The Broken World, page 30
‘As you wish, sire.’
‘And the city? Are you preparing for a siege?’
‘We are gathering all the supplies we can, sending those who have other places to go back out to the country. This city has not been attacked in many centuries though. Not since the Brumal Wars. Strange that it always falls prey to its own, never a foreign invader.’ Padraig allowed himself a small smile before continuing. ‘We can survive for months if the walls remain unbreached, the gates hold. But Beulah is queen, a child of the House of Balwen. There is no telling what she might know, what secrets could let her in behind our backs.’
‘Would you just throw open the gates? Let them come in like you did for us?’
‘No, sire. That would not serve the people well.’
‘How so? I thought you wanted only to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.’
‘Quite so. And you have not harmed a single person since arriving here. More, you rejected the offer of the Obsidian Throne, and I am truly grateful for that.’ Padraig lowered his head to stress his sincerity, then looked up again, his pale eyes suddenly bright. ‘But Queen Beulah is a very different person. She will not be kind to the city that turned its back on her.’
‘She would sack her own capital?’
‘Worse. I have no doubt of it. Make no mistake, Prince Dafydd. I have picked a side in this war and I will defend it to the utmost of my ability. But you must never forget what is at stake here should we fail. Candlehall and all inside its walls will burn.’
20
It is likely there has been a settlement on the site of Candlehall for millennia. Its position above the River Abheinn surrounded by the fertile plains of the Hafod make it a natural place to build. The Neuadd itself predates much of the current city and possibly even the older parts of the palace complex and the King’s Chapel. It is an easily defensible spot, which perhaps explains why it has so seldom been attacked. In fact, despite or because of its sturdy walls, both the ancient Wall of Kings and the more recently constructed New Wall, Candlehall has only been besieged twice in written history.
The first siege lasted only twenty-four hours before King Diseverin IV, aided by Inquisitor Porfor and a troop of warrior priests of the then-fledgling Order of the High Ffrydd, routed the attacking army of Duke Lledrod of Dina. The second siege marked the end of the Brumal Wars and lasted just two weeks. There can be few people in the Twin Kingdoms who have not heard of King Divitie IX’s massacre of the army of his unfortunate brother Prince Torwen on the plains beneath the King’s Gate.
What few appreciate though is that in its entire history, spanning millennia, Candlehall has never been attacked by the army of a foreign, invading nation. It has always been Twin Kingdoms men and more specifically Hafod men who have risen in arms, ultimately unsuccessfully, against their own capital and king.
Father Soay, An Architectural Tour of the Twin Kingdoms
‘You fly well for a kitling. Though you seem to favour your right wing a little. A shame about the landing, though. That needs more practice, I think.’
Sun on his back and the wind ruffling the hairy tufts at the end of his ears, Benfro was too happy in himself to be annoyed at being called a kitling. In truth, he wasn’t exactly a fully grown adult, even if he had reached his majority and carried the honorific title of head of his family. He was still young, possibly the youngest dragon in this fold, and the dragon alongside whom he flew was older than the hills.
‘Ah, I see it now. A couple of small bones that were broken and not set correctly. How can one so young have seen so many mishaps?’
Benfro didn’t reply. He’d spotted a deer through the tree canopy and was trying to work out the best way to catch it. He had regained almost all of his strength since he’d been healed by Myfanwy and arrived in such inelegant fashion at the fold’s gathering place atop the Twmp. There was just the small matter of his regrowing hand to slow him down. That and his continued inability to land without falling on his face.
‘Deer. There. See them?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but folded back his wings and plummeted towards the ground. Behind him he could sense the surprise of his flying companion. Sir Gwair wasn’t the leader of the dragons, but he was the oldest and probably the wisest after Myfanwy the healer. Benfro had spent a long time trying to work out who was the leader but had lately come to the conclusion there wasn’t one. Certainly they were very different to the staid old villagers with whom he had grown up.
