The High King

horses broke loose and galloped madly into the woods. The attackers threw down their weap­ons and tore frantically at their cloaks and jackets. Howling in pain and terror, the men reeled and plunged in full flight back to the forest.

The flames vanished. Dallben, about to turn away, glimpsed one figure which still pressed across the empty field. Alarmed, the old man gripped his staff and hobbled as quickly as he could into the cottage. The warrior was striding past the stables and into the dooryard. With footfalls pounding behind him, Dallben hurried across the threshold, but the old man had no sooner gained the refuge of his chamber than the warrior burst through the doorway. Dallben spun about to face his assailant.

'Beware!' cried the enchanter. 'Beware! Take no step closer.'

Dallben had drawn himself up to his full height, his eyes flashed, and his voice rang with such a commanding tone that the warrior hesitated. The man's hood had fallen back and the firelight played over the golden hair and proud features of Pryderi Son of Pwyll.

Dallben's eyes never faltered. 'I have long awaited you, King of the West Domains.'

Pryderi made as if to take a step forward. His hand dropped to the pommel of the naked sword at his belt. Yet the old man's glance held him. 'You mistake my rank,' Pryderi said mockingly. 'Now I rule a larger realm. Prydain itself.'

'What then,' replied Dallben, feigning surprise, 'is Gwydion of the House of Don no longer High King of Prydain?'

Pryderi laughed harshly. 'A king without a kingdom? A king in rags, hunted like a fox? Caer Dathyl has fallen, the Sons of Don are scattered to the wind. This you already know, though it seems the tidings have reached you swiftly.'

'All tidings reach me swiftly,' Dallben said. 'Swifter, perhaps, than they reach you.'

'Do you boast of your powers?' Pryderi answered scornfully. 'At the last, when you most needed them, they failed. Your spells did no more than frighten a handful of warriors. Does the crafty Dallben take pride in putting churls to flight?'

'My spells were not meant to destroy, only to warn,' Dallben replied. 'This is a place of danger to all who enter against my will. Your followers heeded my warning. Alas, Lord Pryderi, that you did not. These churls are wiser than their king, for it is not wisdom that a man should seek his own death.'

'Again you are mistaken, wizard,' Pryderi said. 'It is your death I seek.'

Dallben tugged at the wisps of his beard. 'What you may seek and what you may find are not always one, Son of Pwyll,' he said quietly. 'Yes, you would take my life. That is no secret to me. Has Caer Dathyl fallen? That victory is hollow so long as Caer Dallben stands and so long as I live. Two strongholds have long stood against the Lord of Annuvin: a golden castle and a farmer's cottage. One lies in ruins. But the other is still a shield against evil, and a sword ever pointed at Arawn's heart. The Death-Lord knows this, and knows as well that he cannot enter here, nor can his Huntsmen and Cauldron-Born.

'Thus have you come,' Dallben added, 'to do your master's bidding.'

A flush of anger spread over Pryderi's face. 'I am my own master,' he cried. 'If power is given me to serve Prydain, shall I fear to use it? I am no Huntsman, who kills for the joy of killing. I do what must be done, and shrink not from it. My purpose is greater than the life of a man, or a thousand men. And if you must die, Dallben, then so be it.'

Pryderi ripped the sword from his belt, and in a sudden movement struck at the enchanter. But Dallben had taken a firmer grip on his staff and raised it against the blow. Pryderi's blade shattered upon the slender wood, and the shards fell ringing to the ground.

Pryderi cast the broken hilt from him. Yet it was not fear that filled his eyes, but scorn. 'I have been warned of your powers, wizard. I chose to prove them for myself.'

Dallben had not moved. 'Have you been truly warned? I think not. Had you been, you would not have dared to face me.'

'Your strength is great, wizard,' Pryderi said, 'but not so great as your weakness. Your secret is known to me. Strive against me as you will. At the end it is I who must conquer. Of all powers one is forbidden you on pain of your own death. Are you master of winds? Can you make the earth tremble? This is useless toying. You cannot do what the lowest warrior can do: you cannot kill.'

From his cloak Pryderi had drawn a short black dagger whose pommel bore the seal of Annuvin. 'No such ban is laid upon me,' he said. 'As I have been warned, so have I been armed. This blade comes from the hand of Arawn himself. It can be wielded despite all your spells.'

A look of pity and deep sorrow had come over Dallben's wrinkled face. 'Poor foolish man,' he murmured. 'It is true. This weapon of Annuvin can take my life and I cannot stay your hand. But you are blind as the mole that toils in the earth. Ask now, Lord Pryderi, which the master and which the slave. Arawn has betrayed you.

'Yes, betrayed you,' Dallben said, his voice sharp and cold. 'You thought to make him serve you. Yet all unwitting you have served him better than any of his hirelings. He sent you to slay me, and gave you the means to do it. Indeed, perhaps you shall slay me. But it will be Arawn's triumph, not yours. Once you have done his bidding, you are a useless husk to the Lord of Annuvin. He knows full well that never will I let you depart alive from Caer Dallben. You are a dead man, Lord Pryderi, even as you stand here.'

Pryderi raised the black dagger. 'With words you seek to ward off your death.'

'See from the window,' Dallben answered.

As he spoke, a crimson glow poured through the casement. A broad belt of flames had sprung up to circle Caer Dallben. Pryderi faltered and stepped back. 'You have believed half-truths,' Dallben said. 'No man has ever suffered death at my hands. But those who scorn my spells do so at their own peril. Slay me, Lord Pryderi, and the flames you see will sweep over Caer Dallben in an instant. There is no escape for you.'

Pryderi's golden features were drawn in a look of disbelief, mingled with growing fear at the en­chanter's words. 'You lie,' he whispered hoarsely. 'The flames will die, even as you will die.'

'That, Lord, you must prove for yourself,' Dallben said.

'I have my proof!' Pryderi cried. 'Arawn would not destroy what he seeks most. There were two tasks! In all your wisdom you did not guess them. Your death was only one. The other, to gain The Book of Three.'

Dallben shook his head sadly and glanced at the heavy, leather-bound tome. 'You have been doubly betrayed, then. This book will no more serve Arawn than it will serve any evil end. Nor will it serve you, Lord Pryderi.'

The force of the old man's voice was like a cold wind. 'You have steeped your hands in blood, and in your pride sought to pass judgment on your fellow men. Was it your concern to serve Prydain? You chose an evil means to do it. Good cannot come from evil. You leagued yourself with Arawn for what you deemed a noble cause. Now you are a prisoner of the very evil you hoped to overcome, prisoner and victim. For in The Book of Three you are already marked for death.'

Dallben's eyes blazed and the truth of his words seemed to grip Pryderi's throat. The King's face had turned ashen. With a cry, he flung away the dagger and clutched at the huge book. Desperately his hands reached out as if they would rip it asunder.

'Touch it not!' Dallben commanded.

But Pryderi had already seized it. As he did so a blinding bolt of lightning sprang like a blazing tree from the ancient tome. Pryderi's death shriek rang through the chamber.

Dallben turned away and bowed his head as though some heavy grief had come upon him. Beyond the little farm the circle of fire dwindled and faded in the quiet dawn.

Chapter 17 The Snowstorm

THE FAIR FOLK WARRIORS, all save Doli, had turned back at the line of treeless crags marking the westernmost edge of the Hills of Bran-Galedd, for beyond that point the land lay under the sway of Arawn Death-Lord. For some days now the companions had toiled painfully through a wilderness of stone, where not even moss or lichen flourished. The sky was gray, and the few thin clouds no more than shreds of darker gray.