every metalsmith in the Commot lands to labor as hard for you as I myself will do.'
While the men readied their mounts and Hevydd set his forge to blazing, Taran led the companions to the neighboring Commots. His task became quickly known and each day brought its throng of herdsmen and farmers who needed no urging to march in the growing host following the banner of the White Pig. For Taran, days and nights merged into one another. In the marshaling camps, astride unflagging Melynlas he rode among the gatherings of peaceful men turned warriors, seeing to their provisions and equipment, and by the embers of watch fires held council with the new-formed war bands.
When he had accomplished all he could at Cenarth, Hevydd rejoined Taran to serve as his master armorer.
'You have done your work well, but we still go too lightly armed,' Taran said, speaking apart with the smith. 'I fear all the forges in Prydain will not be enough to serve our need. Somehow I must find a way…'
'And so you shall, with luck!' called a voice.
Taran turned to see a horseman who was riding up beside him, and blinked in surprise for this was the strangest-garbed of all the Commot warriors. The man was tall, lank-haired, with legs as spindly as a stork's and so long they almost touched the ground on either side of his mount. Bits of iron and odds and ends of metal were stitched closely all over his jacket; he carried a wooden staff with a scythe blade at the end; on his head he wore what had once been a cookpot, now worked and shaped into a makeshift helmet that sat so low on the man's forehead it nearly covered his eyes.
'Llonio!' Taran cried, warmly clasping the new arrival's hand. 'Llonio Son of Llonwen!'
'None other,' answered Llonio, pushing back his peculiar headpiece. 'Did you not suppose I'd be along sooner or later?'
'But your wife and family,' Taran began. 'I would not ask you to leave them. Why, of children I remember half-a-dozen.'
'And another merrily on the way,' Llonio replied, grinning happily. 'Perhaps twins, with my kind of luck. But my brood will be safe enough till I return. Indeed, if there is ever to be safety in Prydain I must follow the Wanderer now. But your concern is not babes in arms but men-at-arms. Hear me, friend Wanderer,' Llonio went on. 'I have seen pitchforks and hay-rakes among the Commot Folk. Could not the tines be cut off and set in wooden shafts? Thus would you gain three, four, and even more weapons where you had only one to begin with.'
'Why, so we could!' burst out Hevydd. 'How did I not see that myself?'
'Nor more did I,' admitted Taran. 'Llonio sees more sharply than any of us, but calls luck what another would call keen wits. Go, friend Llonio, find what you can. I know you'll find more than meets the eye.'
As Llonio, with the help of Hevydd the Smith, gleaned the Commots for sickles, rakes, fire tongs, scythes, and pruning hooks, and found ways to make even the most unlikely objects serve a new purpose. the store of weapons grew.
While each day Taran rallied followers in greater numbers, Coll, Gurgi, and Eilonwy helped load carts with gear and provisions, a task by no means to the liking of the Princess, who was more eager to gallop from one Commot to the next than she was to plod beside the heavy-laden wagons. Eilonwy had donned man's garments and braided her hair about her head; at her belt hung a sword and short dagger wheedled from Hevydd the Smith. Her warrior's garb was ill-fitting, but she took pride in it and was therefore all the more vexed when Taran refused to let her go afield.
'You'll ride out with me,' Taran said, 'as soon as the pack animals are tended and their loads secured.'
The Princess reluctantly agreed; but next day, when Taran cantered past the horse lines at the rear of the camp, she furiously cried to him, 'You've tricked me! These tasks will never be done! No sooner do I finish with one string of horses and carts than along come some more. Very well, I shall do as t promised. But war leader or no, Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you!'
Taran grinned and rode on.
Bearing northward through the Valley of Great Avren, the companions entered Commot Gwenith and had scarcely dismounted when Taran heard a crackling voice call out, 'Wanderer! I know you seek warriors, not crones. But tarry a moment and give a greeting to one who has not forgotten you.'
