The Broken World (17 page)

He stepped in alone, going from sunlight to almost total darkness. Then his eyes adjusted, or the scene allowed him to see it; there was so much magic in this place it was difficult to tell which. He barely noticed the great windows that swept up from the floor to the arched ceiling high overhead, nor the polished floor, so shiny it could have been still water he walked on. All he could see, all his mind could focus on, was the enormous black throne.

Empty.

It could be his. It was his for the taking. And the people would not complain; they welcomed him here. Even the
seneschal would swear allegiance to him. Queen Beulah had lost her throne and didn't even know it yet. He just had to climb on to that dais and settle himself into the place that was rightfully his. Dafydd stood motionless for some time, soaking up the power that hummed around him. It reminded him of the hours he had spent with his grandfather, learning the ways of the Grym. The old man would be proud of him now, he was certain of it.

But something wasn't right. This was too like the castle in Tynhelyg. When he turned to look back to the doorway, he could see the seneschal, Usel the medic, Captain Pelod and Teryll all staring at him, their expressions expectant.

Dafydd shook his head, casting aside the enchantment that had so nearly overcome him. ‘This is not for me. It was never for me.' He walked away from the vast black chair, ignoring the pull that was like claws in his back, tearing his skin as it tried to wrench him into the seat of power. ‘This is Iolwen's throne.'

Benfro thought he should take pleasure from the chaos spreading through the vast camp. As he sped towards the distant trees he could see people running in all directions, some shouting for lost companions, some bleeding from horrible wounds. There was fire everywhere, as if it were alive like the flames he breathed. It leaped from tent to tent, ripping through the dry fabric and setting alight trapped people. Their screams and the smell of burning flesh and hair filled his senses with a hollow feeling of triumph. These were men, his enemies, and they were dying. And he had killed some of them himself. He almost felt good about it. Almost, but not quite.

They were closing on the forest now and outpacing the pursuing warrior priests comfortably since Benfro had scooped Errol up into his arms. They would probably have been closer to their goal had the old dragon not kept stopping to point out things and exclaim in delight. No matter how much Benfro tried to explain the urgency of the situation, nothing seemed to penetrate that addled jewel-bereft brain.

Another scream went up nearby but different in tone to the general panic. Benfro looked back to see what was going on and saw Magog staring at a blazing tent, his head cocked to one side as if thinking. Then, before Benfro could do or say anything, he pushed his way in through the flames.

‘What's he up to now?' Benfro put Errol down, searching the distance for their pursuers. It was difficult to see through the chaos; it was possible that they had lost the warrior priests, but he didn't want to count on it.

‘I'm not sure. I think he's trying to help that woman.' Errol pointed to a figure standing by the blazing tent. Benfro trotted over just in time for the old dragon to come bursting out through the flames, shaking cinders out of his ears. He had his wings wrapped around him like a blanket, and once he was clear, he opened them, revealing a couple of terrified children in his arms. He bowed low and handed them to the woman, who stopped her screaming and stared.

‘We've not got time for this, Magog. We have to reach the trees.' Benfro stumbled over the name – it meant too much to him of pain and suffering – but he could think of nothing else to call the dragon. ‘Come. We need to run.'

‘Can't leave the little ones to burn. Oh no. That would be too cruel.'

‘Well, you've saved them now, so let's go.' Out of the corner of his eye Benfro saw something that sent a chill through him. Focusing on it he made out the dark shapes of hidden warrior priests. They moved slowly now, no more than jogging pace, and they were going methodically from tent to tent. As they passed each one, it burst into flames. Anyone close to them was cut down by brief flashes of conjured blade.

Then he heard a voice pierce the general noise: ‘Dragon! To me, men.'

Benfro didn't need more warning. He grabbed his old companion by the arm, hauling him round. Ahead of them, Errol was running towards the trees.

‘But what of the little ones? We can't leave them here.'

‘We can't take them with us, either. They'll have to look after themselves.' Benfro snatched a quick look behind him, seeing the woman standing motionless, her two children clinging to her. They would be lucky to survive the next minute, let alone the night. He could do something about that – could fight the warrior priests even now rushing towards them – but he owed nothing to them. He had to leave them. Even so he felt a terrible weight of guilt on his shoulders as he did so.

Dragging the reluctant old dragon behind him, Benfro ran through the thinning lines of tents and on to a narrow strip of grass in front of the trees. He was just in time to see Errol stop at the forest edge and wave them on. Then the boy disappeared into the gloom. Not even bothering to look back, Benfro sprinted across the grass and fought
his way through the thick-leaved shrubs that marked the border between grass and trees. He could hear the old dragon pushing through behind him.

‘Dark in here, isn't it?' said Magog.

‘And quiet too.' Benfro strained his ears, barely making out the sounds of mayhem out on the plain. A few dozen paces into the woods and it was almost silent, as if he had walked into another world. ‘Errol? Are you there?'

There was a sudden noise, the cracking of a twig underfoot somewhere deeper in the trees, and at the same time Benfro also heard the crashing of many bodies coming through the shrubs and the harsh voice of Captain Osgal.

‘Fan out, men. Find them before they get too deep.'

