Fflewddur suddenly gave a great shout and waved his sword excitedly. “Put up your weapons!” he cried. “We’re safe at last! These are Morgant’s warriors! They bear the colors of the House of Madoc!”

  The warriors pounded closer. Taran, too, cried out with relief. They were indeed King Morgant’s riders, and at their head rode King Morgant himself. As they reined up beside the companions, Taran hurried to Morgant’s steed and dropped to one knee.

  “Well met, Sire,” he cried. “We feared your men were servants of Arawn.”

  King Morgant swung down from the saddle. His black cloak was torn and travel-stained, his face haggard and grim, but his eyes still held the fierce pride of a hawk. A trace of a smile flickered on his lips. “But you would have stood against us nonetheless,” he said, raising Taran to his feet.

  “What of Prince Gwydion, of Coll?” Taran asked quickly and with sudden uneasiness. “We were separated at Dark Gate and have had no word of them. Adaon, alas, is slain. And Doli, too, I fear.”

  “Of the dwarf, there has been no trace,” answered Morgant. “Lord Gwydion and Coll Son of Collfrewr are safe. They seek you even now. Though,” Morgant added, with another half smile, “it has been my good fortune to find you.

  “The Huntsmen of Annuvin pressed us sharply at Dark Gate,” Morgant went on. “At last we fought free of them and began to make our way toward Caer Cadarn, where Lord Gwydion hoped you would join us.

  “We had not reached there,” said Morgant, “before we had word of you, and that you had taken it on yourselves to go to the Marshes of Morva. That was a bold venture, Taran of Caer Dallben,” Morgant added, “as bold, perhaps, as it was ill-advised. You should learn that a warrior owes obedience to his lord.”

  “It did not seem we could do otherwise,” Taran protested. “We had to find the Crochan before Arawn. Would you not have done the same?”

  Morgant nodded curtly. “I do not reproach your spirit, but would have you understand that Lord Gwydion himself would hesitate to make a decision of such weight. We would have known nothing of your movements had not Gwystyl of the Fair Folk brought us news. Lord Gwydion and I separated then to search for you.”

  “Gwystyl?” Eilonwy interrupted. “Not Gwystyl! Why, he wouldn’t have done the least thing for us—until Doli threatened to squeeze him! Gwystyl! All he wanted was to be let alone and hide in his wretched burrow!”

  Morgant turned to her. “You speak without knowledge, Princess. Among all who hold the way posts, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk is the shrewdest and bravest. Did you believe King Eiddileg would trust a lesser servant so close to Annuvin? But,” he added, “if you misjudged him, it was his intention that you do so.

  “As for the Crochan itself,” Morgant went on, as Taran looked at him in amazement, “though you failed to bring it from Morva, Prince Ellidyr has done us noble service. Yes,” Morgant added quickly, “my warriors came upon him near the River Tevvyn in the course of our search. From his words, I understood that you were drowned and your companions scattered, and that he bore the cauldron from Morva.”

  “That’s not true,” Eilonwy began, her eyes flashing angrily.

  “Be silent!” Taran cried.

  “No, I will not be silent,” retorted Eilonwy, spinning around to face Taran. “You aren’t going to tell me you still think you’re bound by that oath you made us all swear!”

  “What does she mean?” Morgant asked. His eyes narrowed and he studied Taran closely.

  “I’ll tell you what I mean!” Eilonwy answered, heedless of Taran’s protest. “It’s very simple. Taran paid for it, and paid dearly. We carried it almost on our backs every step of the way from Morva, until Ellidyr came along. He helped us—he certainly did that, just the way a robber helps you tidy up your chamber! That’s the truth of it, and I don’t care what anybody else says!”

  “Does she indeed speak the truth?” Morgant asked.

  When Taran did not answer, Morgant nodded slowly and continued in a thoughtful tone. “I believe she does, though you stay silent. There was much of Prince Ellidyr’s tale which rang false to me. As I once told you, Taran of Caer Dallben, I am a warrior and I know my men. But when you face Ellidyr himself, I shall know beyond all doubt.

  “Come,” said Morgant, helping Taran to his steed, “we shall ride to my camp. Your task is ended. The Crochan is in my hands.”

