The High King

Along the path and at the Iron Portals the Cauldron warriors toppled as one body. Within the stronghold the deathless men locked in combat with the Sons of Don screamed and crumpled to earth even as Taran's foe had fallen. A troop hastening to fill the breach at Dark Gate pitched headlong at the feet of Gwydion's warriors, and those who strove to slay the soldiers at the western wall dropped in mid-stride and their weapons clattered on the stones. Death at last had overcome the deathless Cauldron-Born.

Shouting for the companions, Taran raced from the peak of Mount Dragon. The Commot horsemen leaped to their saddles and urged their steeds to a gallop, plunging after Taran and into the fray.

Taran sped across the courtyard. At the death of the Cauldron-Born, many of Arawn's mortal guards threw down their weapons and sought vainly to flee the stronghold. Others fought with the frenzy of men whose lives were already lost; and the remaining Huntsmen, who had gained new strength as their comrades fell under the blades of the Sons of Don, still shouted their war cry and flung themselves against Gwydion's warriors. One of the Huntsmen troop captains, his branded face twisted in rage, slashed at Taran, then shouted in horror and fled at the sight of the flaming sword.

Taran fought his way through the press of warriors that swirled about him and raced toward the Great Hall where he had first glimpsed Gwydion. He burst through the portals and as he did so, sudden fear and loathing plucked at him. Torches flared along the dark, glittering corridors. For a moment he faltered, as though a black wave had engulfed him. From the far end of the corridor Gwydion had seen him and he strode quickly to Taran's side. Taran ran to meet him, shouting triumphantly that Dyrnwyn had been found.

'Sheathe the blade!' Gwydion cried, shielding his eyes with a hand. 'Sheathe the blade, or it will cost your life!'

Taran obeyed.

Gwydion's face was drawn and pale, his green-flecked eyes burned feverishly. 'How have you drawn this blade, Pig-Keeper?' Gwydion demanded. 'My hands alone dare touch it. Give me the sword.'

The voice of Gwydion rang harsh and commanding, yet Taran hesitated, his heart pounding with a strange dread.

'Quickly!' Gwydion ordered. 'Will you destroy what I have fought to win? Arawn's treasure trove lies open to our hands, and power greater than any man has dreamed awaits us. You will share with me in it, Pig-Keeper. I trust no other.

'Shall some base-born warrior keep these treasures from us?' Gwydion cried. 'Arawn has fled his realm, Pryderi is slain and his army scattered. None has strength to stand against us now. Give me the sword, Pig-Keeper. Half a kingdom is in your grasp, seize it now before it is too late.'

Gwydion reached out his hand.

Taran flung himself back, his eyes wide with horror. 'Lord Gwydion, this is not the counsel of a friend. It is betrayal…'

Only then, as he stared bewildered at this man he had honored since boyhood, did he understand the ruse.

In another instant Taran ripped Dyrnwyn from its sheath and raised the glittering blade.

'Arawn!' Taran gasped, and swung the weapon downward.

Before the blade struck home, the Death-Lord's disguised shape blurred suddenly and van­ished. A shadow writhed along the corridor and faded away.

THE COMPANIONS NOW PRESSED into the Great Hall and Taran hurried toward them, crying the warning that Arawm still lived and had escaped.

Achren's eyes blazed with hatred. 'Escaped you, Pig-Keeper, but not my vengeance. The secret chambers of Arawn are no secret to me. I shall seek him out wherever he has taken refuge.'

Without waiting for the companions, who ran to follow her, Achren set off with all speed down the winding halls. She sprang past a heavy portal which bore the Death-Lord's seal branded deeply in the iron-studded wood. At the far end of the long chamber Taran glimpsed a hunched, spidery figure scuttling to a high, skull-shaped throne.

It was Magg. The Chief Steward's face was ghastly white, his lips trembled and slavered, and his eyes rolled in his head. He stumbled to the foot of the throne, snatched at an object that lay on the flagstones, clutched it to him, and whirled to face the companions.

'No closer!' shrieked Magg, in such a tone that even Achren halted and Taran, about to draw Dyrnwyn from its scabbard, was gripped in horror at Magg's contorted features.

'Will you keep your lives?' Magg cried. 'To your knees, then! Humble yourselves and beg mercy.

I, Magg, shall favor you by making you my slaves.'

'Your master has abandoned you,' replied Taran. 'And your own treachery has ended.' He strode forward.

Magg's spidery hands thrust out in warning, and Taran saw that the Chief Steward held a strangely wrought crown.

'I am master here,' Magg shouted. 'I, Magg, Lord of Annuvin. Arawn pledged that I should wear the Iron Crown. Has it slipped from his fingers? It is mine, mine by right and promise!'

'He has gone mad,' Taran murmured to Fflewddur, who stared in revulsion as the Chief Steward raised high the crown and gibbered to him­self. 'Help me take him prisoner!'

'No prisoner shall he be,' cried Achren, draw­ing a dagger from her cloak. 'His life is mine for the taking, and he shall die as all who have betrayed me. My vengeance begins here, with a treacherous slave, and next, his master.'

'Harm him not,' commanded Taran, as the Queen struggled to make her way past him to the throne. 'Let him find justice from Gwydion.'

Achren fought against him, but Eilonwy and Doli hastened to hold the raging Queen's arms. Taran and the bard strode toward Magg, who flung himself to the seat of the throne.

'Do you tell me Arawn's promises' are lies?' the Chief Steward hissed, fondling and fingering the heavy crown. 'It was promised I should wear this. Now it is given into my hands. So shall it be!' Quickly, Magg lifted the crown and set it on his brow.

'Magg!' he shouted. 'Magg the Magnificent! Magg the Death-Lord!'

The Chief Steward's triumphant laughter turned to a shriek as he clawed suddenly at the iron-band circling his forehead. Taran and Fflewddur gasped and drew back.

The crown glowed like red iron in a forge. Writhing in agony, Magg clutched vainly at the burning metal which now had turned white hot, and with a last scream toppled from the throne.

Eilonwy cried out and turned her face away.

GURGI AND GLEW HAD LOST TRACK of the compan­ions and were now pelting through the maze of winding corridors trying vainly to find them. Gurgi was terrified at being in the heart of Annuvin and at every step shouted Taran's name. Only the echoes from the torch-lit halls came back to him. Glew was no less fearful. Between gasps, the former giant also found enough breath to complain bitterly.

'It's too much to bear!' he cried. 'Too much! Is there no end to the wretched burdens put upon me? Thrown aboard a ship, hustled off to Caer Dallben, half frozen to death, dragged through mountains at the risk of my life, a fortune snatched from my hands! And now this! Oh, when I was a giant I'd not have stood for such high-handed treatment!'

'Oh, giant, leave off pinings and whinings!' replied Gurgi, miserable enough at being separated from the companions. 'Gurgi is lost and lorn, but he tries to find kindly master with seekings. Do not fear,' he added reassuringly, though it was all he could do to keep his voice from trembling, 'bold Gurgi will keep plaintful little giant safe, oh, yes.'

'You're not doing very well at it,' snapped Glew. Nevertheless, the pudgy little man clung to the side of the shaggy creature and, his stubby legs pumping, matched him stride for stride.

They had come to the end of one corridor where a squat and heavy iron portal stood open. Gurgi fearfully halted. A bright cold light poured from the chamber. Gurgi took a few cautious paces and peered within. Beyond the