The High King

Chapter 11 The Fortress

FOR AN INSTANT, none could speak. The silver bells at the legs of Pryderi's hawks tinkled faintly. Then Taran was on his feet, sword in hand. The cantrev lords shouted in rage and drew their weapons. Gwydion's voice rang out, commanding them to silence.

Pryderi did not move. His retainers had unsheathed their blades and formed a circle about him. The High King had risen from his throne.

"You sport with us, Son of Pwyll," Math said severely, "but treachery is no fitting matter for a jest."

Pryderi still stood with arms folded. His golden features had turned the color of iron. "Call it no jest," he answered, "and call me no traitor. This I have pondered long and closely and with much anguish of heart. I see now that only thus can I serve Prydain."

Gwydion's face was pale and his eyes grave. "You speak in madness," he replied. "Have Arawn's false promises blinded you to reason? Would you tell me that a liegeman of the Death-Lord serves any realm but Annuvin?"

"To me, Arawn can promise nothing I do not already have," answered Pryderi. "But Arawn will do what the Sons of Don failed to do: Make an end of endless wars among the cantrevs, and bring peace where there was none before."

"The peace of death and the silence of mute slavery," Gwydion replied.

Pryderi glanced around him. A harsh smile was on his lips. "Do these men deserve better, Lord Gwydion? Are all their lives together worth one of ours? Crude brawlers, these self-styled cantrev lords are unfit to command even their own households.

"I choose what is best for Prydain," he continued. "I do not serve Arawn. Is the axe the woodcutter's master? At the end, it is Arawn who will serve me."

With horror, Taran listened to the words of Pryderi as he spoke to the High King.

"Lay down your arms. Abandon the weaklings who cling to you for protection. Surrender to me now. Caer Dathyl shall be spared, and yourself, and those I deem worthy to rule with me."

Math raised his head. "Is there worse evil?" he said in a low voice, his eyes never leaving Pryderi's. "Is there worse evil than that which goes in the mask of good?"

One of the cantrev lords sprang from the council table and, blade upraised, started toward Pryderi.

"Touch him not!" cried Math. "We welcomed him as a friend. He leaves as a foe, but he shall leave in safety. If any harm even a feather of his hawks, his life shall be forfeit."

"Go from here, Pryderi Son of Pwyll," Gwydion said, the coldness of his tone making his wrath the more terrible. "The anguish of my heart is no less than yours. Our comradeship is broken. Between us there can be only the lines of battle, and our only bond the edge of a sword."

Pryderi did not answer, but turned on his heel and with his retainers strode from the Great Hall. Even as he mounted his steed, word spread among the warriors, and they stared silently in their ranks. Beyond the walls, the armies of Pryderi had lit torches and the valley flamed as far as Taran's eyes could see. Pryderi rode through the gates, the crimson and gold of his raiment shimmering like the torches themselves, and galloped toward his waiting host. Taran and the Commot men watched, sick with despair; they knew, as did all in Caer Dathyl, this glittering King, like a hawk of death, had snatched their lives and now bore them away with him.

GWYDION HAD EXPECTED the army of King Pryderi to attack at first light, and the men in the fortress had labored through the night making ready to withstand a siege. When dawn came, however, and the pale sun rose higher, Pryderi's battle host was seen to have advanced but little. From the wall Taran, Fflewddur, and Coll, with the other war leaders, watched beside Gwydion, who stood scanning the valley, and the heights that dipped in raw ridges to the flatlands. Snow had not fallen for some days; gullies and rocky fissures still held streaks and patches of white, caught among the crevices like tufts of wool, but the broad meadowland was, for the most part, clear. The dead turf showed in dark brown splotches under a ragged mantle of frost.

Scouts had brought word that Pryderi's warriors , held the valley in strength and barred passage through the battle lines. Nevertheless, no skirmishers or flanking columns of riders had been seen abroad; and the scouts judged, from this and the stationing of the foot soldiers and horsemen, that the attack would come in a great forward thrust, as an iron fist against the gates of Caer Dathyl.

