He satastride a roan mare, a lean and nervous steed speckled red and yellow, with a long, narrow head, whose expression was as ill-tempered as her master's. The cloak itself, Taran saw, had been neatly and painstakingly mended. Though of excellent quality, his garments had seen much wear, and his cloak was purposely draped to hide his threadbare attire.
His hair was tawny, his eyes black and deep-set in a pale, arrogant face. "You, there! Pig-boy!" The rider looking down at him was a youth only a few years older than Taran. Busy struggling to raise Hen Wen to her feet, Taran did not notice the horseman until he had reined up at the pen. The white pig, usually eager for a bath, now squealed nervously and rolled on her back in the mud. As it was, he filled the bucket at the well and trudged reluctantly to Hen Wen's enclosure. Had the old enchanter ordered him to capture a full-grown gwythaint, Taran would gladly have set out after one of the vicious winged creatures. That morning Dallben had given him the task of washing the oracular pig. To the south, across the river Great Avren, the hills shielded Caer Dallben from the winds, but even here the little farm was drawing in on itself.įor Taran, the summer was ending before it had begun. In the northernmost realms of Prydain many trees were already leafless, and among the branches clung the ragged shapes of empty nests.
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