by J. D. Oswald
The jewels he had been carrying spilled out of his lifeless hands and into their alcove prison. Benfro imagined he could hear a howl of despair as the remains of some long-dead dragon succumbed to Magog’s terrible working. Then with a start he realized that the noise came from his own mouth. He slumped forward, resting his head against the cold stone for a minute, sobbing with sheer frustration. He feared sleeping now, for every night brought the same journey to this terrible place; every night he was forced to do this horrific work, and every night he could feel Magog growing stronger. No wonder he spent his waking hours in a daze; there was no rest to be had from sleep. And nor could he easily escape from it.
Anger and frustration swept through him as he stood in the cold repository. Benfro hammered his hands against the rough stone, feeling the life surge back into him with the blows. Almost as quickly, the looming invisible presence of his tormentor coalesced into a solid form, the tendrils of control tightening in his mind.
‘Come, young apprentice, your work is not yet finished.’ Magog’s voice was totally compelling, directing Benfro’s muscles back towards the gleaming pile of stolen jewels. He fought against it with all his might, as he had done every night since escaping the mountaintop retreat, seeking out that weak spot in Magog’s influence. He knew what he was looking for, the dull nagging ache between his shoulder blades, the root of his twisted wing.
‘No more! Leave me alone!’ Benfro twisted round as he shouted, feeling for the uneven branches he knew were underneath him, supporting his sleeping form hundreds of miles away. With a gasp he found them, found the spot of maximum tenderness, and drove himself backwards on to it. A searing pain ripped through his back as if some great wild beast had leaped upon him and was tearing the flesh from his bones with its teeth. The wind rushed out of him with a great screaming cry, his vision dimmed almost to black, and then he was back on his bed of dried grass and bracken, gasping for breath and juddering with shock.
The pale spring sun hung over the treetops on the eastern edge of the clearing as Benfro emerged wearily from the corral and trudged down to the river. The water was icy still, meltwater from the mountains to the north. He didn’t care as he waded out towards the waterfall and plunged his muddled head into the flow. His wing ached like a sore tooth, something that had to be probed and prodded. It should have healed by now, but every night he wrenched it anew escaping from Magog’s influence.
‘He can help you, you know.’
Benfro looked around to see Corwen standing alongside him. The image of the old dragon was almost perfect, but the water didn’t part around his legs and tail where they dipped into the river.
‘How can he help? He can’t even walk.’
‘Errol’s ankles are much improved, as it happens. He at least knows how to listen to those who offer help. Well, most of the time, anyway.’
‘What can he possibly do for me?’
‘He can watch over you while you sleep.’
Benfro snorted, water spraying from his nose. ‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘Because he can. Because he wants to help.’
‘And why should I trust him, even if I did believe he could do anything for me?’
‘Benfro, it’s been three weeks now since you got back here. You’ve not slept properly in that entire time. Every night you’re off to Magog’s repository rebuilding his power, and every night you lose a little bit more of yourself to him. It’s plain for anyone to see you’re changing day by day. The kitling Morgwm raised would never have refused to help heal injuries, even if they were on a man, yet you left Errol to heal himself. That’s the action of Magog, not Benfro.’
‘I can defeat him. I will defeat him. And on my own.’ Benfro trudged out of the river and shook himself dry. His wing root cracked painfully at the motion, but he ignored it, turning his attention instead to his aura and the insubstantial thin red cord that leached away from his forehead like some ghostly siphon. The knot he had tied around it had faded as he slept, and he spent weary minutes trying to fix it. Success brought a measure of relief from a pain he had not realized he had been feeling, like a heavy burden being lifted from his shoulders. He was surprised to find that he was seated on the riverbank; he didn’t remember sitting down. Hunger rumbled in his stomach, but he ignored it for a moment, just relishing the feeling of the sun on his face. After a while Corwen came and sat beside him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Benfro said. ‘It’s hard to fight him sometimes.’
‘I know. But you can do it. And you can win. But not alone, Benfro. If you don’t take the help that’s offered, and take it soon, there’ll be nothing of you left to save.’
2
Although they have a reputation for terrorizing remote settlements and killing people for sport, there is no reliable documented evidence of dragons ever having caused anyone intentional harm. Mander Keece’s fairy tales tell of ferocious battles fought between dragons and of unfortunate peasant farmers being caught up in the melee, but it is only in later, more derivative works of fiction that dragons actually go out of their way to do men ill.
This accords well with the nature of the beasts. Few and far between, they are peaceable, gentle creatures, only their savage appearance lending credence to the tales spun around them.
Father Charmoise, Dragons’ Tales
‘It’s a miserable little place, really. You wonder why anyone would want to live here.’
Inquisitor Melyn looked across at Captain Osgal as they rode down towards the collection of rickety houses, noticing the sneer on the man’s face. Melyn hadn’t realized before quite how ramshackle and primitive the place was. The village hall had a sturdy simplicity about it, and the squat church was solidly functional, but the other buildings were little more than wattle and daub huts with reed-thatch roofs. Only two of the houses were more than a single storey high, presumably those of the village alderman and the merchant, Clun’s father. The rest of them, clustered around the central green and along the line of the main route to Candlehall, were no more than ragged hovels. In the grey drizzling mist there was nobody to be seen as the small troop of warrior priests rode in.
