"An ambush! We must warn Taran!" Eilonwy cried, dread choking her voice. Already she'd sprung away from the parapet and was rushing toward the stairs.
"It won't be enough!" Telyn gasped, following close at her heels. "Nearly half of the warriors are Iscawin's—they'll turn on him as soon as the battle begins! Oh, that vile, double-crossing, sneaking son-of-a-gwythaint!" she spat as her look of alarm contorted into rage.
"But if we return to the castle first for reinforcements, they won't arrive until after well after the battle has begun…" Eilonwy replied over her shoulder. She reached the bottom of the stairs and burst out into the daylight once again, pausing briefly to look once more to the valley below, biting her lip as she desperately sought a plan. "We'll have to split up—there's nothing else for it," she said as Telyn reached her side. "I will ride to Taran… try to stall their march somehow without letting Iscawin realize why…"
"…while I go to Caer Dathyl for help," Telyn finished. She shook her head in furious dismay. "Gwyn's Bones, what a mess!"
Together, they careened back down the hillside, tearing through the underbrush and skittering over loose rocks. The very hill that had revealed Iscawin's treachery now fought against them, and their anxiety grew with each second spilled among the rocks. When they reached their waiting horses, they said not a word more to each other—merely untethered the reins, tossed each other one last glance of support, swung up into the saddles, and raced off on their separate paths.
Telyn had the steeper route to follow down the craggy northeastern slope, disregarding the longer, winding paths they'd used for their ascent. The loose stones and rocky fissures hindered Seiriol terribly. At a moderate pace, they would have posed no trouble for the sure-footed stallion, but the frantic speed to which Telyn urged him sent his hooves slipping over the loose stones and rocky fissures. Several whinnies of protest cut through the air, but still Telyn urged him onward.
They'd nearly gained the base of the hill when Telyn suddenly felt him stumble sickeningly beneath her. She lurched forward in the saddle as he came to a dead halt, and only her residue of catlike balance saved her from pitching headfirst to the ground. Heart thumping hard enough to burst, she first stroked the terrified steed's neck and murmured reassurances in his ear to calm him, then dismounted to inspect what damage had been done. As she led him slowly forward he hobbled painfully, unable to bear much weight on his foreleg. She bent to examine the injury more closely, and cursed with dismay—he was lamed and would carry her no farther. With a groan of frustration, she abandoned him and began to run. He could make his way back to Caer Dathyl slowly, but she had not a second to spare.
Over the wild terrain she raced, legs flying and heart pounding, focusing on the rhythm of her straining breaths to keep from thinking about the distance that lay ahead. She urged herself onward, pace by pace and landmark by landmark: make it to that next boulder… to that twisted tree… to that fallen cairn… to the edge of this field… to that next hedgerow… ten more paces… and ten more… and ten more… and ten more…
Dashing across a wet ditch, a soft patch in the otherwise firm ground gave way without warning, catching the toes of one foot and sending Telyn hurtling forward. Her every muscle fought to maintain balance, but failed. She crashed to the ground; sharp stones scraped the skin from her palms and bit into her knees, eliciting a hiss of pain. Another stumble? Wasn't Seiriol's enough to satisfy the mischievous fates? Cursing herself for her carelessness, she scrambled to her feet and began to run again, heedless of her wounds, sobbing with exhaustion and despair. Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going…
At last, the towers of Caer Dathyl came into view, wavering in her half-dazed vision. If she could make it just a little farther…
One of the gatehouse watchmen spotted her slight figure in the distance—a whirlwind of limbs streaking across the field. He cried out to Fflewddur and waved him over. The bard ran to look over the parapet, squinting to make out the runner's identity. He sucked in a shocked breath when he realized it was Telyn.
"Open the gates! Open the blasted gates!" he shouted to the gatekeepers. The guards rushed to winch up the portcullis, but it rose painfully slowly, inch by creaking inch. Fflewddur didn't wait; he flew down the tower stairs so quickly he, himself, nearly tripped, and ran to help heave open the massive, iron-studded portal.
Telyn scrambled straight up the craggy slope on which the mighty fortress perched, stumbling and scrabbling for purchase on the loose stones. At last, with a cry of desperate, weary, triumph, she reached the barely-cracked gates, staggered into the courtyard, and collapsed to her hands and knees. Fflewddur and a brace of guards rushed to her side, alarmed.
"Telyn?! Great Belin, how… Where were you? Why weren't you at the southwest tower? What has happened?"
He bent and tried to help her stand. She struggled to rise but, even with his help, her legs buckled and she sank to the ground once again, utterly spent. Her chest heaved as her burning lungs fought to draw breath.
"It's… It's an… ambush… Not a siege…" she gasped. "Iscawin leads Taran into an ambush!"
The blood drained from Fflewddur's face in an instant. "Where? How far? How do you know this?"
"Around the bend in the valley… Eilonwy and I went to scout from Hawk Hill and saw the army in the distance. She rode to warn Taran…" Telyn's voice fractured with panic. "But they need more warriors! They are too few to stand against Meilyr's men once Iscawin's warriors turn on them!"