Benfro grabbed Magog by the arm again and headed in the direction of the broken twig. He moved silently – Ynys Môn would have been proud of him – but his companion trampled along with all the finesse of a stampeding ox. Pushing past low branches and watching out for roots that had no purpose other than to trip him, Benfro had to hope that he could maintain a decent speed, get enough of a lead on his pursuers. It was a forlorn hope; the warrior priests were dogged in their pursuit. Had they not chased him halfway across Gwlad already?

He reached the point in the dark woods where he was sure he had heard the twig snap, but there was no sign of Errol. It was too dark even for his keen vision, and the trunks of the great trees made it all but impossible to see far anyway.

‘Have you seen Errol?' Benfro asked the old dragon, who stood motionless in the darkness, not even breathing hard.

‘No. But we could ask this squirrel. Maybe he knows.'

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Benfro looked across, following the old dragon's gaze until he saw a familiar shape sitting on a low-hanging branch nearby.

‘Malkin?'

‘Benfro find friend. Benfro come quickly, before men arrive.' The squirrel jumped down from its perch, scampered over the ground and leaped into Benfro's arms, scrambling up over his shoulder and settling behind his neck. Benfro felt such a surge of happiness he almost fell over.

‘Malkin! Where did you go? Where have you been?' Tears sprang from his eyes, and his voice rose an octave or two, breaking slightly.

‘No talk now. Follow path now. Mother waits.' The squirrel slapped Benfro across the side of his head as if chastising him. Nothing could have made the dragon happier than to comply.

It was a surprisingly short distance, no more than a few hundred paces in all, and then they were stepping out of the tall trees into a vast clearing. The sky overhead was clear and sprinkled with stars so bright it could have been day. And there at the centre of the clearing, towering above everything else, the mother tree stood magnificent underneath a fat full moon. Benfro looked back and was sure he saw the trunks shifting together, blocking the way to anyone who might try to follow them.

The old dragon glanced around, sniffed the air like a dog, acting as if the sight of the mother tree was nothing new or special to him. Benfro looked for Errol, hoped he
was somewhere ahead, safe already, but the clearing was empty. There was just him, Malkin on his shoulders, the other dragon at his side and the mother tree.

The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Errol held his breath, willed his heart to stop. Something cracked away to his left and he snapped his head round, straining to see in the blackness. He knew that Benfro and the other dragon were close; they had been just behind him when he had entered the forest. But Osgal and his men were nearby too, so he didn't dare shout or even whisper.

His back against the reassuring bulk of the tree, his cloak wrapped around him for protection and camouflage, Errol sank down until he was sitting on the ground with his knees tucked up to his chest. He tried to settle himself, to listen out for any movement near him. Perhaps if he just waited, the warrior priests would miss him and head deeper into the woods.

He almost believed himself. Almost, but not quite. He knew far too much about the Order of the High Ffrydd, too much about the warrior priests, too much about Inquisitor Melyn. They would never stop looking for him. Wherever he went, they would soon follow, bringing death and destruction with them.

A familiar feeling cut through Errol's musings: someone was close by. He had been motionless, but now he froze completely, not even breathing. He could sense another person, perhaps more than one, and then he began to hear noises. Hiding under his cloak had perhaps not been the wisest of moves. He could see nothing
through the dark fabric pulled over his head, and yet neither could he move in case that was enough to reveal his hiding place. All he could do was hold his breath and try to gauge how many people there were from the noises they made and the indefinable sensation of their presence.

Moving his head just the tiniest of fractions, Errol opened his mind to the aethereal and, no longer blinded by his cloak, studied the scene. He had just enough time to make out the still figures of ten warrior priests standing directly in front of him. Unlike the usual indistinct flames of flickering Grym that people normally produced, their forms were oddly well defined, almost perfect images of the men. Then the nearest leaned forward, his arm sweeping down, and something hard connected with the side of Errol's head.

The world turned upside down in a flurry of noise and motion. And then nothing.

At least the sickness had stopped; she had that much to be thankful for. Beulah was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to sit in a saddle, however. Not to mention the difficulty of getting on to a horse in the first place. She had known the child would grow large inside her, but nothing had prepared her for quite how large, and how inconvenient, the baby would become. If she didn't receive word from Melyn soon, she might have to leave the army and return to Candlehall before the campaign started. There was no way her heir was going to be born in a dingy little town like this.

Tochers was a mean-spirited place set at the southern end of the narrow Rhedeg pass. Even in times of peace
between the two nations travellers had seldom followed this route to Llanwennog. It was easier to take a boat from Abervenn, sail around the Caldy peninsula and up the Sea of Tegid to Talarddeg; easier yet to go through the Wrthol pass and across the border country. The Rhedeg had no doubt been named ironically; there was no running through its twisting valleys and steep climbs. But it was still possible to march a hardy army through, especially towards the end of summer when even the most persistent snow had thawed and the dry season had shrunk the rivers until they were easy to ford. And so it was that Tochers existed, little more than a guard post on the back door into the Twin Kingdoms.

The army had camped on a ragged upland plain between the small grey town and the entrance to the pass. Since her arrival several days earlier Beulah had made it her business to ride along the neatly spaced lines of tents and through the training grounds. She knew the value of being seen by her soldiers, of mixing with the men who were going to fight and die for her cause. Had she not been heavily pregnant, she would have been tempted to pitch a tent in the middle of the camp and live there, but Clun had persuaded her to stay in the relative comfort of Castle Tochers instead.

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.