by J. D. Oswald
He succeeded in one of those aims.
Errol sat outside the cave entrance, his back to the warm rock, feeling the sun on his face for the first time in too long. He watched as Benfro leaped from the cliff top above, wincing and ducking instinctively as the dragon almost crashed into the ground, then the trees, before clawing his way up into the air. Still, it was a magnificent sight to see him fly, wings fully outstretched, wheeling slowly up like some incredible eagle.
‘He needs to practise his take-off and landing a bit more.’ Errol didn’t need to look round to know that the old dragon Corwen had joined him. ‘How are your ankles?’
Errol looked down at his legs, pulling up the loose material of his breeks to show the scarred flesh, still slightly swollen but no longer livid red. They were stiff, and he had no doubt they would never be quite as good as they had been before King Ballah’s torturer had set about him with a hammer, but they were remarkably free of pain.
‘Much better, thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what Benfro did to them, but it was miraculous. I doubt any of Melyn’s surgeons could have done as well. Not even Usel.’
‘If it had been Benfro’s mother, you’d never know they’d been broken in the first place. Morgwm could heal almost anything. You’re lucky she taught her son so much in the few years they had together.’
‘I never realized she was a dragon,’ Errol said, hearing the name and remembering it from years earlier.
‘What?’
‘Morgwm. My mother used to speak of her. She said that Morgwm had taught her most of the herb lore and healing she knew. I always assumed she was some wise woman.’
‘She was wise,’ Corwen said, ‘but also quite the most stubborn dragon I ever met. She studied with me for over a century before deciding to be a healer rather than a mage. I still don’t know what it was changed her mind. She could have been great, far more skilled than me.’
Errol thought of Sir Radnor and the form he had taken when first he had shown himself. That was how a great dragon mage looked, but most of the dragons he had seen had been shrunken downtrodden creatures. Even Benfro, with his huge wings, was still small in comparison. And the image of Corwen was not much bigger.
‘What happened to you all? Why did you shrink?’
‘Shrink? What do you mean?’
‘Sir Radnor was huge. In your legends dragons stood as tall as trees. We know now that they weren’t legends, so even if the stories are exaggerated, that doesn’t explain why you’re all so small.’
‘All of us?’
Errol was about to continue, but suddenly the image of Corwen towered over him. No longer old and decrepit, he was strong and fit, his face scar-less, his scales shining in myriad colours. Even his folded wings were magnificent, their joints rising to points level with his head, though not as large as Benfro’s. If Sir Radnor had been magnificent, then Corwen was majestic. He looked down his long nose with an imperious stare, thin wisps of smoke coming from his flared nostrils, and Errol understood what a rabbit must feel like in that tiny instant of lucidity before the hawk strikes.
And then he was his normal self again, short, stooped, wrinkled and scarred.
‘That was how I looked when I was a hundred and fifty years old. This is how I looked the day I died. You’re right, Errol: we’ve shrunk in on ourselves. We were faced with a choice when your kind started to kill us: either fight back and die glorious but futile deaths, or slink off and hide. Most of us took to the deep forests, but some of us chose the former path. We call it the long road, and the last dragon I know who travelled it was Benfro’s father. No one’s seen or heard from him since before Benfro was hatched, so I must assume he fell to men somewhere out in the wider world. Morgwm certainly thought so; that’s why she gave Benfro the title “sir”. She accepted him as the male head of her family.’
‘I didn’t – What’s that?’ Errol had seen something in the corner of his eye that dragged his attention away from Corwen and towards the river. A brief flash of movement as if something large had tumbled from the sky. And then with an noise like a thunderclap the surface of the water exploded upwards and outwards, sending the birds screeching from the treetops.
9
All novitiates know of the Grym, and all warrior priests of the High Ffrydd are highly trained in its manipulation. Less well understood by all but the most adept is the aethereal. This is linked to the Grym – some say it is but a higher manifestation of the life force that links us all – but it is also separate. To reach it requires both years of diligent practice and an uncanny mental self-discipline.