"And warriors they shall have!" Fflewddur cried. "When a Fflam leads, enemies fall like wheat to a scythe!" He turned and called out to one of the guards. "You there! Round up all except a score of archers—every last warrior we can possibly spare without leaving Caer Dathyl wholly unguarded. We ride out to defend the High King and Queen!"
He spun back to Telyn, still anxious for her well-being. She'd caught her breath at last and managed to clamber to her feet, but was still flushed and wide-eyed. "Stay here," Fflewddur urged her. "You are at the end of your strength."
"No! I must go with you!" Telyn cried. "I will find the strength, I swear…" Her eyes blazed with defiance, but her body betrayed her, still trembling from the combination of frayed nerves and exhaustion.
"Please, Telyn—I am not commanding you, but pleading," Fflewddur said, gripping her arms to steady her. "You are already spent. Stay here and command the guard of archers. We cannot leave the castle undefended, even if we no longer expect a direct attack. Great Belin, it would be folly for you to ride out in such a state… You ran all of the way from Hawk Hill?"
Telyn clenched her jaw and stared rebelliously up at the bard for an achingly long, fraught moment. At last, seeing the worry and desperation in his eyes, she grudgingly acquiesced. "Fine. Go. I will stay behind—this time. But you had better return in one piece!" Though her words were tart, every line in her drawn face betrayed her fears.
"Never fear! A Fflam always lands on his feet!" Fflewddur vowed. Even so, he hesitated, still clasping Telyn's arms, reluctant to part.
"Then go!" she cried. She broke free of his grasp and shoved him away. "Quickly! They need you! Before I change my mind!" Still, Fflewddur stalled, walking backward slowly. "Go!" Telyn shouted again.
He turned and ran toward the armory. Telyn stumbled after him for a few steps as though pulled by an unseen hand. Then, as he disappeared from sight, she crumpled once more to her knees, staring hollowly ahead at the place where he'd been. Around her still figure, the warriors of Caer Dathyl churned like a tumultuous sea around a desolate block of fallen cliff-stone.
Eilonwy fared better than Telyn, but her way was by no means easy. After descending from Hawk Hill, the shortest route to Taran's army passed through densely wooded terrain, thick with tangled underbrush and rife with hillocks and gullies. Thorny shrubs tore at Lluagor's flanks and snagged Eilonwy's leggings and cloak as they trampled their way through. Low branches posed a constant threat, forcing Eilonwy to keep her head low over the steed's neck, which hindered her view.
When they finally broke through the forest's edge, Eilonwy's cry of relief quickly turned to a groan of dismay. A rushing, spring-flooded stream barred their path, coursing between stony banks. She rapidly assessed its breadth and depth, scanning for a safe place to cross. At last, she spied a point downstream where the current was moving swiftly but across some shallows—she could see the water leaping up as it passed over larger rocks beneath its surface. She spurred Lluagor onward and plunged into the icy flow. As she had guessed, the water reached only to the mare's hocks; slick as the rocky river bottom was, it was passable. A few anxious moments later, they reached the far bank, scrambled up it, and charged onward.
The way was clear then, and Eilonwy took full advantage of it. She pressed Lluagor to a full gallop, feeling the steed's powerful muscles straining beneath her. The ground was a dizzying blur below and the air felt like a torrent over her skin. Then, as horse and rider crested a slight ridge in the terrain, the column of warriors came into view. Lluagor, sensing Eilonwy's urgency, responded with even greater speed. Over the green-kissed ground, the bay mare dashed at a breakneck pace, more a streak of color than an earthly animal. She hardly slowed even when she came up alongside the battle host.
"Taran! Taran!" Eilonwy cried out frantically, desperately seeking him among the press of marching men. At the front—he will be somewhere near the front, she thought, scanning ahead. Steadily, she pushed Lluagor forward through the crowd, even kicking out once or twice when someone didn't move away quickly enough. Face after face swam in her vision, but not one of them was Taran's.
Finally, she broke through the front lines and spotted the silver flank of Melynlas a short way down the field. "Taran!" she shouted again, spurring Lluagor onward once again. "Taran, stop!"
He whirled around sharply when he heard her voice and watched as she sped toward him. Her unbound hair, fallen loose from its tie, streamed behind her like a red-gold banner in the breeze, and the very sight of her brought all of the warriors she passed to a dumbfounded halt.
When she reached Taran's side at last, he saw that Lluagor's flanks were in a lather and Eilonwy herself was breathing hard. "What are you doing here?" he gasped, his eyes wide with alarm. "Has Caer Dathyl fallen?"
"No, no, Caer Dathyl is fine—and was never in danger in the first place," she replied in a breathless hush. "But you are being led into a trap!" She glanced around to see if any treacherous ears were listening, then gestured for him to follow her a short distance away from the line of warriors. "We were right to distrust Iscawin, but wrong in guessing his plot," she continued. "Powel's report was a lie! Meilyr's warriors are waiting on the northern slopes just around this bend, not further along in the open. If you keep going, they'll be upon you before you even catch a clear view of them!"
