AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! I'M SO INCREDIBLY SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG! I got no good excuses, but I'll rattle off a few anyways: tons of schoolwork, preparing for my big yearly violin audition, 3 or 4 other writing projects, and MCAS (blaugh). So, there's my section of groveling. Really, really, really sorry. Augh. Anyways, this one is really long to make up for it all.

Sakura-chan79: Thanks again! Your comments are always so uplifting, lol!

CompanionWanderer: Hey, and thanks for your PM – to be completely honest, you reminded me the story existed (augh). Yes, I agree chapter 4's too short; I'm definitely thinking of lengthening it later on. Yeah, you're right that it seems weird Arawn gave her Cauldron-born, but consider, why did the Cauldron-born go to her in Book 1? She obviously still had some ties with Arawn – or at least, so I see it.

helen1982: Thanks for your comment, and welcome to the story! Yeah I know, there's NOTHING about Gwydion and that totally sucks. This is my rebellion. XD.

Disclaimer: Yadda yadda, not mine. Which is totally not cool.

Black Shadow, Golden Sun

Chapter 5: Confrontation

Gwydion awoke early the next morning from the pile of blankets he and the two other young men were resting on in the second room of the cottage. His green eyes opened sharply to see a dull grey dawn. Apart from the deep snoring of Coll, lying on a separate pallet on the other side of the room, the farm was eerily silent. Gwydion sat up slightly, the topmost blanket sliding off a bare shoulder. A piece of hair fell into his eyes. Next to him, Pryderi shifted onto his side and mumbled a wordless sound.The cottage door was open, leading out into morning. But not a ray of sunlight could be seen – the entire farm was blanketed in dense, swirling fog. It almost seemed to be alive.

Gwydion frowned and sat up further, then reached over to one side and grabbed the long dagger resting by his bedside. In a few smooth motions, he pulled his dusty white shirt over his head, leaving the topmost section untied, stood, and padded barefoot to the door.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was suddenly assailed by such cold that he had to duck his head and huddle his arms close to his body. Forcing his eyes open, he had the impression he was struggling against a strong wind. He opened his mouth in shock and tried to yell, but all he could get out was a small croak.

All of a sudden, the fog seemed to shrink and wither, the tendrils vanishing into nothing. The sudden heat and light from the rising morning sun almost blinded Gwydion, and he brought a hand up to his eyes – only to see, to his amazement, that Dallben was standing not ten feet in front of him, arms and staff outstretched.

The old enchanter turned his head slightly, just enough for Gwydion to see on glittering blue eye. The enchanter nodded, then turned away again, gazing intently towards the far end of the farm, across the fields.

Gwydion, his eyes finally adjusted, walked quietly up beside him. "What is it?" the prince muttered.

Dallben jerked his head towards the forest, past the orchard with its fruit-laden trees. "Huntsmen. Five of them." The corners of his eyes tightened. "The fog did not slow their advance. But then, what can you do to stop monsters?" he murmured.

Gwydion drew the long dagger and dropped the leather sheath on the ground as several dark shapes emerged from the forest in the distance.

"No," Dallben said sharply, pointing at the dagger in Gwydion's hand without turning his head. "Wake the others and ride – Coll and I can take care of them."

"What?" Gwydion said incredulously. The Huntsmen were already halfway across the first field – and to his horror, Gwydion saw that they were no longer alone. Three black shapes wheeled and glided in the sky above them, coming ever closer to the cottage.

"Ride," Dallben said again. "You must get away from here before Arawn knows where you are – if you stay here, more of them will come."

Gwydion nodded distractedly and turned to step back into the cottage, but he suddenly felt the old enchanter's hand on his arm, bringing him to a quick stop. Bright blue eyes stared into green ones, and then Dallben said, "You will have to re-cross Avren to avoid them – but you cannot head east afterwards, they will be waiting for you there." Dallben's gaze was unwavering, so intense and clear that the years seemed to fall away from his wrinkled face. "Head to the west," he whispered. "You can hide in the Marshes of Morva."

Gwydion opened his mouth to ask what the marshes were, brow puzzled – but he was cut off by a sudden shriek, loud and menacing.

"Go, Prince of Don!" Dallben half-shouted, as he pushed Gwydion towards the cottage door and turned away again, raising his staff. Overhead, the rumble of storm clouds slowly began to grow.

Gwydion rushed inside the cottage and shoved Pryderi and Morgant off their pallets onto the floor, waking them both. Pryderi let out a loud grunt and sat up with an angry yell, but Morgant instantly knew something was wrong as he saw Gwydion was already pulling on his boots at a frantic pace.

"Huntsmen," Gwydion said shortly as he stood again, strapping on his sword. "And gwythaints." The black-haired youth nodded shortly and began to pull on his shirt. Pryderi only stared, blond hair falling all over his face.