Many a skilled warrior priest has tried and failed to achieve the necessary state of trance, but once achieved, the aethereal is a place of immense power. With but the slightest thought a practitioner may transport his mind halfway across Gwlad, may influence the unwary and, most of all, may communicate with those few blessed others who possess the skill.
Not that communication using the aethereal is easy; far from it. Even those who reach the higher plane may still be unable to recognize fellow travellers. Most easily seen are those closely related, and the innate skill runs deep in some families.
Inquisitor Melyn,
A Short Treatise on the Aethereal
Errol scrambled over to the riverbank as fast as he could manage. He had fashioned a pair of crutches out of branches, but he still needed to put some weight on his ankles. Not wanting to think about the damage he might be doing or what Benfro would say if he had to mend them all over again, he pressed on regardless. The pain hit him soon enough, but it was a dull ache rather than the stabbing, burning sensation from when he had tried to move his clothes chest.
The bank was soaked, slippery grass flattened and slick, making the going even more perilous. Then as Errol reached the edge, he saw the thing he most feared: Benfro lay face down in the sluggish water, unmoving.
Without a second thought he dropped his crutches and slid himself into the water. It was cold after the morning sun, but it took the weight off his legs. Reminded of the old dragon and their unfinished conversation, Errol looked around to see if he had followed, but he was nowhere to be seen. One more puzzle to worry about.
The water was deep downstream of the ford, and it moved slowly. Errol swam across to the unconscious dragon and only then stopped to consider what he could do to help. He tried grabbing Benfro’s hand and levering him over on to his back, but the dragon was too large and the water too deep. Benfro’s outstretched wings were like great sheets on the water, stopping him from sinking but also preventing him from being rolled over.
Errol reached out for one wing, trying to push it closed. Remarkably, this seemed to work. At his touch the huge limb flinched. He touched it again, more firmly, and it folded away. Swimming awkwardly around, he did the same with Benfro’s other wing. Then he tried once more to push the dragon over on to his back.
Still no success. It was almost as if Benfro wanted to drown.
‘Come on, you great beast,’ Errol shouted. ‘Give me some help here.’ But Benfro remained stubbornly unconscious. He wondered how long a dragon could survive without breathing, then it struck him that Benfro might already be dead. He must have fallen from a great height to have hit the water hard enough to knock himself senseless.
‘Think, Errol,’ he said to himself. He ducked under the water, draping Benfro’s arm over his shoulder and then kicking up with his feet as hard as he could. The dragon rolled a little but not far enough. His bulk was just too much. Spluttering, Errol bobbed up again, taking in a deep breath and coughing out a mouthful of river.
They were drifting slowly downstream towards the rocks. Once they got there, Errol knew it would be all over. He might be able to reach the river bed then, but there was no way he could turn over the dragon if he was wedged tight against boulders. Even if his ankles hadn’t been weakened, Errol didn’t have the strength. He needed leverage.
And then it hit him. He kicked out hard with his legs, lunged out of t
he water and clambered unsteadily on to Benfro’s back, heedless of any thoughts of indignity. Kneeling in the small of his back, where those massive wings rooted, Errol leaned over and grasped one floating arm, pulling it out of the water. Benfro’s body started to roll, and Errol leaned back as far as he could, trying to keep the momentum going.
It was slow. He thought it wasn’t going to work, but gradually, as if he were pulling a foot from deep sticky mud, the dragon rolled over. At the point of no return Errol collapsed backwards into the water, his feet finding the bottom just in time for him to brace Benfro’s flailing arm and stop the roll going all the way round. And then they hit the rocks.
Errol swam around to Benfro’s head, which lolled sideways in the water. He felt his feet sink into mud and was thankful for the small support it gave his ankles as he tried to lift the dragon’s mouth and nostrils out of the river. He had never been so close to a dragon before, never really noticed the way their mouths were formed, the way their fangs poked out from thick leathery lips. There was, he realized, no way he was going to be able to resuscitate Benfro like he had Martha.
