Taran Wanderer by Lloyd Alexander

But...”
    “Mount up, then, my lad!” shouted Smoit. “You'll see justice done. And I'll have peace
     between Gast and Goryon if I have to break their heads to gain it!”
    Swinging his battle axe, Smoit bolted from the store-room bellowing orders right and left.
     A dozen warriors sprang to horse. Smoit leaped astride a tall, barrel-chested steed,
     whistled through his teeth almost loudly enough to break them, and waved his men onward;
     amid the shouting and confusion, Taran, bewildered, found himself atop Melynlas galloping
     across the courtyard and out the castle gate.
    T
    
    
     HE RED-BEARDED KING
    
    
     set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up;
     while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his
     frantically galloping pony. Smoit's war horse was in a lather, and so was Melynlas before
     the cantrev King signaled a halt.
    “To meat!” Smoit cried, swinging out of the saddle and looking as unwearied as if he had
     just begun a morning's trot. The companions, still catching their breath, had by no means
     found their appetites, but Smoit clapped his hands to the heavy bronze belt around his
     middle. “Hunger makes a man gloomy and saps all the spirit from a battle.”
    “Sire, must we battle with Lord Gast?” Taran asked with some concern, for Smoit's war band
     numbered only the dozen who had ridden from Caer Cadarn. “And if Lord Goryon's men have
     armed, we may be too few to stand against all of them.”
    “Battle?” Smoit retorted. “No, more's the pity. I'll have those troublemakers by the nose
     and into my dungeons before nightfall. They'll do as I command. I'm their king, by my
     beard! There's brawn enough here,” he added, shaking a mighty fist, “to make them remember
     it.”
    “And yet,” Taran ventured to say. “You yourself told me a king's true strength lay in the
     will of those he ruled.”
    “How's that?” cried Smoit, who had settled his bulk against a tree trunk and was about to
     attack the joint of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag. “Don't puzzle me with my own
     words! My body and bones, a king is a king!”
    “I meant only that you've locked Gast and Goryon in your dungeon many times before,” Taran
     answered. “And still they quarrel. Is there no way to keep peace between them? Or make
     them understand...”
    “I'll reason them reasons!” bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his
     jutting brows. “But, true enough it is,” he admitted, frowning and seeming to chew at the
     thought as if it were gristle in his meat, “they go surly to the dungeon and surly leave
     it. You've struck on something, my lad. The dungeon's useless against that pair. And, my
     pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I'll have the place
     well watered down tonight.”
    Taran was about to remark that his own thought was otherwise, but Fflewddur called out and
     pointed to a horseman galloping across the meadow.
    “He wears the colors of Goryon,” shouted Smoit, jumping to his feet, still holding the
     joint in one hand and the battle axe in the other. Two of the warriors quickly mounted
     and, drawing swords, spurred to engage the rider. But the horseman, brandishing his weapon
     hilt downward, cried out that he bore tidings from the cantrev lord.
    “You rogue!” Smoit bellowed, dropping both meat and axe and collaring the rider to haul
     him bodily from the saddle. “What other mischief's afoot? Speak! Give me your news, man,
     or I'll have it out of you along with your gizzard!”
    “Sire!” gasped the messenger, “Lord Gast attacks in strength. My Lord Goryon is
     hard-pressed; he has ordered more of his warriors to arm and calls on you to help him as
     well.”
    “What of the cows?” cried Smoit. “Has Gast won them back? Does Goryon still hold them?”
    “Neither, Sire,” answered the messenger as well as he could