The Broken World (47 page)

‘Who are you, little man, to wield the subtle arts with such skill?'

Dafydd froze as the words boomed in his head. Slowly he looked up at the dragon, still standing in the main doorway and gazing down on the mayhem its presence had sparked. Beside him, Usel was shouting in that guttural, glottal language he had used with Merriel back on the island, but the dragon seemed to be ignoring the medic. Then it shifted its gaze, eyes the size of cartwheels fixing on Dafydd himself.

‘This place. What is it? Who built it?' The voice in his head spoke Llanwennog, or at least that was how it seemed to Dafydd, and the compulsion behind it was enough to weaken his knees. He could no more refuse to answer than stop breathing.

‘This is the Neuadd. Home to the Obsidian Throne. Seat of the kings of the Twin Kingdoms.'

‘It has the smell of the Old One about it, even if it is overrun with vermin. You would do well to leave before the rest of my fold arrives. Some of them like to hunt your kind for sport.'

This time the dragon's words came with an overwhelming urge to flee. Looking around, Dafydd could see that most of the people had left the great hall, just a few walking wounded still struggling to get away. Usel had given up his shouting and was standing perfectly still, staring up at the dragon as it lumbered slowly into the Neuadd. Turning his head, Dafydd saw that Iolwen too was transfixed by the beast.

‘We have to go.' He reached out and took her by the hand, his touch breaking whatever spell held her in place. Iolwen shuddered as she came back to herself and nodded her agreement.

‘Usel. We must leave here. There are more coming, and they aren't as friendly as this one.'

The medic made no sign of having heard him, so Dafydd grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away. They could go round the back of the Obsidian Throne and head for the west entrance, except that Usel resisted, his eyes still fixed on the great beast.

‘Can you not hear him?' he asked, his voice dreamy.

‘I can, and he suggested we leave.' A wave of fear shivered through Dafydd far more potent than anything his tutors in magic had ever managed to instil. Across the almost empty hall, he saw the last of the injured scrabbling to escape, dragging themselves towards the doors. Only one or two figures lay crumpled and still. ‘Come, Usel. Now.'

Dafydd pulled harder at the medic's arm, and eventually he let himself be dragged away. Almost as if Usel had been single-handedly keeping the dragon at bay, the great beast pushed further into the Neuadd as they backed towards the west doors. It reached a point midway between the main doors and the throne, reared up on its hind legs, head reaching almost to the ceiling, spread its wings and let out a deafening roar. Dafydd didn't need to pull the medic any more. All three of them were running as fast as they could as the great stained-glass windows erupted outwards in a million lethal shards.

Outside, the courtyard was chaos. People stumbled
around, covering their ears, screaming for help, running from the glass, which had flown as far as the cloisters and beyond. Dafydd's ears were still ringing from the noise so the whole scene took on a surreal edge. Part of him wanted to stop and help, but he had to get the princess to safety.

‘What's the quickest way back to the royal apartments from here?' He shouted the words, but they still sounded flat and distant. Usel cocked his head to one side, shook like a dog trying to get water out of its ears, then reached out and took Dafydd's hand first, then Iolwen's.

‘I'm sorry for the intrusion. I would not normally do something like this without asking first, but the circumstances …' His words tailed off and only then did Dafydd realize that the medic was talking directly to his mind.

‘How …? No, that's unimportant right now.' He mouthed the words, hearing them only in his head, but Usel and Iolwen seemed to hear him fine. ‘We need to get to safety.'

‘Agreed. But I'm not sure the palace complex will be any safer than the Neuadd. Not when Sir Morwyr's friends arrive.'

‘Sir Morwyr? How do you know his name? Have you seen this beast before?'

‘Not here, sire.' Usel pulled the two of them towards the cloisters. They cut through the milling masses, somehow always managing to be avoided even though no one gave any indication of seeing them. Usel must have been hiding them, Dafydd reasoned. He was happy enough to be led, though his heart went out to those less fortunate. Panic could be cruel, and many of the people who had
come to see the princess take her rightful place on the throne would likely not last the day. Maybe not even the hour.

