The Broken World (49 page)

‘Why …' Errol croaked out the word before remembering the warning about speaking. He shut his mouth again quickly, hoped no one had noticed, but the act reminded him of just how thirsty he was, how tired and hungry. Wheeling his wagon back to the start of the rails and the mountain of manure, he looked around for water but saw none. There was only the cavern, its rough stone walls broken by the entrance to the passageway leading back to the room where he had woken. Torches lit small
pools of light around the working area, but the space felt somehow much larger. Looking up into the darkness he thought he might have seen something moving, a different shade of black in the torchlit gloom, and then a cry behind him had him whirling in surprise.

‘Incoming!'

It was the overseer, the man who had chained him to the wagon. He too had been looking up, but now he ducked and ran for the narrow opening in the rock. A couple of other men not tethered to the line of small wagons did the same. Everyone else simply cringed, some covering their heads with their hands.

‘Get down, boy!' It was the man who'd shown him how to unload, tugging at the hem of Errol's cloak, a look of terror in his eyes. Unable to work out anything, let alone what was happening, Errol did as he was told, hunkering down beside his wagon at the same time as he heard a whistling sound echo through the cave. There was an explosion like the wet slap of a giant fist, followed by a wave of air even more foul than that he'd been breathing. And finally a wave of sewage rolled down the heap, far looser than the stuff he had been digging up. It splattered the side of the wagon, rushed around the iron wheels and over Errol's boots. The fresh stench made him gag, but his stomach was so empty all he could manage was a dry heave. Retching made his head spin, and with a sickening sense of inevitability he felt himself toppling forward. He put out both hands to steady himself and sank up to his forearms in warm, wet shit.

He thought he was going to die. Nothing made sense; he couldn't remember how he had come to be here, and
when he tried to think what he could remember last, his head hurt even more.

‘Right then, everyone. Back to work. Shit's not going to clear itself.' The overseer emerged from the safety of the tunnel, his voice muffled by rags held over his mouth and nose. Errol started to climb back to his feet, but the compulsion in the man's words was less now, his own head a little clearer. The muck covering his hands brought with it something other than heat, the tiniest sense of the Grym in this dark and lifeless place. Instinctively Errol reached out for it, drawing it into him as he had done on those cold lonely nights in the empty dormitory back at Emmass Fawr. He still couldn't see the lines, was certain there were none this deep underground, but the dung crawled with life touched by magic.

‘On your feet, boy. There's work to do and you don't eat till it's done.'

Errol's sense of relief was cut short by a sharp blow to the back of the head. Before he had a chance to react, someone grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright. As his hands sucked out of the dark liquid, so the cold and confusion came back.

‘By the Old One, you stink.' Errol's shovel was pushed into his chest so hard he had no option but to take it. He clung to the wooden shaft as tightly as he clung to the feeling of the Grym. It had given him much-needed strength and it had brought back memories: his escape from Melyn's clutches, the villagers sacrificing him to the dragons they considered gods, the long trek north in search of Martha.

‘Dig, damn you!' The overseer followed up his barked
command with a swift smack across the thighs from his heavy stick. The pain buckled Errol's knees, forcing him down into the rapidly cooling mess at his feet. Around him a few of the other workers laughed, the sound choking away to nothing as the overseer shouted, ‘Get back to work, the lot of you. No one eats till this new fall's cleared, and if that's not done quick enough no one eats at all.' He kicked Errol again, not hard enough to knock him over but hard enough to wind him.

Errol knelt in the muck for a few moments catching his breath before hauling himself back up. He sank his shovel deep, hauling the stinking mess into his wagon. It was still mindless, muscle-tearing work, and he still had a raging thirst, but his mind was starting to clear now, things falling into place. With each swing of the shovel he let his gaze wander over the cavern and the mountainous pile they were clearing. He studied his fellow labourers too, and snatched sidelong glances at the overseer. Watch, learn, plan. If he had learned nothing else from the Order of the High Ffrydd it was that. He would bide his time but stay alert for any opportunity to escape. He had to. Who else was going to save Martha? Who else was going to save Nellore?

