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death in their livid faces. His eyes darted about the summit, vainly seeking a last means of defense.
At the highest peak of the dragon's crest rose a tall rock. Time and tempest had gnawed it into a
grotesque shape. The wind, blowing through the eroded crannies and hollows, set up a baleful keening,
and the stone shrieked and moaned as if with human tongue. The weird wail seemed to command, to
beseech, to draw Taran closer. Here was his only weapon. He flung himself against the rock and
wrestled against the unyielding bulk, struggling to uproot it. The Cauldron-Born were nearly upon him.
The stone crest seemed to move a little as Taran redoubled his efforts. Then suddenly it rolled from its
socket. With a final heave Taran sent it crashing amid his assailants. Two of the Cauldron-Born tumbled
backward and their blades spun from their hands, but the third warrior did not falter in his upward climb.
Driven by despair, as a man casts pebbles at the lightning that would strike him down, Taran groped for
a handful of stones, of loose earth, even a broken twig to fling in defiance of the Cauldron war-rior who
strode closer, blade upraised.
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The socket from which the dragon's crest had been torn was lined with flat stones, and in it as in a
narrow grave, lay Dyrnwyn, the black sword.
Taran snatched it up. For an instant, his mind reeling, he did not recognize the blade. Once, long before,
he had sought to draw Dyrnwyn and his life had been almost forfeit to his rashness. Now, heedless of the
cost, seeing no more than a weapon come to his hand, he ripped the sword from its sheath. Dyrnwyn
flamed with a white and blinding light. It was only then, in some distant corner of his mind, Taran dimly
understood that Dyrnwyn was blazing in his grasp and that he was still alive.
Dazzled, the Cauldron-Born dropped his sword and flung his hands to his face. Taran leaped forward
and with all his strength drove the blazing weapon deep into the warrior's heart.
The Cauldron-Born stumbled and fell; and from lips long mute burst a shriek that echoed and re-echoed
from the Death-Lord's stronghold as though rising from a thousand tongues. Taran staggered back. The
Cauldron-Born lay motionless.
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.
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"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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
