The Broken World (31 page)

And then there was only blackness.

Benfro woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. His hand went to his chest, felt the scales there, expecting them to be scored deep where those claws had ripped at them. Had he felt pain as the black dragon swung at him? It was all falling away as the dream faded, but he could feel the faintest of scratch marks and his hearts were thundering away as if he had run a mile.

‘Where do you go, when you sleep?'

He looked up, seeing the light of dawn painting the sky outside the cave mouth in shades of pink and orange. Half blocking the view, Cerys stood with her back to him. Her wings were not folded neatly but hung limply from her back, as if she had only just crawled out of her nest. His nest. Or was it the nest of the dragon who had left this cave one day and never come back?

‘I don't go anywhere, do I?' Benfro felt at the scratch across his scales, unsure whether it had been there before. He'd been in plenty of situations where he could have damaged himself and not noticed, after all. Drugged into compliance at the circus, for one.

‘Not your body, no. But you were gone. You went somewhere and I couldn't sense you any more.' Cerys turned, pulling her wings in tight around her as she walked back across the cave to where he sat. ‘If it hadn't been for your hearts beating I might have thought you'd died.'

‘What do you know of dreamwalking?' Benfro stretched as he had done every morning of his life on waking, and for the first time felt awkward and self-conscious about it. He was used to the close proximity of dragons, up to a point. His mother had never been far from him until the day she died, and the villagers had
always been happy enough to ruffle his ears, but this was very different. He hardly knew Cerys and had no experience whatsoever of dragons his own age.

‘Dreamwalking? Isn't that, like, really advanced subtle arts?' Cerys dropped down on the heather and grass beside him as if that was the most natural thing in the world to do. ‘I've heard Sir Gwair talk about it. Apparently the Old One can do it, and some of his cronies. But it's really hard.'

‘Oh. Right.' Benfro studied his hands, trying to see whether the new one had grown at all. He was both uncomfortable and excited, and just didn't know how to deal with Cerys. ‘Who's the Old One? Sir Gwair was talking about him last night too.'

‘You're joking, right? How can you not know about the Old One?'

‘I …' Benfro started to speak, then remembered his dream. His dreamwalk, if that truly was what he had done. ‘I don't even know where this place is. Where's the Ffrydd from here?'

‘The Ffrydd? Why do you want to know about that place?'

‘Because it's where I'm from. Or you could tell me how to get to Tynhelyg in Llanwennog. That's where I last saw my friend. I'd really like to find him. Make sure he's safe.'

‘I really don't know … Oh no. Someone's coming. I'm not here, OK?' Cerys shuffled herself to the back of the alcove, tucking herself behind the rock so she couldn't be seen from the cave mouth. Benfro frowned, looked at her with a quizzical expression and was about to ask her what she was playing at when another voice distracted him.

‘Hey! Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. You in there?'

He looked towards the cave mouth, seeing the silhouette of a dragon standing there. For a moment he thought it was Sir Gwair, but the shape was wrong. Then he tasted the scent on the air.

‘Fflint?' Benfro stood, glancing sideways at Cerys, who seemed to be trying to push herself into the rock of the alcove. He left her to whatever games she was playing and headed to the entrance.

‘Thought you might have picked this place. Einar was a loner too.'

‘Einar?'

‘The dragon who lived here. He flew off hunting a year or so ago. Never came back. Figured he'd just got bored of our company, but a lot of the fold have gone missing recently.' Fflint rolled his shoulders, flexing his powerful neck as if it ached. He peered into the darkness of the cave, sniffed but didn't enter. ‘You seen Cerys about?'

Something about the way the dragon spoke put Benfro on edge. It was obviously meant to sound like a casual remark, but there was far more to the question. Benfro wasn't used to subterfuge, but neither was he stupid. This was the reason for Fflint's visit, whatever else he might say. And Cerys hadn't wanted to be found. Well, one dragon had mocked him when he had landed badly the previous evening, and it wasn't the one hiding in the back of the cave.

‘Not since last night, at the feast.' He hoped the lie didn't show on his face. Fflint was twice his size and had an air about him Benfro didn't trust. If ever there was a
dragon who put him in mind of men and their unpredictable ways, then Fflint was it.

‘She's been showing a lot of interest in you. Helped old Myfanwy nurse you back to health when you arrived. Just thought you ought to know she's younger than she looks. Headstrong. Gets funny notions sometimes. Oh, and she's spoken for.'

This last was said as an afterthought, but Benfro understood then. Not so much like men as like Frecknock, at least before she had been taken by Melyn. Fflint was jealous. Of him. If it hadn't been for the simmering sense of violence that hugged the larger dragon like a crimson aura, Benfro might have laughed.

‘If I see her, I'll let her know you're looking for her.'

‘No need. I'll see her before you do, I'm sure. Just remember what I said, right?' Fflint slapped Benfro on the shoulder perhaps slightly harder than was strictly necessary, then turned and leaped from the narrow path leading down the cliff face from the top of the Twmp. A snap of his enormous wings and he was speeding off into the distance.

Benfro stood and watched him go, until Fflint was no more than a dot in the distance. Only then did he sense movement behind him and breathe in a heady scent that must surely have been all over the cave.