‘Come on, Benfro. Breathe.’ He slapped painfully at his scaly neck and chest, but the dragon remained coldly still. Errol stared at his bulk, wondering what to do, wondering again whether he was already dead. But his wings had responded to Errol’s touch, so Benfro had to be alive, somewhere deep down.
The river cold began to chill him, and he shivered as he struggled to hold Benfro’s head out of the water. There was only so long he could last before his strength gave out, but he couldn’t give up. There must be something he could do to make the dragon breathe.
And then he noticed the pale colour clinging to Benfro’s body, a tight second skin. His aura was very weak, but it was there, even that malign rose thread that connected him to Magog in a manner Errol couldn’t begin to understand. But it meant that the dragon was alive.
Errol looked at his own hands, seeing the pale colours surrounding them, weak but certainly more vital than Benfro’s. For over a week now he had been practising the art of stretching his aura, using it to hold back Magog while Benfro slept. That was a hard thing to do, but what he planned now was even more so. Still he had to try.
Ignoring the cold, Errol concentrated only on his aura, imagined it swelling out from his hand, flowing over Benfro’s face. He tried to shape it into a mask, tried to see it covering Benfro’s mouth and nostrils, turning hard, sealing them tight. Then he extruded a long cylinder from them, narrowing it until it reached his own mouth. Taking a deep breath, he let the thin-stretched film of colours touch his lips, felt it like the lightest of threads blown on the wind. Then he exhaled with all the force he could muster.
Whether it was the effort of concentration, the cold, or the effect of breathing out hard, Errol’s vision dimmed, lights sparking in the air in front of him. He dropped Benfro’s head back into the water as his knees began to buckle under him, too weak to do any more.
And then with a great roaring splutter, the dragon convulsed, spewing out a wave of water. Freed of the weight, Errol found just enough strength to swim for the bank. He hauled himself out of the water, shivering and soaked as Benfro continued to retch and cough.
It took a few minutes for the dragon to come completely to his senses. Meanwhile Errol hugged his arms close to his chest, shivering while the sun and wind dried his exposed skin and hair, too tired even to draw warmth from the lines. His clothes would need to be wrung out and hung by the fire, but that was several hundred paces away, the other side of the river. Looking over to the far bank, he could see just how far they had drifted downstream while he had struggled to turn Benfro over. His makeshift crutches were a long way off.
Eventually, Benfro’s coughing and retching turned to regular, rasping breaths. He had hauled himself over on to his side, almost kneeling in the water, and now he pulled himself to unsteady feet, looking around at his surroundings, up at the pale blue sky and then back down to the water as if only just realizing where he was. Errol sat silently until those bewildered eyes finally came to rest on him.
‘Are you all right?’ It seemed like a particularly stupid question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Benfro looked at him as if trying to remember what words were, then waded slowly through the water and clambered out on to the bank, setting himself down with a heavy thump before belching loudly and coughing up another great spume of river water.
‘What happened?’ His voice was raw with coughing, the Draigiaith thick and difficult to understand.
‘You fell out of the sky,’ Errol said. ‘You were face down in the water. I didn’t know how long you could survive like that.’
‘You saved me?’ Benfro’s tone was one of surprise.
‘I could hardly let you drown.’ Errol shivered, noticing that Benfro too was suffering from the cold. Or more likely delayed shock. ‘We should get back to the cave. Warm up a bit.’
Benfro looked at him, taking time for his words to sink in. Finally he nodded slightly and rose to his feet; he was about to set off on his own when something occurred to him.
‘Your ankles?’
‘They’re fine, a bit sore,’ Errol said. ‘I was in the water most of the time. I didn’t put any weight on them.’
‘But you can’t walk back to the cave.’ And before Errol could reply, Benfro had stooped, picked him up and slung him over his shoulder like a large sack of grain.
