Taran Wanderer (The Chronicles of Prydain) Read online

  “It is a small thing my companions and I found,” replied Taran. “How should this have worth to you, Morda? With all your power, do you covet such a trifle?”

  A sickly sweat had begun to pearl on the wizard’s brow. His features twitched and his voice took on a gentleness all the more horrible coming from his lips. “Bold lad to stand against me,” he murmured. “I did no more than test your courage to see if you were worthy to serve me, worthy of rich rewards. You shall have gold in proof of my friendship. And in proof of yours, you shall give me—the small thing, the trifle you hold in your hand …”

  “This worthless shard?” Taran answered. “Will you have it for a token? Then let us share it, half for me and half for you.”

  “No, no, do not break it!” screamed Morda, his face turning ashen. He thrust out a skinny claw and took a step toward Taran, who quickly drew back and raised the fragment of bone above his head.

  “A worthless thing it is,” Taran cried. “Your life, Morda! Your life I hold in my hand!”

  Morda’s eyes rolled madly in their wasted sockets, a violent shudder gripped him and his body quaked as though buffeted by a gale. “Yes, yes!” he cried in a voice racked with terror. “My life! Poured into my finger! With a knife I cut it from my own hand. Give! Give it back to me!”

  “You set yourself above the human kind,” Taran replied. “You scorned their weakness, despised their frailty, and could not see yourself as one of them. Even I, without birthright or name of my own, know that if nothing else I am of the race of men.”

  “Kill me not!” cried Morda, writhing in anguish. “My life is yours; take it not from me!” The wizard flung himself to his knees and stretched out his trembling arms. His bloodless lips quivered as the words burst from his mouth. “Hear me! Hear me! Many secrets are mine, many enchantments. I will teach them to you. All, all!”

  Morda’s hands clasped and unclasped. His fingers knotted around each other and he rocked back and forth at Taran’s feet. His voice had taken on a wheedling, whining tone. “I will serve you, serve you well, Master Pig-Keeper. All my knowledge, all my powers at your bidding.” Angharad’s jewel dangled from its silver chain at Morda’s wrist, and he clutched it and held it up before Taran. “This! Even this!”

  “The gem is not yours to give,” Taran answered.

  “Not mine to give, Master Pig-Keeper?” The wizard’s voice grew soft and sly. “Not mine to give. But yours to take. Would you know its secret workings? I alone can tell you. Would you gain mastery of its use? Have you never dreamed of power such as this? Here, it awaits you. The race of men at your beck and call. Who would dare disobey your smallest wish? Who would not tremble in fear of your displeasure? Promise me my life, Master Pig-Keeper, and I shall promise you …”

  “Do you bargain with enchantment you stole and corrupted?” Taran cried angrily. “Let its secrets die with you!”

  At this Morda howled horribly and pressed himself almost flat on the ground. Barking sobs racked his body. “My life! Spare it! Spare it! Do not give me to death. Take the gem. Change me to the lowest crawling thing, to foulest vermin, only let me live!”

  The sight of the cowering wizard turned Taran sick at heart, and for a long moment he could not speak. At last he said, “I will not kill you, Morda.”

  The wizard left off his frightful sobbing and lifted his head. “You will not, Master Pig-Keeper?” He crept forward and made as though to fling his arms about Taran’s feet.

  “I will not kill you,” repeated Taran, drawing back in revulsion, “though it is in my heart to do so. Your evil is too deep for me to judge your punishment. Restore my companions,” he commanded. “Then you will go prisoner with me to Dallben. He alone can give whatever justice you may hope for. Stand, wizard. Cast Angharad’s jewel from you.”

  Morda, still crouching, slowly and reluctantly pulled the chain from his wrist. His pasty cheeks trembled as he fondled the winking gem, murmuring and muttering to himself. Suddenly he leaped upright and sprang forward. With all his might he swung the jewel at the end of its chain like a whip across Taran’s face.

  The sharp edges of the stone slashed Taran’s forehead. With a cry he stumbled backward. Blood streamed into his eyes, blinding him. The shard of bone flew from his fingers and went spinning and skittering over the floor. Under the force of the wizard’s blow, the jewel snapped from its silver chain and rolled into a corner.

