall go myself, then," Telyn offered. "Of all of us, I am needed least at the moment."

"Not alone, you won't! Not with who knows what spies and warriors lurking about!" Eilonwy protested. "We shall go together."

"A queen cannot leave her stronghold with a battle on the horizon…"

"Whatever can be seen, I want to see with my own two eyes," Eilonwy countered resolutely. "I've had my fill of second-hand reports—not that I don't trust you, but all of the others. And you need someone with you in case something goes awry, anyway. As you said, the hill isn't far—we should be back well before any trouble begins."

Telyn's expression tightened with disapproval.

"We go together," Eilonwy reiterated. "We shall tell Fflewddur, and no one else needs to know until we've returned."

Telyn shook her head emphatically. "No. If we tell Fflewddur, he will try to stop us—or shout something about 'the valor of a Fflam' and try to come along. Neither will do any good. Even if we do make it back quickly, Caer Dathyl needs someone here to lead the defense in the meantime, and he is the best for the task."

Eilonwy smirked a little. "True on both counts. Well, we shall go alone then. I know a way we might slip out without notice through a gap in the north wall."

Telyn nodded. "Good. This moonless night is a hinderance, but dawn will arrive soon enough. Let's leave the moment it is light enough for the horses to keep from stumbling over their own hooves, before the warriors set out. Go attend to what you must, now. I will do the same, and meet you by the wall thereafter."


The night passed in a mad blur of blazing torches and frantic bodies as all made their final preparations for combat. Even in the midst of it, Taran forced Eilonwy to snatch an hour or two of sleep, and she made him do the same, both praying that it would be enough to see them through the following day clear-headed. Even more so than Taran, though, Eilonwy could scarcely settle her mind enough on account of the added anticipation of her secret scouting mission with Telyn. The hour was almost at hand, now…

And then, it had arrived. Not a single ray of dawn had yet cracked through the darkness, but the star-studded blackness had softened to a deep marine, cut through with the calls of skylarks and song thrushes. Hurriedly, Taran and Eilonwy strapped on their leather armor and daggers and then, at the last, their swords, girding Dyrnwyn and Arianmor upon each other in turn.

As Taran cinched the belt securely around Eilonwy's hips, he felt an invisible band clench likewise around his throat. At the last attack on Caer Dathyl, he'd had no chance to bid her farewell before being swept off into the surge of battle. He would not make that mistake again. He stood tall before her, desperately seeking the proper words: hopeful but not foolishly so; earnest but not cloying; cognizant of the worst that might come to pass without inviting it in…

In his half-moment of hesitation, Eilonwy rushed ahead. She reached up to cradle his head, then kissed him ardently, as if to pour every last drop of energy she possessed into him, like an enchantment to ward off evil and keep him from harm. "Return to me," she commanded as she withdrew, in a voice edged with determination and tight with fear. Her brilliant, unwavering eyes held his—two windows onto the clear blue skies he hoped lay somewhere ahead for them. "Return to me," she repeated, more adamantly still.

"Always," Taran breathed, sealing the spell with a solemn, fervent vow.

And then, there was no more to be said. He clutched her tightly to his chest one last time, then—unable to bear a backward glance—caught up his helmet and shield, and raced off to the garrison to join his troops. Eilonwy stood for one moment looking after him, searing the image into her mind against some horrific future time of need. Then she, too, hastened on her way—first to meet with Fflewddur in the gatehouse, to give the impression that she would be making the rounds of the other towers, and thence to the north wall to meet Telyn.

She was already waiting there in the shadows with Seiriol and Lluagor, concealed by some scaffolding and stacks of stone abandoned in the haste to make ready for battle. The expression on Telyn's face was barely discernable in the pre-dawn darkness, but her posture clearly conveyed all of the anxiety that Eilonwy herself felt. Wordlessly, Eilonwy took Lluagor's reins from her and led them all through a jagged gap in the stones, barely wide enough for the horses to squeeze through. From there, they proceeded stealthily along the face of the wall, hugging it tightly in hopes that the watchmen above would be directing their attention farther afield. When they reached the corner of the fortress a few moments later, they mounted their steeds and made a heart-pounding dash across the field for the cover of the trees beyond.

