Taran Wanderer

With the Marshes many days behind, the two companions crossed the borders of Cadiffor, Smoit's realm and largest of the Valley Cantrevs. The countryside had long since changed from gray moors to green meadows and pleasantly wooded lands with farmholds nestled in the clearings. Though Gurgi eyed the dells longingly, sniffing the smoke of cookfires wafting from the cottage chimneys, Taran did not turn from the path he had chosen. By keeping a brisk pace, another three days of travel would bring them to Caer Cadarn. A little before sundown, seeing the clouds growing heavy and dark, Taran halted to find shelter in a pine grove.

He had scarcely dismounted, and Gurgi had only begun to unlash the saddlebags; when a band of horsemen cantered into the grove. Taran spun around and drew his blade. Gurgi, yelping in alarm, scurried to his master's side.

There were five riders, well-mounted and armed, their rough-bearded faces sun-blackened, their bearing that of men long used to the saddle. The colors they wore were not those of the House of Smoit, and Taran guessed the horsemen to be warriors in the service of one of Smoit's liegemen.

"Put up your blade," commanded the leading rider, nevertheless drawing his own, reining up before the wayfarers and glancing scornfully at them. "Who are you? Who do you serve?"

"They're outlaws," cried another. "Strike them down."

"They look more like scarecrows than outlaws," replied the leader. "I take them for a pair of churls who have run away from their master."

Taran lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. "I am Taran Assistant Pig-Keeper…"

"Where then are your pigs?" cried the first rider with a coarse laugh. "And why are you not at keeping them?" He gestured with a thumb toward Gurgi. "Or will you tell me this― this sorry thing is one of your charges?"

"He is no piggy!" indignantly retorted Gurgi. "No piggy at all! He is Gurgi, bold and clever to serve kindly master!"

The creature's outburst brought only more laughter from the horsemen. But now the first rider spied Melynlas. "Your steed is above your station, pig-keeper," he said. "How do you come by it?"

"Melynlas is mine by right," Taran replied sharply. "A gift of Gwydion Prince of Don."

"Lord Gwydion?" cried the warrior. "Given? Stolen from him, rather," he jeered. "Have a care; your lies will cost you a beating."

"I tell no lie and seek no quarrel," Taran answered. "We journey in peace to King Smoit's castle."

"Smoit needs no pig-keeper," one of the warriors broke in.

"Nor do we," said the first rider. He swung around to his fellows. "What say you? Shall we take his horse or his head? Or both?"

"Lord Goryon will welcome a fresh mount and reward us all the more for this one," answered a rider. "But the head of a pig-keeper series no use, not even to himself."

"Well said, and so be it!" cried the warrior. "Besides, he can better mind his pigs afoot," he added, reaching for the stallion's bridle.

Taran sprang between Melynlas and the horseman. Gurgi leaped forward and furiously grappled the rider's leg. The other warriors spurred their mounts, and Taran found himself in the midst of rearing horses, driven from the side of his own steed. He fought to bring up his sword. One of the riders wheeled and drove his mount's flank heavily against Taran, who lost his footing. At the same instant another of his assailants fetched him a blow that would surely have cost Taran his head had the warrior not struck with the flat of his sword. As it was, Taran fell stunned to the ground, his ears ringing, thoughts spinning, and the horsemen seeming to burst into comets before his eyes. He was dimly aware of Gurgi frantically yelling, of Melynlas whinnying, and it seemed to him that another figure had joined the fray. By the time he could stagger to his feet, the horsemen had vanished, dragging Melynlas with them.

Taran, crying out in dismay and anger, stumbled toward the path they had taken. A broad hand grasped his shoulder. He turned abruptly to see a man in a sleeveless jacket of coarse wool girt with a plaited rope. His bare arms were knotted and sinewy, and his back bent, though less by years than by labor. A shock of gray, uncropped hair hung about a face that was stern but not unkind.

"Hold, hold," the man said. "You'll not overtake them now. Your horse will come to no ill. The henchmen of Lord Goryon treat steeds better than strangers." He patted the oaken staff he carried. "Two of Goryon's border-band will have heads to mend. But so will you, from the look of you." He picked up a sack and slung it over his shoulder. "I am Aeddan Son of Aedd," he said. "Come, both of you. My farm is no distance."

"Without Melynlas my quest will fail," Taran cried. "I must find―" He stopped short. The warriors' mockery still rankled him, and he was reluctant to tell more than need be, even to this man who had befriended him.