The Broken World, page 16
‘What do you think, Usel? Jarius? Should we ride up to the citadel?’
‘Seneschal Padraig is nothing if not a man of his word. If he guarantees your safety here, then he truly believes you’ll be safe,’ Usel said.
Captain Pelod rode forward to join them. ‘I would be delighted to take the city without bloodshed, but I’m still wary of a trap, sir. I’d feel very vulnerable going in there alone.’
‘Then fetch your army, Captain,’ Padraig said. ‘As I said, they are welcome too.’
Pelod looked at him, and Dafydd nodded. ‘Go,’ he said and watched the captain gallop back to his troop. There was a brief discussion, then two riders headed back to the ridge, disappearing over it. Soon the first ranks of the Abervenn Irregulars appeared in their place and began their slow march down the slope on to the plain. Dafydd turned back to the seneschal.
‘Very well then. Lead us to the citadel. I’ve always wanted to see the Neuadd.’
Padraig remounted, turned his horse and led the party back towards the city. The riders who had come out with him fell in beside Dafydd’s men, keeping a careful distance.
The first point of ambush was the wide stone bridge over the river, and Dafydd tensed as they approached it. Pelod ordered men to ride across and fan out on the other side. Others checked under the arches and shouted warnings to a few boatmen on barges, but there was no threat.
The city gates were thrown wide, and no soldiers stood on the battlements. There were, however, many hundreds of people waiting outside. For a moment all was silence save for the clop of hooves on hard stone, the chinking of harness buckles. And then a shout went up, followed by another. More voices joined in, adding to the noise until a great wave of sound echoed out from the city walls. Dafydd tensed himself for an attack, prepared to conjure his blade. His guard closed around him, brave Llanwennogs all, hopelessly outnumbered and yet ready to fight to the death to save him. But the people were not rushing forward to attack; they were parting, lining the route and cheering, throwing hats, confetti and anything else they could find into the air.
And Dafydd felt the combined thoughts of all those minds. These were common people, not soldiers or minions of the state. They were worn down by preparations for a war they didn’t want and couldn’t understand. They were disaffected with years of neglect by their old king and the callous contempt of their new queen. But above all they had hope that things were going to get better.
There was no way Seneschal Padraig could have engineered their enthusiasm; it was genuine and heartfelt. They wanted him to free them from tyranny.
‘It’s all right, Jarius.’ Dafydd pushed his horse through the ring of riders, through the open city gates and into Candlehall. ‘We’re welcome here.’
More people lined the wide street all the way from the gates, right up the hill to the citadel. Dafydd began to understand something of his grandfather’s magic as he basked in the adulation of so many. It could be tapped – no, they gave willingly of their energy, and he gorged on it until he felt there was nothing he could not do. Should Inquisitor Melyn and a hundred warrior priests appear from nowhere to do battle he might have been tempted to take them on single-handed, such was the heady potency of his exaltation.
At the top of the hill the citadel walls too were unmanned, and the gates stood wide. The party rode into an open courtyard, and Dafydd got his first look at the mighty bulk of the Neuadd, rising above the palace buildings that surrounded it.
‘We must dismount here, Your Highness,’ Seneschal Padraig said, swinging creakily out of his saddle and letting himself slowly to the ground. Dafydd followed suit, feeling no danger in this place, the lair of his enemy, but only welcome, as if it had been waiting for him since the first stones were laid millennia earlier.
He followed the seneschal through a series of connected halls, ornately decorated but smaller than those in the palace at Tynhelyg. The place had much the same atmosphere as Ballah’s castle – of great power barely contained. Then Padraig nodded to two pages waiting ahead of them. They pushed open a pair of huge wooden doors and the party walked through into a wide cloister, beyond which stood the great hall itself.