They ducked through the cloisters at a run, kept up their speed down long corridors that finally ended in the palace kitchens. Only then did Usel finally let go of their hands.

‘Why did you bring us here?' Iolwen asked, ignoring the startled looks from assorted cooks and serving girls.

‘My apologies, Your Highness. This is the quickest route to the royal apartments if you don't mind taking the servants' stairs. Given the circumstances, I think it wise to get to Prince Iolo as fast as possible.'

‘Lead on, Usel. But I must speak with Seneschal Padraig, muster our forces as quickly as possible. This is no forest dragon wandering in confused. That creature flew here, and it was powerfully magical.'

‘I suspect it was drawn here, though from where I don't really want to speculate right now. Come this way.' Usel led them to the far end of the kitchens, where a door opened on to a narrow plain corridor. Dafydd grinned at the flustered cooks, bowing and curtsying at the sudden appearance of royalty. He had spent much of his childhood hanging around in kitchens not so different from these. They were the warm beating heart of any palace.

‘One moment, Usel.' Iolwen stopped them before they could leave, turning back to the collected kitchen staff.

‘There has been a terrible accident up at the Neuadd,' she said. ‘People are hurt, some grievously so. It's still dangerous so I won't ask any of you to go up there, but please boil water and make preparations for the wounded. I will
talk to Seneschal Padraig as soon as I can find him. Please don't be alarmed.'

There were long moments of silence, as if none of them had ever been spoken to by a princess before. Then a grey-haired old woman pushed forward. She wore a heavy sackcloth skirt, her blouse sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and looked like she had made enough bread in her life to feed the entire Twin Kingdoms.

‘It will be done, Your Highness,' she said in an accent so thick it was almost impossible to understand. Then she turned her back on them and started barking orders.

‘Your sister would never have given a thought to the injured,' Usel said as he led them along the corridor and up a flight of narrow winding steps that opened on to the end of the main corridor of the royal apartments.

‘My sister would most likely have engaged the dragon in combat, Usel. I've never had much talent for that kind of magic.'

They hurried along the corridor, back to the rooms they had left only hours earlier, arriving just as Seneschal Padraig appeared from the other direction.

‘Your Highness. Prince Dafydd. You are safe. Praise the Shepherd.' The old man was puffing as if he had run all the way from the Neuadd, but he hadn't been at the ceremony. Did he even know what had happened up there?

‘You have heard the news, Padraig? This changes everything, you realize. We must send for warrior priests straight away. We cannot fight this creature.'

Dafydd looked up in surprise at his wife's words, his own confusion matched by that of the seneschal.

‘Warrior priests? Send for them?' Padraig paused a moment to catch his breath. ‘But they are already here. At the gates.'

The first thing he knew was cold. Errol shivered in his sleep, reached out instinctively for the warming flow of the Grym and found … nothing. The shock of the discovery jolted him awake, and he jerked backwards with a snort of inhaled breath. His head hit rock, starring his vision and sending jabs of pain down his neck. He lifted a hand to feel the lump he was sure was there, and that was when he noticed the chain.

It hung from a seamless iron bracelet around his wrist, too tight to slide off no matter how hard he tried. Errol lifted his hand up to his face, the better to examine it in the poor light, only he couldn't raise it close enough.

‘Don't want you escaping on us now, do we?'

Errol looked up as he heard the voice, only then starting to take in his surroundings. His thoughts were strangely sluggish, his predicament dawning slowly.

‘Where—'

‘No questions. No speaking unless spoken to. Them's the rules, unnerstand?'

He was in a cave, but not the cave he'd been in before. There was no fire burning merrily at his feet for one thing. This place was damp and cold, and it smelled really bad, like rotting eggs and dog mess. And there was no sign of the Grym anywhere. Try as he might, Errol couldn't see the lines. It reminded him of the deep cellars at Emmass Fawr, where he'd helped Usel the medic carry out his examination on dead Princess Lleyn.