‘Thank you, Benfro.' Cerys put a hand on his shoulder, leaned against him but kept back from the cave mouth just in case.

‘What's that all about? Are you and Fflint …?'

Cerys gave a snort of laughter. ‘He wishes. Throws his weight around like he's in charge, but I ain't spoken for by anyone. Not till I say so.'

‘I don't understand how it could be any other way. I mean, you don't belong to anyone. Dragons can't be owned.'

‘You really mean that, don't you?' Cerys gave Benfro a hug, nuzzled his neck, then pulled away, casting a suspicious eye over him. ‘Just a shame Fflint thinks otherwise. His dad was the same. Worse even. I thought when he went things would get better, but Fflint's just as bad as he ever was.'

Benfro stretched, feeling the constraints of the cave. He needed to fly, needed to feel the wind in his face, but there were so many questions about this fold, this motley collection of dragons, that he wanted to ask as well. If he could just get them all sorted out in his head first.

‘Why did they leave, the other dragons? Did Fflint chase them off ? His father?'

Cerys shook her head, walking out of the cave as she spoke. ‘So many questions, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. Dragons don't need reasons for what they do. We come, we go. And now –' she unfurled her wings and teetered on the edge ‘– we hunt.'

The big hall was, as its name suggested, the largest structure in the village. It struck Errol as he approached it that all the buildings seemed very old. Well built a long time ago, but patched up over the years with less and less skill. Mostly they were constructed of square-cut stone fitted together so accurately there was no need for mortar. Some were rendered, their once-colourful plaster faded with time and the relentless sun, cracked and missing in places. A few of the buildings had wooden frames in their windows, and there was the occasional solid door. He couldn't remember
having seen any glass though. Then again, it was so hot and dry, perhaps they just didn't need it.

Shenander, the medicine man, stood in the street outside the big hall. His bare spindly legs, wild hair and cloak of tattered rags made him appear even more birdlike than before, but he smiled when he saw Errol approaching.

‘You came. Good.' His blackened face crinkled as he spoke, white eyes glistening in the last of the setting sun. ‘Tonight we celebrate Hammie's recovery. The gods smiled upon us when they sent you our way, Errol.'

‘He's not fully recovered yet. He'll probably never be able to walk far even when he is.'

‘Nonsense. He'll be as good as new. Come. Enter our grand hall and accept our thanks.' Shenander took him by the arm and led him to the front door. Inside, torches blazed in sconces on the walls, and a huge table was laden with food. At first Errol thought the whole village must have turned up to greet him; there were more people than he could remember seeing any time before. But as he passed through the crowd, shaking hands with some he recognized, nodding politely at others, he noticed that they were all men. Murta and Nellore were away looking after Hammie, but Errol was sure they weren't the only women in the place. He'd seen others out and about, spoken to some of them. None appeared to have been invited to the feast.

‘Welcome, Errol! Eat! Drink!' The question died on his lips as the suspicious old man, Ben, pushed his way through the crowd. He wore what must once have been a very expensive robe, dark blue velvet now faded, seams lined with gold, and a collar of sable. A heavy chain of office hung around his neck, the gilding worn at the links
to reveal cheaper bronze underneath. Errol couldn't help but remember Alderman Clusster and his hapless daughter Maggs. He wondered how they were, what they were doing. Trell was probably ensconced in a seminary at Candlehall now, learning how to be a good little bookkeeper. The thought almost made him laugh.

‘It's been an age since last we saw a stranger on the road. Hammie will be very grateful you came along.' The old man reached round to the table, bringing two heavy goblets back with him and handing one to Errol. ‘Let us drink to his health and thank the gods.'

Errol sniffed the dark red liquid in his goblet. It was wine, of that much he was sure. It didn't smell as good as the drink Melyn had plied him with, but it was similar enough to bring back unhappy memories. Still, the others were all raising their tankards and jugs. It would be rude not to join in.

‘The gods!' He took a sip, let the slightly sour liquid wash down his throat. He was thirsty after a few hours in Hammie's smoke-filled front room, and the wine helped. It wasn't too bad really, once you'd got past that initial bitterness. Errol took another, deeper drink as Shenander came through the crowd towards him. The medicine man didn't need to push past people; they seemed to sense his presence and move out of the way even when their backs were turned to him.

‘It is truly an auspicious time. I have seen the gods massing in the western skies.'

‘You have?' Errol frowned and looked at his goblet. He had not drunk much more than a mouthful but the wine was already making his head fuzzy.

‘Indeed I have. When I travelled to the deep woods to fetch herbs for Hammie's wounds. It is no coincidence he fell from that tree when he did, though it seems these days the gods call to them only our best.'

‘I don't understa—'

‘How could you? You are not from these parts. You do not know the gods as we do. Perhaps you even sought to flee them.' The medicine man leaned in close, or at least it felt that way to Errol. He was hot, the air difficult to breathe as the massed bodies of the other villagers pressed in around him.

‘You should know that the gods see everything. There can be no escaping from them.'

‘I …' Errol tried to speak, but his throat was tight. The goblet grew impossibly heavy in his hand, slipping from fingers that had lost the ability to grip. He watched it tumble to the floor in slow motion, the dark red wine arcing out in a splash that disappeared into the black rags of Shenander's cloak.