The Broken World, page 3
From the personal papers of Circus Master Loghtan
Dafydd paced the rolling deck, listening to the constant chatter of gulls and the thrum of the wind through the rigging. He didn’t understand why the ropes attached to the sails were called sheets, rather than the sails themselves, but during the course of his journey he had come to accept that there were many things about sailing he would never understand. For a start, why anyone would willingly choose it as a career.
Their passage through the Sea of Tegid had been calm enough, and they had even made it past the great looming cliffs of the Twin Spires of Idris without incident, but as they headed south into the Great Ocean the swell had risen and the wind strengthened. Dafydd had gone through seasickness: he was past huddling in a miserable heap beside the railing, clutching his aching stomach and waiting for the cold wind to blow the pain from his head. It had taken five miserable days, but he had finally found his sea legs during the storm that had sent them past the Caldy peninsula, beyond Bardsey Island and into the middle of the Felem archipelago. Now he felt fine, but he would never forget the torment he had endured.
It was made all the worse by the fact that Iolwen, who for months had been sick every morning and sometimes throughout the day, had taken to the rough waters with casual ease. Her mood had lightened, and she had become ever more beautiful in his eyes. She was radiant. Dafydd just wished that she would wear slightly less revealing clothes. Her pregnancy was well evident now, and it seemed somehow improper for a princess of the realm to parade her condition so openly among the common soldiers and seamen who shared their ship.
He found her, as usual, up at the front, sitting staring out over the huge carved figurehead. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow around the edges of the myriad islets dotted about the sea here like so much chaff.
‘Captain Azurea tells me he knows of a large island nearby where we can find fresh water and provisions. He plans to stop there for a few days to let the horses graze.’ Dafydd settled himself down on to the scrubbed wooden deck beside his wife and understood something of her liking for the place. Ahead of the busy ship all you could see was the sea and the islands, all you could smell was the tang of saltwater and the hot sun-baked air.
‘It’s so peaceful. Sometimes I wish I could stay here for ever. Never go back.’
‘Do you really?’ Dafydd asked. ‘It’s nice, I’ll grant you, and I’d far rather have peace than war any day. But I think I’d get bored very soon. And it’s not always this tranquil either. Don’t forget the storm that forced us here.’
He put his arm around Iolwen’s shoulder and held her tight as the ship moved slowly through the narrow channels between the islets. They passed one rocky headland, a cliff of crumbling stone spearing out of the water several hundred paces high and streaked white with guano. Beyond it the sea was calm in the lee of a much larger island, the centre of which was dominated by a cone-shaped mountain wreathed in cloud. The ship turned towards the coastline directly beneath the summit, and as they neared the shore Dafydd made out a long stone jetty pushing into the bay. Behind it stood the crumbled remains of long-abandoned buildings shaded by tall palms and other exotic plants he didn’t recognize.
‘We’d best get out of the way of the sailors. They’ll be wanting to drop anchor or whatever it is they do.’ Dafydd stood and helped Iolwen to her feet as the ship turned towards the jetty. They picked their way back along the deck as all about them the bustle grew in intensity. Sailors scrambled up masts and began furling sails; a group of men prepared the longboats, breaking out heavy wooden oars; and all about them shouted orders were answered with curt grunts and the occasional oath.
It was much quieter in their cabin, and in the hour or so it took for the ship to finally come to a halt Iolwen busied herself selecting clothing more suitable for wearing on land. Dafydd watched her, wondering if he should tell her that the place was uninhabited. A knock on the door finally stirred him. He opened it to find Captain Pelod and Teryll waiting outside.
‘We’ve docked, and the men are unloading the horses. Teryll and I’ll see to the camp arrangements, but Usel wondered if you’d like a tour of the island. Seems it’s got quite a history.’