  Morgant’s warriors took up the rest of the companions and they galloped swiftly into the wood. The war lord had made camp in a wide clearing, well protected by trees, its approach guarded by a deep ravine, and the tents had been blended in with a line of underbrush. Taran saw Lluagor and Melynlas tethered among the steeds of the warriors; a little apart, Islimach pawed the ground nervously and pulled at her halter.

  Near the center of the clearing Taran caught his breath at the sight of the Black Crochan, which now had been removed from its sling. Though two of Morgant’s warriors stood by it with drawn swords, Taran could not shake off the sense of fear and foreboding that hung like a dark mist about the cauldron.

  “Do you not fear Arawn will attack you here and gain the cauldron once again?” Taran whispered.

  Morgant’s eyes hooded over and he gave Taran a glance both of anger and pride. “Whoever challenges me shall be met,” he said coldly, “be it the Lord of Annuvin himself.”

  A warrior drew aside the curtain of one of the pavilions, and the war lord led them inside.

  There, bound hand and foot, lay the still form of Ellidyr. His face was covered with blood and he appeared so grievously battered that Eilonwy could not stifle a cry of pity.

  “How is this?” Taran exclaimed, turning to Morgant in shock and reproach. “Sire,” he added quickly, “your warriors had no right to use him so ill! This is shameful and dishonorable treatment.”

  “Do you question my conduct?” Morgant replied. “You have much to learn of obedience. My warriors heed my orders and so shall you. Prince Ellidyr dared to resist me. I caution you not to follow his example.”

  At a call from Morgant, armed guards strode quickly into the tent. The war-leader made a brief gesture toward Taran and his companions.

  “Disarm them and bind them fast.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The War Lord

  Before the startled Taran could draw his blade, a guard seized him and quickly lashed his arms behind his back. The bard, too, was seized. Screaming and kicking, Eilonwy fought vainly. For an instant Gurgi broke loose from his captors and flung himself toward King Morgant. But a warrior struck him brutally to the ground, leaped astride the limp figure, and trussed him tightly.

  “Traitor!” Eilonwy shrieked. “Liar! You dare to steal …”

  “Silence her,” Morgant said coldly, and in another moment a gag muffled her cries.

  Frantically Taran struggled to reach the girl’s side, before he was thrown down and his legs secured with thongs. Morgant watched silently, his features fixed and without expression. The guards stepped away from the helpless companions. Morgant gestured for the warriors to leave the tent.

  Taran, whose head still spun with confusion and disbelief, strained against his bonds. “You are already a traitor,” he cried. “Will you now be a murderer? We are under the protection of Gwydion; you will not escape his wrath!”

  “I do not fear Gwydion,” answered Morgant, “and his protection is worthless to you now. Worthless, indeed, to all Prydain. Even Gwydion is powerless against the Cauldron-Born.”

  Taran stared at him in horror. “You would not dare to use the Crochan against your own kinsmen, your own people. This is even more foul than treachery and murder!”

  “Do you believe so?” Morgant replied. “Then you have more lessons to learn than that of obedience. The cauldron belongs to him who knows how to keep it and how to use it. It is a weapon ready for a hand. For years Arawn was master of the cauldron, yet he lost it. Is this not proof he was unworthy, that he did not have the strength or cunning to prevent its slipping from his grasp? Ellidyr, the proud fool, believed he could keep it. He is hardly fit to be cast into it.”

  “What,” Taran cried, “will you set yourself to rival Arawn?”

  “To rival him?” Morgant asked with a hard smile. “No. To surpass him. I know my worth, though I have chafed in the service of lesser men than I. Now I see the moment is ripe. There are few,” he continued haughtily, “who understand the uses of power. And few who dare use it when it is offered them.

  “Power such as this was offered once to Gwydion,” Morgant went on. “He refused it. I shall not fail to take it. Shall you?”

  “I?” asked Taran, with a terrified glance at Morgant.

  King Morgant nodded. His eyes were hooded, but his falcon’s face was keen and avid. “Gwydion has spoken of you,” he said. “He told me little, but that little is of interest. You are a bold youth—and perhaps more than that. How much more, I do not know. But I do know you are without family, without name or future. You can expect nothing. And yet,” Morgant added, “you can expect everything.

