They marched all the rest of the day, and through the night - no one could have slept, anyway, even weary as they were. Urgency drove them on. They spoke little, too anxious, and too preoccupied with finding their way in the darkness. Eilonwy did not dare to light the way with her bauble, for fear of being seen by the scouts and outriders, of whom they caught occasional glimpses, passing too close for comfort. Fortunately, Doli seemed to see just as well in the dark as he did in the light. Under his guidance, they emerged from the woods in the pale light of sunrise, less stone-bruised and bramble-scratched than might have been expected.
But as one they gazed in mute horror at the sight before them. Eilonwy felt her heart drop into an abyss. Though the towers of Caer Dathyl shone golden in the distance beyond the treetops, between them and that beacon lay a seething mass of warriors. The dust of their trampling feet hung in a choking haze over the valley.
Next to her, Taran groaned. "Too late. We're too late. We have failed."
We have failed, she thought dully. Yes. If he were going to lay the credit for his survival at the feet of his friends, they could just as well all share the blame. If only she hadn't been so ill that first day. If only they hadn't gotten lost on the other side of Medwyn's valley, or tarried there a whole night. If only they hadn't gone down the black lake, or wasted time with that stupid, ungrateful gwythaint. If only...
Oh, what did it matter. It was like wishing you'd been born with twelve fingers.
They stood as though paralyzed for a long moment. Then Fflewddur strode forward, the same fey light in his face she had seen the day before, his pale hair whipping wildly into his eyes. "There is one thing we can do," he declared. "Caer Dathyl lies straight ahead. Let us go on and make our last stand there."
The ring in his voice made her stand up straighter, lift her face to the wind. Of course. Turning into the fight was better than running away to be hunted down. No matter the outcome.
"Yes," Taran said, echoing her thoughts. "My place is at the side of Gwydion's people." He turned to Doli. "You have guided us well. Please, lead Eilonwy and Gurgi to safety, and return to your king with our gratitude. Your work is done."
Lead them to safety! After all this - he thought she would leave, just like that? A flood of indignant words rushed up her throat, but before even one could escape, Doli was already bellowing his outrage. "Done!" he burst out. "Idiot! Numbskulls! It's not that I care what happens to you, but don't think I'm going to watch you get hacked to pieces. I can't stand a botched job. Like it or not, I'm going with you."
Eilonwy wanted to burst out in incongruous and inappropriate laughter, to throw her arms around the dwarf; but before anyone could do anything, there was a ringing hiss and a thump that made them all flinch. An arrow sank into a tree trunk behind Doli's head. Melyngar reared, neighing an alarm, and then everything was turning upside down.
There were shouts from the woods, men running, flashes of metal. Eilonwy found herself lifted almost bodily from the ground and flung toward Melyngar. Taran, having been pitched just before her, was glaring back as though inclined to argue. But Fflewddur, sword in hand, was in command again. "Begone!" the bard cried, in a tone that gave no quarter. "Fly from here. Ride as fast as you can or it will be death for all of us!"
Taran looked wildly toward the woods, at Eilonwy, at Fflewddur, who roared a final, "Do as I say!" and spun, running to meet their attackers. Doli was already in the midst of them, his axe flashing.
There was no uncertainty in Eilonwy's mind; she raced toward Melyngar, snapping Taran out of his indecision. He grabbed at the saddle and leaped astride, assisted her by the arm as she scrambled up behind him, and dug his heels into the horse's flanks.
Melyngar shot forward like an arrow and Eilonwy gasped and clutched at Taran as the motion nearly toppled her backwards. There was nowhere to sit; she bounced between the saddleback and the rolled pack strapped behind it, trying to grip with her knees, and was obliged to wrap both arms around the boy's waist to stay seated. Even then it was difficult. Taran blocked her view of where they were headed; if she leaned around him to see, she'd lose what precarious balance she had. She pressed her face against his back and held on for dear life, blindly, as the horse leaped bracken and gully and went uphill and down with no warning but the bunch and stretch of muscle underneath. Trees and brush flew by in a dizzying rush; Taran's long hair whipped into her face and eyes and she finally shut them, finding it no worse.
