Some while after midday Taran caught sight of movement among the trees covering a hill crest.
Foreseeing danger, he urged the companions to hurry across the open meadow and find cover in a thicket. But before they could reach it, a party of horsemen appeared at the rise and galloped toward them. Taran and the bard drew their swords, Gurgi nocked an arrow into his bowstring and the weary band made ready to defend themselves as best they could.
Fflewddur suddenly gave a great shout and waved his sword excitedly. "Put up your weapons!" he cried. "We're safe at last! These are Morgant's warriors! They bear the colors of the House of Madoc!"
The warriors pounded closer. Taran, too, cried out with relief. They were indeed King Morgant's riders, and at their head rode King Morgant himself. As they reined up beside the companions, Taran hurried to Morgant's steed and dropped to one knee.
"Well met, Sire," he cried. "We feared your men were servants of Arawn."
King Morgant swung down from the saddle. His black cloak was torn and travel-stained, his face haggard and grim, but his eyes still held the fierce pride of a hawk. A trace of a smile flickered on his lips. "But you would have stood against us nonetheless," he said, raising Taran to his feet.
"What of Prince Gwydion, of Coll?" Taran asked quickly and with sudden uneasiness. "We were separated at Dark Gate and have had no word of them. Adaon, alas, is slain. And Doli, too, I fear."
"Of the dwarf, there has been no trace," answered Morgant. "Lord Gwydion and Coll Son of Collfrewr are safe. They seek you even now. Though," Morgant added, with another half smile, "it has been my good fortune to find you.
"The Huntsmen of Annuvin pressed us sharply at Dark Gate," Morgant went on. "At last we fought free of them and began to make our way toward Caer Cadarn, where Lord Gwydion hoped you would join us.
"We had not reached there," said Morgant, "before we had word of you, and that you had taken it on yourselves to go to the Marshes of Morva. That was a bold venture, Taran of Caer Dallben," Morgant added, "as bold, perhaps, as it was ill-advised. You should learn that a warrior owes obedience to his lord."
"It did not seem we could do otherwise," Taran protested. "We had to find the Crochan before Arawn. Would you not have done the same?"
Morgant nodded curtly. "I do not reproach your spirit, but would have you understand that Lord Gwydion himself would hesitate to make a decision of such weight. We would have known nothing of your movements had not Gwystyl of the Fair Folk brought us news. Lord Gwydion and I separated then to search for you."
"Gwystyl?" Eilonwy interrupted. "Not Gwystyl! Why, he wouldn't have done the least thing for us― until Doli threatened to squeeze him! Gwystyl! All he wanted was to be let alone and hide in his wretched burrow!"
Morgant turned to her. "You speak without knowledge, Princess. Among all who hold the way posts, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk is the shrewdest and bravest. Did you believe King Eiddileg would trust a lesser servant so close to Annuvin? But," he added, "if you misjudged him, it was his intention that you do so.
"As for the Crochan itself," Morgant went on, as Taran looked at him in amazement, "though you failed to bring it from Morva, Prince Ellidyr has done us noble service. Yes," Morgant added quickly, "my warriors came upon him near the River Tevvyn in the course of our search. From his words, I understood that you were drowned and your companions scattered, and that he bore the cauldron from Morva."
"That's not true," Eilonwy began, her eyes flashing angrily.
"Be silent!" Taran cried.
"No, I will not be silent," retorted Eilonwy, spinning around to face Taran. "You aren't going to tell me you still think you're bound by that oath you made us all swear!"
"What does she mean?" Morgant asked. His eyes narrowed and he studied Taran closely.
"I'll tell you what I mean!" Eilonwy answered, heedless of Taran's protest. "It's very simple. Taran paid for it, and paid dearly. We carried it almost on our backs every step of the way from Morva, until Ellidyr came along. He helped us― he certainly did that, just the way a robber helps you tidy up your chamber! That's the truth of it, and I don't care what anybody else says!"
"Does she indeed speak the truth?" Morgant asked.
When Taran did not answer, Morgant nodded slowly and continued in a thoughtful tone. "I believe she does, though you stay silent. There was much of Prince Ellidyr's tale which rang false to me. As I once told you, Taran of Caer Dallben, I am a warrior and I know my men. But when you face Ellidyr himself, I shall know beyond all doubt.
"Come," said Morgant, helping Taran to his steed, "we shall ride to my camp. Your task is ended. The Crochan is in my hands."
Morgant's warriors took up the rest of the companions and they galloped swiftly into the wood. The war lord had made camp in a wide clearing, well protected by trees, its approach guarded by a deep ravine, and the tents had been blended in with a line of underbrush. Taran saw Lluagor and Melynlas tethered among the steeds of the warriors; a little apart, Islimach pawed the ground nervously and pulled at her halter.
Near the center of the clearing Taran caught his breath at the sight of the Black Crochan, which now had been removed from its sling. Though two of Morgant's warriors stood by it with drawn swords, Taran could not shake off the sense of fear and foreboding that hung like a dark mist about the cauldron.
"Do you not fear Arawn will attack you here and gain the cauldron once again?" Taran whispered.
Morgant's eyes hooded over and he gave Taran a glance both of anger and pride. "Whoever challenges me shall be met," he said coldly, "be it the Lord of Annuvin himself."
A warrior drew aside the curtain of one of the pavilions, and the war lord led them inside.
There, bound hand and foot, lay the still form of Ellidyr. His face was covered with blood and he appeared so grievously battered that Eilonwy could not stifle a cry of pity.
"How is this?" Taran exclaimed, turning to Morgant in shock and reproach. "Sire," he added quickly, "your warriors had no right to use him so ill! This is shameful and dishonorable treatment."
"Do you question my conduct?" Morgant replied. "You have much to learn of obedience. My warriors heed my orders and so shall you. Prince Ellidyr dared to resist me. I caution you not to follow his example."
At a call from Morgant, armed guards strode quickly into the tent. The war leader made a brief gesture toward Taran and his companions.
"Disarm them and bind them fast."
Chapter 19
The War Lord
BEFORE THE STARTLED TARAN could draw his blade, a guard seized him and quickly lashed his arms behind his back. The bard, too, was seized. Screaming and kicking, Eilonwy fought vainly. For an instant Gurgi broke loose from his captors and flung himself toward King Morgant. But a warrior struck him brutally to the ground, leaped astride the limp figure, and trussed him tightly.
"Traitor!" Eilonwy shrieked. "Liar! You dare to steal…"
"Silence her," Morgant said coldly, and in another moment a gag muffled her cries.
Frantically Taran struggled to reach the girl's side, before he was thrown down and his legs secured with thongs. Morgant watched silently, his features fixed and without expression. The guards stepped away from the helpless companions. Morgant gestured for the warriors to leave the tent.
Taran, whose head still spun with confusion and disbelief, strained against his bonds. "You are already a traitor," he cried. "Will you now be a murderer? We are under the protection of Gwydion; you will not escape his wrath!"
"I do not fear Gwydion," answered Morgant, "and his protection is worthless to you now. Worthless, indeed, to all Prydain. Even Gwydion is powerless against the Cauldron-Born."
Taran stared at him in horror. "You would not dare to use the Crochan against your own kinsmen, your own people. This is even more foul than treachery and murder!"