ground.
Now the companions halted, and stood in silence at a narrow neck of the swamp. From there, the Marshes of Morva stretched westward to the horizon. Here, huge growths of thorny furze rose up. At the far side, Taran distinguished meager clumps of wasted trees. Under the gray sky, pools of stagnant water flickered among dead grasses and broken reeds. A scent of ancient decay choked his nostrils. A ceaseless thrumming and groaning trembled in the air. Gurgi's eyes were round with terror, and the bard shifted uneasily on Lluagor.
“You've led us here well enough,” said Eilonwy. “But how do you ever expect to go about finding a cauldron in a place like this?”
Taran motioned her to be silent. As he looked across the dreaded Marshes, something stirred in his mind. “Do not move,” he cautioned in a low voice. He glanced quickly behind him. Gray shapes appeared from the line of bushes straggling over a hillock. They were not two wolves, as he had thought at first, but two Huntsmen in jackets of wolf pelts. Another Huntsman, in a heavy cloak of bearskin, crouched beside them.
“The Huntsmen have found us,” Taran went on quickly. “Follow every step I take. But not a motion until I give the signal.” Now he understood the dream of the wolves clearly, and knew exactly what he must do.
The Huntsmen, believing they could take their prey unawares, drew closer.
“Now!” shouted Taran. He urged Melynlas forward and galloped headlong into the Marshes. Heaving and plunging, the stallion labored through the mire. With a great shout, the Huntsmen raced after him. Once, Melynlas nearly foundered in a deep pool. The great strides of the pursuers brought them closer, so close that in a fearful backward glance Taran saw one of them, teeth bared in a snarl, reach out to clutch the stirrups of Lluagor.
Taran spun Melynlas to the right. Lluagor followed. A shout of terror rose behind them. One of the men clad in wolfskin had stumbled and pitched forward, screaming as the black bog seized and sucked him down. His two comrades grappled each other, striving desperately to flee the ground that fell away under their feet. The Huntsman in bearskin flung out his arms and scrabbled at the weeds, growling in rage; the last warrior trampled the sinking man, vainly seeking a foothold to escape the deadly bog.
Melynlas galloped onward. Brackish water spurted at his hooves, but Taran guided the powerful stallion along what seemed a chain of submerged islands, never stopping even when he reached the far side of the swamp. There, on more solid ground, he raced through the furze and beyond the clump of trees. While Lluagor pounded after him, Taran followed a long gully toward the protection of a high mound.
Suddenly he reined in the stallion. At the side of the mound, almost a part of the turf itself, rose a low cottage. It was so cleverly concealed with sod and branches that Taran had to look again to see there was a doorway. Circling the hill were tumbledown stables and something resembling a demolished chicken roost.
Taran began to back Melynlas away from this strange cluster of buildings and cautioned the others to keep silent.
“I shouldn't worry about that,” Eilonwy said. “Whoever lives in there surely heard us coming. If they aren't out to welcome us or fight with us by now, then I don't think anyone's there at all.” She leaped from Melynlas and made her way toward the cottage.
“Come back!” Taran called. He unsheathed his sword and followed her. The bard and Gurgi dismounted and drew their own weapons.
Alert and cautious, Taran approached the low doorway. Eilonwy had discovered a window, half-hidden by turf and grass, and was peering through it. “I don't see anybody,” she said, as the others came up beside her. “Look for yourself.”
“For the matter of that,” said the bard, ducking his head and squinting past Eilonwy, “I don't think anyone's been here for quite some time. So much the better! In any
Now the companions halted, and stood in silence at a narrow neck of the swamp. From there, the Marshes of Morva stretched westward to the horizon. Here, huge growths of thorny furze rose up. At the far side, Taran distinguished meager clumps of wasted trees. Under the gray sky, pools of stagnant water flickered among dead grasses and broken reeds. A scent of ancient decay choked his nostrils. A ceaseless thrumming and groaning trembled in the air. Gurgi's eyes were round with terror, and the bard shifted uneasily on Lluagor.
“You've led us here well enough,” said Eilonwy. “But how do you ever expect to go about finding a cauldron in a place like this?”
Taran motioned her to be silent. As he looked across the dreaded Marshes, something stirred in his mind. “Do not move,” he cautioned in a low voice. He glanced quickly behind him. Gray shapes appeared from the line of bushes straggling over a hillock. They were not two wolves, as he had thought at first, but two Huntsmen in jackets of wolf pelts. Another Huntsman, in a heavy cloak of bearskin, crouched beside them.
“The Huntsmen have found us,” Taran went on quickly. “Follow every step I take. But not a motion until I give the signal.” Now he understood the dream of the wolves clearly, and knew exactly what he must do.
The Huntsmen, believing they could take their prey unawares, drew closer.
“Now!” shouted Taran. He urged Melynlas forward and galloped headlong into the Marshes. Heaving and plunging, the stallion labored through the mire. With a great shout, the Huntsmen raced after him. Once, Melynlas nearly foundered in a deep pool. The great strides of the pursuers brought them closer, so close that in a fearful backward glance Taran saw one of them, teeth bared in a snarl, reach out to clutch the stirrups of Lluagor.
Taran spun Melynlas to the right. Lluagor followed. A shout of terror rose behind them. One of the men clad in wolfskin had stumbled and pitched forward, screaming as the black bog seized and sucked him down. His two comrades grappled each other, striving desperately to flee the ground that fell away under their feet. The Huntsman in bearskin flung out his arms and scrabbled at the weeds, growling in rage; the last warrior trampled the sinking man, vainly seeking a foothold to escape the deadly bog.
Melynlas galloped onward. Brackish water spurted at his hooves, but Taran guided the powerful stallion along what seemed a chain of submerged islands, never stopping even when he reached the far side of the swamp. There, on more solid ground, he raced through the furze and beyond the clump of trees. While Lluagor pounded after him, Taran followed a long gully toward the protection of a high mound.
Suddenly he reined in the stallion. At the side of the mound, almost a part of the turf itself, rose a low cottage. It was so cleverly concealed with sod and branches that Taran had to look again to see there was a doorway. Circling the hill were tumbledown stables and something resembling a demolished chicken roost.
Taran began to back Melynlas away from this strange cluster of buildings and cautioned the others to keep silent.
“I shouldn't worry about that,” Eilonwy said. “Whoever lives in there surely heard us coming. If they aren't out to welcome us or fight with us by now, then I don't think anyone's there at all.” She leaped from Melynlas and made her way toward the cottage.
“Come back!” Taran called. He unsheathed his sword and followed her. The bard and Gurgi dismounted and drew their own weapons.
Alert and cautious, Taran approached the low doorway. Eilonwy had discovered a window, half-hidden by turf and grass, and was peering through it. “I don't see anybody,” she said, as the others came up beside her. “Look for yourself.”
“For the matter of that,” said the bard, ducking his head and squinting past Eilonwy, “I don't think anyone's been here for quite some time. So much the better! In any
Similar Books
