by J. D. Oswald
Movement at the cave mouth caught his attention. The young man, Errol, stepped out into the light, wincing slightly with each footfall, even though he supported his weight on a crude pair of crutches fashioned from some of the longer pieces of firewood. Benfro watched him, saying nothing, as he hobbled painfully to the river and knelt for a drink, then inched slowly across the ford to the far side. Without looking back, Errol shuffled slowly off into the forest.
‘He really shouldn’t be walking that far. Not yet.’ Benfro looked round to see Corwen sitting down beside him. The old dragon’s sudden appearances no longer startled him.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘A bit deeper into the woods, to set a few snares. I think he’s getting tired of the roots and herbs he’s been eating.’
‘Can’t he just get stuff? You know …’
‘Like Ynys Môn used to? Sir Frynwy and the others? That’s a skill it takes years to master, as I think you probably know. What was it you managed – a melon and a turnip? And that was with the greatest mage that ever lived directing you.’
‘Magog wasn’t there. I did it on my own.’
‘Magog is always there, Benfro. You won’t be free of him until you find a way to reckon that jewel.’
‘Then I might as well give up now. Let him take me over completely. There’re no dragons left with that kind of skill.’
‘Perhaps not in this land, no. Maybe you need to look further afield.’
The piece of wood snapped in his hands. Benfro looked down, startled to see that he had stripped it to almost nothing. Thin shavings covered his feet and sprayed out on to the path, as if he had been caught in a woodchip snowstorm. He stood up, dusted himself off, suddenly bored.
‘Where are you going?’ Corwen asked as Benfro made his way towards the ford.
‘To check on those snares. I doubt very much that boy has a clue what he’s doing.’
The forest was cool and still. Benfro walked silently through dappled light, tasting the air and straining with his ears for the telltale signs of Errol’s trail. It wasn’t hard to follow. He found the first snare in minutes. It was a makeshift thing, made from long threads that must have been teased out of the boy’s cloak and plaited together for strength. It was placed too high, but at least it was on a regularly used animal trail. He picked it up and moved it to a position that would be more likely to guarantee a catch, then moved on to look for the next one.
There were ten in all, each platted from the same material. It wasn’t ideal for making snares – Benfro had better ones in the bottom of his leather bag – but the work showed remarkable ingenuity. Errol had nothing else to work with, he realized – less even than Benfro himself. Just the clothes he stood in. And yet he was making the most of his situation. It was a pity that the boy had no real skill as a hunter. He would have to learn, or he would surely starve out here in the forest.
Errol limped from the trees, leaning on his crutches as he struggled across the shallow ford. The afternoon sun was warm on his back, but it was a small pleasure compared to the pain in his ankles. That he could walk at all was miracle enough, he reminded himself.
There was no sign of Benfro apart from the mess of wood shavings where he had been splintering logs all day. Errol bent down, picked up a handful and took it into the cave. The dry wood caught easily on the last few embers of the fire, and he soon had a reasonable blaze going again. It was just a pity he had nothing to cook on it but tough roots and the few woodland salad leaves that had started to shoot now that the winter’s cold was turning to spring. He only hoped that his snares would be strong enough to hold whatever they caught. If they caught anything at all.
‘You won’t starve, Errol. Don’t worry about that.’
He looked up to see Corwen’s vast bulk seated on the other side of the fire. The image of Corwen, he reminded himself. Corwen was long dead, but somewhere nearby his jewels lay at a nexus of the Grym, just like Sir Radnor’s. Only where Sir Radnor had appeared as a magnificent beast with wings greater even than Benfro’s, Corwen chose to appear as a doddery old creature, bent with age, his scales chipped and broken.
‘Why do you look like that?’ Errol asked.
‘This is how I appeared when I died. It would be vain to present myself otherwise.’
‘But you must have been younger once, stronger.’ Errol struggled to say what he was thinking without sounding rude. ‘Does it not hurt to be old like that?’
