"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."
Dwyvach chuckled. "If you are not, then no one else can be. Time will tell which of us is right. But meanwhile, child," she added, unfolding a cloak she held in her withered hands and setting it about Eilonwy's shoulders, "take this as a gift from a crone to a maiden, and know there is not so much difference between the two. For even a tottering granddam keeps a portion of girlish heart, and the youngest maiden a thread of old woman's wisdom."
Taran had now come to the cottage door. He warmly greeted the Weaver-Woman and admired the cloak she had given Eilonwy. "Hevydd and the Commot smiths labor to make arms for us," he said. "But warriors need warmth as much as weapons. Alas, we have no garments like this."
"Do you think a weaver-woman less hardy than a metalsmith?" Dwyvach replied. "As you wove patiently at my loom, now my loom will weave the more quickly for you. And in every Commot, shuttles will fly for the sake of Taran Wanderer."
Heartened by the Weaver-Woman's promise, the companions departed from Gwenith. A short distance from the Commot, Taran caught sight of a small band of horsemen riding toward him at a quick pace. Leading them was a tall youth who shouted Taran's name and raised a hand in greeting.
With a glad cry Taran urged Melynlas to meet the riders. "Llassar!" Taran called, reining up beside the young man. "I did not think you and I would meet so far from your sheepfold in Commot Isav."
"Your news travels ahead of you, Wanderer," Llassar replied. "But I feared you would deem our Commot too small and pass it by. It was I," he added, with shy hesitation that could not altogether conceal his boyish pride,"it was l who led our folk to find you."
"The size of Isav is no measure of its courage," Taran said, "and I need and welcome all of you. But where is your father?" he asked, glancing at the band of riders. "Where is Drudwas? He would not let his son journey so far without him."
Llassar's face fell. "The winter took him from us. I grieve for him, but honor his memory by doing what he himself would have done."
"And what of your mother?" Taran asked, as he and Llassar trotted back to join the companions. "Was it her wish, too, that you leave home and flock?"
"Others will tend my flock," the young shepherd answered. "My mother knows what a child must do and what a man must do. I am a man," he added stoutly, "and have been one since you and I stood against Dorath and his ruffians that night in the sheepfold."
"Yes, yes!" cried Gurgi. "And fearless Gurgi stood against them, too!"
"I'm sure all of you did," Eilonwy remarked sourly, "while I was curtsying and having my hair washed on Mona. I don't know who Dorath is, but if I should ever meet him, I promise you I'll make up for lost time."
Taran shook his head. "Count yourself lucky you don't know him. I know him all too well, to may sorrow."
"He has not troubled us since that night," said Llassar. "Nor will he likely trouble us again. I have heard he has left the Commot lands and roves westward. He has put his sword in the service of the Death-Lord, it is said. Perhaps it may be so. But if Dorath serves anyone, it is himself."
"Your service freely given counts more for us than any the Lord of Annuvin could hire," Taran said to Llassar."Prince Gwydion will be grateful to you."
"To you, rather," said Llassar. "Our pride is not in fighting but in farming; in the work of our hands, not our blades. Never have we sought war. We come now to the banner of the White Pig because it is the banner of our friend, Taran Wanderer."
The weather worsened as the companions continued through the valley, and the growing host of Commot men forced them to travel at a slower pace. The days were too short for the work to be done, but Taran rode grimly on. Beside him galloped Coll, uncomplaining and ever cheerful. His broad face, reddened and roughened by cold and wind, was nearly hidden by the collar of a great fleece-lined, jacket. A sword belt of heavy iron links bound his girth, and at his back hung a round shield of ox hide. He had found a helmet of beaten metal, but deemed it did not sit as comfortably on his bald crown as had his old leather cap.
Taran was grateful for Coll's wisdom and gladly sought his counsel. It was Coll who gave him the thought, as the marshaling camps grew crowded, to send smaller, swifter bands directly to Caer Dathyl rather than march from one Commot to the next with a force becoming ever more cumbersome. Llassar, Hevydd, and Llonio would not leave Taran's vanguard and stayed ever close at hand; but when Taran wrapped himself in a cloak and stretched on the frozen ground for rare moments of sleep, it was Coll who stood watch over him.
"You are the oaken staff I lean on," Taran said. "More than that." He laughed. "You are the whole sturdy tree, and a true warrior."
Coll, instead of beaming, looked wryly at him. "Do you mean to honor me?" he asked. "Then say, rather, I am a true grower of turnips and a gatherer of apples. No warrior whatever, save that I am needed thus for a while. My garden longs for me as much as I long for it," Coll added. "I left it unready for winter, and for that I will pay a sorry reckoning at spring planting."
Taran nodded. "We shall dig and weed together, true grower of turnips― and true friend."
The watch fires flickered in the night. The horses stirred in their lines. About them, a mass of deep shadows, dark against darkness, lay sleeping warriors. The chill wind cut at Taran's face. He was suddenly weary to the marrow of his bones. He turned to Coll.
"My heart, too, will be easier," he said, "when I am once more an Assistant Pig-Keeper."
Word reached Taran that King Smoit had raised a strong host among the cantrev lords and was now turning northward. The companions learned, too, that certain of Arawn's liegemen had sent war parties across Ystrad to harass the columns marching to Caer Dathyl. Taran's task thus grew more urgent, but he could do no more than press onward with all haste.
The companions made their way to Commot Merin. For Taran, it had been among the fairest he had known in all his wanderings. Even now, amid the tumult of warriors arming, of neighing horses and shouting riders, the white, thatched cottages of the little village seemed to stand peaceful and apart. Taran galloped past the common fields ringed by hemlocks and tall firs. His heart laden with memories, he reined up at a familiar hut, whose smoking chimney betokened a warm fire within. The door opened and out stepped a stocky, hale old man garbed in a coarse, brown robe. His iron-gray hair and beard were cropped short; his eyes were blue and undimmed.