Dreamwalker (45 page)

‘I have to help them,’ Errol said. ‘I don’t want them all to die. There must be something I can do. Some way of warning them.’

‘Errol, the Inquisitor’s been gone ten days,’ Andro said. ‘Even if I’d been able to dispatch a messenger right after him it would have done no good. No, there are far more important things that we must do, you and I.’

‘Like what?’ Errol asked, angry at his tutor’s dismissal of the dragons as if they were no more important than sheep.

‘Like teaching you a great deal of magic,’ Andro said. ‘Inquisitor Melyn will be back. It may be a week, it may be a month. Either way he’s going to want to see you again, to reinforce what he’s already put in place. You’re going to have to learn how to fool him into thinking he’s succeeded.’

‘I could run away,’ Errol said. ‘If I left now, I could get a good head start.’

‘And where would you go?’ Andro asked. ‘Back home? Candlehall? Llanwennog? You’ve no experience, Errol. Right now your only hope is to stay with the order. Learn everything you can from it, but be aware that it’s not your friend. I’m sorry to have to say it, but you’ve no choice anyway. No novitiate can leave the monastery without the express permission of the Inquisitor. I can’t see him giving it to you and neither can I undo the spell that holds you here. You must at least graduate before you can go beyond the great arch.

‘Can I really learn enough to fool Melyn?’ Errol asked. The situation seemed hopeless to him.

‘It’s possible,’ Andro said. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it. But you’ll have to work very hard indeed to trick Melyn. He is the best.’

Errol looked at the old man sitting beside him and realised that he was old. Impossibly old. His skin was translucent, showing the withered muscles and spidery blue veins underneath. His fingers were bent and claw-like, each knuckle a swollen ball of pain. His arms were sticks, no strength in them to lift more than a parchment. Yet his eyes sparkled with intelligence, his speech measured but not slow. He carried himself like a man in no hurry to die. He had hope, if not for the dragons then at least for Errol. And he was prepared to help him.

‘When do we start?’ Errol asked.

~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Six

Perhaps the most potent symbol of the power and skill of the mage is the conjuring of the blade of light. Inquisitor Ruthin is said to have been the first man to master the art when he came to Brynceri’s aid against the monstrous Maddau. He passed the knowledge on to his first followers, who became the warrior priests of the Order of the High Frydd. To this day it is the final requirement before elevation to the rank of warrior priest that a novitiate show his ability to conjure the blade. Many a quaister bears the scars of where he has tried and failed, and the hall of the dead in Emmass Fawr bears witness to those who have died in the attempt.

Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd by Fr Castlemilk

It was the uneasy quiet that gave them away. Normally the forest would have been a riot of noise: birds chittering in the tree-tops; leaves rustling in the endless thermal currents; somewhere the bark of fox cubs playing their death-practice games. Life was a continuous cacophony, a swirl of sounds that sometimes grew so intense you couldn’t think straight.

Yet now it was silence.

Benfro looked up at the distant sky. Here on the track you could see a strip of blue above the canopy, pale as a stolen egg. There were no buzzards turning on the air currents, not even a sparrow in the slim view. A shiver ran across his shoulders, itching in the pit of his back where his wings met. Unthinking, he edged to the forest verge, instinctively hugging the shadows. Then he caught the odour on the breeze. Something unnatural had come this way, something which struck a chord in his memory though the smell was as different as boar from deer. He recalled the old man, Gideon, with his halting speech and polite manner. There had been an aroma about him that was not unpleasant so much as alien. A harsher, heavier version of that stench hung on the air now. Men.

Benfro slid through the thick foliage at the side of the path and into the interior of the forest. It was cooler here and dark, which suited him just fine. The stench of the men was noticeably fainter, the gentlest of breezes pulling it away from his senses. Slowly, quietly, he picked his way through the tangled undergrowth, past the massive trunks and arched roots of the ancient trees, headed for home the back way.

As he neared the clearing and the homestead, Benfro heard voices wafting on a gentle breeze. Their accent was guttural, harsh and unfamiliar to him. This was not the old man Gideon come back to pay a friendly visit. Too far away to make out the words, he could understand all too easily the contempt in the tone. Once more he felt the itching between his wings and a sharp anger that anyone could be so offhand to his mother. Still he was not so stupid as to go barging into the clearing. With a practice born of playing the game on his own all his childhood, he crept on silent feet into the thick brush that edged the clearing and settled down to watch.

His first glimpse of the man was a shock. He seemed so small, shorter even than Gideon. Or perhaps it was the way the cottage towered over him that made him look childlike. He paced around on thin, spindly legs that surely couldn’t hold his weight, and his back was swathed in a cloak of coarse grey material that tumbled from his shoulders to the ground, dulled with mud splatters as if it had not been washed in many weeks. He stared around the clearing, two tiny, dark eyes filled with a malevolent strength, taking in all around, searching. His gaze caught Benfro’s attention, held it with a grip that nearly stopped his hearts. For long seconds the man held his gaze so that Benfro was sure he had been spotted. He drew in on himself, as Ynys Môn had taught him, trying to disappear even though the thick leaves of the bushes hid him from view. He froze, not even daring to breathe until those eyes reluctantly turned away.

Before he could do anything, a band of a dozen or more men, smaller still than the one he had locked eyes with, came trotting around the corner of the cottage, mounted on horses that were nervous and skittery. They dismounted in perfect synchrony, moving with a singularity of purpose, as if linked by one terrible mind, and they surrounded the familiar form of his mother.

Benfro gasped as he saw her. This was not the proud dragon he knew and loved and feared as only a son can. This was some timid, cowed beast, like Frecknock cowering under Sir Frynwy’s wrath. She was staring at the ground, shuffling, wings pulled so tight against her back they looked no more than a second, loose skin. In horror, he watched as she allowed the troop to push and prod her into a place in front of their leader.

