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foreknowledge of death and battle, and watches from afar, marking the fall of warriors.”
    Above the cry of the pack rose the long, clear notes of a hunting horn. Flung across the sky, the sound pierced Taran's breast like a cold blade of terror. Yet, unlike the music itself, the echoes from the hills sang less of fear than of grief. Fading, they sighed that sunlight and birds, bright mornings, warm fires, food and drink, friendship, and all good things had been lost beyond recovery. Gwydion laid a firm hand on Taran's brow.
    “Gwyn's music is a warning,” Gwydion said. “Take it as a warning, for whatever profit that knowledge may be. But do not listen overmuch to the echoes. Others have done so, and have wandered hopeless ever since.”
    A whinny from Melyngar broke Taran's sleep. As Gwydion rose and went to her, Taran glimpsed a shadow dart behind a bush. He sat up quickly. Gwydion's back was turned. In the bright moonlight the shadow moved again. Choking back his fear, Taran leaped to his feet and plunged into the undergrowth. Thorns tore at him. He landed on something that grappled frantically. He lashed out, seized what felt like someone's head, and an unmistakable odor of wet wolfhound assailed his nose.
    “Gurgi!” Taran cried furiously. “You sneaking...” The creature curled into an awkward ball as Taran began shaking him.
    “Enough, enough!” Gwydion called. “Do not frighten the wits out of the poor thing!”
    “Save your own life next time!” Taran retorted angrily to Gwydion, while Gurgi began howling at the top of his voice. “I should have known a great war leader needs no help from an Assistant Pig-Keeper!”
    “Unlike Assistant Pig-Keepers,” Gwydion said gently, “I scorn the help of no man. And you should know better than to jump into thorn bushes without first making sure what you will find. Save your anger for a better purpose...” He hesitated and looked carefully at Taran. “Why, I believe you did think my life was in danger.”
    “If I had known it was only that stupid, silly Gurgi...”
    “The fact is, you did not,” Gwydion said. “So I shall take the intention for the deed. You may be many other things, Taran of Caer Dallben, but I see you are no coward. I offer you my thanks,” he added, bowing deeply.
    “And what of poor Gurgi?” howled the creature. “No thanks for him--- oh, no--- only smackings by great lords! Not even a small munching for helping find a piggy!”
    “We didn't find any piggy,” Taran replied angrily. “And if you ask me, you know too much about the Horned King. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd gone and told him...”
    “No, no! The lord of the great horns pursues wise, miserable Gurgi with leaping and galloping. Gurgi fears terrible smackings and whackings. He follows kindly and mighty protectors. Faithful Gurgi will not leave them, never!”
    “And what of the Horned King?” Gwydion asked quickly.
    “Oh, very angry,” whined Gurgi. “Wicked lords ride with mumblings and grumblings because they cannot find a piggy.”
    “Where are they now?” asked Gwydion.
    “Not far. They cross water, but only clever, unthanked Gurgi knows where. And they light fires with fearsome blazings.”
    “Can you lead us to them?” Gwydion asked. “I would learn their plans.”
    Gurgi whimpered questioningly. “Crunchings and munchings?”
    “I knew he would get around to that,” said Taran.
    Gwydion saddled Melyngar and, clinging to the shadows, they set out across the moonlit hills. Gurgi led the way, loping ahead, bent forward, his long arms dangling. They crossed one deep valley, then another, before Gurgi halted on a ridge. Below, the wide plain blazed with torches and Taran saw a great ring of flames.
    “Crunchings and munchings now?” Gurgi suggested.
    Disregarding him, Gwydion motioned for them all to descend the slope. There was little need for silence. A deep, hollow drumming throbbed over the crowded plain. Horses whickered; there came the