by J. D. Oswald
He stood on a narrow ridge where the wind had ripped the snow away, leaving hard rock underfoot. Ahead of him, difficult to make out in the gloom, a cliff dropped away into the darkness, but he was only dimly aware of it as something not to fall over. All his attention was focused on the view straight ahead.
He was looking north and east towards the rising sun, far distant and limning the horizon with orange fire. Closer, the mountains dropped away in a series of steep-sided gullies, plunging to foothills that quickly levelled off into a smooth plain. He stood motionless, heedless of the cold wind ripping at him, chilling his hands and face as he forgot all about the Grym. For that first moment, before the sun’s distant glare defined the perspective, it seemed as if he could see the whole of Llanwennog laid out in front of him. Then the light shifted and the scene changed. Still breathtaking, it was somehow less magnificent and at the same time more terrifying.
The ridge on which he stood curved away north and south, heading towards higher mountains on either side. Ahead there was a vertical drop of several hundred paces. Behind, still in shadow, the trail he had followed from Benfro’s landing point snaked away across snowfields glistening and glinting in the reflected light. The trail ended here, at this cliff top.
Edging forward, Errol watched as the line of sunlight moved slowly down the cliff, cracks and crevices contrasting black against the ice-rimed rock. Down below, perhaps a hundred paces from the point where the drifts lapped up against the cliff like frozen waves, there was a deep indentation in the snow, then the beaten path of Benfro’s passage carried on down in a series of gentle loops. Exhausted, Errol sank to his knees. The tears froze on his cheeks, but he no longer cared.
There was no sign of the dragon at all.
‘Ho, Captain Pelquin! Well met.’
Melyn relaxed in his saddle as he and his troop rode out of the forest into a clearing filled with warrior priests. It had taken them far longer to rendezvous with the army than expected. He had thought with Corwen’s jewels firmly ensconced in his saddlebags the magics in the forest that confused the unwary traveller would have dissipated. But if anything their intensity had increased, almost as if the forest were fighting against him, as if the dead dragon had actually been holding back something much wilder.
He had spent most of the time in his aethereal trance, high above the canopy and looking down through the magic to the trees and paths below. At least with Frecknock able to hear him in that form, he had been able to relay commands to Osgal, keeping his men on the right track. Still, he didn’t like spending so much time out of his body, fearful that he might not be able to make it back. He would be much happier when they left the forest and reached the mountain pass.
‘Your Grace, it’s good to see you again. I swear we’ve marched through the same bit of forest a dozen times since you left us.’ Captain Pelquin looked as relieved to see him as Melyn felt. Looking around the camp, he could see that morale among the warrior priests was not high either.
‘I don’t doubt that you have. These woods are thick with enchantments. I’ve never seen anything like them before.’
‘Did you catch your dragon, sire?’
Melyn’s mood darkened. He had tried not to think too hard about Errol and Benfro’s escape, consoling himself with the prize of the jewels.
‘No, Pelquin. I didn’t. Neither did I catch the traitor Errol Ramsbottom, even though he was there. They both escaped into the mountains. But I suspect I know where they’re going. We’ll catch them yet.’
We’re ready to march on your orders. I reckon the men would be happy to get out of these trees.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But I need to rest a while. We’ll camp here the night and head out at first light.’
‘As you command, sire.’ Pelquin saluted and headed off into the camp. Melyn dismissed the rest of his small troop, letting them find what food they could from their companions; there had been no time for hunting since they had left the clearing. Only Frecknock remained, standing slightly behind him as she always did. He turned towards her, wondering when it was that the sight of her had stopped sickening him.
‘This pass of yours. It’s not far, I take it?’
‘If Your Grace feels able to assume his aethereal form once more, I will show the way. It is well hidden.’
Melyn sighed. He really wanted to rest, but it was more important to be certain where they were going. Leading his army blindly into the hills could cost them precious days, and they had already wasted too much time in the forest.
‘Very well. Let me get settled.’ He walked across to the nearest fire, sitting down on the ground with a tree at his back. Frecknock followed, curling herself down beside him like some improbably huge and loyal hound. The firelight flickered, reflecting off her scales and her eyes. Melyn tore his gaze away, centring himself and slipping into the trance.
The flames took on that strangely alive quality they had when seen in the aethereal. All around him the trees and shrubs, grass and herbs seemed to become more solid, anchored in the stuff of Gwlad, while the forms of the warrior priests dwindled and thinned, some fading to no more than will-o’-the-wisps.
‘Please follow me.’ Melyn turned his aethereal self to look at Frecknock. She was no longer lying down, but stood a little further off than before. As he watched, she spread wings far larger than her real ones and soared gracefully into the air. Too astonished to be angry, he rose to follow her. They climbed high over the treetops and looked down on the camp, the forest, the endless magics twisting and twining in and out of each other.
‘Legend says that two great dragons warred here, casting such terrible spells that Gwlad herself was split in two. The magic you see all around is the echo of that long-ended battle. The skilled, those with the sight like yourself, can find their way through. Some can even bend the workings to their own will, but most who enter the Ffrydd are at its mercy.’