Taran paled. "How do you know this?" he asked in a rough murmur.
"Telyn and I did some scouting of our own, from Hawk Hill—and don't you dare chide me for leaving Caer Dathyl because we haven't the time—and we saw them hiding among the trees," she explained. "This isn't some rumor, or a guess, or a premonition, or any other such foolish thing, Taran—we saw them with our own eyes. If you keep up the march, in less than an hour, they will be at your flanks!"
Taran quailed as he envisioned the slaughter that would follow such an ambush. He glanced back at the crowd of warriors, noting with dismay just how many wore Iscawin's colors: lurid slashes of red across fields of white, like blood upon snow. His stomach lurched. "And Iscawin's warriors will turn against us—close to half of the men here… Even with Rhodri's warriors, we are too few to face them all."
"Telyn rode back to alert Fflewddur and bring reinforcements," Eilonwy reassured him. "But it will take time for them to reach us. We must delay somehow…"
Taran nodded. "Yes… even a small delay may spare us…"
"And what shall we do with Iscawin in the meantime? We cannot have him running about freely…"
Just then, Iscawin himself emerged from the crowd, riding up on his blood bay stallion. Darkly questioning, he looked from Taran to Eilonwy and back again.
"What is going on? Why have we halted the march? And why is Her Majesty here?" he asked sternly.
Eilonwy shot him a withering glance but remained silent. Taran paused for a moment, seeking words to deflect Iscawin without revealing just yet that they knew his plot. They did need to take him prisoner, but not when surrounded by so many men who might come to his defense.
"Eilonwy brings news that additional warriors have been seen along Ystrad—the armies of Smoit, Tegwyn, and Cedrych come to our aid," he bluffed, wishing desperately that it were true. "We sent forth our swiftest messenger the very night that you and Rhodri arrived, on the slim chance that they might reach us in time. It appears that they have. We are calling a halt until they reach us."
Iscawin broad shoulders stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "You said nothing of that in all of our planning. Why?"
Taran stared back at him coolly, though his insides churned. "We had little hope that they would come quickly enough—and it was not your concern besides. But now they have, and so we shall wait."
"But a delay will allow Meilyr's forces to advance substantially and reach more advantageous terrain," Iscawin argued.
"We wait," Eilonwy reiterated with an icy glare.
Iscawin's own eyes glinted, but he said no more—merely gave a single, brusque nod, and rode back into the mass of warriors. Taran and Eilonwy watched him warily for a moment.
"Well, what now?" Eilonwy asked. "Even if Fflewddur and the others arrive in time, and we can find the right moment to capture Iscawin, how do we take Meilyr by surprise when he has the hillside to back him?"
Indeed, Taran's mind was already racing, seeking an answer to that very question. "First, go find Rhodri," he said. "He should be midway back, directing the warriors at the rear. Tell him we are calling a halt, and that I must speak with him immediately to devise a new strategy. I will do the same with Cadfan and Llassar."
"With Iscawin still free? I won't leave your side when a traitor is at your back!" Eilonwy protested.
Before Taran could utter a word in reply, a series of shouts resounded across the field, followed quickly by the clash of arms, intensifying as it spread, like a rolling peal of thunder. In the distance, they saw Iscawin riding through the mass of warriors, inciting his troops to attack. Chaos broke. One by one, the men of Arvon turned to strike at their fellow warriors. Caught entirely off-guard, Taran's forces had barely enough time to draw their own weapons before the melee was upon them.
"Go find Rhodri! Tell him what has sparked this fire, and to direct his men as best he can!" Taran shouted to Eilonwy even as he, himself, leapt into action. Frantically, he rode through the tumultuous horde, struggling to rally his own warriors into an organized counter-attack. At every turn, blades and pikes slashed and thrust at him and Melynlas. One by one, he beat them back, by instinct as much as by conscious thought.
Eventually, he managed to regroup a portion of his men at the fringe of the battlefield. Then, with a few shouted commands and blasts on his battle-horn, he led them back into the dizzying whirlwind of sharp metal and bared teeth. Down-field, he briefly caught sight of Cadfan and Rhodri doing likewise. Moments later, a fleeting glimpse of red-gold drew his eye and reassured him that Eilonwy, too, was holding her own, scything Arianmor through the air in deadly flashes of silver light.
For a time, it was all Taran could do to keep his wits about him and his skin in one piece as he led the men he'd rallied. Over and over, they charged ahead, harrying the enemy with a series of sharp attacks and swift retreats to keep them off-balance and on the defensive. Taran tried to focus on each immediate instant within the madness, but time behaved oddly, slipping and jarring and stretching in a way that seemed as senseless as the raging battle itself. It was now measured in breaths, and shouts, and screams, and grunts, and the harsh clang of blade upon blade, all battering his ears in a frenzied assault. Had hours passed, or mere minutes? How long could his warriors stand firm? How long could he, himself, endure?
