The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) Read Online Free PDF Page A

stretched on the ground at the hooves of his roan. Taran, his head pillowed on his saddle, his hand on his new sword, was impatient for dawn and eager to resume the journey. Yet, as he dropped into slumber, he recalled Adaon’s dream and felt a shadow like the flutter of a dark wing.
     
     
    Next day the companions crossed the River Ystrad and began bearing northward. With much loud grumbling at being kept from the quest, King Smoit obeyed Gwydion and turned away from the column, riding toward Caer Cadarn to ready his warriors. Later, the pace of the column slowed as the pleasant meadows wrinkled into hills. Shortly after midday the horsemen entered the Forest of Idris. Here, the brown, withered grasses were sharp as thorns. Once familiar oaks and alders appeared strange to Taran; their dead leaves clung to the tangled branches and the black trunks jutted like charred bones.
    At length the forest broke away to reveal sheer faces of jagged
cliffs. Gwydion signaled the company forward. Taran’s throat tightened. For a cold instant he shrank from urging Melynlas up the stony slope. He knew, without a word from Gwydion, that the Dark Gate of Annuvin was not far distant.
    Narrow trails rising above deep gorges now forced the company to go in single file. Taran, Adaon, and Ellidyr had been jogging at the end of the column, but Ellidyr kicked his heels against Islimach’s flanks and thrust his way past Taran.
    “Your place is at the rear, pig-boy!” he called.
    “And your place is where you earn it,” cried Taran, giving Melynlas rein to strive ahead.
    The horses jostled; the riders struggled knee against knee. Islimach reared and neighed wildly. With his free hand Ellidyr seized the bridle of Melynlas to force the stallion back. Taran tried to turn his mount’s head but Melynlas, in a shower of pebbles, slipped from the trail to the steep slope. Taran, flung out of the saddle, clutched at the rocks to break his fall.
    Melynlas, more surefooted than his master, regained his balance on a ledge below the trail. Taran, sprawled flat against the stones, tried vainly to clamber back to the path. Adaon dismounted instantly, ran to the edge of the slope, and attempted to grasp Taran’s hands. Ellidyr, too, dismounted. He brushed Adaon aside, leaped down, and seized Taran under the arms. With a powerful heave, he lofted Taran like a sack of meal to the safety of the trail. Picking his way toward Melynlas, Ellidyr put his shoulder beneath the saddle girth and strained mightily. With all his strength, little by little, he raised Melynlas until the stallion was able to clamber from the ledge.
    “You fool!” Taran threw back at Ellidyr, racing to Melynlas and
anxiously examining the steed. “Has your pride crowded all the wits out of your head?” Melynlas, he saw with relief, was unharmed. Despite himself, he glanced at Ellidyr in amazement and not without a certain admiration. “I have never seen such a feat of strength,” Taran admitted.
    Ellidyr, for the first time, seemed confused and frightened. “I did not mean for you to fall,” he began. Then he threw back his head and, with a mocking smile, added, “My concern is for your steed, not your skin.”
    “I, too, admire your strength, Ellidyr,” Adaon said sharply. “But it is to your shame you proved it thus. The black beast rides in the saddle with you. I see it even now.”
    One of Morgant’s warriors, hearing the clamor, had given the alarm. A moment later Gwydion, followed by King Morgant, strode back along the trail. Behind them hurried the agitated Fflewddur and the dwarf.
    “Your pig-boy had no better sense than to force his way ahead of me,” Ellidyr said to Gwydion. “Had I not pulled him and his steed back …”
    “Is this true?” Gwydion asked, glancing at Taran and his torn clothing.
    Taran, about to answer, shut his lips tightly and nodded his head. He saw the look of surprise on Ellidyr’s angry face.
    “We have no lives to waste,” Gwydion