The Broken World, page 17
Watching the ranks of soldiers practising their swordsmanship, Beulah couldn’t help being impressed with just how far her rough peasant army had come. The quaisters and warrior priests Melyn had posted to the armies had worked hard to drum some discipline and skill into the conscripted labourers and journeymen.
‘They’re quite a sight, aren’t they, my love?’ she said as Clun rode over on his huge black stallion. Soldiers melted out of his way, and she could feel their fear of the creature, though they tried their best to hide it. That too was a positive sign.
‘They’ve trained well, my lady. It’s true. But I don’t know how much longer we can keep them here. Some of these men have been away from their homes for months.’
‘Well, it won’t be long now. We’ll hear from Melyn soon. Then we can march.’
‘You’re very confident. What if the inquisitor’s been captured? Or killed?’
Beulah stared at her consort. She brushed the edge of his thoughts, looking for signs of mutiny or fear, but as ever he was just stating what to him was obvious. It was, however unlikely, a possibility, and as such had to be considered.
‘Melyn won’t fail us – trust me on that. I’d know if anything had happened to him.’
‘I believe he’ll succeed,’ Clun said. ‘But every day I search the aethereal for a sign of him, and every day I find none. He should have contacted us by now, surely.’
Beulah didn’t answer. Now that Clun had voiced the possibility of failure, it weighed heavily on her mind. Yet she was certain she would know if the inquisitor had come to any harm. They had a connection she couldn’t fully explain. He had always been able to sense her feelings, even when she was miles away, and she in turn could read his mood though she was in Candlehall and he back at Emmass Fawr. But her pregnancy had severely hampered her ability to control the Grym and cut her off completely from the aethereal. What else might it have affected? The question went unanswered as she was distracted by a messenger who hailed her from a distance, bowing deeply.
‘Your Majesty, Your Grace. General Cachog requests you return to the castle. We have news from Dina.’
‘We’ll come immediately. Assemble the troop captains in the castle yard.’ Beulah kicked her horse into a trot, steering it towards the town as the messenger saluted. Clun’s stallion outpaced her mare without difficulty, and she was tempted to push her mount harder, but a twinge in her belly, her child moving awkwardly, stopped her. Even a bouncing trot was supremely uncomfortable, so she slowed to a walk, breathing slowly and deeply to ease the pain. By the time she reached the castle courtyard, lowered herself out of the saddle and walked into the dimly lit main hall, the rest of the party was already assembled.
‘Your Majesty.’ General Cachog bowed his head and motioned for someone to come forward from the shadows. ‘We’ve just received a bird from Dina.’
The man wore a heavy leather apron, and thick gauntlets hung from a hook on his wide belt. His face was a mess of new cuts and old scars, and as he bowed stiffly and handed her a small scroll, Beulah could see he was missing the ends of several fingers. Carrier hawks were notoriously vicious beasts; she hoped the bird in question was securely caged.
The message was short and simple, and it made Beulah’s heart soar. She turned to Cachog. ‘The bulk of Geraint’s army has been seen marching from Wrthol and heading back towards Tynhelyg at great speed. General, do we have any news from our scouts?’
‘The last report was the same as before. Tordu has his men camped around Tynewydd. Too many for us to storm the pass.’
‘Well, that might be about to change. Send a bird back to Dina. Tell General Otheng to begin his attack immediately. By the Wolf, I thought it would be Tordu who’d break and run; you can defend Rhedeg with a much smaller force. What’s Melyn done to get Geraint so worked up he’d risk losing Wrthol?’
‘He’s killed Ballah and taken Tynhelyg.’
Beulah whirled to see Clun standing as if he were held up by ropes. His hands hung limp at his sides, his shoulders slumped and his face was strangely blank. She felt a shiver run through her, as if someone were caressing her face, stroking her hair.
‘Melyn?’
‘He is here. In the aethereal.’ Clun spoke in a higher voice than normal, the words without inflection. It was unnerving.
