The High King by Lloyd Alexander
Without daring a backward glance at the silent, empty hills, he rode toward the war band.
By the time the Commot men were on the march again, the Cauldron-Born had well outdistanced them and were moving without delay to the foothills of Bran-Galedd. Even at their fastest pace, halting only for moments of fitful rest, the Commot riders regained little of the precious time that had been lost.
Each day Taran strained his eyes for a sign of Eilonwy and Gurgi, hoping against hope that the Princess would find some means of reaching the war band again. But the two companions had vanished, and Fflewddur’s desperate cheerfulness and assurance that both would appear from one moment to the next rang false and hollow.
At mid-morning on the third day of their march an outrider galloped in with tidings of strange movements in the pine forest at the column’s flank. Taran halted his warriors, hastily ordering them to stand ready for combat, then rode with Fflewddur to see for himself. Through the trees a little below him he could make out no more than a vague stirring, as if shadows of branches flickered across the drifts. But in another instant the bard shouted excitedly and Taran quickly sounded his horn.
From the woods tramped a long procession of short, stocky figures. Garbed in white cloaks and hoods, they were all but invisible against the snow, and not until they had begun to move across a bare stretch of rocky ground could Taran distinguish one marcher from the next. Their stout leather boots, laced and bound with thongs, barely showed below their cloaks, and looked like nothing so much as rapidly moving tree stumps. The shapes that bulked on their shoulders or at their waists were, Taran guessed, weapons or sacks of provisions.
“Great Belin!” cried Fflewddur. “If that’s who I think it is …”
Taran had already dismounted and was racing down the slope, waving at the bard to follow him. At the head of the band, which seemed to number well over a hundred, trudged a familiar, stumpy figure. Though he, too, was heavily muffled in white, his crimson hair flamed out beyond the fringe of his hood. In one hand he carried a short, heavy-bladed axe, and in the other, a thick staff. He had caught sight of Taran and Fflewddur and strode to meet them.
In another instant the bard and Taran were clasping his hands, pummeling his burly shoulders, and shouting so many greetings and questions that the new arrival clapped his hands to his head.
“Doli!” Taran cried. “Good old Doli!”
“I heard you clearly the first few times,” the dwarf snorted. “If I ever doubted you recognized me, you’ve fully convinced me that you do.” He put his hands on his hips and looked up sharply, trying, as always, to appear as gruff as he could. Despite himself his bright red eyes flashed with pleasure and his features broke into a grin, which he tried, without success, to change to his usual scowl.
“You’ve led us a chase,” Doli declared, motioning the warriors to follow Taran up the slope. “We had word you’d gone into the hills, but saw nothing of you until today.”
“Doli!” Taran exclaimed, still amazed at the unexpected sight of this long-absent companion. “What good luck brings you to us?”
“Good luck?” grumbled Doli. “Do you call tramping day and night in snow and wind good luck? All of us Fair Folk are abroad, one place or another—Orders of King Eiddileg. Mine were to find you and put myself at your service. No offense, but I could guess that if anybody in Prydain needed help it would turn out to be you. So, here we are.”
“Gwystyl has done his work well,” Taran said. “We knew he was journeying to your realm, but we feared King Eiddileg might not heed him.”
“I can’t say he was overjoyed,” Doli answered. “In fact, he nearly burst. I was there when our gloomy friend brought word of your plight and I thought my ears would split with Eiddileg’s bellowing. Great gawks! Lumbering oafs! Giant clodpoles! All his usual opinions about humans. But he agreed willingly enough despite his bluster. He’s really fond of you, no matter what he says. Above all, he remembers how you saved the Fair Folk from being turned into frogs, moles, and whatever. It was the greatest service any mortal ever did for us, and Eiddileg means to repay the debt.
“Yes, the Fair Folk are on the march,” Doli continued. “Alas, we came too late to Caer Dathyl. But King Smoit has cause to thank us. There’s a host of Fair Folk fighting side by side with him. The northern lords are ready for battle, and we’ll take a hand in that, too, you can be sure.”