‘I care very little for your legends, Frecknock. It’s enough to know that this place is awash with raw magic. Dealing with it is my only concern right now. Getting out of this place.’
‘Of course, Your Grace. I too grow tired of the endless contradictory spells. In the village where … where I lived, the magic was tamed, ordered. It flowed smoothly around us all, and we were able to ignore it like you can ignore the sound of the wind in the leaves or water in a brook. But here the storm never ends; the river is in spate.’
Frecknock flew higher still, as if wanting to get above the colourful formless patterns that eddied back and forth below. The further they climbed the more difficult it was to make out the forest, everything blurred into the mass of swirling magic as if it was descending on the assembled army, pulled in from the surrounding forest like insects to a naked light. Perhaps it was just the concentrated power of so many warrior priests acting as a magnet, but from up here it looked as if the forest was alive. And angry.
‘Where are you going?’ Melyn shook the thought away, rushing to catch up with Frecknock, who had risen higher still on the aethereal wind.
‘I need to get my bearings. It’s been many years since I came through here, and I was just a kitling then.’
‘So how could you have seen it like this? Were you hatched with the ability to walk the aethereal?’
‘Far from it, Your Grace. It has taken many years of study to master the art. But I do recall the shapes of the mountains. And I remember my father saying that the pass was protected. If I can find the right location, I should be able to see the spells that hide the entrance and hopefully undo them for long enough to get through.’
‘Well, hurry up about it. I’m not happy with the way things are looking down there.’ Melyn peered into the swirling mass of colour that flowed around and over the army’s camp. He could make out very little through it now, only an occasional glimpse of firelight and a few horses, their heads down as they grazed. His body was somewhere underneath all that magic; he would have to pass through it to get back. And all the while more and m
ore flowed into the area.
‘This way. I’m sure of it.’ Frecknock tipped forward, folding her wings into a dive as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Taken by surprise, Melyn had to rush to catch up as she plunged towards the trees to the north of the camp. They travelled perhaps three miles up a narrow-sided valley with a small stream running down it from the mountains above. At its head some ancient cataclysm had carved out a wide bowl, and a round lake sat beneath an impassable cliff, rising a hundred spans or more into the air. It was just the sort of dead-end valley Melyn expected to find in the foothills of the Rim mountains; the land near Emmass Fawr was full of them. But Frecknock didn’t stop, instead heading straight for the sheer wall of rock.
And then she disappeared.
Melyn hovered above the water, looking around. Frecknock had been nowhere near the cliff face, nor had she turned away from her headlong flight towards it. She had simply vanished. Slowly he inched forward, noticing as he did how the surface of the lake was mirror-smooth and black. Then something stopped him. It was as if he had walked into an invisible wall. He could feel nothing, see nothing, sense nothing, but try as he might he could get no closer to the cliff. Turning away, he floated back towards the point where the stream flowed out of the lake. That was easy, as was weaving from side to side, up and down. But when he pushed forward again, that same unflinching and unknown barrier held him back.
‘I thought you were following me.’ Melyn looked to one side, seeing Frecknock once more hovering in the air. She beat her wings slowly, quite unlike the frenzied motion of hummingbirds and insects, and it occurred to him that the action was more for show than necessity. An aethereal form was limited in its actions only by the imagination and skill of the adept who conjured it, or so he had been taught all those years ago by Inquisitor Hardy. But if Frecknock was showing off, then why? And to whom? Not him, surely.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Through the wards into the valley beyond.’ Frecknock’s answer was matter of fact, as if she found the question surprising.
‘What wards? I can see nothing here.’ Melyn strained his sight, searching the air for any indication of magical workings. He could see none, even though he knew that there must be something stopping him.
‘Here, take my hand.’ Frecknock flew swiftly towards him, her large hand held out, talons withdrawn. Her touch was warm, her skin softer than its leathery appearance might have suggested. As soon as she had a firm grasp, she pushed herself forward with a solid sweep of her wings.
Melyn felt himself pulled with her towards the unseen barrier, and then she began to disappear through it like an arm pushed into the surface of a still pond. He watched as more and more of her disappeared, until he felt again that strange sensation of being stopped, only this time it was subtly different, softer. The unseen barrier gave way slowly and a tingling sensation passed over his whole aethereal body as he was pulled through to the other side.
The valley continued on, winding its slow way up to a low point between two of the peaks that formed the horizon. Now there was no cliff face, only a lake formed by a silt dam choking the river flow where the valley narrowed behind them. Melyn looked for any sign of the magic that formed the illusion, but even in the aethereal he could make out no trace of its working whatsoever.
‘How is it you can see this when I cannot?’
