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leaves. His legs were as though planted in the earth; the shock of the galloping riders could not dislodge him. His eyes shone with a terrible light.
    “Hold your ground but a little while,” he called to Taran. The sword whistled, one rider gave a choking cry. The other two did not press the attack, but hung back for a moment.
    Hoofbeats pounded over the meadow. Even as the attackers had begun to withdraw, two more riders galloped forward. They reined their horses sharply, dismounted without hesitation, and ran swiftly toward Gwydion. Their faces were pallid; their eyes like stones. Heavy bands of bronze circled their waists, and from these belts hung the black thongs of whips. Knobs of bronze studded their breastplates. They did not bear shield or helmet. Their mouths were frozen in the hideous grin of death.
    Gwydion's sword flashed up once more. “Fly!” he cried to Taran. “These are the Cauldron-Born! Take Melyngar and ride from here!”
    Taran set himself more firmly against the ash tree and raised his knife. In another instant, the Cauldron-Born were upon them.
    For Taran, the horror beating in him like black wings came not from the livid features of the Cauldron warriors or their lightless eyes but from their ghostly silence. The mute men swung their swords, metal grated against metal. The relentless warriors struck and struck again. Gwydion's blade leaped past one opponent's guard and drove deep into his heart. The pale warrior made no outcry. No blood followed as Gwydion ripped the weapon free; the Cauldron-Born shook himself once, without a grimace, and moved again to the attack.
    Gwydion stood as a wolf at bay, his green eyes glittering, his teeth bared. The swords of the Cauldron-Born beat against his guard. Taran thrust at one of the livid warriors; a sword point ripped his arm and sent the small knife hurtling into the bracken.
    Blood streaked Gwydion's face where an unlucky blow had slashed his cheekbone and forehead. Once, his blade faltered and a Cauldron-Born thrust at his breast. Gwydion turned, taking the sword point in his side. The pale warriors doubled their assault.
    The great shaggy head bowed wearily as Gwydion stumbled forward. With a mighty cry, he lunged, then dropped to one knee. With his flagging strength, he fought to raise the blade again. The Cauldron-Born flung aside their weapons, seized him, threw him to the ground, and quickly bound him.
    Now the other two warriors approached. One grasped Taran by the throat, the other tied his hands behind him. Taran was dragged to Melyngar and thrown across her back, where he lay side by side with Gwydion.
    “Are you badly hurt?” asked Gwydion, striving to raise his head.
    “No,” Taran said, “but your own wound is grave.”
    “It is not the wound that pains me,” said Gwydion with a bitter smile. “I have taken worse and lived. Why did you not flee, as I ordered? I knew I was powerless against the Cauldron-Born, but I could have held the ground for you. Yet, you fought well enough, Taran of Caer Dallben.”
    “You are more than a war leader,” Taran whispered. “Why do you keep the truth from me? I remember the net of grass you wove before we crossed Avren. But in your hands today it was no grass I have ever seen.”
    “I am what I told you. The wisp of grass--- yes, it is a little more than that. Dallben himself taught me the use of it.”
    “You, too, are an enchanter!”
    “I have certain skills. Alas, they are not great enough to defend myself against the powers of Arawn. Today,” he added, “they were not enough to protect a brave companion.”
    One of the Cauldron-Born spurred his horse alongside Melyngar. Snatching the whip from his belt, he lashed brutally at the captives.
    “Say no more,” Gwydion whispered. “You will only bring yourself pain. If we should not meet again, farewell.”
     
    THE PARTY RODE LONG
    without a halt. Fording the shallow River Ystrad, the Cauldron-Born pressed tightly on either side of the