It got much worse presently, however. Melyngar, given free reign, tore right through the middle of the enemy vanguard. There were shouts, angry cries, pounding feet and clanging metal. The horse came to a screaming halt; her entire body heaved and plunged, jolted as she was pummeled by foot soldiers; jolted again with the impact of her hooves on their bodies. Taran was swinging from one side to the other, hacking and slicing with his sword at the press of warriors; a twist of his body and accidental blow from his elbow nearly threw Eilonwy off again. A hand grabbed her ankle and she screamed without knowing, panicked; a surge of raw magic filled her mouth; a wave of red light blocked her vision. She kicked at the owner of the hand, cracked her shin against his teeth. He fell back, instantly replaced by others; a sea of roiling, ugly, loud, stinking men with raging white-rimmed eyes. Hot fury and disgust filled her, pushing past fear; she wanted them dead, ALL of them - animals, Achren had called them? - it was too kind a word. Animals were beautiful and strong and wise; these were beasts, creatures below the lowest of the beings of wood and water and wild, worthy only of destruction. Words of power, ugly, iron-twisted, rasping like files, burned on her tongue, crackled on the air-
No. A voice without words, a presence she had not felt since the days after the fall of Spiral Castle, surged suddenly into her consciousness and broke through her rage, singing a warning. Dyrnwyn was fully awake, blazing in her mind like flame, and she gasped in pain and would have clutched at her head, if she had dared to let go. Its light was blinding, and yet in it she saw - as she had not seen in her fury - saw enough to know that a giant black horse was bearing down on them from the right. Terror sat upon it, an antlered shadow, a black malignant shape like all her nightmares given physical form. She screamed just as Melyngar gave a final mighty heave and burst through the throng of warriors.
And now they were running, flying over the stony ground, the pounding of Melyngar's hoofs and those of their pursuer matching her racing heart until she could not tell the difference. Dyrnwyn was a roaring, clutching fire at her back and oh, gods, there was death behind and death ahead and death on every side and no one could use the sword. Somehow, a detached part of her mind thought she'd laugh at the irony later - if dead people laughed about anything.
They had gained the trees, but the black shadow was upon them; she and Taran both leaned to the other side in a vain, unconscious attempt to gain more distance. The horses slammed together with an impact like an earthquake and then there were no horses. Just air all around, and sky and tree branches where none should be, and then a bone-cracking blow that knocked her breath away. Stars swam in blackness and for a moment she could think of nothing. Terror still clutched her, and Dyrnwyn was shouting silently; its weight pushed her to earth like a giant fist. She gasped for air, smelled leaf-mould and crushed moss and could not think where it came from, and this terrified her still more.
Someone was shouting, gripping her by the arm; she was stumbling over lumpy, uneven ground, lashed in the face by brush and bramble. And there was the antlered shadow coming toward them again, carrying death with it. Jerked back to full awareness, Eilonwy screamed again as it loomed over them. The eyes in the skull mask were flaming, as empty of humanity as a carven image; she needed no special concentration to sense the nothingness that remained of this creature's mind and heart. It was a vast, sucking darkness as black as the deepest pit, an insatiable void that consumed and drained and could never be filled. The horror of it silenced even her scream, and flattened her to the earth in mute dread.
Taran had scrambled in between her and the giant; she felt his fear but also his desperate resolve. There was a crunch and a cry. Splinters of bright metal pattered among the dead leaves like sharp silver rain. Eilonwy stared at one that landed beside her nose, uncomprehending. Between her own terror and the overwhelming weight of Dyrnwyn, her mind suspended blank and bare.
And then Taran was next to her, yanking her roughly up...no, not her, he was yanking at the sword belt. He ripped it from her shoulder; the leather scraped down her arm; the buckles snagged in her hair and she shrieked, more in warning than pain. Dyrnwyn blazed white and furious in her mind, but the sword wanted blood; it wanted to be drawn, and it would not stop him.
She screamed for him to stop, but the Horned King was towering over him, and Taran was going to die in a moment, by the sword in the giant's hands or the one in his own, he was going to die, and she could not save him. The knowledge of it stabbed at her like a knife. Her heart stood still.
No.
Somewhere, distantly, she heard a woman screaming.
Maybe it was her own voice.
No, she was the child crying. Wasn't she? She wanted to cry. Because someone was dead. Someone who-
A flash of light, a noise like thunder: the crashing of waves, dark green, crowned in white. No, they were in the woods. There couldn't be waves.
The screams were hers. Most definitely hers. The flash was as lightning, struck at Taran's very feet, flinging him backwards. He crashed heavily, his limbs bouncing limp against the unforgiving ground. Eilonwy scrambled in the dead leaves toward him, but the Horned King strode forward, growling, sword raised.
She turned toward the looming shadow, saw the antlers and the skull; saw also, through or behind them, a white face and silver hair; crimson robes and mocking smile. From beneath the agony of grief, righteous anger flamed white-hot as the sun; it flooded her, propelled her up. She flew at the giant, a destroying fury. But she had none of the right words for this power, this fire she'd been meant to use, and her only noise was a strangled cry of rage.