Dafydd was staggered by the size of the place. It rose far higher than the substantial buildings around it, as if generations of kings had not dared build anything that might look down on that one massive structure. Closer, he could see that it was built in a completely different style from the rest of the citadel, formed from what looked like one seamless piece of rock. He had a sudden image of an army of workers laboriously hacking the hall out of the top of the hill, not building it at all so much as sculpting it. There were intricate carvings all over the outer surfaces of the hall, but many of these had been defaced, as if someone had tried to erase the story they told. Dafydd knew his history, was aware of the Brumal Wars and the damage inflicted on the city by sieges and sackings, but this damage seemed somehow much older and on a much more fundamental level.
Everyone fell silent as they walked across the courtyard surrounding the Neuadd. It was difficult not to be awed by the place. Even Seneschal Padraig, who must have seen it every day, bowed his head as he hurried forward and pushed at the doors. They swung open as if they weighed nothing despite their great size, and Dafydd was almost knocked over by the wave of power that swept out.
He stepped in alone, going from sunlight to almost total darkness. Then his eyes adjusted, or the scene allowed him to see it; there was so much magic in this place it was difficult to tell which. He barely noticed the great windows that swept up from the floor to the arched ceiling high overhead, nor the polished floor, so shiny it could have been still water he walked on. All he could see, all his mind could focus on, was the enormous black throne.
Empty.
It could be his. It was his for the taking. And the people would not complain; they welcomed him here. Even the seneschal would swear allegiance to him. Queen Beulah had lost her throne and didn’t even know it yet. He just had to climb on to that dais and settle himself into the place that was rightfully his. Dafydd stood motionless for some time, soaking up the power that hummed around him. It reminded him of the hours he had spent with his grandfather, learning the ways of the Grym. The old man would be proud of him now, he was certain of it.
But something wasn’t right. This was too like the castle in Tynhelyg. When he turned to look back to the doorway, he could see the seneschal, Usel the medic, Captain Pelod and Teryll all staring at him, their expressions expectant.
Dafydd shook his head, casting aside the enchantment that had so nearly overcome him. ‘This is not for me. It was never for me.’ He walked away from the vast black chair, ignoring the pull that was like claws in his back, tearing his skin as it tried to wrench him into the seat of power. ‘This is Iolwen’s throne.’
Benfro thought he should take pleasure from the chaos spreading through the vast camp. As he sped towards the distant trees he could see people running in all directions, some shouting for lost companions, some bleeding from horrible wounds. There was fire everywhere, as if it were alive like the flames he breathed. It leaped from tent to tent, ripping through the dry fabric and setting alight trapped people. Their screams and the smell of burning flesh and hair filled his senses with a hollow feeling of triumph. These were men, his enemies, and they were dying. And he had killed some of them himself. He almost felt good about it. Almost, but not quite.
They were closing on the forest now and outpacing the pursuing warrior priests comfortably since Benfro had scooped Errol up into his arms. They would probably have been closer to their goal had the old dragon not kept stopping to point out things and exclaim in delight. No matter how much Benfro tried to explain the urgency of the situation, nothing seemed to penetrate that addled jewel-bereft brain.
Another scream went up nearby but different in tone to the general panic. Benfro looked back to see what was going on and saw Magog staring at a blazing tent, his head cocked to one side as if thinking. Then, before Benfro could do or say anything, he pushed his way in through the flames.
‘What’s he up to now?’ Benfro put Errol down, searching the distance for their pursuers. It was difficult to see through the chaos; it was possible that they had lost the warrior priests, but he didn’t want to count on it.
‘I’m not sure. I think he’s trying to help that woman.’ Errol pointed to a figure standing by the blazing tent. Benfro trotted over just in time for the old dragon to come bursting out through the flames, shaking cinders out of his ears. He had his wings wrapped around him like a blanket, and once he was clear, he opened them, revealing a couple of terrified children in his arms. He bowed low and handed them to the woman, who stopped her screaming and stared.
‘We’ve not got time for this, Magog. We have to reach the trees.’ Benfro stumbled over the name – it meant too much to him of pain and suffering – but he could think of nothing else to call the dragon. ‘Come. We need to run.’
