The Broken World (32 page)

‘They wanted to take our youngest and strongest. But you, Errol, you came along at just the right moment.'

The medicine man's bird head was all he could see now, the rest of the room disappearing into the edges of a black tunnel. As his legs buckled under him, Errol felt not the floor rushing up to greet him, but strong hands gripping under his arms. His last thought as unconsciousness claimed him, how stupid he was not to have seen what was coming.

‘Wake, Melyn son of Arrall. Wake.'

Melyn had not been aware he was sleeping. Before the
voice there had been nothing, as if he had never existed. Or had he been dreaming of his childhood, long forgotten in a lifetime of service to the Order of the High Ffrydd? All the mother and father he would ever need. Fleeting images tumbled through his mind as he struggled into consciousness: a castle in snow-capped mountains, the concerned look on the face of a woman he didn't recognize, a pair of dragons flying high in a cloudless sky.

‘Wake!'

With a lurch Melyn sat up, then clutched at his chest in agony. The slashes that Benfro had cut across him throbbed and stung, and his lungs were weak, still choked with blood. It took too long for him to remember where he was – in King Ballah's bed, deep in the royal palace at Tynhelyg. He cast back for a waking memory, seeing Clun in his aethereal form, Beulah and her newborn daughter. How much better if she had borne a son. But how had he come to be here, sleeping?

‘You were grievously injured, my faithful servant.'

Only then did Melyn realize that he was in the presence of the Shepherd. How he could have not noticed before was beyond him. That perfect bliss drove away the pain, made breathing as light and easy as it was unnecessary. The troubles and aches of the campaign melted away as he basked in the love of his god. But lying in his bed was no way to meet his maker. Melyn struggled with the heavy blankets, desperate to kneel.

‘Rest easy.' There was no one in the room with him, and yet Melyn felt a firm hand push him back into the bed. Where it touched his chest, it burned like ice, spreading through him and freezing him solid. Only his mind
worked, utterly at the mercy of the Shepherd. As it should always be.

‘Forgive me. I have failed in your service. I had the boy Errol and the dragon Benfro in my grasp and they both escaped me.' The cold filled him, so deep he could not even shiver. It was a reflection of the Shepherd's disappointment in him, he knew, a tiny fraction of the icy torment that awaited him should he fail once too often.

‘They are creatures of the Wolf, my old friend. They have his wiliness and cunning. But fear not. They will not escape you again.'

Pressure on his chest constricted Melyn's breathing even further. For a moment he wondered if he had angered his god one time too many, if this was the end and the icy pits of the Wolf's lair awaited. But then the wounds on his chest began to stretch and knit, the flesh turning stiff and hard as his deep gashes were healed. An energy flooded through him he had never felt before, the power of God made real.

‘I cannot have my most faithful servant languishing in a soft bed while his body heals.' The Shepherd's voice was like warm water, chasing away the chill that had held him fast, leaving his fingers and toes tingling with pins and needles. ‘Your servant did what she could, but her skills are limited.'

‘Frecknock?' Melyn was surprised to hear his god mention the creature in such a casual manner. Was she not a servant of the Wolf, after all?

‘She swore a blood oath to protect you, did she not? That is more powerful even than her allegiance to my ancient foe. You know as well as I, Melyn son of Arall,
how few true allies you have in this world. But she is one. You need not fear she will betray you. Others you consider far closer will prove themselves less worthy first.'

‘My lord.' Melyn bent his head in submission even though he had no altar, no focus for his prayers. He could feel the skin of his chest hardening, changing under the Shepherd's healing touch.

‘You worry about Prince Geraint's army. You fear that they will overrun the city, take back this prize you have won.'

‘I killed his father. He will not rest until one of us is dead. I would not, had someone killed my queen.'

‘Ah, Melyn. Your loyalty is not in question. It never has been. You serve me well, and I will not see you fail now. It is true that the Wolf seems to have the upper hand here, but overconfidence has ever been his undoing. He sees all dragons as his creatures, their magic as his tool. But Frecknock has turned her back on him. Use her. Keep her close and she will serve you well.'

