The creature's outburst brought only more laughter from the horsemen. But now the first rider spied Melynlas. 'Your steed is above your station, pig-keeper,' he said. 'How do you come by it?'
'Melynlas is mine by right,' Taran replied sharply. 'A gift of Gwydion Prince of Don.'
'Lord Gwydion?' cried the warrior. 'Given? Stolen from him, rather,' he jeered. 'Have a care; your lies will cost you a beating.'
'I tell no lie and seek no quarrel,' Taran answered. 'We journey in peace to King Smoit's castle.'
'Smoit needs no pig-keeper,' one of the warriors broke in.
'Nor do we,' said the first rider. He swung around to his fellows. 'What say you? Shall we take his horse or his head? Or both?'
'Lord Goryon will welcome a fresh mount and reward us all the more for this one,' answered a rider. 'But the head of a pig-keeper series no use, not even to himself.'
'Well said, and so be it!' cried the warrior. 'Besides, he can better mind his pigs afoot,' he added, reaching for the stallion's bridle.
Taran sprang between Melynlas and the horseman. Gurgi leaped forward and furiously grappled the rider's leg. The other warriors spurred their mounts, and Taran found himself in the midst of rearing horses, driven from the side of his own steed. He fought to bring up his sword. One of the riders wheeled and drove his mount's flank heavily against Taran, who lost his footing. At the same instant another of his assailants fetched him a blow that would surely have cost Taran his head had the warrior not struck with the flat of his sword. As it was, Taran fell stunned to the ground, his ears ringing, thoughts spinning, and the horsemen seeming to burst into comets before his eyes. He was dimly aware of Gurgi frantically yelling, of Melynlas whinnying, and it seemed to him that another figure had joined the fray. By the time he could stagger to his feet, the horsemen had vanished, dragging Melynlas with them.
Taran, crying out in dismay and anger, stumbled toward the path they had taken. A broad hand grasped his shoulder. He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of coarse wool girt with a plaited rope. His bare arms were knotted and sinewy, and his back bent, though less by years than by labor. A shock of gray, uncropped hair hung about a face that was stern but not unkind.
'Hold, hold,' the man said. 'You'll not overtake them now. Your horse will come to no ill. The henchmen of Lord Goryon treat steeds better than strangers.' He patted the oaken staff he carried. 'Two of Goryon's border-band will have heads to mend. But so will you, from the look of you.' He picked up a sack and slung it over his shoulder. 'I am Aeddan Son of Aedd,' he said. 'Come, both of you. My farm is no distance.'
'Without Melynlas my quest will fail,' Taran cried. 'I must find?' He stopped short. The warriors' mockery still rankled him, and he was reluctant to tell more than need be, even to this man who had befriended him.
But the farmer showed no interest in questioning him. 'What you seek,' replied Aeddan, 'is more your business than mine. I saw five set upon two and only put some fairness in the match. Will you heal your hurt? Then follow me.'
So saying, the farmer set off down the hillside, Taran and Gurgi behind him. Gurgi turned often to shake his fist in the direction of the departed horsemen, while Taran trudged along the darkening path, speaking not a word, deep in despair over Melynlas, and thinking bitterly that in his quest he had done no more than lose his horse and gain a broken head. His bones ached; his muscles throbbed. To worsen matters, the clouds had thickened; nightfall brought pelting rain; and by the time he reached Aeddan's farmhold Taran was as drenched and bedraggled as ever he had been in all his life.
The dwelling into which Aeddan led the companions was only a hut of wattle and daub, but Taran was surprised at its snugness and neat furnishings. Never before in all his adventures had he shared hospitality with the farmer folk of Prydain, and he glanced around as wondering as a stranger in a new land. Now that he could look more closely at Aeddan, he sensed honesty and good nature in the man's weathered face. The farmer gave him a warm grin and Taran, despite the smart of his wounds, grinned back, feeling indeed that he had come upon a friend.
The farm wife, a tall, work-hardened woman with features as lined as her husband's, threw up her hands at the sight of Gurgi, whose dripping, matted hair had gathered a blanket of twigs and pine needles, and cried out at Taran's blood-smeared face. While Aeddan told of the fray, the woman, Alarca, opened a wooden chest and drew out a sturdy, warm jacket, well worn but lovingly mended, which Taran gratefully took in place of his own sodden garment.
