The Broken World (26 page)

‘Keep close, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings,' Cerys said. ‘Not all of my family are as friendly as I am.'

As if hearing her words, a half-dozen dragons split off from the main group and headed towards them at impossible speed. Benfro moved closer to Cerys but not so close that their wings might touch. They were high enough that a fall would be fatal. As the lead dragons neared, he had a horrible sense of foreboding. As if he'd met them before somewhere but he couldn't tell where. They weren't the dragons who had attacked him in his dreamwalking when he had dropped Ynys Môn's jewels, that was for sure. But he knew them from somewhere.

Two of them shot past so quickly he felt the turbulence in the air. They banked swiftly, coming in above and behind in a perfect attacking manoeuvre. Cerys ignored them, so Benfro felt that was perhaps the best thing to do.

‘So this is the stray you found, Cerys. He's younger than I expected. Little more than a kitling, I'd say.'

Benfro bit his tongue to avoid answering. The dragon who'd spoken was the largest in the group and fully twice his size. His wings were massive, thick at the front edge and battered as if he'd spent his life fighting. Or crashing into trees.

‘I told you he wasn't old, Fflint. And he fought off a terrible beast with claws of flame. Lost his hand escaping here. Myfanwy says he used the lines.'

‘Ran away from the castle 'cause he didn't like his lessons, more like. Well, we've lost enough of the fold lately. Not going to turn away any who can pull their weight.' The big dragon wheeled lazily around until he was heading in the same direction, sinking slowly until he was between Benfro and Cerys, forcing them apart. ‘Come on then. Let's see what you're made of.'

The dragons who had been circling in the air above the cliff top had all landed now and were standing around on the area of flat ground behind the edge. The rest of their escort landed swiftly, then Fflint spiralled down, coming to rest with a grace and precision that belied his size.

‘I … I'm not very good at landing,' Benfro said as he and Cerys sank slowly towards the ground. There were more dragons waiting, watching, than he had ever seen. Dozens of them filling up the space he would have liked to have used to crash in. But he couldn't. Not here, not now. He'd taken off from a standstill. Surely he could manage a landing?

Cerys just laughed, which wasn't very helpful of her. She folded her wings, swooped down like a hawk towards the crowd, then snapped them open at the last minute. Some of the smaller dragons scattered as she landed, clearing a bit of space for Benfro. Being a little helpful. It still left the difficult bit to him alone. And with everyone watching.

In the end he very nearly got it right. Swooping first left and then right, Benfro clutched his regrowing hand to his chest to avoid damaging it. He had no doubt he looked like a duck trying to land on an icy pond in a high wind, but he timed everything just about right, bringing his wings down in a final, heavy beat as his feet approached the ground. It was covered in short wiry grass, which was just as well. It cushioned his fall as, at the last possible moment, he tripped one foot over the other. Pain lanced up his damaged arm as he fell heavily on it, and the last thing he heard was the braying laughter of the collected fold, the mocking tones of Fflint.

‘Oh, well played. Very well played. I think I'm going to like having you around.'

‘What's it like then, up the mountain?'

The third day of Errol's stay in the village, and he still hadn't discovered what it was called. After his fine meal at Murta's, an afternoon's sleep had turned into almost twenty hours, and even now he still felt weary. He longed to get started on his search for Martha, certain that this strange land was where he would find her, but Errol had to admit he needed time to recover and build up his strength.

‘Up what mountain?'

‘C'mon, Errol. I saw you fall out of nowhere, remember. That's mountain magic. Everybody knows that.' Nellore sat beside him on the steps outside the house where she lived. Her house, Errol supposed, although it seemed strange for one so young to live on her own. He still wore his old travelling cloak, but all his other clothes had come from the chest in Murta's son's room and another in this house. It seemed a lot of the villagers had died young.

‘What happened to your ma and da?'

‘You trying to change the subject?' Nellore asked.

‘Maybe. A bit. Not sure I want to talk about where I came from. Least not until I've worked out where I am.'

‘Fair enough. Ma died when I was little. Don't remember her much any more. Da was sacrifice last year. He's with the gods now.'

