The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  He moved his hand close to the red jewel, focused his attention on the thin aura that oozed over his fingers and extended it out from their tips in long thin strands that slipped in between the gem’s tendrils. The touch, when it came, was like plunging his hand into ice, a cold so sudden and intense he half expected his breath to mist – if he was actually breathing. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a clamouring of voices in violent argument. He did his best to ignore them, and all the other forces that whipped at him, concentrating solely on his aura and the evil red gem.

  Lifting it from the stone pedestal was an anticlimax. It was almost as if the spirit of Magog, or whatever the jewel possessed, had finally admitted defeat. The red tendrils evaporated from Errol’s sight as he slowly lifted the dangerous treasure and dropped it into the cloth held out in his other hand. As his contact with it was cut, so the world seemed to shift back to normal, leaving him with the feeling that he had been away for a long time. He swiftly wrapped the jewel tight, then pushed it deep into his pocket, letting out a long slow breath. It had been such a small thing to do, and yet he was as exhausted as if he had run for half a day.

  Still there was one more jewel to collect, and then he had to get back to Benfro. After that there would be more walking through the forest, probably late into the night. He reached out and took up Morgwm’s perfect pale jewel.

  The barrage of images was all the more intense for him being unready. Errol had relaxed the barriers he had put up against Magog, and now, weakened, he suffered the full onslaught of Morgwm’s memories. He saw a once-beautiful woman cry out a name and die, her body racked with pain and wasted almost to nothing save the bulge of her pregnancy. He knew that body, skin pulled taut over bone, tanned and dried by the drug that had killed her, that swelling still there, fourteen years after her death. Princess Lleyn.

  The image changed, becoming a procession: a tiny dragon snuggling into a blanket draped over the body of an infant, that same infant being handed over to a woman who looked like his mother, only younger than he had ever remembered Hennas. He saw Father Gideon standing in a doorway that made the coenobite look like a child, watched a scrawny young dragon with Benfro’s face as he sat at a scrubbed wood table mixing strange poultices, dropped his head in sadness as he saw Inquisitor Melyn ride towards him accompanied by a troop of warrior priests and novitiates. The thoughts and feelings came thick and fast, a terrible maelstrom: dragons, men, wars, magic and finally the maniacally smiling face of the inquisitor, his blade of light lifted high above his head, ready to swing down and finish the job that King Ballah’s executioner had started.

  Knowing his death was coming, and soon, Errol found he could accept it. There would be a peace in it that he had never known in life. But there was a worry too. Who would look after Benfro? How would he cope? Had Errol done enough to teach him how to survive?

  The sensation of a hand on his arm cut through the onslaught of images, and Errol realized he had been sucked in completely. He looked up to see not Inquisitor Melyn, but Corwen standing on the other side of the pedestal.

  ‘The memories of Morgwm the Green mean you no harm, Errol. But they are just as dangerous in their way as those of Magog, Son of the Summer Moon.’

  ‘Corwen. You’re …’

  ‘I’m all right, yes. Thank you. And I’m impressed with your skill at manipulating your aura. But is it wise to take those jewels with you? It will be harder to keep Magog from getting his claws into Benfro.’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave his mother behind. He came back to get her, but Melyn was already here.’ Errol breathlessly tried to recount the whole story, but Corwen simply raised a hand to silence him, his focus shifting away for a moment, in the direction of the tunnel.

  ‘They’re coming. You must go now.’

  Errol looked up at the wizened old dragon, then spun round. He could see nothing, but a shiver of fear ran through him. ‘Melyn? But what of your spells? I thought this place was hidden.’

  ‘So it was. So it has been for many centuries. But the most potent of spells wears off in time. And I’ve been a bit distracted of late. Now don’t hang around, Errol. You must get back to Benfro. Working together there’s a chance both of you might survive. Apart, you’re doomed.’

  A faint noise echoed from the dark passageway. At first Errol thought he might have imagined it, but then it came again – the far-off sound of heavy furniture being moved. There was no doubt Melyn had found the second cave now. Errol looked back at Corwen, then down at the pile of jewels on the pedestal between them. Instinctively he reached out to scoop them up, but the old dragon gripped his wrist firmly.