The trip was uncomfortable but uneventful. Errol was treated to a close view of Benfro’s wings, and he marvelled at the intricate patterns of tiny scales that covered them. They shimmered in the sunlight and seemed to move as if alive with images of tiny dragons wheeling and turning in the air. Then the shadow of the cave entrance froze them all back into random flecks of silver and black and gold. Errol winced slightly as Benfro squeezed him, lifting him bodily and placing him down on the bed of dried grass. The dragon was immensely strong.
Benfro selected several heavy logs from the pile and dumped them awkwardly on the banked-up coals from the previous day’s fire. Sparks flew in all directions, and Errol had to brush several away from his mattress. Without the rough woollen blanket from the chest covering it, his bed would have gone up in flames.
‘Whoops, sorry.’ Benfro almost giggled, if a dragon could giggle. ‘It looks like I’ve put it out.’ He bent down close to the hearth, peering at the dully glowing coals. He took in a deep breath, and Errol thought he was going to blow on the embers to get the logs to catch. But instead of breath, a gout of pure flame burst from the dragon’s mouth, engulfing the wood and setting it instantly ablaze. Then, with an awkward bump, Benfro fell backwards on to his tail and sat silently, his hands held out to soak up the heat.
Errol was so amazed at the sight that he didn’t notice the smell of burning until it was too late. The smoke was not the sharp acrid tang of charring wood, but the thicker, more cloying smell of hair. And underlying it a sweeter odour. Looking down, he saw the edge of his blanket burning away merrily, the bed beneath it catching alight.
He leaped up, pulling the blanket over itself and smothering the flames eating the wool, but they had too great a hold on the dried grass. All he could do was step back and let it go, glad that his clothes chest was on the other side of the cave. For his part, Benfro stayed motionless and silent, staring at the burning grass with an unfocused glaze over his eyes. Errol was surprised it had taken this long for the shock to hit him fully.
Hobbling slightly, he moved around to the other side of the fire to wait for the grass to burn itself out. Once it was reduced to ash, he would sweep it out of the cave and then make up a new bed with blankets and old clothes from the chest. It would probably be more comfortable, Errol thought.
Then he saw the bag.
How he had missed something so large before, he couldn’t have said. It was at the end of the bed where he had laid his feet, and must have been covered by the dried grass, but even so he should have seen it. The brief fire h
adn’t been enough to char the leather, but he hobbled back around the fire to retrieve the bag anyway.
It was too heavy for him to lift. Perhaps had his ankles not been so weak and stiff, he would have managed to drag it, but he remembered the pain when he had tried to move his chest and let its thick strap fall to the ground.
‘I can’t move it,’ Errol said to Benfro, who was still staring at nothing. At his words, the dragon seemed to regain a little of his composure, looking through the crackling flames.
‘What happened to the bed?’ he asked.
‘It caught fire.’
‘Oh.’
‘I tried to pull your bag away from the flames, but it’s too heavy. What’s in it?’
‘See for yourself,’ Benfro said, obviously still not fully recovered from his fall. Errol slumped down on the cave floor next to the bag. The black ash from the burned grass smeared his breeks and shirt, still damp from his earlier swim. They would be a nightmare to get clean, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about that now. Instead, he reached over and unclipped the buckles that held the bag closed to let the front flap drop.
It was full of gold. No wonder it had been so heavy. There were mounds of coins, a couple of goblets, some elegantly worked cutlery with fine carved ivory handles and a small selection of rings and brooches. But perhaps the finest piece in the bag was a torc, made from several strands of gold wire wound around each other in an intricate series of loops and coils. The two end caps were wrought to look like dragon’s heads, the detail exquisite, and encircling it was a smooth round shank of gold bearing a worn coat of arms, polished almost to nothing by centuries of warriors’ braids.
‘Where did you get this?’ Errol asked, feeling the age of the piece. Holding it in his hand, it was as if he could see the long line of previous wearers stretching back into the mists of time.
‘I found it around the neck of a human skeleton just outside Magog’s repository. Back at Cenobus. Why, what is it?’