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shouts of men and the clank of weapons. Gwydion crouched in the bracken, watching intently. Around the fiery circle, warriors on high stilts beat upraised swords against their shields.
    “What are those men?” Taran whispered. “And the wicker baskets hanging from the posts?”
    “They are the Proud Walkers,” Gwydion answered, "in a dance of battle, an ancient rite of war from the days when men were no more than savages. The baskets--- another ancient custom best forgotten.
    “But look there!” Gwydion cried suddenly. “The Horned King! And there,” he exclaimed, pointing to the columns of horsemen, “I see the banners of the Cantrev Rheged! The banners of Dau Gleddyn and of Mawr! All the cantrevs of the south! Yes, now I understand!”
    Before Gwydion could speak again, the Horned King, bearing a torch, rode to the wicker baskets and thrust the fire into them. Flames seized the osier cages; billows of foul smoke rose skyward. The warriors clashed their shields and shouted together with one voice. From the baskets rose the agonized screams of men. Taran gasped and turned away.
    “We have seen enough,” Gwydion ordered. “Hurry, let us be gone from here.”
     
    DAWN HAD BROKEN
    when Gwydion halted at the edge of a barren field. Until now, he had not spoken. Even Gurgi had been silent, his eyes round with terror. “This is a part of what I have journeyed so far to learn,” Gwydion said. His face was grim and pale. "Arawn now dares try force of arms, with the Horned King as his war leader. The Horned King has raised a mighty host, and they will march against us. The Sons of Don are ill prepared for so powerful an enemy. They must be warned. I must return to Caer Dathyl immediately.''
    From a corner of woodland, five mounted warriors cantered into the field. Taran sprang up. The first horseman spurred his mount to a gallop. Melyngar whinnied shrilly. The warriors drew their swords.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    The Broken Sword
     
    GURGI RAN OFF
    , yelping in terror. Gwydion was at Taran's side as the first rider bore down on them. With a quick gesture, Gwydion thrust a hand into his jacket and pulled out the net of grass. Suddenly the withered wisps grew larger, longer, shimmering and crackling, nearly blinding Taran with streaks of liquid flame. The rider raised his sword. With a shout, Gwydion hurled the dazzling mesh into the warrior's face. Shrieking, the rider dropped his sword and grappled the air. He tumbled from his saddle while the mesh spread over his body and clung to him like an enormous spiderweb. Gwydion dragged the stupefied Taran to an ash tree and from his belt drew the hunting knife which he thrust in Taran's hand. “This is the only weapon I can spare,” he cried. “Use it as well as you can.”
    His back to the tree, Gwydion faced the four remaining warriors. The great sword swung a glittering arc, the flashing blade sang above Gwydion's head. The attackers drove against them. One horse reared. For Taran there was only a vision of hoofs plunging at his face. The rider chopped viciously at Taran's head, swung around, and struck again. Blindly, Taran lashed out with the knife. Shouting in rage and pain, the rider clutched his leg and wheeled his horse away.
    There was no sign of Gurgi, but a white streak sped across the field. Melyngar now had entered the fray. Her golden mane tossing, the white mare whinnied fearsomely and flung herself among the riders. Her mighty flanks dashed against them, crowding, pressing, while the steeds of the war party rolled their eyes in panic. One warrior jerked frantically at his reins to turn his mount away. The animal sank to its haunches. Melyngar reared to her full height; her forelegs churned the air, and her sharp hoofs slashed at the rider, who fell heavily to earth. Melyngar spun about, trampling the cowering horseman.
    The three mounted warriors forced their way past the frenzied mare. At the ash tree, Gwydion's blade rang and clashed among the