Doli, for all his gruffness, was obviously proud of his own tidings. He had finished, with great relish, an account of one fray in which the Fair Folk had baffled the enemy by making an entire valley so resound with echoes that the foe fled in terror, believing themselves surrounded, and had begun another tale of Fair Folk valor, when he stopped abruptly, seeing the look of concern on Taran’s face. Doli listened while Taran told what had befallen the other companions, and it was the dwarf’s turn to be grave and thoughtful. When Taran finished, Doli did not reply for a time.
“As for Eilonwy and Gurgi,” the dwarf said at last, “I agree with Fflewddur. They’ll manage, somehow. And if I know the Princess, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her galloping up at the head of her own army.
“With the Cauldron-Born, we’re all in bad straits,” Doli continued. “Even we Fair Folk can do little against such creatures. All the tricks that would gull a common mortal are useless. The Cauldron-Born aren’t human—I should say they’re less than human. They’ve no memory of what they were, no fear, no hope—nothing can touch them.” The dwarf shook his head. “And I see that any victory we might gain elsewhere would be wasted unless we find some way to deal with that spawn of Annuvin. Gwydion is quite right. If they aren’t stopped—well, my friends, among us we’ll have to do it, and that’s flat.”
By this time the Fair Folk band had reached Taran’s lines and a murmur of wonder spread through the ranks of the Commot men. All had heard of the skill and prowess of King Eiddileg’s fighting forces, but none had seen them face to face. Hevydd the Smith marveled at their axes and short swords, pronouncing them sharper and better tempered than any he could make. For their own part, the Fair Folk seemed not the least uneasy; the tallest of Eiddileg’s warriors stood barely higher than Llassar’s knee, but the Fair Folk soldiers looked on their human comrades with the friendly indulgence they might show to overgrown children.
Doli patted Llyan’s head and the huge animal purred happily in recognition. The sight of Glew, hunched on a rock and staring sourly at the new arrivals, brought a cry of surprise from the crimson-haired dwarf. “Whoever—or whatever—is that? It’s too big for a toadstool and too small for anything else!”
“I’m glad you asked,” replied Glew. “It’s a tale I’m sure you will find most interesting. I was once a giant, and my present unhappy state comes, no more and no less, from a complete lack of concern from those—” he looked dourly at Taran and the bard “—who might have been expected to show at least a small amount of consideration. My kingdom—yes, I would appreciate it if you addressed me as King Glew—was the finest cavern, with the finest bats, on the Isle of Mona. A cavern so vast …”
Fflewddur clapped his hands to his ears. “Leave off, giant! Enough! We’ve no time for your prattle about caverns and bats. We know you’ve been ill-used. You’ve told us so yourself. Believe me, a Fflam is patient, but if I could find a cavern I’d pop you into it and leave you there.”
Doli’s face had turned deeply thoughtful. “Caverns,” the dwarf muttered. He snapped his fingers. “Caverns! Hear me well,” he said quickly. “No more than a day’s march from here—yes, I’m sure of it—there’s a Fair Folk mine. The best gems and precious stones are gone, and Eiddileg’s had no one working there as long as I can remember. But I think we can get into it. Of course! If we follow the main shaft it should bring us out almost at the edge of the Red Fallows. You’ll catch up with the Cauldron-Born in no time at all. With all our warriors together we’ll stop them one way or another. How, I don’t know. That doesn’t matter for the moment. We’ll cross that bridge whe
Doli grinned broadly. “My friends, you’re with Fair Folk now. When we do something, it’s done right. The first half of your worries are over. The second half,” he added, “might be something else again.”
For the first time since leaving Caer Dallben, Glew appeared in good spirits. The idea of anything resembling a cavern seemed to cheer him, although the result of his improved temper was a further spate of rambling tales about his own feats as a giant. However, after a hard day and night of marching, when Doli halted at the sheer face of a high cliff, the former giant began glancing about fearfully. His nose twitched and his eyes blinked in dismay. The entrance to the ancient mine toward which the dwarf beckoned was no more than a fissure in the rock, barely wide enough for the horses, overhung with icicles glistening like sharp teeth.