  ‘There’s no time for that now. You have to go.’

  ‘But they’ll find you. They’ll take your jewels …’

  ‘And then I’ll be with them wherever they go. I’m honoured that you should be so concerned for my welfare, Errol. But I’ve been dead almost five hundred years. Don’t be in such a hurry to join me.’

  Errol hesitated. He hated running out on Corwen, and yet there was nothing else he could do. He might not even be able to do that; the noises from the passageway were getting louder, and it was no longer just his imagination that could see the palest of reflected light outlining the opening in the rock wall.

  ‘Focus, Errol. Forget what’s going on around you. Remember what you did to get here. Follow that path back to Benfro.’ Corwen’s words were in his head, and slowly the image of the old dragon faded away to nothing, the pressure on Errol’s wrist disappearing as if it had never been there. He looked once more at the pile of jewels, then summoned up the image of the lines to his sight, trying to build a picture of the clearing he had left in his mind.

  It was all but impossible. He hadn’t spent long there anyway, and most of that time had been spent dozing. The lines sang to him their alluring song of everywhere, and all the while the noises from the passageway grew closer and closer, more difficult to block out of his mind. Errol’s panic built as his mental discipline dissolved, until it was all he could do to see the lines.

  Then he noticed it, pale pink where all the others were white, a tendril of connection looping from the jewel in his pocket and connecting with one of the lines. He had felt the touch of that jewel, its cold, emotionless grasping, and now he used that memory to feel his way along the lines, following Magog’s malign influence back to its target. Taking a deep breath and blotting out everything else, Errol stepped into the void.

  18

  Sir Flisk was very fond of the people of Fo Afron. They were scholars and artists, and treated him and his kind with respect. He was always welcome in their cities, and perhaps never more so than in Voran, far to the east.

  But kind and friendly though the people of Fo Afron were, they were not always wise. Many times Sir Flisk warned the citizens of Voran about the steaming mountain overlooking their fair city. Nem-Voranar had grown restless down the centuries, its pointed crown now more often swathed in its own cloud of steam than visible. Still, it gave the people of Voran hot water, and the soil all around was fertile. No one alive could remember a time when the mountain had not been a little unruly, but neither could they recall tales of it being anything else. And so they listened politely to Sir Flisk’s warnings but stayed in their paradise unconcerned.

  When Nem-Voranar did finally erupt, thousands died, buried under falling ash and pumice. The distraught survivors were forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs into the inhospitable lands of the Gwastadded Wag. It was here that Sir Flisk found them, hungry and dispirited, mourning their lost home. And though they had not heeded his warnings, he took pity on them all the same. He bade them come together, and wove a great working of the subtle arts such that each of their steps became like a thousand. In one night of walking they reached the far side of the empty plains. Indeed, so quick was their passage they even crossed the Sea of Tegid, alighting on the western shore where now stands the city of Talarddeg.

  Sir Frynwy, Tales of the Ffryd
d

  Benfro paced backwards and forwards, wearing away a patch of grass at the end of the clearing, willing Errol to come back. He blamed himself for the boy’s disappearance. It was madness to have let him try to fetch the jewels. Neither he nor Errol was a skilled mage; something bad was bound to have happened. What if he had been drawn away to the other side of the forest? What if he had fallen into Inquisitor Melyn’s hands?

  Frustrated by inaction, he ran out into the middle of the clearing, snapping his wings open and beating at the evening air. Within a few strides he was aloft, climbing above the treetops with angry ease. He wheeled about, searching the canopy as if Errol might have transported himself to a nearby treetop. But there was no figure waving desperately, just a few crows heading home to roost, a lone pigeon scooting nervously along on some unknown mission.

  Benfro circled wider, his arc taking him further south on each turn. He wanted to go back to Corwen’s clearing, to rescue Errol, who he was sure was being tortured even now, but realistically he knew there was nothing he could do against so many warrior priests. So he wheeled, watching the sun disappear over the edge of the far-distant Rim mountains in the west, all the while his head and hearts fighting.