Even as he fought, he desperately sought Iscawin among the torrent of bodies, but the treacherous king was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he spied the familiar, lanky figure of Llassar, struggling furiously against a throng of warriors near the battle's edge. He'd been separated from his band of men, who were too beleaguered themselves to come to his aid. Taran could see the young man's disoriented terror as he sought to defend himself on multiple fronts. Scarcely thinking, he rushed to his side, striking out with Dyrnwyn while Melynlas himself snapped and kicked at the foes. The warriors scattered, but Llassar, confused and half-blinded by his skewed helmet, lashed out in Taran's direction.
"Hold, hold!" Taran cried as he narrowly ducked the sweeping blade. "I am friend, not foe!"
Stunned, Llassar halted and pulled back, shoving his leather helmet further up on his brow. "King Wanderer!" he gasped. "I—I owe you my life!"
Time twisted again, momentarily throwing Taran back to a parallel scene: a young warrior drowning in the riptide of battle, and the lifeline cast by a selfless friend. Except, strangely, he now felt as though he were looking upon himself somehow, paused on both sides of a seam in time. The bemused, warm laughter of an old farmer echoed in his heart. Now, as then, a delirious laugh escaped him, too—what games fate played with mortal lives!
"Use that life well, Llassar—as I know you can," Taran said. Llassar smiled in return—an equally dazed comingling of surprise, relief, and renewed vigor—then rode to rejoin his band. Taran followed suit; there was no time to linger, beset as they all were by traitorous blades. He spun Melynlas about and back toward the tempest of warriors.
As he rode, he tried to take stock of where the battle stood. Despite their haphazard start, it seemed his warriors had collected their wits, regrouped, and were pushing back firmly—if not decisively—against the enemy. In truth, they seemed to be faring slightly better man for man; although Taran saw many fractured blades among Iscawin's men, his own warriors' blades were holding firm. Silently, he sent fervent thanks to Hevydd, wherever on the field of battle the burly smith might be, and prayed that he was yet among the living.
Gradually, as he gathered more warriors for another charge, Taran saw another pattern emerge from the mayhem: a fair number of Iscawin's warriors seemed to have turned on him, and were now boldly pitting themselves against men wearing the same colors as they. Surprised, Taran scanned the churning field. Yes… it seemed nearly a third of Iscawin's warrior had defied their liege. A swell of hope rose in his chest; victory was far from assured, but it might yet be within their grasp.
Then, from the east, came a rumble of feet and the most heartening sight of all: score upon score of additional warriors from Caer Dathyl, pounding across the field with a furious Fflam at their head. Even above the deafening clamor of battle, Taran could hear his friend's battle cry as he plunged into the fray, his unsheathed blade gleaming in the sun. The new arrivals, at last, fully turned the tide of battle in their favor. Taran could feel the collective will of Iscawin's forces begin to break along with their blades. Many fled outright, and the rest fought with the frantic desperation of doomed men.
Yet, no sooner had Taran's hope returned than another figure on horseback stamped it once more to earth: there was Iscawin, streaking westward along the edge of the battlefield toward Meilyr's waiting army. Without a second thought, Taran spurred Melynlas into a galloping pursuit, plunging straight through the churning sea of warriors. He could not allow the King of Arvon to escape, nor to call the additional warriors into action—not yet, not now, not when a partial victory was within reach.
The wind nearly took his breath away as he tore across the field, and his heart pounded nearly as hard as Melynlas' hooves. Closer… and closer… and closer… they gained on Iscawin pace by pace. It wasn't long before the cantrev king noticed his pursuer. With a shout, he pressed even greater speed from his own charger, sending clumps of earth flying as they ripped over the terrain. Melynlas himself seemed to sense the gravity of the situation and sped up in kind, continuing to close the distance. They were only a few lengths away from Iscawin now… then two… then one…
Iscawin spared another glance over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with malice. Suddenly, he swung his mount sideways, directly across Taran's path. There was scarcely time to react. With a shocked whinny, Melynlas twisted into a confused, swerving jump, but his momentum was far too great to maintain control. He slipped over the dew-slick ground and crashed heavily into the other stallion. Iscawin, anticipating the collision, leapt clear just in time, but Taran pitched headlong over the steeds' tangled bodies.
The world blurred and spun before his eyes, then jarred to a violent halt as he slammed to the ground. For a moment, he could only lie there, disoriented, all breath shocked from his lungs and pain shooting across the flat of his back. Was this it, then? Would he die helpless and broken, unable even to raise his head, let alone his sword? A vision of blue eyes, brilliant as the clear sky above, swam in his mind's eye… then the proud towers of a white castle teeming with hundreds of toiling backs and earnest hearts… then thousands of tender green shoots pushing determinedly up through dark soil… No. No. He would not fall—would not fail them all—in such a way. Not that day. Not any day. Never while an ounce of strength remained to him.