‘How? No, never mind. What is the situation? What do you mean you’ve killed Ballah and taken Tynhelyg? You were meant to be sacking the northlands.’
There was a pause as if Beulah’s words had to be relayed over a great distance. General Cachog stared nervously at Clun, while the bird handler had turned white, making his scars stand out on his face like a cruel game of noughts and crosses.
‘The opportunity arose. It was worth the risk. He cannot stay long. The city is in turmoil and there is much work to do. Begin the attack. Relieve the siege.’
‘What siege?’
But Clun didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees as if his ropes had been cut and would surely have toppled forward to the floor had not General Cachog caught him. Beulah was at his side in an instant, cradling his head. His face was cold and clammy with sweat, his eyes tight shut, teeth clenched as if he fought some inner battle.
‘Clun, my love. Are you all right?’
‘Where am I? My lady …?’ Clun opened his eyes and stiffened as he came to his senses. Beulah pushed him down as he tried to get to his feet.
‘Take your time, my love. You were speaking to Inquisitor Melyn. How did he appear to you? What did he say?’
Clun said nothing for a while, his eyes darting about the room as if he had never seen it before. Beulah watched the colour slowly come back into his face.
Finally he spoke. ‘It was … I don’t know. Strange. It wasn’t like the aethereal. I wasn’t in a trance, not properly. You were giving orders and then suddenly Melyn was standing there beside you. Only he looked different somehow. Like there was someone else there too.’
‘Never mind that,’ Beulah said. ‘What did he say?’
‘I … He said that he had taken Tynhelyg, that he had killed Ballah and captured the city. He knows that Geraint will force-march his army back to the capital as soon as he finds out his father is dead. They are preparing for a siege and expect our forces to relieve them. General Otheng knows already; there are warrior priests at Dina who are adept enough to glimpse the aethereal, and Melyn is so much stronger now. I don’t know how. I wasn’t looking for … He put me in the trance.’
With those last words Clun pushed himself upright, running his hands over his face and rubbing at his eyes as if he had just woken from a long sleep.
‘It wasn’t a very nice feeling.’
‘But it was definitely Melyn?’ Beulah asked, although she knew the answer already. However faint it had been, she had felt his touch. And through her pregnancy too. Clun was right: something had happened to the inquisitor to make him much more powerful.
‘It was him.’
‘Then we had better get started. General.’ Beulah stood and General Cachog helped Clun to his feet. The bird handler stepped forward, bowing nervously.
‘Do you still want me to send a bird to Dina, Your Majesty?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ The man’s relief was palpable. He bowed deeply and scurried away, no doubt to treat the wounds that had not yet formed into scars.
Out in the courtyard the warrior priest captains were assembled and waiting. Beulah stood on the steps outside the main castle door to address them. With a conscious effort she tapped into the lines, feeding her words directly to her audience to add emphasis to her voice. Only, as she was about to speak, she felt something very strange, as if a cloud of coldness had slipped over the sun even though it remained as bright as before. The warrior priests felt it too. She could sense their controlled alarm, their readiness to fight. And then, with a sickening feeling in her swollen abdomen, she remembered where she had first encountered that unpleasant distortion of the Grym – in a foothill village a thousand miles from here, swathed in fog and empty of people.
Looking up, she scanned the sky for anything moving. It was bright and blue, the sun high overhead and scarcely a cloud in sight. But there, to the south-west, was a tiny speck. Closer and closer it came, until it resolved itself into two birds flying side by side. Then large birds. Then too large for birds. She had never really believed that they were birds at all.
A pair of dragons flew lazily through the air, wingspans wider than anything she had seen before. Their scales glittered in the sunlight and their long tails whipped up and down with each great beat of their wings. Either they could not see the town and the army camped beneath its walls, or they chose not to. Their destination seemed to be the mountains.
Beulah felt a hum of power flow through the lines around her. She dragged her eyes from the dragons and saw Clun, his gaze locked skywards, his hand moving forward.