‘It was made to hide the pass from men, not dragons.’ Frecknock’s air was not smug as much as proud, and Melyn could see from her expression that she was genuinely pleased to have been able to show him this, as if it vindicated the trust he had put in her by not killing her along with the rest of her extended family. He was reminded of young novitiates mastering their first spells and shyly showing them to their quaisters. The way she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into his service fascinated him. Had he been in her place, he would have been constantly searching for ways to thwart his captors, and yet she strove to be as helpful as possible. He would never have revealed his secrets, yet she seemed happy to teach him and his warrior priests magics which no man had ever known.
All his life Melyn had believed dragons to be base creatures, possessed of just enough intelligence to communicate with men but with an inherent ability to manipulate the Grym. He knew they were destructive and would steal rather than work to gain the things they wanted. That much had not changed, but now he was beginning to realize something else about them. They weren’t just men with no moral scruples, nor children with the power of demi-gods. Dragons were different beasts entirely, with their own way of looking at the world, a way completely at odds with his own. It was a wonder men and dragons had ever managed to coexist peacefully; they were just too different.
He was about to ask Frecknock how he might be able to see the magic that had held him back, but before he could form the words, a terrible pain seared through his head. It felt like his mind was being ripped from his body, as if someone had prised open his skull and was pulling out great chunks of his brain. Everything dimmed to black, and had he not been holding Frecknock’s hand still, he might have lost himself completely.
‘Inquisitor? Your Grace?’ Her voice centred him, though the pain still came in sickening waves.
‘Got to get back.’ Melyn forced the words through gritted teeth, even though his body had no physical form in the aethereal. None but that point of contact between himself and the dragon.
He would have pondered that, had he not been fighting to keep a hold on his very being. Frecknock looked at him strangely, then tugged him back in the direction they had come. The sensation of passing through the barrier was agony now, adding to the sense of being pulled apart. But at least it was short-lived. Once through, Frecknock picked up the pace, flying far more swiftly than any wings would have allowed, back down the valley and out across the forest towards the clearing where the army was camped. It wasn’t difficult to find.
Magic pooled over the camp like a thundercloud of contrasting colours. It writhed and pulsed, piling ever higher, bulging out at the top as if whatever controlled it was trying to flatten the warrior priests. As they approached it, ever faster, Melyn wondered if he would be able fight his way through and back to his body. Somehow he knew that this concentration of enchantment was what caused him such agony. But what had drawn it to this spot?
‘Hold tight.’ Frecknock’s voice was distant, lost in a rushing wind that battered his senses. He could see nothing but the swirling colours of the magic all around him, pummelling him like hailstones, screaming like tortured babies. It was hard to think, hard to remember even who he was. There was just that one point of contact, that warm hand engulfing his own.
‘Relax, Your Grace. We’re back.’ The voice was different this time, closer, clearer, and he heard it with his ears rather than his mind. The turmoil began to subside, like the slow return of normal hearing after a deafening thunderclap. Melyn realized that his eyes were screwed tight shut, and he opened them to see flames flickering as they turned logs into ash. He let out a long slow breath, feeling himself breathe for the first time since he had entered his trance. And then he slowly turned to face the dragon lying beside him.
She was looking up into his face, concern in her large eyes. And still in one great leathery fist she held his own small fragile hand.
‘Please, forgive me.’ She let go as he snatched it back, but he didn’t have the heart to chastise her. And as he began to recover, so he noticed the activity going on around him. He could hear horses nickering, their unrest palpable in the evening gloom. The air felt sticky and electric, as if a storm were brewing, and when Melyn looked up he could see a great cloud overhead, dark and menacing. Yet over on the horizon the sky was clear.
‘How far is that pass?’ Melyn scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as his sense of balance tried to catch up. Frecknock stood as well, shaking her pathetic wings in a manner that made her aethereal form seem all the more ridiculous.
‘About four miles, I’d say.’
‘And you can lead us there?’
‘Of course.’
‘And when we get out of the forest, up into the hills, we’ll be away from this cursed magic?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Then prepare to run. I’ve a nasty feeling we’ve upset something.’
Frecknock stood calmly in the midst of the turmoil of the camp. Melyn could hear voices shouting, see warrior priests running to catch horses that had pulled free of their tethers. Panic flew around the camp like a swarm of bees.
‘You took Corwen’s jewels from their resting place. His power was all that was keeping the forest at bay.’
Errol wandered along the edge of the ridge, searching for a way down into Llanwennog as the sun rose slowly over the distant plains. It had looked promising to the south, but only because the clear air and bright light conspired to make things seem smaller and closer than they truly were. After an hour’s hard walking, he had been forced to turn back by yet more sheer cliffs.
The ridge to the north was not much better. It wasn’t sheer as it ran towards the peak, but it climbed so high that he had to crane his neck to see beyond it, the cliff only getting taller as it went, the mountain peak plunging to the land far below as if it had been hacked off with one clean blow of an enormous blade.
His stomach grumbled, filled with nothing more than melted snow since they had left Corwen’s clearing what seemed like a lifetime ago. Errol couldn’t be sure whether it was two days or one, but it was more than enough to make him feel weak. The thin air didn’t help. At least his ankles were only sore now, not feeling like they might snap at any moment.