Achren turned and muffled herself with her ragged cloak. The companions drew away from her and spoke among themselves. Doll, thoroughly vexed and disgruntled by Achren's judgment of his skill, nonetheless admitted that he could have unwittingly led them astray. "We Fair Folk have never dared to journey here, and I can't prove what she says one way or the other. But I've seen mountains that look sheer on one side― and on the other you could roll down without so much as a bump. So she could be telling the truth."
"And she could be trying to get rid of us the fastest way she knows," the bard put in. "Those pitfalls with bones in them make my flesh creep. I think Achren would be delighted if some of those bones were ours. She's playing her own game, you can be sure of that." He shook his head uneasily. "A Fflam is fearless, but with Achren, I prefer being wary."
Taran was silent a moment, searching for the wisdom to choose one way or the other, and again felt the weight of the burden Gwydion had set upon him to be more than he could bear. Achren's face was a pallid mask; he could read nothing of her heart in it. More than once the Queen would have taken the lives of the companions. But, as he knew, she had served Dallben well and faithfully after her own powers had been shattered. "I believe," he said slowly, "that we can do no less than trust her until she gives us clear reason to doubt. I fear her," he added, "as do all of us. Yet I will not let fear blind me to hope."
"I agree," said Eilonwy, "which makes me think in this case, at least, your judgment is quite right. I admit that trusting Achren is like letting a hornet sit on your nose. But sometimes you only get stung when you try to brush it off― the hornet, I mean."
Taran went to Achren's side. "Lead us to Mount Dragon," he said. "We will follow you."
ANOTHER DAY'S TRAVEL brought the companions across a harsh, uneven valley that lay within the shadow of Mount Dragon itself. The summit had been well named, for Taran saw its peak was in the rough shape of a monstrous, crested head with gaping jaws, and on either side the lower slopes spread like outflung wings. The great blocks and shafts of stone that rose to form its jagged bulk were dark, mottled with patches of dull red. Before this last barrier, poised as though to swoop downward and crush them, the companions fearfully halted. Achren strode to the head of the waiting column and beckoned them onward.
"There are other, easier paths," Achren said, as they entered a narrow defile that twisted between towering walls of sheer cliffs, "but they are longer and those who travel them can be seen before they reach the stronghold of Annuvin. This one is known only to Arawn and his most trusted servants. And to me, for it was I who showed him the secret ways of Mount Dragon."
Taran, however, soon began to fear Achren had deceived them, for the path rose so steeply that men and horses could barely keep their footing. Achren seemed to be leading them deep into the heart of the mountain. Mighty shelves of overhanging rocks rose like arches above the toiling band, blotting the sky from their sight. At times, the path skirted yawning chasms and more than once Taran stumbled, buffeted by a sudden chill blast that flung him against the walls. His heart pounded and his head reeled at the sight of the deep gorges opening at his feet, and terrified he clung to the sharp edges of jutting rocks. Achren, whose step did not falter, only turned and silently glanced at him, a mocking smile on her ravaged face.
The path continued to rise, though not so abruptly, for it no longer followed the slope of the mountain but seemed almost to double back on itself, and the companions gained the higher reaches of the trail only by small degrees. The huge stone jaws of the dragon's head loomed above. The trail which, for some of its course, had been hidden by grotesque formations of rocks, now lay exposed, and Taran could see most of the mountain slope dropping sharply below him. They were almost at the highest ridge of the dragon's shoulder, and it was there that Kaw, scouting ahead, returned to them and clacked his beak frantically.
"Gwydion! Gwydion!" the' crow jabbered at the top of his voice. "Annuvin! Haste!"
Taran sprang past Achren and raced to the ridge, clambering upward among the rocks, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the stronghold. Had the Sons of Don already begun their attack on Annuvin? Had Gwydion's warriors themselves overtaken the Cauldron-Born? His heart pounding against his ribs, he struggled higher. Suddenly the dark towers of Arawn's fastness were below him. Beyond the high walls, beyond the massive Iron Portals, ugly and brooding, he glimpsed the spreading courtyards, the Hall of Warriors where once the Black Cauldron had stood. Arawn's Great Hall rose, glittering like black, polished marble, and above it, at the highest pinnacle, floated the Death-Lord's banner.
The sight of Annuvin sickened him with the chill of death that hung over it, his head spun and shadows seemed to blind him. He pressed higher. Struggling shapes filled the courtyard, the clash of blades and shouted battle cries struck his ears. Men were scaling the western wall; Dark Gate itself had been breached, and Taran believed he saw the flash of Melyngar's white flanks and golden mane, and the tall figures of Gwydion and Taliesin.
The Commot men had not failed! Arawn's deathless host had been held back and victory was in Gwydion's hands. But even as Taran turned to shout the joyous tidings, his heart froze. Southward he glimpsed the hastening army of Cauldron-Born. Their iron-shod boots rang and clattered as the mute warriors raced toward the heavy gates and the horns of the troop captains shrieked for vengeance.
Taran leaped from the ridge to join the companions. The shelf of stone crumbled at his feet. He pitched forward, Eilonwy's scream rang in his ears; and the sharp rocks seemed to whirl upward against him. Desperately he clutched at them and strove to break his fall. With all his strength he clung to the sheer side of Mount Dragon, while jagged stones bit like teeth into his palms. His sword, ripped from his belt, clattered into the gorge.
He saw the horrified faces of the companions above him and knew he was beyond their reach. His muscles trembling, his lungs bursting with his efforts, he fought to climb upward to the path.
His foot slipped and he twisted about to regain his balance. It was then that he saw, plunging from the peak of Mount Dragon, the gwythaint speeding toward him.
Chapter 19
The Death-Lord
THE GWYTHAINT, GREATER THAN any Taran had ever seen, screamed and beat its wings, churning a wind like a gale of death. Taran saw the curved, gaping beak and blood-red eyes, and in another instant the gwythaint's talons sank into his shoulders, seeking to grip the flesh beneath his cloak. The relentless bird pressed so closely that the reek of its feathers filled Taran's nostrils. Its head, deeply scarred by an old wound, thrust against him.
Taran turned his face away and waited for the beak to rend his throat. Yet the gwythaint did not strike. Instead, it was pulling him from the rocks with a strength Taran could not resist. The gwythaint no longer screamed, but made soft keening sounds, and the bird's eyes fixed upon him not in fury but in a strange gaze of recognition.
The bird seemed to be urging him to loosen his grasp. A sudden memory from his boyhood flooded Taran, and again he saw a fledgling gwythaint in a thorn bush; a young bird wounded and dying. Was this the ragged bundle of feathers he had nursed back to life? Had the creature come at last to pay a debt so long remembered? Taran dared not hope, yet as he clung, weakening, to the side of Mount Dragon, it was his only hope. He relaxed his grip and let himself fall free.