  In another moment the wizard was upon him growling and snarling like a mad beast. Morda’s fingers clawed at Taran’s throat. His yellow teeth were bared in a ghastly grin. Taran strove to tear himself from the wizard’s grasp, but the frenzy of Morda’s attack staggered him; he lost his footing and tumbled to earth. Uselessly he sought to break the deadly grip that stifled him. His head whirled. Through blood-filled eyes he glimpsed the wizard’s face twisted in hate and fury.

  “Your strength will not save you,” Morda hissed. “It is no match for mine. You are weak as all your kind. Did I not warn you? My life is not in my body. Strong as death am I! So shall you die, pig-keeper!”

  With sudden horror Taran knew the wizard spoke the truth; Morda’s wasted arms were hard as gnarled branches, and though Taran struggled desperately, the wizard’s relentless grip tightened. Taran’s lungs heaved to bursting and he felt himself drowning in a black sea. Morda’s features blurred; only the wizard’s baleful, unlidded gaze stayed fixed.

  A crash of splintering wood shattered in Taran’s ears. Morda’s grip suddenly slackened. Shouting in alarm and rage, the wizard leaped to his feet and spun about. His head still reeling, Taran clutched at the wall and tried to draw himself up. Llyan had burst into the chamber.

  Growling fiercely, her eyes blazing gold fires, the huge cat sprang forward. Morda turned to meet her attack.

  “Llyan! Beware of him!” Taran cried.

  The force of Llyan’s charge bore the wizard to his knees, but Morda in his unyielding strength grappled with the animal.

  Llyan flung her tawny body right and left. Her powerful hind legs, their claws unsheathed, lashed vainly at the wizard, who twisted from her paws and now clung to her arching back. Yowling and spitting, the great cat tossed her head furiously, her sharp teeth flashed in her massive jaws; yet, with all her might, she could not free herself from the wizard’s clutches. Taran knew even Llyan’s strength would soon ebb, just as his own had failed. She had given him a moment more of life, but now Llyan herself was doomed.

  The bone! Taran dropped to hands and knees seeking the shard. Nowhere did he see it. He flung aside wooden stools, upturned earthen vessels, scrabbled in the ashes of the hearth. The bone had vanished.

  From behind him rose a high twittering and squeaking and he spun to see the mouse bobbing frantically on its hind legs. In its jaws the creature held the splinter of bone.

  Instantly Taran caught up the polished fragment to snap it between his fingers. He gasped in dismay. The bone would not break.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Broken Spell

  The polished splinter was unyielding as iron. Teeth clenched and muscles trembling with his effort, Taran felt he struggled against the wizard himself. Llyan had dropped weakly to her haunches; Morda sprang free of the unconscious cat and set upon Taran once more, snatching at the fragment. The wizard’s fingers locked on the middle of the shard, but Taran clung with all his strength to the ends of it. He felt the splinter bend as Morda strove to wrest it from his grasp.

  Suddenly the bone snapped in two. A sound sharper than a thunderclap split Taran’s ears. With a horrible scream that stabbed through the chamber, Morda toppled backward, stiffened, clawed the air, then fell to the ground like a pile of broken twigs.

  That same instant the mouse vanished. Gurgi stood at Taran’s side. “Kind master saves us!” he yelled, flinging his arms about Taran. “Yes, yes! Gurgi is Gurgi again! No more a mouse with shriekings and squeakings!”

  In Taran’s hand the sundered bone had turned to gray dust, which he cast aside. Too exhausted
and bewildered to speak, he could only pat Gurgi fondly and gratefully. Llyan, her deep chest heaving, climbed to her feet near Morda’s broken, lifeless form. Her tawny fur still bristled furiously and her long tail looked twice its thickness. As Gurgi hastened to unloose Kaw, who jabbered at the top of his voice and beat his wings excitedly against the cage, Llyan’s golden eyes darted about the chamber and from her throat rose an anxious, questioning trill.

  “Great Belin!” came Fflewddur’s voice, “I’m trapped as badly as before!”

  Llyan loping ahead of him, Taran ran to a corner of the chamber. The basket in which Morda imprisoned the hare now held the bard, squeezed into it along with his harp and stuck fast with his long shanks dangling over one side and his arms flapping helplessly over the other.

  With some difficulty Taran and Gurgi set about freeing the bard, who hardly left off stammering incoherently all the while. Fflewddur’s face was ashen from fright; he blinked, shook his ragged yellow head, and heaved huge sighs of relief.

