The Broken World (12 page)

The captain rode forward. ‘Your Majesty?'

‘This man. I want his entire family rounded up and executed. Also all the men standing immediately around him in the line; they must have seen what he intended to do.'

‘But Your Majesty!' General Cadoc nudged his horse into the space between Beulah and the soldiers still trying to scramble to their feet.

‘This is an army, General. It needs discipline. As their commanding officer, the responsibility for that is yours.'

‘But is it necessary to mete out such harsh punishment? The man is dead – can we not leave it at that?'

Beulah stared at the general, scarcely believing her ears. He was an old man and fat with it. His face was beaded with sweat, sweltering underneath his absurd armour. He was, she realized, all she despised about the nobility who hung about the royal court: a useless fop of a man who rode to war as if it were some great game. No doubt he would find himself a safe place to stay in Tochers, well away from the actual fighting, and there he would remain until it was time to lead his surviving forces back home. And it had been he who had suggested she inspect the men, he who had led her along the line to the assassin.

With far more effort than it should have taken, she conjured a short blade of light. A flick of the wrist and she whipped it through the air. There was a moment's pause, and then the general's head tipped forward under the weight of his absurd helmet, falling to the ground with a clatter. His body slid backwards off his horse, crashing into the still-floundering soldiers and sending a fresh wave of panic through the men as they were splattered with blood.

‘Be still, all of you!' Beulah spoke the words quietly, but pushed the command out with her mind, her thoughts clearer than they had been in months. The result was instantaneous. The panic ended, and all eyes turned to her. She had their full attention.

‘This is not some game, not some exercise in politics. I have no intention of going to the border and just rattling a sabre at Ballah and his armies. Four times now he has tried to have me killed, and four times he has failed. Know that if you plot against me or try to stop me, you will be
crushed. But fight alongside me, take the war to the godless Llanwennogs, and you will be well rewarded. We march now to the border. And from there to Tynhelyg itself. Follow me, men of Abervenn!'

A great shout went up from the soldiers as Beulah pushed out a feeling of excitement and adventure. The men's enthusiasm aroused, the army began its long slow march from the castle and out on to the road to Tochers. She let out a long sigh, releasing the tension she hadn't realized had built up in her. The blade she had conjured still burned bright, and for a moment she couldn't think how to douse it. Anger and shock had helped her conjure it; now she willed the power back into the lines. Sweat prickled her brow as it finally dissipated, and in her belly her unborn child gave an unwelcome kick.

Clun had remounted his horse and steered it alongside her once more. Her own mount was a fine specimen, taller than her beloved Pahthia by far, and yet it felt inadequate next to the stallion. She looked the beast in the eye again, feeling almost that it read her mind even as she tried to sense its own base thoughts. There was more intelligence there than she would have expected, and had not this horse saved her life?

‘You've not named him yet, my love.' She reached out and patted the solid neck. As her fingers made contact a spark of the Grym passed between them, a last residue of her blade.

‘He was your gift to me, my lady. I thought that honour should be yours.'

Beulah smiled. Clun's grasp of courtly manners and diplomacy was growing by the day.

‘Very well then,' she said. ‘Today he has proved himself my protector. And so I shall name him Godric in honour of that role and in memory of your father.'

Clun's face darkened, as it did whenever his family was mentioned. Then he reached forward, scratched between the horse's ears and slapped it on the neck.

‘Godric. It's a good name.'

Black smoke rose into the morning sky, carrying a taint of destruction and death. Yet another town burned as Melyn led his army closer to Tynhelyg. They had sacked it, taking all they needed to replenish their supplies and replacing their wounded horses, leaving little behind for the women and children to live on. Winter would cull many more than had died under blades of light.

Progress was painfully slow. They could ride straight through the villages, confident they posed little threat, but the larger towns were another matter, especially old fortified settlements like Gremmil. These places had sent many men to the southern borders but retained some trained soldiers, and their lords were sufficiently well versed in warfare that to ignore them would invite problems later on. Either they would band together and form a sizeable force to oppose him at Tynhelyg, or they would cut off his escape route, should he need one.

And so every one had to be sacked, which took time and occasionally cost men. Meanwhile the King's Festival was drawing ever closer, the capital reaching its point of maximum chaos and instability, and still Melyn was far from his goal.

