The Broken World (39 page)

Earith watched him for a while, perhaps considering her response or maybe giving him time to talk on if he wanted. Finally satisfied he was spent for now, she spoke.

‘If you came from the great forest, then you are not of this world, Benfro. Not a son of Gog. So tell me this, when you have recovered enough. How came you to be here? How did you end up on a beach not half a day's walk from here?'

‘Not a son of Gog?' Benfro's hearts had started to beat harder at the name. ‘Do you mean this really is Gog's world? The story is true?'

‘Ah, Benfro. So many stories are true. Yes, this is Gog's world, as you call it. This is the place he made when he could no longer bear to breathe the same air as his brother. But come, tell me how you got here first, then I will try to answer the questions I can see writ large across your face.'

Benfro didn't really know where to start, but slowly he pieced together the story of growing up in the village, learning to hunt with Ynys Môn, to heal with his mother, to read and write with Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd. He told of Frecknock and her hatred of him, and as he did so he began to understand a small fraction of what she must have felt. He spoke of Melyn and the warrior priests, and of fleeing the carnage they had visited upon the villagers and his mother. As the day passed slowly into evening he told of his meeting with Magog, his double-edged gift of wings and the rose cord that linked the two of them. Earith listened, never questioning, always giving Benfro time to gather his thoughts or catch his breath. At some point, on a silent command, a pair of men brought in
great platters of food, jugs of ice-cold water sweetened with some fruit Benfro couldn't identify, pieces of finest crystallized ginger, dusted with sugar.

‘This was Ystrad Fflur's favourite treat.' Benfro held up a chunk of ginger in the sunlight, then took a shallow sniff of the delicate aroma. He hadn't eaten much, wasn't sure his stomach could take anything too rich or sweet, but the smell brought happy memories and a smile to his lips.

‘He would tell me stories of his travels, and if I listened long enough I'd get a treat. His jar never seemed to empty. I know how that works now, but then it was magic. I remember when he died. I cast the Fflam Gwir at his reckoning.'

‘You know of the subtle arts?' For the first time since he had met her, Benfro heard an element of surprise in Eirawen's voice.

‘A little. Magog taught me some things, Corwen too,' Benfro said. ‘Others I sort of just did.'

Earith studied him for a moment before speaking again, and Benfro felt the weight of her gaze as if she were looking into his mind. If she found anything there she didn't like, he couldn't tell.

‘You walked the Llinellau to the beach where we found you, didn't you?'

Benfro nodded. The memories of that time were still jumbled, some missing entirely.

‘How could you know where you were going? You've never been here, never seen this place. There is nothing of you here to focus on. It shouldn't be possible.'

‘But I did it before. When I fled from Melyn. I saw something in the Grym. It looked like a window on to a
different sky. I don't know. It was away from danger, so I guess I just jumped.'

‘Oh, Benfro. You make it sound so easy, but travelling the Llinellau is the hardest of all the subtle arts. There are many dragons who study all their lives and never manage it. Never manage even to reach out and bring things to them like your friend Ystrad Fflur with his crystallized ginger. Very few of Gog's sons and daughters have the skill or the aptitude.'

‘But Gog was one of the greatest mages ever to have lived.'

‘Greatest? That depends on how you measure greatness. If killing thousands of innocents makes you great, then I suppose he is. If destroying the world just to get back at your brother makes you great, then, yes, he's the greatest. Both of them are. The last I heard of Gog, he'd driven most of his children away. The only company he keeps is his own, and half the time he hates himself as well. Most of his kind have left, turned their backs on the old ways. Gone feral.' Earith nodded at Benfro's wings, but he knew what she meant. Fflint had been no better than a wild beast, worse in many ways. Wild beasts killed for food or to protect their mates and young; Fflint had killed because he enjoyed inflicting pain.

‘They were hunting people. Killing them. I tried to stop them. Stop him. He turned on me.'

‘Has it got so bad? I've not travelled north in centuries. There was never much for me there anyway, nothing at all now.'

‘You've seen him though? Gog?'

‘Once I would have counted him a friend. His brother
too. But they … Well, you know the story as well as any, Benfro.'

‘I have to go back. I have to find Gog, speak to him. I need him to show me to the place where he and Magog were hatched.'

Earith's laugh wasn't mean, but it was there. She tried to suppress the smile on her face too. Benfro had seen it before though – on his mother, Meirionydd, Sir Frynwy even, when he suggested doing something that was impossible but well intentioned.

