Taran Wanderer

Chapter 3 Goryon and Gast

AEDDAN HAD POINT OUT the shortest path to Lord Goryon's stronghold, and the two wayfarers reached it by midafternoon. It was not a castle, Taran saw, but a large huddle of buildings circled by a barricade of wooden stakes lashed with osier and chinked up with hard-packed earth. The gate of heavy palings stood open, and there was much going and coming of horsemen, of warriors on foot, of herdsmen driving in their cows from pasture.

Though Gurgi was far from eager, Taran led on, keeping as bold a face as he could, and amid the busy crowd the two entered the stronghold unnoticed and unchallenged. Without difficulty Taran found the stables, which were larger, cleaner, and in better repair than the rest of the buildings; and strode quickly to a young boy raking straw, calling out in a firm voice, "Tell me, friend, is there not a gray stallion here that Lord Goryon's warriors captured? A handsome steed, they say, and a rare one."

"Gray stallion?" cried the stable boy. "Gray dragon, rather! The beast half-kicked his stall down and gave me a bite I'll not forget. Lord Goryon will have broken bones before the day ends."

"How then?" Taran hurriedly asked. "What has he done with the steed?"

"What has the steed done with him!" answered the boy, grinning. "Thrown him the most of a dozen times already! The Master of Horse himself cannot sit three moments on the creature's back, but Goryon tries to ride it even now. Goryon the Valorous he is called," the boy chuckled; then added behind his hand, "though to my mind he has little stomach for this task. But his henchmen egg him on, and so Goryon means to break the beast to his will even if he must first break its back."

"Master, master," Gurgi whispered frantically, "hasten to King Smoit for helpings!"

Taran's face had paled at the boy's words. Caer Cadarn was too far; Smoit's help would come too late. "Where is the steed?" he asked, hiding his concern. "This would be a sight worth the seeing."

The stable boy pointed his rake toward a long, low-roofed building. "In the training field behind the Great Hall. But take heed," he added, rubbing his shoulder, "keep your distance, or the beast will give you worse than he gave me."

Setting off instantly Taran no sooner passed the Great Hall than he heard shouting and the furious whinny of Melynlas. His pace quickened into a run. A grassless, hoofbeaten turf was ahead. He glimpsed warriors circling the gray stallion who reared, bucked, and spun about with heels flying. In another moment the burly, thickset figure atop the stallion's back was flung loose; then, arms and legs flailing, Lord Goryon plummeted to earth and lay there like a sack of lead.

Melynlas galloped desperately, seeking escape from the circle of warriors, one of whom hastened to snatch at the horse's reins. All caution forgotten, Taran cried out and raced to the stallion's side. He grasped the bridle before the surprised man could think of drawing his sword, and threw his arms about the neck of Melynlas, who whickered in greeting. The other onlookers ran toward Taran, as he strove to mount and pull Gurgi up after him. A hand seized his jacket. Taran fought free and set his back against the stallion's flank. Lord Goryon had meanwhile picked himself up and now burst through the press of warriors.

"Insolence! Impudence!" roared Goryon. His dark, gray-shot beard bristled like a furious hedgehog. His heavy face was mottled purple, whether from bruises, lack of breath, blind anger, or all three at once Taran could not judge. "Does a churl lay hand on my horse? Away with him! Thrash him soundly for his insult!"

"I do no more than claim my own steed," Taran cried. "Melynlas foal of Melyngar…"

A tall, raw-boned man with one arm bound up in a sling, whom Taran guessed to be the Master of Horse, peered sharply at him. "Foal of Melyngar, Prince Gwydion's war horse? That is noble lineage. How do you know this?"

"I know it as well as I know Melynlas was stolen from me," Taran declared, "near Aeddan's farmhold at the borders of your cantrev, and my comrade robbed of his pony." He tried then to explain who he was and the purpose of his journey, but the cantrev lord, unheeding, broke in angrily.

"Impudence!" cried Goryon, his beard bristling all the more furiously. "How dares a pig-keeper insult me with a liar's tale? My border-band gained these mounts nearly at the cost of their lives."

"The cost of our lives," Taran retorted, glancing hurriedly at the faces around him. "Where are the riders? I beg you call them to witness."

"More insolence!" snapped the cantrev lord. "They ride the borders, as they are commanded. Do you mean to tell me I keep idle men and shirkers in my service?"

"And full service have they given you," one of the warriors said to Goryon. "Heroes, all of them, to stand against six giants…"

"Giants?" repeated Taran, scarcely believing his ears.