‘No, my love. Do not draw their attention.’ She spoke as loudly as she dared, hoping her voice would carry at least to the front row of warrior priests. ‘No one is to conjure their blade unless I tell them to.’
The hum subsided as a hundred warrior priests relaxed. All eyes were fixed on the dragons. From so far she could not tell if either of them was Caradoc, and a chill ran through her at the thought there could be three such beasts loose in her realm. Where had they all suddenly come from?
The dragons climbed, dwindling back to bird-shaped specks as they rose over the mountain pass. In what seemed like an age but was no time at all they had disappeared against the grey rock and purple heather, heading towards Tynewydd and Llanwennog beyond. And still they all stared, tense, waiting for the creatures to come diving back, talons outstretched in attack.
The sound of galloping hooves on the stone road broke the spell. A lone rider hurtled through the castle gates and pulled his horse up. He dropped out of his saddle and shouted at the nearest soldier.
‘Bring him forward,’ Beulah commanded. The man was jostled across the yard and up the steps. He was filthy with dust, his hair matted as if he had ridden non-stop for days. When he saw the queen, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
‘Your Majesty, I bring grave news. Candlehall is taken.’
The old dragon wandered about the clearing, peering at things. Occasionally he would bend down, scoop up a fallen branch or a flower, look at it closely and then put it back again. He seemed quite unperturbed by the abrupt change from deep forest night to the other-worldly light of this place. Benfro only wished he could be as relaxed.
‘What happened to him, Malkin? What happened to Errol?’ He paced back and forth at the edge of the clearing, trying to see through the thick shrubs that marked its edge. The squirrel still perched on his shoulder rocked back and forth with each change of direction, digging its claws into his neck.
‘Malkin not know Errol. Malkin just look for dragons. Malkin find dragons.’
‘Yes. Yes, you did. Thank you. But my friend is out there still, being hunted by men.’
‘I am afraid that they have captured your friend, Benfro. I’m sorry, but he was too far away, and there were too many for me to hide him from them all.’
Benfro swung round so fast that Malkin almost flew off his shoulder. Standing just a few paces away from him, the mother tree bowed her slender head in sorrow, and for a moment it felt like the clearing had been plunged into winter. Then she looked up again, and the night sky filled with light. It was hard to be worried in her presence. She filled him with a sense of peace and calm.
The other dragon seemed less impressed. He sauntered up to where she stood, sniffed loudly and offered her a flower he had just plucked. ‘I am Magog, Son of the Summer Moon,’ he said. ‘And this is my brother Gog. We are the greatest dragons ever to have lived, you know.’
‘I don’t think so, Sir Tremadog. You are a better dragon by far than Magog ever was.’
‘Sir Tremadog? Eh? Who’s he then?’ The dragon blustered, but Benfro could see a change in him, as if the name had woken some deep-buried memory. Memory. The old dragon’s jewels. He looked down and saw, still clasped tightly in his hand, the small wooden box that Errol had given him. How had he managed to hold on to it all this time?
‘They took his jewels out, one by one. Can you put them back?’ He offered the box to the mother tree. She took it from him, opening it and picking out one of the tiny red jewels.
‘I could, Benfro. And I can see that you have only the noblest of aims when you suggest it. But to do so would render him quite mad.’
‘But he’s mad already.’ Benfro tried to speak softly, though the other dragon was paying no attention to them any more, having wandered off to talk to some rabbits hopping around in the grass.
‘He’s confused, simple. He doesn’t remember anything of his past. But he’s not mad. If I were to put these back in his head, it would be filled with unconnected images, memories of great pain and torture, of loss and betrayal. They would plunge him into a madness such as you cannot imagine.’
‘Is there anything you can do for him?’
‘Of course, Benfro. I can keep him here, where he will come to no harm. In time he will get better, though he’ll never be the proud dragon I remember. But come. You look starved, both of you. Let us eat, and you can tell me your tale.’