‘But how can I fight him? He commands a hundred thousand men, ten thousand of them adepts. Tynhelyg is ill suited to a siege.'

‘Then do not try to defend it. Take your warrior priests out to the Lantern Plains on the fifth day from this one. Set them atop Bailey's Hill and keep the dragon close by. She will hide you on the sixth dawn and by noon your victory will be complete.'

‘Hide us? I don't understand.'

‘Of course you don't. You are skilled in the ways of magic, Melyn. More skilled perhaps than any man on Gwlad. But do not presume to know the ways of your god.'

Melyn felt each word as a stab in his brain, an echo of the torment promised him should he fall short of the expectations of the Shepherd.

‘I live only to serve, my lord.' He bent low to the bedcovers, feeling the strange stiffness in his chest restricting his movements. The pain was gone though, and his breath no longer bubbled. He felt strong, refreshed as if he had slept a week. But at the same moment as he realized he was healed, so Melyn was bereft at the departure of his god, for the Shepherd's presence had disappeared as swiftly and suddenly as it had come. He sat in his bed for long minutes, savouring the bittersweet memory of the encounter, until a gentle knock at the door reminded him of himself.

‘What is it?'

The door opened a foot, revealing the hesitant face of Frecknock.

‘Your Grace, I heard voices. I only wanted to be sure you were all right.'

‘I am well, Frecknock. Much better than I could hope, given the circumstances.' Melyn pulled aside the blankets and swung his legs out of bed. He felt stronger than he had in days. Weeks, if he was being honest, although his chest was tight under the bandages.

‘Sire, how is it that—?'

‘The Shepherd moves in mysterious ways, Frecknock. Did he not bring you to me in the first place?'

‘But your wound. It's—'

‘Much better, thank you.' Melyn shrugged off his sleeping robes. ‘I don't think I need these bandages any more.'

‘Of course. Here. Let me help you.' Frecknock stepped
closer, her large hands and long fingers swiftly untying the bandages. Melyn's arms were strong as he raised them to let her work, but they felt stiff and with less mobility than he remembered. The tightness in his chest restricted his movements in a way that wasn't painful but was nevertheless awkward.

‘Your Grace, I don't understand. How is this possible?'

Melyn looked up to see that Frecknock had taken a couple of steps back, the bandages held loosely in one hand. She was staring not at his face but at his bare chest, and he finally looked down to see the scarring the Shepherd's healing had left behind, for surely his god would not heal him and leave no trace of the failure his injury represented.

Only there was no scar, no livid pink tissue mapping the shiny route of Benfro's razor claws. Instead the front of Melyn's chest was covered in a plate of fine golden scales.

‘Your Highness. I am glad to see you've settled in.'

Dafydd looked up from his desk to see Seneschal Padraig standing in the doorway. It wasn't his desk really; in truth he had no idea who it belonged to. Queen Beulah, he supposed, since these were the royal apartments deep in the heart of the old palace. The room was comfortably large, airy with high ceilings and tall windows opening on to a balcony that overlooked the Winter Gardens. A fire burned in the hearth, but there wasn't much need for it. Candlehall was far warmer than Tynhelyg, even as the autumn began to fade. The dying afternoon light reflected off dark red velvet drapes hung around a bed big
enough for an army, and through the set of double doors beside it there was a bathroom with seemingly endless piped hot water. He was washed, well fed and had even managed to find some clothes that fitted. After months of travel it was nice to have a bit of luxury, although he could imagine the scowl on his grandfather's face if he had seen the opulence of the place.

‘I would be happier if my wife were here with me.' Dafydd stood, went to greet the old man. Padraig was in his habitual black robes, slightly better tailored than those worn by the many predicants of the Candle who thronged the palace complex about whatever business they had. His hair was almost all gone, just the memory of it clinging whitely to his shiny liver-spotted scalp. Sallow skin and sunken eyes spoke of a man no longer able to make the most of his food. The haughty expression and sharp cheekbones suggested the seneschal had never been one too caught up in the pleasures of the flesh anyway.

