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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain)
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The rest of the company had begun to enter when Fflewddur took Taran’s arm and drew him aside as a dark-bearded warrior swept by.
“One thing you can be sure of,” the bard said under his breath, “Gwydion isn’t planning a harvest festival. Do you see who’s here?”
The dark warrior was more richly attired than any of the company. His high-bridged nose was falconlike, his eyes heavy-lidded but keen. Only to Gwydion did he bow; then, taking a seat at the table, he cast a cool glance of appraisal on those around him.
“Who is he?” whispered Taran, not daring to stare at this proud and regal figure.
“King Morgant of Madoc,” answered the bard, “the boldest war leader in Prydain, second only to Gwydion himself. He owes allegiance to the House of Don.” He shook his head in admiration. “They say he once saved Gwydion’s life. I believe it. I’ve seen that
fellow in battle. All ice! Absolutely fearless! If Morgant’s to have a hand in this, something interesting must be stirring. Oh, listen. It’s King Smoit. You can always hear him before you can see him.”
A bellow of laughter resounded beyond the chamber, and in another moment a giant, red-headed warrior rolled in at the side of Adaon. He towered above all in the chamber and his beard flamed around a face so scarred with old wounds it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended. His nose had been battered to his cheekbones; his heavy forehead was nearly lost in a fierce tangle of eyebrows; and his neck seemed as thick as Taran’s waist.
“What a bear!” said Fflewddur with an affectionate chuckle. “But there’s not a grain of harm in him. When the lords of the southern cantrevs rose against the Sons of Don, Smoit was one of the few who stayed loyal. His kingdom is Cantrev Cadiffor.”
Smoit stopped in the middle of the chamber, threw back his cloak, and hooked his thumbs into the enormous bronze belt which strained to bursting about his middle. “Hullo, Morgant!” he roared. “So they’ve called you in, have they?” He sniffed ferociously. “I smell blood-letting in the wind!” He strode up to the stern war leader and fetched him a heavy clout on the shoulder.
“Have a care,” said Morgant, with a lean smile that showed only the tips of his teeth, “that it will not be yours.”
“Ho! Oho!” King Smoit bellowed and slapped his massive thighs. “Very good! Have a care it will not be mine! Never fear, you icicle! I have enough to spare!” He caught sight of Fflewddur. “And another old comrade!” he roared, hurrying to the bard and flinging his arms about him with such enthusiasm that Taran heard Fflewddur’s ribs creak. “My pulse!” cried Smoit. “My body and bones! Give us a tune to make us merry, you butter-headed harp-scraper!”
His eye fell on Taran. “What’s this, what’s this?” He seized Taran with a mighty, red-furred hand. “A skinned rabbit? A plucked chicken?”
“He is Taran, Dallben’s Assistant Pig-Keeper,” said the bard.
“I wish he were Dallben’s cook!” cried Smoit. “I’ve hardly lined my belly!”
Dallben began to rap for silence. Smoit strode to his place after giving Fflewddur another hug.
“There may not be any harm in him,” said Taran to the bard, “but I think it’s safer to have him for a friend.”
All the company now gathered at the table, with Dallben and Gwydion at one end, Coll at the other. King Smoit, overflowing his chair, sat on the enchanter’s left across from King Morgant. Taran squeezed in between the bard and Doli, who grumbled bitterly about the table being too high. To the right of Morgant sat Adaon, and beside him Ellidyr, whom Taran had not seen since morning.
Dallben rose and stood quietly a moment. All turned toward him. The enchanter pulled on a wisp of beard. “I am much too old to be polite,” Dallben said, “and I have no intention of making a speech of welcome. Our business here is urgent and we shall get down to it immediately.
“Little more than a year ago, as some of you have good cause to remember,” Dallben went on, glancing at Taran and his companions, “Arawn, Lord of Annuvin suffered grave defeat when the Horned King, his champion, was slain. For a time the power of the Land of Death was checked. But in Prydain evil is never distant.
“None of us is foolish enough to believe Arawn would accept a defeat without a challenge,” Dallben continued. “I had hoped for a little more time to ponder the new threat of Annuvin. Time, alas,
will not be granted. Arawn’s plans have become all too clear. Of them, I ask Lord Gwydion to speak.”
Gwydion rose in turn. His face was grave. “Who has not heard of the Cauldron-Born, the mute and deathless warriors who serve the Lord of Annuvin? These are the stolen bodies of the slain, steeped in Arawn’s cauldron to give them life again. They emerge implacable as death itself, their humanity forgotten. Indeed, they are no longer men but weapons of murder, in thrall to Arawn forever.
