The Broken World, page 20
‘Kill him, you idiots!’ The inquisitor’s voice penetrated his shock. Benfro swung round again, belching out more flame at the warrior priests. They screamed like children as they burned.
‘You can’t beat them all, Benfro. You have to run.’ Frecknock’s voice was in his head. He looked to where she had been standing and found instead that she was kneeling beside the inquisitor, tending to his wounds. His rage at her doubled. How could she ally herself with the man who had slaughtered her entire family?
‘I do what I must, Benfro. Now go before anyone sees I’m helping you.’
The doors burst open at the far end of the room. Warrior priests swarmed in like wasps. Too many of them for Benfro to take on, and his stomach was gurgling and empty now. He had to escape, but how? If he went back down to the cavern beneath the throne room, he would be trapped.
‘Use the Llinellau, Benfro. I know you’ve done it before.’ Frecknock’s voice was calm, quite unlike the hectoring tone he remembered. It reminded him more of Corwen and the first time he had seen the Grym. Unbidden the Llinellau appeared in front of him, thick and powerful and converging on the throne. He gazed at the lines and at the aethereal overlaying everything else, and there, behind the throne, just like he had seen in Candlehall, was a small window. One strand of the Grym snaked its way through, one strand that didn’t lead straight back to Magog’s retreat at the top of Mount Arnahi.
‘Benfro, you have to hurry.’ Now Frecknock sounded more like her old self. He looked at her and then across just long enough to see that the warrior priests had reached the dais and were almost upon him. She was sheltering Melyn, who sat on the floor shaking, but she looked up and winked at him, just once.
‘Go!’
Benfro turned his attention back to the Grym, feeling out along the line that must surely take him to Gog’s world. But where on Gog’s world? He didn’t know any place to go. How could he walk the Llinellau to somewhere he had never seen? Then he remembered the strange dream he had shared with Errol, of flying over a huge castle, being attacked by other dragons. He had dropped Ynys Môn’s jewels. Somewhere out there his friend and mentor was waiting for him.
Benfro pictured the scene: the old dragon sitting in front of a campfire on which their day’s hunt cooked, sipping from a flask he would never share, telling tales of ancient times when dragons were proud masters of all they surveyed. He could feel Ynys Môn out there, just a step away.
But his hand, he couldn’t leave that behind. He had to find a way to mend it. Turning and stooping in one swift motion, he snatched it up as the first warrior priest leaped towards him, face blistered and burned, blade long and silent and deadly. It was Captain Osgal, somehow still alive.
Benfro froze for an instant, watching the blade swing down in an arc that would cut his head in two. His severed hand slipped from his grasp and tumbled back to the floor. Too late to do anything with it now.
He closed his eyes and jumped.
The plain outside Tochers was a mess. The army had packed up, and the first companies of men were marching down the low valley on the road to Candlehall. Beulah watched them go, once more cursing her stupidity. Melyn had come up with his plan to cause a diversion in northern Llanwennog, to draw most of its army away from the passes. Of course Ballah would have thought to do the same thing.
What galled her most though was knowing that Abervenn had turned against her. Her own people had risen up in rebellion and accepted the leadership of a foreigner, a Llanwennog, Prince Dafydd. And perfect little Iolwen; she should have disposed of her little sister right after Lleyn. But then the shock of losing two daughters might have killed her father, and long years of regency would have lost her the Obsidian Throne just as certainly.
‘Damn her. By the Wolf!’
‘My love? Does something ail you?’ Clun rushed to her side; he was never very far away these days.
‘My sister. Iolwen. She was there in Abervenn Castle. Why didn’t I see it? She gave birth to a son. I held him in my hands, my own nephew. And he pissed on me.’ She dared Clun to laugh, to even smile. But he didn’t. His face darkened instead, his brow furrowing in anger.
‘Are you sure it was her? I thought you said she was a serving girl.’
‘That’s what Anwyn told me. But I thought she looked familiar. And why would both Anwyn and her mother look after a serving girl giving birth? Surely they’d have servants to do that.’