‘I’m dead, Errol. I feel nothing in my bones; they were burned away in the Fflam Gwir hundreds of years ago. This image you see is just how I had come to regard myself.’
Errol massaged his ankles as he sat on the low bed. Walking had pained him more than he liked to admit. He shifted his focus on to the Grym, meaning to pull some of its warmth and healing into him, to disperse some of the discomfort, but as he watched the lines shimmer into view, so he noticed something about the image of the old dragon.
Corwen glowed with a pale translucence. He was suffused with it, as if formed from the Grym itself. He sat on a point where two thick strands intersected, and it seemed that power flowed through them and into him. But whereas the Grym surrounding him was golden like spring sunlight, the lines immediately beneath him were tinged with pink.
‘You see it, don’t you?’ Corwen said. ‘The canker that he spreads through the land. This is only a fraction of what Benfro feels.’
‘I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?’
Instead of answering, Corwen stood up and turned to face the cave wall. ‘Follow me,’ he said, then vanished.
Errol stared at the spot where the old dragon had been. The pink was gone, but one line glowed brighter than the others, spearing away through the rock. For a moment he was confused. He couldn’t possibly see through solid stone, and yet he could sense the line reaching out to a destination. He could almost see another cave, circular, dark, with a small raised plinth in the middle of it. The more he stared, the clearer it became, so that the wall of rock between him and the strange scene faded to air, and then nothing. He could see the plinth clearly now, and on its top, at the centre, sat a pile of clear white jewels. Towards the edge sat a single red gem. Without thinking what he was doing, Errol reached out for it.
‘I shouldn’t do that if I were you.’
He stopped in mid-reach and realized with a start that he was standing up. He didn’t remember leaving his bed, but the air felt different, cooler. The smell of woodsmoke was gone and it was darker than it should have been. Looking around for an exit, Errol saw smooth rock forming an almost perfect circle a few dozen paces across. Only a dark opening broke the shape, bringing the distant sound of running water along it.
Corwen shimmered into existence, his form covering the plinth but not obscuring it.
‘Two hundred years have passed since Benfro’s mother performed the ceremony of reckoning and set my jewels in here. No dragon has entered this cavern since then. No man has ever entered it. You should consider yourself quite privileged, Errol Ramsbottom.’
Errol shuddered, both at the chill and the realization of what he had just done.
‘Why … ? What … ?’
‘These –’ Corwen indicated the pile at the centre of the plinth ‘– are my jewels. This –’ he lifted a single pale jewel that had been obscured behind the pile ‘– is all that Benfro has of his mother, Morgwm the Green. Your friend Inquisitor Melyn has the rest. And this –’ he indicated the small irregular nugget of crimson crystal ‘– is an unreckoned jewel from the great Magog, Son of the Summer Moon.’
‘But I thought Magog was just a myth. The way Sir Radnor told it, the story was a lesson, a warning about being too arrogant and proud.’
‘And so it is. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Magog lived thousands of years ago. His exploits were never exaggerated, nor his cruelty. But what none of us ever realized was the extent of his madness. He used the darkest perversion of the subtle arts to remove some of his own jewels
while he still lived. Through these he has maintained an influence over men and dragons for thousands of years.’
‘And that’s one of them?’ Errol pointed at the ugly red gem.
‘No. That’s the last of his true jewels. Benfro found it. Or more correctly, he was drawn to it. What Magog never anticipated was that Benfro would rescue the jewel and carry it with him. He was supposed to leave it behind. That way he would never have noticed the link that had been forged between the two of them. At least not until it was too late.’
‘What link? Too late for what?’ Errol felt like he was back in the classroom at Emmass Fawr, only this time he hadn’t a clue what the lesson was about.
‘Through this jewel, Magog is slowly taking over Benfro. His mind, his body. He gave him his wings. That’s powerful magic even for a living dragon. And that gift formed an almost unbreakable bond between the two of them. I’ve done what I can to help; before, Benfro only had to move a few paces away from the jewel and he was totally incapacitated. But I’ve only lengthened the time it takes Magog to succeed, not foiled him completely.’
