The Broken World (21 page)

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.

‘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 …

‘By the moon! What happened to you?' The dragon came closer still, reaching out and taking Benfro's arm at the same time as he remembered the injury. Strange that he hadn't until now, but it was painless. At least in comparison to the aches and bruises covering his body, the raging hammers in his head. He stared at the stump where his hand had been, then up at the dragon, and found himself unable to speak.

‘I've never seen a wound like it. What manner of blade is so hot it sears where it cuts?'

Benfro gently tugged his arm away from the dragon's grip and struggled upright. Close up he could see his initial appraisal of her was wrong. She wasn't quite the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen; that honour went to the mother tree in her guise of Ammorgwm the Fair. But then the mother tree had only worn the image of a dragon. This one was real.

‘Who … Who are you?' His voice was hoarse, cracking as he spoke.

‘Could say the same to you.' The dragon squatted back on her haunches, her tail twitching at the tip. She was perhaps the same size as Benfro but seemed somehow older, yet she was still by far the youngest female dragon he had ever seen. Centuries younger than any of the villagers, although he supposed she could be the same age as Frecknock.

‘I'm … I'm Benfro.'

‘Just Benfro?' Amusement twisted the dragon's face into a toothy smile. ‘Not Benfro the Bold? Not Benfro of the Missing Hand, whose exploits are legend throughout Gwlad? Not Bright Benfro, Master of the Skies? Not—'

‘Sir Benfro. If you insist. An old friend called me Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. My mother was Morgwm the Green, my father Sir Trefaldwyn of the Great Span.'

‘Was?' The smile disappeared, the young dragon all serious again. ‘You mean they're …'

‘Dead. Yes. My mother lost her head to the same blade that took my hand.' Whether it was tiredness or the sudden return of that fateful, terrible image, Benfro didn't know, but as he got to his feet, his sight darkened and he felt the world tilting.

And then strong arms supported him. ‘Here. You need to take it slowly. You're in shock.'

‘Sorry. Just a bit woozy.' Benfro leaned perhaps a bit more into the embrace than he had intended, finding himself wrapped in the young dragon's arms in a manner that felt alarmingly intimate. She was warm, he couldn't help noticing, and smelled of the forest. Crushed pine needles,
loam, running water, a melange of flowers and herbs and something else that really didn't help his head stop spinning.

‘I think you'd better sit down again.' She lowered him gently to the ground and laid a hand on his forehead just above his eyes like his mother used to. A lump formed in Benfro's throat at the memory, making it hard to swallow. Staring at the young dragon was awkward, so he looked at his surroundings, tried to get an idea of where he was. More than that it was a forest clearing he couldn't say. The ground was carpeted in thick grass except for where he had gouged it with his landing. Boulders and smaller stones pocked the sward, putting him in mind of the clearing in front of Corwen's cave, but this was much smaller. And besides, he'd cleared all those stones away to make his corral. The trees here were different too, and the air felt strange.

‘Where is this place?'

The young dragon took her hand from his forehead; it had been lingering there perhaps a little too long for comfort. ‘What do you mean?'

‘This isn't the Forest of the Ffrydd, I'm sure. I don't recognize it.'

‘Forest of the …' The young dragon cocked her head sideways, giving him a look he couldn't quite read. ‘There's no forest in the Ffrydd. It's a wasteland. Has been since Gog slew his brother there millennia ago. You remember the tales, surely?'

And there it was. The difference Benfro hadn't been able to put his talon on. Just the mention of the name was enough. Gog, hated brother of Magog. He shifted his
focus, letting the Grym swim into his vision. His aura clung to him in weary colours, pulsing red around the stump where his hand had been, but of the rose cord there was no sign.

‘It's gone. I can't believe it.' He swiped the air in front of his face, feeling for that connection that had looped into his forehead.

‘What's gone? Benfro, are you all right?'

Benfro looked at the dragon, seeing her in all the splendour of her aura. His hearts fluttered in his chest and all of a sudden breathing was difficult.

‘I … Who are you? You never told me your name.'

‘Me? No one special. They call me Cerys, if they bother to call me anything at all.'

‘They?' Benfro looked at the clearing again, this time seeing the Grym spread over it in a blaze of colour and health. And that was strange too. He'd struggled to see the power that flowed through Gwlad, always found it hard even to see his own aura, and yet now it was as easy as falling out of a tree. Or the sky.

‘My family. My fold. Come, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings, whatever that's supposed to mean.' Cerys the dragon grabbed him by his good arm and pulled him to his feet. Benfro's head was much clearer now, his strength returning along with his wonder. Even so he allowed the young dragon to fling his arm over her shoulder and take some of his weight. It felt strange to be so close to another dragon, but it also felt good.

‘Your Grace! You are wounded!'

Melyn leaned against the throne, casting his eye over
the damaged room. He was gasping for air, finding it far harder to breathe than the exertions of the fight should have made it. The effort of dispelling Benfro's magical flame had taken more out of him than expected. A half-dozen of his warrior priests had not fared so well, if he was counting the heaps of smoking black ash correctly.

‘Where did they go?' He meant to shout the question, but it came out as a wheezy cough.

