Taran Wanderer

Chapter 4 A Matter of Cows

LATE THAT AFTERNOON the companions sighted the crimson banner of the House of Smoit, its black bear emblem flying bravely above the towers of Caer Cadarn. Unlike the palisaded strongholds of the cantrev lords, Smoit's castle was a fortress with walls of hewn stone and iron-studded gates thick enough to withstand all attack; the chips in the stones and the dents in the portal told Taran the castle had indeed thrown back not a few assaults. For the three travelers, however, the gates were flung open willingly and an honor guard of spearmen hastened to escort the companions.

The red-bearded King sat at the dining table in his Great Hall, and from the array of dishes, platters, and drinking horns both full and empty Taran judged Smoit could scarcely have left off eating since morning. Seeing the companions, the King leaped from his throne of oakwood, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic bear looking much like Smoit himself.

"My body and bones!" Smoit roared so loudly the dishes rattled on the table. "It's better than a feast to see all of you!" His battle-scarred face beamed with delight and he flung his burly arms around the companions in a joint-cracking hug. "Scrape out a tune from that old pot of yours," he cried to Fflewddur. "A merry tune for a merry meeting! And you, my lad," he went on, seizing Taran's shoulders with his heavy, red-furred hands, "when last we met you looked scrawny as a plucked chicken. And your shaggy friend― what, has he rolled in the bushes all the way from Caer Dallben?"

Smoit clapped his hands, shouted for more food and drink, and would hear nothing of Taran's news until the companions had eaten and the King had downed another full meal.

"The Mirror of Llunet?" said Smoit, when Taran at last was able to tell of his quest. "I've heard of no such thing. As well seek a needle in a haystack as a looking glass in the Llawgadarn Mountains." The King's heavy brow furrowed and he shook his head. "The Llawgadarns rise in the land of the Free Commots, and whether the folk there will be of a mind to help you…"

"The Free Commots?" Taran asked. "I've heard them named, but know little else about them."

"They're hamlets and small villages," Fflewddur put in. "They start to the east of the Hill Cantrevs and spread as far as Great Avren. I've never journeyed there myself; the Free Commots are a bit far even for my ramblings. But the land itself is the pleasantest in Prydain― fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing. There's iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments.

Annlaw Clay-Shaper is said to dwell among the Commot folk, as do many other craftsmen: master weavers, metalsmiths― from time out of mind their skills have been the Commots' pride."

"A proud folk they are," said Smoit. "And a stiff-necked breed. They bow to no cantrev lords, but only to the High King Math himself."

"No cantrev lords?" asked Taran, puzzled. "Who, then, rules them?"

"Why, they rule themselves," answered Smoit. "Strong and steadfast they are, too. And, by my beard, I'm sure there's more peace and neighborliness in the Free Commots than anywhere else in Prydain. And so what need have they for kings or lords? When you come to the meat of it," he added, "a king's strength lies in the will of those he rules."

Taran, who had been listening closely to these words of Smoit, nodded his head. "I had not thought of it thus," he said, half to himself. "Indeed, true allegiance is only given willingly."

"Enough talk!" cried Smoit. "It hurts my head and dries my gullet. Let's have more meat and drink. Forget the Mirror. Tarry with me in my cantrev, lad. We'll ride to the hunt, feast, and make merry. You'll put more flesh on your bones here than scrambling about on a fool's errand. And that, my boy, is good counsel to you."

Nevertheless, when he finally saw that Taran would not be dissuaded, Smoit goodnaturedly agreed to give the companions all they needed for the journey. Next morning, after a huge breakfast, which Smoit declared would serve to whet their appetites for dinner, the King threw open his storehouse to them and went with them to be sure they chose the best of gear.

Taran had only begun sorting through coils of rope, saddlebags, and harness leather when one of the castle guards burst into the storeroom, calling, "Sire! A horseman of Lord Gast is come. Raiders from Lord Goryon's stronghold have stolen Gast's prize cow and the rest of the herd with her!"

"My pulse!" roared Smoit. "My breath and blood!" The King's tangled bush of eyebrows knotted and his face turned as red as his beard. "How does he dare stir trouble in my cantrev!"

"The men of Gast have armed. They ride against Goryon," the guard hastened on. "Gast craves your help. Will you speak to his messenger?"