Dwyvach, the Weaver-Woman of Gwenith, stood in her cottage doorway. Despite her white hair and wizened features she looked as lively and untired as ever. Her gray eyes scanned Taran sharply, then turned to Eilonwy. The ancient Weaver-Woman beckoned to her. 'Taran Wanderer I know well enough. And who you may be I can guess well enough, even though you go in the guise of a man and your hair could stand a little washing.' She glanced shrewdly at the Princess. 'Indeed, I was sure, when the Wanderer and I first met, that he had a pretty maiden in his thoughts.'
'Humph!' Eilonwy sniffed. 'I'm not sure if he did then, and even less sure if he does now.'
Dwyvach chuckled. 'If you are not, then no one else can be. Time will tell which of us is right. But meanwhile, child,' she added, unfolding a cloak she held in her withered hands and setting it about Eilonwy's shoulders, 'take this as a gift from a crone to a maiden, and know there is not so much difference between the two. For even a tottering granddam keeps a portion of girlish heart, and the youngest maiden a thread of old woman's wisdom.'
Taran had now come to the cottage door. He warmly greeted the Weaver-Woman and admired the cloak she had given Eilonwy. 'Hevydd and the Commot smiths labor to make arms for us,' he said. 'But warriors need warmth as much as weapons. Alas, we have no garments like this.'
'Do you think a weaver-woman less hardy than a metalsmith?' Dwyvach replied. 'As you wove patiently at my loom, now my loom will weave the more quickly for you. And in every Commot, shuttles will fly for the sake of Taran Wanderer.'
Heartened by the Weaver-Woman's promise, the companions departed from Gwenith. A short distance from the Commot, Taran caught sight of a small band of horsemen riding toward him at a quick pace. Leading them was a tall youth who shouted Taran's name and raised a hand in greeting.
With a glad cry Taran urged Melynlas to meet the riders. 'Llassar!' Taran called, reining up beside the young man. 'I did not think you and I would meet so far from your sheepfold in Commot Isav.'
'Your news travels ahead of you, Wanderer,' Llassar replied. 'But I feared you would deem our Commot too small and pass it by. It was I,' he added, with shy hesitation that could not altogether conceal his boyish pride,'it was l who led our folk to find you.'
'The size of Isav is no measure of its courage,' Taran said, 'and I need and welcome all of you. But where is your father?' he asked, glancing at the band of riders. 'Where is Drudwas? He would not let his son journey so far without him.'
Llassar's face fell. 'The winter took him from us. I grieve for him, but honor his memory by doing what he himself would have done.'
'And what of your mother?' Taran asked, as he and Llassar trotted back to join the companions. 'Was it her wish, too, that you leave home and flock?'
'Others will tend my flock,' the young shepherd answered. 'My mother knows what a child must do and what a man must do. I am a man,' he added stoutly, 'and have been one since you and I stood against Dorath and his ruffians that night in the sheepfold.'
'Yes, yes!' cried Gurgi. 'And fearless Gurgi stood against them, too!'
'I'm sure all of you did,' Eilonwy remarked sourly, 'while I was curtsying and having my hair washed on Mona. I don't know who Dorath is, but if I should ever meet him, I promise you I'll make up for lost time.'
Taran shook his head. 'Count yourself lucky you don't know him. I know him all too well, to may sorrow.'
'He has not troubled us since that night,' said Llassar. 'Nor will he likely trouble us again. I have heard he has left the Commot lands and roves westward. He has put his sword in the service of the Death-Lord, it is said. Perhaps it may be so. But if Dorath serves anyone, it is himself.'
'Your service freely given counts more for us than any the Lord of Annuvin could hire,' Taran said to Llassar.'Prince Gwydion will be grateful to you.'
'To you, rather,' said Llassar. 'Our pride is not in fighting but in farming; in the work of our hands, not our blades. Never have we sought war. We come now to the banner of the White Pig because it is the banner of our friend, Taran Wanderer.'
The weather worsened as the companions continued through the valley, and the growing host of Commot men forced them to travel at a slower pace. The days were too short for the work to be done, but Taran rode grimly on.
