The High King

were slippery and treacherous. The ravines held deep pits filled with snow, where horse and rider might founder beyond rescue.

In the hills, Taran's most trusted guide was Llassar. Surefooted, long used to mountain ways, the Commot youth was now shepherd to a different, grimmer flock. More than once, Llassar's keen senses kept the companions from the icy traps of snow-hidden crevices, and he discovered pathways no other eye could see. But the progress of the ragged band was nonetheless slow, and all suffered cruelly from the cold, men and animals alike. Only the great cat, Llyan, showed no concern for the bitter blasts that drove frosty needles against the faces of the companions.

'She seems to be enjoying herself,' Fflewddur sighed, huddling in his cloak. He had been obliged to dismount, for Llyan had suddenly taken it into her head to sharpen her huge claws against a tree trunk. 'And so should I,' he added, 'if I had her coat.'

Gurgi ruefully agreed. Since entering the hills, the poor creature had grown more and more to resemble a drift of hairy snow. The cold had even stopped Glew's endless whining; the former giant pulled his hood over his face and little could be seen of him but the frostbitten end of his flabby nose. Eilonwy, too, was unwontedly silent. Her heart, Taran knew, was as heavy as his own.

Yet Taran forced himself, as far as he was able, to put grief aside. His dogged pursuit had at last brought his warriors within striking distance of the Cauldron-Born, and now he thought only of the means to slow their march to Annuvin. As at the Red Fallows, the companions labored to build barriers of tree limbs, and set them across a narrow gorge, toiling until the sweat drenched their garments and froze in the bitter wind. This time the livid warriors overran them, mutely hacking away the branches with their swords. In despair, the men of the Commots clashed hand-to-hand with the oncoming foe; but the Caul­dron-Born slashed mercilessly through their ranks. Taran and the Commot men sought to block the way with heavy boulders; but even with the help of Hevydd's mighty arms this labor was beyond their strength, and the toll of the slain only rose higher.

The days were a white nightmare of snow and wind. The nights were frozen with hopelessness, and like exhausted animals the companions found respite amid rocky overhangs and the scant shelter of the mountain passes. Yet concealment served little purpose, the presence of the Commot warriors was known and their movements quickly sighted by the enemy captains. At first, the Cauldron-Born had chosen to disregard the ragged band; now the deathless marchers not only quickened their pace, they swung closer to Taran's riders as though eager to join battle.

This puzzled Fflewddur, who rode beside Taran at the head of the column.

Taran frowned and shook his head grimly. 'I understand it all too well,' he said. 'Their power had waned when they were farther from Annuvin. Closer, it returns to them, and as we grow weaker, they grow stronger. Unless we halt them, one time for all, our efforts will do no more than sap our own strength. Soon,' he added bitterly, 'we shall defeat ourselves more sharply than Arawn's warriors could ever hope to do.'

But he said nothing of another fear that lay in all their hearts. Each passing day showed more clearly the Cauldron Born were turning south, away from the Hills of Bran-Galedd and once again toward the swifter, easier way of the Red Fallows. With dour satisfaction, Taran judged this to mean the enemy still feared the pursuers and would strive to any lengths to be rid of them.

Snow fell that night, and the companions halted, blinded by the whirling flakes and by their own weariness. Before dawn the Cauldron-Born at­tacked their camp.

At first, Taran believed only one company of the mute warriors had overrun his outposts. As the Commot warriors sprang to arms amid the terrified shrieking of horses and the clang of blades, he quickly realized the entire enemy column was slashing across his lines. He spurred Melynlas into the fray. Fflewd­dur, with Glew clinging to his waist, was astride Llyan, who sped in great bounds to join the embattled defenders. Taran had lost sight of Eilonwy and Gurgi among the rush of warriors. Like a ruthless sword, the Cauldron-Born had split the Commot horsemen's ranks and were streaming through unhindered, crushing all who stood against them.

All day the uneven battle raged while the men of the Commots struggled vainly to rally their forces. By dusk the path of the Cauldron-Born was a bloody wake of wounded and slain. In one deadly blow, the Cauldron host had broken free of their pursuers to move swiftly and unfaltering from the hills.