"Giants indeed!" cried Goryon. "It will not be forgotten how the brave riders of Goryon the Valorous were beset by enemies, outnumbered two to one. By worse than giants! For one was a fierce monster with sharp claws and fangs. Another carried an oak tree in his fist and swept it about him as if it were no more than a twig. But the riders of Goryon overcame them all with glory and honor!"

"The stallion, too, was bewitched," put in another of Goryon's henchmen, "and fought as fiercely as the giants. The beast is a man-killer, vicious as a starving wolf."

"But Goryon the Valorous will tame the creature," added another, turning to the cantrev lord.

"You'll ride the brute, will you not, Goryon?"

"Eh?" said Goryon, a painful and unhappy grimace suddenly marking his face. "So I will, so I will," he growled; then flung out angrily "You insult my honor if you think I cannot."

As Taran stood among these rough warriors, he began to despair of finding any means of convincing the prickly-tempered cantrev lord; the thought crossed his mind to draw blade and fight his way out as best he could. But another glance at the stern faces of the henchmen gave him only more cause for dismay.

"My lord," Taran said firmly, "I speak the truth. There were no giants, but my companion and myself, and a farmer who fought beside us."

"No giants?" shouted Goryon. "But more insults!" He stamped his foot as if the turf itself had given him some impertinence. "You call my men liars? As well call me one!"

"My lord," Taran began again, bowing deeply, for it was growing clear to him that Goryon's touchy honor could scarcely allow the cantrev lord to believe an account of simple horse stealing; and there was, Taran realized, even for the border-band themselves, considerably more honor in overcoming giants than in robbing Assistant Pig-Keepers. "I call no man liar and your men spoke the truth. The truth," he added, "as they saw it."

"Insolence!" cried Goryon. "The truth as it is! There were giants, monsters, uprooted oaks. My men were well-rewarded for their valor, but you shall have a beating for your impudence!"

"What I believe, my lord, is this," Taran went on, choosing his words carefully, since all he had thus far managed to say Goryon had turned into one kind of insult or another. "The sun was low and our shadows made our number seem twice as great. Indeed, your men saw double what we truly were.

"As for giants," Taran hurried on before the cantrev lord could cry out against another impertinence, "again, the long shadows of sunset gave us such height that any man could mistake our size."

"The oak-tree cudgel," Lord Goryon began.

"The farmer bore a stout oaken staff," Taran said. "His arm was strong, his blows quick, as two of your men had good reason to know. He smote with such a mighty hand, small wonder they felt a tree had fallen on them."

Lord Goryon said nothing for a moment, but sucked a tooth and rubbed his bristling beard. "What of the monster? A raving, ferocious creature they saw with their own eyes?"

"The monster stands before you," Taran answered, pointing to Gurgi. "He has long been my companion. I know him to be gentle, but the fiercest foe when roused."

"He is Gurgi! Yes, yes!" Gurgi shouted. "Bold, clever, and fierce to fight for kindly master!" With this he bared his teeth, shook his hairy arms, and yelled so frightfully that Goryon and his henchmen drew backward a pace.

The face of the cantrev lord had begun to furrow in deep perplexity. He shifted his bulk from one foot to another and glared at Taran. "Shadows!" he growled. "You mean to shadow the bravery of those who serve me. Another insult…"

"If your warriors believed they had seen what they claimed," Taran said, "and fought accordingly, their bravery is no less. Indeed," he added, half under his breath, "it is every bit as great as their truthfulness."

"These are no more than words," interrupted the Master of Horse. "Show me deeds. There is no creature on four hooves that I cannot ride, save this one. You, churl, will you dare to mount?"

For answer, Taran swung quickly into the saddle. Melynlas whinnied, pawed the ground, then stood calmly. Lord Goryon choked with amazement, and the Master of Horse stared in disbelief. A surprised murmur rose from Goryon's henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh as one of them called, "So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and takes your horse and honor both!"

Taran thought he had seen a faint flicker of relief in Goryon's bruised face, as though he were not altogether displeased to avoid riding Melynlas, but at the henchman's words the cantrev lord's features began to darken furiously.

"Not so!" Taran hastily cried out to the circle of men. "Would you have your liege lord ride a pig-keeper's nag? Is that fitting to his honor?" He turned now to Goryon, for a bold thought had come to him. "And yet, my lord, were you to take him as a gift from me…"

"What?" shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. "Insults! Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower myself to mount the beast again." He flung up an arm. "Begone! Out of my sight― your nag, your monster, and his pony along with you!"

Goryon snapped his jaws shut and said no more. Gurgi's pony was led from the stable, and under the eyes of the cantrev lord and his henchmen the two companions passed unhindered through the gate.

Taran rode slowly, head high, with all the assurance he could muster. But once out of sight of the stronghold, the companions clapped heels into their horses' flanks and galloped for dear life.