The afternoon was turning to evening by the time the royal barge had docked and the horses had been disembarked. Beulah's filly had taken only moments to unload, and was saddled and ready for her in just a few minutes. It was Clun's great warhorse that caused all the delays. It had grown accustomed to being around people in the months since the queen had bought it for him and even tolerated
the presence of one or two grooms, but coming off the barge it had been as flighty as a mare with the wind under her tail, throwing its great head around and kicking out at anyone unlucky or stupid enough to get too close. Only Clun himself had been able to calm it, and even then only up to a point.

‘I don't know what got into him, my lady,' he said by way of apology for keeping her waiting the half-hour it took to get the beast harnessed.

‘Something's spooked him badly. Was there a problem on the boat?' With Clun on his back, the horse seemed to quieten a little, but it still quivered with barely controlled power, sweat shining its black flanks.

‘Oh, he's not frightened; Gomoran stallions don't understand the concept of fear. No, he's excited by something. He can smell it, or … I don't know, taste it?'

Beulah looked once more at the placid filly, remembering that she had thought it might be coming into heat. But the stallion was showing no interest in her. Just as well, since the thought of being caught between the two of them was not appealing.

‘Something's coming? A storm maybe?' She glanced up at the sky, but it was pale and clear, just a few wispy clouds high overhead, some eagles soaring in the distance.

‘I don't know. Perhaps a gallop will calm him down.'

‘A gallop? Is that wise?'

By way of answer, Clun squeezed his knees into the stallion's flanks, giving it some rein as it moved first into a trot, then a canter. Before she had managed even to get her own horse moving, he was away across the docks at high speed, heading for the road that followed the river's
course before it branched off towards the King's Gate. A troop of warrior priests struggled to keep up.

‘Perhaps we would be better proceeding at a more gentle pace, Your Majesty.' Lord Beylin led his own grey mare up, mounting with the particular care of a man who has had many riding lessons but little practice.

‘I think that is very wise, Lord Beylin. It is good that His Grace the Duke of Abervenn has already fathered an heir to the throne. If he carries on like that he won't live long enough for another.'

The rocky cliffs on the south side of Candlehall reared above them as they rode out through the docks. From here it wasn't possible to see the palace complex or the Neuadd, but as they passed through the trees and out on to the plain, so the city opened up in front of them. Beulah had seen it many thousands of times before, riding out for the day or returning from months spent at Emmass Fawr. It never ceased to inspire her, only this time it filled her with deep anger too. This was her home. These were her people. At the top of that hill was her throne. And yet they had rejected her as solidly as the massive oak doors that closed the King's Gate far ahead of them.

She rode through the busy camp, nodding in silent approval at the efficiency with which her soldiers set about their tasks. Away in the distance she could hear the sound of trees being felled and hammering as the carpenters set about building siege engines. No doubt the warrior priests would try a more subtle method of breaching the walls first, but it never hurt to have a backup plan. If all else failed, there were ways a small force could enter unseen, but she would have to be among them, and she was still
regaining her skill with magic. Best to keep that option in reserve for now.

Finally they arrived at the centre of the camp, where a series of command tents had been pitched, ready for battle planning to begin. Godric stood motionless at the entrance to one of the tents. Beulah dismounted a few tens of paces away, not out of fear of the animal but thinking of her page and the rest of the royal retinue. She handed over her reins, then walked slowly up to the stallion. His flanks still glistened with sweat, his muscles tense. He held his neck high, ears pointing straight up.

‘What is up with you?' Beulah asked, offering the horse a hand to sniff. He bowed his head towards her, nostrils the size of her palms flaring even wider, and then tossed his head. For a moment Beulah thought she was going to be kicked, all too aware that one blow from those great feet could take her head clean off. But Godric kept all four hooves on the ground, instead throwing his head back and forth as if trying to indicate something. No doubt alerted by the noise, Clun came running from the tent at the same moment as Beulah turned to see what the horse was staring at. What it was trying to fight, she realized.

