Lloyd Alexander - The High King

Smoit snorted and struck his massive thigh. "Before I could swallow another mouthful, Magg's warriors were about me. My heart and liver! Some of them will remember Smoit! Another troop had lain in ambush and stormed through the gate." Smoit put his head in his hands. "Of my own men those not slain are prisoned in the guardrooms and armories."

"And you," Taran asked anxiously, "are you in pain? Magg spoke of torture."

"Pain!" Smoit bellowed so loudly the chamber echoed. "Torture? I suffer till I sweat. But not at the hands of that long-nosed worm! My skin's thick enough.. Let Magg break his teeth on my bones! He troubles me no more than a fleabite or bramble scratch. Why, I've taken worse in a friendly scuffle!

"Do you speak of pain?" Smoit stormed on. "By every hair of my beard, I swear it pains me more than hot iron to be mewed up in my own castle! My own stronghold, and a captive in it! Gulled in my own Great Hall! My own food and drink snatched from my lips, and my breakfast ruined. Torment? Worse than that! It's enough to sour a man out of his appetite!"

Gwydion and Coll, meantime, had made their way to the walls and, as far as the dim light allowed, were hastily examining them for any sign of weakness. Taran, now that his eyes had grown a little more used to the gloom, feared that his companions were wasting their labors. The cell was windowless; what little air reached them came only from the tiny, heavily barred grating of the door. The floor was not of hard-packed earth, but of flagstones joined with barely a crack.

Smoit himself, realizing the purpose of Gwydion's efforts, shook his head and pounded his iron-shod boots on the floor. "Solid as a mountain," he cried. "I know, for I built it myself. Spare yourself pains, my friends. It will crack no sooner than I!"

"How far below ground is this dungeon?" Taran asked, though his hope for escape was fading with each moment. "Is there no way we can dig upward?"

"Dungeon?" cried Smoit. "I've no more dungeons in Caer Cadarn. When last we met, you called my dungeons useless. Right you were, and so; I walled them up. Now there's no wrongdoing in my cantrev that I can't settle quicker and easier with a few words. Who hears my voice will mend his ways― or mend his head. Dungeon indeed! It's a spare larder.

"Would that I had stocked it as solidly as I built it," groaned Smoit. "Let Magg bring his irons and lashes. I'll heed them not a bit in the midst of this other fiendish torment. The larder lies beside my scullery! I've not lined my belly for two days. Two years, it feels! The vile traitor has not left off his feasting! And for me? No more than the sniff of it! Oh, he shall pay for this," Smoit cried. "I'll beg him one thing only: a moment with my paws about his skinny neck. I'll squeeze out all the puddings and pastries he's ever gobbled!"

Gwydion had come to crouch beside the furious Smoit. "Your larder may be our tomb," he said grimly. "Not only for ourselves," he added. "Fflewddur Fflam leads our companions here. Magg's jaws will close on them as tightly as they are closed on us."

ALTHOUGH FFLEWDDUR FFLAMquickly led Eilonwy, King Rhun, and Glew to Avren Harbor, their return from the ship was less rapid. First, the King of Mona managed, against all likelihood, to tumble over his horse's neck when the dapple gray halted to drink at the riverbank. The ducking thoroughly soaked the unlucky King but did not dampen his spirits. However, Rhun's sword belt had come undone and the blade had sunk in the shallows. Rhun being unable to fish it out again because he had also got himself tangled in the steed's harness, Fflewddur was obliged to plunge into the river for the weapon. Glew now protested, bitterly against riding behind the sopping bard.

"Walk, then, little weasel! " cried Fflewddur, shivering and beating his arms against his sides. "By my choice, in the opposite direction!"

Glew only sniffed haughtily and refused to budge.

Eilonwy stamped her foot with impatience. "Will you make haste, all of you! We came to look after Lord Gwydion, and we can hardly look after ourselves."

The former giant consented to ride behind the Princess on Lluagor, and they set out once more. Llyan, however, had suddenly taken it into her head to be playful. She lunged forward on her huge padded paws and spun joyfully about while the desperate bard clung to her tawny neck. It was all Fflewddur could do to keep Llyan from rolling onto her back with himself astride her.

"She― seldom does this," shouted the breathless bard, while Llyan, with great leaps, circled the companions. "She's really been― quite well― behaved! No use― scolding her. Makes no― difference!"

At last Fflewddur was forced, with difficulty, to unsling his harp and pluck out a melody until Llyan grew calm again.

Soon after midday the bard heard the faint, distant notes of Taran's horn. "They're worried over us," Fflewddur said. "I hope we shall soon rejoin them."

The companions pressed on as quickly as they could, but the distance between the two bands increased rather than dwindled, and at nightfall they wearily halted and slept.

A fresh morning start brought them, according to Fflewddur's reckoning, less than half a day behind the others. King Rhun, more than ever eager to reach Caer Cadarn, urged all speed from the dapple gray; but the mare's pace was much slower than Llyan's and Lluagor's; Eilonwy and Fflewddur Continually had to rein in their mounts.

Midway through the afternoon, King Rhun gave a glad cry. Caer Cadarn lay only a little distance off. They saw Smoit's crimson banner clearly beyond the trees. The companions were about to hasten onward, but Eilonwy frowned and looked once more at the fluttering standard.

"How odd," the Princess remarked. "I see King Smoit's jolly old bear. But Gwydion surely must be there by now, and I don't see the banner of the House of Don. Queen Teleria taught me it is courtesy for a cantrev noble to fly the Golden Sunburst of Don when one of the Royal House visits him."

"True enough in ordinary circumstances," agreed Fflewddur. "But I doubt, at this point, that Gwydion wants anyone to know where he is. He's told Smoit to put aside the formalities. A most sensible precaution."

"Yes, of course." Eilonwy replied. "I shouldn't have thought of that. How clever of you, Fflewddur."

The bard beamed happily. "Experience, Princess. Long experience. But never fear. Such wisdom will come to you, in time."

"Even so," Eilonwy said, as they rode farther. "It's curious the gates are closed. Knowing King Smoit, you might suppose they'd be flung wide open and a guard of honor waiting for us, with King Smoit himself ar their head."

Fflewddur waved the girl's remark aside. "Not a bit of it. Lord Gwydiom follows a path of danger, not a round of festivals. I understand how such things are done. I've been on a thousand secret missions― ah, well, perhaps one or two," he added hastily. "I fully expected Caer Cadarn would be buckled, bolted, and shut tight as an oyster."

"Yes," Eilonwy said, "I'm sure you know more about such things than I" She hesitated, straining her eyes to take in the castle, which the companions were now rapidly approaching. "But King Smoit isn't at war with his neighbors, as far as I've heard. Two watchmen on the walls would be more than enough. Does he need a whole party of bowmen?"

"Naturally," replied Fflewddur, "to protect Lord Gwydion."

"But if no one is to know Gwydion's there―" Eilonwy persisted.

"Great Belin!" cried the bard, reining up Llyan. "Now you make my head spin. Are you trying to say Gwydion's not at Caer Cadarn? If he's not, we shall soon find out. And if he is, we shall find that out as well." Fflewddur scratched his spiky yellow head. "But if he's not, then, why not? What could have happened? And if he is, then there's nothing to worry about. Yet, if he isn't…Oh, drat and blast, you've turned me queasy. I don't understand…."