The trees here were more of the strange things he had seen turned into houses when first he’d arrived. Tall, impossibly thick trunks were topped with tiny little branches and smatterings of leaves. With a twist of his tail, Benfro slid through the slimmest of gaps, still high enough off the ground not to worry. Something of his approach must have registered with the deer though. He’d only seen one, but a herd of them scattered in all directions. He focused on a large buck with particularly impressive antlers, angled his descent to intersect with where he knew it was going to run. Closer and closer, faster and faster, the wind pulled tears from his eyes, blurring his vision so that it was hard to judge the distance. He had to rely on memory, experience, convince himself that he could do this even with his eyes closed. And then he let out a laugh of joy. Of course he could do it with his eyes closed. He could see the life in everything around him, use the lines to judge distance far more accurately than with mere sight. They came to him easily now; there was something about this place or maybe the lack of Magog’s influence. In the same instant he thought of them, they were there.
They were everywhere.
The stag was a bright point of light, moving back and forth as it tried to escape him, but the trees were even brighter still, crawling with life, glowing with it in themselves. The Grym pulsed through them in slow waves, almost hypnotic, and around them auras glowed in colours he had no names for. Momentarily distracted, Benfro almost crashed into the ground, swinging his wings down hard and pulling his head back to avoid a nasty collision. Instinctively he raised his legs, talons extended, and without realizing he was doing it, brought them together around the stag’s neck. It died in an instant, the pulse of its life winking out like a candle extinguished. And with that death he felt a surge of energy fill him. Without a thought he released the body just in time to execute a perfect landing.
‘Bravo, Benfro. As fine a kill as ever I saw.’
The voice woke him from some kind of trance. Benfro looked up, the Grym seeping away from his vision as he did so. Sir Gwair spiralled down from a larger gap in the canopy, landing heavily. The old dragon waddled up to inspect the dead stag.
‘These trees. What are they called?’ Benfro had almost forgotten the deer. He was fascinated by the thick trunks, the pulsing life within them. He walked up to the nearest one and reached out with his hand, felt the smooth surface of its bark, and as he did so a tiny jolt of energy shot from his hand into it. He recoiled, letting out a yelp more of surprise than pain. Sir Gwair must have seen, as he chuckled under his breath before answering.
‘These are the earliest trees. The Bondaris. Legend has it they are the sons and daughters of the mother tree herself.’ Sir Gwair stood beside Benfro now, and he too reached out to touch the smooth bark. As he did so, Benfro saw the tree glow as it took the gift of the Grym from the old dragon.
‘I’ve met the mother tree,’ Benfro said. ‘She found me when I was almost dead, took me in, fed me. And all she wanted in return was a story.’
Sir Gwair patted the tree once more before speaking again, and when he did it was in a low voice.
‘You are so young, Benfro. You have so much to learn. But one thing I will tell you now. Do not mention the mother tree to the rest of the fold. Certainly not to Fflint and his like. They don’t hold much with such things. Kitlings’ tales, superstition and nonsense. That’s what they think.’
‘But she’s real. How can they not know that?’
‘They choose not to. Same as they chose not to live in the castle with the Old One. Those of them that weren’t hatched out here in the wilds, that is.’
Benfro was about to ask more. He knew so little about these dragons, knew so little about any of his kind when he thought about it. But before he could say anything a great bellowing roar filled the air above their heads. Looking up, he saw Fflint and his cronies wheeling not far above the treetops.
‘Oh no. Not so soon, surely.’ Sir Gwair gazed up too.
‘What is it?’ Benfro bent down to pick up the deer and begin the task of gutting and preparing it, but the old dragon reached out a bony hand, stopping him.
‘Leave it, Benfro. You should see this, if only to understand something of what we have become.’ Sir Gwair took a couple of steps towards the nearby clearing where he had landed, opening his wings and taking to the air with practised ease. Two sweeps of his gnarled and ancient wings and he was above the canopy, away.
