"Amazing!" put in Rhun. "It can't fail." The King of Mona frowned. "On the other hand, it would almost seem― not that I know anything about these matters― we'd be rushing into our own smoke and fire. I mean to say, the warriors couldn't see us; but neither could we see them."
Fflewddur shook his head in disagreement. "Believe me, my friend, this is the best and quickest way. I've rescued more captives than I have fingers on my hands." The harp tensed and shuddered, and a number of strings would have given way had not Fflewddur added in the same breath: "Planned to rescue, that is. I've never, in strict point of fact, actually done so."
"Rhun is right," Eilonwy declared. "It would be worse than stumbling over your own feet. Besides, we'd be risking everything at one go. No, we must have a better plan than that."
King Rhun beamed, surprised and delighted that his words had found agreement. He blinked his pale blue eyes, grinned shyly, and ventured to raise his voice once more. "I suddenly think of the seawall I've been rebuilding," he began, in some hesitation. "I mean, starting it from both ends. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out quite as I had hoped. But the idea was a good one. Now, if we might try the same kind of thing. Not building a wall, of course. I mean going at Caer Cadarn from different ways."
Fflewddur shrugged, not a little crestfallen that his own suggestion had been dismissed.
But Eilonwy nodded. "Yes. It's the only sensible thing."
Glew snorted. "The only sensible thing is to get an army behind you. When I was a giant, I'd have been willing to help you. But I mean to have no part in this scheme."
The little man was about to say more, but a glance from the bard silenced him. "Never fear," said Fflewddur. "You and I will be together at every moment. You'll be in good hands."
"Now then," broke in Rhun, impatient to speak again. "There are five of us. Some should climb over the rear wall, the others enter at the gate." The young King rose to his feet and his eyes flashed eagerly. "Fflewddur Fflam shall have the gates opened. Then, while the others attack from the far wall, I shall ride straight through the gates."
Rhun's hand had gone to his sword. His head was thrown back and he stood before the companions as proudly as if all the Kings of Mona were at his side. He spoke on, firmly and clearly, with such joyful enthusiasm that Eilonwy had no heart to stop him.
But at last she interrupted. "Rhun, I'm sorry," Eilonwy said. "But― and I think Fflewddur will agree with me― you will serve better if you stay out of the actual fighting unless it's absolutely necessary. That way, you'll be on hand when you're needed, but it won't be quite so dangerous for you."
Rhun's face clouded with disappointment and dismay. "But, I say…"
"You're not a Prince any more," Eilonwy added, before Rhun could continue his protest. "You're King of Mona. Your life isn't altogether your own, don't you see? You have a whole realm of people to think of, and we shan't let you take any more risks than you have to. You'll be in far too much danger as it is. If Queen Teleria could have guessed the way things would turn out," Eilonwy added, "you wouldn't have sailed to Caer Dallben in the first place."
"I don't see what my mother has to do with it," cried Rhun. "I'm sure my father would have wanted…"
"Your father understood what it means to be a king," Eilonwy said gently. "You must learn as well as he did."
"Taran of Caer Dallben saved my life on Mona," Rhun said urgently. "I am in his debt, and it is a debt that I alone can pay."
"You owe another kind of debt to the fisher folk of Mona," Eilonwy replied. "And theirs is the greater claim."
Rhun turned away and sat dejectedly on a hummock, his sword trailing at his side. Fflewddur gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder.
"Don't despair," said the bard. "If our friend Gwystyl's eggs and mushrooms fail, you'll have more than your share of trouble. So will we all."
IT WAS NEARLY DAWN and bitter cold when the little band left the concealment of the thicket and moved stealthily toward the lightless castle. Each carried a share of Gwystyl's mushrooms and eggs, and a packet of his black, loamy powder. Making a wide circle, they now approached Caer Cadarn from its darkest, most shadowed side.
"Remember the plan," Fflewddur warned under his breath. "It must go exactly as we set it. When we are all in position, Gwystyl is to pop open one of those famous mushrooms of his; the fire should draw the guards to the rear of the courtyard. That will be your signal," he said to Eilonwy and Rhun. "Then― and not before, mind you― be ready to force the gates open as soon as possible, for I imagine we shall be rather in a hurry to get out. At the same time, I'll free Smoit's men locked up in the guardroom. They'll help you if you need them, while I make my way to the larder and loose our friends. We must hope that villainous spider hasn't already taken them away somewhere. If he has, well, we shall have to make new plans on the spot.
"And you, old fellow," Fflewddur added to Gwystyl, as the dark walls loomed ahead, "I think it's time for you to do as you promised."
Gwystyl sighed heavily and his mouth drooped more wretchedly than ever. "I'm not up to climbing, not today. If only you could have waited. Next week, perhaps. Or when the weather turns better. Well, no matter. There's little a person can do about it."
Still shaking his head dubiously, the gloomy creature set down the coils of rope he carried over his shoulder. The large fish hooks, taken from his bundle, he now attached at various angles to the end of a slender line. Fascinated, King Rhun watched as Gwystyl with a deft movement flung the line into the air. From the parapet high above came a faint rasping sound, then a dry click as the hooks caught on a projecting stone. Gwystyl tugged at the cord and slung the remaining coils of rope about his neck.
"I say," Rhun whispered, "will that fishing line hold you?"
Gwystyl sighed and looked mournfully at him. "I doubt it."
Nevertheless, mumbling and moaning, he quickly hoisted himself into the air, hanging an instant before his feet found the stones of the wall. Pulling himself up on the line and scrabbling with his feet against the sheer side of the castle, Gwystyl was soon out of sight.
"Amazing!" cried Rhun.
The bard frantically cautioned him to silence.
A moment later the fishing line was hauled up and the end of one of the heavier ropes came swinging down. The bard lifted Glew, who was protesting as loudly as he dared, and boosted him onto the dangling cord.
"Up you go," Fflewddur muttered. "I'll be right behind you."
Rhun followed, as the bard and the former giant disappeared into the shadows. Eilonwy seized the rope and felt herself rapidly drawn aloft. She swung herself over the parapet and dropped to a projecting ledge. Gwystyl had already scuttled toward the rear of the castle. Fflewddur and Glew slid into the darkness below. King Rhun grinned at Eilonwy and crouched against the cold stones.
The moon was down; the sky had turned black. Amid the shadows of the silent buildings, the stables, and the long dark mass which Eilonwy guessed to be Smoit's Great Hall, the low flames of a watch fire gleamed. Farther along the parapet, in the direction of the gates, the figures of the guards stood motionless, drowsing.
"I say, it's dark enough!" Rhun whispered cheerfully. "We shan't need Gwystyl's powder, at this rate. I can hardly see as it is."
Eilonwy turned her eyes in the direction Gwystyl had taken, waiting from one endless moment to the next for the signal. Rhun was tensed, ready to fling himself down the rope.
A shout rang from the courtyard. At the same instant, a cloud of crimson flame burst in the shadows of the Great Hall.
Eilonwy jumped to her feet. "Something's amiss!" she cried. "Fflewddur attacks too soon!"
It was only then that she saw a burst of fire at the far end of the castle. More shouts of alarm rose above the clatter of racing footsteps. But the warriors, Eilonwy saw with sinking heart, ran not to Gwystyl's false attack but to the Great Hall. The courtyard seethed with shadows. Torches sprang to light.