‘Don’t you come from these parts, Osgal?’
The look of contempt deepened. ‘And glad I was to leave. It’s bastard hard farming here; you’re off the main trading routes too. At least when the court was at Ystumtuen there was work to be had in the forests, but most of these people scratch and scrape just to keep alive.’
The troop rode on through the silent village until they arrived outside the alderman’s house. One of the warrior priests dismounted and hammered on its stout oak door, the sound echoing across the damp green and fading into the mist. They waited for several minutes, and the inquisitor was about to order the door kicked down when finally the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back rattled through the wood, followed by a tortured creaking as the door was opened a fraction.
‘Alderman?’ Melyn asked. The pale face peering out widened in surprise. Alderman Clusster pulled open the door and looked around nervously before stepping out of the house.
‘Inquisitor, thank the Shepherd,’ he said.
‘What’s the matter, man? Where is everyone?’
‘Hiding, Your Grace. In fear of their lives.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Please, it’s not safe out.’ The alderman wrung his hands in agitation. ‘Come inside.’
Melyn was going to protest, but there seemed little chance of getting the man to speak sense when he was so obviously terrified of the sky. Instead he turned to the captain.
‘Wait here. I won’t be long.’ He dismounted, handing the reins over, then followed the nervous little man inside.
Once the door was closed and firmly bolted, Alderman Clusster seemed to regain some of his composure. He knelt, taking the inquisitor’s hand and kissing it like a quaister.
‘Please forgive my rudeness, Your Grace. But these past weeks have been hard for us all.’
/> ‘Hard? What are you talking about, man? What’s been going on here?’
‘Nobody has seen the creatures and lived to tell the tale. They come in the night mostly, but on days like today, when the mist flows out of the forest, you can hear them shuffling around the edge of the village.’
Melyn skimmed the edges of the alderman’s thoughts, trying to make some sense of what he was being told, but all he could feel was the man’s fear. It filled him completely, but it was irrational. There was nothing to be frightened of.
‘Start at the beginning.’ Melyn motioned for the alderman to stand. ‘When did these … things first appear?’
‘It’s difficult to say, Your Grace. Livestock go missing all the time, but some of the more remote farmers started complaining quite a few weeks ago. Not just one or two beasts wandering off; they were losing whole flocks overnight. All the younger men left to join the army just as soon as the call went out for soldiers. Glad to go, they were. I’d have gone myself, but, well, I’m not as young as I was. And I have a responsibility to the village.’
‘Quite so.’ Melyn tried to calm the alderman’s scurrying thoughts before he started babbling again. ‘But what was it you thought was attacking you? What was taking your sheep?’
‘Dragons, Inquisitor. It was dragons.’
‘Dragons?’ Melyn said. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Tom Tydfil the smith swore he saw one up on the forest edge. A great beast of a thing, wings as wide as a barn, flying through the air as if it had every right.’
‘Really?’ Melyn had to admit he was intrigued by the story, though there could be no truth in it. The dragon hatchling Benfro was away up to the north and there couldn’t be another creature like him. ‘And where is Tom Tydfil now? I’d very much like to speak to him about this sighting. There’s gold for information leading to the capture of dragons, you know.’
‘He’s dead, Your Grace. They killed him.’
‘Killed him? How?’
‘I don’t know. We just found him out in one of the high fields, lying on his back, eyes wide open and stone cold. That’s when most of the younger men left. I sent my daughter away too.’
‘How many people are there left here?’ Melyn surveyed the front hall of the alderman’s house. It was cluttered and dusty.
‘About twenty of us, all in.’
‘The man who was getting married when last I was here, Godric Defaid. Is he still here?’
The alderman stiffened at the name as if he felt insulted to have it mentioned in his home.
‘They say it was that witch he married that brought the beasts down on us. She put a glamour on him, that much is true. Why else would he give up his house here in the village and move up to that shack of hers in the woods? I’ve not seen either of them since the dragons turned up, but no doubt they’re up there still, ordering them to destroy us all.’
Melyn looked long and hard at Alderman Clusster, and suddenly he understood. The man was quite mad. Something had tipped him over the edge, most probably watching the village he had once ruled as his own little kingdom slowly disintegrate as more and more people left. The raising of Queen Beulah’s army would have sucked the life out of many villages like this one. There were no dragons raiding the livestock fields. Even if there were any of the beasts left in this corner of the Twin Kingdoms, it was very doubtful they would have dared to show themselves after what he had done to Morgwm and the sorry collection of beasts she had been hiding. If he remembered rightly, the smith had been a prodigious drinker, a great bear of a man. It was quite possible his heart had simply given out one night as he was walking home.
‘Well, I wanted to speak with Goodman Defaid and his wife about their sons,’ Melyn said. ‘Now it seems there’s another reason for my troop to seek out this cottage of theirs. I will of course be needing a guide.’