Up on deck, Dafydd was surprised to see that the ship was moored alongside the jetty; he had expected it to anchor in the bay. But as he walked down the gangplank and stood on firm ground for the first time in far too many weeks, he could see that the stonework of the jetty, ancient though it was, still held firm. The crystal-clear water showed a pale sandy bottom many spans below the ship, shoals of fish darting about in the newly cast shadow.
Usel was already waiting for them at the landward end of the jetty. He had about him the air of an excited schoolboy, Dafydd thought. The man bristled with energy and was impatient to get going.
‘There’s something you really must see.’ Usel didn’t wait for them to reply but headed off along the beach towards the nearest of the derelict buildings. Iolwen strode off after him, speaking in Saesneg and just as full of excitement at being ashore. Dafydd shrugged at Pelod and Teryll, then jumped down on to the sand to follow.
It was a curious sensation to walk on ground that didn’t move and pitch under his feet. Away from the open sea and its cooling breeze, the air was hot, the sunlight reflecting off the fine sand. Up from the beach the land levelled off into a wide plain before the sudden steep rise of the mountain. A fringe of trees marked the boundary between beach and plain, and beyond them lay a tangle of long grass and shrubs. Large lumps in the vegetation were the remains of yet more buildings, making up what must once have been a sizeable town.
‘Who lived here, Usel?’ Iolwen asked as they walked along a pathway through the brush which was obviously still well used.
‘This is Merrambel, the most northerly outpost of the people of Eirawen.’
‘What happened to them? Why did they abandon the place? Surely this must be a paradise to live in?’
‘So you’d think. But Mount Merram’s not as peaceful as it looks. The histories say it erupted violently over three thousand years ago. Many of the people perished, and those who survived were scattered throughout Gwlad. Most of them returned to Eirawen, but a few were blown north to the Twin Kingdoms. Some say that they were the first people to reach there and were the ancestors of Balwen’s tribe.’
‘Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?’ Dafydd asked.
‘Not really, no. The cities of Eirawen are ancient compared to Candlehall and Abervenn. The people might be superstitious and backward now, but there was a time when they were as sophisticated as us, if not more so.’ Usel led them down a steep slope into a river valley between the rows of broken buildings and the looming presence of the volcano. The vegetation on either side thickened, but the path was still clear, laid with flat stones butted perfectly together and formed into a series of long shallow steps. The shadows lengthened as they neared the bottom, though the sun still hovering on the western horizon shone up the valley past them. Usel was almost running now, so eager was he to get to whatever lay around the corner, and as Dafydd stepped past some overhanging fronds of vegetation, he understood some of the man’s excitement.
The path down which they had walked opened into a wide clearing at the base of the valley. Immediately uphill the bulk of the mountain climbed away in a cliff. Vegetation covered it like the straggly hair of a drowned maid, but a great patch in the middle, perhaps a hundred paces wide and twice as high, had been cleared back to bare stone. And then it had been carved into the image of an immense dragon.
‘Behold Earith the Wise. This is the god of the ancient peoples of Eirawen.’ Usel’s voice was full of fervour, almost devotion. But it wasn’t this, nor the truly immense carving that made Dafydd gasp and Iolwen let out a tiny yelp of surprise. In the middle of the clearing, dwarfed by the statue, gazing up at its image and quite oblivious to the new arrivals, stood a real, live dragon.
The village was little more than a collection of rude wooden huts clustered around a well. A narrow track meandered away from it downhill towards the undulating plains of the northlands, ending at the scrubby village green grazed by a couple of thin goats and a few chickens, as if this was the furthest reach of King Ballah’s long arm. Beyond the last ramshackle house was bandit country.
Melyn rode slowly through the houses, noting the signs of habitation, feeling out with his senses for the people who lived in this benighted place. They were small-minded, beaten down by the bleakness of their existence. Some time in the distant past a lucky soul had found some gold nearby. There had been a boom for a short while – Melyn had seen the ruins of a larger settlement on his way in, the scars in the landscape where men had toiled in search of wealth – but what had brought the people out here was long gone. The few poor souls still eking out an existence in this place were the losers, mindless optimists who used the vain hope of sudden riches to sustain themselves through a lifetime of miserable deprivation. He would, Melyn concluded, be doing them all a favour.