Summoning every last fragment of his will, silently shouting at his limbs to move, Taran pushed himself onto his stomach and crawled to his knees, then staggered to his feet. As he rose, he saw that Melynlas, too, had regained his footing and come between him and Iscawin, rearing and snorting, buying a few precious seconds of time. The cantrev king's blade was already in hand, his stance ready and his cold eyes seeking a path of attack. Taran tore Dyrnwyn from its sheath and turned to face him, shouting for Melynlas to run clear.
The instant his way was open, Iscawin charged. Taran threw up his blade to divert the ensuing blow but was driven backward by the force of the assault. As blow after blow sought its mark, he struggled to even parry them, let alone to gain the upper hand. Fear surged like ice water through his veins as he realized Iscawin was far stronger than his slim stature suggested, and far more skilled besides. Each strike was lightning-swift; each block, deftly placed; each lunge and withdrawal evinced the deadly grace of a wolf or wildcat. Briefly, Taran thought he'd gained the advantage when he landed a glancing pommel strike to Iscawin's head that, for a moment, set the cantrev king reeling. Yet, before Taran could sweep through with a finishing blow, Iscawin ducked and sprung forward, darting beneath his arms then immediately wheeling around with a slash toward his back. Taran himself spun away, narrowly missing the cut. Again, Iscawin pressed his attack, and again, Taran deflected it, steel ringing upon steel like sinister music.
Seemingly for an age, they continued their lethal dance, circling and testing each other, grappling one moment and lashing out the next, equally relentless. Once, Taran nearly broke through with a thrust to Iscawin's shoulder, but the cantrev king quickly shifted and swept a low cut beneath Taran's blade as he pulled away. Taran felt the tip of the sword bite into his skin as it grazed his thigh—too close, far too close. He withdrew further that time and resumed a proper guard, studying his opponent carefully before making his next move. Iscawin stared him down in kind, expressionless as a death mask. Taran knew, then, that he would not win by force, or even speed, alone—to overcome the traitorous king he would have to outwit him.
When Taran next sprang forward, he feinted to the left before immediately shifting to the right with a solid strike. It nearly worked. Iscawin eked out a parry but, for an instant, their swords bound. Then Taran saw his true advantage: in Iscawin's haste to defend, he'd positioned himself poorly. Taran seized the opportunity. Releasing his left hand from Dyrnwyn's hilt, he stepped in close and flung his arm over Iscawin's, taking a firm hold on the pommel of his blade. With a wrenching twist, he drove the king's sword sideways and down, wresting it from his strained grasp as he swung backward alongside him. An instant later, he had Dyrnwyn's point pressed inarguably to Iscawin's throat.
Iscawin froze. Slowly, then, when he realized Taran was withholding the fatal thrust, he raised his hands slightly in surrender. Taran flung away the second blade and took a more solid grip on Dyrnwyn, then stepped forward, forcing the cantrev king down to his knees.
"Why?" Taran demanded through gritted teeth. "Why this treachery when I gave you every chance of redemption? Was it for wealth? For power?"
Silence. Iscawin stared up at him defiantly with cold fire in his eyes.
"Was it you, then, who spawned every trouble that stalked us this year?" Taran shouted. "The fight during the Great Council? The near-war in Talgarth? The theft at the quarry? Telyn's flight?"
A faint smirk appeared on Iscawin's otherwise expressionless countenance, but again, he gave no reply. He merely kneeled there, seeming to revel in the suspended breath and heart-pounding tension of his captor. The cacophony of battle yet raged behind them but, for all its proximity, it sounded a world apart.
"Why," Taran asked again—a command as much as a question. He nudged the tip of Dyrnwyn more insistently against the hollow of Iscawin's throat.
Another breath or two crawled by.
When the cantrev king opened his mouth at last to speak, it was to deliver but a single sentence, edged with a sneer: "I enjoyed making you squirm."
Taran recoiled in disgust at the raw evil behind those dispassionate words: discord for the sake of discord, pain for the sake of pain, ruin for the sake of ruin, death for the sake of death. He stood aghast at the sheer emptiness of it—even Arawn's depredations and cruelty had served a broader purpose, however foul.
"And even now that you stand to die for it, you do not regret it?" Taran questioned, still unable to fully comprehend such a mind.
Another wordless smirk.
"None of it?" Taran pressed.
"I only regret," Iscawin replied slowly, "that I will not see Meilyr trip over himself trying to best you. It would have been fine entertainment watching you tear each other apart." Even still, with death pressed firmly against his skin, the king's tone was disconcertingly level, unconcerned, touched only with amusement, if anything. An icy tremor shuddered down Taran's spine.
He knew without a doubt that he must slay Iscawin there and then—and but a few moments ago, in the thick of combat, he would have done so without any hesitation. But to drive Dyrnwyn forward and execute an unarmed man—however evil—repulsed every honorable fiber within him, staying his hand. His wrist twitched once, straining as he clenched the hilt, while reason grappled with instinct.
Just then, a shout and a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye drew his gaze. There, breaking away from the larger fray and riding toward him, was Eilonwy. Her red-gold hair and silvery blade shone like fire and water in the still-climbing sun.