  He spotted movement through the canopy perhaps two miles south of the clearing where Errol had disappeared. It was difficult to make out through the dense foliage, so he dropped, wide wings feeling their way through the warm air, until he was almost touching the uppermost leaves. Speeding along, he saw a well maintained path running through the woods beneath him. With mixed feelings he realized that this was the track leading away from the ford back at Corwen’s clearing. It followed the contours of the river to the point where he and Errol had emerged earlier from their long trek through the woods. In their panic they had not only forgotten the jewels, but had decided to avoid the path. Now Benfro could see that they could have covered twice the distance in half the time if they had chosen differently. And something was speeding towards his makeshift camp, the place where Errol would surely return soon.

  Benfro turned and made one more sweep, peering through the leaves. Directly over the path he could just about make out the shape of horses, but he didn’t need his eyes to tell him what was below. He could smell the warrior priests even this high above them. Then the canopy broke and he saw them, ten or more, heads down, their horses galloping. It was obvious they knew where they were going, but they couldn’t have caught Errol and forced the location from him. He had only been gone a few minutes, if that. Even at breakneck speed it would have taken them longer to get here. Which meant that Melyn must have tracked him, and must know the paths in this part of the forest. Benfro didn’t want to know how that was possible. It filled him with dread to think that the inquisitor could follow him so easily. How could he ever hope to escape?

  He sped away, landed swiftly in the clearing and ran towards the shade under the trees where their bags still lay. There was no sign of Errol, but now Benfro didn’t even dare shout out the boy’s name for fear of attracting the attention of the approaching riders. He picked up Errol’s cloth sack and tied it to the leather strap of his own bag. It added no measurable weight to that of the gold inside. What use would the coins be to him if he couldn’t find Errol? There was surely nowhere in Gwlad where a dragon could go to a merchant and ask for goods. Men would either flee or kill him. Still, he slung the bag over his neck, along with the sturdy woven-grass provision bag that the mother tree had given him, easing them into a comfortable position. He could wait no longer for Errol to return, though it felt like the worst of betrayals to leave him.

  Benfro was walking towards the middle of the clearing with heavy hearts and leaden footsteps when a cry stopped him in his tracks. He looked round to see the first of the warrior priests burst from the trees over to his left. The rest of them appeared in quick succession, popping from the forest like wasps from a disturbed nest. Not waiting to be caught, he leaped into the air, climbing with all his strength.

  He didn’t look back; his sole focus was the line of trees that formed the far edge of the clearing. Once over them he would be safe, at least in the short term. Something whizzed in the air, flying past his ear, and he watched in terror as a crossbow bolt dropped slowly to the ground in front of his eyes, hitting the earth with a dull thud he could hear even over the rushing wind. He pushed harder, trying to gain height without losing speed, desperate to outrun the warrior priests. It couldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t die here.

  Something clattered off the scales on his back, and Benfro almost looked round to see what it was. He managed to stop himself, knowing that to look back was to slow down, and to slow down was to give his attackers time to take better aim. He felt no pain, though he had no doubt that would come later, when the panic was over. If the panic was over. And then he was over the trees, his tail clattering off the highest branches. He put in a dozen more huge wing beats, feeling the ache of his old wound resurface at the effort, before finally turning to see what the warrior priests were doing.

  To his surprise they had not only stopped pursuing him, but had regrouped and were riding like the wind in a different direction. Benfro couldn’t help himself from wheeling to see what had distracted them. His hearts almost stopped when he saw Errol standing a couple of dozen paces in from the edge of the clearing. He was clearly dazed, and, as Benfro watched, he sank to his knees, oblivious to the warrior priests heading his way.

  One of them was pulling ahead, riding a fine beast far larger than the others and easily able to outpace them. Benfro didn’t need to see the man who rode it to know that this was Melyn’s trusted second-in-command. The man who had stood smiling as the inquisitor brought his blade of fire down in a terrible arc, severing Morgwm’s head. And now that same man had conjured his own blade, holding it high as if he intended visiting a similar fate on Errol.