"Move!" Gwydion bellowed, startling the younger man into action. By this time Coll was awake as well, and the hale old man rushed out of the cottage towards the barn to ready the horses, leaning against the growing wind, which was quickly becoming a gale. Thirty seconds later the three young men followed, still hurriedly strapping on their weapons, and in Pryderi's case his rich cloak. Just as quickly they mounted their horses – the two stallions were chomping nervously at their bits and prancing, but Melyngar waited patiently until Gwydion leapt up onto her back. The wind was so strong that the healthy summer leaves were being ripped off the trees around them.

"Good luck!" Coll yelled over the gale. "Head north towards the river, Dallben will hold them off from here!" The old man grinned as Gwydion reached down and grasped his hand, and then he let go and dug his heels into Melyngar's flanks. The horses galloped off into the forest nearest the cottage, heading west so they could then sweep around to the north towards the river. Coll watched them for a few seconds, then hurried away towards where Dallben was standing, head lifted high.

As the three young men rode further at a full gallop, the wind gradually lessened and the forest returned to its normal state, the trees standing upright and the sun shining through the canopy. Soon the riders turned their steeds north – and a few hours later they reached the glistening river they had crossed only the day before, splashing across it without even dismounting.

On the opposite bank, it seemed all three of them were suddenly stricken with an immense fatigue. The horses' limbs were shaking, and Pryderi slid off his stallion and collapsed in a hunched sitting position on the ground. Gwydion almost fell off the gasping Melyngar, and only Morgant was left slouched wearily in the saddle. The sunlight had disappeared, leaving the sky a slatish grey.

Finally, Morgant spoke, his voice sounding less controlled and emotional than normal. "I…" he said tremulously. "I feel…heavy."

Gwydion tried to lift his head to look at his friend, but to his surprise found he could not. The very air around him seemed to have suddenly grown thick, weighing down on his limbs and making his movements sluggish. Pryderi, his face a model of surprise, struggled to stand. Only Gwydion's eyes could move quickly, and they darted about him, trying to find the source of the strange enchantment. And then, a troop of riders with a cloaked horseman at their head emerged from the woods not twenty paces away.

Gwydion and Pryderi both scrambled to a standing position as fast as they could, having to lead back against their steeds to stay upright. Gwydion managed to draw his dagger and point it in warning at the strange horsemen. "Stop!" he yelled – even his voice sounded deeper and slower than normal. To his surprise, the horsemen did stop. By this time, Morgant was also on the ground and upright, also being the only one who had been able to draw his sword.

The lead horseman, cloaked in black, slowly moved forward. The other riders were also cloaked so Gwydion could not see their faces – and it seemed to the prince that eyes were staring at them from the woods as well, hidden amongst the branches. Melyngar lifted her head and snorted in fear as the horseman drew closer. It was a pudgy, short figure that was seated in the saddle, and a moment later the rider stopped, and lowered his hood.

It was a pale, sallow face, a hooked, plump nose sticking out from it like an oddly misshapen beak. The eyes were black and dull – neither a light nor a glimmer could be seen in their depths. Yet that was not what struck the terror into the hearts of the three young lords – it was the cold iron crown that was rested in the middle of the lank dark hair.

The lord of Annuvin lifted one fat hand and waved it carelessly through the air, and at once the young men felt the unnatural heaviness lift from their limbs, and they staggered back from the force of the release. Instantly, Pryderi and Gwydion drew their swords and stood in a position ready to fight with Morgant, the three of them standing in a defensive triangle with Gwydion at its head, facing the Lord of Death. And yet, Gwydion's head was whirling – the ruler of Annuvin was not supposed to be a man.

The man chuckled, a thin, evil-sounding noise. "Greetings, Lords of the North," he said silkily, letting go of his horse's reins and folding his hands together in front of him. "I am Arawn, Lord of Annuvin."

"Arawn?" Gwydion asked sharply, eyes blazing, not giving the king a further chance to speak. "It is Achren who is Queen of Annuvin."

Arawn gazed imperiously at Gwydion, his eyes narrowly slightly. Then he smiled, a tight, thin smile. "Nay," he said. "Achren rules no longer in Annuvin. She is disappeared these one hundred years."

Gwydion paused. "Disappeared?" he said softly. "Disappeared or disposed, my lord?"

Arawn was silent a moment, then he chuckled again, causing Morgant to shiver in distaste. "Well-said, Prince of Don," he said, his small eyes fixed almost greedily on the golden pendant Gwydion bore around his neck.

One of the horses in Arawn's troop chomped at its bit, the only sound in the tension-filled silence. Another stamped its hoof. Arawn cleared his throat and turned his head slightly, breaking eye contact with Gwydion. Instead, he focused his gaze on Morgant, who stared back with venom.

"How now, Price Morgant?" Arawn said, his tone almost friendly. "Do you play servant-boy to the Prince of Don? Are you so powerless as to not rule Madoc by this time?" Morgant's eyes narrowed, his gaze filled with hatred.

"Ah yes," Arawn said softly. "Power. Such a flighty thing, is it not? One thinks it is in one's grasp, and then it slips away." Arawn ran his gaze over Morgant's dark attire. "Would not it be better to serve a lord when power is guaranteed, when one can advance oneself and one day becomes something…much more powerful?"