  “I would not offer this to one such as Ellidyr,” Morgant continued. “He is too prideful, weakest where he believes himself strong. Do you remember I told you that I know good mettle? There is much that is possible with you, Taran of Caer Dallben. And this is what I offer—swear that you shall serve me as your liege lord and when the time is right you shall be my war-leader, second only to me in all Prydain.”

  “Why do you offer me this?” Taran cried. “Why should you choose me?”

  “As I have said,” Morgant answered, “there is much you might achieve, if the way is opened for you. Do not deny you have dreamed long of glory. It is not impossible for you to find it, if I judge you well.”

  “Judge me well,” Taran flung back, “and you would know I scorn to serve an evil traitor!”

  “I have no time to hear you vent your rage,” Morgant said. “Many plans must be made between now and dawn. I shall leave you with this to consider: will you be first among my warriors—or first among my Cauldron-Born?”

  “Give me to the cauldron, then!” Taran shouted. “Cast me in it now, even as I live!”

  “You have called me traitor,” Morgant answered, smiling. “Do not call me fool. I, too, know the secret of the cauldron. Do you think I would have the Crochan shatter even before it began its work? Yes,” he went on, “I, too, have been to the Marshes of Morva, long before the cauldron was taken from Annuvin. For I knew that sooner or later Gwydion must make this move against Arawn. And so I prepared myself. Did you pay a price for the Crochan? I, too, paid a price for the knowledge of its workings. I know how to destroy it, and I know how to make it yield a harvest of power.

  “But you were bold, nonetheless, to hope to trick me,” Morgant added. “You fear me,” he said, drawing closer to Taran, “and there are many in Prydain who do. Yet you defy me. To dare that, there are few. This is rare metal indeed, ready to be tempered.”

  Taran was about to speak, but the war lord raised his hand. “Say no more. Instead, think carefully. If you refuse, you shall become a voiceless, mindless slave, without even hope of death to release you from your bondage.”

  Taran’s heart sank, but he raised his head proudly. “If that is the destiny laid on me …”

  “It will be a harder destiny than you believe,” Morgant said, his eyes flickering. “A warrior does not fear to give up his own life. But will he sacrifice that of his comrades?”

  Taran gasped with horror as Morgant went on.

  “Yes,” said the war lord, “one by one your companions shall be slain and given to the Crochan. Who will it devour before you cry a halt? Will it be the bard? Or the shabby creature that serves you? Or the young Princess? They shall go before you, even as you watch. And, at the last, yourself.

  “Weigh this carefully,” said the war lord. “I shall return for your answer.” He flung his black cloak about his shoulders and strode from the tent.

  Taran struggled against his bonds, but they held firm. He sank back and bowed his head.

  The bard, who had been silent this while, heaved a sorrowful sigh. “In the Marshes of Morva,” he said, “if I had only known, I should have asked Orddu to change me into a toad. At the time I didn’t care for the idea. As I think of it now, it’s a happier life than being a Cauldron warrior. At least there would have been dew circles to dance in.”

  “He will not succeed in this,” Taran said. “Somehow, we must find a way to escape. We dare not lose hope.”

  “I agree absolutely,” Fflewddur answered. “Your general idea is excellent; it’s only the details that are lacking. Lose hope? By no means! A Fflam is always hopeful! I intend to go on hoping,” he added ruefully, “even when they come and pop me into the Crochan.”

  Gurgi and Ellidyr still lay unconscious, but Eilonwy had not ceased working furiously at the gag and now at last she succeeded in forcing it out of her mouth.

  “Morgant!” she gasped. “He’ll pay for this! Why, I thought I’d stifle! He might have kept me from talking, but he didn’t keep me from listening. When he comes back, I hope he tries to put me in the cauldron first! He’ll soon find out who he’s dealing with. He’ll wish he’d never thought of making his own Cauldron-Born!”

  Taran shook his head. “By then it will be too late. We shall be slain before we are taken to the Crochan. No, there is only one hope. None of you shall be sacrificed because of me. I have decided what I must do.”

