Lloyd Alexander - Taran Wanderer

Through the day the companions bore northeastward again. Taran would have been glad for Doli's guidance and keenly missed the gruff dwarf, but his spirits had never been higher; he rode eagerly, light-heartedly; the battle horn swinging from his shoulder gave him fresh courage and confidence.

"Eilonwy's gift is more precious even than I thought," he told Fflewddur. "I'm grateful to Doli for telling me its power. And more than that, for telling me of the Lake of Llunet. It's a strange thing, Fflewddur," Taran went on, "but somehow I feel closer to the end of my quest. I believe more than ever that I'll find what I'm looking for."

"Eh? How's that?" Fflewddur answered, blinking as if he had just come awake. Though Gurgi had put all thoughts of Morda behind him, the bard seemed still shaken by his ordeal, and often lapsed into thoughtful silence when he would morosely finger his ears as though expecting them to lengthen at any moment. "Dreadful experience!" he muttered now. "A Fflam into a rabbit! What were you saying? The quest? Yes, of course."

"Smell with whiffings!" interrupted Gurgi. "Someone cooks tasty crunchings and munchings!"

"You're right," Fflewddur agreed, sniffing the air. "Oh, blast! There goes my nose twitching again!"

Taran reined Melynlas to a walk. Llyan, too, had caught the scent; her ears forward, she licked hungrily at her whiskers.

"Shall we see who it is?" asked Fflewddur. "I wouldn't say no to a hot meal― so long as it isn't rabbit!"

Taran nodded and the companions rode cautiously through the glade. He had meant to catch a first glimpse of the strangers without himself being seen; but he had gone no more than a few paces when two roughly bearded men rose from the shadows of the bushes. Taran started. The two evidently posted as guards, quickly drew their swords. One of the men whistled a bird call and stared sharply at the companions, but made no attempt to hinder them.

In the clearing Taran saw some dozen men sprawled around a cook fire, where collops of meat hung sizzling on a spit. Though armed heavily as warriors, the men wore neither the badge nor colors of any cantrev lord. Some were chewing at their food, some sharpening their blades or waxing their bowstrings. Closest to the fire, stretched at his ease, a heavy-faced man leaned on one elbow and toyed with a long dagger, which he tossed and twirled, catching it first by the hilt, then by the point. He wore a horsehide jacket whose sleeves had been ripped out; his muddy boots were thick-soled and studded with iron nails. His yellowish hair fell below his shoulders; his cold blue eyes seemed to measure the three companions with an unhurried glance.

"Welcome, lordships," he drawled as Taran dismounted. "What lucky wind blows you to the camp of Dorath?"

"I am no lord," replied Taran. "I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper…"

"No lord?" Dorath interrupted in mock surprise, a half-smile on his mouth. "If you hadn't told me, I'd never have guessed."

"These are my comrades," Taran went on, vexed that he had let Dorath make sport of him. "Gurgi. Fflewddur Fflam― he wanders as a bard of the harp, but in his own land he is a king."

"And Dorath is king wherever he rides," answered the yellow-haired man, laughing. "Now, Lord Swineherd, will you share humble fare?" With his dagger he gestured toward the roasting collops. "Eat your fill. Dorath's Company never goes short of commons. Then we'll want to know more about three such as you."

"The harper rides a strange steed, Dorath," called a man with a badly scarred face. "I wager my mare could stand against the beast, no matter, for she's an evil-tempered brute and a killer born. Would it not be a merry match? What say you, Dorath? Will you have the cat show us some sport?"

"Hold your tongue, Gloff," Dorath answered, carefully eyeing Llyan. "You're a fool and always were." He pulled the meat from the spit and thrust it toward the companions. Fflewddur, having assured himself the roast was not rabbit, ate with a good will; Gurgi, as usual, needed no urging to finish his meal; and Taran was glad to swallow his own share, washed down with a mouthful of harsh-tasting wine Dorath poured from a leather flask. The sun was dropping quickly. One of the band flung more branches on the fire. Dorath stuck his dagger into the ground before him and looked up sharply at Taran.

"And so, Lord," said Dorath, "have you no traveler's tales to pass the time for my friends and me? Where do you come from? Where do you go? And why? The Hill Cantrevs are dangerous unless a man knows what he's about."

Taran did not answer immediately; Dorath's tone and the look of the men around the fire made Taran guard his words. "We journey northward― through the Llawgadarn Mountains."

Dorath grinned at him. "And where then?" he asked. "Or do you call my questions discourteous?"

"To the Lake of Llunet," Taran answered with some reluctance.

"I've heard of treasure in those parts," put in the man called Gloff. "Is that what they seek?"

"Is it indeed?" Dorath said to Taran. "Treasure?" He laughed loudly. "Small wonder you're a miser with your words!"

Taran shook his head. "If I find what I seek, it will be more to me than gold."

"So?" Dorath bent close to him. "But what would such a treasure be, Lord? Jewels? Fine-fashioned ornaments?"

"Neither," Taran answered. He hesitated, then said, "I seek my parents."

Dorath was quiet a moment. The grin did not leave his face, but when he spoke again his voice was cold. "When Dorath asks a question, he wants a truthful answer, Lord Swineherd."

Taran flushed angrily. "I have given you one. Say I have not and you call me liar."

There was a sudden silence between the two. Dorath had half-risen, his heavy face darkened. Taran's hand moved to the pommel of his sword. But in that instant a merry burst of music rose from Fflewddur's harp and the bard called out, "Gently, friends! Hear a gay tune to settle our supper!"

He leaned the beautifully curved harp against his shoulders and as his fingers danced over the strings the men around the fire clapped their hands and urged him on. Dorath settled back on the turf, but he glanced at the bard and spat into the fire.

"Have done, harper," Dorath said after a time. "Your tune jangles from that crooked pot. We'll take our rest. You'll stay with us and in the morning my Company will guide you to the Lake of Llunet."

Taran glanced at Fflewddur and caught the bard's quick frown. He rose to his feet. "We thank you for your courtesy," he said to Dorath, "but time presses and we mean to travel during the night."

"Ah, yes― so we do," Fflewddur put in, while Gurgi vigorously agreed. "As for the Lake― yes, well― we wouldn't think of putting you to the trouble. It's a long journey, far beyond your cantrev."

"Prydain is my cantrev," Dorath answered. "Have you not heard of Dorath's Company? We serve any who pay us to serve: a weak lord who craves a strong war band, or three wayfarers who need protection against the dangers of their journey. The many dangers, harper," he grimly added. "Llunet is no more than a step and a jump for my men; and I know how the land lies. Will you go safely? I ask only a little part of the treasure you seek, a small reward to your humble servants."

"We thank you," Taran said again. "It is already past nightfall and we must find our path."

"How then!" cried Dorath in a great show of indignation. "Do you scorn my poor hospitality? You wound my feelings, lords. Is it beneath you to sleep beside the likes of us? Ah, ah, swineherd, do not insult my men. They might take it amiss."

Indeed, as Dorath spoke, an ugly grumble rose from the band, and Taran saw some of the warriors finger their swords. He stood uncertain, though well aware of the bard's discomfort. Dorath watched him closely. Two of the men had drifted quietly to the horse lines, and Taran could imagine that in the shadows they were easing their weapons from their sheaths.