‘And it’s destroying you too, isn’t it?’
‘An unreckoned jewel is a very dangerous thing, Errol. This one immeasurably more so.’
‘But it can be stopped. You said the bond was almost unbreakable. Not unbreakable.’
‘The jewel must be reckoned. And for that it must be burned along with the body that contained it. You need only burn one jewel and all the others will turn white, even if they are on the other side of Gwlad. But one jewel must be burned.’
‘But surely Magog’s body must be long rotted away. If the legends are true, he was slain by King Diseverin over two thousand years ago.’
‘If Benfro’s story is correct, and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him, then some of Magog’s bones remain. But they’re hidden by an ancient and powerful spell at the place where both brothers were hatched. The only way you can find it is to be invited there by either Magog or his brother Gog.’
Errol couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though the red jewel pulsed with an angry fire at the mention of the name. And Corwen’s image seemed to fade slightly, as if the dragon had been hit by some powerful force.
‘But if they’re both dead …’
‘If both brothers were dead, then the magic that hid their hatchplace would slowly begin to dissolve. Any who had been there would be able to find their way back. Benfro has no clue as to where the place is, so it is still protected. Wherever he is, Gog must be very much still alive.’
Again at the name that flash of angry power seemed to sap Corwen’s vitality.
‘But why are you telling me this? You want me to find Gog? I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘You know more than you realize, young Errol. And you’ve far more skill at the subtle arts than any man. And yes, I would like you to find him. Or to help Benfro find him. But there’s another reason why I wanted to show you this; to explain it all as best I understand it myself. Magog must not be allowed to rise again. I’ve no love of your kind, but if Magog succeeds in taking over Benfro, then he will rip the whole of Gwlad apart looking for his brother. And when he finds him they will fight. If anything is left when they’ve finished, it won’t be worth living in, for man or dragon.
‘So yes, I want you to help Benfro free himself of this curse, and me too, for that matter. But if you fail there’s something else you must do. You’ll know when there’s nothing left of Benfro and Magog has taken his place. If that moment comes, you must kill him.’
Errol looked up at the old dragon in surprise.
‘Surely there must be –’
‘I won’t make you promise, Errol. You don’t owe either of us anything. But I hope you can understand. Magog must not be allowed to live again. Now come. Follow me back to your cave. Or go on your own, if you feel you can.’
Errol knew he was being dismissed, and even though Corwen’s words made his thoughts a turmoil, still he felt he should try and walk the lines back to where he had started. He focused on the Grym, searching for the way he had come, but it was too confusing. The lines went everywhere, each one a tantalizing glimpse of something different, somewhere else. Briefly he glimpsed the cave, or something that looked a lot like it, but it was overlaid with an image of a stone-walled room dominated by an enormous fireplace and a huge reading desk. Another, more shadowy place of pillars and low ceilings hovered in the background of his mind like a mist. Frustrated, he gave up.
‘It’s no use. I can’t concentrate.’
‘Perhaps understandable, given the circumstances.’ Corwen shuffled forward and past Errol to the dark opening in the far wall of the cave. ‘Follow me then, but I’m afraid you’re going to get wet.’
It was slow painful going without his crutches for support. Errol leaned against the walls as best he could to minimize his weight as he inched along a wide tunnel that wound in a spiral pattern, climbing up until it opened into a much larger cavern. Light spilled in through a curtain of water cascading down directly opposite, and yet the air was dry, as was the furniture that filled what had once been someone’s home. Corwen’s home, Errol realized, as the old dragon continued to walk, straight through the wall of water, which showed no sign of his passing. Errol hobbled up to the edge, paused, then stepped through.