"Speak to him?" bellowed Smoit. "I'll clap his master in irons for breaking the peace. And worse! For breaking it without my leave!"

"Put Gast in irons?" Taran asked with some perplexity. "But Gorybn stole his cow…"

"His cow?" cried Smoit. "His cow, indeed! Gast stole her from Goryon himself last year. And before that, the other way around. Neither of them knows whose beast it rightly is. Those two brawlers have ever been at loggerheads. Now the warm weather heats their blood again. But I'll cool their tempers. In my dungeon! Gast and Goryon both!"

Smoit snatched up a mighty double-edged battle axe. "I'll fetch them back by the ears!" he roared. "They know my dungeons; they've been there often enough. Who rides with me?"

"I will!" cried Fflewddur, his eyes lighting up. "Great Belin, a Fflam never shuns a fight!"

"If you ask our help, Sire," Taran began, "we give it willingly. But…"

"Mount up, then, my lad!" shouted Smoit. "You'll see justice done. And I'll have peace between Gast and Goryon if I have to break their heads to gain it!"

Swinging his battle axe, Smoit bolted from the store-room bellowing orders right and left. A dozen warriors sprang to horse. Smoit leaped astride a tall, barrel-chested steed, whistled through his teeth almost loudly enough to break them, and waved his men onward; amid the shouting and confusion, Taran, bewildered, found himself atop Melynlas galloping across the courtyard and out the castle gate.

THE RED-BEARDED KING set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up; while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his frantically galloping pony. Smoit's war horse was in a lather, and so was Melynlas before the cantrev King signaled a halt.

"To meat!" Smoit cried, swinging out of the saddle and looking as unwearied as if he had just begun a morning's trot. The companions, still catching their breath, had by no means found their appetites, but Smoit clapped his hands to the heavy bronze belt around his middle. "Hunger makes a man gloomy and saps all the spirit from a battle."

"Sire, must we battle with Lord Gast?" Taran asked with some concern, for Smoit's war band numbered only the dozen who had ridden from Caer Cadarn. "And if Lord Goryon's men have armed, we may be too few to stand against all of them."

"Battle?" Smoit retorted. "No, more's the pity. I'll have those troublemakers by the nose and into my dungeons before nightfall. They'll do as I command. I'm their king, by my beard! There's brawn enough here," he added, shaking a mighty fist, "to make them remember it."

"And yet," Taran ventured to say. "You yourself told me a king's true strength lay in the will of those he ruled."

"How's that?" cried Smoit, who had settled his bulk against a tree trunk and was about to attack the joint of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag. "Don't puzzle me with my own words! My body and bones, a king is a king!"

"I meant only that you've locked Gast and Goryon in your dungeon many times before," Taran answered. "And still they quarrel. Is there no way to keep peace between them? Or make them understand…"

"I'll reason them reasons!" bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his jutting brows. "But, true enough it is," he admitted, frowning and seeming to chew at the thought as if it were gristle in his meat, "they go surly to the dungeon and surly leave it. You've struck on something, my lad. The dungeon's useless against that pair. And, my pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I'll have the place well watered down tonight."

Taran was about to remark that his own thought was otherwise, but Fflewddur called out and pointed to a horseman galloping across the meadow.

"He wears the colors of Goryon," shouted Smoit, jumping to his feet, still holding the joint in one hand and the battle axe in the other. Two of the warriors quickly mounted and, drawing swords, spurred to engage the rider. But the horseman, brandishing his weapon hilt downward, cried out that he bore tidings from the cantrev lord.

"You rogue!" Smoit bellowed, dropping both meat and axe and collaring the rider to haul him bodily from the saddle. "What other mischief's afoot? Speak! Give me your news, man, or I'll have it out of you along with your gizzard!"

"Sire!" gasped the messenger, "Lord Gast attacks in strength. My Lord Goryon is hard-pressed; he has ordered more of his warriors to arm and calls on you to help him as well."

"What of the cows?" cried Smoit. "Has Gast won them back? Does Goryon still hold them?"

"Neither, Sire," answered the messenger as well as he could with Smoit shaking him between every word. "Lord Gast attacked Lord Goryon to regain his own herd and take Lord Goryon's, too. But as they fought, all the beasts frighted and ran off. The cows? Sire, both herds are gone, lost, every soul of them, and Cornillo herself!"