‘The Old One doesn't welcome visitors, Benfro. And how will you get there? It's thousands of miles. I've done what I can to heal your wings, but you won't be flying anywhere for a month at least.'

‘I'll use the Llinellau if I have to.' Benfro wasn't sure he could. The only time it had worked before, he'd been in mortal danger. Short of asking Earith to try and kill him, he couldn't see himself facing anything like that here.

‘Malkin show the way. Malkin know all the ways.'

Benfro had almost forgotten the squirrel, sitting on his shoulder as if asleep. Now it leaped down to the neatly raked gravel between him and Earith, hopping from foot to foot in that manner it had. Excited at the prospect of adventure.

‘Of course. I should have seen it earlier.' Earith laughed again, only this time it was genuine mirth.

‘Seen what?' Benfro asked.

‘That you have the tree's protection. Malkin is her avatar. It's no accident you ended up where you did, Benfro. You leaped to safety, and the Llinellau brought you to your friend.'

‘The mother tree?' Benfro looked from Malkin to Earith and back. The squirrel had clasped his tiny hands together now and was dancing around with obvious joy.

‘Yes, Benfro. The mother tree. I think we will have to pay her a visit, just as soon as you are well enough to make the journey.'

The upper docks sat within the walls of Candlehall, protected from outside attack by the massive stone arch of the River Gate. The huge portcullis was raised still, and several barges were pulling in to the jetty of the upper dock as Dafydd and Usel arrived; more were queued up just downriver and waiting. In moments the first three were roped tight, stevedores lining up to begin unloading their precious cargo. None of the burly men knew their princess was on board; as far as they were concerned the boats brought only much-needed food to help the city through the inevitable siege.

‘You told no one? As we agreed?' Dafydd asked the medic as they approached the middle barge.

‘Not even Padraig. I thought it best we enter Candlehall the way we left Talarddeg. The princess can appear to her people once we have her safe in the palace.'

‘And this lot?' Dafydd indicated his guard, already attracting more attention than was perhaps helpful.

‘I would suggest you order Captain Venner to have them oversee the unloading. Make sure all the provisions are safely stowed in the public storehouses, not in some rich merchant's basement.'

‘Very wise.' Dafydd turned and relayed the order, cutting off the inevitable argument before it could get started.
‘You have your orders, Captain Venner. I don't expect them to be questioned.'

Venner closed his mouth with an audible click, nodded his understanding and set to ordering his men to their duties. Dafydd turned back to Usel, who once more had that annoying smirk on his face. ‘Well, I had to promote someone eventually. Just a pity poor old Jarius isn't easily replaced.'

‘He was a good man. Now if you'll take my hand, sire, I think it's time for us to disappear.'

There was so much going on at the docks that it probably wasn't necessary. Still, Dafydd did as he was told, and together they walked up the gangplank and on to the barge. Iolwen stood near the stern, where a rough cabin formed the captain's quarters. She had her child suspended in a sling around her shoulders and was staring up at the buildings, her head tilting back as she followed the slate roofs ever higher to the palace and the Neuadd in the middle of it. Lady Anwyn stood beside her, scowling at anything and everything. They were both dressed more like men than noble ladies.

‘Your Highness. It is good to see you arrived safely.' Usel dropped his spell a few paces away from the pair of them, bowing deeply. Iolwen looked momentarily startled, then saw Dafydd and her face lit up. In that instant he forgot all about Jarius, all about the Guardians of the Throne and the fact that they were in enemy territory, facing a siege that might never be relieved. Iolwen was not fooled.

‘What is it?' she asked as they embraced somewhat awkwardly, the sleeping child between them. Dafydd told
her, unsurprised when tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. More surprising was the sharp intake of breath from Lady Anwyn, though she too would have known Captain Pelod well enough.

‘We must move swiftly,' Anwyn said, just the slightest of cracks in her voice. ‘Beulah and her consort Clun are on their way to Abervenn. The city cannot hope to hold out. Most of our men are either fighting for her side or up here in Candlehall.'

‘Abervenn? Why go there? I would have thought she'd have force-marched her army straight back here,' Daffyd asked.

‘I expect she intends to raze it to the ground. Beulah never did take well to being challenged.' Anwyn swept her cloak around her as if it were a barrier against the world. ‘Come, let us get up to the palace. There is much to do.'

She took two steps towards the gangplank and disappeared. Dafydd turned back to Iolwen. ‘Is she all right?'