‘Kneel,’ the man said, that guttural voice oozing disgust. Benfro understood enough of the language to feel his contempt. Worse yet, it was a voice that Benfro had heard before.

‘Kneel before your masters, like the wyrm that you are,’ the man said. To Benfro’s surprise, his mother didn’t bite the creature’s head off – it would easily have fitted into her mouth. Instead, she sank slowly to the ground, first her belly grinding in the dirt, then her long neck and head. Prostrated like that, her gaze was finally lower than that of her accuser.

‘You try to fight us,’ the man said, a note of wry amusement in his voice. ‘Do you really think that a lowly creature such as yourself could hope to master me? No, Morgwm, you can’t help but bow to my will.’

‘You know my name,’ Benfro’s mother said. ‘Might I have the honour of knowing yours?’

‘Ha!’ the man spat. ‘Novitiates, observe,’ he addressed his words to the band, ignoring Morgwm. ‘Your average forest dragon pretends to be a cowardly creature, pathetic and harmless. Don’t be fooled by this exterior, don’t fall for its lies.’

‘I mean no harm to you,’ Benfro’s mother said. ‘And if I’ve offended you in some way, please, accept my humblest apologies good sir.’

‘Offended, Morgwm? Oh yes, you’ve offended mightily. I see you’re still peddling your quackery.’

‘My medicines? I only seek to alleviate suffering.’

‘Silence, cow!’ the man shouted. His eyes were blazing with a fierce red light now and Benfro could feel his anger as a force in the clearing. No, it was more than anger. It was a hatred so pure and visceral that he could taste it. What could his mother possibly have done to warrant such treatment?

‘Roots and berries, tree bark, mud. You seriously expect such things to cure illness? You think you know more than the palace apothecaries? Your base witchcraft is an affront to their wisdom.’

‘Ah, I know you now,’ Morgwm said and Benfro could hear the sadness in her voice. ‘You must be from Queen Beulah’s court. Warrior priests of the High Frydd. Am I addressing Inquisitor Melyn, perchance? You’ve aged since last I saw you.’

Benfro was almost knocked out by the wave of pure fury that pulsed from the man. Some of the band shuddered where they stood. Morgwm flinched but held her gaze and in that moment, Benfro realised what was coming next, knew all too well why his mother had prayed he would never have to deal with men.

‘Your disrespect for the queen is but the least of your crimes, cow. Your kind have been an affront to humanity for too long. Well, that’s about to change. You don’t have Divitie’s protection anymore.’

‘I never thought it would last this long,’ Morgwm said and Benfro could see something of her true nature in his mother. It was a subtle thing. She didn’t appear to move, but her posture changed to one of calm defiance. Whatever the Inquisitor might do to her, she wouldn’t fear him.

‘Your grace, I’ve searched the area as you instructed. There’s nothing here but forest and the track we came in on.’ The warrior priest who walked up to the Inquisitor was tall and well-muscled. His cloak was cleaner than most, probably because the horse he led was bigger than all the others. It looked at the prostrate form of the dragon without any outward sign of disquiet. Benfro had not seen many horses in his life, but he recognised this animal as something special.

‘Of course there isn’t, Osgal,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘An illegal village of dragons would be very well hidden indeed. Even I can’t sense the magic that hides them. Such a spell would have to be tied to a life. There’d need to be a gatekeeper. Would there not, Morgwm?’

Benfro watched in growing horror as his mother simply stared at the Inquisitor, her great eyes unblinking. He could sense the growing anger in the man as a wall of heat spreading out across the clearing to where he hid.

‘Yes, I know all about you, Morgwm the Green,’ The Inquisitor said, and Benfro suddenly realised he was speaking Draigiaith, the harsh tone of the Saesneg gone, replaced by a softer, gentler voice that nevertheless held far more menace. Benfro knew exactly where he had heard it before. Without the righteous fury and indignation, it was plainly Sir Felyn who spoke. And when the Inquisitor unfolded his arms from across his chest, raising them into the air above Morgwm’s head, he could see those terrible pudgy pink fingers.

‘I know that you think yourself better than me, that you consider your kind above our laws,’ the Inquisitor continued. ‘And I know all about your little band of renegades hiding out here in the forest.’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ Morgwm said. ‘Your mind is far too small to understand even my simplest thoughts. I, on the other hand, know exactly what you intend to do. I have prepared for it for a long time.’

‘Is that so?’ The Inquisitor said and Benfro felt a surge of the man’s hatred boil across the clearing. ‘And yet you do nothing to protect yourself. I guess it’s true then what they say about dragons. You really are base, timid creatures at heart. The world will be better off without you.’

‘So be it,’ Morgwm said, blinking her long eyelids once. ‘But don’t think that this is the end. This is the beginning.’

She turned, briefly taking in the bush where Benfro hid. If she knew he was there, she made no more sign than to close her eyes one last time, then she turned back to her accuser.

Benfro wanted to scream, wanted to run through the band of warriors and flatten them. Yet something in his mother’s demeanour stopped him. That and the palpable sense of fear and foreboding that swamped his senses. Before he could do anything, the Inquisitor had conjured a blade of pure white light from nowhere. He raised it high above his head, the air singing as it was rent asunder. Then, with almost contemptuous ease he brought it down in a silent arc, meeting no resistance whatsoever as it severed Morgwm’s head from her neck.

~~~~

The Ballad of Sir Benfro - Volume 2

The Rose Cord

Chapter One

In the early years of the Order of the High Ffrydd, the slaughter of dragons was continuous. Charged by the word of King Brynceri, Inquisitors and warrior priests spread out through the forest of the Ffrydd in search of their prey. Few dragons put up a fight, most accepting their deaths as if they had been expecting them.