Gwydion nodded. "Pryderi means to strike in all his might, though it will cost him dearly. He can be spendthrift of his warriors' lives, knowing we can ill afford to pay an equal price."

He frowned and rubbed his chin with the back of a gauntleted hand. His green eyes narrowed as he peered across the valley, and his lined face was that of a wolf scenting his enemies. "Lord Pryderi is arrogant," he murmured.

Gwydion turned sharply to the war leaders. "I will not await a siege. To do so would be sure defeat. Pryderi has numbers enough to flood us like a wave. We shall give battle beyond the fortress, and we ourselves strike against the wave before it reaches its crest. Math Son of Mathonwy shall command the inner de­fenses. Only at the last, if so it must be, shall we retreat into the fortress and make our stand there."

Gwydion looked for a long moment at the halls and towers of the castle which had now caught the early rays of the sun. "The Sons of Don raised Caer Dathyl with their own hands, and built it not only as a shield against Arawn but as safeguard for the wisdom and beauty of Prydain. As I would do all in my power to shatter Pryderi, so would I do all to spare Caer Dathyl from destruction. It may be that we shall gain both these ends, or lose both. But we must battle not as sluggish oxen but as swift wolves and cunning foxes."

The Prince of Don spoke quickly to the war leaders, clearly setting forth the tasks of each. Taran felt uneasy. As a boy, he had dreamed of taking a man's place among men; and, as a boy, had deemed himself well fit to do so. Now, amid the grizzled, battle-wise warriors, his strength seemed feeble, his knowledge clouded. Coll, sensing Taran's thoughts, winked encouragement at him. The stout old farmer, Taran knew, had paid close heed to Gwydion's words. Yet Taran guessed that a corner of Coll's heart was distant, busily and happily occupied with his turnip patch.

For much of the morning Pryderi's host held its position while the defenders quickly formed their own battle lines. At some distance beyond the walls of Caer Dathyl, heavily armed fighting men stood ready to bear the brunt of Pryderi's assault, and there Gwydion himself would command. Fflewddur and Llyan, with Taliesin and a company of warrior-bards, held a post across the valley. The Commot horsemen would be at the flank of Pryderi's attack and it would be their task to slash into the onrushing wave, to disrupt and sap the strength from the enemy's arms.

Taran and Coll at the head of one troop, and Llassar entrusted to lead another, galloped to their stations. Gurgi, silent and shivering in his huge jacket, drove the banner of the White Pig into the frozen ground to mark a rallying point. Taran felt the eyes of the foe watching every move, and an odd impatience, mixed with fear, drew him taut as a bowstring.

Gwydion, astride Melyngar, rode up for a last glance at the ordering of the Commot men, and Taran cried out to him, "Why does Pryderi wait? Does he mock us? Are we no more than ants to him, laboring at a hill, to be crushed at his pleasure?"

"Patience," answered Gwydion in a tone that was both the reassurance of a friend and the command of a war leader. "You are swords added to my hands," Gwydion went on. "Do not let yourselves be shattered. Move quickly, stay not over long in one fray, but start many." He took Taran's hand and Coll's and Gurgi's. "Farewell," Gwydion said almost brusquely, then spun Melyngar about and rode siftly to his warriors.

Taran watched him until he had disappeared, then turned toward the distant towers of Caer Dathyl. Eilonwy, along with Glew, had been commanded to remain in the fortress under the High King's protection. Taran strained his eyes in the vain hope of glimpsing her on the walls. What she might feel for him he was no more sure than he had been at Caer Dallben; but, despite his resolve, he was on the verge of speaking his own heart fully. Then, suddenly, like a man swept away in a flood, he had been caught up in the rallying of warriors, without even a moment to say his farewell. Yearning pierced him, and regret for his unspoken words was an iron hand gripping his throat.

