by J. D. Oswald
‘Pwllpeiran’s only a day’s ride by wagon train. My father did most of his trading here.’ Clun’s face darkened, and Beulah remembered the moment she had told him of Godric’s death. He had not wept, though his eyes had shone with tears as he repeated the oath of allegiance to the Order of the High Ffrydd. It was all the mother and father he would ever need. She had seen something of the man he was growing to be then, and he had made love to her with a fierce passion that night, clinging hard to her as he fell into a disturbed sleep. Since then he hadn’t said a word about his family. Until now.
‘Perhaps we should go there. Melyn buried their remains, but you should see for yourself what happened.’
‘I’d like that.’ Clun’s words were quiet but hard. ‘I’d like to know how they died, know something about the creature that killed them. Then I intend to track it down and kill it.’
Beulah said nothing, but she smiled as they rode through the streets towards the castle that dominated the town from a spur of rock high above the river. The crowd was perhaps smaller than she had been expecting but made up for it with genuine enthusiasm. Some of her people loved her, it seemed.
Duke Moorit of Beteltown was an elderly man, forgetful of where he was at any given moment, but like many old men he seemed to have near-total recall of events that had happened much earlier in his life. Beulah endured many hours of stories about her grandfather and the week-long hunting parties he used to arrange. She suffered it all with greater grace and patience than she knew she possessed while a string of minor nobles came from the outlying settlements to pay their respects. The recruiters had already been through most of this region, so there were few new conscripts to be had for the army. Meanwhile, Melyn was busy carrying out his own investigations into dragon sightings in the area. Finally, when she could stand the gloomy halls and corridors of Castle Betel no longer, she assembled a small troop of warrior priests, Clun at their head, and rode out heading for Pwllpeiran.
The road was easy going, though empty of people. Close to Beteltown there was evidence of agriculture, fields showing the first breard of crops fuzzing the dark earth with green. But as they climbed the series of hills towards the forest edge so the crops gave way to grass grown matted and thick with lack of grazing. There were no sheep to be seen, no cattle. Even the birds seemed subdued. Then, as they breasted the last rise towards the village, they saw a bank of cloud hanging over the land like a curse. What little conversation there had been among the troop dried up completely. This was no natural weather; more as if the trees of the forest had exhaled a toxic fog over the whole valley where the village of Pwllpeiran once had stood.
They rode on in silence past the low walls that marked the field boundaries, and then to the first building.
‘By the Shepherd, what happened here?’ Clun slid off his horse, dropping the reins as he walked to the ruined empty house. Beulah watched him peer through the broken door into the wreckage beyond, knowing full well he would find nothing there. The roof was gone and one wall had collapsed. It looked for all the world like a tree had fallen on it, yet there were no trees around.
The next house was the same, and the next. They made slow progress into the village, seeing only destruction. There were no people here any more, just broken things and the dull misty cloud. Still, Clun insisted on checking each ruined home. Beulah watched him go from door to door, his footsteps light and familiar across the ground where he had been born, his shoulders dropping lower and lower with each new piece of destruction uncovered. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the village.
And then they reached the village hall.
At first glance it looked more or less intact, the roof still in place and the shutters closed to protect the windows. But the large double doors at the front of the building had been pushed inwards with enough force to buckle their frame. And then whatever had gone in had ripped its way back out, leaving splintered wood spread across the track and the village green.
Beulah cast her mind out across the hall, feeling for the telltale patterns of thoughts, but there was nothing. Further out, into the rest of the village, the surrounding fields, nothing. Out to the edge of the woods, their ancient ranks a different feeling in her thoughts. Nothing. Apart from herself, Clun and the small troop of warrior priests, there was nothing alive that could frame a conscious thought.
Still concentrating on the emptiness, Beulah dismounted and followed Clun up the creaking wooden steps to the hall where she had first met him, where he had made his silent declaration of allegiance to her. She was about to enter through the broken doors when he stopped, held her back. Startled, she almost lashed out at him, but then the stench hit her and she knew what he was doing.