‘We need to move faster, and we need to move unseen,'
he said to Osgal as they cantered along the road. The army was not hiding itself now, though Melyn no longer wanted news of his approach to precede him. It was hard even for his most skilled warriors to remain invisible while moving at such speed, and the effort left them exhausted at the end of each long day.

‘I've scouts out ahead, sir. We'll know about any towns or villages long before we're seen.'

‘Yes, yes. But we still have to stop at each one in turn, and that's taking too long. At this rate, by the time we reach Tynhelyg the fair will be over and Ballah will be holed up in his palace again.'

‘Your Grace, might I make a suggestion?'

Melyn looked down to where Frecknock ran alongside his horse. She moved with flowing grace, covering the ground easily and with no sign of exertion. She had changed a great deal from the pathetic creature he had spared back in the dragon village. Where she had been small and weedy, now she was lithe and well muscled from months of walking and running. Melyn shook his head, thinking he was seeing her with his aethereal vision, surprised to find himself admiring her beauty where before he would have felt only hatred. Without saying anything, he nodded for her to go on.

‘There are spells which can shorten the distance, or spells that can make us travel at great speed, even though we barely walk. Either could get you where you want to be in time.'

‘And you know how to perform this magic, I take it.'

‘No, Your Grace. I don't think even Sir Frynwy knew how, and he was the most skilled mage I knew.'

Melyn's anger rose at the mention of the old dragon. ‘Then what use is it telling me of such spells? Or are you so tired of your life you think to provoke me?'

‘Nothing could be further from my mind, sir. I don't know how to do this magic, but I know of it. And you carry the secret of it with you.'

‘I do?'

‘The book, sir. The Llyfr Draconius. You'll find what you need in there, if you know how to look.'

‘But I thought you said the book was dangerous.'

‘Oh it is, Your Grace. Very much so. But together we might divine its secrets.'

‘Together?' Melyn wondered at the temerity of the creature. She had to know he would not let her anywhere near the book; it contained secrets that might help her escape or inflict damage on him and his warrior priests. And yet his god had told him to use the dragon's magic if it helped. It was after all just the Shepherd's own magic stolen.

He had no time to think on it further, as a scout came galloping towards them with news of another town not far beyond the next rise. The routine was well established now, and the warrior priests soon resumed their magical camouflage. Melyn watched them with his newly sharpened aethereal vision as they surrounded the small town and set about ridding it of soldiers and all men of fighting age.

Even though it was little more than a large village, the sky had darkened towards evening by the time the grim work was done. The inquisitor was pleased to see there had been no losses on his side, not even a horse injured.
He wanted to press on, force the pace faster towards their goal, but he knew it would be unwise to push his men too hard. He ordered them to make camp outside the town, riding through to review the carnage. It didn't sicken him; these were people who had forsaken the Shepherd, after all. In better times he might have made the effort to convert them, but this was war. Any whose souls were pure would be welcomed into the safe pastures, and those who weren't could burn with the Wolf in his den. And yet he did not view the dead bodies piled high awaiting the pyre with the same satisfaction as once he had.

Perhaps he was tired of the road, or maybe he just wanted to get on to the prize. Whatever it was, Melyn left the smoking buildings and headed to the camp with a heavy heart. He needed something to get him past these endless delays. Finding two substantial towns within an hours' ride of each other was deeply frustrating, especially out here on the plains where there was nothing but endless farmland. It was almost as if the land was challenging him, setting deliberate obstacles to slow his new-found purpose.

His tent had been pitched and a fire started. Frecknock lay on the hard ground a few paces away from the circle of heat and warmth, as she always did. He remembered her earlier conversation and called her over to the fire.

‘Is it really possible to shorten this journey? Can we get to Tynhelyg before Ballah hears of what we've been doing here in the north?'

‘There is a tale told of ancient times in Marranem – what you would call Fo Afron now. The great eastern city of Voran was threatened by a volcano and the people
were told to flee, but they were too slow, not wanting to leave their belongings behind. They would all have perished when the volcano erupted had Sir Flisk not been nearby. He took pity on the people, who had always treated him well, and cast a spell that made their every step like a hundred. So fast did they travel, it's said they crossed the Sea of Tegid without knowing they walked on water. When they finally stopped they found a fertile plain bounded by mountains to the west, the sea to the east, and decided to settle there. You know the city they founded as Talarddeg.'