‘We will all be happy when Princess Iolwen is with us. She has left Abervenn and is coming upriver by barge, if that is why you wished to speak with me. That infernal Ram Usel said you wished an audience.' Padraig winced in distaste as he named the medic.

‘Among other things. Mostly I need to know what your plans are for the city. Have you had any word from Beulah?'

‘If you mean does she know her capital has fallen, then yes. I have not spoken to the queen myself since the day she left here on her grand tour, many months ago, but I have ways of communicating with the major cities of the
Twin Kingdoms. I can reach Talarddeg, even Tynhelyg if absolutely necessary.'

Dafydd could see the offer for what it was, but nevertheless he was tempted. And yet he didn't want to be any more beholden to the seneschal than he already was. ‘Not for now. Perhaps when Princess Iolwen is safe here I will contact King Ballah myself.'

Something passed across Padraig's eyes at the mention of the king, but Dafydd couldn't tell what. The prince was more skilled in magic than many, but the seneschal had spent a much longer lifetime in its study. His mind was as closed as the deepest dungeons beneath the palace at Tynhelyg. Dafydd could not even tell whether the old man was being evasive or simply always had rigid control of his thoughts, although after a moment's silence he simply nodded his head slightly.

‘As you wish, sire.'

‘And the city? Are you preparing for a siege?'

‘We are gathering all the supplies we can, sending those who have other places to go back out to the country. This city has not been attacked in many centuries though. Not since the Brumal Wars. Strange that it always falls prey to its own, never a foreign invader.' Padraig allowed himself a small smile before continuing. ‘We can survive for months if the walls remain unbreached, the gates hold. But Beulah is queen, a child of the House of Balwen. There is no telling what she might know, what secrets could let her in behind our backs.'

‘Would you just throw open the gates? Let them come in like you did for us?'

‘No, sire. That would not serve the people well.'

‘How so? I thought you wanted only to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.'

‘Quite so. And you have not harmed a single person since arriving here. More, you rejected the offer of the Obsidian Throne, and I am truly grateful for that.' Padraig lowered his head to stress his sincerity, then looked up again, his pale eyes suddenly bright. ‘But Queen Beulah is a very different person. She will not be kind to the city that turned its back on her.'

‘She would sack her own capital?'

‘Worse. I have no doubt of it. Make no mistake, Prince Dafydd. I have picked a side in this war and I will defend it to the utmost of my ability. But you must never forget what is at stake here should we fail. Candlehall and all inside its walls will burn.'

‘You fly well for a kitling. Though you seem to favour your right wing a little. A shame about the landing, though. That needs more practice, I think.'

Sun on his back and the wind ruffling the hairy tufts at the end of his ears, Benfro was too happy in himself to be annoyed at being called a kitling. In truth, he wasn't exactly a fully grown adult, even if he had reached his majority and carried the honorific title of head of his family. He was still young, possibly the youngest dragon in this fold, and the dragon alongside whom he flew was older than the hills.

‘Ah, I see it now. A couple of small bones that were broken and not set correctly. How can one so young have seen so many mishaps?'

Benfro didn't reply. He'd spotted a deer through the tree canopy and was trying to work out the best way to catch it. He had regained almost all of his strength since he'd been healed by Myfanwy and arrived in such inelegant fashion at the fold's gathering place atop the Twmp. There was just the small matter of his regrowing hand to slow him down. That and his continued inability to land without falling on his face.

‘Deer. There. See them?' He didn't wait for an answer, but folded back his wings and plummeted towards the
ground. Behind him he could sense the surprise of his flying companion. Sir Gwair wasn't the leader of the dragons, but he was the oldest and probably the wisest after Myfanwy the healer. Benfro had spent a long time trying to work out who was the leader but had lately come to the conclusion there wasn't one. Certainly they were very different to the staid old villagers with whom he had grown up.

