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

slumber. He woke with a start, groping for his sword. Adaon, already awake, cautioned him to silence. The moon rode high, cold and glittering. The warriors of King Morgant’s train moved like shadows. There was a faint jingle of harness, the whisper of a blade drawn from its sheath.
    Doli, having turned himself invisible, had departed toward Dark Gate. Taran found the bard strapping his beloved harp more securely to his shoulders. “I doubt I’ll really need it,” Fflewddur admitted. “On the other hand, you never know what you’ll be called on to do. A Fflam is always prepared!”
    Beside him, Coll had just donned a close-fitting, conical helmet. The sight of the stouthearted old warrior, and the cap hardly seeming enough to protect his bald head, filled Taran suddenly with sadness. He threw his arms around Coll and wished him good fortune.
    “Well, my boy,” said Coll, winking, “never fear. We’ll be back before you know it. Then, off to Caer Dallben and the task is done.”
    King Morgant, cloaked heavily in black, halted at Taran’s side. “It would have done me honor to count you among my men,” he said. “Gwydion has told me a little of you, and I have seen you for myself. I am a warrior and recognize good mettle.”
    This was the first time Morgant had ever spoken directly to him, and Taran was so taken aback with surprise and pleasure that he could not even stammer out an answer before the war-leader strode away to his horse.
    Taran caught sight of Gwydion astride Melyngar and ran to him. “Let me go with you,” he pleaded again. “If I was man enough to sit with you in council and to come this far, I am man enough to ride with your warriors.”
    “Do you love danger so much?” asked Gwydion. “Before you are a man,” he added gently, “you will learn to hate it. Yes, and fear it, too, even as I do.” He reached down and clasped Taran’s hand. “Keep a bold heart. Your courage will be tested enough.”
    Disappointed, Taran turned away. The riders vanished beyond the trees and the grove seemed empty and desolate. Melynlas, tethered among the other steeds, whinnied plaintively.
    “This night will be long,” Adaon said, looking intently past the shadows at the brooding heights of Dark Gate. “You, Taran, shall stand first watch; Ellidyr second, until the moon is down.”
    “So you shall have more time for dreaming,” Ellidyr said with a scornful laugh.
    “You will find no quarrel with my dreams tonight,” replied Adaon good-naturedly, “for I will share the watch with both of you. Sleep, Ellidyr,” he added, “or if you will not sleep, at least keep silent.”
    Ellidyr angrily wrapped himself in his cloak and threw himself on the ground near Islimach. The roan whickered and bent her neck, nuzzling her master.
    The night was chill. Frost had begun to sparkle on the dry sedge and a cloud trailed across the moon. Adaon drew his sword and stepped to the edge of the trees. The white light caught his eyes, turning them brilliant as starshine. He was silent, head raised, alert as a wild creature of the forest.
    “Do you think they’ve gone into Annuvin yet?” Taran whispered.
    “They should soon be there,” Adaon answered.
    “I wish Gwydion had let me go with him,” Taran said with a certain bitterness. “Or with Morgant.”
    “Do not wish that,” Adaon said quickly. His face held a look of concern.
    “Why not?” asked Taran, puzzled. “I would have been proud to follow Morgant. Next to Gwydion, he is the greatest war lord in Prydain.”
    “He is a brave and powerful man,” Adaon agreed, “but I am uneasy for him. In my dream, the night before we left, warriors rode a slow circle around him and Morgant’s sword was broken and weeping blood.”
    “Perhaps there is no meaning in it,” Taran suggested, as much to reassure himself as Adaon. “Does it always happen—that your dreams are always true?”
    Adaon smiled. “There is truth in all things, if you understand them