It was only a second of inattention, a fleeting glance. Yet, in that second, Iscawin sprang to his feet and lunged forward, drawing a dagger from the concealed sheath strapped beneath his sleeve. Eilonwy, still paces away, cried out a warning. Immediately, Taran reacted, staggering backward. The knife hissed as it sliced through the air where his throat had been only an instant before. A breath later, Iscawin had closed the distance again.
Eilonwy leapt from Lluagor and ran to Taran's aid, but he was already grappling so closely with Iscawin that there was no room to come between them. The two men fought in a tangle of limbs, arm to arm and hand to hand, Taran struggling desperately to avoid Iscawin's dagger and deal his own definitive blow. Again, the world around him swam—a disorienting smear of color, metallic sparks of reflected light, and the snarling grunts of frenzied exertion. In a desperate gamble, unable to wield Dyrnwyn effectively at such close range, Taran cast the blade to the churned-up ground and reached for Iscawin's wrist. His other palm closed around the knife hilt, and he tore it from Iscawin's hand.
Then, what had seemed to last an age was ended in an instant. Taran struck out instinctively and felt the blade sheath itself in soft flesh. Iscawin crumpled to earth, gasping as crimson lifeblood pulsed onto the mud beneath him. Shocked, his hands scrabbling reflexively at the wound, he gaped down at the last thing he would ever see: his very own dagger turned against him, the blade still lodged in his heart.
Taran, gasping himself, stood over the fallen king, staring down at the man who had nearly been his doom. Bewildered, he sought some outward sign of depravity—some evil brand he'd overlooked. Yet, there were none. Before him lay no shadowy death-lord, no mysterious war leader in a grisly antlered skull-mask, no deathless warrior with pallid face and hollow eyes—just an ordinary man of flesh, and bone, and heart, and brain, now staring blindly into an infinite void. Only a man—and yet, somehow, the greatest monster Taran had ever seen.
Dazedly, he turned away and bent to retrieve Dyrnwyn, plucking it from the ground with a trembling hand.
As he rose, Eilonwy ran forward and threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly and uttering something in his ear that he was too shaken to comprehend. Over her shoulder, in the distance, he spotted Rhodri and Fflewddur approaching. They hailed him with a shout and rode toward him with all urgency. Melynlas, too, gave a whicker of concern and returned to Taran's side now that the way was clear.
Fflewddur reached them first. "Great Belin! However did you get pushed so far from—oh," the bard halted both his words and his steed when he realized who lay dead upon the field. He gave a long whistle of surprise as he dismounted to take a closer look. "And here I thought I'd had a rough go of it," he added, swiping an arm across his bleeding brow, which sported an angry gash beneath the spatters of mud. "But you took care of him handily, it seems. Right through the heart! Great Belin, is that his own dagger?" He shook his head in amazement. "A bit of poetic justice, that—Telyn should like to hear of it…"
"You are none the worse for the fight?" Rhodri asked Taran. "That is well," he remarked when Taran gestured that he was sound. "The day is young yet, and there is still Meilyr's army to face."
Fflewddur wiped his brow again, then glanced over his shoulder at the ongoing clash of arms. "Ah—hadn't we better set about stopping that one first? It seems to be on the wane, but nevertheless…"
Rhodri, too, looked over to the surging fray and his dark brow furrowed. When he turned back, he looked first to the fallen king, then to Taran, frowned slightly, and cast his eyes once more upon Iscawin's corpse. Then, before anyone realized his intentions, he strode forward, gripped Iscawin's hair and hacked the king's head from his body with a single, impassive stroke. Taran flinched and Fflewddur grimaced in distaste; Eilonwy gasped and turned away, looking as though she might be sick.
"My apologies," Rhodri stated brusquely, "but a head on a pike will be the quickest way to convince everyone that the battle is ended. Gruesome, but effective. Chivalry is useless if it costs lives." So saying, he hastened off with the grisly token of Taran's victory, to bear its dire message through the warring crowds.
After their initial moment of shock, the companions followed after him, shouting above the din to the warriors they passed that Iscawin was slain and to lay down their arms. Gradually, the warriors took note. Metal ceased to ring out upon metal. Grappling bodies stilled. The battle cries and shouts of pain ebbed to an almost eerie quiet. The companions then rode throughout the battlefield taking stock of the casualties. The toll proved less horrific than Taran had feared: Iscawin's men counted far more heavily among the dead and wounded than his own. Hevydd, Llassar, and Cadfan had survived more or less unscathed, and were already working to regroup the remaining men. Caer Dathyl's warriors were ragged and weary, but on the whole seemed to be in high spirits over the victory.
Yet, as Rhodri had noted, worse was still to come. Dread sank its cold claws into Taran once again as he imagined the extensive forces lying in wait—if they were still waiting. Very likely, they'd heard the clash of arms, resumed the march, and would soon be at their throats. How many? How soon? He looked around at his own fatigued army and despaired. Loyal and fearless though they were, they would be a pitiful match for more than a thousand fresh warriors. Yet, a retreat to Caer Dathyl would bring the same havoc upon it that he'd hoped to avoid in the first place. No, there was only to take as strong a position as possible and make a stand.