Beulah fumed. She had been tricked, and it was all the fault of her unborn child. Without its presence damping her magical skills she would have seen through the subterfuge in an instant.
As if sensing her rebuke, the baby kicked. Beulah tried not to wince, but Clun saw it nonetheless. He took her arm and led her to a nearby chair set on the ramparts of the town wall so that she could watch the army leave.
‘You need to take it easy, my lady. The baby will be along soon.’
‘Nonsense, Clun. It’s not due for weeks, I’m sure.’
‘Your Majesty. I have news from the pass.’ Captain Celtin climbed the steps to the battlements and bowed, keeping a discreet distance until Beulah waved him forward. ‘This just came by bird.’ He handed over a small scroll of parchment.
Beulah broke the seal and unrolled it. The message was quite long and complicated, written in tiny letters that she had to squint to read. Yet as she worked her way down to the bottom, her heart lifted and she chuckled.
‘Oh, but this is priceless!’ She handed the scroll back to the captain, then stood up and grasped Clun in a warm embrace.
‘To think that I once wanted all their kind killed. Well, I still do, but perhaps not today.’
‘What are you talking about, my lady?’
‘Dragons, my love. Or more specifically the two dragons that flew over here yesterday. Apparently they attacked Tordu’s army and drove most of it away from Tynewydd. His men are scattered over the Caenant plain. The pass is unguarded.’
‘But how—’
‘There’s no time, my love. We have to move swiftly before he can regroup.’ Beulah turned her attention back to Celtin, who had finished reading the message and was grinning too. ‘Celtin, I want you to summon the generals for me. We need to alter our plans.’
The captain saluted then ran down the steps on his errand. Beulah set off after him at a much slower pace, the bulge in her stomach making anything more than a sedate walk impossible. With Clun’s help, she reached the street below as General Otheng and a number of other senior officers hurried to meet her.
‘Is it true, Your Majesty? We have dragons working for us now?’
‘I doubt they care who they attack, General. We must thank the Shepherd these two decided Llanwennogs taste better.’ Beulah uttered the words without thinking, then remembered how Clun’s father and stepmother had died. ‘I’m sorry, my love. That was insensitive of me.’
Clun’s face was unreadable, and he said nothing.
General Otheng broke the silence. ‘How are we to play this to our advantage, ma’am? We still need the army to retake Candlehall.’
‘The forces that were to defend this end of the pass will march to Tynewydd. If this intelligence is correct, we can take the town without major loss. And once we have it, our men will defend the other end of the pass for when we return.’
‘A wise plan, ma’am. But don’t forget the pass can be deadly in winter. Our forces could be left to fend for themselves for months.’
‘Tynewydd will be stocked for Tordu’s forces, and it has a deep well. You’ll need to take warrior priests with you in case the dragons return. And you’ll need to march soon and fast, before Tordu has a chance to regroup. I will lead the army back to Candlehall. We should have the city back in our hands by month’s end.’
Beulah watched as everyone set about their tasks. Only Clun stayed with her, and together they walked back to the castle. They were hardly within its gates when the baby gave another great kick. Still a month to go, but it was as feisty as a ten-year-old. She clutched at her stomach, waiting for the waves of nausea to go away. Something convulsed inside her, as if she had been punched in the gut, and she let out an involuntary gasp. Strong arms caught her as her legs buckled, and only then did she feel the warm liquid trickling down her legs.
‘What’s happening, my love?’ Beulah was only dimly aware of her surroundings as Clun picked her up and carried her through the castle hall.
‘Be calm, my lady. Try to relax. I think your waters have broken,’ he said quietly, then yelled to a servant standing nearby. ‘Fetch the medics. Now! Her Majesty has just gone into labour.’
The first thing he noticed was the grass pressing against his head and hands, wiry and dry like the end of summer. Then the smells came to him: dry earth, dust, something strangely spicy. Slowly sounds trickled into the chaos of his head: the chittering of a million million insects, the background hiss of the wind, the croak of a crow about its solitary business, something small rustling in a nearby bush.