The trees here were more of the strange things he had seen turned into houses when first he'd arrived. Tall, impossibly thick trunks were topped with tiny little branches and smatterings of leaves. With a twist of his tail, Benfro slid through the slimmest of gaps, still high enough off the ground not to worry. Something of his approach must have registered with the deer though. He'd only seen one, but a herd of them scattered in all directions. He focused on a large buck with particularly impressive antlers, angled his descent to intersect with where he knew it was going to run. Closer and closer, faster and faster, the wind pulled tears from his eyes, blurring his vision so that it was hard to judge the distance. He had to rely on memory, experience, convince himself that he could do this even with his eyes closed. And then he let out a laugh of joy. Of course he could do it with his eyes closed. He could see the life in everything around him, use the lines to judge distance far more accurately than with mere sight. They came to him easily now; there was something about this place or maybe the lack of Magog's influence. In the same instant he thought of them, they were there.

They were everywhere.

The stag was a bright point of light, moving back and forth as it tried to escape him, but the trees were even brighter still, crawling with life, glowing with it in themselves. The Grym pulsed through them in slow waves, almost hypnotic, and around them auras glowed in colours he had no names for. Momentarily distracted, Benfro almost crashed into the ground, swinging his wings down hard and pulling his head back to avoid a nasty collision. Instinctively he raised his legs, talons extended, and without realizing he was doing it, brought them together around the stag's neck. It died in an instant, the pulse of its life winking out like a candle extinguished. And with that death he felt a surge of energy fill him. Without a thought he released the body just in time to execute a perfect landing.

‘Bravo, Benfro. As fine a kill as ever I saw.'

The voice woke him from some kind of trance. Benfro looked up, the Grym seeping away from his vision as he did so. Sir Gwair spiralled down from a larger gap in the canopy, landing heavily. The old dragon waddled up to inspect the dead stag.

‘These trees. What are they called?' Benfro had almost forgotten the deer. He was fascinated by the thick trunks, the pulsing life within them. He walked up to the nearest one and reached out with his hand, felt the smooth surface of its bark, and as he did so a tiny jolt of energy shot from his hand into it. He recoiled, letting out a yelp more of surprise than pain. Sir Gwair must have seen, as he chuckled under his breath before answering.

‘These are the earliest trees. The Bondaris. Legend has it they are the sons and daughters of the mother tree
herself.' Sir Gwair stood beside Benfro now, and he too reached out to touch the smooth bark. As he did so, Benfro saw the tree glow as it took the gift of the Grym from the old dragon.

‘I've met the mother tree,' Benfro said. ‘She found me when I was almost dead, took me in, fed me. And all she wanted in return was a story.'

Sir Gwair patted the tree once more before speaking again, and when he did it was in a low voice.

‘You are so young, Benfro. You have so much to learn. But one thing I will tell you now. Do not mention the mother tree to the rest of the fold. Certainly not to Fflint and his like. They don't hold much with such things. Kitlings' tales, superstition and nonsense. That's what they think.'

‘But she's real. How can they not know that?'

‘They choose not to. Same as they chose not to live in the castle with the Old One. Those of them that weren't hatched out here in the wilds, that is.'

Benfro was about to ask more. He knew so little about these dragons, knew so little about any of his kind when he thought about it. But before he could say anything a great bellowing roar filled the air above their heads. Looking up, he saw Fflint and his cronies wheeling not far above the treetops.

‘Oh no. Not so soon, surely.' Sir Gwair gazed up too.

‘What is it?' Benfro bent down to pick up the deer and begin the task of gutting and preparing it, but the old dragon reached out a bony hand, stopping him.

‘Leave it, Benfro. You should see this, if only to understand something of what we have become.' Sir Gwair
took a couple of steps towards the nearby clearing where he had landed, opening his wings and taking to the air with practised ease. Two sweeps of his gnarled and ancient wings and he was above the canopy, away.

Benfro looked at the tree towering above him, then at the dead stag. His talons had pierced its neck, killing it instantly, but it still needed to be grallocked or the meat would spoil, no matter what Sir Gwair might have said. Working as swiftly as he could, he stripped the carcass of its entrails, not easy given the lack of dexterity in his regrowing hand.

‘What's keeping you, slowcoach?'

Benfro looked up from his task to see Cerys walking towards him. His hearts still leaped at the sight of her, but he was embarrassed too. She visited his cave occasionally, but not every night. Mostly she seemed to spend her time with Myfanwy, away from the Twmp, where Fflint was unlikely to bother her.