‘Can’t leave the little ones to burn. Oh no. That would be too cruel.’
‘Well, you’ve saved them now, so let’s go.’ Out of the corner of his eye Benfro saw something that sent a chill through him. Focusing on it he made out the dark shapes of hidden warrior priests. They moved slowly now, no more than jogging pace, and they were going methodically from tent to tent. As they passed each one, it burst into flames. Anyone close to them was cut down by brief flashes of conjured blade.
Then he heard a voice pierce the general noise: ‘Dragon! To me, men.’
Benfro didn’t need more warning. He grabbed his old companion by the arm, hauling him round. Ahead of them, Errol was running towards the trees.
‘But what of the little ones? We can’t leave them here.’
‘We can’t take them with us, either. They’ll have to look after themselves.’ Benfro snatched a quick look behind him, seeing the woman standing motionless, her two children clinging to her. They would be lucky to survive the next minute, let alone the night. He could do something about that – could fight the warrior priests even now rushing towards them – but he owed nothing to them. He had to leave them. Even so he felt a terrible weight of guilt on his shoulders as he did so.
Dragging the reluctant old dragon behind him, Benfro ran through the thinning lines of tents and on to a narrow strip of grass in front of the trees. He was just in time to see Errol stop at the forest edge and wave them on. Then the boy disappeared into the gloom. Not even bothering to look back, Benfro sprinted across the grass and fought his way through the thick-leaved shrubs that marked the border between grass and trees. He could hear the old dragon pushing through behind him.
‘Dark in here, isn’t it?’ said Magog.
‘And quiet too.’ Benfro strained his ears, barely making out the sounds of mayhem out on the plain. A few dozen paces into the woods and it was almost silent, as if he had walked into another world. ‘Errol? Are you there?’
There was a sudden noise, the cracking of a twig underfoot somewhere deeper in the trees, and at the same time Benfro also heard the crashing of many bodies coming through the shrubs and the harsh voice of Captain Osgal.
‘Fan out, men. Find them before they get too deep.’
Benfro grabbed Magog by the arm again and headed in the direction of the broken twig. He moved silently – Ynys Môn would have been proud of him – but his companion trampled along with all the finesse of a stampeding ox. Pushing past low branches and watching out for roots that had no purpose other than to trip him, Benfro had to hope that he could maintain a decent speed, get enough of a lead on his pursuers. It was a forlorn hope; the warrior priests were dogged in their pursuit. Had they not chased him halfway across Gwlad already?
He reached the point in the dark woods where he was sure he had heard the twig snap, but there was no sign of Errol. It was too dark even for his keen vision, and the trunks of the great trees made it all but impossible to see far anyway.
‘Have you seen Errol?’ Benfro asked the old dragon, who stood motionless in the darkness, not even breathing hard.
‘No. But we could ask this squirrel. Maybe he knows.’
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Benfro looked across, following the old dragon’s gaze until he saw a familiar shape sitting on a low-hanging branch nearby.
‘Malkin?’
‘Benfro find friend. Benfro come quickly, before men arrive.’ The squirrel jumped down from its perch, scampered over the ground and leaped into Benfro’s arms, scrambling up over his shoulder and settling behind his neck. Benfro felt such a surge of happiness he almost fell over.
‘Malkin! Where did you go? Where have you been?’ Tears sprang from his eyes, and his voice rose an octave or two, breaking slightly.
‘No talk now. Follow path now. Mother waits.’ The squirrel slapped Benfro across the side of his head as if chastising him. Nothing could have made the dragon happier than to comply.
It was a surprisingly short distance, no more than a few hundred paces in all, and then they were stepping out of the tall trees into a vast clearing. The sky overhead was clear and sprinkled with stars so bright it could have been day. And there at the centre of the clearing, towering above everything else, the mother tree stood magnificent underneath a fat full moon. Benfro looked back and was sure he saw the trunks shifting together, blocking the way to anyone who might try to follow them.
