The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) Read Free

sniffed ferociously. “I smell blood-letting in the wind!” He strode up to the stern war leader and fetched him a heavy clout on the shoulder.
    “Have a care,” said Morgant, with a lean smile that showed only the tips of his teeth, “that it will not be yours.”
    “Ho! Oho!” King Smoit bellowed and slapped his massive thighs. “Very good! Have a care it will not be mine! Never fear, you icicle! I have enough to spare!” He caught sight of Fflewddur. “And another old comrade!” he roared, hurrying to the bard and flinging his arms about him with such enthusiasm that Taran heard Fflewddur’s ribs creak. “My pulse!” cried Smoit. “My body and bones! Give us a tune to make us merry, you butter-headed harp-scraper!”
    His eye fell on Taran. “What’s this, what’s this?” He seized Taran with a mighty, red-furred hand. “A skinned rabbit? A plucked chicken?”
    “He is Taran, Dallben’s Assistant Pig-Keeper,” said the bard.
    “I wish he were Dallben’s cook!” cried Smoit. “I’ve hardly lined my belly!”
    Dallben began to rap for silence. Smoit strode to his place after giving Fflewddur another hug.
    “There may not be any harm in him,” said Taran to the bard, “but I think it’s safer to have him for a friend.”
    All the company now gathered at the table, with Dallben and Gwydion at one end, Coll at the other. King Smoit, overflowing his chair, sat on the enchanter’s left across from King Morgant. Taran squeezed in between the bard and Doli, who grumbled bitterly about the table being too high. To the right of Morgant sat Adaon, and beside him Ellidyr, whom Taran had not seen since morning.
    Dallben rose and stood quietly a moment. All turned toward him. The enchanter pulled on a wisp of beard. “I am much too old to be polite,” Dallben said, “and I have no intention of making a speech of welcome. Our business here is urgent and we shall get down to it immediately.
    “Little more than a year ago, as some of you have good cause to remember,” Dallben went on, glancing at Taran and his companions, “Arawn, Lord of Annuvin suffered grave defeat when the Horned King, his champion, was slain. For a time the power of the Land of Death was checked. But in Prydain evil is never distant.
    “None of us is foolish enough to believe Arawn would accept a defeat without a challenge,” Dallben continued. “I had hoped for a little more time to ponder the new threat of Annuvin. Time, alas,
will not be granted. Arawn’s plans have become all too clear. Of them, I ask Lord Gwydion to speak.”
    Gwydion rose in turn. His face was grave. “Who has not heard of the Cauldron-Born, the mute and deathless warriors who serve the Lord of Annuvin? These are the stolen bodies of the slain, steeped in Arawn’s cauldron to give them life again. They emerge implacable as death itself, their humanity forgotten. Indeed, they are no longer men but weapons of murder, in thrall to Arawn forever.
    “In this loathsome work,” Gwydion went on, “Arawn has sought to despoil the graves and barrows of fallen warriors. Now, throughout Prydain, there have been strange disappearances, men suddenly vanishing to be seen no more; and Cauldron-Born appear where none has ever before been sighted. Arawn has not been idle. As I have now learned, his servants dare to strike down the living and bear them to Annuvin to swell the ranks of his deathless host. Thus, death begets death; evil begets evil.”
    Taran shuddered. Outdoors the forest burned crimson and yellow. The air was gentle as though a summer day had lingered beyond its season, but Gwydion’s words chilled him like a sudden cold wind. Too well he remembered the lifeless eyes and livid faces of the Cauldron-Born, their ghastly silence and ruthless swords.
    “To the meat of it!” cried Smoit. “Are we rabbits? Are we to fear those Cauldron slaves?”
    “There will be meat enough for you to chew on,” answered Gwydion with a grim smile. “I tell you now,