The Black Cauldron: Chapters 1–2

For Taran, the summer was ending before it had begun. That morning Dallben had given him the task of washing the oracular pig.

“You, there! Pig-boy!” The rider looking down at him was a youth only a few years older than Taran. His hair was tawny, his eyes black and deep-set in a pale, arrogant face.

Though of excellent quality, his garments had seen much wear, and his cloak was purposely draped to hide his threadbare attire.

The cloak itself, Taran saw, had been neatly and painstakingly mended.

The horseman’s tone and bearing nettled Taran, but he curbed his temper and bowed courteously.

“Mind your impudence,” Ellidyr answered, “or you shall have a good beating for it.”

The Princess Eilonwy hurried from the scullery, her apron flying and a cookpot still in her hand.

Ellidyr, without troubling to dismount, called to the white-bearded enchanter. “Are you Dallben? I have brought your pig-boy to be thrashed for his insolence.”

“Tut!” said Dallben, unperturbed by Ellidyr’s furious expression. “Whether he is insolent is one thing, and whether he should be thrashed is another. In either case, I need no suggestions from you.”

Before Eilonwy had finished, a hairy figure, covered with leaves and twigs, popped up at the window, and with great agility clambered over the sill.

“Woe and sadness!” the creature wailed, loping anxiously to Taran. “Gurgi sees smackings and whackings by strengthful lord! Poor, kindly master! Gurgi is sorry for him."

The last time Taran had seen him, Gwydion wore the raiment of a prince of the royal House of Don. Now he was dressed simply in a hooded cloak of gray and a coarse, unadorned jacket. The black sword, Dyrnwyn, hung at his side.

“Fflewddur!” he called, while the bard, his beautiful harp slung over his shoulder, raised a hand in greeting.

“I’d given up being a bard,” Fflewddur continued, “and had settled quite happily as a king again. Really, it was only to oblige Gwydion.”

Just then a horseman cantered up and called to Fflewddur by name.

Adaon, Taran saw, was tall, with straight black hair that fell to his shoulders. Though of noble bearing, he wore the garb of an ordinary warrior, with no ornament save a curiously shaped iron brooch at his collar.

Adaon, Taran saw, was tall, with straight black hair that fell to his shoulders. Though of noble bearing, he wore the garb of an ordinary warrior, with no ornament save a curiously shaped iron brooch at his collar.

Adaon, Taran saw, was tall, with straight black hair that fell to his shoulders. Though of noble bearing, he wore the garb of an ordinary warrior, with no ornament save a curiously shaped iron brooch at his collar.

Fflewddur beamed. “After our battle with the Homed King—yes, I did compose a little something. A modest offering. But it’s gratifying to know it has spread. As soon as I fix these wretched strings I’ll be delighted to let you hear it.”

The Book of Three, the heavy tome filled with Dallben’s deepest secrets, had been set carefully at the top of a shelf.

The dark warrior was more richly attired than any of the company. His high-bridged nose was falconlike, his eyes heavy-lidded but keen. Only to Gwydion did he bow; then, taking a seat at the table, he cast a cool glance of appraisal on those around him.

He strode up to the stern war leader and fetched him a heavy clout on the shoulder.

Gwydion rose in turn. His face was grave. “Who has not heard of the Cauldron-Born, the mute and deathless warriors who serve the Lord of Annuvin?"

"These are the stolen bodies of the slain, steeped in Arawn’s cauldron to give them life again. They emerge implacable as death itself, their humanity forgotten. Indeed, they are no longer men but weapons of murder, in thrall to Arawn forever."

"These are the stolen bodies of the slain, steeped in Arawn’s cauldron to give them life again. They emerge implacable as death itself, their humanity forgotten. Indeed, they are no longer men but weapons of murder, in thrall to Arawn forever."

“In this loathsome work,” Gwydion went on, “Arawn has sought to despoil the graves and barrows of fallen warriors. Now, throughout Prydain, there have been strange disappearances, men suddenly vanishing to be seen no more; and Cauldron-Born appear where none has ever before been sighted."

“In this loathsome work,” Gwydion went on, “Arawn has sought to despoil the graves and barrows of fallen warriors. Now, throughout Prydain, there have been strange disappearances, men suddenly vanishing to be seen no more; and Cauldron-Born appear where none has ever before been sighted."

"Arawn has not been idle. As I have now learned, his servants dare to strike down the living and bear them to Annuvin to swell the ranks of his deathless host. Thus, death begets death; evil begets evil.”

Too well he remembered the lifeless eyes and livid faces of the Cauldron-Born, their ghastly silence and ruthless swords.

Though not as mighty as Mount Dragon at the north of Annuvin, Dark Gate was treacherous, with its sharp crags and hidden drops.

The old warrior, with his shining bald head and huge hands, looked as if he would prefer battle to discoursing in council.

“Our success depends on surprise and swift movement, not numbers. You, Smoit, must be our firm support should our plans go awry. Your task is no less important."

“Silence!” commanded Gwydion. “In this venture the courage of an Assistant Pig-Keeper weighs as much as that of a prince. I warn you, Ellidyr, curb your temper or leave this council."

His robe flapping around his spindly legs, Dallben made his way to a huge chest, unlocked it with an ancient key, and raised the lid. He bent and rummaged inside.

“I confess to a certain number of regrets and misgivings,” he said, “which could not possibly interest you, so I shall not burden you with them. On the other hand, here is something I am sure will interest you. And burden you, too, for the matter of that.”

Taran’s heart leaped. He grasped the weapon eagerly, his hands trembling so that he nearly dropped it. Scabbard and hilt bore no ornament; the craftsmanship lay in its proportion and balance.

Taran saw, for the first time, how ancient was the enchanter’s face, and how careworn.

“I prefer to see none of you before you leave,” Dallben went on. “Such partings are one thing I would spare myself. Besides, later your head will be filled with other concerns and you will forget anything I might tell you. Be off and see if you can persuade the Princess Eilonwy to gird you with that sword. Now that you have it,” he sighed, “I suppose you might just as well observe the formalities.”

Deftly she buckled the leather belt around Taran’s waist.

“We’re setting out for Annuvin,” Taran whispered excitedly. “At dawn. To wrest the cauldron from Arawn himself....”