It took surprisingly long for anyone to appear. There were no dogs yapping at the heels of his horse, just goats shuffling up to see if he tasted better than the grass. He shooed them off, tying his horse to a rickety wooden rail by the well and drawing a bucketful of water for it to drink.
‘Halloo. Is there anyone here?’ Melyn’s shout dissipated on the cold wind that never stopped whistling across the barren landscape. Shivering, he drew more power from the Grym, feeling its warmth in his bones. He was about to shout once more when he heard a scraping noise and turned to see an old man shuffle out of the newly opened door of the largest house in the village.
‘Who’re you?’ The man’s accent was harsh and unfriendly.
Melyn bowed his head slightly. ‘I am Inquisitor Melyn of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Perhaps you have heard of me?’ Melyn’s Llanwennog was cultured in comparison.
‘Don’t know nuffin ‘bout that. What you want? Taxes? You can tell ‘Is Majesty we bain’t got no money fer ourselves. Let alone ‘im.’
‘I can assure you, I have no desire to take your money. Nor do I come here on behalf of King Ballah. I do, however, bring important news for everyone in this village. I take it you’re in charge around here?’
‘That I am.’
‘Then I’d be grateful if you could call a village meeting. I don’t want to have to say my piece more than once.’ Melyn sent a compulsion with his voice, but it wasn’t really necessary. The old man was going to complain about his back, his knees, the state of the roads, anything he could think of, but he was also intrigued to know what had brought this high-powered gentleman all the way out to his sorry village. He turned back to the open doorway and shouted to the darkness inside,
‘Mabel. Send the lads out t’ tell everyone I’m calling a moot. Don’t argue, damn you. Jes do it.’
Melyn unstrapped a small travelling stool from his saddle, unfolded and set it on the ground beside the well. He saw two young boys dart from the back of the house, heading for the other huts. The message spread quickly, but even so it took several minutes before the first of the villagers began to assemble. Not once did the old man offer any kind of hospitality. Melyn found he didn’t mind; anything offered would most likely have made him ill, and to refuse it would have been rude. Not that he particularly minded being rude to these peasants.
On his stool Melyn watched them assemble, feeling their excitement build as they saw him and exchanged whispered words with each other. The old man refused to say anything more than that this important man had a declaration that had to be made to the whole village. A few of the younger men tried to argue with the village elder, but he obviously still ruled the roost, and they backed down soon enough.
About fifty people had assembled by the time Melyn decided to speak. They ranged in age from a babe still suckling at its dirty-faced mother’s breast to a bald-headed woman with a wall eye who must have been eighty if she was a day. They had a look about them, surly-faced and with eyebrows that met in the middle, which spoke of long years of inbreeding. For the first time, viewing the thin children and haggard women, Melyn began to wonder whether his plan was a good one. Nobody would ever miss these people. Nobody would notice them gone.
‘Thank you all for gathering to hear me. Is anyone not here?’
There was a general shuffling, a refusal to make eye contact, some mumbling. Then the village elder admitted that there might be one or two men panning a stream a couple of miles out.
‘To the west of here? A narrow gully with scrubby trees on the north bank?’
The old man nodded.
‘That’s all right. I’ve already spoken to them. We can proceed. Now, as I’ve already told your chief here, my name is Melyn. I am Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Does anyone here know what that means?’
No answer. He’d expected none, but it might have been more fun if at least one of them had known who he was.
‘Never mind. I really only gathered you here to make my life easier. Captain, if you please.’
There was a shimmering in the Grym that Melyn felt through his bones, and a dozen warrior priests led by Captain Osgal appeared out of thin air. They had the villagers surrounded, and without a further word conjured up their blades of light.