Gwydion's grip tightened on his sword, feelings of torment running through him. If Morgant gave in…he, Gwydion, would have to physically restrain his friend. Or – the thought chilled him – kill him. To stop him.

The pause seemed endless. But then Morgant bared his teeth and spat out, "Keep your filthy promises. I want none of them."

Gwydion sighed inwardly with relief, even as Arawn frowned slightly, then suddenly shifted his focus, this time onto Pryderi. Gwydion froze once more, this time with more fear, for he knew Pryderi to be weaker in character if not in body than Morgant.

"Greetings, Son of Pwyll," Arawn said, an almost amiable smile spreading across his face as he stared at Pryderi – but the smile never reached his eyes.

Arawn seemed to sense that he did not need to be as subtle as he had tried to be with Morgant, for he suddenly and abruptly burst out, "In Annuvin, there are halls filled with riches." Pryderi's eyes flickered. "Riches you cannot even imagine. Jewels, gold, precious works of art from the greatest craftsmen in all of Prydain." Arawn's voice grew softer, and he leaned forward, jutting out his head. "And even more, Son of Pwyll. Secrets, incredible, powerful secrets. Secrets that contain all the human knowledge ever found, all the knowledge that could make a man…king of all Prydain."

Pryderi's mouth opened slightly – Gwydion saw it out of the corner of his eye. The golden-haired youth seemed to be struggling deep within him, as he changed his grip on his sword several times. "I…" he murmured.

"Pryderi!" Gwydion said loudly, his voice filled with anguish. With that one word, Pryderi seemed to come out of his trance. His golden brow became as dark as thunder, and he lifted his sword higher towards Arawn, scowl deepening by the second. He did not speak, but the Lord of Death understood.

Arawn recoiled so he was sitting up straight, features suddenly askew with hatred, and the young lords saw exactly what he was. It seemed to Gwydion's keen eyes that a strange darkness pulsed within the lord's body, writing and twisting into terrible shapes. As quickly as that vision had appeared it vanished again, and the prince saw only the black eyes staring, boring into him. Gwydion stared back with all his might, the shining metal of his sword catching the pale light filtering through the dense clouds.

"So be it," Arawn said sharply, taking up the reins of his mount again. "Farewell, my young lords." Here he paused, and a ghost of an evil smile appeared on his face. "Until you are dragged to be bound and gagged, that is." The mouths of the three young men seemed to tighten as one. Arawn wheeled his mount around and let it take a few steps towards the forest, then stopped and turned back. "My servants will enjoy this hunt," he said gloatingly. "Especially for you, Prince of Don," he continued, meeting Gwydion's challenging gaze. "I hear you are quite the talented young man."

With that, the entire troop of the Lord of Annuvin and his followers vanished into the forest, and all was quiet on the deserted riverbank.

Morgant's face was pale and Pryderi was shaking slightly as Gwydion angrily sheathed his sword and dagger, his face set in frustration. The prince looked at each of his companions – Morgant's returning gaze was full of desperate resignation, and Pryderi's with hot shame at what he had nearly done. And Gwydion knew that there was only one way for all of them to perhaps to stay alive.

"We must split up," he said quietly. "If we travel in three different directions, there is a greater chance of us all getting back to Caer Dathyl."

Morgant instantly nodded. Pryderi added his consent a moment later.

"Pryderi," Gwydion continued, "You will ride straight back to Caer Dallben. Stay with Coll and Dallben until all of you feel it is safe to return to Caer Dathyl, and then make your way back. Travel only at night."

Pryderi hesitated a moment, then bowed his head and walked a few steps away to ready his stallion.

"Morgant," Gwydion said quietly, "You will go to Caer Dathyl now, to warn my father – King Math – about the disappearance of Achren and this Lord Arawn. You will have to ride fast to avoid Arawn's soldiers."

Morgant nodded, then paused. "What about you?" he asked quietly.

"I ride west. To the Marshes of Morva – they must be directly south of Annuvin from what Dallben said," Gwydion said heavily. "I will try to lure them away while you make your escape."

"But..!"

"That's a command, prince," Gwydion said harshly, wincing inwardly at the cruelty of his voice. Behind him, Melyngar nickered softly. Morgant's eyelids flickered, then he jerked his head in a short bow and walked off to his steed. Pryderi was already mounted. He solemnly raised a gloved hand and then turned his steed to the south, back into the grey, bubbling waters of the river. Morgant swung into the saddle and immediately started off through the northern forest at a gallop without a look back, head ducked forward over the neck of his stallion.

Gwydion sighed heavily, then straightened his shoulders in a resolute action, his features setting into a determined mask. Quickly he swung into the saddle on Melyngar's back, and with a kindly pat on her neck, urged the mare into a fast canter heading due west, disappearing into the hot sun of the early afternoon.

YAY! I'M BACK IN DA HOUSE! …or whatever. Heh.