Errol tried to sit up, but as soon as he tensed his muscles to lift his head, he was engulfed in pain. It felt like someone had shoved a knife through his temple and straight into his brain. Lights burst like explosions in his vision. Gasping, suddenly breathless, he slumped back down again, waiting for the pain to pass.
It seeped away slowly, leaving a dull ache as a reminder of what would happen should he try to move too quickly again. But he had to move before whatever was in the bushes came for him. He needed to find shelter, somewhere to rest safely while his head cleared. And he needed to find out where he was.
This time Errol pushed himself up slowly. His head throbbed, and his balance was completely off, but eventually he managed to lever himself into a sitting position. It took a moment for his vision to clear enough to see, but when he did, he was still confused. It was sort of the forest of his dreams, only different. This was the place where he had seen Martha walking. There was the path, hugging the shade beneath the canopy, meandering back and forth as if it didn’t want to venture into the light. But the trees looked different, the grass dry and yellow. Turning slowly, he saw the clearing with its distinctive rocky outcrop, but it was not quite right. In his dream this place had been lush and green. Now it was as if no rain had fallen in centuries.
Errol sat in the long grass slowly taking it all in. It began to dawn on him that this was not a dream. It was too real. Unlike his previous visits, he could hear the wind, feel the wetness seeping through his clothing, smell the autumn scents. Perhaps if he waited long enough Martha would come along and he could stop her from walking out into the clearing, save her from being captured by the dragons. But that couldn’t work. She had been captured, he knew. He had seen her trapped in a cage of gold at the top of the tallest tower in the vast castle. Or had that been a boy called Xando?
He shook his head tentatively, trying to make sense of the jumble of memories. The pain washed over him again in dizzying waves, if anything making it even harder to think. It was obvious he had taken a nasty blow, and the best thing he could do was to find somewhere safe to recover.
A sudden noise attracted his attention. He turned his head too quickly and almost fainted. Beyond the tree under which he sat a line of low shrubs and bushes climbed a nearby rise. One of them was moving independently of the others, as if it had its own wind to play with. Or was concealing something. He stared hard at it, waiting for his vision to clear again.
‘Is there somebody there?’ His voice sounded strange to him, hoarse through his dry throat and deeper than the woman’s voice he had been affecting for weeks. The bush rustled some more, and then a head poked out through the leaves.
For a moment he thought it was Martha. The girl looked at him with that same quizzical expression, head cocked slightly to one side. But where Martha’s hair was dark and fell long and straight past her shoulders, this girl’s was short, spiky and ginger. Her face was ruddy too, more close in hue to his own. And she was a good bit younger than Martha, not yet ten if he was any judge.
‘You a girl or a boy?’ she asked, and there was something strange about her speech that Errol couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘A boy,’ he said. ‘My name’s Errol.’
‘Only you’re wearing women’s clothes.’
‘It’s a disguise. I was being chased. Have you been watching me long?’
‘Since you got here.’ The girl pushed her way out of the bush, looking up at the sky with a quick nervous glance. ‘You fell out of nothing. Where’d you come from?’
And that was when he realized what was so odd about her. She wasn’t speaking Llanwennog, nor even Saesneg.
Her words were perfect Draigiaith.
Benfro felt like he was being squeezed down a long narrow tunnel. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. There was nothing but pressure and the images in his head. Had he escaped, or was this what it felt like to have your head split in two by a blade of light? He would have expected some pain, but then he had felt nothing when Melyn had severed his hand. He only hoped that the wound he had dealt the inquisitor was a mortal one; he could die happy if he knew he had avenged his mother.
But if he was dead, then why was he so desperate to breathe? His lungs burned for air, and yet whatever it was that gripped him held him so tight he could not move at all. He could do nothing but think, not even struggle.
