by Lloyd Alexander (1924)
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Picture this: a scrappy young pig-keeper named Taran bolts through fog-shrouded woods, mud flying from his boots, chasing the frantic white pig Hen Wen as her oracular croaks foretell war and death sweeping across Prydain. Your pulse races with his—every snapped twig, every rustle in the underbrush feels like the Huntsman of Annuvin closing in, that skeletal horror with horns curling like nightmares made flesh.
From that breathless chase, Taran’s world explodes into chaos. He stumbles into Eilonwy, a golden-haired spitfire of a princess swinging a sword bigger than she is, her tongue sharper than any blade. Then there’s Fflewddur Fflam, the cowardly king-turned-bard whose harp strings snap every time he stretches the truth, and Gurgi, that pitiful, rhyme-spouting furball who munches turnips and steals your heart with his “munchings and crunchings.” Together they dodge Arawn’s deathless warriors, infiltrate the dread castle of Caer Dathyl, and face the Horned King’s cauldron-born army in scenes that mix gut-wrenching peril with laugh-out-loud absurdity—like Gurgi hurling apples at gwythaints or Eilonwy lecturing Taran mid-battle about proper heroism.
Reading The Book of Three hits like a whirlwind: the dread coils in your gut during the Marshes of Morva, where three hags cackle over bubbling pots and twist fate like yarn; wonder surges when Dyrnwyn the magical sword blazes to life, only for flawed mortals like Taran to wield it. It’s fast, fierce, alive—no ponderous lore dumps, just raw momentum propelling you forward. What sets it apart? Alexander plucks Welsh myths—the Mabinogion’s wild magic, Annwn’s underworld—and spins them into a tale where heroism isn’t born of prophecy or bloodlines, but grit and unlikely friendships. Taran isn’t Aragorn; he’s a daydreaming kid who botches everything at first, learning courage the hard way amid banter that crackles like wildfire.
This is the book for readers who devoured The Hobbit and craved Bilbo’s bumbling bravery but with sharper wit, fiercer fights, and a band of misfits who’d make even dwarves jealous. Echoes ripple through later quests—Pullman’s His Dark Materials owes its scrappy edge here, Riordan’s demigods their cheeky magic—but Prydain burns brightest on its own.
Tonight, crack open The Book of Three, and before Hen Wen squeals her first warning, you’ll be lost in Taran’s fight for glory.
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