He started and clenched the reins as Melynlas, snorting a white cloud, began to paw the ground. At a glance he saw Pryderi's host had risen and was surging into the valley. The battle was upon him.

It came quickly, not as the slow-cresting wave Taran had expected. First was a swelling sea of shouting men. The Sons of Don were not awaiting Pryderi's charge but were racing ahead to grapple with the attacking foe. He saw Gwydion on the rearing white shape of Melyngar. But Taran could not tell the instant of the first clash of arms; for in a moment, instead of two tides there was only one that spun and shifted in a great convulsion, a whirlpool of spears and swords.

Taran sounded his horn and, as an answering shout came from Llassar, clapped heels into the flanks of Melynlas. Coll and the Commot horsemen spurred their mounts after him. From a swift canter the powerful legs of Melynlas stretched to a gallop. The stallion's muscles heaved beneath him and Taran, sword raised, plunged into the sea of men. His head spun and he gasped as if drowning. He realized he was terrified.

Around him swirled the faces of friends and foes. He glimpsed Llonio flailing right and left. The man's makeshift helmet bobbed over his eyes, his long legs were drawn up high in the stirrups, and he looked like nothing so much as a scarecrow come to life; yet, where Llonio passed, attackers fell as wheat to a scythe. Hevydd's burly frame rose like a wall in the midst of the combat. Of Llassar there was no sign, but Taran thought he could hear the young shepherd's high-pitched battle cry. Then a furious roaring reached his ears and he knew Llyan, with Fflewddur, had entered the fray. In another moment, aware of nothing beyond the blade in his hand, Taran was locked in a blind madness with warriors who thrust at him and whose blows he strove to return.

Again and again Taran and the Commot horsemen slashed deep into the attackers' flanks, then wheeled to gallop free of the iron whirlpool, only to plunge back again. In a flash of clarity Taran saw glittering gold and crimson. It was King Pryderi on a black charger. Taran struggled to engage him. For an instant their eyes met, but the Son of Pwyll made no attempt to answer the challenge of a ragged horseman. Instead, he looked away and continued to press ahead. Then he was gone. And it was Pryderi's scornful glance that stung Taran more sharply than the blade which swung up from the mass of foemen to lash across his face.

Once, the swell of the armed tide flung Taran to the fringes of the battle. He caught sight of Gurgi's banner and tried to rally the horsemen around it. A trough had opened up amid Pryderi's ranks. In another moment a horse pounded toward him: Lluagor. A warrior armed with a long lance clung to the steed's back.

"Go back!" Taran shouted at the top of his voice. "Have you lost your wits?"

Eilonwy, for it was she, half-halted. She had tucked her plaited hair under a leather helmet. The Princess of Llyr smiled cheerfully at him. "I understand you're upset," she shouted back, "but that's no cause to be rude." She galloped on.

For a time, Taran could not believe he had really seen her.

Moments later, he was struggling against a band of warriors who slashed at Melynlas, threw themselves against the stallion's flanks, and strove to bear down horse and rider. Taran was vaguely aware of someone seizing his mount's bridle and dragging him to the side. Pryderi's warriors fell away. Free of the press, he turned in the saddle and blindly flung up his sword against the new attacker.

It was Coll. The stout. farmer had lost his helmet. His bald crown was as scratched as if he had plunged headlong into briars. "Save your sword for your foes, not your friends!" he cried.

Taran's surprise left him speechless an instant, before he stammered, "You saved my life, Son of Collfrewr."

"Why, so perhaps I , did," replied Coll, as though the idea had suddenly come to him.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing like a pair of fools.

Only toward sundown, when the sky itself seemed streaked with blood, did Taran gain a new sense of the battle. Gwydion's warriors, flung across the path of Pryderi's advance, had met the full fury of their attackers. The hosts of Pryderi had faltered, as though stumbling over their own dead. The wave had crested and hung poised. Now a fresh wind surged over the valley. Taran's heart leaped as shouts of renewed strength rang from the warriors of Don. They pressed onward, driving all before them. Taran sounded his horn and with the Commot horsemen galloped to join the sweeping tide.

