even made some attempt at straightening up the disorder of ancient volumes crowding the room.
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 falcon-like, 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 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 these 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.'
Chapter 2
The Naming of the Tasks
TARAN STARTED from his chair. The chamber was utterly silent. King Smoit, about to say something, remained open-mouthed. 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.'
