The Golden Cage
Page 14
Errol ran his fingers over the smooth insignia, bending towards the fire to get a better look. He breathed on it, misting the shiny gold surface, but it was difficult to be sure.
‘I think it might be King Balwen’s golden torc.’
It was hard to explain away the mass of warrior priests as an honour guard any more. Even with the news of the queen’s recent brush with a dragon and the Duke of Abervenn’s brave fight to save her, Melyn worried that the sheer numbers would draw the wrong sort of attention. He was certain that King Ballah had spies in all the towns and cities on the queen’s grand tour, and all would report back to Tynhelyg the most seemingly inconsequential details, but he was fairly certain there were no Llanwennog sympathisers in the party that travelled with the queen.
It had always been his plan to disguise the gathering of his small army. Individual troops were under orders to meet him at certain points along the route from Beteltown to Castell Glas, where the main road skirted the edge of the great forest of the Ffrydd and the western Rim mountains tumbled down into the plains of the Hafod. But some of his captains had heard stories of the dragon attacks and taken it upon themselves to join the main party earlier. As it was, the stretch of country they were riding through now was sparsely populated, the chances of the large column of men being noticed by a spy minimal. Still, Melyn was nervous. His whole plan could fall apart at this point. Before it had even begun.
A lone man on horseback appeared at the crest of the next rise in the road. He stopped and stared for a moment, then spurred his horse down towards them. Riding beside Melyn, Beulah tensed even though she was in the heart of her own kingdom. She had been on edge ever since riding back from Pwllpeiran on a dead warrior priest’s mount, but she need not have worried. Melyn had known who it was from the moment he appeared, recognized the horse long before he could make out the unsmiling features of his senior captain
‘Your Majesty, I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely.’ Osgal turned his horse to match the slow pace of the moving column, bowing in the saddle and clasping his clenched fist to his chest by way of salute. ‘I heard a wild dragon had attacked you. Is it true that young Master Clun drove off the beast on his own?’
‘The Duke of Abervenn cut off the animal’s arm.’ Melyn emphasized the boy’s new title, aware how touchy the queen was on the subject of Clun’s status. The last thing he wanted was to have Osgal flogged for insulting a member of the royal family. ‘He would probably have killed the beast if it hadn’t fled.’
‘He was the best of his year’s choosing,’ Osgal said, which Melyn had to concede was high praise indeed from the captain. ‘It was a shame to lose him.’
‘Captain, do you have something to report, or have you just come here to insult my husband?’ Beulah’s tone was cold, her face icier still as she stared at Osgal. Melyn could understand the man’s familiarity; the captain had known the queen since she had first arrived at Emmass Fawr as an eight-year-old girl. In many ways he had raised her. It surprised him that Osgal didn’t have the sense to defer to her now that she had such power over him, but then he had never been the most imaginative of men, just strong and dogged. Something in the queen’s words must have filtered through though. He bowed to her again and once more thumped his chest in salute.
‘Your Majesty, I meant no disrespect. Clu— His Grace the Duke of Abervenn is a skilled and courageous warrior. It’s selfish of me to want him for the order when his place should be at your side. I was riding the perimeter of our camp and saw the column. I came down to bid you welcome.’
They rode over the crest of the hill and looked down into a wide valley. Ancient trees grew in small clumps, surrounded by fields of lush green grass on which a few sheep munched thoughtfully. A small river lined on each bank with willows and hawthorn meandered through the middle of the valley. A cluster of derelict houses stood where the road forded the water, their roofs long gone. Arranged around them in neat circles, a series of tents fanned out into the grassland. Beyond them, horses grazed loose, trusted not to stray far from the camp.
‘This place, is it secure?’ Melyn asked as they rode towards the circles of tents.
‘I’ve patrols sweeping the area for miles in all directions, Your Grace,’ Osgal said. ‘And I know this country well. No one lives nearby. We’ll not be detected as long as we don’t stay here for more than a couple of days.’
‘Days? I hope to be gone tomorrow at first light,’ Melyn said. ‘As long as our wild dragon doesn’t turn up and spoil the party.’