‘My lady, I don’t think you should go in there.’ Clun’s voice was dead, flat, as if he too knew what was inside.
‘I don’t need to be protected from this. These were my people. I have to see what happened to them.’ She pushed past him and stepped into the hall.
It was barely recognizable from the place where Godric and Hennas had been married. All the furniture was smashed, the wooden floor gouged as if someone had set about it with a pick. The shuttered windows kept most of the pale daylight out, but they let in enough to illuminate the source of the stench. Over in the far corner, where the dais and the bridal throne that she had usurped had been, Beulah could see what looked like a pile of discarded clothing, ripped and matted. She walked carefully across the creaking splintered floorboards, and as she came closer to the pile, held up her arm with a conjured ball of flame for illumination. What the harsh light revealed made her retch.
They were clothes, but they hadn’t been discarded. They had been ripped from the bodies they had covered, limbs still in coat arms and trouser legs. And then those bodies had been eaten. The flesh had been stripped from bones, leaving scraps of skin, tendons, rotting red meat.
Beulah felt a presence beside her and looked round to see Clun staring white-faced at the mess.
‘They didn’t stand a chance.’ He hunkered down close to the pile, his own light shining brightly over the carnage. ‘It ripped them apart like … I don’t know. Why did they stay here? Why not go with the others to Beteltown?’
‘Melyn told them to stay,’ Beulah said. ‘He posted two warrior priests here to wait for the creature and slay it if it returned.’ She looked once more over the pile of rent clothing, searching for the drab robes of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Looking up at the windows, she could see that they had been bolted, as well as shuttered from the outside. ‘It came back all right. And it was more than a match for them. By the look of things they tried to barricade themselves in here.’
‘It didn’t do them much good.’ Clun leaned forward, took a handful of material and pulled it towards him. Beulah watched in fascinated horror as a pile of wet bones rolled forward with the cloak. The severed head of a warrior priest tumbled from the pile, rolling to a halt at her feet, staring up at her with accusing eyes.
Suddenly Clun had her by the arm, was pulling her away from the pile and back towards the door.
‘It’s coming back,’ he said. ‘We have to go.’
Beulah looked at him in surprise, and then she too felt the disturbance. It wasn’t like a person’s thoughts, the spark of a mind that she could sense over great distances. It was alien, almost impossible to grasp. It was confused and angry and hungry. Oh so hungry.
‘Why are we running? I thought you wanted to kill it.’
‘I do, my lady.’ Clun hurried her over to her horse, helped her up into the saddle and hauled himself into his own. ‘But it’s more powerful than I imagined. It’s killed two experienced warrior priests. I can’t risk any harm coming to you while we fight it. We have to get you to safety.’
The warrior priests formed a circle around Beulah as they rode out of the village at a canter, all eyes alert. She could feel the terrible thoughts of the creature, clouding her mind with an intoxicating fear. For a moment it almost overwhelm
ed her, and then she remembered Melyn’s lessons. Fear was an easy emotion to project, a good way to paralyse your enemy, to stop him thinking straight, force him into making stupid decisions. Shaking her head as if the feeling were just water in her ears, Beulah pushed the fear aside. She tried to get a fix on where those terrible thoughts were coming from, but her horse was responding to the fear now, its ears flat, nostrils wide, and she needed all her strength just to hold it back.
A terrible scream behind her was cut short by a horrible ripping noise. And then a great wind buffeted the whole troop, unseating several riders. A vast dark shadow flashed overhead and something wet splattered on to Beulah’s face and hands. She looked down expecting rain, but saw red. Blood.