“No, no,” stammered Glew. “This doesn’t compare with my realm on Mona. Not half the size. No, you can’t expect me to go stumbling around a shabby den like this.”
He would have drawn back had not Fflewddur taken him by the collar and dragged him along.
“Have done, giant!” cried the bard. “In you go with the rest of us.” But Fflewddur himself seemed none too eager to lead Llyan through the rocky crevice. “A Fflam is valiant,” he murmured, “but I’ve never been fond of underground passages and all such. No luck with them. Mark my words, we’ll be grubbing like moles before we’re through.”
At the mouth of the cavern Taran halted. Beyond this point there was no hope of finding Eilonwy. Once more he battled the wish of his heart to seek her again before she would be forever lost to him. With all his strength he fought to wrench these thoughts from his mind. But when at last he ruthlessly forced himself to follow the bard, it was as though he had left all of himself behind. He stumbled blindly into the darkness.
At Doli’s orders the warriors had fashioned torches. These they now lit, and in the flickering light Taran saw the dwarf had brought them into a shaft that dipped gradually downward. Its walls of living rock rose no higher than Taran’s upraised hands. Dismounted, the Commot men led their fearful horses past sharp outcroppings and over broken stones.
This, Doli explained, was not the mine itself, but only one of many side-tunnels the Fair Folk had used when carrying sacks of gems above ground. Indeed, as the dwarf foretold, the passageway soon grew much wider and the rocky ceiling soared three times Taran’s height. Narrow platforms of wood, one above the other, followed the walls on either side, though many had fallen into disrepair and the beams had tumbled in a heap over the earthen floor. Lengths of half-rotted timbers shored up the archways leading from one gallery to the next, but of these some had partly crumbled, forcing warriors and steeds to pick their way most cautiously over or around the piles of rubble. The air was stifling after the icy wind above ground, and hung heavy with ancient dust and decay. Echoes flitted like bats through the long-abandoned chambers as the war band moved in a wavering file, with torches raised high above their heads. The twisting shadows seemed to muffle the sound of their footsteps; only the piercing whinny of a frightened steed broke the silence.
Glew, who had not left off his complaining since entering the mine, gave a sharp cry of surprise. He stooped and snatched something from the ground. In the flare of his torch, Taran saw the former giant held a glittering gem as big as a fist.
Fflewddur had seen it, too, and he sternly ordered, “Put that down, little man. This is a Fair Folk trove, not that bat-ridden cave of yours.”
Glew clutched his find to his chest. “It’s mine!” he squealed. “None of you saw it. If you had, you’d have kept it for yourselves.”
Doli, who had glanced at the gem, snorted scornfully. “It’s rubbish,” the dwarf said to Taran. “No Fair Folk craftsman would waste his time on it. We use better quality than that to mend a roadbed. If your mushroom-faced friend wants to burden himself, he’s more than welcome.”
Without waiting to be told twice, Glew hastily thrust the gem into the leather pouch dangling at his side, and his flabby features took on an expression Taran had seen only when the former giant was in the midst of a meal.
From then on, as the companions progressed steadily through the mine, Glew’s beady eyes darted everywhere and he strode forward with unwonted energy and interest. The former giant was not disappointed, for soon the torchlight glinted on other gems half-buried in the ground or protruding from walls. Glew fell upon them instantly, scrabbling away with his pudgy fingers and popping the glittering crystals into his sack. With each new find he grew more excited, giggling and mumbling to himself.
The bard looked pityingly at him. “Well,” he sighed, “the little weasel has at last sniffed out something to profit himself. Much good it may do him once we’re above ground again. A handful of rocks! The only use I can see is if he throws them at the Cauldron-Born.”
But Glew, absorbed in gathering as many gems as quickly as he could, paid no heed to Fflewddur’s remarks. In little time the former giant’s pouch was crammed with jewels of bright red and brilliant green, with gems clear as water or, in their glittering depths, flecked with gold and silver.
Taran’s thoughts were not on the abandoned riches of the mine, although the jewels seemed to grow more plentiful as the long column of warriors made their way farther into the tunnel. As far as Taran could judge, it was no later than midday, and already the companions had journeyed a considerable distance. And, as the tunnel widened and the path straightened, their pace gained even more speed.
