At the fortress, bowmen and spearmen of the inner defenses thronged the walls. The mute Cauldron-Born did not falter in the storm of arrows. Though every shaft found its mark, the foe moved steadily onward, pausing only to rip the arrows from their unbleeding flesh. Their features showed neither pain nor anger, and no human cry, no shout of triumph passed, their lips. From Annuvin they had journeyed as though from the grave, their task only to bring death, unpitying, implacable as their own lifeless faces.
Against the pounding of the battering ram the gates of Caer Dathyl groaned and trembled. The massive hinges loosened, while echoes of the driving ram shuddered through the fortress. The portal splintered, the first breach gaped like a wound. The Cauldron-Born gathered strength once more to force the ram forward. The gates of Caer Dathyl shattered and fell inward. Trapped between the ranks of Pryderi's warriors, the Sons of Don fought vainly to reach the fortress. Sobbing with fury and despair, Taran, helpless, saw the Cauldron-Born stride past the broken gates.
Before them stood Math the High King. He was attired in the raiment of the Royal House, belted with links of gold, and on his brow glittered the Gold Crown of Don. About his shoulders was a cloak of fine white wool, wrapped as though it were a burial garment. Outstretched, his withered hand gripped a naked sword.
The deathless warriors of Annuvin halted as if at the faint stirring of some clouded memory. The moment passed and they strode on. The field of battle was silent now; an awed hush had fallen even upon the men of Pryderi. The High King did not turn away as the Cauldron-Born drew closer, his eyes fixed theirs as he raised his sword defiantly. Unflinching he stood in pride and ancient majesty. The first of the pallid warriors was upon him. Grasping the flashing sword in his frail hands, the High King swung it downward in a sweeping blow. The warrior's blade turned it aside, and the Cauldron-Born struck heavily. King Math staggered and dropped to one knee. The mass of mute warriors pressed forward, their weapons thrusting and slashing. Taran covered his face with his hands and turned away weeping, as Math Son of Mathonwy fell and the iron-shod boots of the Cauldron-Born pressed their relentless march over his lifeless body. From the dark hills then there rose the long notes of a hunting horn, trembling, echoing among the crags, and a shadow seemed to brush the sky above the fortress.
Now behind the Cauldron-Born the men of Pryderi streamed through the broken gates, while waves of attackers drove the remnants of Gwydion's army into the heights, scattering them amid snowfilled gullies. From Caer Dathyl came new claps of thunder as the ram of the Cauldron-Born turned against the walls to breach them in turn. Flames rose above the Great Hall, above the Hall of Lore, and from the Middle Tower was unfurled the crimson hawk of Pryderi.
Beside it, blotting out the dying sun, spread the black banner of Arawn Lord of Annuvin.
Caer Dathyl had fallen.
Chapter 12
The Red Fallows
ALL NIGHT THE DESTRUCTION raged and by morning Caer Dathyl lay in ruins. Fires smouldered where once had stood the lofty halls. The swords and axes of the Cauldron-Born had leveled the hemlock grove near the mounds of honor. In the dawn light the shattered walls seemed bloodstained.
The army of Pryderi, denying even the right of burial for the slain, had driven the defenders into the hills east of Caer Dathyl. It was there, amid the turmoil of the makeshift camp, the companions found one another again. Faithful Gurgi still bore the banner of the White Pig, though its staff had been broken and the emblem slashed almost beyond recognition. Llyan, with Fflewddur beside her, crouched in the scant shelter of a rocky outcropping; her tail twitched and her yellow eyes still glowed with anger. Hevydd the Smith built a campfire, and Taran, Eilonwy, and Coll tried to warm themselves at the embers. Llassar, though sorely wounded, had lived through the battle; but the enemy had taken cruel toll of the Commot men. Among those who lay stark and silent on the trampled battleground was Llonio Son of Llonwen.