Something about the matter-of-fact way Nellore spoke the words lessened their immediate impact. It took Errol a moment to process them and realize that he didn't
understand what they meant. He opened his mouth to ask, but both of them were distracted as a scream shattered the morning quiet. It went on far longer than any scream should, fading into a gurgling moan.

‘What in Gwlad …?' Errol stood up, scanning the track in the direction of the noise, but Nellore was already up and running. He hurried after her, catching up only as she rounded the end of a two-storey stone house and darted down the passageway between it and the next building. Past the two of them, he could see a small scrubby orchard, a ladder propped up against one of the trees.

‘Hammie! Hammie! Oh no,' Nellore shouted as she ran towards the ladder. As Errol followed he could see what had happened all too easily. Hammie he assumed to be the man with the ladder, who had obviously been picking fruit from the trees. They weren't all that tall, but the topmost branches were far enough from the ground that falling from one could only end badly. A heavy branch lay alongside the prone man, still laden with bulbous pink fruits. A white smear of wood showed where the branch had snapped and, looking up, Errol could see a corresponding tear near the top of the tree.

‘He's not breathing. Errol, help!' Nellore was kneeling beside the man now, her head to his chest as she listened for a heartbeat. His legs were twisted badly underneath him, but at least Hammie's neck didn't seem broken. Not from where Errol was, at least.

‘Let me get close,' he said as he knelt alongside Nellore. All the medicine and herb lore his mother had taught him slotted into place as he set about checking the man over.
He was breathing, barely, and his pulse fluttered weakly. A quick look at his eyes showed he was out cold, no response to fingers prising open the lids at all.

‘OK. Let's have a closer look at the damage, shall we?' Errol sat back on his haunches and tried to find the half-trance that would let him see the aethereal. He wished Benfro were here; the dragon was far more adept at healing than he ever would be. The simple fact that Errol could walk was testament to that. But that was wishful thinking. Benfro was gone, either still back in Tynhelyg and dead at Melyn's hand, or fled to who knew where. Errol concentrated, scrunching his eyes up for a moment. Then he relaxed and opened himself up to the Grym.

The man lay beside him, a riot of violent oranges and reds swirling about his lower body and legs. His head was a dark blue, cold and dying. Errol looked closer and saw the patterns of the fractures, the spread of shock as it pushed its fingers through vital organs. Slowly, methodically, shutting them down. He was going to die. Unless …

Errol looked for the lines of the Grym, seeing them everywhere. He reached out for the nearest, pulling the force into him as he would have done back at Emmass Fawr to keep warm. But instead of letting the heat flow through his own body, he directed it into the injured man, paying most attention to the areas where shock was threatening to overwhelm him.

It was a long, hard struggle, maintaining his concentration against a multitude of distractions. Errol was dimly aware of more people arriving at the scene, of Nellore leaving his side. A tiny part of him thanked her for understanding what he was doing and making sure he had the
space to do it. Most of him was locked into the task of saving the injured man's life.

Slowly, agonizingly, the shock retreated under the assault of the Grym, something akin to health returning to the man's organs. Errol shifted his focus to the injuries. There was nothing he could do about the major fractures, but he could see numerous sites of internal bleeding, tiny little cuts and tears that would nonetheless prove fatal if not dealt with. At first he was unsure how the Grym could help, but just concentrating it on the individual points seemed to do the trick. One by one the wounds healed, the blood staunched. There was still the small matter of badly broken legs, but that was something he could deal with in the mundane.

‘I think he's going to be OK,' Errol said as he let the trance slip and looked down once more at the prone form of the man. He was younger than Errol had first thought, probably not much older than he was himself. His face was slack in unconsciousness, straggly brown hair almost covering his eyes. He wore a rough tunic not unlike the one Nellore had, or the one Errol had found waiting for him on the chair by his bed in Murta's house when he'd woken. Most of the villagers wore very similar cloth. Not quite a uniform, but lacking the individuality of even the poorest inhabitants of Pwllpeiran where he'd grown up.

‘What … What did you do? I thought he was dead.'

Errol tried to get up, but his legs didn't want to comply. A wave of weariness swept over him, the blood rushing from his head as if he were a bottle and someone had pulled out the stopper. He barely had the energy to turn away from the prone man as he fell forward, the last thing
he saw as the blackness claimed him the sight of twenty or more villagers staring at him, each face a picture of disbelief.