‘You think that likely?’ Beulah asked.
‘No, I don’t. Clun gave it something to think about. If it doesn’t bleed to death from its wound, it’s going to take weeks to recover, if not months. And it won’t be so keen to attack us now it knows we can fight back.’ Melyn looked over his shoulder, back towards the ranks of mounted warrior priests and the slow wagon train trailing behind. ‘Where is His Grace anyway?’
‘He went to speak with Frecknock,’ Beulah said. ‘Something about wanting to know more about its kind. I think he’s grown a bit too fond of it, Melyn. Perhaps it would be best if it doesn’t come back from your expedition. Use it to find this pass through to Llanwennog, then dispose of it.’
‘Of course,’ Melyn said, quietly pleased to see some of the queen’s old ruthless streak resurfacing. He had no intention of letting Frecknock live one minute longer than she was of use to him.
The warrior priests were quick and efficient, well used to pitching camp at a moment’s notice and in the worst of conditions. Their tents were up and their horses grazing with the others in short order, but the queen’s camp took longer to prepare. The last of the wagons, in which Frecknock rode, arrived fully two hours after Beulah had first dismounted and gone to review her troops. By the time her marquee had been erected and the last of the entourage found a place to sleep, the evening sky was turning black.
The derelict farmhouse was no use for a camp, but Melyn had ordered the main room cleared so he could have some privacy. It wasn’t as good as a chapel, but it would do. In its time the house had been a substantial building, more a manor than the home of some humble farmer. As he stood in the centre of the empty room, stars visible through a jagged hole in the ceiling, he wondered what had happened to the family that had lived here. Presumably at some point in the past this had been a busy little place, supplying wool and meat to the lowlands. Now it was deserted, and the buildings had begun their slow return to the earth. Where once there had been an organized pattern of enclosures, the forest was slowly reclaiming the land as the trees oozed out of the rift of the Graith Fawr like honey from a broken pot. It was all decay, the sweat and toil of men come to nothing, order unravelling into chaos.
This was what he was fighting against, the inquisitor thought. This was what he had struggled for all his life. The Llanwennogs, with their casual godlessness and degenerate mores were one symptom of it. Dragons like the upstart Benfro and now this other beast, Caradoc, were another. They were creatures of the Wolf, bent only on destruction. It was his sworn duty to push back the darkness, to bring the Shepherd’s wisdom to those who would embrace it and to destroy those who wouldn’t.
Alone in the empty room, Melyn reached into the pocket of his cloak and drew out the slim wooden box he carried close to him at all times. He fumbled with the stiff metal clasp that held it closed, his fingers no longer as dextrous as once they had been. Inside, Brynceri’s ring looked almost lost in the velvet lining, the desiccated remains of his finger little more than a dusty stick.
Melyn placed the open box on the floor in front of him. The single rough jewel was black under the starlight, but it radiated power, the touch of his god. He knelt on the dusty flagstones and bent his head in prayer. He was barely into the second cycle of the litany when he felt the presence of the Shepherd, that blessed feeling of being young and all-powerful, the banishing of all self-doubt.
‘You are troubled, my servant. You think your plan might fail.’
‘There are others who possess the skill. But you do not trust them with such momentous news. That is wise, my servant, but you do not need to look so far from the queen to find your answer. She has chosen her man well.’
‘Clun? But he’s only a novitiate, my lord. He knows nothing of this skill.’
‘I have gifted him with the sight. He will hear you when you call him.’ Melyn felt the displeasure of the Shepherd, a rebuke for his lack of faith. It shot through his joints with a flash of unbelievable pain that made him gasp out loud.
‘Forgive me, my lord. I do not mean to question, I only seek to know how best to serve.’
‘Of course you do, Melyn. You have always been my most faithful servant. But there are others who work to spread my word. You do not need to do it all yourself.’
The pain began to ease, his penitence accepted. Melyn relaxed a little, realizing how tense he had become. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine, and his brow felt damp.