  Benfro’s wings had put him in position even before he had thought through his plan. He shot across the treetops, wheeling until he faced the warrior priests’ charge, Errol directly between them. The boy had not yet looked up; he seemed to be fixated on the grass all around him as if he had never seen its like before. Benfro noted his position, confident he wouldn’t move, and then shifted his focus to the warrior priests.

  It would be a close run thing who would reach Errol first, and as he pulled his wings back, plummeting towards the ground, Benfro could see some of the riders aiming crossbows. He heard a series of twangs as the quarrels were loosed, and in the same second he released a great bellow of rage. The fire boiled out of him, pure and white, rolling out into the air as if it were alive. The crossbow bolts evaporated in little explosions of yellow flame, whipping behind him as he hurtled towards the ground.

  The man on the big horse was almost upon Errol, his hateful blade held high. Benfro could see him clearly now, make out his solid features, his sandy hair greying at the edges, his red cheeks, his eyes ablaze. His horse seemed to carry some of his madness too, its nostrils flared, its stare white and goggling. Its hooves kicked up clods of earth, throwing them back like boulders in a landslide. Sweat shined its flanks and lathered up around the leather of its harness.

  Benfro snapped his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight, angling his wings to speed his forward motion but slow his descent. He reached out with his arms, seeing the rider leaning forward, desperately trying to beat him to the prize.

  And then Errol looked up.

  Benfro could only see him from behind, but the way his whole body tensed made it easy to read the boy’s reaction. He must have known he was about to die. Not even his ability to walk the lines could possibly save him now.

  ‘Errol. Relax.’ Benfro meant only to shout the words, but with them came a huge gout of flame, the fruit of his anger. For an instant he thought he had made the worst of all possible errors, had done the inquisitor’s job for him. At the noise Errol had turned, his already wide eyes almost splitting open at the sight. Benfro couldn’t imagine what it must have looked like, but he
fancied he could see the reflection of the flame in the boy’s eyes in the instant before it … carried right on past him, leaving him unscathed.

  Benfro hardly had time to register what had happened. He was on the boy at almost the same instant, sweeping him up in his arms and bringing his wings down with all the force he could muster. Ahead of him the horse had reared at the flame, dislodging its rider and falling back on to him. As he rushed past, Benfro was disappointed to see that the flame had petered out before it could do much damage, but he smelled singeing hair, and the odour filled his hearts with a strange joy.

  And then he was on the other warrior priests, sweeping over them with his wings wide. One or two of them tried to conjure their blades, dropping their crossbows, but he was over them so fast none could strike home. He brought his wings down again in a heavy sweep, feeling them hit bodies with satisfying force. Looking back, he saw chaos as men and horses fell to the ground on top of each other.

  Clutching Errol close to him, Benfro sped away across the clearing, gaining height and distance. He set his sights on the mountains and settled into a steady rhythm that would eat up the distance in no time.

  Only then did he notice the noise that was coming from his mouth, and it took him some moments more to realize that he was laughing.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Iol; Teryll will bring it down.’

  Dafydd watched as his wife tried to fit too many clothes into too small a bag. They had spent an enjoyable three days in Talarddeg, seeing the sights, taking the waters and sampling the many and varied types of ginger for which the place was justly renowned. A few people had recognized them, it was true, but most had simply treated them with the deference due an heir to the throne on an informal visit, and made little more fuss than that. If there were assassins dogging their every step then Usel had been as good as his word, for they had seen nothing of them at all. The only time Jarius had unsheathed his sword had been when an armourer in a tiny workshop on the edge of the industrial district had asked if he might inspect the workmanship. The sets of swords and daggers he had bought for himself, his captain and stable hand had been immeasurably superior, and he had even bought a finely wrought razor-sharp stiletto for Iolwen. It lay on the bed now, one more thing that would not fit into her pack.