‘Your Grace. Please.' Melyn felt a presence beside him at the same time as his knees gave way. Strong hands caught him under the arms, lifting him gently on to the throne so recently vacated by the late King Ballah. It took him some time to understand that it was the dragon, Frecknock, who had come to his aid. The remaining warrior priests were too busy looking after themselves.

‘Stop fussing, damn you.' Melyn tried to push the dragon away, but his strength was gone. How had he become so weak? So old?

‘You have a bad gash to your chest, sire. It needs medical attention as soon as possible. If you will allow me, I can help you?' Frecknock stood back, bending her head in that submissive pose of hers. Melyn went to wave her away, then noticed that his hand was red with wet blood. Benfro's severed hand lay on the floor not far from him, but Melyn's blade of light had cauterized that wound. Had the young dragon managed to lay a claw on him? The fight had been so swift, he couldn't remember.

He tried to wipe away the blood on a fold of his robe, but the material was slick, and if anything his hand came away redder. And weaker. He was having a hard time concentrating. So tired and thirsty. And cold. It was a lifetime
since last he had felt cold. The Grym kept him warm, always.

‘Your Grace, please.' Frecknock's voice buzzed at him like an irritating fly. She was nearby, but he couldn't see her. Couldn't muster the energy to raise his head or wave her away. Then another voice, gruff and angry, cut through his stupor.

‘Get away from him or I will part your head from your shoulders.'

‘Osgal?'

Melyn managed to look up, and saw through bleary, unfocused eyes his captain standing a few paces away. He held an unsteady blade of light aloft, the power of it sucking the life out of everyone nearby.

‘Put your damned blade out, Osgal.' Melyn's command descended into a bubbling cough, and when he spat it was a mess of bright red. Not good. He slumped back in the throne and for the first time felt the pain across his chest, remembered the mad fury in Benfro's eyes. He reached for his robe again, finding the tear in the fabric, wet with his blood. The wound beneath it was not a pleasant sight. No wonder he was having a hard time concentrating; his body was fast going into shock.

‘I can help stabilize him.' Out of the corner of his eye, Melyn could see Frecknock moving from foot to foot like a freshly inducted novitiate needing to be excused. She was quite pathetic really. Terrified of Captain Osgal and his blade of light and yet equally terrified that he might die and leave her unprotected.

‘Let her.' Melyn coughed out the words with yet more blood. ‘Not as if she could kill me any quicker.'

Osgal gave the barest of nods. ‘Make sure you don't, dragon. You will not live a second longer than the inquisitor.'

Melyn would have laughed at the man's bluster, had he any breath left. He tried to sit up as the dragon approached, but she held out her hand for him to stay put.

‘Please. Don't try to move. You've lost a great deal of blood. I'm going to try to stop the bleeding before we move you.'

Kneeling at the foot of the throne like a supplicant, Frecknock placed the palm of one scaly hand so lightly over Melyn's chest he could not feel it. He could feel the surge of the Grym as she began murmuring under her breath in Draigiaith though. It pulled in from much further afield than Osgal's blade, tapping into the whole city and out to the woods far beyond. It washed away the pain of his wound and lent him at least a little strength. Enough to fight back the waves of shock and nausea and take control of himself.

‘I will do what I can, but this wound needs to be cleaned and stitched. It will take time to heal.'

‘Osgal. Take your men, sweep the royal apartments. We'll set up camp in there until we've got the city under control. I don't imagine it'll be all that long before Prince Geraint musters his forces and marches for home.'

Osgal nodded once, then set off on his errand, two warrior priests falling in behind him. Melyn was left alone with the dragon, but he didn't feel in any danger. Quite the opposite; her presence was a reassurance now. That should have bothered him. All his life he had hated dragons, what they did and what they stood for. Now in a few
short months he had become accustomed at least to this one. And he had learned so much from her, knew there was so much more to be discovered.

‘How did they disappear? Where did they go?'

Frecknock had been concentrating on her chanting, but now she looked up.

‘Your Grace?' As soon as she stopped whatever she had been doing with the Grym, Melyn felt the pain begin to swell again.

‘The boy, Errol. Your friend Benfro. They both disappeared in front of my eyes. It's not the first time either. How did they do it? Where did they go? Ahh.' Melyn's chest felt like it had been ripped open afresh, and something sloshed about in his lungs as he tried to take the shallowest of breaths.

‘You must keep still. Don't talk.' Frecknock placed her palm over his wound again. ‘I cannot tell you what I know and perform this healing both. And truth is I do not know how it is possible. There is something dragons can do after many years of study, but never have I heard of a man …' She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the very idea from her brain. ‘I will tell you all I know. I have sworn to do so. But first you must heal.'

Frecknock went back to her Draigiaith incantations and Melyn breathed easier, the pain lessening with each passing moment. Impatience gnawed at him, but he forced it down with the same iron will that had taken him through the ranks right up to the top of the Order of the High Ffrydd. He could not deny his injury any more than he could deny Frecknock had saved his life and was continuing to do so. But she knew something of the secret to
Errol's strange ability. He would not rest easy until he knew it himself.