"Let that be the end of it!" declared Smoit, "and a good lesson for all cow-robbers. Gast and Goryon shall cry peace and I'll spare them from my dungeon."

"Sire, the fighting grows hotter," the messenger said urgently. "Neither one will leave off. Each blames the other for loss of his herd. Lord Goryon swears vengeance on Lord Gast; and Lord Gast swears vengeance on Lord Goryon."

"They've both been itching for battle," Smoit burst out. "Now they find their excuse!" He summoned one of his warriors, ordering him to take Goryon's messenger to Caer Cadarn, there to be held as hostage. "To horse, the rest of you," Smoit commanded. "My body and bones, we'll see sport after all." He gripped his axe. "Oh, there'll be heads broken today!" he cried with relish, and his battered face brightened as if he were on his way to a feast.

"The bards will sing of this," exclaimed Fflewddur, carried away by Smoit's ardor. "A Fflam in the thick of battle! The thicker the better!" The harp shuddered and a string snapped in two. "I mean," Fflewddur hastily added, "I hope we're not too badly outnumbered."

"Sire," Taran called as Smoit strode to his war horse. "If Gast and Goryon won't stop because their herds are lost, shouldn't we try to find the cows?"

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi put in. "Find cows gone with strayings! And put an end to fightings and smitings!"

But Smoit had already mounted and was shouting for the war band to follow; and Taran could do no more than gallop after him. To which stronghold Smoit was leading them, Taran did not know. As far as Smoit was concerned, Taran decided, it made little difference whether Gast or Goryon fell first into the King's hands.

In a while, however, Taran recognized the path he and Gurgi had taken from Aeddan's farm, and he judged now that Smoit would make for Goryon's stronghold. But as they pounded across an open field, the King veered sharply left and Taran glimpsed a troop of mounted warriors some distance away.

At the sight of their banners, Smoit bellowed furiously and spurred his steed to overtake the horsemen. But the riders, themselves galloping at top speed, quickly vanished into the woodland. Smoit reined up, shouting after them and shaking his huge fist.

"Has Goryon put more warriors in the fray?" roared Smoit, his face crimson. "Then Gast has done the same! Those louts wore his colors!"

"Sire," Taran began, "if we can find the cows―"

"Cows!" burst out Smoit. "There's more than cows in this, my lad. Such a brawl can spread like a spark through tinder. Those thick-skulled ruffians will set the whole of Cadiffor ablaze and next thing you know we'll all be at one another's throats! But, by my beard, they'll learn my fist smites harder than theirs! "

Smoit hesitated and his face darkened with deep concern. He scowled and tugged at his beard. "The lords of the next cantrev," he muttered. "They'll not stand idle, but strike against us when they see we're fighting each other!"

"But the cows," Taran urged. "The three of us can seek them, while you―"

"The dungeon!" cried Smoit. "I'll have Gast and Goryon in it before their squabble gets further out of hand."

Smoit clapped heels to his horse and charged forward, making no attempt to hold to any pathway, dashing at breakneck speed through bramble and thicket. With the companions and the train of warriors pelting behind, Smoit clattered over the stones of a riverbank and plunged his horse into the swift current. The King had ill chosen his fording place, for in another moment Taran found himself in water up to his saddlehorn. Sinoit, shouting impatiently, pressed on across the river. Taran saw the King rise up in his stirrups to beckon his followers and urge more haste. But an instant later the war horse lost footing and lurched sideways; steed and rider toppled with a mighty splash, and before Taran could spur Melynlas to him, Smoit had been torn loose from his mount and, like a barrel with arms and legs, was being borne quickly downstream.

Behind Taran some of the warriors had turned back, seeking to overtake the King by following along the riverbank. Taran, closer to the opposite bank, urged all strength from Melynlas, leaped from the saddle to dry ground, and raced along the shore after Smoit. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and with dismay Taran realized the King was being pulled relentlessly to a waterfall. Heart bursting in his chest, Taran doubled his pace; though before he could set foot in the rapids, he saw the King's red beard sink below the churning water, and he cried out in despair as Smoit vanished over the brink.