Alarca set about mixing a potion of healing herbs, and Aeddan, meantime, poured onto a table the contents of his sack: hunches of bread, a cheese, and some dried fruit.
'You come to small comfort,' he said. 'My land yields little, so I toil part of my days in my neighbors' fields to earn what I cannot grow.'
'And yet,' Taran said, dismayed to learn Aeddan's plight, 'I have heard it told there was rich soil in the Valley Cantrevs.'
'Was, indeed,' replied Aeddan with a dour laugh. 'In the time of my forefathers, not in mine. As the Hill Cantrevs were famed for their long-fleeced sheep, so the Valley Cantrevs of Ystrad were known far and wide for the finest oats and barley, and Cantrev Cadiffor itself for wheat bright and heavy as gold. And golden days there must have been in all Prydain,' Aeddan went on, cutting the bread and cheese into portions and handing them to Taran and Gurgi. 'My father's father told a tale, already old when it was told to him, of plows that worked of themselves, of scythes that reaped a harvest without even the touch of a man's hand.'
'So, too, have I heard,' Taran said. 'But Arawn Death-Lord stole those treasures, and now they lie unused and hidden deep in the fastness of Annuvin.'
The farmer nodded. 'Arawn's hand chokes the life from Prydain. His shadow blights the land. Our toil grows heavier, and all the more because our skills are few. Enchanted tools did Arawn steal? Many secrets there were of making the earth yield richly, and of these, too, the Lord of Annuvin robbed us.
'Twice in two years have my crops failed,' Aeddan went on, as Taran listened with heartfelt concern. 'My granary is empty. And the more I must toil for others, the less I may work my own fields. Even so, my knowledge is too slight. What I most need is locked forever in the treasure hoard of Annuvin.'
'It is not altogether your skill that lacks,' Alarca said, putting a hand on the farmer's knotted shoulder. 'Before the first planting the plow ox and cow sickened and died. And the second,' her voice lowered. 'For the second we were without the help of Amren.'
Taran glanced questioningly at the woman, whose eyes had clouded.
She said, 'Amren, our son. He was of your years, and it is his jacket you wear. He needs it no longer. Winter and summer are alike to him. He sleeps under a burial mound among other fallen warriors. Yes, he is gone,' the woman added. 'He rode with the battle host when they fought off raiders who sought to plunder us.'
'I share your sorrow,' Taran said; then, to console her, added, 'But he died with honor. Your son is a hero…'
'My son is slain,' the woman answered sharply. 'The raiders fought because they were starving; we, because we had scarcely more than they. And at the end all had less than when they began. Now, for us the labor is too great for one pair of hands, even for two. The secrets Arawn Death-Lord stole could well serve us. Alas, we cannot regain them.'
'No matter. Even without the secrets my harvest will not fail this year,' Aeddan said. 'All save one of my fields lies fallow; but in this one have I spent all my toil.' He looked proudly at Taran. 'When my wife and I could no longer pull the plow ourselves, I broke the earth with my own hands and sowed it grain by grain.' The farmer laughed. 'Yes, and weeded it blade by blade, as niggling as a granddam with her favorite patch of herbs. It will not fail. Indeed, it must not,' he added, frowning. 'This season our livelihood hangs on it.'
Little more was said then, and when the meager meal ended, Taran gladly stretched his aching bones besides the hearth, while Gurgi curled up next to him. Weariness overcame even his despair for Melynlas, and with the patter of rain on the thatch and the hiss of the dying embers Taran soon fell asleep.
The companions woke before first light, but Taran found Aeddan already working in his field. The rain had stopped, leaving the earth fresh and moist. Taran knelt and took up a handful. Aeddan had spoken the truth. The soil had been tilled with utmost pains, and Taran watched the farmer with growing respect and admiration. The farm could indeed yield richly, and Taran stood a moment looking toward the fallow ground, barren for lack of hands to labor it. With a sigh he turned quickly away, his thoughts once more on Melynlas.
How he might regain the silver-maned stallion Taran could not foresee, but he had determined to make his way