‘By the Shepherd.' Clun's voice was almost a whisper and all the more frightening for that.

Beulah's eyes tracked up the great steep hill of Candlehall, past the slate roofs of the merchants' town houses, past the palace complex and up to the huge edifice that was the Neuadd itself. The eagles she had spied earlier were circling it, swooping and diving over the city. Only they were far too large to be eagles. Far too large to be anything that should have existed.

‘Dragons. How is this even possible? Where have they come from?'

It was Lord Beylin who asked the question, though Beulah was thinking it too. She fancied now that she could hear screams from behind the city walls, and she watched as one of the flying beasts swooped, raking the roofs with its claws. She knew those houses, knew exactly how big they were. This dragon was fully the size of Caradoc. Bigger, even. And as she followed its flight back up to the Neuadd, so she counted six, seven, eight more. They scrapped like crows around a buzzard, attacking each other for the sheer fun of it, then peeling off to vent their frustration on something in the city below.

‘My lady, we should move. It is not safe here.' As Clun spoke, his great horse nodded its head in agreement. Beulah nodded too, but she couldn't take her eyes off the largest of the dragons, wings spread wide as it whirled high above the great hall. Then it turned, and she could have sworn it locked its eyes on only her. There was no way she could have seen from that distance, but somehow she just knew.

And then with a roar like thunder in the mountains, it pulled its wings tight to its sides and dived.

Benfro stepped from icy snow into fire, felt the tip of his tail singe and whipped it out of the flames just in time. He found himself in the large room at the top of the tower he had seen in his dreamwalk, too close to the great fireplace for comfort. If anything the room was bigger than he had imagined it, the distance between the two vast glass-paned doors almost as wide as the clearing where his mother's cottage still stood. Clutter filled most of one end, but in front of the enormous fireplace an area had been cleared around a writing desk very much like the one in Magog's repository underneath the ruins of Cenobus. The golden cage that had hung in the rafters now sat on the floor alongside it, door wide open, and as Benfro peered into the darkness within, a figure emerged.

‘Errol!' Benfro covered the distance between fireplace and cage in three large strides, then stopped as he realized the person staring up at him was not his friend. She was female for one thing, with long untidy hair hanging down
over her shoulders, and she wore a dark green cloak that was torn and tattered at the edges. At his single word she looked up at him, cocking her head at a quizzical angle exactly as he had seen Earith do.

‘You're not Gog,' the woman said, frowning. ‘Where is he?'

Benfro looked around the room, realizing then what had been missing. ‘He should be here. He left before me.'

‘Ah, Benfro. You made it. Splendid.' Both Errol and Martha turned to see the ancient dragon emerge from the stone arch at the top of the spiral staircase. A young man walked by his side, dwarfed by the dragon's bulk, carrying a tray with a large silver cover over it. ‘I noticed young Xando here bringing Martha her supper and thought I'd help him with the stairs. It's a long climb if your legs are short.'

The young boy blushed at the dragon's words, ducked his head deferentially and hurried towards the young woman with his tray. He was strangely familiar to Benfro, especially when his blind eye took in the boy's aura.

‘You are so like Errol,' he said. ‘And yet you're not him.'

‘Errol?' The young woman had been looking at the approaching boy, but her head shot up at the name, eyes fixing on Benfro. ‘Errol Ramsbottom?'

‘You know …' And then Benfro's brain caught up with Gog's words. ‘Martha. You're Martha. The one who Errol's been looking for. The one I saw in the cage when I was dreamwalking. I thought you were his prisoner.' He nodded in the direction of Gog, who was standing a few paces off, smiling at some inner joke.

