The Book of Three: Chapters 1–2

Heedless of Coll, unable even to hear him above the din, Taran pounded harder than ever. Sparks sprayed the air.

Heedless of Coll, unable even to hear him above the din, Taran pounded harder than ever. Sparks sprayed the air.

Taran stared in dismay.

“Not quite the blade for a hero,” Coll remarked.
“It’s ruined,” Taran glumly agreed. “It looks like a sick snake,” he added ruefully.

“Teach me now,” pleaded Taran. He seized a poker and brandished it, slashing at the air and dancing back and forth over the hard-packed earthen floor.

While Coll shouted instructions, they set to parrying and thrusting, with much banging, clanking, and commotion.

For a moment Taran was sure he had the better of Coll, but; the old man spun away with amazing lightness of foot. Now it was Taran who strove desperately to ward off Coll’s blows.

Abruptly, Coll stopped. So did Taran, his poker poised in mid-air. In the doorway of the forge stood the tall, bent figure of Dallben.

On the little farm, while Taran and Coll saw to the plowing, sowing, weeding, reaping, and all the other tasks of husbandry, Dallben undertook the meditating, an occupation so exhausting he could accomplish it only by lying down and closing his eyes.

On the little farm, while Taran and Coll saw to the plowing, sowing, weeding, reaping, and all the other tasks of husbandry, Dallben undertook the meditating, an occupation so exhausting he could accomplish it only by lying down and closing his eyes.

The clatter from the forge had roused him from his morning meditation; his robe hung askew over his bony knees.

Taran followed the ancient man out of the forge, across the chicken run, and into the white, thatched cottage.

There, in Dallben’s chamber, moldering tomes overflowed the sagging shelves and spilled onto the floor amid heaps of iron cook-pots, studded belts, harps with or without strings, and other oddments.

There, in Dallben’s chamber, moldering tomes overflowed the sagging shelves and spilled onto the floor amid heaps of iron cook-pots, studded belts, harps with or without strings, and other oddments.

There, in Dallben’s chamber, moldering tomes overflowed the sagging shelves and spilled onto the floor amid heaps of iron cook-pots, studded belts, harps with or without strings, and other oddments.

He drew a ponderous, leather-bound volume toward him, The Book of Three, from which he occasionally read to Taran and which, the boy believed, held in its pages everything anyone could possibly want to know.

“Long ago, the race of men owned these treasures. By craft and deceit, Arawn stole them, one by one, for his own evil uses. Some few of the treasures have been wrested from him though most lie hidden deep in Annuvin, where Arawn guards them jealously.”

“He would have ruled had it not been for the Children of Don, the sons of the Lady Don and her consort Belin, King of the Sun.”

“I am not always sure,” said Dallben, with a wry smile.

He led Taran to the stable where medicines for the livestock were kept, and poured a concoction over Taran’s fingers.

“All the better,” said Coll, “for it makes things that much easier. If you want to be something with a name attached to it, I can’t think of anything closer to hand. And it is not every lad who can be assistant keeper to an oracular pig. Indeed, she is the only oracular pig in Prydain, and the most valuable.”

“The bees!” Taran shouted. “They’re swarming.”
“It is not their time,” cried Coll. “There is something amiss.”

Following the sound, he ran forward. After a time the ground rose sharply, forcing him to clamber on hands and knees up a wooded slope. At the crest the forest broke off before a meadow.

Following the sound, he ran forward. After a time the ground rose sharply, forcing him to clamber on hands and knees up a wooded slope. At the crest the forest broke off before a meadow.

This was farther than he had ever dared venture, but he struggled on through the heavy undergrowth.

Taran fell back, terrified. Astride the foam-spattered animal rode a monstrous figure.

“Drink,” the stranger said again, while Taran took the flask dubiously. “You look as though I were trying to poison you.”

His eyes fell on the long sword at the stranger’s belt. The golden pommel was smooth and rounded, its color deliberately muted; ash leaves of pale gold entwined at the hilt, and a pattern of leaves covered the scabbard.

His eyes fell on the long sword at the stranger’s belt. The golden pommel was smooth and rounded, its color deliberately muted; ash leaves of pale gold entwined at the hilt, and a pattern of leaves covered the scabbard.

Taran dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lord Gwydion,” he said, “I did not intend insolence.”

“It is not the trappings that make the prince,” he said gently, “nor, indeed, the sword that makes the warrior. Come,” he ordered, “tell me your name and what happened to you. And do not ask me to believe you got a sword wound picking gooseberries or poaching hares.”

“Gently, gently,” chided Gwydion. “I do not say my life is worth more than another man’s, but I prize it highly. Do you think a lone warrior and one Assistant Pig-Keeper dare attack the Horned King and his war band?”

There are chieftains whose lust for power goads them like a sword point.

To certain of them, Arawn promises wealth and dominion, playing on their greed as a bard plays on a harp.

Arawn’s corruption burns every human feeling from their hearts and they become his liege men, serving him beyond the borders of Annuvin and bound to him forever.

Gwydion nodded. “Yes. I know beyond question that he has sworn his allegiance to Arawn. He is Arawn’s avowed champion. Once again, the power of Annuvin threatens Prydain.”

“The task counts more than the one who does it,” said Gwydion. “I will not be hindered by an Assistant Pig-Keeper, who seems eager to bring himself to grief.”

“Melyngar reminds me it is time for food,” Gwydion said. He unpacked provisions from the saddlebags.

“How long have you been with Dallben? Who are your kinsmen?”

"It makes me wonder,” Gwydion went on, with a laugh that was not unkind, “is there a destiny laid on me that an Assistant Pig-Keeper should help me in my quest?” He hesitated. “Or,” he mused, “is it perhaps the other way around?”