Unfazed, the Horned King tossed her aside like a stray cat. She landed, rolled, and scrabbled at the ground, snarling, intending to rise and launch herself again.
Over her own noise she heard a sound, a single shouted word, strange and unintelligible, and froze as she felt a shift in everything around her. The earth slid sideways and back. The water in the tree veins sizzled. The very air was rent like fabric and knit back together, and the spaces between the stitches became sparks, which merged and became trickles of flame. The trickles joined into streams and the streams became a river and it wound itself around the Horned King in a web of liquid fire.
With a roar that shook the trees, the giant threw his head back, the mask glowing like forged metal. Engulfed, he stumbled, writhing, and amid the acrid smell of magic rose the very un-magical stench of burnt flesh. Frozen, unwilling to look but unable to look away, Eilonwy watched as the fire ate its way through muscle and bone, and still the figure staggered upright, the roar changing to a high-pitched scream. She dug her fists into her ears at the sound, doubled over from her knees, retching, and rolled onto her side with a whimper.
Horrible, horrible. She could feel the creature's pain, the despair, the rage, the utter darkness. Like a pile of stone it bore her down. It was like being buried alive. Nothing but darkness and chaos and awful noise...
No. No, there wasn't noise when you were buried. It was silent under the earth, after all, as silent as Achren's underground dungeon. That was what she'd always hated about it, wasn't it? And it was silent now, as silent and dark as...as...maybe this was Achren's dungeon. Perhaps it was a dream, all of it, and she'd woken up back in the cell. That had been the last thing to happen, after all. Shut in the cell again. Prisoner.
You thought you could escape.
I can escape. I can get out of any cell in this castle.
You have nowhere to go. Who would want to take you on, you troublesome girl?
If it was all a dream and there was nothing to get out for, except more Achren and her endless grim monotony, then it wasn't worth the trouble. Not if there were really no friends or freedom. No Doli to grumpily pretend he didn't care, no Gurgi to stick his furry head beneath her hand for comfort, no Fflewddur to smile his twinkling smile and lie his beautiful silver-tongued lies, and no Taran to...
No Taran.
She sobbed aloud, and the sound of her own voice and breath broke the silence. She opened her eyes with a gasp.
Eilonwy blinked, confused, at trees and moss-covered rocks. The sky above the leaves was blue again. Rays of mid-morning sunlight filtered through the green canopy and lay warm patches of gold upon the ground. The only sounds were birdsong.
Her head ached. Remembering all at once, she sat up, looking about fearfully. Taran was still sprawled a few paces away, his face white as paper, eyes half-shut and blank. Eilonwy crawled painfully toward him, hesitated, and held a trembling hand to his neck.
Oh, Belin, if he were dead what would she do?
But his pulse throbbed under her fingers. She burst into noisy tears, pushed his damp hair out of his face, closed his eyelids all the way, and almost threw her arm across his shoulders to cradle his head in her lap. She checked herself, horrified. Suppose he should wake up.
She scooted away from him a little, sniffling, face hot, and furiously dried her eyes on the hem of her skirts. At least there had been no one around to witness that.
To reassure herself of this she scanned the area again, and stifled a squeak of surprise, for there was a tall figure approaching with long determined strides. Desperately she scrambled to her feet, remembered her Fair Folk dagger and drew it, and stood over her fallen Assistant Pig-Keeper.
The tall figure stopped. Eilonwy threw her head back and glared him down, waiting. He was only a few paces away, broad-shouldered and weather-beaten, with a lined face and grey-streaked shaggy hair. He had no weapon, and spread his hands placatingly.
"It's all right," he said, in a rough voice, but low and reassuring. "I'm not here to hurt you. Or him."
She already knew it. He shone in her mind, all iron and fire; will and passion as controlled as stallions under bridle and bit. And he felt her probing, she realized at once, with a sensitivity almost as keen as her own. He met her halfway; she felt his honesty and compassion. This was no enemy. She lowered the dagger and stepped aside, nodding. He strode forward and knelt next to Taran, laying a hand on the boy's brow and murmuring words she could not quite hear. The air shifted again and her fingertips tingled.
"Who are you?" she breathed.
He looked up, smiled a very white smile. His canine teeth were strikingly prominent. "I am Gwydion, Son of Don." He inclined his head to her slightly.
Her mouth fell open. "We thought you were dead!" she blurted out. He threw his head back and laughed, and she blushed, embarrassed. "I'm...I'm very glad you aren't, of course."
