Lloyd Alexander - The High King

At the highest peak of the dragon's crest rose a tall rock. Time and tempest had gnawed it into a grotesque shape. The wind, blowing through the eroded crannies and hollows, set up a baleful keening, and the stone shrieked and moaned as if with human tongue. The weird wail seemed to command, to beseech, to draw Taran closer. Here was his only weapon. He flung himself against the rock and wrestled against the unyielding bulk, struggling to uproot it. The Cauldron-Born were nearly upon him.

The stone crest seemed to move a little as Taran redoubled his efforts. Then suddenly it rolled from its socket. With a final heave Taran sent it crashing amid his assailants. Two of the Cauldron-Born tumbled backward and their blades spun from their hands, but the third warrior did not falter in his upward climb.

Driven by despair, as a man casts pebbles at the lightning that would strike him down, Taran groped for a handful of stones, of loose earth, even a broken twig to fling in defiance of the Cauldron war­rior who strode closer, blade upraised.

The socket from which the dragon's crest had been torn was lined with flat stones, and in it as in a narrow grave, lay Dyrnwyn, the black sword.

Taran snatched it up. For an instant, his mind reeling, he did not recognize the blade. Once, long before, he had sought to draw Dyrnwyn and his life had been almost forfeit to his rashness. Now, heedless of the cost, seeing no more than a weapon come to his hand, he ripped the sword from its sheath. Dyrnwyn flamed with a white and blinding light. It was only then, in some distant corner of his mind, Taran dimly understood that Dyrnwyn was blazing in his grasp and that he was still alive.

Dazzled, the Cauldron-Born dropped his sword and flung his hands to his face. Taran leaped forward and with all his strength drove the blazing weapon deep into the warrior's heart.

The Cauldron-Born stumbled and fell; and from lips long mute burst a shriek that echoed and re-echoed from the Death-Lord's stronghold as though rising from a thousand tongues. Taran staggered back. The Cauldron-Born lay motionless.

Along the path and at the Iron Portals the Cauldron warriors toppled as one body. Within the stronghold the deathless men locked in combat with the Sons of Don screamed and crumpled to earth even as Taran's foe had fallen. A troop hastening to fill the breach at Dark Gate pitched headlong at the feet of Gwydion's warriors, and those who strove to slay the soldiers at the western wall dropped in mid-stride and their weapons clattered on the stones. Death at last had overcome the deathless Cauldron-Born.

Shouting for the companions, Taran raced from the peak of Mount Dragon. The Commot horsemen leaped to their saddles and urged their steeds to a gallop, plunging after Taran and into the fray.

Taran sped across the courtyard. At the death of the Cauldron-Born, many of Arawn's mortal guards threw down their weapons and sought vainly to flee the stronghold. Others fought with the frenzy of men whose lives were already lost; and the remaining Huntsmen, who had gained new strength as their comrades fell under the blades of the Sons of Don, still shouted their war cry and flung themselves against Gwydion's warriors. One of the Huntsmen troop captains, his branded face twisted in rage, slashed at Taran, then shouted in horror and fled at the sight of the flaming sword.

Taran fought his way through the press of warriors that swirled about him and raced toward the Great Hall where he had first glimpsed Gwydion. He burst through the portals and as he did so, sudden fear and loathing plucked at him. Torches flared along the dark, glittering corridors. For a moment he faltered, as though a black wave had engulfed him. From the far end of the corridor Gwydion had seen him and he strode quickly to Taran's side. Taran ran to meet him, shouting triumphantly that Dyrnwyn had been found.

"Sheathe the blade!" Gwydion cried, shielding his eyes with a hand. "Sheathe the blade, or it will cost your life!"

Taran obeyed.

Gwydion's face was drawn and pale, his green-flecked eyes burned feverishly. "How have you drawn this blade, Pig-Keeper?" Gwydion demanded. "My hands alone dare touch it. Give me the sword."

The voice of Gwydion rang harsh and commanding, yet Taran hesitated, his heart pounding with a strange dread.

"Quickly!" Gwydion ordered. "Will you destroy what I have fought to win? Arawn's treasure trove lies open to our hands, and power greater than any man has dreamed awaits us. You will share with me in it, Pig-Keeper. I trust no other.

"Shall some base-born warrior keep these treasures from us?" Gwydion cried. "Arawn has fled his realm, Pryderi is slain and his army scattered. None has strength to stand against us now. Give me the sword, Pig-Keeper. Half a kingdom is in your grasp, seize it now before it is too late."

Gwydion reached out his hand.

Taran flung himself back, his eyes wide with horror. "Lord Gwydion, this is not the counsel of a friend. It is betrayal…"

Only then, as he stared bewildered at this man he had honored since boyhood, did he understand the ruse.

In another instant Taran ripped Dyrnwyn from its sheath and raised the glittering blade.

"Arawn!" Taran gasped, and swung the weapon downward.

Before the blade struck home, the Death-Lord's disguised shape blurred suddenly and van­ished. A shadow writhed along the corridor and faded away.

THE COMPANIONS NOW PRESSEDinto the Great Hall and Taran hurried toward them, crying the warning that Arawm still lived and had escaped.

Achren's eyes blazed with hatred. "Escaped you, Pig-Keeper, but not my vengeance. The secret chambers of Arawn are no secret to me. I shall seek him out wherever he has taken refuge."

Without waiting for the companions, who ran to follow her, Achren set off with all speed down the winding halls. She sprang past a heavy portal which bore the Death-Lord's seal branded deeply in the iron-studded wood. At the far end of the long chamber Taran glimpsed a hunched, spidery figure scuttling to a high, skull-shaped throne.

It was Magg. The Chief Steward's face was ghastly white, his lips trembled and slavered, and his eyes rolled in his head. He stumbled to the foot of the throne, snatched at an object that lay on the flagstones, clutched it to him, and whirled to face the companions.

"No closer!" shrieked Magg, in such a tone that even Achren halted and Taran, about to draw Dyrnwyn from its scabbard, was gripped in horror at Magg's contorted features.

"Will you keep your lives?" Magg cried. "To your knees, then! Humble yourselves and beg mercy.

I, Magg, shall favor you by making you my slaves."

"Your master has abandoned you," replied Taran. "And your own treachery has ended." He strode forward.

Magg's spidery hands thrust out in warning, and Taran saw that the Chief Steward held a strangely wrought crown.

"I am master here," Magg shouted. "I, Magg, Lord of Annuvin. Arawn pledged that I should wear the Iron Crown. Has it slipped from his fingers? It is mine, mine by right and promise!"

"He has gone mad," Taran murmured to Fflewddur, who stared in revulsion as the Chief Steward raised high the crown and gibbered to him­self. "Help me take him prisoner!"

"No prisoner shall he be," cried Achren, draw­ing a dagger from her cloak. "His life is mine for the taking, and he shall die as all who have betrayed me. My vengeance begins here, with a treacherous slave, and next, his master."

"Harm him not," commanded Taran, as the Queen struggled to make her way past him to the throne. "Let him find justice from Gwydion."

Achren fought against him, but Eilonwy and Doli hastened to hold the raging Queen's arms. Taran and the bard strode toward Magg, who flung himself to the seat of the throne.

"Do you tell me Arawn's promises' are lies?" the Chief Steward hissed, fondling and fingering the heavy crown. "It was promised I should wear this. Now it is given into my hands. So shall it be!" Quickly, Magg lifted the crown and set it on his brow.