‘I said them's the rules. Unnerstand?' The words came with a sharp pain in his leg as someone kicked him. Errol shook his head to dispel the fog that was making it so hard to concentrate. He saw a face leering at him out of the semi-darkness, pale and round with a wisp of straggly hair growing out of the top of an otherwise bald pate. The man wasn't so much dressed as wrapped in swathes of heavy material, dark brown and stained down the front, frayed where it scuffed the rocky ground.

Errol opened his mouth, but wasn't able to speak before the man kicked him again.

‘No speaking, right? Mister Clingle, he don't like the new grunts speaking.'

Errol nodded and his head throbbed.

‘Gets up then. Work to do.' The man tugged on Errol's chain, pulling him so that he had no choice but to comply. His legs almost gave under his weight, the cave swaying alarmingly. He put out his unchained hand to steady himself, but scarcely had time to brush the rock with his fingertips before he was being dragged stumbling towards a narrow, low doorway, the darkness beyond it made deeper by the smoky torches burning either side. Sharp pain cleared his thoughts a little as he banged a shoulder into the doorframe, but his captor merely laughed and kept pulling him onwards.

The tunnel went on for ever, or at least that was how it felt. Errol still couldn't quite get his thoughts together enough to work out how he had come to be here, or indeed where here was. There was something missing too, but the pull of the chain on the bracelet around his wrist was impossible to ignore. He shivered at the cold, trying
to wrap his cloak around himself with his one free hand. Something weighed it down, but before he could feel in the pockets to see what it was, he tripped on the uneven floor and tumbled head first into a large cavern.

Laughter rippled around the space, echoing in the ill-lit darkness. Many voices, but not much mirth. It was more the noise of men happy to see someone else suffering. Errol pushed himself up from the floor, noticing as he did so that the smell was much worse here. His hands came away sticky, caked in a thick dark ooze that stank so badly it made him retch. The insistent tug on the chain stopped him from investigating further, and all he could manage was to wipe one hand on his cloak.

‘Take.' The man who had dragged him down the tunnel handed Errol a long-handled shovel.

‘Dig.' He pointed at the ground where Errol had just lain.

‘Fill.' He pointed at a wooden cart on four solid iron wheels nearby. It had a metal hoop on one end, shiny where it had been repeatedly rubbed by something. Errol watched as the man took his chain and clipped it to the hoop. ‘When it's full, push it up there and empty it on to the pile. Then start again.'

Errol slowly started to take in his surroundings. The cavern was huge, disappearing into darkness high overhead. It was a little warmer in here, but the smell made breathing almost impossible and really didn't help his muddled thoughts. He stood at the edge of an enormous pile of the same sticky dark material that had covered his hands, the source of the smell. His wasn't the only cart; there were dozens of them, each with a man attached to it
by a long iron chain. Some were busy shovelling, a few had stopped to stare at him. They all looked thin and weary, faces sunken around their eyes and cheekbones. Most were wrapped in layers of rags like the man who had dragged him here, though a few shivered in thin tunics and breeks.

‘Get on with it then! The lot of you. Back to work!' The shout came with a kick that sent Errol sprawling into the muck again. And that was what it was, muck. He couldn't be sure what animal had made it; something that ate meat rather than the more pleasant offerings from the horses at Emmass Fawr he'd helped shovel out in his pre-initiation days at the monastery. The middens there had been huge, but the endless mountain of dung here made them look tiny by comparison.

‘Ten loads, then you can eat. I'll be counting.' The man shoved Errol hard between the shoulders, leaving no doubt as to how things were going to work from here on. Still confused, his thoughts whirring in the chill, fetid atmosphere, he set about his task.

‘You are aware that there's a bloody great dragon laying waste to the Neuadd right now?'

Dafydd followed Seneschal Padraig back along the corridor towards the main palace reception rooms. He had left Iolwen with Usel to go and see that Iolo was safe. He suspected Usel was going to try and persuade the princess to pack some belongings and flee the city before it was too late – if it wasn't too late already. He also suspected Usel wouldn't have much luck with that. Iolwen was not one to change her mind easily, nor to back out of a fight.

Padraig stopped at the entrance to the king's waiting chamber, a worried frown creasing his elderly face. ‘I'm sorry, Your Highness. Did you say dragon?'