‘What’s this? What’re you—’ The village elder was cut short by a ball of conjured flame thrown straight at him by Melyn. As it exploded in the old man’s face, setting his clothes and hair alight, the women in the crowd screamed. Soon the men joined in as the silent warrior priests set about them with their blades.
It was over in less than a minute. Only the bleating of goats and the clucking of chickens broke the silence that descended on the village green. Melyn got up, folded his travelling stool and strapped it back on to his saddle.
‘Pile them all up there.’ He indicated a clear patch of grass and waited while the warrior priests did as they were ordered. Melyn was pleased to see that there was little blood; most of the sword cuts had been surgically precise. It made cleaning up easier.
‘Stand back now.’ He waited until the last body was in place and the warrior priests had retreated, then he reached out for the lines all around him. It was a difficult working, like conjuring a blade of light as big as a horse. And he had to deflect all that power away from himself or risk turning into a very brief and very bright star. It was magic he had performed before, magic he was confident he could perform now, but still he had to gauge the exact moment to release all that pent-up energy.
The fire started in the middle of the pile of bodies. No ordinary flame this, it consumed totally, eating away the substance as it absorbed the dead back into the Grym. A pyre would have left a pall of greasy black smoke hanging in the air like an epitaph, a heap of dirty grey ash to mix with the soil and flow down the slope with the next rains, but this fire took everything into itself, reaching out like a living thing. Melyn watched as his warrior priests retreated, feeling the magical flame grasping for them. He smiled to himself; he knew exactly how far it could go and stood just beyond its limit. The heat washed over his face, warmed his skin for a few brief moments and then began to fade away, pulling in on itself until there was nothing but a tiny glowing orb a few feet above the ground. Then, with a pop not audible to normal ears, that too disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a perfectly round patch of bare earth.
Errol spent a further three days in the company of Lord and Lady Gremmil, and every one of those days was torment. His head injury began to heal, the agony subsiding to a dull ache with time, but he still had to be careful about sudden movements. Every so often he would turn to answer a question, and the whole world would darken, his knees go weak. If he was lucky, he caught himself, but more than once he had ended up sprawled on the floor.
A physician had examined him that first day, not long after he had woken. A thin sombre man dressed in flowing black robes and carrying a heavy leather case which he never opened, he had prodded Errol, peered into his eyes, felt his pulse and temperature and declared him a lucky young man. Apparently the blow had bruised his brain, causing it to swell within his skull. Whoever had inflicted it had intended to kill. The physician offered to drill a hole and let some of the accumulated fluid out, but Errol declined. He had heard tales of trepanning from his mother and wanted nothing of it. Rest would be sufficient, as long as he could contain his eagerness to get away.
Lord and Lady Gremmil had a son, Evan, who was a little older than Errol but much the same size and build. Some months earlier he had ridden to Tynhelyg with a troop of men, the town’s contribution to the war effort. Poul was obviously delighted that his boy was a captain, fully involved in the fight against the madmen from the south, but when Isobel brought Errol a selection of clothes far grander than anything he had ever owned before, he could see that she was worried about her only child. He felt terrible offering her sympathy and saying that he would look out for the young man when he returned to Tynhelyg. They were genuinely kind people, and he hated abusing their trust.
Gremmil was a grey town. On the edge of the northlands, it had none of the gold to be found around Cerdys, but it had prospered well enough supplying food and equipment to the endless stream of prospectors who ventured north on the king’s road. Errol didn’t see much of it, keeping himself to the castle, but on the third day, when his balance was much better, Poul insisted on taking him down to the stables to pick out a horse.
‘I couldn’t possibly take a horse. I’ve no money to pay.’ Errol looked at the line of stables, a long face peering from the open top of each double door. He knew nothing about horses except that one end bit and the other kicked.
‘Nonsense, Errol. You’re the king’s man on the king’s business. It’s my duty to assist you in any way possible. And besides, you were attacked on my land. What kind of a lord would I be if I didn’t compensate you for what happened?’
‘Well, I suppose I could always send the animal back with your son when he next returns home.’