‘Didn't want to leave this to go foul. Ynys Môn would never forgive me.'

‘Ynys Môn?'

‘An old dragon. A friend. He taught me to hunt.'

‘Taught you well too. But there's finer fare than deer to be had. Leave that for the forest animals. We won't lack for food tonight.'

Like Sir Gwair before her, she turned, strode towards the clearing and took to the sky without a backward glance. Soon she was above the canopy. She turned slowly in the air, calling down. ‘Won't wait for you for ever, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. Come on or you'll miss all the fun.'

Benfro looked at the half-eviscerated carcass, then to the wheeling dragon overhead. He hated to waste good meat, hated even more to have killed such a magnificent animal only to let it lie. Perhaps the forest creatures would benefit, but it was a shame all the same. The urgency of his new family piqued his curiosity though, and that had always been his weakness.

Setting the stag against the base of the nearest tree, he ran towards the clearing, snapped open his wings and leaped into the air.

A low droning noise battered against his hearing like a fly at a grimy pane of glass. Errol tried to shake his head to get rid of whatever it was, but he couldn't move. Something held him flat on a hard surface that tilted slightly in the direction of his feet. He cracked open his eyes, wincing as the bright sunlight cut through him like a knife in the brain.

‘All praise to the gods, who suffer us to live beneath them.'

Errol squinted sideways, seeing a group of villagers huddled close by. They were swaying slowly from side to side, singing a low dirge that sounded like the dying cries of distant oxen. Nearer still, the medicine man stood with his arms wide, carved stick in one hand and a blazing torch in the other. His head was tilted back and he shouted at the sky, ‘Come, gods of the air. Take this sacrifice as token of thanks for the safety you have ensured us.'

Errol tried to wriggle, but he was tied down firmly, feet and hands and head. He could shift just enough to see that he was splayed out on some kind of angled rock altar.
Up above him the sky was clearest blue, the sun hanging low, which meant it must be morning.

‘Grant us another year of your boon, so we may serve you as is your will.'

He remembered then, the feast and the goblet of wine. It must have been drugged, and he really should have known better than to trust these people. Now it looked like they were going to burn him alive. But maybe not; he was tied to a stone slab.

‘Remember us well, Errol, when you are one with the gods. This is the highest honour we have bestowed upon you.'

Errol hadn't seen Shenander walk up close beside him, so the medicine man's voice in his ear made him start. The strap holding his head in place gave a little, but only enough for him to stun himself slightly as he slumped back on the sacrificial altar.

‘Light the fires! Summon the gods!' Shenander shouted now, and as Errol tried to see what was happening, he could hear the sound of flames eating at dried wood. The sour smell of smoke filled his nose, and then thick black rolls of the stuff billowed up.

‘The gods have been summoned. It is not for us to gaze upon their fearful majesty. We must leave this sacred place. Return to our homes and give worship in solitude.'

The murmuring chant of the villagers changed slightly in pitch, then slowly started to fade as they left. Errol thought about shouting out, begging them to stop, but it seemed unlikely they would reconsider after having gone to so much trouble. He still couldn't understand the method of his sacrifice. From the crackling of the flames
and the direction of the wind, the fire that was giving off so much black smoke was too far away to burn him. More likely he would die of thirst or heatstroke out in the midday sun. He tried to move his head again, and the strap gave a little more. He strained as hard as he could, squeezing his eyes tight with the effort, and suddenly it gave way. His neck almost snapped, his chin jarring into his chest, and for a moment all he could do was lie, panting, as he recovered. When he finally opened his eyes, Errol understood.

He was on the top of a hill in the centre of a clearing, surrounded by ancient trees of the same kind he'd seen on his first day in this place. The area immediately in front of him had been cleared, but everywhere else was a jumble of large rocks. Time and weather had smoothed the faces of most of them, but the one to which he had been tied seemed to have been carved for a purpose. It was also angled so that he could see out across the sparse forest in the direction of the great rocky ridge and its summit. Even now he could see the tiny dots of dragons wheeling around it. Not the dozen or so he had expected, but hundreds.