“In this loathsome work,” Gwydion went on, “Arawn has sought to despoil the graves and barrows of fallen warriors. Now, throughout Prydain, there have been strange disappearances, men suddenly vanishing to be seen no more; and Cauldron-Born appear where none has ever before been sighted. Arawn has not been idle. As I have now learned, his servants dare to strike down the living and bear them to Annuvin to swell the ranks of his deathless host. Thus, death begets death; evil begets evil.”
Taran shuddered. Outdoors the forest burned crimson and yellow. The air was gentle as though a summer day had lingered beyond its season, but Gwydion’s words chilled him like a sudden cold wind. Too well he remembered the lifeless eyes and livid faces of the Cauldron-Born, their ghastly silence and ruthless swords.
“To the meat of it!” cried Smoit. “Are we rabbits? Are we to fear those Cauldron slaves?”
“There will be meat enough for you to chew on,” answered Gwydion with a grim smile. “I tell you now, none of us has ever set on a more perilous task. I ask your help, for I mean to attack Annuvin itself to seize Arawn’s cauldron and destroy it.”
The Naming of the Tasks
T
aran started from his chair. The chamber was utterly silent. King Smoit, about to say something, remained openmouthed. Only King Morgant showed no sign of amazement; he sat motionless, eyes hooded, a curious expression on his face.
“There is no other way,” said Gwydion. “While the Cauldron-Born cannot be slain, we must prevent their number from growing. Between the power of Annuvin and our own strength the balance is too fine. As he gathers fresh warriors to him, Arawn reaches his hands closer to our throats. Nor do I forget the living, foully murdered and doomed to bondage even more foul.
“Until this day,” Gwydion continued, “only the High King Math and a few others have known what has been in my mind. Now that you have all heard, you are free to go or stay, as it pleases you. Should you choose to return to your cantrevs, I will not deem your courage less.”
“But
I
will!” shouted Smoit. “Any whey-blooded pudding-guts who fears to stand with you will have me to deal with!”
“Smoit, my friend,” replied Gwydion firmly but with affection, “this is a choice to be made without persuasion from you.”
No one stirred. Gwydion looked around and then nodded with
satisfaction. “You do not disappoint me,” he said. “I had counted on each of you for tasks which will be clear later.”
Taran’s excitement crowded out his fear of the Cauldron-Born. It was all he could do to swallow his impatience and not ask Gwydion, then and there, what his task would be. For once, he wisely held his tongue. Instead, it was Fflewddur who leaped to his feet.
“Of course!” cried the bard. “I saw the whole thing immediately! You’ll need warriors, naturally, to fetch out that disgusting cauldron. But you’ll need a bard to compose the heroic chants of victory. I accept! Delighted!”
“I chose you,” Gwydion said, not unkindly, “more for your sword than for your harp.”
“How’s that?” asked Fflewddur. His brow wrinkled in disappointment. “Oh, I see,” he added, brightening. “Yes, well, I don’t deny a certain reputation along those lines. A Fflam is always valiant! I’ve slashed my way through thousands”—he glanced uneasily at the harp—“well, ah, shall we say numerous enemies.”
“I hope you will all be as eager to accomplish your tasks once they are set out,” said Gwydion, drawing a sheet of parchment from his jacket and spreading it on the table.
“We meet at Caer Dallben not only for safety,” he went on. “Dallben is the most powerful enchanter in Prydain, and here we are under his protection. Caer Dallben is the one place Arawn dares not attack, but it is also the most suitable to begin our journey to Annuvin.” With a finger he traced a direction northwest from the little farm. “Great Avren is shallow at this season,” he said, “and may be crossed without difficulty. Once across, it is an easy progress through Cantrev Cadiffor, realm of King Smoit, to
the Forest of Idris lying south of Annuvin. From there, we can go quickly to Dark Gate.”
Taran caught his breath. Like all the company, he had heard of Dark Gate, the twin mountains guarding the southern approach to the Land of Death. Though not as mighty as Mount Dragon at the north of Annuvin, Dark Gate was treacherous, with its sharp crags and hidden drops.
“It is a difficult passage,” Gwydion continued, “but the least guarded, as Coll Son of Collfrewr will tell you.”
Coll rose to his feet. The old warrior, with his shining bald head and huge hands, looked as if he would prefer battle to discoursing in council. Nevertheless, he grinned broadly at the company and began to speak.