‘I was, at first. Until I convinced him that I had come to
learn.' Martha took the tray from the young boy and placed it on a nearby table. Benfro caught a whiff of something meaty and wonderful, his stomach rumbling even though it was not long since he had eaten his fill at the mother tree's table.

‘And a fine student she is,' Gog said. ‘Better far than any dragon apprentice I have had in recent years. They have lost their appreciation of the subtle arts, my fallen sons and daughters. Most are interested only in hunting, fighting each other and fornicating. Sometimes all at the same time.'

Benfro felt heat in the tips of his ears at the words. Unbidden, an image of Cerys sprang into his mind. He shook his head to dispel it; he wanted nothing of her after what Fflint had done to him.

‘Most are so feral now they no longer grow jewels in their brains.' Gog ambled over to a large wooden bureau close to the writing desk. He pulled out a drawer and removed from it an ornate wooden box, handing it to Benfro. ‘Your friend, Ynys Môn, had a fine set when he died. Long memories and great experience of the subtle arts. I am sure though that he would prefer to be whole.'

Benfro opened the box to see a small mound of perfect white jewels nestling in a blue silk lining. Memories of Ynys Môn rose strongly from them, like a scent trapped for too long and finally released. He held up the last jewel, tiny even in his growing hand, and then dropped it into the pile. The sense of peace, of relief, was palpable, and he heard a distant voice mouth the words ‘Thank you, Benfro' in his head.

‘He should lie with the rest of his family, his fold.'
Benfro gently closed the lid but did not put the box down. ‘And to do that I must ask you an enormous favour. I must know how to find the place of your hatching. The place of your brother's hatching.'

Gog's brow furrowed. ‘But why?'

‘So that I can retrieve Magog's mortal remains and breathe the Fflam Gwir over them.' As he spoke the plan out loud, a horrible feeling settled over Benfro. He had long since lost his mother's leather bag, had no pockets in which to store anything. Errol had been carrying Magog's jewel. And Morgwm's. He had to find him and not just because Errol was his friend. Without the unreckoned jewel, all was lost.

‘Mortal remains?' Gog's voice was almost a whisper as he stepped forward, peering at Benfro with white eyes that seemed to see him all the better for their blindness. ‘Can it be? Is he truly … dead?'

‘He has been dead more than two thousand years,' Benfro said, and as he did a bright pain flowered in his forehead. With his missing eye he saw the looping cord of red spring into being. The old dragon had been close, but now he stepped back, leaning heavily on the writing desk. Benfro sensed something about the room change, as if a great power had been extinguished somewhere or the temperature had dropped.

‘How can this be? The wall between our two worlds should have dissolved as his essence flowed into the Grym.' Gog slumped on to the bench in front of the desk. ‘I should have known.'

‘I was always the better mage, brother mine.'

All heads turned as one towards the spot by the
fireplace where the voice had come from. Benfro didn't need to see to know who it was, though he couldn't begin to understand how he was there. He had to have travelled the Llinellau, but how was that possible?

‘Melyn? Melyn son of Arall? Is that truly you?' Gog peered at the man standing by the fireplace, and for the first time Benfro noticed the way the old dragon seemed to look without focusing. His eyes were milky with cataracts; did he see the world the same way Benfro now did himself? A mixture of the mundane and the aethereal, superimposed one upon the other? Or could he see only the aethereal now? Only the auras of the people and dragons around him? And how could he possibly know Melyn?

‘There is no Melyn any more. Melyn was your plaything. You discarded him when you had no further use for him. Cast him out into the Grym to die.'

‘That's not true. I taught you the subtle arts, raised you above the ignorant folk you grew up with. You were my first, most promising pupil. And then you were gone.' Gog stepped towards the man standing by the fireplace. It looked like Melyn, sort of. But there was something very wrong with his aethereal form. It shimmered and switched between the hated shape of the inquisitor and that of a much smaller figure, a young boy. And behind it all Melyn's aura was completely suffused in a menacingly familiar dark crimson. Yet somehow Gog did not appear to see the peril. ‘I mourned you, my young apprentice. I thought you were dead.'