Benfro looked at the tree towering above him, then at the dead stag. His talons had pierced its neck, killing it instantly, but it still needed to be grallocked or the meat would spoil, no matter what Sir Gwair might have said. Working as swiftly as he could, he stripped the carcass of its entrails, not easy given the lack of dexterity in his regrowing hand.
‘What’s keeping you, slowcoach?’
Benfro looked up from his task to see Cerys walking towards him. His hearts still leaped at the sight of her, but he was embarrassed too. She visited his cave occasionally, but not every night. Mostly she seemed to spend her time with Myfanwy, away from the Twmp, where Fflint was unlikely to bother her.
‘Didn’t want to leave this to go foul. Ynys Môn would never forgive me.’
‘Ynys Môn?’
‘An old dragon. A friend. He taught me to hunt.’
‘Taught you well too. But there’s finer fare than deer to be had. Leave that for the forest animals. We won’t lack for food tonight.’
Like Sir Gwair before her, she turned, strode towards the clearing and took to the sky without a backward glance. Soon she was above the canopy. She turned slowly in the air, calling down. ‘Won’t wait for you for ever, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. Come on or you’ll miss all the fun.’
Benfro looked at the half-eviscerated carcass, then to the wheeling dragon overhead. He hated to waste good meat, hated even more to have killed such a magnificent animal only to let it lie. Perhaps the forest creatures would benefit, but it was a shame all the same. The urgency of his new family piqued his curiosity though, and that had always been his weakness.
Setting the stag against the base of the nearest tree, he ran towards the clearing, snapped open his wings and leaped into the air.
A low droning noise battered against his hearing like a fly at a grimy pane of glass. Errol tried to shake his head to get rid of whatever it was, but he couldn’t move. Something held him flat on a hard surface that tilted slightly in the direction of his feet. He cracked open his eyes, wincing as the bright sunlight cut through him like a knife in the brain.
‘All praise to the gods, who suffer us to live beneath them.’
Errol squinted sideways, seeing a group of villagers huddled close by. They were swaying slowly from side to side, singing a low dirge that sounded like the dying cries of distant oxen. Nearer still, the medicine man stood with his arms wide, carved stick in one hand and a blazing torch in the other. His head was tilted back and he shouted at the sky, ‘Come, gods of the air. Take this sacrifice as token of thanks for the safety you have ensured us.’
Errol tried to wriggle, but he was tied down firmly, feet and hands and head. He could shift just enough to see that he was splayed out on some kind of angled rock altar. Up above him the sky was clearest blue, the sun hanging low, which meant it must be morning.
‘Grant us another year of your boon, so we may serve you as is your will.’
He remembered then, the feast and the goblet of wine. It must have been drugged, and he really should have known better than to trust these people. Now it looked like they were going to burn him alive. But maybe not; he was tied to a stone slab.
‘Remember us well, Errol, when you are one with the gods. This is the highest honour we have bestowed upon you.’
Errol hadn’t seen Shenander walk up close beside him, so the medicine man’s voice in his ear made him start. The strap holding his head in place gave a little, but only enough for him to stun himself slightly as he slumped back on the sacrificial altar.
‘Light the fires! Summon the gods!’ Shenander shouted now, and as Errol tried to see what was happening, he could hear the sound of flames eating at dried wood. The sour smell of smoke filled his nose, and then thick black rolls of the stuff billowed up.
‘The gods have been summoned. It is not for us to gaze upon their fearful majesty. We must leave this sacred place. Return to our homes and give worship in solitude.’
The murmuring chant of the villagers changed slightly in pitch, then slowly started to fade as they left. Errol thought about shouting out, begging them to stop, but it seemed unlikely they would reconsider after having gone to so much trouble. He still couldn’t understand the method of his sacrifice. From the crackling of the flames and the direction of the wind, the fire that was giving off so much black smoke was too far away to burn him. More likely he would die of thirst or heatstroke out in the midday sun. He tried to move his head again, and the strap gave a little more. He strained as hard as he could, squeezing his eyes tight with the effort, and suddenly it gave way. His neck almost snapped, his chin jarring into his chest, and for a moment all he could do was lie, panting, as he recovered. When he finally opened his eyes, Errol understood.