He dropped about three feet into the roiling water at the base of the waterfall. The bubble-filled water couldn’t support his weight and he sank to the bottom like a stone. Cold drove the air out of his lungs, and for a moment he was back at Jagged Leap, struggling to save himself. Then the current swept him swiftly away, towards the ford, and he was soon able to pull himself out and on to dry land. Gasping and shivering, he limped slowly back to the cave mouth, where Corwen stood, a wicked grin on his face. Benfro was nowhere to be seen, though the pile of shavings where he had been whittling earlier was even bigger than before. Errol assumed he was inside the corral, sleeping or perhaps just moping. He wondered if he would ever be able to help the young dragon. Or kill him.
Inside, the fire was warm, filling the cave with welcome heat. Errol stripped off his soaking clothes, hanging them as best he could to dry before wrapping himself in his cloak. Only then did he notice what looked like a pile of blackened leaves on the edge of the hearth. Intrigued, he dragged it towards him with a stick, and a heavenly aroma of cooked meat burst forth. He pulled the leaves apart to find a large rabbit, gutted and skinned and cooked to perfection. Its empty stomach cavity had even been stuffed with a few choice herbs to add flavour, but Errol didn’t care. He would have eaten it raw.
He only remembered his manners when the last bone was licked clean. Wrapping his cloak around him, he limped out of the cave into the evening dark. Across the track there was no sign of Benfro, who had presumably taken himself off to bed.
‘Thank you,’ Errol said anyway, if only to the night.
3
Dragons are naturally magical creatures; any trained mage will tell you of the aura of power they exude. The jewels that grow within their brains are prized above gold for their ability to focus the Grym. They are not, however, intelligent practitioners of magic, any more than they are masterful intellects in any other way. More, dragons are like precocious children who sometimes amaze their parents with acts of seeming great skill, yet nevertheless stumble upon those acts by chance.
There are some who say that dragons indeed have magical lore, and that it is written down in great and powerful books. Anyone who has read the simple runic scratchings that pass for dragon writing will see this for the fanciful nonsense it is.
Father Charmoise, Dragons’ Tales
‘My lady, are you sure you should be out of bed? The palace physicians said you should get as much rest as possible.’
‘The palace physicians couldn’t heal a cut finger. I’ve a mind to have them flogged for what they did to me. Useless quacks.’ Beulah wished she had thought of it earlier, but the sheer joy of being rid of her tiredness and nausea
had driven everything else from her mind. Even her condition didn’t concern her. If anything, the knowledge that she was pregnant had displaced the fear and revulsion of having to produce an heir with a kind of giddy excitement she hadn’t experienced in years. But there were serious matters that had to be considered: her heir had to be legitimate.
‘Where are you taking me, my lady?’ Clun followed her like a loyal hound; Beulah was certain that he would follow her into the lair of the Running Wolf if she asked him. But as they descended deeper into the old parts of the citadel, the basements and tunnels cut into the rock of the Hill of Kings, so he had fallen a little behind her, as if uncertain he should be seeing the things he was being shown.
‘It’s a surprise, my love.’ Beulah waited for him to catch up, took him by the hand and led him to the next door, its heavy panel of oak blackened with age and studded with great iron nails. Two locks yielded to the huge keys she had brought with her, and with a great deal of theatrical creaking the door swung open. Beyond, a narrow staircase hewn out of the rock climbed down in a spiral. Darkness seemed to ooze out of the doorway, bringing with it a strange chill and the near-silent whispering of countless voices.
‘Should I bring a torch?’
Beulah smiled. She could hear the fear in his voice, though Clun hid it well.
‘There’s no need.’ She held out her hand and a ball of pure white light appeared, hovering just over her palm. Holding it ahead of her, she stepped on to the stairs.
‘What I’m about to show you is a secret few have ever seen. Down here are the collected treasures of over two thousand years of the House of Balwen. Only the royal family and the heads of the three religious orders are allowed to see them.’
‘My lady, I shouldn’t …’ Beulah reached for Clun with her free hand and pulled him towards her, planting a kiss firmly on his lips.