He laughed again. "Thank you, my lady. So am I. May I ask..."
"Oh!" She dropped a badly-practiced courtesy. Achren, who never bowed to anyone, had never seen much use in teaching her the formalities. "Eilonwy. Daughter of Angharad of the-"
"House of Llyr," Gwydion finished, in a low voice. His green-flecked eyes lit, their keen gaze dropping to her crescent moon pendant. He stared; she felt his curiosity pulsing around her like a tide. "How do...where have..." He broke off, reining in, and she had the impression that this man was not often at a loss for words. "Never mind. Later. Are you unhurt, princess?"
Princess. He knew. Of course he did. "More or less," she sighed, rubbing her head, "but Taran, is he-" She stopped, choking around the lump in her throat.
"He will live," Gwydion answered, relief evident in his voice. "He has already survived far more than I would have predicted. Destiny seems to favor him." He spoke lightly, and she sensed he was not saying all he thought, but she was too absorbed in holding back another outburst of tears to pursue it.
Gwydion picked up Taran's right arm and turned it over. The boy's sleeve was scorched almost to the shoulder, and angry red weals spread across his forearm. "These are not the burns of ordinary fire," the prince observed, and looked up at her sharply. "What happened to him?"
She knelt at his other side. "The sword. He tried to draw-oh!"
She had forgotten Dyrnwyn. She leaped up, anxiously searching the ground, but the sword had leaped so forcefully from Taran's hands that it had flown off she knew not where. Drat the thing.
Eilonwy shut her eyes and searched for its familiar presence. With the Horned King gone, it no longer blazed in its battle rage, but she felt it, quiet and brooding, and followed the sensation. It was lying nearly buried in dead leaves some distance away. Taran had not managed to pull the blade more than a hand's breadth from the scabbard. The exposed metal shone white in a ray of sunlight. Eilonwy gingerly nudged it back in with her foot before picking the scabbard up by the strap.
She ran a fingertip over the twisting engraved letters. Royal blood. Well. One thing was manifestly clear. She looked over at Gwydion, and a sense of lightness swept over her; the lovely, sweet satisfaction of something going right.
The prince was wrapping Taran's arm in a strip of linen torn from his shirt as she trotted back to him. The lifeless flop of the boy's hand brought the lump back to her throat.
To distract herself she held up the sword. "This is what he tried to draw. He shouldn't have, but...his sword was broken, and the Horned King..." She shuddered. "I...we found it beneath Spiral Castle, in the king's barrow. I took it, but it was useless to us. No one could draw it. See?" She pointed to the forbidden glyph. Gwydion's expression, she noted, never changed, always grave and serious but for that rare smile. But his eyes were alight as he examined the black scabbard, and she could tell at once that the Old Writing posed no trouble to him.
"May I look at it?" He held out his hands and she handed him the sword, felt the weight of its presence slide from her shoulders.
"Dyrnwyn," Gwydion read aloud, reverently. "This is a treasure. A thing of legend. Indeed, thought to be legend only. And you found it in-" He looked up at her, eyes flashing. "You were in Spiral Castle? Living there?"
She nodded. Gwydion stared at her silently for several moments and she felt his keen mind piecing things together. But he said only, "Hm," in a sort of thoughtful grunt, and she was relieved not to have to explain further.
He moved to hand the sword back to her, but she held up both hands. "You keep it. Please. I think you're one of the few who can use it."
His wolfish smile flashed again, briefly, and he stood and bowed to her very low. "My lady. You offer a noble gift, and I accept gladly." He held Dyrnwyn out to her in both hands. "Perhaps you will do me the honor?"
Oh, this? She'd read about this. Achren had scoffed at such sentimental ceremonies, of course, but that made it all the more appealing. Eilonwy blushed, thrilling, took the sword back from him and gathered up the belt. "I don't know all the proper words," she confessed.
"No matter." Gwydion raised his arms to the sides. "It's the spirit of the thing that counts."
Eilonwy stepped to him, slung the belt about his waist, buckled it firmly, and stepped back to examine her work. "It fits you," she said. She felt the sword's will pulsing with a new sense of purpose and pride as it mingled with his, and added, "in fact, it likes you."
Gwydion raised an eyebrow. "I am honored." In one swift motion he drew the blade. Eilonwy caught her breath. She could almost hear the sword shout joyfully as it shone free, flashing in the light, and wondered how many ages ago it had last been sheathed.
Gwydion looked the blade over approvingly. "Well," he said, "we have work to do."