He was on the top of a hill in the centre of a clearing, surrounded by ancient trees of the same kind he’d seen on his first day in this place. The area immediately in front of him had been cleared, but everywhere else was a jumble of large rocks. Time and weather had smoothed the faces of most of them, but the one to which he had been tied seemed to have been carved for a purpose. It was also angled so that he could see out across the sparse forest in the direction of the great rocky ridge and its summit. Even now he could see the tiny dots of dragons wheeling around it. Not the dozen or so he had expected, but hundreds.
The gods.
Errol looked at the ropes holding his arms and legs in place. They were thick, sturdy and very well knotted. There was no way he was going to escape from their hold easily. Over to his side, the fire burned strongly. It was wood, but there was some other material in there too, which accounted for the thick black smoke climbing high into the morning sky. A signal that could be seen for hundreds of miles.
He should have been panicking. Soon enough the dragons would come, and Errol had no illusions that these were creatures like Benfro, or even the long-dead Corwen and Sir Radnor. The pieces of the puzzle had been there all along; he’d just been too preoccupied, too stupid to see them. These people worshipped the dragons as gods, made human sacrifice to them. Nellore’s father had been taken. Others had gone before. It didn’t take a genius to work out where.
He forced himself to relax. There was a way out of this predicament. One he’d used before. This land was powerful with the Grym; all he needed to do was tap into the lines and use one to take him—
‘Hold still, Errol. This ain’t easy to cut.’
Errol opened his eyes to see Nellore standing by his left hand, sawing away at the rope with a fearsome-looking knife. In moments it had cut all the way through and she darted round to the other side.
‘What are you doing here? It’s not safe.’
‘Safer ’n staying in the village.’ Nellore was on to his feet now. ‘They told me you’d left. Murta told me. I thought she was my friend.’
Errol sat up, rubbing the life back into his wrists and ankles before attempting to jump down from the rock. Away in the distance, he couldn’t see anything circling the big hill any more, which didn’t bode well.
‘I think we should get away from here as quickly as possible,’ he said.
Nellore looked up as if only just then realizing her predicament. ‘They’re going to be pissed off when they get here and there’s no sacrifice.’
Errol slid off the rock, crouching while he got his sense of balance back. He was still looking for the lines, but the sight wouldn’t come to him. Tied to the rock, alone, he had been calm. Now he was free and there was Nellore to worry about as well, he could hardly think straight.
‘Which way is the village?’
Nellore pointed in the direction opposite to the Twmp. Now that he looked, Errol could see a track of sorts winding its way through the sparse trees. There seemed to be more ground cover the other way.
‘You’d better hurry up before someone notices you’ve gone,’ he said.
‘I ain’t goin’ back there.’ Nellore’s voice was heavy with disbelief.
‘Why not? They’re your family, aren’t they?’
‘My family? Ma died havin’ my little brother. He din’t survive neither. And then they all said my da was chosen to be with the gods. They brought him here. Tied him up same as you. Only he wanted to go. He believed them when they said he’d become a god himself.’
Errol glanced nervously at the sky before turning back to the young girl. ‘They believe what? That the dragons take you away and you become one too?’
‘That’s what they say. Only I saw what happened to my da, and he din’t turn into no god. More like dragon dung after they ate him.’
‘You saw that? Your own father? They brought you here to watch?’
‘They din’t know I was watching. Nobody’s s’posed to watch. I hid over there, in the rocks.’ Nellore pointed to the jumble of rocks that crowned the hill beyond the altar stone. As she did so, a distant screech pierced the air. Not the sort of noise you might expect a god to make.