There was something about Frecknock's voice, the way she told the simple tale, that Melyn found almost mesmerizing. With a start he realized that he had lost his concentration and snapped it back again.

‘I'm not interested in your silly dragon stories; I want magic.'

‘All our knowledge, all our magic is bound up in our stories, your grace. I do not know if the people of Voran really walked across the sea or founded Talarddeg, but Sir Flisk did a magical working that moved them rapidly away from danger. The magic exists; we just have to rediscover it.'

‘And you want me to look in the book for it, even though it is dangerous.'

‘I would watch over you, protect you from harm.' It sounded so trite Melyn almost laughed, but something stopped him. Frecknock was being completely honest with him; he could see it in her oddly alien thoughts. Ever since taking Brynceri's ring, the Grym had opened up to him. Quite apart from being able to see the aethereal
without having to go into a trance, he could read the minds of his men with much greater clarity than ever before, conjure his blade of light almost without a thought. He was fitter than he had felt in months, as if the Shepherd were close to him at all times, blessing him as he had only done occasionally before.

Melyn got up from the fireside, went over to the saddlebags by his tent and pulled the heavy book from its leather case. As his ringed finger brushed the worn and cracked cover, he felt a surge of power that almost brought him to his knees. And suddenly she was at his side, her arms supporting him.

‘Careful how you handle it, sir. No man has ever read the Llyfr Draconius before.'

Melyn sat back down by the fire, the book heavy in his hands. Uninvited, Frecknock settled herself down beside him, so close he could smell her over the smoke. It never occurred to him to chide her for such familiarity; it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should be there with him.

The ring was warm on his finger, its ruby glowing in the fading evening light. He touched it to the leather cover once more, ready for the rush this time. The flames of his campfire were scarcely bright enough to read by, but it didn't matter. He could see everything in the aethereal. The book itself was strangely distorted, as if it were not one but endless volumes all occupying the same space. They whispered to him, promises of power beyond his wildest dreams, of knowledge long denied.

‘Take my hand. Let me be your anchor.' Melyn looked up into Frecknock's face, saw into her mind, understood
her concern. He reached out with his unadorned hand. Her touch was as warm as the flames in the fire, drawing them closer still so that he felt he could step inside her head should he wish. Certainly she was a curious creature, so desperate and downtrodden she allied herself with her persecutors. But the call of the book was greater still.

With a silent prayer to the Shepherd, Melyn opened the cover and gazed on the words within.

‘Fly faster. Now turn. That's it. Tighter!'

Benfro felt the snap of the whip in the air behind him, but he was too quick. Banking hard, he swooped around the end of the oval ring before clapping his wings together again and heading down the longer side. In the middle the object of his pent-up rage laughed.

‘Brilliant. We'll make a show of you yet.' Loghtan coiled his whip and jumped down from his box as Benfro continued to fly in a long elliptical path, powerless to do anything else.

‘You can stop now, dragon. Get some food and rest. We'll be performing for the king soon. I want you at your best for that.'

Benfro slowed and dropped, his feet hitting the ground with the lightest of touches. Had he not been so enraged by his treatment, he might have marvelled at how well he was landing now. But his mind was almost entirely eaten up with anger and with fighting the drugs that forced him to obey the circus master's every command. Turning towards the exit, he longed to crash his tail against one of the great central posts that held up the huge marquee, but the drugs wouldn't even allow him that much rebellion.

Outside it was organized chaos. Nobody paid him much attention as he slunk past smaller tents and piles of baggage towards the wagon he shared with old Magog. Benfro laughed bitterly. Magog. The only positive side to Loghtan's drugs was that he had felt nothing of the true Magog's presence in all the days and weeks he had been with the circus. Perhaps that was a side effect, or maybe the old mage was there but Benfro couldn't feel him. Without being able to see his aura, Benfro couldn't be sure if the rose cord still bound him to the tiny red jewel, or if the knot he had tied with his aura still held. His brain was too numb to concentrate on any of the subtle arts he had learned. All he could do was eat, sleep and train for his performance.

‘You're back again early, Gog. And alone. Loghtan must
be pleased with you.' The old dragon was slumped against the end of the wagon cage looking as if he hadn't moved since Benfro had left him several hours earlier. Quite possibly he hadn't. Loghtan had left the door unlocked, confident that both dragons were under his control now.