‘She left her mother behind. She's already lost her father and brother to this war. And she and Jarius …'

‘I didn't know.' Dafydd took his wife's hands in his, feeling their warmth. He thanked all the gods of men that she was safe here with him.

‘We should probably go, sire. The less time we spend out in the open here the better.' Usel came forward, holding out his hand, and Dafydd took it once more. He thought he could feel a change in the texture of the air, though it might have been his imagination. Otherwise everything was the same, but they walked unhindered and unnoticed off the boat, past Captain Venner and the palace guard supervising the unloading, up the narrow back
alleys and in through the poorly guarded servant gate into the palace complex. Only when the medic started to pull them in the direction of the great reception hall and the queen's chambers did Dafydd stop.

‘Not yet, Usel. There is still that room, remember?'

The medic paused a moment before nodding. If he was annoyed at the detour he didn't show it, and they were soon standing outside the door. Looking at its black oak surface and heavy iron fixings, anyone could be forgiven for doubting a team of men had been attacking it with axes just a few days earlier. There wasn't a scratch on the surface, though a few chips in the stone arch surrounding it looked crisp and clean.

‘What is this?' Iolwen asked. She still carried Prince Iolo in his sling around her shoulders.

‘This, Your Highness, is your birthright. Something only a very few people outside the family of Balwen have ever seen.' Usel produced a heavy iron key from his robes and held it out.

‘I thought you said there was no key,' Dafydd said.

‘Perhaps you would like to try it, sire?' Usel had been offering the key to Iolwen, but now he presented it to Dafydd. The prince took it, feeling a weight in it that was greater than the volume of iron from which it was made. How many generations of kings had held this key before him? He studied the door more closely; it had an iron ring set in one side to pull it closed, but there was no sign of a keyhole.

‘How am I supposed to use this?'

‘Your Highness, if you would place your hand on the door.' Usel addressed the princess. She looked confused
but nevertheless did as she was told. It occurred to Dafydd that he was being monstrously selfish, dragging her up here after her long journey. They should have gone straight to the royal apartments he had commandeered for their use, settled his infant son in and given them both time to rest before doing anything else. But all such thoughts evaporated the instant Iolwen's fingers touched the smooth dark wood. Something shivered in the air, and a keyhole appeared alongside the iron ring.

‘The oldest of magics, as I said before.' Usel's voice was steady, but his eyes were wide with excitement like a little boy at a feast.

‘Where did you get the key from?' Dafydd asked.

‘Seneschal Padraig had it for safekeeping. It never leaves the castle, even when the monarch is away.'

Dafydd noted that Usel hadn't actually answered the question, but he was getting used to that. He slid the key into the newly appeared keyhole and turned it. The lock was stiff, as if rarely used. Or resisting the attempts of a usurper, perhaps.

‘Would you turn it, my love?'

Iolwen clasped the key lightly, turned it with no more effort than if it were a spoon in a tureen of soup. The lock
clacked
and the door swung open to reveal the top of a spiral staircase leading down into darkness.

The screams stayed with him for days.

They made it to the rocks just before the first dragon came swooping down on the clearing. Errol had never seen a creature so big before; it was twice Benfro's size at least and it thundered around the clearing in search of the sacrifice promised by the smoking fire. Nellore whispered ‘Fflint' before covering her eyes, shrinking further back
into the gap in the rocks. Errol suspected that Fflint was the dragon who had killed her father. He didn't have to watch the beast for long to realize that he was short tempered. The lack of any sacrifice seemed to enrage him, the arrival of more dragons merely stoking his anger to new heights. They all took off shortly afterwards, flying in the direction of the village. And then the screaming started.

Errol had assumed the village would be some distance from the altar, but the sounds carried as clearly as if it were just the other side of the hill. He was about to clamber out of their hiding place in the rocks when yet more dragons flew over, sending him and Nellore deeper into the warren of cracks and crevices, far from sight but at the same time unable to see what was going on. Instead they were left with their imaginations fuelled by the noises of extreme violence. Morning passed into afternoon with yet more sounds of mayhem, though at least the screaming had stopped. The two of them said nothing all day, just sat and waited for the dragons to leave, shivering despite the warm air and the harsh sun baking the rocks all around them.

It was late afternoon turning towards evening and the sudden onset of dusk when they heard the swish of wings high overhead. Peering up through a gap in the boulders, Errol watched dragon after dragon fly back towards the distant Twmp. He hadn't counted them in, and nor could he be sure that he'd seen every one that passed, but the giant, Fflint, did not seem to be among them. Only when a full hour had passed since the last dragon struggled slowly behind the others, nursing a wounded wing by the look of things; only when the darkness had fallen completely, did he finally speak.