Hurriedly, he gathered his companions and directed them to disperse the warriors across the narrow valley: Fflewddur and one host would assume the higher ground of the southern flank while Llassar led another from the slopes to the north; he, himself, with Rhodri and Cadfan, would lead the direct assault from the valley center; Eilonwy would retreat to Caer Dathyl with a small force of guardsmen for protection.
"No." Eilonwy's objection cut through the air. For once, it was without any trace of fire; instead, as Taran faced her and met her eyes, he saw the deliberate, steady strength of tempered steel. "I fight beside you," she said evenly, resolutely, "as I always have."
"Eilonwy, we have a duty—"
"No," she repeated, even more firmly. "I love this land, Taran, and I wish to serve it well—but I love you more. Prydain will have a High Queen one way or another. But if you fall, it will not be me."
A sudden lump in Taran's throat hindered all speech. For a long moment, he could only hold Eilonwy's gaze silently, with jaw clenched. It was only the two of them standing there now, alone in all the world, no matter how many eyes watched or ears listened.
"So, you see, there is no reason for me to hold back," Eilonwy continued matter-of-factly. Taran thought he heard a tremor in her voice, but it may simply have been a trick of the wind, or his own imagination. "I fight beside you," she said again slowly, enunciating every syllable like a vow unto itself. "Whatever the outcome."
He nodded. Fflewddur, Llassar, and Rhodri went to rally their commands. The warriors formed their battle lines. The sun inched further across the sky. Eilonwy remained. Together, they looked warily to the west.
They had not long to wait. Just as Taran, Eilonwy, and their warriors reached their places and settled into a moment of agitated stillness, Meilyr's advance guard began to emerge from around the obscuring hills. Sensing the threat, Melynlas huffed and pawed at the ground. Taran tensed in kind. He fully expected a swift and decisive onslaught, bearing down on them with all of the force and fire of men assured of victory.
It did not come. Instead, Meilyr's warriors assumed their own battle formations, line piling ominously behind line along the horizon, and then waited. The young cantrev king himself rode to the fore, sitting tall astride his dark dapple-gray steed. He surveyed the field before him and the opposing army spread across it, but made no move to initiate a charge.
As Taran watched him anxiously in return, he thought back to all he had witnessed of Meilyr in times past: the boasting; the posturing; the expressed desire to match or exceed his uncle, Morgant, in might and glory; the transient look of chagrin when Lady Ffion had implied that he was merely another vain and foolish cantrev king. Suddenly, like looking into a mirror, Taran understood the delay—beneath the outward confidence and intimidating show of force lay reluctance, uncertainty, and apprehension not unlike his own. Meilyr, too, was afraid.
On the wings of that revelation rode an idea. Immediately, Taran called out to Rhodri, a short way down the field, and gestured him over. "Rhodri," Taran said, "before any blades are drawn, I would make one last attempt at diplomacy, futile though it may be. You have a longer history with Meilyr and know him better than I. Would you bear the message that I wish to speak with him? Mid-field, with no more than a score of guardsmen each."
"Of course. As you see fit," Rhodri agreed, although he appeared decidedly skeptical—as did Eilonwy, who looked on silently.
Nervously, Taran waited again, watching as Rhodri rode forth with a handful of guardsmen, flying a banner high in truce and bearing Iscawin's remains as warning. The distance between armies was small enough that Taran witnessed Meilyr's surprise at Rhodri's approach, followed quickly by his momentary look of alarm and disgust upon seeing Iscawin's bloodied and broken corpse. Whatever Rhodri said to him was effective. After only a brief, if strained, exchange, Meilyr gestured to a number of his men and set out across the field. Taran and Eilonwy followed suit.
Each group halted halfway across the open expanse, as if they'd encountered an invisible wall. Mere paces apart, the animosity crackled in the air between them. Even the steeds eyed and threatened each other. Melynlas' ears flattened back and his nostrils flared as he bared his teeth in a snarl. The dapple-gray responded in kind, snorting and pawing the ground, shaking his head back and forth menacingly. Meilyr and Taran maintained an outward calm, but each could see the determination in the eyes of the other.
Meilyr broke the silence first. "Do you wish to surrender, or do you merely seek to delay your undoing, Taran of Caer Dallben?" he asked haughtily. "I have agreed to speak as a matter of honor, but rest assured that there will be no other outcome than those."
"I have no intention to surrender, but neither do I wish to do battle, Meilyr of Madoc," Taran replied. "Let us end this madness before it begins. Iscawin has deceived us both, seeking only his own twisted satisfaction and our mutual destruction. We would be fools to let him play us even in death."
"I am no fool; nor do I make alliances with those who would take me for one," Meilyr rejoindered. "My alliance with Iscawin was sound, and he served my ends until the last. And, as he is now slain, he is no longer of any consequence. I will not stand down until I have what I came for."