The ranks of the enemy parted like a shattered wall. Taran clutched at his reins, Melynlas reared and whinnied in alarm. A shudder of horror racked the valley. Taran saw and understood why, even before the rising current of outcries reached his ears.

"The Cauldron-Born! The deathless warriors!"

The men of Pryderi fell back to let them pass, as if in fearful homage. In ghastly silence, their pace neither fast nor slow, the Cauldron-Born filled the breach and the valley rang with the tread of their heavy boots. In the crimson haze of the dying sun their faces seemed all the more livid. Their eyes were cold and dull as stones. Unfaltering, the column of deathless warriors bore toward Caer Dathyl. Among them, slung about with ropes, they carried an iron­-capped battering ram.

The foemen flanking the Cauldron-Born now turned suddenly to launch a fresh attack against the Sons of Don. In horror, Taran realized why Pryderi had delayed, and understood his arrogance. Only now had the traitor King's plan reached its fulfillment. Behind the long column of Cauldron-Born fresh fighting men streamed from the heights. For Pryderi, the long day of battle had been no more than a mockery. The slaughter had begun.

At the fortress, bowmen and spearmen of the inner defenses thronged the walls. The mute Cauldron-Born did not falter in the storm of arrows. Though every shaft found its mark, the foe moved steadily onward, pausing only to rip the arrows from their unbleeding flesh. Their features showed neither pain nor anger, and no human cry, no shout of triumph passed, their lips. From Annuvin they had journeyed as though from the grave, their task only to bring death, unpitying, implacable as their own lifeless faces.

Against the pounding of the battering ram the gates of Caer Dathyl groaned and trembled. The massive hinges loosened, while echoes of the driving ram shuddered through the fortress. The portal splintered, the first breach gaped like a wound. The Cauldron-Born gathered strength once more to force the ram forward. The gates of Caer Dathyl shattered and fell inward. Trapped between the ranks of Pryderi's warriors, the Sons of Don fought vainly to reach the fortress. Sobbing with fury and despair, Taran, helpless, saw the Cauldron-Born stride past the broken gates.

Before them stood Math the High King. He was attired in the raiment of the Royal House, belted with links of gold, and on his brow glittered the Gold Crown of Don. About his shoulders was a cloak of fine white wool, wrapped as though it were a burial garment. Outstretched, his withered hand gripped a naked sword.

The deathless warriors of Annuvin halted as if at the faint stirring of some clouded memory. The moment passed and they strode on. The field of battle was silent now; an awed hush had fallen even upon the men of Pryderi. The High King did not turn away as the Cauldron-Born drew closer, his eyes fixed theirs as he raised his sword defiantly. Unflinching he stood in pride and ancient majesty. The first of the pallid warriors was upon him. Grasping the flashing sword in his frail hands, the High King swung it downward in a sweeping blow. The warrior's blade turned it aside, and the Cauldron-Born struck heavily. King Math staggered and dropped to one knee. The mass of mute warriors pressed forward, their weapons thrusting and slashing. Taran covered his face with his hands and turned away weeping, as Math Son of Mathonwy fell and the iron-shod boots of the Cauldron-Born pressed their relentless march over his lifeless body. From the dark hills then there rose the long notes of a hunting horn, trembling, echoing among the crags, and a shadow seemed to brush the sky above the fortress.

Now behind the Cauldron-Born the men of Pryderi streamed through the broken gates, while waves of attackers drove the remnants of Gwydion's army into the heights, scattering them amid snow­filled gullies. From Caer Dathyl came new claps of thunder as the ram of the Cauldron-Born turned against the walls to breach them in turn. Flames rose above the Great Hall, above the Hall of Lore, and from the Middle Tower was unfurled the crimson hawk of Pryderi.

Beside it, blotting out the dying sun, spread the black banner of Arawn Lord of Annuvin.

Caer Dathyl had fallen.