"OH, WISDOM THAT WINS horses from prideful lord!" Gurgi cried, when they had ridden far enough to be safe from any change of heart on the part of Goryon. "Even Gurgi could not have been so clever. Oh, he wishes to be wise as kindly master, but his poor tender head has no skill in such thinkings!"

"My wisdom?" Taran laughed. "Barely enough to make up for losing Melynlas in the first place." He scanned the valley anxiously. Night was falling and he had hoped by this time to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon's border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills. But he saw neither cottage nor hut, and so pressed on through the purpling dusk.

Lights flared in a clearing ahead, and Taran reined Melynlas to a halt near a stronghold much like Lord Goryon's. But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if in token of feasting and revelry within.

"Dare we stop here?" Taran said. "If this cantrev lord shows us Goryon's courtesy, we'd sleep sounder in a gwythaint's nest." Nevertheless, the hope of a comfortable bed and the torches' inviting glow made his weariness weigh all the heavier. He hesitated a moment, then urged Melynlas closer to the gate.

To the men in the watchtower Taran called out that here were wayfarers journeying to Caer Cadarn and known to King Smoit. He was relieved when the portal creaked open and the guards beckoned the pair to enter. The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and Gurgi to the Great Hall.

"Beg hospitality of my Lord Gast," the Steward told them, "and he will grant what he deems fitting."

As he followed the Steward, Taran's spirits rose at the thought of a warm meal and a comfortable couch. Loud voices, laughter, and the merry notes of a harp came from the Hall. Stepping through the doorway Taran saw crowded tables on either side of a low-ceilinged room. At the far end, flanked by his henchmen and their ladies, sat a richly garbed war lord, a drinking horn in one fist and most of a joint of meat in the other.

Taran and Gurgi bowed deeply. Before they could draw closer, the harper standing in the middle of the Hall turned, cried out in surprise, and ran to them. Taran, whose hand was being shaken half off his arm, found himself blinking with happy astonishment at the long pointed nose and spiky yellow hair of his old companion, Fflewddur Fflam.

"Well met, the two of you," cried the bard, pulling them to the high table. "I've missed you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona," Fflewddur hurriedly explained, "I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring's only once a year. And here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings later."

Fflewddur had brought the companions to stand before Lord Gast, and Taran saw a heavy-featured warrior with a beard the color of muddy flax. A handsome collarpiece dangled from his neck; rings glittered on fingers stout enough to crack walnuts; and bands of beaten silver circled his arms. The cantrev lord's raiment was costly and well-cut, but Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long past.

The bard, with a sweep of his harp, named the companions to Lord Gast. "These are two who sought the Black Cauldron from Arawn of Annuvin and fought at the side of Gwydion Prince of Don. Let your hospitality match their boldness."

"And so it shall!" Gast loudly cried. "No wayfarer can fault the hospitality of Gast the Generous!" He made place for the companions at his table and, sweeping aside the empty bowls and dishes before him, clapped his hands and bawled for the Steward. When the servitor arrived, Lord Gast commanded him to bring such an array of food and drink that Taran could hardly imagine himself eating half of it. Gurgi, hungry as always, smacked his lips in gleeful anticipation.

As the Steward left, Lord Gast took up a tale, whose matter Taran found difficult to follow, concerning the costliness of his food and his openhandedness toward travelers. Taran listened courteously through it all, surprised and delighted at his good luck in finding Gast's stronghold. Feeling more at ease, thanks to the presence of Fflewddur, Taran at last ventured to speak of his meeting with Lord Goryon.

"Goryon!" snorted Gast. "Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of what?" He snatched up a drinking horn. "See this?" he cried. "The name of Gast carved upon it and the letters worked in gold! See this cup! This bowl! These ornament my common table. My storehouse holds even finer, as you shall see. Goryon! Horseflesh is all he knows, and little enough of that!"

Fflewddur, meanwhile, had raised the harp to his shoulder and began to strike up a tune. "It's a small thing I composed myself," he explained. "Though I must say it's been cheered and praised by thousands…"

No sooner were the words past his lips than the harp bent like an overdrawn bow and a string broke with a loud twang. "Drat the thing!" muttered the bard. "Will it give me no peace? I swear it's getting worse. The slightest bit of color added to the facts and it costs me a string. Yes, as I meant to say, I know full half-a-dozen who deemed the song― ah― rather well done." With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up the broken string.

Taran, glancing around the Hall this while, was surprised to realize the plates and drinking horns of the guests were more than half-empty and, in fact, showed no sign of ever having been full. His perplexity grew when the Steward returned to set the food-laden tray before Lord Gast, who planted his elbows on either side of it.