"And what, exactly, have you come for, Meilyr?" Taran countered, his voice rising. "What is it you are here willing to kill for? A loftier title? A bit of metal, shaped into a crown? Control of a half-ruined castle and a battered land of broken-hearted people who are sick unto death of war? You lust after those so strongly that you would send all of these men here to their doom for it?" He gestured to the great host of warriors behind Meilyr with a broad sweep of his arm. "Is there no higher purpose for their lives than your own quest for hollow glory?"
"I seek more than glory," Meilyr cried indignantly, his temper surging past his restraint. "I seek the good of Prydain!"
Taran's voice dropped low and level. "Do you?" he asked. He locked eyes sternly with the cantrev king. Meilyr stood his ground silently, wearing a tense but inscrutable expression. "You seek the good of Prydain," Taran repeated. "You seek the good of Prydain by spilling the blood of its men? Have you no heart? Do you think they want anything more than to see the homes, and wives, and children they love again? That warrior beside you, there—he is barely a man yet. Do you think he would rather pour his life out on this field than see another spring so that you can gain a higher crown?"
Again, Meilyr responded with silence. Taran seized on the fleeting weakness and pushed ahead. "You were here at the battle with Pryderi, Meilyr. You fought bravely against him when he, goaded by Arawn, arrogantly sought such power. You witnessed the slaughter. Yet, you would perpetrate the same? How much more violence must be wrought? How many more lives driven to dust? Have we vanquished Arawn only to slit each other's throats?" Taran paused to draw breath. "There is enough sorrow and loss in this world without steeping our own hands in blood, Meilyr. Let us finally have the peace for which we have already fought so hard. Call off your attack. Call off this march to death. There is no honor to be had in it."
The young king's eyes were still fixed on Taran's, his head unbowed. Yet, cracks were beginning to show in his resolute posture. His shoulders had lowered slightly. His countenanced had tensed. A look almost of shame had appeared in his gaze. An achingly tense few moments passed, with no sounds but the anxious shuffle and clink of armed men waiting for action. Even the winds held their breath.
"It is too late," Meilyr said at last. "I have branded myself a traitor in your eyes; there is no turning back on that road."
"You are but halfway along it," Taran assured him. "Turn back. Turn back now, and I will count that action greater than the intent that drove you this far."
Meilyr shook his head once, his jaw clenched and cocked upward. "It is too late," he said again. "I have my pride." Beneath the defiance, Taran could hear despair—the anguish of a man wishing he could spin the sun backward across the sky and relive the day on a different course.
"It is not too late," Taran asserted. "If you had but one moment left, you could still choose peace over war and good over evil. Do not follow in your uncle's footsteps, Meilyr—surpass him. Do you long for greatness? Then be my ally instead of my adversary. Together we can achieve far more than either of us alone."
Meilyr stared long at Taran before speaking again. A battle was raging in his mind no less fiercely than the one Taran hoped to avoid, and its drama played out across his face as clearly as any outward struggle. Despite his sturdy armor, despite the imposing war charger he rode, despite the vast army standing behind him at his command, Meilyr suddenly looked every bit as young as his years, and bewildered to heartbreak.
"You mean that," he said at last, tightly. "You will not strip me of my title or seek vengeance…"
"Yes, I mean that," Taran assured him. "Turn back now and you will face no retribution. Let these men here today see another sunrise—and another, and another, and another. Return to Cantrev Madoc with your head held high, as a king who had the wisdom to forge an alliance when the chance was given, and who put the good of his people above his own gain. Your uncle's treachery brought shame to the House of Madoc. Seize your opportunity to restore its honor."
At last, the young king gave another single, somewhat reluctant, nod. Slowly, then, he dismounted, passed his sword to the guardsman beside him, strode forward, and dropped to one knee before Taran and Eilonwy. "Henceforth, my allegiance is yours," he said, bowing his head low.
In reply, Taran himself swung down from Melynlas and approached. "May that alliance endure until we have both turned as grey as the stone of these hills," he said, extending his hand to the kneeling king. "By then," he added with a wry half-smile, "we ought to be too weary to lift a sword against each other, whatever."
His own mouth twisting in a suppressed, rueful smile, Meilyr shook Taran's offered hand, then rose to face him. "A safe journey back to Madoc," Taran continued. "Let us meet again under better terms in the coming months. There will be much to discuss."
"Until then…" Meilyr agreed slowly, solemnly. "Good health to you and the Queen."
As the cantrev king and his warriors turned away and withdrew across the field, Taran exhaled a sigh longer than he knew his lungs could shape. His head bowed and his eyes closed momentarily in soul-deep weariness and relief. The danger, at last, had passed.
When he strode back toward Melynlas and looked up to Eilonwy, he found her beaming. "Not bad for a former Assistant Pig-Keeper," she said, her eyes twinkling with both humor and admiration. "I do believe you will turn out to be a proper High King yet." With a soft chuckle, Taran bowed and shook his head. "Now come," Eilonwy continued as he swung back up into the saddle. "Let us see to the wounded and slain, and then, Good Llyr, let us go home."
