Sunrise

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Life or Death

They marched all the rest of the day, and through the night - no one could have slept, anyway, even weary as they were. Urgency drove them on. They spoke little, too anxious, and too preoccupied with finding their way in the darkness. Eilonwy did not dare to light the way with her bauble, for fear of being seen by the scouts and outriders, of whom they caught occasional glimpses, passing too close for comfort. Fortunately, Doli seemed to see just as well in the dark as he did in the light. Under his guidance, they emerged from the woods in the pale light of sunrise, slightly less stone-bruised and bramble-scratched than might have been expected.

But as one, they gazed in mute horror at the sight before them. Eilonwy felt her heart drop into an abyss. Though the towers of Caer Dathyl shone golden in the distance beyond the treetops, between them and that beacon lay a seething mass of warriors. The dust of their trampling feet hung in a choking haze over the valley.

Next to her, Taran groaned. "Too late. We're too late. We have failed."

We have failed, she thought dully. Yes. If he were going to lay the credit for his survival at the feet of his friends, they could just as well all share the blame. If only she hadn't been so ill that first day. If only they hadn't gotten lost on the other side of Medwyn's valley, or tarried there a whole night. If only they hadn't gone down the black lake, or wasted time with that stupid, ungrateful gwythaint. If only...

Oh, what did it matter. It was like wishing you'd been born with twelve fingers.

They stood as though paralyzed for a long moment. The Fflewddur strode forward, the same fey light in his face she had seen the day before, his pale hair whipping wildly into his eyes. "There is one thing we can do," he declared. "Caer Dathyl lies straight ahead. Let us go on and make our last stand there."

The ring in his voice made her stand up straighter, lift her face to the wind. Of course. Turning into the fight was better than running away to be hunted down. No matter the outcome.

"Yes." Taran said, echoing her thoughts. "My place is at the side of Gwydion's people." He turned to Doli. "You have guided us well. Please, lead Eilonwy and Gurgi to safety, and return to your king with our gratitude. Your work is done."

Lead them to safety! After all this - he thought she would leave, just now? A flood of indignant words rushed up her throat, but before even one could escape, Doli was already bellowing his outrage. "Done!" he burst out. "Idiot! Numbskulls! It's not that I care what happens to you, but don't think I'm going to watch you get hacked to pieces. I can't stand a botched job. Like it or not, I'm going with you."

She wanted to burst out in incongruous and completely inappropriate laughter, to throw her arms around the dwarf and hug him; but before she could, before anyone could do anything, there was a thin ringing hiss and a thump, and an arrow sank into a tree trunk behind Doli's head. Melyngar reared, neighing an alarm, and suddenly, everything was turning upside down.

There were shouts from the woods, men running, flashes of metal. Eilonwy, whirling, trying to make sense of the chaos, found herself lifted almost bodily from the ground and flung toward the white horse. Taran, having been pitched just before her, was looking back desperately, as though inclined to argue. But Fflewddur, sword in hand, was in command again. "Begone!" the bard cried, in a tone that gave no quarter. "Fly from here. Ride as fast as you can or it will be death for all of us!"

Taran looked wildly toward the woods, at Eilonwy, at Fflewddur, who roared a final, "Do as I say!" and spun, running to meet their attackers. Doli was already in the midst of them, his axe flashing.

There was no uncertainty in Eilonwy's mind; she moved automatically toward Melyngar, snapping Taran out of his indecision. He grabbed at the saddle and leapt astride, pulled her up by the arm as she scrambled up behind him, and dug his heels into Melyngar's flanks.
The horse shot forward like an arrow and Eilonwy gasped and clutched at Taran as the motion nearly toppled her backwards. There was nowhere to sit; she bounced between the saddleback and the rolled pack strapped behind it, trying to grip with her knees, and was obliged to wrap both arms around the boy's waist to stay seated. Even then it was difficult. Melyngar was in full gallop and with Taran in front there was no looking where they were going; if she leaned around him to see, she'd lose what precarious balance she had. She pressed her face against his back and held on for dear life, blindly, as the horse leaped bracken and gully and went uphill and down with no warning but the bunch and stretch of muscle underneath. Trees and brush flew by in a dizzying rush; Taran's long hair whipped into her face and eyes and she finally shut them, finding it no worse.