Eilonwy and Gurgi were missing.

Fearful and dismayed, Taran and Fflewddur pressed their way through the shattered remnants of the war band struggling to regain their ranks. Torches had been lit to signal rallying points for the stragglers, who stumbled wounded and bewildered among the bodies of their fallen comrades. Throughout the night Taran searched frantically, sounding his horn and shouting the names of the lost companions. With Fflewddur, he had ridden beyond the battleground, hoping for some sign of either one of them. There was none, and the new snowfall, which began toward dawn, covered all, tracks.

By midmorning, the survivors had gathered. The passage of the Cauldron-Born had taken heavy toll of both mounts and men; of the Commot war­riors, one out of three had fallen beneath the swords of the deathless foe; and of the steeds, more than half. Lluagor galloped empty-saddled. Eilonwy and Gurgi were among neither the slain nor the living.

Desperate now, Taran made ready to search through the farther hills. But Fflewddur, his face grave and filled with concern, took Taran's arm and drew him back.

'Alone, you can't hope to find them,' warned the bard. 'Neither can you spare time nor men for a search party. If we're to stop those foul brutes before they reach the Fallows, we shall have to move with all speed. Your Commot friends are ready to march.'

'You and Llassar must lead them,' Taran re­plied. 'Once Eilonwy and Gurgi are found, we'll join you somehow. Go quickly. We shall meet soon again.'

The bard shook his head. 'If that's your com­mand, so be it. But, as I have heard it, Taran Wanderer it was who called the Commot folk to his banner, and for the sake of Taran Wanderer they answered. They followed where you led. For none other would they have done as much.'

'What, then,' Taran cried, 'would you have me leave Eilonwy and Gurgi in danger?'

'It is a heavy choice,' Fflewddur said. 'Alas, none can lighten it for you.'

Taran did not reply. Fflewddur's words grieved him all the more because of their truth. Hevydd and Llassar had asked no more than to fight at his side. Llonio had given his life at Caer Dathyl. There was no Commot warrior who had not lost kinsman or comrade. If he left them to seek Eilonwy, would she herself deem his choice good? The horsemen awaited his orders. Melynlas impatiently pawed the ground.

'If Eilonwy and Gurgi are slain,' Taran said in an anguished voice, 'they are beyond my help. If they live, I must hope and trust they will find their way to us.' He swung heavily into the saddle. 'If they live,' he murmured.

Without daring a backward glance at the silent, empty hills, he rode toward the war band.

By the time the Commot men were on the march again, the Cauldron-Born had well outdistanced them and were moving without delay to the foothills of Bran-Galedd. Even at their fastest pace, halting only for moments of fitful rest, the Commot riders regained little of the precious time that had been lost.

Each day Taran strained his eyes for a sign of Eilonwy and Gurgi, hoping against hope that the Princess would find some means of reaching the war band again. But the two companions had vanished, and Fflewddur's desperate cheerfulness and assurance that both would appear from one moment to the next rang false and hollow.

At midmorning on the third day of their march an outrider galloped in with tidings of strange movements in the pine forest at the column's flank. Taran halted his warriors, hastily ordering them to stand ready for combat, then rode with Fflewddur to see for himself. Through the trees a little below him he could make out no more than a vague stirring, as if shadows of branches flickered across the drifts. But in another instant the bard shouted excitedly and Taran quickly sounded his horn.

From the woods tramped a long procession of short, stocky figures. Garbed in white cloaks and hoods, they were all but invisible against the snow, and not until they had begun to move across a bare stretch of rocky ground could Taran distinguish one marcher from the next. Their stout leather boots, laced and bound with thongs, barely showed below their cloaks, and looked like nothing so much as rapidly moving tree stumps. The shapes that bulked on their shoulders or at their waists were, Taran guessed, weapons or sacks of provisions.

'Great Belin!' cried Fflewddur. 'If that's who I think it is…'

Taran had already dismounted and was racing down the slope, waving at the bard to follow him. At the head of the band, which seemed to number well over a hundred, trudged a familiar, stumpy figure. Though he, too, was heavily muffled in white, his crimson hair flamed out beyond the fringe of his hood. In one hand he carried a short,