Taran Wanderer

"I'd go with you if I could," the dwarf said to Taran. "The thought of an Assistant Pig-Keeper blundering his way through the Llawgadarn Mountains makes my hair stand on end. But I dare not. Eiddileg must have the jewel safely. And who's to bring it to him? Good old Doli! Humph!"

"It saddens me to part with you," Taran said, "but you've helped me more than I could hope. The Lake of Llunet bears the same name as the Mirror and perhaps will lead me to it."

"Farewell, then," said Doli. "You've kept us all from being frogs or worse and restored a treasure to us. You'll not regret it. We Fair Folk have long memories."

The dwarf clasped hands with the travelers, and pulled his leather cap tighter on his head. Doli waved one last time, and Taran watched the dwarf's stumpy figure trudging steadily across a broad meadow, growing smaller in the distance until he vanished into the skirting woods and Taran saw him no more.

Through the day the companions bore northeastward again. Taran would have been glad for Doli's guidance and keenly missed the gruff dwarf, but his spirits had never been higher; he rode eagerly, light-heartedly; the battle horn swinging from his shoulder gave him fresh courage and confidence.

"Eilonwy's gift is more precious even than I thought," he told Fflewddur. "I'm grateful to Doli for telling me its power. And more than that, for telling me of the Lake of Llunet. It's a strange thing, Fflewddur," Taran went on, "but somehow I feel closer to the end of my quest. I believe more than ever that I'll find what I'm looking for."

"Eh? How's that?" Fflewddur answered, blinking as if he had just come awake. Though Gurgi had put all thoughts of Morda behind him, the bard seemed still shaken by his ordeal, and often lapsed into thoughtful silence when he would morosely finger his ears as though expecting them to lengthen at any moment. "Dreadful experience!" he muttered now. "A Fflam into a rabbit! What were you saying? The quest? Yes, of course."

"Smell with whiffings!" interrupted Gurgi. "Someone cooks tasty crunchings and munchings!"

"You're right," Fflewddur agreed, sniffing the air. "Oh, blast! There goes my nose twitching again!"

Taran reined Melynlas to a walk. Llyan, too, had caught the scent; her ears forward, she licked hungrily at her whiskers.

"Shall we see who it is?" asked Fflewddur. "I wouldn't say no to a hot meal― so long as it isn't rabbit!"

Taran nodded and the companions rode cautiously through the glade. He had meant to catch a first glimpse of the strangers without himself being seen; but he had gone no more than a few paces when two roughly bearded men rose from the shadows of the bushes. Taran started. The two evidently posted as guards, quickly drew their swords. One of the men whistled a bird call and stared sharply at the companions, but made no attempt to hinder them.

In the clearing Taran saw some dozen men sprawled around a cook fire, where collops of meat hung sizzling on a spit. Though armed heavily as warriors, the men wore neither the badge nor colors of any cantrev lord. Some were chewing at their food, some sharpening their blades or waxing their bowstrings. Closest to the fire, stretched at his ease, a heavy-faced man leaned on one elbow and toyed with a long dagger, which he tossed and twirled, catching it first by the hilt, then by the point. He wore a horsehide jacket whose sleeves had been ripped out; his muddy boots were thick-soled and studded with iron nails. His yellowish hair fell below his shoulders; his cold blue eyes seemed to measure the three companions with an unhurried glance.

"Welcome, lordships," he drawled as Taran dismounted. "What lucky wind blows you to the camp of Dorath?"

"I am no lord," replied Taran. "I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper…"

"No lord?" Dorath interrupted in mock surprise, a half-smile on his mouth. "If you hadn't told me, I'd never have guessed."

"These are my comrades," Taran went on, vexed that he had let Dorath make sport of him. "Gurgi. Fflewddur Fflam― he wanders as a bard of the harp, but in his own land he is a king."

"And Dorath is king wherever he rides," answered the yellow-haired man, laughing. "Now, Lord Swineherd, will you share humble fare?" With his dagger he gestured toward the roasting collops. "Eat your fill. Dorath's Company never goes short of commons. Then we'll want to know more about three such as you."

"The harper rides a strange steed, Dorath," called a man with a badly scarred face. "I wager my mare could stand against the beast, no matter, for she's an evil-tempered brute and a killer born. Would it not be a merry match? What say you, Dorath? Will you have the cat show us some sport?"