Benfro still remembered the horrible surgery, the tiny jewel removed from Magog's living brain. He shuddered as he hauled himself into the wagon, reached for the half-rotten carcass of some unidentifiable animal that had been provided as food, and slumped down opposite his companion.

‘I'm not Gog, you know. They call me that, but my real name's Benfro. Sir Benfro.' He had told the old dragon this at least twice every day since they had first met, but still he persisted in the Gog and Magog fantasy.

‘You've always been a wily one, my brother. But I know you. Oh yes. Didn't Maddau always say we were the greatest of all mages. Why, we split Gwlad in two, you and I. Yes, we did.'

‘Tell me about it.' Benfro wasn't sure why he asked. Maybe he just wanted to hear a voice that wasn't ordering him about. He eyed the rancid meat, knowing he had to eat but feeling queasy all the same. If he could just cook it a little, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

‘Oh, but you must know the story. We fell out, you and I. Yes, we did. Couldn't agree which of us would have lovely Ammorgwm. Idiots, we both were. She wasn't interested in either of us. Ha ha. But we quarrelled. Oh how we quarrelled. Shook the ground with our tantrums, we did. Knocked down mountains and razed forests. The
men weren't happy. Not happy at all, no. But they were so small back then it was easy to tread on them.'

Benfro was only half listening. He knew the story well enough, even if Sir Frynwy would have frowned at the unprofessional way this old mad dragon told it.

‘Then she died. Sweet Ammorgwm. Was it you who killed her, or was it me? I don't know. Maybe it was both of us. Or maybe she did it to herself. Yes, that was it. She did it to herself. Not a dragon, really. No. Ammorgwm was a tree, so she was. Fancy that. You and me fighting over a tree. But then we never were all that bright. Strong, oh yes. Powerful in the subtle arts. But not bright.'

Benfro took a bit of meat, ripping it from the bone. It slid off with a sour taste, revealing maggots underneath. He spat it out at the same time as the old dragon's words penetrated his dull brain.

‘A tree? How did you know that?' He remembered the mother tree appearing to him as a dragon of breathtaking beauty and infinite sadness. It felt so like a dream he couldn't be sure if she was real or not.

‘She told me, so she did. And that's another joke on us, because she wasn't really dead after all. But we didn't care. No, no, no. We hated each other so much we couldn't be in the same world together. Couldn't breathe the same air. So we made a great spell, we did. The last thing we did together, even if we didn't tell each other what we were doing. We split Gwlad in two, made each bit half what it had been before. But you cheated, brother. Just like you always do. You left a window here, a window there, so you could spy on me and see what I was doing. So you could meddle in my Gwlad, but I couldn't meddle in yours.'

Benfro took another bite of the meat, finding a slightly better piece that he could chew this time. He was trying desperately to ignore the food and concentrate on what the old dragon was saying. But Loghtan had ordered him to get some food and rest, and that was what his body was trying to do. The taste of rancid flesh almost made him gag.

‘You said Gog left windows. Where?'

‘Forgotten, have you? Think your brother's good for nothing but remembering things so you don't have to?'

Benfro swallowed. The semi-chewed meat slid down his throat like phlegm and hit his stomach as if he had been punched. ‘I'm sorry. I just thought you might like to tell me. Since you're obviously so much cleverer than I am.'

‘Well, of course I am. I stayed here. It was you that had to go away. But you always liked your hall of candles, didn't you.'

Hall of candles. Candlehall. The Neuadd. Benfro went very cold. He had been there in his dreamwalking and seen something above that huge throne. A patch of different sky, like a window in the ceiling. How could he have forgotten that? How could he have not realized? And how could he ever hope to get there? It was half a world away, and the Neuadd was Melyn's place.

He let out a great roar, frustrated that he had come so far when his goal had been so near to home. Or at least he meant to roar, but instead, and much to his astonishment, a tongue of flame spat out of his mouth, engulfing the meat he held in his hands. The fire stuck to it, billowing around, sizzling the fat and charring the maggots. Where
it touched his hand, it was warm rather than hot, and he could feel the weight of Loghtan's drugs seeping from his mind.

‘Oh, how splendid! Do it again! Do it again!' The old dragon clapped his hands together, rocking backwards and forwards as the flames slowly guttered and dissolved, leaving a perfectly cooked apparently fresh haunch of beef. The smell of it filled the wagon, and all Benfro could think of was food. He sank his teeth into it, delighting in the taste and gulping down great chunks.