“Easy as whistling,” declared Doli. “Another day and a half at most and we’ll come above ground at the Fallows.”
“It’s our only hope,” Taran said, “and, thanks to you, the best hope we’ve had. But the Fallows trouble me. If the land is barren we’ll have little protection for ourselves, and little means to hinder the Cauldron-Born.”
“Humph!” cried Doli. “As I told you, you’re dealing with Fair Folk now, my lad. When we set to a task there’s nothing paltry or small about it. You’ll see. Something will come to hand.”
“Speaking of paltry and small,” interrupted Fflewddur, “where is Glew?”
Taran halted and quickly looked around. At first he saw nothing of the former giant. He lifted his torch and called Glew’s name. A moment later he caught sight of him and ran forward in alarm.
Glew, in his search for treasure, had clambered up to one of the wooden platforms. Just above the arch leading to the next chamber a sparkling gem as big as his own head was embedded amid the rocks; Glew, having swung precariously to a narrow ledge, was trying with all his might to dislodge it.
Taran cried out to him to come down, but Glew tugged and heaved all the harder. Dropping the reins of Melynlas, Taran was about to swing up after him, but Doli seized his arm.
“Don’t do it!” snapped the dwarf. “The beams won’t hold you.” He whistled through his teeth and signaled two of the Fair Folk warriors to climb to the platform which, under Glew’s furious struggle with the gem, had begun to sway dangerously. “Hurry!” Doli shouted. “Bring that idiot down here!”
Just then Glew’s pouch, already filled to bursting, tore apart. The gems streamed down in a glittering shower and Glew, with a yell of dismay, spun around to clutch at them. His foothold slipped, he clawed frantically at the platform and as he did so the arch gave way beneath him. Now shrieking not for his lost jewels but for his life, Glew flailed wildly and caught one of the swaying timbers. With a crash he toppled to earth. Behind him the archway lurched, the ceiling rumbled. Glew picked himself up and scuttled madly from the hail of falling stones.
“Back!” Doli shouted. “Back! All of you!”
The horses reared and whinnied as the warriors strove to turn them. With an earsplitting crack, the upper platforms collapsed, an avalanche of boulders and broken beams thundered into the gallery. Blinding, choking dust filled the tunnel; the mine seemed to shudder all along its length, then settle into deathly silence.
Shouting for Doli and Fflewdd
Doli had scrambled onto the heap of stones and wood and was tugging at the end of a long beam. But after a moment he stopped, breathless, and turned a despairing face to Taran. “It’s no good,” he gasped. “If you want to keep on we’ll have to dig our way through.”
“How long?” Taran asked urgently. “How much time dare we lose?”
Doli shook his head. “Hard to say. Even with Fair Folk it will be a long task. Days, very likely. Who knows how far the damage has gone?” He snorted angrily. “You can thank that half-witted, undersized, two-legged toadstool of a giant for it!”
Taran’s heart sank. “What then?” he asked. “Must we retrace our steps?” From the expression on Doli’s grimy face, he feared what the dwarf’s answer would be.
Doli nodded curtly. “We’re badly delayed, no matter what. But if you want my advice, I say turn around and go back. Make our way to the Fallows above ground as best we can. The whole mine is weakened now; there’ll be more cave-ins, or I’ll miss my guess. Next time we may not be so lucky.”
“Lucky!” moaned the bard, who had slumped down on a rock. He put his head in his hands. “Days wasted! The Cauldron-Born will be in Annuvin before we have another chance at them. The only luck that would suit me now would be to see that greedy weasel under a pile of his own worthless gems!”
Glew, meanwhile, had ventured to crawl from under one of the remaining platforms. His garments were torn, his pudgy face smeared with dust.
“Days wasted?” he wailed. “Cauldron-Born? Blocked-up tunnels? But has any one of you stopped to consider I’ve just lost a fortune? My gems are gone, all of them, and you don’t give it a second thought. I call that selfish. Selfish! There’s no other word for it.”