‘I think they're all gone now. We should move. While we can.'

Nellore sniffed. She had curled herself up into a ball beside Errol, and he suspected she had been crying to herself. There was scarcely enough light to see anything, but he thought he saw her nod her head in agreement.

‘They've never done that before,' she said. Errol thought better than to point out the obvious fact. If they had done that before, at least in living memory, then there would have been no villagers to drug him and tie him to the altar.

‘That big one, Fflint. It was like he was mad or something.'

‘They were like that before, with my da. Fighting with each other. Kicking and biting like wild animals.' Nellore's voice was very small, and she looked younger than Errol could remember seeing her.

‘Let's go, OK? There's nothing to be gained from hanging around here.'

They stepped quietly into the clearing. Errol strained his ears to hear anything above the quiet rustle of the wind in the leaves of the nearby trees. The fire that had brought the dragons in was nothing more than a few dull embers in the darkness beside the altar stone. A brighter glow rose in the direction of the village, orange and flickering.

‘I need to see. If anyone's still …' Nellore didn't finish, just set off in the direction of the glow. Errol followed, and they were soon at the outskirts of the village. It had always seemed a little ramshackle, but now it was just ruins, picked out in orange by the flames of a thousand fires and lent a
more hellish hue by a gibbous blood moon rising over the scene like an omen. Most of the single-storey buildings had been flattened, rubble strewn across the street. Flames danced on wooden beams, floorboards and furniture, and everywhere was wispy smoke in the moonlight, the occasional crash as something structural gave way.

Murta's house was less damaged than most, just a section of the front wall missing where something heavy had smashed into it. Errol stepped through, searching for any sign of life. He found none, but in the back room where he had slept the chest had been smashed open and clothes were spilled all over the floor. He looked around in panic, then relaxed a little as he saw his travelling cloak still hung over the back of the chair. He checked its pockets, finding the two jewels where he had left them, his purse and the strange orb too.

Back outside, he found Nellore standing at the remains of Hammie's house. The injured man might still have been inside, but if so he was quite clearly dead. The building looked as if a great weight had been dropped on it from above, the roof caved in and walls pulled down around it. Behind, in the orchard, all the fruit trees had been crushed like so much firewood. Thick trunks snapped like twigs, roots pulled up, foliage stamped into the ground as if its existence were an affront to nature.

‘Errol. Look.'

Errol turned to see where Nellore had gone. Across the street and along a ways the village hall still mostly stood. Unlike the other buildings, its door was solid wood. It lay in the road where it had been ripped from its hinges. Smoke still wafted out from the darkness beyond,
bringing a smell of burned hair, cooking meat. But it was what lay in front of the hall that had caught the girl's attention.

A pile of ash, purest white despite the dark orange glow of the moon, lay a few paces from the hall. The light breeze that was keeping the worst of the smell away also whisked the ash into the air, carrying it off like a thief. Nellore squatted close, poking around in the pile with her finger.

‘There's something in here.' She brushed ash aside, reached in and pulled something out. ‘Oh.'

‘What is it?' Errol hurried over as Nellore rose slowly to her feet. She turned to face him, held out her hand and opened it up to reveal a tiny, clear crystal.

‘It's … I think it's Fflint. The dragon. I can sort of sense him.'

Errol looked at the minuscule jewel, then at the pile of ash. The wind had taken most of it away now, almost as if it was dissolving in the air. There were no other jewels to be seen, but surely a dragon should have many. And bigger than this one. Even Magog's final, unreckoned jewel, wrapped in heavy cloth in his pocket, was many times bigger.

‘If it is Fflint, then he is dead. And more, someone has burned his body, reckoned his jewels. Well, his jewel.' Errol looked at the empty street, the broken buildings and smelt the undeniable stench of death in the air. He couldn't begin to guess what had happened, but he knew also that there was nothing left here for either of them. Nellore still held the jewel out in her palm, poking at it with one finger. Her tongue protruded from the side of her mouth in an expression of utter absorption.

‘You should be very careful with that,' he said. ‘If you must keep it, then wrap it up well. You'll lose your mind to it otherwise.'