‘Regroup! Protect the queen!’ She heard Clun’s voice and realized her horse had carried on while the others had stopped. It was heading down the path back towards Beteltown, its canter rapidly turning into a gallop. She pulled hard on the reins, feet pushing forward in her stirrups as she tried to halt the terrified beast. Then something roared out of the mist, dark and improbably large. Her horse reared and she slipped from the saddle, falling to the ground with a crash that drove the wind out of her. Before she could gather her wits, a head as large as a man loomed over her, huge fanged jaws clamping down on the struggling body of her horse. A snap, and the poor creature was bitten clean in two, pieces falling to the ground with a sound like wet laundry being bashed against a rock. The ground shook as the shadowy form of a dragon far larger than any she had ever seen stepped forward, slavering, blood-smeared hands the size of cartwheels reaching out for her with talons extended. It screeched in what could have been pain, could have been rage, could have been words. Whatever it was, the sound cut through Beulah’s last reserves of self-control, flooding her with a fear she’d not known since the day of her mother’s burial, the day she’d been sent off to Emmass Fawr.
And then there was a light at her side, flashing away like a piece of the sun. Clun stood between her and the dragon, his blade held high. The dragon seemed momentarily taken aback, rearing away. But it was just a feint. It lunged at him with its fearsome claws and he had to dive to the ground to avoid being decapitated. He rolled with the agility of a trained warrior, swung his blade and caught the dragon’s outstretched arm. The blade passed through scale, leathery skin, muscle and bone with a fierce charring. Howling, the creature leaped back as its severed forearm fell to the ground.
The rest of the troop had regrouped now. Beulah watched as they spread out, meaning to encircle the beast. Each held aloft a blade of light, though some seemed less certain of themselves than she had ever seen. It was a long time since any warrior priest had battled a dragon of this size and ferocity.
For its part, the dragon held its bleeding stump almost in a daze. Then it looked directly at Clun, who was pacing carefully, keeping himself just out of reach. With a roar, it lunged, the stench of its breath reaching even Beulah as she lay on the ground. Clun retreated a step, which was all the dragon needed. It turned with remarkable swiftness for its size, lashing out with its tail and knocking two warrior priests to the ground. Then it leaped into the air. Huge wings beat at the ground and in seconds it had disappeared into the mist.
8
Nothing is more important to a kitling than the galwr, or naming ceremony. It is the first great celebration of any young dragon’s life, and is usually accompanied by much feasting and merriment. But there is more to the galwr than a simple giving of a name. It is a recognition, in front of gathered witnesses, of lineage, status and birthright. To be named is to be accepted into the tribe. To go anghalwyr, or without name, is the worst of all possible punishments.
Maddau the Wise, An Etiquette
‘Your Majesty, Queen Beulah has married a commoner, a novitiate of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Rumour at Candlehall is she already carries his child. She has made him Duke of Abervenn.’
‘That won’t be popular with the people, I’m sure. What of her army?’
Prince Dafydd sat quietly to the side of his grandfather’s throne, watching as the odious Duke Dondal delivered his latest report from the border. Tordu stood nearby, his sour face describing eloquently his utter disdain for the duke. Dafydd’s father, Prince Geraint, slouched in a chair behind a table topped with charts and papers, eyes closed, apparently asleep though Dafydd knew better.
‘Peasant forces are mustering at Dina and Tochers, sire,’ Dondal replied. ‘Not many at the moment, but they’re being trained by the accursed warrior priests. And a call has gone out to all the provinces. She’s building a considerable force.’
‘Which will need to be fed, equipped, clothed. She can’t hold an army of any size together for more than a year. Beulah’s young, impulsive and foolish. Let her throw her peasant army at the passes. No one has ever succeeded in breaking through before.’ Tordu’s words were clipped, impatient. Much like the man himself. ‘We have nothing to fear from her, and she has everything to fear from her own people. The way she treats them, there’ll be an uprising within months.’
‘You’re forgetting that she’s an adept at magic fully the equal of Inquisitor Melyn himself, uncle.’ Geraint opened his eyes and stared at the palace major domo. ‘And she’s just as skilled at manipulation. Take this boy she’s married, for instance. Yes, he’s a commoner, but that works in her favour. She knows she needs an heir as soon as possible, what with young Dafydd here knocking up her little sister. If she takes a commoner, the people love her for coming down to them, and the nobles grumble but see no favouritism. They’ll stay on her side for now. Especially after what she did to Angor.’