The old dragon glanced around, sniffed the air like a dog, acting as if the sight of the mother tree was nothing new or special to him. Benfro looked for Errol, hoped he was somewhere ahead, safe already, but the clearing was empty. There was just him, Malkin on his shoulders, the other dragon at his side and the mother tree.
The boy was nowhere to be seen.
Errol held his breath, willed his heart to stop. Something cracked away to his left and he snapped his head round, straining to see in the blackness. He knew that Benfro and the other dragon were close; they had been just behind him when he had entered the forest. But Osgal and his men were nearby too, so he didn’t dare shout or even whisper.
His back against the reassuring bulk of the tree, his cloak wrapped around him for protection and camouflage, Errol sank down until he was sitting on the ground with his knees tucked up to his chest. He tried to settle himself, to listen out for any movement near him. Perhaps if he just waited, the warrior priests would miss him and head deeper into the woods.
He almost believed himself. Almost, but not quite. He knew far too much about the Order of the High Ffrydd, too much about the warrior priests, too much about Inquisitor Melyn. They would never stop looking for him. Wherever he went, they would soon follow, bringing death and destruction with them.
A familiar feeling cut through Errol’s musings: someone was close by. He had been motionless, but now he froze completely, not even breathing. He could sense another person, perhaps more than one, and then he began to hear noises. Hiding under his cloak had perhaps not been the wisest of moves. He could see nothing through the dark fabric pulled over his head, and yet neither could he move in case that was enough to reveal his hiding place. All he could do was hold his breath and try to gauge how many people there were from the noises they made and the indefinable sensation of their presence.
Moving his head just the tiniest of fractions, Errol opened his mind to the aethereal and, no longer blinded by his cloak, studied the scene. He had just enough time to make out the still figures of ten warrior priests standing directly in front of him. Unlike the usual indistinct flames of flickering Grym that people normally produced, their forms were oddly well defined, almost perfect images of the men. Then the nearest leaned forward, his arm sweeping down, and something hard connected with the side of Errol’s head.
The world turned upside down in a flurry of noise and motion. And then nothing.
11
All the dragons of the Ffrydd have sought out the mother tree, and she has blessed them with their choice. She is the beginning of us, and the end. Always we are welcome under her spreading branches, and her bounty is endless. But she is not like us: her ways are strange, and her aid is never quite what it seems. Accept her succour, for to refuse would be the action of a fool. But do not think her help comes without a price.
Sir Frynwy, Tales of the Ffrydd
At least the sickness had stopped; she had that much to be thankful for. Beulah was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to sit in a saddle, however. Not to mention the difficulty of getting on to a horse in the first place. She had known the child would grow large inside her, but nothing had prepared her for quite how large, and how inconvenient, the baby would become. If she didn’t receive word from Melyn soon, she might have to leave the army and return to Candlehall before the campaign started. There was no way her heir was going to be born in a dingy little town like this.
Tochers was a mean-spirited place set at the southern end of the narrow Rhedeg pass. Even in times of peace between the two nations travellers had seldom followed this route to Llanwennog. It was easier to take a boat from Abervenn, sail around the Caldy peninsula and up the Sea of Tegid to Talarddeg; easier yet to go through the Wrthol pass and across the border country. The Rhedeg had no doubt been named ironically; there was no running through its twisting valleys and steep climbs. But it was still possible to march a hardy army through, especially towards the end of summer when even the most persistent snow had thawed and the dry season had shrunk the rivers until they were easy to ford. And so it was that Tochers existed, little more than a guard post on the back door into the Twin Kingdoms.
The army had camped on a ragged upland plain between the small grey town and the entrance to the pass. Since her arrival several days earlier Beulah had made it her business to ride along the neatly spaced lines of tents and through the training grounds. She knew the value of being seen by her soldiers, of mixing with the men who were going to fight and die for her cause. Had she not been heavily pregnant, she would have been tempted to pitch a tent in the middle of the camp and live there, but Clun had persuaded her to stay in the relative comfort of Castle Tochers instead.