“We are going, as you might say, through Arawn’s back door. The cauldron stands on a platform in the Hall of Warriors, which is just beyond Dark Gate, as I well remember. The entrance to the Hall is guarded, but there is a rear portal, heavily bolted. One man might open it to others if, like Doli, he could move unseen.”
“I told you I wouldn’t like it,” Doli muttered to Taran. “This business of turning invisible! Gift? A curse! Look where it leads. Humph!” The dwarf snorted irritably but made no further protest.
“It is a bold plan,” Gwydion said, “but with bold companions it can succeed. At Dark Gate, we shall divide into three bands. The first shall number Doli of the Fair Folk, Coll Son of Collfrewr, Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo, and myself. With us will be six of King Morgant’s strongest and most valiant warriors. Doli, invisible, will enter first to draw the bolts and to tell us how Arawn’s guards are posted. Then we shall breach the portal and seize the cauldron.
“At the same time, on my signal, the second band of King
Morgant and his horsemen will attack Dark Gate, seemingly in great strength, to sow confusion and to draw away as many of Arawn’s forces as possible.”
King Morgant nodded and for the first time spoke. His voice, though ice-edged, was measured and courteous. “I rejoice that we at last decide to strike directly against Arawn. I myself would have undertaken to do so long before this, but I was bound to await the command of Lord Gwydion.
“But now I say this,” continued Morgant. “While your plan is sound, the path you choose is not suitable for quick retreat should Arawn pursue you.”
“There is no shorter way to Caer Dallben,” Gwydion answered, “and here is where the cauldron must be brought. We must accept the risk. However, if we are too sharply pressed, we shall take refuge at Caer Cadarn, stronghold of King Smoit. To this end, I ask King Smoit to stand ready with all his warriors near the Forest of Idris.”
“What?” roared Smoit. “Keep me from Annuvin?” He struck the table with his fist. “Do you leave me sucking my thumbs? Let Morgant, that black-bearded, cold-blooded, slippery-scaled pike, play rear guard!”
Morgant gave no sign of having heard Smoit’s outburst.
Gwydion shook his head. “Our success depends on surprise and swift movement, not numbers. You, Smoit, must be our firm support should our plans go awry. Your task is no less important.
“The third band will await us near Dark Gate, to guard our pack animals, secure our retreat, and to serve as the need demands; they will be Adaon Son of Taliesin, Taran of Caer Dallben, and Ellidyr Son of Pen-Llarcau.”
Ellidyr’s voice rose quickly and angrily. “Why must I be held back? Am I no better than a pig-boy? He is untried, a green apple!”
“Untried!” Taran shouted, springing to his feet. “I have stood against the Cauldron-Born with Gwydion himself. Have you been better tried, Prince Patchcloak?”
Ellidyr’s hand flew to his sword. “I am a son of Pen-Llarcau and swallow no insults from …”
“Silence!” commanded Gwydion. “In this venture the courage of an Assistant Pig-Keeper weighs as much as that of a prince. I warn you, Ellidyr, curb your temper or leave this council.
“And you,” Gwydion added, turning to Taran, “you have repaid anger with a childish insult. I had thought better of you. Moreover, both of you shall obey Adaon in my absence.”
Taran flushed and sat down. Ellidyr, too, took his place again, his face dark and brooding.
“Let us end our meeting,” said Gwydion. “I shall speak with each of you later and at more length. Now I have matters to discuss with Coll. At dawn tomorrow be ready to ride for Annuvin.”
As the company began leaving the chamber, Taran stepped beside Ellidyr and held out his hand. “In this task we must not be enemies.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ellidyr answered. “I have no wish to serve with an insolent pig-boy. I am a king’s son. Whose son are you? So you have stood against the Cauldron-Born,” he scoffed. “And with Gwydion? You lost no chance to make that known.”
“You boast of your name,” Taran replied. “I take pride in my comrades.”
“Your friendship with Gwydion is no shield to me,” said Ellidyr. “Let him favor you all he chooses. But hear me well, in my company you will take your own part.”
“I shall take my own part,” Taran said, his anger rising. “See that you take yours as boldly as you speak.”
Adaon had come up beside them. “Gently, friends,” he laughed. “I had thought the battle was against Arawn, not among ourselves.” He spoke quietly, but his voice held a tone of command as he turned his glance from Taran to Ellidyr. “We hold each other’s lives in our open hands, not in clenched fists.”