  “What humiliation!” he burst out. “A Fflam! Turned into a rabbit! I felt I’d been stuffed in a woolsack! Great Belin, my nose still twitches! Never again! I told you no good comes from meddling. Though in this case, Taran old friend, it’s lucky you had that bone. Ah, ah! Easy there, that wicker’s jabbing me. A rabbit, indeed! If I could only have got my paws—I mean hands—on that foul Morda!”

  At last out of the basket Fflewddur threw his arms around Llyan’s powerful neck. “And you, old girl! If you hadn’t come looking for us …” He shuddered and clapped hands to his ears. “Yes, well, let’s not think of that.”

  In the doorway stood a short, stocky, stoutly booted figure dressed in russet leather; on his head a round, close-fitting leather cap. Thumbs hooked into his belt, he turned bright crimson eyes on each of the companions. Instead of his customary scowl, a grin stretched across his broad face.

  “Doli!” Taran cried, first catching sight of the dwarf. “It’s you again!”

  “Again?” snapped Doli, trying to make his voice as gruff as he could. “It always was.” He strode into the chamber. For a moment he looked down at Morda and nodded curtly. “So that’s the way of it,” he said to Taran. “I thought as much. One moment I was a frog wrapped in a sopping wet cloak, sure all of you had been slain, and the next—as you see me.

  “That cat of yours grew restless after a time,” Doli went on, turning to Fflewddur. “She picked me up, cloak and all, and went off on your trail.”

  “She won’t let me out of her sight,” replied Fflewddur. “For which,” he added, fondly rubbing Llyan’s ears, “we’ve all to thank her.”

  “But how did she get through the thorns?” Taran asked. “Morda’s traps …”

  “Through?” answered Doli. “She didn’t go through, she went over!” He shook his head. “In one bound! With me in her mouth! I’ve never seen a creature jump so high. On the other hand, I’ve never seen a creature like this. But what of the rest of you? What of Morda?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Fflewddur interrupted before Taran could finish telling the dwarf of their ordeal, “I suggest leaving here immediately. A Fflam is steadfast, but there’s something about enchantments, even broken ones, that tends to—ah—disturb me.”

  “Wait,” cried Taran. “The jewel! Where is it?”

  As Doli watched, puzzled, the companions hastily set about searching every corner of the chamber to no avail. Taran’s concern mounted, for he was reluctant to leave the gem unfound. However, when almost ready to admit the jewel was hopelessly lost, he heard a raucous laugh above his head.

  Kaw, perched on an oaken rafter, rocked back and forth chuckling and squawking, delighted with himself. The jewel glittered in his beak.

  “Hi, hi!” shouted Fflewddur, alarmed. “Give it up! Great Belin, you’ll have us all with paws and tails again!”

  After much coaxing by Taran and indignant retorts by the bard, Kaw flapped to Taran’s shoulder and dropped the gem in his hand.

  “Now it belongs to wise and kindly master!” Gurgi exclaimed. “Gurgi fears stone of winkings and blinkings, but not when kindly master holds it.”

  Doli peered at the gem as Taran held it up. “So that’s how Morda meant to enslave us. I should have guessed. This comes from the Fair Folk realm,” he added. “We always honored the House of Llyr and gave the stone to Princess Regat as our wedding gift. She must have handed it down to her daughter; and when Angharad vanished, the jewel vanished with her.”

  “And now it comes to my hands,” Taran said. He cupped the gem in his palm watching the play of light in the depths of the crystal. “Morda has turned a thing of usefulness and beauty to evil ends. Whether it may ever serve its true purpose again, I do not know. To speak truth, it draws me. And frightens me, too. Its power is vast—too vast, perhaps, for any man to hold. Even if I could learn its secrets, I would not choose to do so.” He smiled at Gurgi. “Do you call me wise? At least I’m wise enough to know I’ll never have wisdom enough to use it.

  “Still, it may serve one purpose,” Taran went on. “With this to bargain, Orddu will surely tell me who I am. Yes!” he cried. “This is a treasure she won’t refuse.” He stopped abruptly and paused a long moment. In his grasp lay means to gain the knowledge he craved. But his heart sank. Though he had won the gem fairly, never could he claim to be its rightful owner. It was his to bargain with no more than it had been Morda’s. If Orddu accepted it, and if he should learn he was of noble birth—was a royal robe enough to hide a dishonorable deed?