A table laden with food appeared in front of him, filling the air with a smell that made his mouth water and his stomach gurgle. Benfro couldn’t remember when last he had eaten, and breathing fire had left him completely empty. But even as his legs propelled him towards the feast, he remembered the world outside this unreal bubble.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to try and find Errol. I have to help him.’
For a moment the whole scene shimmered, fading away. Ranks of tall trees overlaid the clearing like ghostly shadows, packed so tight together even the starlight couldn’t penetrate. Benfro wondered if he had done something wrong. Had anyone ever refused the mother tree before? She looked at him with a glare that reminded him of his mother and then relented. The moment passed.
‘You must eat, Benfro. You’ll be no use to your friend if you’re weak with hunger. Now sit and tell me about this young man. I’m surprised that you would befriend one of his kind after what they’ve done to you.’
‘He’s different. He helped me fight off Magog when he didn’t need to.’ Benfro glanced nervously at the point in the air between his eyes, though he couldn’t see his aura just then. He was tired, not thinking straight. He should have checked his mental defences as soon as he had thrown off Loghtan’s control. But it was difficult to stay worried for any length of time here. Benfro could feel nothing of Magog’s presence. Something kept it away for now, so he might as well make the most of it.
The mother tree took her seat at the head of the table, long white hair tumbling over her shoulders, slender, angular ears protruding through it on either side of her head. She took an apple in her long-fingered hand, caressing its shiny red skin but not eating. On the other side of the table Sir Tremadog had settled himself down and was tucking in noisily.
‘I have to get rid of Magog,’ Benfro said, ‘and I need to find a way to Gog’s world. Even if Gog’s dead, there must be other dragon mages there who would know how to break the curse. Or how to find my way back to the place of the standing stone. Magog’s bones lie there; with them I could reckon his jewel and be free of him.’
‘Gog’s world, eh?’ Sir Tremadog said. ‘I knew a dragon once who was trying to find a way there. Looked all over Gwlad for it, he did.’
‘But you told me the window was at Candlehall,’ Benfro said. ‘I even saw it. Or at least I saw something.’
‘Old Gog’s forgotten again, hasn’t he. I can’t go anywhere near the hall of candles. Makes me ill just to think of the place. But I can’t let you have your world and not know what’s going on. So I made me a window too, in a place where you won’t know about it.’
It took Benfro a moment to work out what the dragon was saying. Benfro had never accepted the roles of Gog and Magog that Loghtan had given them. And until a few seconds ago he had forgotten the incident when Sir Tremadog had begun to tell him of the windows between the worlds.
‘Where did you make this window?’
‘Well I’m hardly going to tell you, brother mine. After what you did to me.’
‘Perhaps then, good sir dragon, you would tell me?’ The mother tree leaned forward, and in the same motion she changed, once more taking on that shape of perfect dragon beauty.
‘Ammorgwm?’ Sir Tremadog dropped the handful of food he had been transporting to his mouth. It landed on the table with a dull plop as he stared intently at the vision in front of him. ‘You came back?’
‘I want you to tell me about the window that you made between the two worlds. Where is it?’
‘Close. Not far at all. But I can’t tell. Not with Gog listening. He mustn’t know about it. Oh no. That would spoil the surprise.’
‘I’m not Gog.’ Benfro dropped his head to the table. ‘I’m not your brother. I’m Benfro, son of Morgwm the Green and Sir Trefaldwyn of the Great Span.’
‘He will take time to adjust, time to reorder what memories he has.’ Benfro felt a hand on his arm and looked up into the great black eyes of Ammorgwm, the mother tree. He was tired, the effort of their escape and the trauma of his captivity beginning to catch up with him. It would be so easy to surrender to those eyes, to let sleep take him over, but the last time he had done that, he had lost months. Errol could be dead in hours.
Shaking his head to try and clear it of sleep, he pushed thoughts of rest as far from his mind as possible.
‘O Benfro, I should know better than to argue with a dragon whose mind is made up. Here, eat these. They will give you the strength you need.’