Only after he had finished almost half of it did he remember his companion. Benfro ripped off a great chunk and held it out. His head was clearer than it had been for days, and the old dragon's words came back to him with new meaning.

‘You said a window here, a window there. Did Gog – I mean did I – have more than one portal between the two Gwlads?'

The old dragon took the meat, sniffed it, then started to suck at it as if his teeth were no longer up to the job of chewing. Maybe they weren't if all he had been eating for years was rotten flesh. He looked over at Benfro, the light in his eyes changing as if he too was thinking more clearly than he had done in an age. He opened his mouth to speak, but the voice came from behind.

‘What's all this? Griselda giving you cooked meat? I'll have to have words with her about that.' Loghtan pushed his way through the door, whip in hand. Benfro thought for a happy instant that he could breathe flame again, turn this hated man into a charred mess. But despite his clear head he still didn't seem able to control his body.

‘You, stay.' Loghtan pointed at Benfro. ‘You, with me.' He pointed at the old dragon, who got slowly to his feet. Benfro raged in silence as his companion left the wagon. He had managed to clear the fog from his thoughts, but that only made the torment of his helplessness twice as bad.

‘You're sure this is a good idea? You don't think I'd be better off lying low a bit longer?'

Dafydd paced back and forth across the carpet of the antechamber to the state room. Beyond the elegant wooden doors the collected nobility and worthies of Abervenn waited to meet him.

‘There's nothing to worry about, Your Highness. News of Princess Iolwen's child has spread through the city already, and everyone is overjoyed. They want to see the boy, and they want to see his parents.' Usel walked across the room and made to open the doors.

‘One moment, please, Usel.' Dafydd tried to compose himself. Standing beside him, their tiny baby in her arms, Iolwen looked more nervous even than he felt. He slipped his arm around hers.

‘All right,' he said. Usel threw wide the doors, and Prince Dafydd and Princess Iolwen walked slowly through.

The state room was built on much the same scale as Abervenn castle itself – vast. The ceiling above them soared in intricately carved wooden arches. Tall windows bathed the room with light, and normally any sound would have echoed off the polished stone floor. But today there was a noisy silence hanging over everything, the sound of a thousand or more people holding their breath.

Dafydd didn't think he had ever seen so many people in one place before. After the confines of the boat and then the lonely suite of rooms at the back of the castle, to come forward now into this throng was more terrifying than going into battle. He felt Iolwen's arm tighten around his and knew that she felt the same.

They had emerged on to a dais raised above the heads of the assembled crowd. Two ornate chairs, not quite thrones, faced out across the hall, but Dafydd thought it wrong to sit straight away. These people wanted something from him. They needed something. He cleared his throat, suddenly dry.

‘Fifteen years ago, King Divitie sent his youngest daughter to Tynhelyg as a hostage to peace between our two nations. She was only six years old at the time. I was not much older myself, and I remember thinking, what monster of a father could do that to his child?'

A low murmur ran through the crowd, though Dafydd could not tell whether it was of approval at his sentiment, or anger. He tried to scan the people's thoughts and emotions, as his grandfather had taught him. But it was one thing to do that when you were facing only one foe, quite another here.

‘Over the years, Princess Iolwen came to accept her place at Tynhelyg. We tried to make her comfortable, but I know it wasn't easy for her, exiled through no fault of her own, forgotten by her father and his advisers. She grew up into a beautiful young woman. So beautiful, indeed, that I asked her to marry me. She agreed, and you have no idea how happy that made me. I was happier still when she told me she bore our child, but I could see the
pain in her eyes when she thought her baby would most likely be born into exile, raised away from half of his family. So I brought her home.'

The murmuring was growing now, people exchanging comments with their neighbours, relaying his words to those at the back who might not have been able to hear. So far at least no one had thrown anything at him or shouted derogatory comments about his foreign appearance and the strange accent with which he spoke their language.

‘It wasn't an easy journey; I'm sure you all know that the passes through the mountains are blocked. We travelled by boat, and were blown almost as far south as Eirawen before our captain could bring us safely here. And just in time too. For no sooner had my princess set foot on her native soil, than the baby started to come.'

The noise grew louder at this, as if the crowd had been waiting for confirmation of the news, and Dafydd had to raise his voice to be sure of being heard.