  “Decided!” Eilonwy burst out. “The only thing you have to decide is how we shall escape from this tent. If you’re thinking of anything else, you’re wasting your time. That’s like wondering whether to scratch your head when a boulder’s about to fall on it.”

  “This is my decision,” Taran said slowly. “I will accept what Morgant offers.”

  “What?” Eilonwy exclaimed in disbelief. “For a while I thought you’d actually learned something from Adaon’s brooch. How can you think to accept?”

  “I shall swear my allegiance to Morgant,” Taran went on. “He shall have my word, but shall not make me keep it. An oath given under threat of death cannot bind me. This way, at least, we may gain a little time.”

  “Are you sure Morgant’s warriors didn’t strike you on the head and you didn’t notice it?” Eilonwy asked sharply. “Do you imagine Morgant won’t guess what you plan? He has no intention of keeping his part of the bargain; he’ll slay us all anyway. Once you’re in his clutches—I mean more than you are—you won’t get out of them. Morgant might have been one of the greatest war-leaders in Prydain; but he’s turned evil, and if you try coming to terms with him, well, you’ll find it’s worse than being a Cauldron warrior. Though I admit that isn’t very attractive either.”

  Taran was silent for a time. “I fear you are right,” he said. “But I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “Get out first,” Eilonwy advised. “We can decide what else when the time comes. Somehow it’s hard to think about where to run as long as your hands and feet are tied up.”

  With much difficulty, the tightly bound companions struggled closer and sought to undo each other’s thongs. The knots refused to yield, slipped from their numb fingers, and only bit more deeply into their flesh.

  Again and again the companions returned to their labors until they lay breathless and exhausted. Even Eilonwy no longer had the strength to speak. They rested a while, hoping to gain new energy, but the night moved as a heavy, tormented dream and the moments they passed in fitful drowsing did nothing to restore them, nor did they dare lose too much precious time; morning, Taran knew, would come swiftly. The cold, gray trickle of dawn had already begun to seep into the tent.

  All night, as they had toiled, Taran had heard the movements of warriors in the clearing, the voice of Morgant crying harsh, urgent commands. Now he dragged himself painfully to the curtain at the entrance of the tent, pressed his cheek against the cold ground, and tried to peer out. He could see little, for the rising mists swirled above the turf, and he made out only shadow shapes hastening back and forth. The warriors, he imagined, were gathering their gear, perhaps making ready to strike camp. A long, pitiful whinny came from the line of tethered horses and he recognized it as that of Islimach. The Crochan still squatted where it had been; Taran made out the dark, brooding mass, and it seemed to him, in a flare of horror, that its mouth gaped greedily.

  Taran rolled over and pulled himself back to the companions. The bard’s features were pale; he appeared half-dazed by fatigue and suffering. Eilonwy raised her head and looked silently at him.

  “What,” murmured Fflewddur, “has the moment already come for us to say farewell?”

  “Not yet,” Taran said, “though Morgant will be here soon enough, I fear. Then our time will be upon us. How does Gurgi fare?”

  “The poor thing is still unconscious,” Eilonwy answered. “Leave him as he is, it is kinder thus.”

  Ellidyr stirred and groaned feebly. Slowly his eyes opened; he winced, turned his bloodstained, broken face to Taran, and studied him for a time as though without recognition. Then his torn lips moved in his familiar, bitter grimace.

  “And so we are together again, Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said. “I did not expect us to meet so soon.”

  “Have no fear, Son of Pen-Llarcau,” Taran answered. “It shall not be for long.”

  Ellidyr bowed his head. “For that I am truly sorry. I would make up the ill I have done all of you.”

  “Would you have said the same if the cauldron were still in your hands?” Taran asked quietly.

  Ellidyr hesitated. “I shall speak the truth—I do not know. The black beast you saw is a harsh master; its claws are sharp. Yet I did not feel them until now.

  “But I tell you this,” Ellidyr continued, trying to lift himself, “I stole the cauldron out of pride, not evil. I swear to you, on whatever honor remains to me, I would not have used it. Yes, I would have taken your glory for my own. But I, too, would have borne the Crochan to Gwydion and offered it for destruction. Believe this much of me.”

  Taran nodded. “I believe you, Prince of Pen-Llarcau. And now perhaps even more than you believe it yourself.”