Nellore ignored him, so he reached out and snatched the gem, dropping it into a fold in his cloak. For the briefest of instants he felt something of the dragon who had laid waste to the village, battered away at the buildings, ripped people apart. He felt Fflint's rage, and then another dragon facing him, battered and bruised, but recognisably Benfro. Then a roar of flame enveloped the dragon.

‘Hey! That's mine! I found it.' Nellore made a grab for the jewel, but Errol backed away swiftly. Folded up in the fabric of his cloak, the magic dulled away to nothing.

‘I'll give it to you, I promise. But first we need to get as far away from here as possible. They'll be back. I'm sure of it.'

‘Where … Where are we going to go?' Nellore's eyes were wide, glistening in the moonlight. It was a very good question.

‘I came here looking for my friend. Martha. I'm sure she met some dragons not far from here, but they didn't kill her. They took her somewhere though.'

‘Da always said there were people in the north. Wise people. Up in the mountains. Don't know anywhere else. I've always lived here.'

Errol looked up at the moon and the stars speckling the night sky. They were mostly familiar, at least enough to get a rough sense of direction. The Twmp and Fflint's dragons lay off to the west, the road he'd come in on to the east. North was forest, undulating hills and nothing much to the hazy horizon, if he recalled the daylight view.

‘OK then. We go north. But see if you can find a bag or something, and salvage any food. I've a feeling it's going to be a long walk.'

The walls of Abervenn were old, perhaps even older than all but the central parts of Candlehall, the Neuadd and the Wall of Kings. In the aethereal it had a solidity about it that only a structure steeped in generations of lives could achieve. The newer houses seemed thin and ghostly in comparison.

Beulah had never really considered the aethereal much before. Melyn had taught her how to access it and how to control her movements through it, but she had always thought of it as merely a means of communication over distance. Denied access to her magic for the long months of her pregnancy, she now found she was savouring her abilities more, enjoying them for themselves as much as for the advantages they gave her over her enemies. Only here, confronted with the walls of Abervenn, she found even her power thwarted.

‘How can we hope to get through?' She floated up to the oh-so-solid stone, placed an aethereal hand upon the surface. It was warm to the touch, like skin, and rough like the callused hands of the ancient masons who had built it, repaired it, altered it down the centuries.

‘We could simply float over the top, but that might attract unwanted attention.'

‘Attention? I thought you said there would be no adepts here.' Beulah faced Clun, drinking in his brilliant aura. He glowed like the sun, gold tinged with crimson around the edges, and if anyone was going to draw attention it was him.

‘Father Tolley was an adept of great skill, as was the man sent to delay us in the market square back at Tochers. These so-called Guardians of the Throne seem to have skills more normally associated with the senior warrior priests and quaisters of the Order of the High Ffrydd. I cannot be sure there are none here. It's likely that there are, given that Abervenn seems to be the centre of the revolt against the House of Balwen.'

Clun's aura darkened, the crimson threatening to overwhelm the gold as his anger rose. Abervenn had been given to him – it was his responsibility – and he felt that deeply, personally. Once again Beulah wondered how it could be that someone raised a common merchant's son could be more noble of spirit than any of the fawning courtiers who had plagued her life at the palace.

‘I don't think we need fear the Guardians,' she said. ‘We have met them twice and bested them both times.'

‘But we still do not want to alert them to our presence needlessly. There is another way in, my lady.'

Beulah followed, gliding just above the ground as Clun led her towards the spot where the Eastgate stood. The sluggish water of the Gwy entered the city through an iron grille close by. Its bars were spaced wide enough that a thin man might slip between them, but Beulah knew the river was ducted through deep tunnels all the way to the centre of the city. Even a strong swimmer with powerful lungs would drown before they saw daylight again.

‘We cannot pass through the water channel. It's too dangerous.'

‘But we can go through the Eastgate itself. See.' Clun gestured to where the road met the wall. The indistinct
aethereal forms of two guards stood, one either side of the track, and between them, where the solid oak gates should have been closed at this time of the evening, a hazy, ill-formed veil only slightly distorted the view beyond.

‘How is this possible?' Beulah asked.

‘These walls are a thousand years old. More. They are part of the land now, solid and immutable in this plane as well as the mundane. But the gates were rotten and failing. Carpenters were replacing them when we came here just a month ago. They used green oak from trees not fifty years old. With time they will harden in the aethereal as they harden in life, but for now they are ill-formed things. Easy to penetrate.'

Clun walked forward to the shimmering veil, placed his hand on it and pushed through. ‘See? There is no resistance whatsoever.'