stern warriors. But the companions turned encouraging eyes on him, and Coll gave him such a huge grin and a wink that Gurgi raised both his shaggy head and his makeshift banner more proudly than any in the Great Hall.
Taran himself felt no little awkwardness when Gwydion signaled for him and the others to take seats among the war leaders; though Eilonwy, still in her warrior's attire, smiled happily and seemed altogether at ease.
'Humph!' she remarked. 'I think Hen Wen shows up quite handsomely and, for the matter of that, better than most. You were so disagreeable about whether her eyes were blue or brown. Well, I can tell you that's not half as strange as the colors they've embroidered on some of these banners…'
Eilonwy stopped speaking, for the portals were flung open and King Pryderi entered the Great Hall. All eyes were on him as he strode toward the council table. He was as tall as Gwydion himself, and his rich raiment glittered in the torchlight. He wore no helmet; what Taran had seen was his long hair that shone like gold about his brow. At his side hung a naked sword, for it was Pryderi's custom, as Fflewddur whispered to Taran, never to sheathe his blade until the battle was won. Behind him followed falconers with hooded hawks on their gauntleted wrists; his war leaders, with the crimson hawk emblem of the House of Pwyll broidered on their cloaks; and spearmen flanking his banner-bearer.
Gwydion, clothed like the Chief Bard in the unadorned garb of a warrior, stood to greet him, but Pryderi halted before reaching the council table and, arms folded, glanced around the Hall at the waiting cantrev kings.
'Well met, Lords,' Pryderi cried. 'I rejoice io see you gathered here. The threat of Annuvin makes you forget your own quarreling. Once more you seek protection from the House of Don, like fledglings who see the hawk circling.'
Pryderi's voice rang with unhidden scorn. Taran started at the King's harsh speech. The High King himself looked sharply at Pryderi, though when he spoke his words were measured and grave.
'How, then, Lord Pryderi? It is I who summoned all who will stand with us, for the safety of all hangs in the balance.'
Pryderi smiled bitterly. His handsome features were flushed, whether from the cold or from anger Taran could not tell; blood tinged Pryderi's high, jutting cheekbones as he threw back his golden head and unflinchingly met the High King's stern glance.
'Would any have lingered, seeing himself threatened?' replied Pryderi. 'Men answer only to an iron fist or a sword at their throats. Those who bear you allegiance bear it as it serves their own ends. Among themselves, these cantrev rulers are never at peace, but each is eager to profit from the weakness of his neighbor. In their secret hearts, are they less evil than Arawn Death-Lord?'
Shocked and angry murmurs arose from the cantrev kings. Math silenced them with a quick gesture.
Then Gwydion spoke: 'It is beyond any man's wisdom to judge the secret heart of another,' he said, 'for in it are good and evil mixed. But these are matters to ponder over the embers of a campfire, as you and I have often done; or at the end of feasting, when the torches burn low. Our deeds now must safeguard Prydain. Come, Pryderi Son of Pwyll. Your place awaits you and we have many plans to set.'
'You summoned me, Prince of Don,' Pryderi answered in a hard voice. 'I am here. To join you? No. To demand your surrender.'
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
