Lloyd Alexander - The Book of Three

"Stop chattering and tell me where we are!" Taran tried to roll from the couch, then sank back weakly and put a hand to his head.

"You aren't supposed to get up yet," Eilonwy cautioned, "but I imagine you've just discovered that for yourself."

Wriggling and grunting loudly, the delighted Hen Wen had begun to climb onto the couch. Eilonwy snapped her fingers. "Stop that, Hen," she ordered, "you know he isn't to be disturbed or upset and especially not sat on." The girl turned again to Taran. "We're in Caer Dathyl," she said. "It's a lovely place. Much nicer than Spiral Castle."

Taran started up once more as memories flooded over him. "The Horned King!" he cried. "What happened? Where is he?"

"In a barrow, most likely, I should think."

"Is he dead?"

"Naturally," answered the girl. "You don't think he'd stand being put in a barrow if he weren't, do you? There wasn't a great deal left of him, but what there was got buried." Eilonwy shuddered. "I think he was the most terrifying person I've ever met, and that includes Achren. He gave me a dreadful tossing about― just before he was going to smite you." She rubbed her head. "For the matter of that, you pulled away my sword rather roughly. I told you and told you not to draw it. But you wouldn't listen. That's what burned your arm."

Taran noticed the black scabbard of Dyrnwyn no longer hung from Eilonwy's shoulder. "But then what…"

"It's lucky you went unconscious," Eilonwy continued. "You missed the worst of it. There was the earthquake, and the Horned King burning until he just, well, broke apart. It wasn't pleasant. The truth of the matter is, I'd rather not talk about it. It still gives me bad dreams, even when I'm not asleep."

Taran gritted his teeth. "Eilonwy," he said at last, "I want you to tell me very slowly and carefully what happened. If you don't, I'm going to be angry and you're going to be sorry."

"How― can― I― tell― you― anything," Eilonwy said, deliberately pronouncing every word and making extravagant grimaces as she did so, "if― you― don't― want― me― to― talk?" She shrugged. "Well, in any case," she resumed, at her usual breathless rate, "as soon as the armies saw the Horned King was dead, they practically fell apart, too. Not the same way, naturally. With them, it was more sort of running away, like a herd of rabbits― no, that isn't right, is it? But it was pitiful to see grown men so frightened. Of course, by that time the Sons of Don had their chance to attack. You should have seen the golden banners. And such handsome warriors." Eilonwy sighed. "It was― it was like― I don't even know what it was like."

"And Hen Wen…"

"She hasn't stirred from this chamber ever since they brought you here," said Eilonwy. "Neither have I," she added, with a glance at Taran. "She's a very intelligent pig," Eilonwy went on. "Oh, she does get frightened and loses her head once in a while, I suppose. And she can be very stubborn when she wants, which sometimes makes me wonder how much difference there is between pigs and the people who keep them. I'm not mentioning anyone in particular, you understand."

The door opposite Taran's couch opened part way. Around it appeared the spiky yellow head and pointed nose of Fflewddur Fflam.

"So you're back with us," cried the bard. "Or, as you might say, we're back with you!"

Gurgi and the dwarf, who had been standing behind the bard, now rushed in; despite Eilonwy's protests, they crowded around Taran. Fflewddur and Doli showed no sign of injury, but Gurgi's head was bound up and he moved with a limp.

"Yes! Yes!" he cried. "Gurgi fought for his friend with slashings and gashings! What smitings! Fierce warriors strike him about his poor tender head, but valiant Gurgi does not flee, oh, no!"

Taran smiled at him, deeply touched. "I'm sorry about your poor tender head," he said, putting a hand on Gurgi's shoulder, "and that a friend should be wounded for my sake."

"What joy! What clashings and smashings! Ferocious Gurgi fills wicked warriors with awful terror and outcries."

"It's true," said the bard. "He was the bravest of us all. Though my stumpy friend here can do surprising things with an axe."

Doli, for the first time, grinned. "Never thought any of you had any mettle to show," he said, attempting to be gruff. "Took you all for milksops at first. Deepest apologies," he added, with a bow.

"We held off the war band," Fflewddur said, "until we were sure you were well away. Some of them should have occasion to think unkindly of us for a while to come." The bard's face lit up. "There we were," he cried, "fighting like madmen, hopelessly outnumbered. But a Fflam never surrenders! I took on three at once. Slash! Thrust! Another seized me from behind, the wretched coward. But I flung him off. We disengaged them and made for Caer Dathyl, chopping and hacking all the way, beset on all sides…"

Taran expected Fflewddur's harp strings to sunder at any moment. To his surprise, they held firm.

"And so," Fflewddur concluded with a carefree shrug, "that was our part. Rather easy, when you come down to it; I had no fear of things going badly, not for an instant."

A string broke with a deep twang.

Fflewddur bent down to Taran. "Terrified," he whispered. "Absolutely green."

Eilonwy seized the bard and thrust him toward the door. "Begone!" she cried, "all of you! You'll wear him out with your chatter." The girl shoved Gurgi and the dwarf after Fflewddur. "And stay out! No one's to come in until I say they can."

"Not even I?"

Taran started up at the familiar voice. Gwydion stood in the doorway.

For a moment Taran did not recognize him. Instead of the stained cloak and coarse jacket, Gwydion wore the shining raiment of a prince. His rich mantle hung in deep folds. On a chain at his throat gleamed a sun-shaped disk of gold. His green eyes shone with new depth and power. Taran saw him now as he had always imagined him.

Heedless of his wounded arm, Taran sprang from the couch. The tall figure strode toward him. The authority of the warrior's bearing made Taran drop to one knee. "Lord Gwydion," he murmured.

"That is no greeting from a friend to a friend," said Gwydion, gently raising Taran to his feet. "It gives me more pleasure to remember an Assistant Pig-Keeper who feared I would poison him in the forest near Caer Dallben."

"After Spiral Castle," Taran stammered, "I never thought to see you alive." He clasped Gwydion's hand and wept unashamedly.

"A little more alive than you are." Gwydion smiled. He helped Taran seat himself on the couch.

"But how did…" Taran began, as he noticed a black and battered weapon at Gwydion's side.

Gwydion saw the question on Taran's face. "A gift," he said, "a royal gift from a young lady."

"I girded it on him myself," Eilonwy interrupted. She turned to Gwydion. "I told him not to draw it, but he's impossibly stubborn."

"Fortunately you did not unsheath it entirely," Gwydion said to Taran. "I fear the flame of Dyrnwyn would have been too great even for an Assistant Pig-Keeper.

"It is a weapon of power, as Eilonwy recognized,'' Gwydion added. "So ancient that I believed it no more than a legend. There are still deep secrets concerning Dyrnwyn, unknown even to the wisest. Its loss destroyed Spiral Castle and was a severe blow to Arawn."

With a single, firm gesture, Gwydion drew the blade and held it aloft. The weapon glittered blindingly. In fear and wonder, Taran shrank back, his wound throbbing anew. Gwydion quickly returned the blade to its scabbard.

"As soon as I saw Lord Gwydion," Eilonwy put in, with an admiring glance at him, "I knew he was the one who should keep the sword. I must say I'm glad to have done with the clumsy thing."

"Do stop interrupting," Taran cried. "Let me find out what happened to my friend before you start babbling."