The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander

horses and ran from the hillside. They had not gone ten paces before the entire slope, weakened by the downpour, collapsed with a loud roar.
    Gurgi yelped in terror and threw himself at Taran’s feet. “Oh, great, brave, and wise master! Gurgi is thankful! His poor tender head is spared from terrible dashings and crashings!”
    Fflewddur put his hands on his hips and gave a low whistle. “Well, well, fancy that. Another moment and we’d have been
buried for good and all. Never part with that clasp, my friend. It’s a true treasure.”
    Taran was silent. His hand went to Adaon’s brooch, and he stared at the shattered hill slope with a look of wonder.
     
     
    The rain slackened a little before nightfall. Although drenched and chilled to the bone, the companions had made good progress by the time Taran allowed them to rest again. Here, gray and cheerless moors spread before them. Wind and water had worn crevices in the earth, like the gougings of a giant’s fingers. The companions made their camp in a narrow gorge, glad for the chance to sleep even on the muddy ground. Taran drowsed with one hand on the iron brooch, the other grasping his sword. He was less weary than he had expected, despite the grueling ride. A strange sense of excitement thrilled him, different from what he had felt when Dallben had presented him with the sword. However, his dreams that night were troubled and unhappy.
    At first light, as the companions began their journey again, Taran spoke of his dreams to Eilonwy. “I can make no sense of them,” he said with hesitation. “I saw Ellidyr in mortal danger. At the same time it was as though my hands were bound and I could not help him.”
    “I’m afraid the only place you’re going to see Ellidyr is in your dreams,” replied Eilonwy. “There certainly hasn’t been a trace of him anywhere. For all we know, he could have been to Morva and gone, or not even reached the Marshes in the first place. It’s too bad you didn’t dream of an easier way to find that cauldron and put an end to all this. I’m cold and wet and at this point I’m beginning not to care who has it.”
    “I dreamed of the cauldron, too,” Taran said anxiously. “But
everything was confused and clouded. It seems to me we came upon the cauldron. And yet,” he added, “when we found it, I wept.”
    Eilonwy, for once, was silent, and Taran had no heart to speak of the dream again.
    Shortly after midday they reached the Marshes of Morva.
    Taran had sensed them long before, as the ground had begun to turn spongy and treacherous under the hooves of Melynlas. He had seen more marsh birds and had heard, far in the distance, the weird and lonely voice of a loon. Ropes of fog, twisting and creeping like white serpents, had begun to rise from the reeking 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.