And then he was free. Sensations burst in on him as if he had plunged his head under the waterfall at Corwen’s clearing: bright light blinded him as he opened his eyes to stare straight at the sun; the wind battered his ears, filling them with a roaring sound, tugged at his wings, his legs and arms; the sun whipped away from him, and he realized he was falling head over tail through nothing. Blue sky dotted with white clouds rushed past him. And then he saw trees, rocky outcrops, distant mountains, trees again. Too close.
Instinctively he opened his wings, but he was upside down again, staring at the sun. He tried twisting in the air, but he had nothing to push against. He was falling too fast, tumbling, tumbling.
A second rotation, and this time Benfro managed to slow his spin, to spread his wings wide enough to catch the air. Then pain smashed into his right side. There was such a noise of cracking that he thought he must surely have broken all his bones, but it was just the upper branches of a huge old tree snapping in a series of dry explosions. Trying not to damage himself any more than necessary, Benfro thrust himself away from the tree. His wing tip hurt like he had slammed it against a wall, and his side burned where shattered branches scraped down it, pulling at his scales and finding all the unprotected bits of skin. He was too close to the ground now and still going too fast.
At the last moment he reared his head up, swinging around the fulcrum that was the solid knot of muscle in the middle of his back. He thrust his feet down towards the ground, trying not to tense them against the inevitable shock. He had jumped from enough trees in his young life; he knew how to do this surely.
The ground hit him like a landslide. His legs folded underneath him, and he pitched forward. He tried to tuck his head down, fold his wings tight and roll.
It didn’t work.
Benfro’s face slammed into the grassy earth, knocking all the sense out of him. His belly colliding with the ground squeezed all the air out of his lungs. He slid forward several paces, his head clattering up and down over hummocks and buried rocks, until he finally came to a complete halt, his nose just inches away from a large boulder.
Dazed, winded, bruised, all he could hear was a roaring in his ears as the impact of his crash slowly ebbed. Then, from somewhere nearby, he heard what sounded distinctly like a slow handclap, the sort of sarcastic applause Ynys Môn had always produced whenever Benfro did something particularly stupid.
‘An especially fine landing, I must say. I especially like how you used your chin as a brake. Bravo.’
Benfro struggled slowly upright, levering himself erect with his one good arm. His wings were still spread, and he brought them into his flanks gingerly, feeling for any serious damage and finding only aches and bruises. Finally he looked to see who had spoken.
She sat in the shade of a nearby tree, a large deer sprawled on the ground in front of her, its innards in a heap where she had been grallocking it. She stood up slowly and walked towards him, stretching her wings out as she moved in a manner that Benfro found impossible not to stare at.
She was the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen.
14
Little is known of the effects of pregnancy on the manipulation of the Grym, or of the workings of the Grym on the foetus during its gestation. Few women have become adepts, and fewer still fallen pregnant to allow subjects for study. This is not, as many in the exclusively male ranks of the Order of the High Ffrydd say, because women are inherently unmagical; some of the most skilful and powerful mages of history were women, after all. It is more a tendency in male-dominated societies to view women as both the fairer and weaker sex, reducing them to the position of servant or chattel within the family structure. None of the great orders look for women at their choosings, so no women are chosen, and this is taken to mean no women have any talent beyond that of bearing children.
A perhaps surprising exception is in the royal House of Balwen itself, where sons and daughters of the monarch both receive training in the many forms of magic. And yet down the years there have been surprisingly few royal daughters, and even fewer queens. All have lost their magical abilities during pregnancy, some regaining them slowly afterwards, some swiftly and some not at all. Their offspring have all been powerfully magical, but then carrying the blood of Balwen in their veins, how could they be anything else?
Barrod Sheepshead, A History of the House of Balwen
‘Here. Let me give you a hand.’
Benfro became aware that he was lying sprawled on the ground, his face in the soft forest loam. Not in the throne room at Tynhelyg, not confronting Inquisitor Melyn and a dozen warrior priests intent on killing him. Not ducking out of the reach of that flaming blade of concentrated Grym. Not …