‘A guide?’ Melyn didn’t need to read the alderman’s thoughts to see the mad fear coursing through him. It was in his eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Alderman. I wouldn’t expect you to do it yourself. You can send a boy. He’ll be quite safe.’
‘We … we sent all the children away. Father Kewick took them all to the seminary at Beteltown. There weren’t many, and we thought it was for the best.’
‘Very well.’ Melyn felt a small surge of anger at the news, but he pushed it away. ‘I’ve no doubt we can find this place ourselves. In the meantime I want you to gather all the remaining villagers together in the hall. I’ve some important news for you all.’
The alderman’s eyes were nearly popping at the thought of having to leave his house, but Melyn grabbed him by his shirt front and pulled him outside. Captain Osgal still sat on his horse, holding the inquisitor’s and waiting patiently. Behind him the troop had not moved a muscle.
‘Change of plan, Captain,’ Melyn said. ‘We’re taking a ride out into the woods. Seems there’s been a bit of dragon trouble here lately. I want you to help Alderman Clusster here round up the rest of the villagers. Take half of the troop and make sure they’re all waiting for me in the village hall when I get back.’
Osgal nodded his assent as Melyn climbed back on to his horse. Without being told, half of the warrior priests fell in behind him. They rode out of the village on the track indicated by the alderman that led uphill towards the forest edge.
It took less time to reach the cottage than he had expected. The path was well worn, testimony to Hennas’s skill as a healer, no doubt. Melyn signalled for his warrior priests to fan out, surrounding the building, before he approached it. He needn’t have bothered; the place was empty and looked like it had been for several days. Inside were signs of a rushed departure: clothes strewn over the floor, a food store hurriedly ransacked for provisions, the fireplace filled with charred wood, cold and damp. He pushed his way through the chaos into the back of the house, finding a slightly tidier state of affairs. One room, obviously the master bedroom, was dominated by an unmade bed and a huge oak wardrobe, its doors hanging slightly open to reveal assorted clothes within. The room smelled damp, like it hadn’t been used for a while, and the same was true of the smaller bedroom, though this was tidy. Errol’s room, Melyn thought as his eyes fell on the narrow cot-like bed, the neat desk arranged under the window and the heavy wooden chest that no doubt held the boy’s clothes. He hadn’t come here, that much was certain.
‘Inquisitor, I think you should see this.’
Melyn turned to the warrior priest who had interrupted him. The young man had a name, he was sure, but for the moment he couldn’t think what it was. Cursing his forgetfulness, he followed him out of the house and across the small clearing to the trees.
‘It’s through here.’ The warrior priest pushed aside some bushes, making a narrow path for Melyn to scramble through before leading him into the thickening trees, then, finally, out into another clearing.
It was littered with trees smashed and splintered as if by some giant. The ground was churned, pools of oily water collecting in the holes where roots had been ripped from the earth. Something had beaten a path fully thirty paces wide leading away from the cottage and up the hill towards the deeper forest.
‘What in the name of the Shepherd could have done this?’ Melyn asked, though he had a horrible feeling he knew already.
‘It gets worse, sir. Over here.’ The warrior priest picked his way through the carnage to the far side of the clearing. Melyn followed, slowly taking everything in. Overhead the sun was beginning to burn through the mist, painting the scene with a surreal golden glow, and something glinted in the mud at his feet. He bent to pick it up, but before he could examine what it was, his eyes fell on the sight he had been brought here to see.
In the crater left by the roots of a particularly large oak tree someone had piled the bones of what must have been several dozen animals. They had been stripped of meat until they gleamed white, scraps of wool and hide still clinging in odd places. Flies buzzed around the charnel pit with frenzied motion, stirring
up a stench that reminded Melyn of the battlefield. Rotting meat, blood and ichor, the smell of guts violently spilled. These creatures had not died easily.
They were mostly sheep, a few cattle and perhaps a couple of horses, judging by the shape of the skulls that hadn’t been cracked open. But two sets of bones to one side dragged Melyn’s attention away from the animal remains. They lay together like grossly entwined lovers, one somewhat larger than the other, both reduced to torn shreds of flesh and gristle, their limbs ripped from sockets, skulls trailing vertebrae.
Human skulls.
‘Maybe Godric and Hennas didn’t escape after all. A pity. I had planned on killing them myself.’ Melyn wiped his face with the back of his hand. He remembered the shiny object he had picked up, and held it up to the light to get a better view. It was about the size of his palm, triangular in shape and thicker along one edge than the other two. It curved slightly to the thin point and had ridges along its flat side that reminded him curiously of a fingernail.
‘What is it, sir?’ Melyn looked up at the warrior priest. His name was Tegwin, he remembered now.
‘It would seem that Alderman Clusster’s not as mad as I had thought,’ he said. ‘This is a dragon’s scale. Perhaps the largest I’ve ever seen.’
Benfro whittled away at the log with one extended talon, covering his feet in pale yellow shavings. He wasn’t carving anything in particular, nor did he need to light a fire. It was simply a distraction, something to keep him from drifting off to sleep and Magog’s unwelcome embrace. Leaning against the rough stone wall of his corral, he had taken the weight off his damaged wing root, but he knew that it would wake him if he began to nod off.