  He looked at Doli. “The gem is mine,” Taran said. “But only mine to give, not mine to keep.” Slowly he pressed the jewel into Doli’s hand. “Take this. It belonged once to the Fair Folk. It belongs to them once more.”

  The dwarf’s usual scowl softened. “You’ve done us a service,” he answered. “Very likely the greatest service any of you mortals have done for the Fair Folk. Without your help Morda could have destroyed us all. Yes, the gem must return to our realm; it’s too dangerous in other hands. You chose well. King Eiddileg will ever remember you for this. You have his thanks—and mine.” Doli nodded with satisfaction and tucked the stone carefully into his jacket. “It’s made a long journey. At last it comes back to us.”

  “Yes, yes!” shouted Gurgi. “Take it for keepings. If kindly master will not have it, then Gurgi wants to see no more of wicked stone. Away with it, away! Do not let it turn faithful Gurgi into a mouse again!”

  Taran, with a fond laugh, put a hand on Gurgi’s shoulder. “Morda couldn’t have changed what you truly are, any more than he could have changed Doli. Mouse though you might have seemed, you still had the heart of a lion. But what of me?” he murmured thoughtfully. “As a caged eagle, as a blind worm—could I indeed have stayed myself? Would I still have been Taran, when I scarcely know who Taran is?”

  The sun had begun to climb, promising a day blue and fresh, when the companions left the wizard’s fastness. The wall of thorns had fallen, shattered like the evil power that raised it, and the companions breached it without difficulty. They untethered Melynlas and Gurgi’s pony, but it was not until they had gone a considerable distance that Fflewddur agreed to halt and rest. Even then, the bard appeared uncomfortable and, while Gurgi opened the wallet of food, Fflewddur sat distractedly on a hummock, meditatively fingering his ears, as though to make certain they were indeed his own.

  “Rabbits!” the bard murmured. “I’ll never chase another.”

  Taran sat apart with Doli, for there was much he had to tell and much he wanted to ask. Though Doli had regained his long frown and short patience, the occasional flicker of a grin betrayed his delight at seeing the companions again. Yet, learning of Taran’s quest, Doli scowled more deeply than usual.

  “The Free Commots?” said the dwarf. “We’re on the best of terms with the Commot folk; they respect us and we respect them. You’ll not find many in Prydain to match their stout hearts and good will, and no man lords it over his fellows because he had the luck
to be born in a king’s castle instead of a farmer’s hut. What matters in the Free Commots is the skill in a man’s hands, not the blood in his veins. But I can tell you no more than that, for we have few dealings with them. Oh, we keep a way post open here and there, just in case they might need our help. But it seldom happens. The Commot folk would rather count on themselves, and they do quite well at it. So we’re more than pleased, for our own sake, as well as theirs, for we have burden enough keeping an eye on the rest of Prydain.

  “As for the Mirror you speak of,” Doli continued, “never heard of it. There’s a Lake of Llunet in the Llawgadarn Mountains. More than that I can’t tell you. But what have you there?” the dwarf suddenly asked, noticing Taran’s battle horn for the first time. “Where did you get that?”

  “Eilonwy gave it to me when I left Mona,” Taran replied. “It was her pledge that we …” He smiled sadly. “How long ago it seems.” He unslung the horn from his shoulder and handed it to Doli.

  “That’s Fair Folk craftsmanship,” said the dwarf. “Can’t mistake it.” To Taran’s surprise Doli squinted into one end, then the other, and raised the horn into the sunlight as though trying to peer through the mouthpiece. As Taran watched, puzzled, Doli rapped the horn sharply with his knuckles and thumped it against his knee.

  “Empty!” the dwarf grumbled. “All used up. No! Hold on a moment.” He pressed the bell of the horn against his ear and listened intently. “There’s one left, no more than that.”

  “One what?” cried Taran, more than ever perplexed at Doli’s words.

  “One call, what did you think?” snapped Doli.

  Fflewddur and Gurgi had come closer, drawn by Doli’s odd behavior, and the dwarf turned to them. “This was crafted long ago, when men and Fair Folk lived in closer friendship and each was glad to help the other. The horn holds a summons to us.”

  “I don’t understand,” began Taran.