Only when they reached that concealment did their pulses quiet and their tense shoulders drop. This route took them out of their way for a time, skirting along the side of the valley as they bore southward, but it would keep them from view until they were much closer to Hawk Hill. They would have no trouble reaching it within the hour.

While they rode—as swiftly as the darkness would allow—the sky gradually brightened from deep sapphire, to teal painted with a yellow-orange glow, to the clear, pale blue of shadows on ice. By the time they reached the foot of the hill, the first shafts of sunlight were haloing the peaks to the east. Upward they climbed, then, retracing their path from the excursion before. The same patch of level ground and spreading rowan tree midway upslope served as a tethering post for their steeds. The same narrow footpath led them winding further up the hill, past tangled brush and jutting stone. Their fluttering anticipation rose in kind.

At last, just as the first streams of sunlight began to wash the valley below, they emerged at the small clearing near the summit where the ancient watchtower stood. The slanting sunbeams upon its eastern face cast its fissures and spalled surfaces into sharp relief, making it look even more like a mere outcropping of rock. Quickly, now, they rushed up the winding staircase to the top. For an instant, as they reached the edge and cast their gaze to the valley below, it felt like a climactic moment of triumph: they had taken matters into their own hands, and would now gain the truth of what they faced.

Then, reality set in: a search still lay ahead. Indeed, as they scanned the valley and surrounding hills for any sign of movement, they saw only the battle host of Caer Dathyl marching across the broad fields, and the shifting patterns of sunlight and cloud-shadow passing alongside them like ghosts over the terrain. For a long while, they watched and waited, desperately seeking any trace of a concealed army lying in wait. They saw nothing to the south, where River Ystrad poured into the valley. They saw nothing to the north, lurking behind Caer Dathyl itself. They saw nothing to the east, creeping up on the shadowed slopes of those looming hills. No… they could see no signs of an immediate threat from an unexpected direction.

Far below them, Taran's warriors forged ahead—now just past Hawk Hill, at the fork in the valley. Soon, they would be turning westward through the pass. Eilonwy watched them pensively for a few moments, both proud and unnerved. They were so many in number, and yet looked so few, and small, and vulnerable amid the mighty peaks and expansive fields… Worrying her lower lip, she looked away to the west, where death awaited them with greedy claws. Dimly, she wondered whether Gwyn the Hunter was watching just as she was, from some other high peak… the Eagle itself, perhaps? That seemed fitting… Or did he ride upon the wind itself, invisible and immaterial? Did he ride at all, for that matter? They said he had hounds with him, so an enchanted steed would be logical…

Suddenly, a scattering of metallic flashes caught her eye. She gasped.

Telyn's head snapped around at the sound of her outcry, then followed the rigid line of Eilonwy's outstretched arm, pointing ominously northwestward to the far side of the valley. She, too, immediately sucked in a sharp breath. There, scattered among the trees at the forest edge, the blades and studded armor of an immense, partially-concealed army now glinted in the strengthening sun.

In an instant, they saw Iscawin's game laid out before them as clearly as the pieces on a chessboard. Powel had lied. The enemy warriors did not hold the position he'd claimed but, rather, one masked by the curve of the valley and the surrounding hills, and much, much closer than foretold—a blind spot in Caer Dathyl's broader defenses. By the time Taran's army rounded the bend and gained a clear line of sight, it would be too late; the hidden enemy would brutally strike their flank, catching them entirely off-guard.

The lethal trap had been set—and in the span of an hour, it would be sprung.


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A/N: We've hit the final stretch at last! I'll be posting the last two chapters within the next few days so no one dies of suspense waiting for an entire week. ;) Check back soon if you don't have an alert set up.