Melyn slumped into his chair – King Ballah's chair – and focused again on the Grym. Its warmth seeped through him, washing away the worst of the pain, but it could do nothing for the weariness that pulled at his senses. A stack of reports lay in front of him, but he had no appetite for reading. He preferred to sit, letting the Grym work its slow healing on him. The bed in the other room was more comfortable, but he had never placed much faith in comfort. And it was all but impossible to maintain the respect of your men from a sickbed.

‘Your Grace. You should not be doing so much. The wound will take longer to heal.'

‘Do you think I don't know that?' Melyn turned too swiftly to glare at the dragon and immediately regretted it.

‘I will help you back to your bed,' she said, taking a step towards him. He held up a hand to stop her and she obeyed like a well-trained dog.

‘No. I won't be going back to bed just now. There is too much to do. You can help me though. You and this book of yours.' Melyn put a hand on top of the Llyfr Draconius, feeling the surging magics within.

‘The book?' Frecknock tried to sound nonchalant, as if it were no great thing, but Melyn could see the hunger in her eyes.

‘Yes, the book. And this ring. These are things of great magical power. They help to focus the Grym and to anchor me in the aethereal. I need all the help I can get for what I
must do.' Melyn picked up the box containing Brynceri's ring and opened it. The gem set in the slim silver band was dark and lifeless, but he could sense the power coiled in it, waiting. He recalled the thrill he had felt on first wearing it, how it had aided him and his small army as they took Tynhelyg and cut off the head of the House of Ballah. With it he had reached out across Gwlad with but a thought, pulled Clun's aethereal self from him as if it were no more than a coat. It had been intoxicating to wield such power, but it had come at a cost. He would not fall into that trap so easily again. ‘I would use Ballah's throne too, but I don't think I can handle it at the moment.'

‘You are going to contact Master Clun?' Frecknock asked.

‘That much I should be able to manage, and it approaches the time when he should be waiting for me.' Melyn breathed heavily through the pain in his chest. At least the blood wasn't bubbling in his lungs, although how long that would last he couldn't be sure. ‘But first I must see if I can find Prince Geraint and his army, and that will take far more effort. Far more skill. And your help.'

Melyn found it hard to read expressions on the dragon's face. It was such an alien thing, all scales and unexpected angles. But her eyes showed her surprise at his request, and they showed something else too. There was a pride there, a happiness that she was valued, of use. A well-trained dog indeed, she would follow her master wherever he bade her go.

She stepped up beside him, taking his hand as he requested. Hers was warmer to the touch than he expected – that always took him by surprise. He felt the
energy in her, stronger even than the Grym he tapped from the lines crossing beneath his chair. Melyn settled himself as best he could, shutting out the pain and discomfort, letting his mind slip into the trance state. It took longer than normal, but he pushed back his anger and frustration. No one could be expected to sustain injuries like his and hope to enter the aethereal easily.

When he did find the trance, it was not as he expected. At Emmass Fawr his small rooms or Brynceri's chapel always appeared much as they did in the mundane. The Neuadd was if anything even more magnificent when seen with the mind's eye. In contrast, Ballah's reception room, bedchamber and other apartments disappeared into a grey mist as if they had never been there. The grey continued in all directions, uniform and unchanging. There was only the throne, as far away from him as it would be were he still sitting at Ballah's desk. Melyn started towards it, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

‘Your Grace, this is not what it seems.'

Melyn looked around and then up at the face of Frecknock. She was bigger here in the aethereal. Bigger even than she had appeared when she had helped him contact Clun across the maelstrom of unravelling magics that was the forest of the Ffrydd. Her dull grey and black scales had gone, replaced by striking hues of iridescent purple. Even her eyes were flecked with gold, rather than the blank, lifeless black he was used to. But it was her wings that were most noticeable: folded by her sides, they towered over her head in the same way that Benfro's had. This, Melyn realized, was how Frecknock saw herself now. Not the pathetic, downtrodden thing that inhabited
the mundane world. Here she had power and purpose. Here she was growing as her fear eased and her self-confidence grew. Despite himself he couldn't help thinking he preferred her that way.