"Eat your fill," cried Gast to Taran and Gurgi, pushing a small hunch of gravy-spotted bread toward them and keeping the rest for himself. "Gast the Generous is ever openhanded! A sad fault that may turn me into a pauper, but it's my mature to be free with all my goods; I can't fight against it!"

"Generous?" Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. "I think he'd make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison."

So passed the meal, with Gast loudly urging the companions to stuff themselves, yet all the while grudgingly offering them no more than a few morsels of stringy meat from the heaped platter. Only at the end, when Gast has swallowed all he could and his head nodded sleepily and his beard straggled into his drinking horn, were the companions able to down the meager leavings. At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like stones.

In the morning Taran was impatient to start once more for Caer Cadarn, and Fflewddur agreed to ride with him. But Lord Gast would hear none of it until the companions marveled at his storerooms. The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons, horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap that he could scarcely tell one from another. Among all these goods Taran's eyes lingered on a gracefully fashioned wine bowl, the most beautiful Taran had ever seen. He had, however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly ornamented horse bridle into Taran's hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of stirrups which he praised equally.

"That wine bowl is worth all the rest put together," Fflewddur whispered to Taran, as Lord Gast now led the three companions from the storehouse to a large cow pen just outside the barricade. "I recognize the work from the hand of Annlaw Clay-Shaper, a master craftsman, the most skilled potter in Prydain. I swear his wheel is enchanted! Poor Gast!" Fflewddur added. "To count himself rich and know so little of what he owns!"

"But how has he gained such treasure?" Taran said.

"On that score, I should hesitate to ask," Fflewddur murmured with a grin. "Very likely the same way Goryon gained your horse."

"And this," cried the cantrev lord, halting beside a black cow who stood peacefully grazing amid the rest of the herd, "and this is Cornillo, the forest cow in all the land!"

Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled in the sun.

Lord Gast proudly stroked the animal's sleek flanks. "Gentle as a lamb! Strong as an ox! Swift as a horse and wise as an owl!" Gast went on, while Cornillo, calmly munching her cud, turned patient eyes to Taran, as though hoping not to be mistaken for anything other than a cow.

"She leads my cattle," declared Lord Gast, "better than any herdsman can. She'll pull a plow or turn a grist mill, if need be. Her calves are always twins! As for milk, she gives the sweetest! Cream, every drop! So rich the dairy maids can scarcely churn it!"

Cornillo blew out her breath almost in a sigh, switched her tail, and went back to grazing. From the pasture Lord Gast pressed the companions to the hen roost, and from there to the hawk mews, and the morning was half-spent and Taran had begun to despair of ever leaving the stronghold, when Gast finally ordered their mounts readied.

Fflewddur, Taran saw, still rode Llyan, the huge, golden-tawny cat who had saved the companions' lives on the Isle of Mona. "Yes, I decided to keep her― rather, she's decided to keep me," said the bard, as Llyan, recognizing Taran, padded forward and began happily rubbing her head against his shoulder. "'She loves the harp more than ever," Fflewddur went on. "Can't hear enough of it." No sooner did he say this than Llyan flicked her long whiskers and turned to give the bard a forceful nudge; so that Fflewddur then and there had to unsling his instrument and strike a few chords, while Llyan, purring loudly, blinked fondly at him with great yellow eyes.

"Farewell," called the cantrev lord as the companions mounted. "At the stronghold of Gast the Generous you'll ever find an openhanded welcome!"

"It's a generosity that could starve us to death," Taran, laughing, remarked to the bard as they rode eastward again. "Gust thinks himself openhanded, as Goryon thinks himself valorous; and as far as I can judge, neither one has the truth of it. Yet," he added, "they both seem pleased with themselves. Indeed, is a man truly what he sees himself to be?"

"Only if what he sees is true," answered Fflewddur. "If there's too great a difference between his own opinion and the facts― ah― then, my friend, I should say that such a man had no more substance to him than Goryon's giants!

"But don't judge them too harshly," the bard went on. "These cantrev nobles are much alike, prickly as porcupines one moment and friendly as puppies the next. They all hoard their possessions, yet they can be generous to a fault if the mood strikes them. As for valor, they're no cowards. Death rides in the saddle with them and they count it nothing, and in battle I've seen them gladly lay down their lives for a comrade. At the same time," he added, "it's also been my experience, in all my wanderings, that the further from the deed, the greater it grows, and the most glorious battle is the one longest past. So it's hardly surprising how many heroes you run into.

"Had they harps like mine," said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, "what a din you'd hear from every stronghold in Prydain!"