‘You worry about your motives for this mission.’ The Shepherd’s voice was all around him, inside him. Like nothing else in the whole of Gwlad could, it made him feel small and vulnerable. Quite unbidden, an image flickered through his mind of a huge bear of a man towering over him, red with rage and drink, blood-streaked fist raised ready to bring down another blow. A memory of his earliest childhood, before the Shepherd had found him and set him on this lifelong quest.
‘The hatchling has escaped me twice now, lord. As long as he lives, my authority – your authority – is questioned. I want nothing more than to track him down and finish what I started with his mother. But the chance to take your message to the godless Llanwennogs is more important still. I fear that I will be tempted to pursue this Benfro and my mind diverted from the true task. And then there is this other creature, Caradoc, son of Edryd …’
The ring burned like a red-hot coal. He felt the heat blister his skin. The rage of the Shepherd was a terrible thing, ripping through him like he was nothing. In his mind Melyn saw a tumble of images: the abandoned cottage and behind it the discarded skeletons stripped of all flesh, Frecknock in the cellar at Castle Betel holding the severed arm, the naming ring, the strange ceremony. With each new image the ring blazed hotter still.
‘My lord,’ he whispered. It was not his place to question, and he pushed the thought from his mind. At the same time the burning stopped and a soothing calm swept over him, instantly blotting out the pain.
‘You should have prayed to me for guidance as soon as you encountered this creature.’ The rage evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. The voice of the Shepherd soothed him, but it was tinged with a sense of irritation that filled him with dread. ‘This is no ordinary dragon, Melyn. I think even you know that. This is one of the beasts of old, the creatures the Order of the High Ffrydd was charged with destroying. The dragons you’ve hunted all your life can be tolerated as long as they hold to my laws, but this … this creature has given itself to the Wolf. It must be hunted down and destroyed before it can turn more to its evil.’
‘I will not rest until I have its head,’ Melyn said, recalling his conversation with Frecknock. She too had been shocked by the rogue dragon.
‘You plan to use your captive dragon as bait. That is a wise plan. A beast of the Wolf will come quickly to such a call. It is driven by base lusts and nothing else. But you must be careful, my servant. Bind Frecknock to you with the ring, make her swear a blood oath upon it, or she may be swayed by the servant of the Wolf and turn on you.’
‘I have a thousand warrior priests with me, lord,’ Melyn said. ‘The beast will die before it can utter a single word.’
‘Do not underestimate this foe, Melyn. The likes of Caradoc have not been seen in this land for millennia. It is cunning and ruthless, a creature of pure evil and great power.’
The words echoed in the inquisitor’s head as the spirit of the Shepherd departed from him. His lord was the creator of all things, the master of Gwlad, and yet Melyn couldn’t help a tiny, rebellious, blasphemous part of his mind thinking that the Shepherd had been surprised to learn of this new dragon. His initial reaction had been one of frustration and rage, as if a foe long vanquished had suddenly risen again strong and fresh to renew the fight. And if that were the case, if the Wolf was once more walking the land of the living, then surely the Shepherd would come down among his faithful soon and give them the tools to fight for the side of light and good.
Melyn didn’t know how long he knelt in prayer in the derelict house, giving thanks that it would be during his lifetime that his god chose to walk among the people again. It was obvious now that he thought about it. The war against Llanwennog was just the start. This was the end time, when the Shepherd and the Wolf would fight the final battle. The scriptures had always spoken of it, and now it was coming true.
10
A few brave souls eke out a living on the fringes of the forest of the Ffrydd, but none would be so foolhardy as to try to live within its bounds. Strange magics fill the place, confusing even the most skilled hunter into turning back on himself. Stories abound of travellers lost within its endless miles, returning years later to civilization yet not aged a day. Or worse, gone from their loved ones no more than a few hours, yet returned old and bent before their time, telling tales of a lifetime spent wandering amidst the trees.
Treat it with respect, and the forest will merely send you on your way. Force yourself against it and it will destroy you utterly.
