The High King

While the men readied their mounts and Hevydd set his forge to blazing, Taran led the companions to the neighboring Commots. His task became quickly known and each day brought its throng of herdsmen and farmers who needed no urging to march in the growing host following the banner of the White Pig. For Taran, days and nights merged into one another. In the marshaling camps, astride unflagging Melynlas he rode among the gatherings of peaceful men turned warriors, seeing to their provisions and equipment, and by the embers of watch fires held council with the new-formed war bands.

When he had accomplished all he could at Cenarth, Hevydd rejoined Taran to serve as his master armorer.

"You have done your work well, but we still go too lightly armed," Taran said, speaking apart with the smith. "I fear all the forges in Prydain will not be enough to serve our need. Somehow I must find a way…"

"And so you shall, with luck!" called a voice.

Taran turned to see a horseman who was riding up beside him, and blinked in surprise for this was the strangest-garbed of all the Commot warriors. The man was tall, lank-haired, with legs as spindly as a stork's and so long they almost touched the ground on either side of his mount. Bits of iron and odds and ends of metal were stitched closely all over his jacket; he carried a wooden staff with a scythe blade at the end; on his head he wore what had once been a cookpot, now worked and shaped into a makeshift helmet that sat so low on the man's forehead it nearly covered his eyes.

"Llonio!" Taran cried, warmly clasping the new arrival's hand. "Llonio Son of Llonwen!"

"None other," answered Llonio, pushing back his peculiar headpiece. "Did you not suppose I'd be along sooner or later?"

"But your wife and family," Taran began. "I would not ask you to leave them. Why, of children I remember half-a-dozen."

"And another merrily on the way," Llonio replied, grinning happily. "Perhaps twins, with my kind of luck. But my brood will be safe enough till I return. Indeed, if there is ever to be safety in Prydain I must follow the Wanderer now. But your concern is not babes in arms but men-at-arms. Hear me, friend Wanderer," Llonio went on. "I have seen pitchforks and hay-rakes among the Commot Folk. Could not the tines be cut off and set in wooden shafts? Thus would you gain three, four, and even more weapons where you had only one to begin with."

"Why, so we could!" burst out Hevydd. "How did I not see that myself?"

"Nor more did I," admitted Taran. "Llonio sees more sharply than any of us, but calls luck what another would call keen wits. Go, friend Llonio, find what you can. I know you'll find more than meets the eye."

As Llonio, with the help of Hevydd the Smith, gleaned the Commots for sickles, rakes, fire tongs, scythes, and pruning hooks, and found ways to make even the most unlikely objects serve a new purpose. the store of weapons grew.

While each day Taran rallied followers in greater numbers, Coll, Gurgi, and Eilonwy helped load carts with gear and provisions, a task by no means to the liking of the Princess, who was more eager to gallop from one Commot to the next than she was to plod beside the heavy-laden wagons. Eilonwy had donned man's garments and braided her hair about her head; at her belt hung a sword and short dagger wheedled from Hevydd the Smith. Her warrior's garb was ill-fitting, but she took pride in it and was therefore all the more vexed when Taran refused to let her go afield.

"You'll ride out with me," Taran said, "as soon as the pack animals are tended and their loads secured."

The Princess reluctantly agreed; but next day, when Taran cantered past the horse lines at the rear of the camp, she furiously cried to him, "You've tricked me! These tasks will never be done! No sooner do I finish with one string of horses and carts than along come some more. Very well, I shall do as t promised. But war leader or no, Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you!"

Taran grinned and rode on.

Bearing northward through the Valley of Great Avren, the companions entered Commot Gwenith and had scarcely dismounted when Taran heard a crackling voice call out, "Wanderer! I know you seek warriors, not crones. But tarry a moment and give a greeting to one who has not forgotten you."

Dwyvach, the Weaver-Woman of Gwenith, stood in her cottage doorway. Despite her white hair and wizened features she looked as lively and untired as ever. Her gray eyes scanned Taran sharply, then turned to Eilonwy. The ancient Weaver-Woman beckoned to her. "Taran Wanderer I know well enough. And who you may be I can guess well enough, even though you go in the guise of a man and your hair could stand a little washing." She glanced shrewdly at the Princess. "Indeed, I was sure, when the Wanderer and I first met, that he had a pretty maiden in his thoughts."

"Humph!" Eilonwy sniffed. "I'm not sure if he did then, and even less sure if he does now."