Taran bowed his head. Ellidyr, drawing his mended cloak about him, stalked from the chamber without a word. As Taran was about to follow Adaon, Dallben called him back.
“You are an excellent pair of hotbloods,” the enchanter remarked. “I have been trying to decide which of you is the more muddled. It is not easy,” he yawned. “I shall have to meditate on it.”
“Ellidyr spoke the truth,” Taran said bitterly. “Whose son am I? I have no name but the one you gave me. Ellidyr is a prince—”
“Prince he may be,” said Dallben, “yet perhaps not so fortunate as you. He is the youngest son of old Pen-Llarcau in the northern lands; his elder brothers have inherited what little there was of family fortune, and even that is gone. Ellidyr has only his name and his sword, though I admit he uses them both with something less than wisdom.
“However,” Dallben went on, “these things have a way of righting themselves. Oh, before I forget …”
His robe flapping around his spindly legs, Dallben made his way to a huge chest, unlocked it with an ancient key, and raised the lid. He bent and rummaged inside. “I confess to a certain number of regrets and misgivings,” he said, “which could not possibly interest you, so I shall not burden you with them. On the other hand, here is something I am sure
will
interest you. And burden you, too, for the matter of that.”
Dallben straightened and turned. In his hands he held a sword.
Taran’s heart leaped. He grasped the weapon eagerly, his hands trembling so that he nearly dropped it. Scabbard and hilt bore no ornament; the craftsmanship lay in its proportion and balance. Though of great age, its metal shone clear and untarnished, and its very plainness had the beauty of true nobility. Taran bowed low before Dallben and stammered thanks.
Dallben shook his head. “Whether you should thank me or not,” he said, “remains to be seen. Use it wisely,” he added. “I only hope you will have cause to use it not at all.”
“What are its powers?” Taran asked, his eyes sparkling. “Tell me now, so that …”
“Its powers?” Dallben answered with a sad smile. “My dear boy, this is a bit of metal hammered into a rather unattractive shape; it could better have been a pruning hook or a plow iron. Its powers? Like all weapons, only those held by him who wields it. What yours may be, I can in no wise say.
“We shall make our farewells now,” Dallben said, putting a hand on Taran’s shoulder.
Taran saw, for the first time, how ancient was the enchanter’s face, and how careworn.
“I prefer to see none of you before you leave,” Dallben went on. “Such partings are one thing I would spare myself. Besides, later your head will be filled with other concerns and you will forget anything I might tell you. Be off and see if you can persuade the Princess Eilonwy to gird you with that sword. Now that you have it,” he sighed, “I suppose you might just as well observe the formalities.”
 
 
Eilonwy was putting away earthen bowls and dishes when Taran hurried into the scullery. “Look!” he cried. “Dallben gave me this!
Gird it on me—I mean, if you please. Say you will. I want you to be the one to do it.”
Eilonwy turned to him in surprise. “Yes, of course,” she said, blushing, “if you really …”
“I do!” cried Taran. “After all,” he added, “you’re the only girl in Caer Dallben.”
 
“So that’s it!” Eilonwy retorted. “I knew there was something wrong when you started being so polite. Very well, Taran of Caer Dallben, if that’s your only reason you can go find someone else and I don’t care how long it takes you, but the longer the better!” She tossed her head and began furiously drying a bowl.
“Now what’s wrong?” asked Taran, puzzled. “I said, ‘please,’ didn’t I? Do gird it on me,” he urged. “I promise to tell you what happened at the council.”
“I don’t want to know,” answered Eilonwy. “I couldn’t be less interested—what happened? Oh, here, give me that thing.”
Deftly she buckled the leather belt around Taran’s waist. “Don’t think I’m going through all the ceremonies and speeches about being brave and invincible,” said Eilonwy. “To begin with, I don’t think they apply to Assistant Pig-Keepers, and besides I don’t know them. There,” she said, stepping back. “I must admit,” she added, “it does look rather well on you.”
Taran drew the blade and held it aloft. “Yes,” he cried, “this is a weapon for a man and a warrior!”
“Enough of that!” cried Eilonwy, stamping her foot impatiently. “What about the council?”
“We’re setting out for Annuvin,” Taran whispered excitedly. “At dawn. To wrest the cauldron from Arawn himself. The cauldron he uses to …”
“Why didn’t you say so right away?” Eilonwy cried. “I won’t have half enough time to get my things ready. How long will we be gone? I must ask Dallben for a sword, too. Do you think I’ll need …”

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