‘Keep away from him. He's dangerous.' Benfro put an arm out to pull back the old dragon. Had it been his good hand, maybe he could have stopped Gog, but his grip was
weak still. Gog shrugged him off, turning his back on Melyn as he did so.

‘Melyn is not dangerous, Benfro. He is my—'

But whatever he was, Benfro never knew. There was a surge in the Grym as the inquisitor conjured two blades of light, fiery red like the jewels atop the stone pillar in the depths of Mount Arnahi. They blurred through the air, so swiftly did he move, and then in a horrible repetition of his worst nightmare, Benfro watched as Gog's head parted from his shoulders and tumbled to the floor.

‘Ah, by Gog's hairy balls! Stand firm, men. Are you warrior priests or children?'

Beulah was so transfixed by the sight of the dragon diving towards her that she scarcely heard her husband's words. Her every instinct was to turn, run, but she couldn't move. The same couldn't be said of the soldiers nearby, who were fleeing in all directions as panic hit. Among them were more than a few warrior priests; so much for them being elite fighting men and masters of magic.

‘Lord Beylin, protect the queen.' Clun's command brooked no argument, and before Beulah could even react he had spurred his massive stallion forward, galloping out into the field between their camp and the city walls. She watched in horror as the dragon shifted its dive, flaring its wings wide into a swoop that would bring it into direct collision with Clun as it skimmed just above the ground. Any normal horse would have stopped, reared, unseated its rider and fled, but Godric merely increased his speed. He covered the distance with a fluid grace, flowing over the undulations like water, tail and mane spraying out in
the wind. Beulah wanted to turn away, terrified of what she was going to see, what she was going to lose. But she could only stare as horse, rider and dragon came closer and closer together.

At the last possible moment Godric finally reared, but not in fright. He kicked out at the dragon's head with his enormous iron-shod hooves. Clun stood tall in his stirrups, so high that the dragon must surely pluck him from the saddle with its enormous talons. Instead it raised its head awkwardly to avoid the hooves, exposing the soft underside of its neck for an instant. Even a good distance away, Beulah felt a drain in the Grym the like of which she'd never known before, saw twin scarlet blades of fire appear in Clun's hands.

A flash of light, and the great dragon seemed to crumple in on itself, tumbling to the ground with a crash that rocked the earth under Beulah's feet. Clun and Godric disappeared in a cloud of dust and flailing wings, lashing tail, and then they were out the other side, wheeling at a slow trot, then a walk, finally coming to a halt alongside the struggling creature. Clun's blades had half-severed both wings, cut deep gouges in the beast's soft underbelly. He dismounted slowly, one blade extinguished, the other still burning bright, and approached the dragon with confident steps even though its head was almost as big as he was tall. A vast eye stared at him with angry malevolence. For a few moments it seemed as if the two of them conversed, though Beulah could hear nothing over the distance. Then the creature struggled to its feet, black blood pouring from its wounds. It tried to rear, opening its mouth wide to bite Clun in half, but it was weak and
slow and arrogant. With a swift step to the side, the Duke of Abervenn ducked low and brought his blade up through the open mouth, deep into the beast's brain.

A cheer went up among the gathered warrior priests and soldiers as the dragon slumped to the ground, dead. Beulah realized she had been holding her breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. And then a screech high above sent a shiver through her. So transfixed had she been by the fight, she had completely forgotten that more than one dragon was attacking the city. Two more great beasts wheeled overhead, descending in slow loops that allowed them to see the whole army drawn up on the plain. Beulah expected them to avoid Clun, who was even now striding away from the carcass and back towards Godric, but instead they landed lightly a few dozen paces away from him. One of them screeched again, the ululation sounding like speech as it carried on the breeze. Then Beulah heard Clun respond, his words lost in the distance but their tone showing he spoke the language of dragons.