'Afraid that wouldn't answer,' said Fflewddur. 'We'd have the mountains to go over, that way. If we're to cross at all, we shall have to do it here.'
'It seems a little shallower down that way,' said Eilonwy, pointing to a spot where the river curved around a sedge covered bank. 'Very well, Taran of Caer Dallben,' she said, 'what shall it be? We can't just sit here until gwythaints or something even more disagreeable find us, and we certainly can't go back to Orddu and offer to exchange the Crochan again.'
Taran took a deep breath. 'If you are all willing,' he said, 'we shall try to cross.'
SLOWLY, STRUGGLING under the cruel weight, the companions brought the Crochan to the riverbank. While Gurgi, leading the horses, cautiously set one foot, then the other, into the stream, Taran and the bard shouldered the sling. Eilonwy followed beside them to steady the swaying cauldron. The icy water slashed at Taran's legs like a knife. He dug his heels into the river bed, seeking a firmer foothold. He plunged deeper; behind him, the straining, grunting Fflewddur did his best to avoid dropping his end of the sling. The chill of the river took Taran's breath away. His head spun, the branches nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
For one moment of terror he felt himself falling. His foot found a rock and he braced himself on it. The vines creaked and tensed as the weight of the cauldron shifted. The companions were in midstream now and the water rose only to their waists. Taran raised his streaming face. The opposite bank was not far; the ground appeared smoother, the forest not as dense.
'Soon there!' he cried, taking heart anew. Gurgi, he saw, had already led the horses from the water and was turning back to help the toiling companions.
Closer to the bank the river bottom turned stony. Blindly, Taran picked his way through the treacherous rocks. Ahead rose a number of high boulders and he warily guided the Crochan past them. Gurgi was reaching out his hands when Taran heard a sharp cry from the bard. The cauldron lurched. With all his strength Taran heaved forward. Eilonwy seized the cauldron by its handle and tugged desperately. Taran flung himself to dry ground.
The Crochan rolled to its side and sank in the muddy shallows.
Taran turned back to help Fflewddur. The bard, who had fallen heavily against the boulders, was struggling to shore. His face was white with pain; his right arm hung uselessly at his side.
'Is it broken? Is it broken?' Fflewddur moaned as Taran and Eilonwy hurried to lead him up the bank.
'I'll be able to tell in a moment,' Taran said, helping the stumbling bard to sit down and prop his back against an alder. He opened Fflewddur's cloak, slit the sleeve of the jacket, and carefully examined the damaged arm. Taran saw quickly that the bard's fall had not only been severe but that one of the cauldron's legs had given him a deep gash in his side. 'Yes,' Taran said gravely, 'I'm afraid it is.'
At this the bard set up a loud lament and bowed his head. 'Terrible, terrible,' he groaned. 'A Fflam is always cheerful, but this is too much to bear.'
'It was a bad accident,' Eilonwy said, trying to hide her concern, 'but you mustn't take on so. It can be fixed. We'll bind it up.'
'Useless!' cried Fflewddur in despair. 'It will never be the same! Oh, it is the fault of that beastly Crochan! The wretched thing struck at me deliberately, I'm sure!'
'You'll be all right, I promise you,' Taran reassured the sorrowful bard. He tore several wide strips from his cloak. 'Good as new in a little while,' he added. 'Of course, you won't be able to move your arm until it's healed.'
'Arm?' cried Fflewddur. 'It's not my
'Your harp is in a better state than you are,' said Eilonwy, taking the bard's instrument from his shoulder and putting it in his lap.
'Great Belin, but you gave me a shock!'
Fflewddur said, caressing the harp with his free hand. 'Arms? Naturally, they heal themselves with no trouble at all. I've had a dozen broken? yes, well, that is to say I snapped my wrist once during a little sword play? in any case, I have two arms. But only one harp!' The bard heaved an immense sigh of relief. 'Indeed, I feel better already.'
Despite Fflewddur's brave grin, Taran saw the bard was suffering more than he chose to admit. Quickly and gently Taran finished making a splint and winding the strips about it, then brought herbs from Lluagor's saddlebag. 'Chew these,' he told Fflewddur. 'They will ease your pain. And you'd better stay perfectly still for a while.'
'Lie still?' cried the bard. 'Not now, of all times! We must fish that vile pot out of the river!'
Taran shook his head. 'The three of us will try to raise it. With a broken arm even a Fflam wouldn't be much help.'
'By no means!' cried Fflewddur. 'A Fflam is always helpful!' He struggled to raise himself from the ground, winced, and fell back again. Gasping with the pain of his exertion, he looked dolefully at his injury.
Taran uncoiled the ropes and, with Gurgi and Eilonwy following, made his way to the shallows. The Crochan lay half submerged in the water. The current eddied around its gaping mouth and the cauldron seemed to be muttering defiance. The sling, Taran saw, was undamaged, but the cauldron was caught firmly between the boulders. He looped a rope and cast it over a jutting leg, directing Gurgi and Eilonwy to pull when he signaled.
He waded into the river, bent, and tried to thrust his shoulder under the cauldron. Gurgi and Eilonwy hauled with all their strength. The Crochan did not move.
Soaked to the skin, his hands numb, Taran wrestled vainly with the cauldron. Breathless, he staggered back to shore where he attached ropes to Lluagor and Melynlas.
Once again Taran returned to the icy stream. He shouted to Eilonwy, who led the horses away from the river. The ropes tightened; the steeds labored; Taran heaved and tugged at the immovable cauldron. The bard had managed to regain his feet and lent what effort he could. Gurgi and Eilonwy took their places in the water beside Taran, but the Crochan resisted the force of all their muscles.
In despair Taran signaled for them to stop. Heavy-hearted, the companions returned to shore.
'We shall camp here for the rest of the day,' Taran said. 'Tomorrow, when we have our strength back, we can try again. There may be some other way of getting it out, I don't know. It is tightly wedged and everything we do seems to make it worse.'
He looked toward the river, where the cauldron crouched like a glowering beast of prey.
'It is a thing of evil,' Taran said, 'and has brought nothing but evil. Now, at the last, I fear it has defeated us.'
He turned away. Behind him the bushes rustled. Taran spun around, his hand on his sword.
A figure stepped from the edge of the forest.
Chapter 17
The Choice
IT WAS ELLIDYR. With Islimach following, he strode to the riverbank. Dry mud caked his tawny hair and grimed his face. His cheeks and hands had been cruelly slashed; his bloodstained jacket was half ripped from his shoulders, and he wore no cloak. Dark-ringed, his eyes glittered feverishly. Ellidyr halted before the speechless companions, threw back his head, and glanced scornfully at them.
'Well met,' he said in a hoarse voice, 'brave company of scarecrows.' His lips drew back in a taut, bitter grin. 'The pig-boy, the scullery maid? I do not see the dreamer.'
'What do you here?' Taran cried, facing him angrily. 'You dare speak of Adaon? He is slain and lies beneath his burial mound. You have betrayed us, Son of Pen-Llarcau! Where were you when the Huntsmen set upon us? When another sword would have turned the balance? The price was Adaon's life, a better man than you shall ever be!'
Ellidyr did not reply, but moved stiffly past Taran and squatted down near the pile of saddlebags. 'Give me food,' he said sharply. 'Roots and rain water have been my meat and drink.'
'Evil traitor!' shouted Gurgi, leaping to his feet. 'There are no crunchings and munchings for wicked villain, no,
