The mountains swung a half-circle around a lake black and sullen below threatening clouds. Taran halted on an outcropping of stone and pointed toward the hills at the far side of the lake. "According to what Medwyn told us," he said to the bard, "we should make for that notch, all the way over there. But I see no purpose in following the mountains when we can cut almost straight across. The lake shore is flat, at least, while here it's getting practically impossible to climb."
Fflewddur rubbed his pointed nose. "Even counting the time it would take us to go down and come up again, I think we should save several hours. Yes, I definitely believe it's worth trying."
"Medwyn didn't say a word about crossing valleys," Eilonwy put in.
"He didn't say anything about cliffs like these," answered Taran. "They seem nothing to him; he's lived here a long time. For us, it's something else again."
"If you don't listen to what somebody tells you," Eilonwy remarked, "it's like putting your fingers in your ears and jumping down a well. For an Assistant Pig-Keeper who's done very little traveling, you suddenly know all about it."
"Who found the way out of the barrow?" Taran retorted. "It's decided. We cross the valley."
The descent was laborious, but once they had reached level ground, Taran felt all the more convinced they would save time. Holding Melyngar's bridle, he led the group along the narrow shore. The lake reached closely to the base of the hills, obliging Taran to splash through the shallows. The lake, he realized, was not black in reflection of the sky; the water itself was dark, flat, and as grim and heavy as iron. The bottom, too, was as treacherous as the rocks above. Despite his care, Taran lurched and nearly got a ducking. When he turned to warn the others, to his surprise he saw Gurgi in water up to his waist and heading toward the center of the lake. Fflewddur and Eilonwy were also splashing farther and farther from land.
"Don't go through the water," Taran called. "Keep to the shore!"
"Wish we could," the bard shouted back. "But we're stuck somehow. There's a terribly strong pull…"
A moment later, Taran understood what the bard meant. An unexpected swell knocked him off his feet and even as he put out his hands to break his fall the black lake sucked him down. Beside him, Melyngar thrashed her legs and whinnied. The sky spun overhead. He was pulled along like a twig in a torrent. Eilonwy shot past him. He tried to regain his footing and catch her. It was too late. He skimmed and bobbed over the surface. The far shore would stop them, Taran thought, struggling to keep his head above the waves. A roar filled his ears. The middle of the lake was a whirlpool clutching and flinging him to the depths. Black water closed over him, and he knew he was drowning.
Chapter 15
King Eiddileg
DOWN HE SPUN, battling for air, in a flood that broke upon him like a crumbling mountain. Faster and faster the waters bore him along, tossing him right and left. Taran collided with something― what it was, he could not tell― but he clung to it even as his strength failed him. There was a crash, as though the earth had split asunder; the water turned to foam, and Taran felt himself dashed against an unyielding wall. He remembered nothing more.
When he opened his eyes he was lying on a hard, smooth surface, his hand tightly gripping Fflewddur's harp. He heard the rush of water close by. Cautiously, he felt around him; his fingers touched only wet, flat stone, an embankment of some kind. A pale blue light shone high above him. Taran decided he had come to rest in a cave or grotto. He raised himself and his movement set the harp to jangling.
"Hello? Who's that?" A voice echoed down the embankment. Faint though it was, Taran recognized it as belonging to the bard. He scrambled to his feet and crept in the direction of the sound. On the way he tripped over a form, which became suddenly vocal and indignant.
"You've done very well, Taran of Caer Dallben, with all your short cuts. What's left of me is soaked to the skin, and I can't find my bauble― oh, here it is, all wet, of course. And who knows what's happened to the rest of us?"
The golden light flared dimly to reveal the dripping face of Eilonwy, her blue eyes flashing with vexation.
Gurgi's hairy, sputtering shadow rolled toward them. "Oh, poor tender head is filled with sloshings and washings!"
In another moment Fflewddur had found them. Melyngar whinnied behind him. "I thought I heard my harp down here," he said. "I couldn't believe it at first. Never expected to see it again. But― a Fflam never despairs! Quite a stroke of luck, though."
"I never thought I'd see anything again," Taran said, handing the instrument to Fflewddur. "We've been washed into a cave of some kind; but it's not a natural one. Look at these flagstones."
"If you'd look at Melyngar," Eilonwy called, "you'd see all our provisions are gone. All our weapons, too, thanks to your precious short cut!"
It was true. The straps had broken loose and the saddle had torn away in the whirlpool. Luckily, the companions still had their swords.
"I'm sorry," Taran said. "I admit we are here through my fault. I should not have followed this path, but what's done is done. I led us here, and I'll find a way out."
He glanced around. The roar of water came from a wide, swift-running canal. The embankment itself was much broader than he had realized. Lights of various colors glowed in the high arches. He turned to his companions again. "This is very curious. We seem to be deep underground, but it isn't the lake bottom―"
Before he could utter another word, he was seized from behind, and a bag smelling strongly of onions was jammed over his head. Eilonwy screamed, then her voice grew muffled. Taran was being half-pushed, half-pulled in two directions at once. Gurgi began yelping furiously.
"Here! Get that one!" a gruff voice shouted.
"Get him yourself! Can't you see I've got my hands full?"
Taran struck out. A solid, round ball that must have been someone's head butted him in the stomach. There were slapping noises filtering through the oniony darkness around him. Those would be from Eilonwy. Now he was pushed from behind, propelled at top speed, while angry voices shouted at him― and at each other. "Hustle along there!"
"You fool, you didn't take their swords!"― At this, came another shriek from Eilonwy, the sound of what might have been a kick, then a moment of silence― "All right, let them keep their swords. You'll have the blame of it, letting them approach King Eiddileg with weapons!"
At a blind trot, Taran was shoved through what seemed a large crowd of people. Everyone was talking at once; the noise was deafening. After a number of turns, he was thrust forward again. A heavy door snapped behind him; the onion bag was snatched from his head.
TARAN BLINKED. With Fflewddur and Eilonwy he stood in the center of a high-vaulted chamber, glittering with lights. Gurgi was nowhere in sight. Their captors were half-a-dozen squat, round, stubby-legged warriors. Axes hung from their belts and each man had a bow and quiver of arrows on his shoulder. The left eye of the short, burly fellow who stood beside Eilonwy was turning greenish-black.
Before them, at a long stone table, a dwarfish figure with a bristling yellow beard glared at the warriors. He wore a robe of garish red and green. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers. "What's this?" he shouted. "Who are these people? Didn't I give orders I wasn't to be disturbed?"
"But Majesty," began one of the warriors, shifting uneasily, "we caught them…"
"Must you bother me with details?" King Eiddileg cried, clasping his forehead. "You'll ruin me! You'll be the death of me! Out! Out! No, not the prisoners, you idiots!" Shaking his head, sighing and sputtering, the King collapsed onto a throne carved from rock. The guards scurried away. King Eiddileg shot a furious glance at Taran and his companions. "Now, then, out with it. What do you want? You might as well know ahead of time, you shan't have it."