‘And her army?’ The king leaned forward, his attention fixed on his son. From his seat Dafydd could see how the movement pained the old man. His joints were swollen and stiff, the fingers on his hands twisted and claw-like. Ballah had been unwell for a long time, but lately his infirmity had begun to show more obviously. For now his reputation and sheer presence were enough to keep people in line, but how long would it be before the jackals began to gather around the throne?
‘Melyn will assemble enough men to attack through either of the passes, or perhaps both at once,’ Geraint said. ‘If he can train them sufficiently well before the autumn, then we can expect him to move several weeks before the first snows. He won’t want to retreat in the depths of winter or risk having his supply trail cut.’
‘Why doesn’t he train them over the winter and launch his attack next spring?’ Dafydd asked.
It was Tordu who answered. ‘An army that size eats like a glutton and drains gold from the treasury faster than the most profligate of kings. Beulah will have to tax her merchants to the point where they feel they’re working for nothing. She’ll have to pull almost every able-bodied man from the provinces to fight for her, leaving the old and the very young to tend the animals and bring in the harvest. If she has two big camps, then it won’t be long before her soldiers start dying of disease. It’s one thing to die fighting for your queen, quite another to drown in your own phlegm on some litter in a hospital tent. No, if she tries to keep her forces together over next winter, they’ll rebel against her. She has to mount her attack this autumn. And like her predecessors before her, she will fail.’
‘So we just sit here and do nothing?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Is that not a cowardly thing to do? Shouldn’t we be taking this fight to them?’
‘The passes are no easier to get through from this side, Dafydd.’ Geraint leaned forward, rolling out a large parchment map of the Gwahanfa ranges and the country to either side of the mountains. He stabbed it with a blunt finger. ‘A large force, an invasion force, would get bottled up here. You wouldn’t need a very big army to stop us dead, and the sort of numbers Beulah’s gathering would wipe us out.’
‘But what if there wasn’t a large force waiting for you? What if they’d been drawn away?’
‘Beulah’s scouts will know if we make a feint to one pass, to draw the bulk of her army from the other,’ Geraint s
aid. ‘And anyway she could easily defend each pass with half of her forces. A diversion won’t work.’
‘I agree,’ Dafydd replied. ‘The two passes are too easily watched. But there are other ways to create a diversion. An army of skilled mages could break through from Tynewydd and take Tochers. I’ve seen the lie of the land around there; if you control the city, you control the pass. An invading army could march through unchallenged. In less than six weeks we could be at Candlehall.’
‘You have an idea for this diversion, don’t you?’ King Ballah shifted in his throne to look Dafydd in the eye. The old man might be frail, but he still radiated power. Dafydd felt the brush of that terrible mind against his thoughts.
‘Yes, Your Majesty, I do.’
‘In all my years I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not even in our histories. For a dragon to eat another sentient creature. It would be like cannibalism. No, worse than that. It would be feral.’
The lower levels of Castle Betel were gloomy and damp, lit only by yellow flames from widely spaced torches. Melyn stood in a storeroom that had been turned into a makeshift cell; all the others had doorways too narrow for Frecknock to pass through. She had been brought in under cover of darkness, following the queen’s train in a wagon. He had wanted her presence kept secret to avoid disturbing the people. Given the rumours circulating and the general state of unease in the province, it had turned out to be a wise precaution.
‘Something killed five of my warrior priests and ate two of them along with at least twenty other people they were meant to be protecting. Are you trying to tell me the creature that did this wasn’t a dragon?’
‘I don’t know, Your Grace. I didn’t see it. I just know it’s not the kind of behaviour I’d expect of our kind.’
Melyn seethed, as he always did in her presence. His every instinct urged him to kill her, to cut off her head like he had that of Morgwm the Green. But one small part of him held back. She knew so much, had so much innate skill, and she was so afraid, so attached to her life she would do almost anything to avoid death. Unlike most of her kind she was relatively young and inexperienced. He would break her spirit, if she even had one, and force her to divulge the secrets of her skill.