Father Keoldale, The Forest of the Ffrydd
The palace was always quiet at this early hour. A few bleary-eyed servants stumbled about their morning duties, and sleepy guards wilted at their posts, waiting for their relief to arrive, but mostly the long corridors and echoing halls were empty. Prince Dafydd liked this time of day. He could go about his business unchallenged, and without the constant worry that he might bump into either King Ballah or, worse, Tordu, the palace major domo.
That his great-uncle disliked both him and Prince Geraint was no great secret; Tordu had never forgiven Ballah’s eldest for allowing Balch to be sent to the Twin Kingdoms. He viewed Dafydd’s marriage to Iolwen as a betrayal, their unborn child as an ill-fated omen heralding the destruction of the royal house. Lately Tordu had been seeing omens in everything, from the patterns of migrating birds to the strange disappearance of the spy Errol. Dafydd wondered whether the major domo knew that the boy had turned up back at Emmass Fawr. Almost certainly he did; he seemed to have his own spies everywhere. It would no doubt feed his paranoia even more.
The stables were quiet as Dafydd entered the courtyard, though light spilled from the open door of the tack room. The sky was just beginning to show the first sign of dawn, the tinge of pink on the undersides of the clouds that heralded unsettled weather. He cursed under his breath. Spring had been fine so far, if cold. He hated travelling in the wet. Well, it couldn’t be helped now. His mind was made up, and the messages had been sent. There could be no turning back.
A lone dog raised its head and stared at him as he pushed the door wider, feeling the warmth of the stove on his face. Recognizing him as a friend, it thumped its tail twice on the floor then went back to snoozing. Dafydd slipped silently through the rows of immaculately clean harness, the leather shiny and supple, the bits and buckles gleaming. He breathed in the heady aroma of saddle soap and liniment, the smell of horses. As a child this had been one of his favourite places, a retreat from the endless bustle and protocol of the palace proper. Here he had played games with the stable boys, heedless of rank or deference. Prince Geraint had been happy for him to mix with the rougher lads, keen for him to learn real horsemanship; it was one of the few things Dafydd had done that had pleased his father.
‘Your Highness, you should have sent word. I’d have had your horse re
ady.’
Dafydd turned to see the ruddy-faced figure of Teryll, the senior stable hand. Teryll and he were of an age, had grown up together. If a prince of the royal house of Ballah could have a friend among the common people, then Teryll was just that. Dafydd knew he could count on his loyalty and above all his discretion.
‘I can saddle a horse as well as any man, Teryll.’ He slapped the man hard on the shoulder. ‘And you know it.’
‘Ah, but if you tend to your own beasts, then where’ll a useless layabout like me find work, eh? What were you after, sir, taking one of the fillies out for a dawn canter?’
‘No Teryll, not today.’ Dafydd looked nervously around the tack room, trying to see if any of the other stable hands were about. It seemed empty, but he knew they would all be starting to wake. Their dormitory was directly overhead, stretching the upper length of the long building that formed one side of the courtyard. Not wishing to be overheard by any other early risers, he lowered his voice, bending close to Teryll. ‘I need two horses made ready for a long journey. One for Princess Iolwen, so I’ll need a side saddle.’
‘I’ll get Keffl and Melly ready straight away, sir.’ Teryll made to turn, but Dafydd stopped him.
‘No, Teryll. Not those two. I don’t want … people thinking we’ve gone far. This is a secret mission so nobody must know. And we’ll need another two horses to carry provisions and luggage.’
Teryll nodded, his eyes showing a gleam of excitement that reminded Dafydd of some of the more daring escapades they had undertaken in their childhood. ‘I’ll have them ready in twenty minutes, sir.’
‘Thank you, Teryll. I knew I could count on you. But we can’t come for them here. Take them to the corner of Philum Street, at the back of the merchants’ quarter. We’ll meet you there in one hour.’
Teryll nodded his understanding, reaching up to select bridles from the rack. Dafydd saw that they were from the common stock, not the elegant and expensive harness reserved for royalty. He smiled once more at his old friend, turned and hurried away, hoping that Iolwen would be ready by the time he returned to their chambers.