One of the handful of survivors from the inner defenses of the fortress was Glew. A warrior of Don, finding him lost and dazed outside the walls, had taken pity on his plight and brought him to the camp. The former giant was pathetically glad to rejoin the companions, though he was still too terrified and trembling to do more than mumble a few words. With a torn cloak over his shoulders, he huddled beside the fire and held his head in his hands.
Gwydion stood alone. For long, his eyes did not leave the column of black smoke staining the sky above the ruins of Caer Dathyl. At last he turned away and ordered all who had lived out the day to assemble. Taliesin came to stand before them and, taking up Fflewddur's harp, sang a lament for the slain. Amid the black pines the voice of the Chief Bard rose in deep sorrow, yet it was sorrow without despair; and while the notes of the harp were heavy laden with mourning they held, as well, the clear strains of life and hope.
As the melody died away Taliesin lifted his head and spoke quietly. 'Each broken stone of Caer Dathyl shall be a mark of honor, and the whole valley a resting place for Math Son of Mathonwy and all our dead. But a High King still lives. As I honor him, so do I honor all who stand with him.' He turned to Gwydion and bowed deeply. The warriors drew their swords and cried out the name of the new King of Prydain.
Gwydion then called the companions to him. 'We meet only to part,' he said. 'Pryderi's victory gives us one choice and one hope. Though messengers bear tidings of our defeat to King Smoit and his army, and to the lords of the north, we dare not await their help. What we do must be done now. Not even a battle host tenfold greater than Pryderi's can withstand the Cauldron-Born. Army after army can be flung against them only to swell the ranks of the slain.
'Yet here is the seed of our hope,' Gwydion said. 'Never in man's memory has Arawn sent his deathless warriors abroad in such strength. He has taken the greatest risk for the greatest gain. And he has triumphed. But his triumph has become his moment of greatest weakness. Without the Cauldron-Born to guard it, Annuvin lies open to attack. So must we attack it.'
'Do you believe then that Annuvin is unguarded?' Taran asked quickly. 'Are there none other who serve Arawn?'
'Mortal warriors, surely,' replied Gwydion, 'and perhaps a force of Huntsmen. But we have strength to overcome them, if the Cauldron-Born do not reach Annuvin in time to aid them.'
Gwydion's blood-streaked face was hard as stone. 'They must not reach Annuvin. As their power dwindles the longer they remain beyond the Death-Lord's realm, so at all cost must they be hindered, delayed, turned from every path they follow.'
Coll nodded. 'Indeed, this is our only hope, whatever. And it must be done quickly, for now they will seek to return quickly to their master. But can we overtake them once they are on the march? Can we hinder them and at the same time mount our own attack against Annuvin?'
'Not if we journey as one army,' Gwydion, said. 'Instead, we must separate into two bands. The first, and smaller, shall be given as many horses as can be spared, and hasten to pursue the Cauldron-Born. The second shall make their way to the Valley of Kynvael and follow its river northwest to the coast. The valley land is gentle, and with forced marches the sea can be reached in no more than two days.
'The sea must aid our venture,' Gwydion continued, 'for Pryderi can too easily forbid our army's journey overland.' He turned to Taran. 'Math Son of Mathonwy spoke to you of the ships that bore the Sons of Don from the Summer Country. These vessels were not abandoned. Still seaworthy, they have ever been held ready against a day of need. A faithful folk guard them in a hidden harbor near the mouth of the river Kynvael. They will carry us to the western shore of Prydain, close to the bastions of Annuvin itself.
'Two men alone have knowledge of the harbor,' Gwydion added. 'One was Math Son of Mathonwy. The other is myself. I have no choice but to lead the seaward march. As for the other journey,' he said to Taran, 'will you accept to lead it?'
Taran raised his head. 'I serve as you command.'
'I do not command this,' replied Gwydion. 'I order no man to such a task against his will. And all who follow you must do so willingly.'
'Then it is my will to do so,' Taran answered.
The companions murmured their assent.
'The vessels of the Sons of Don are swift,' Gwydion said. 'I ask you to delay the Cauldron-Born but a little while. Yet all hangs on that little.'
