The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  The wind ruffled his hair, cold on his face as he stared into the distance and rubbed at his legs. With a single thought he reached out for the nearest lines and drew the warmth of the Grym to him. It could sustain him for a while, but sooner or later he would need some of the food that they had packed, some of the food that was even now disappearing down the hill in a bag slung over Benfro’s shoulders.

  Errol stopped rubbing at his ankles and stuck his hands in his pockets, searching for anything that he might be able to chew. Even a blade of grass or a bit of stick would have helped to take his mind off the churning in his guts, at least for a little while. But there was nothing save a wad of cloth that served him as a handkerchief. Without thinking he pulled it out to wipe the icy rime from under his nose where his breath had frozen on to his skin. A tiny red jewel dropped on to the icy ground and skittered towards the edge of the cliff.

  Errol lunged for it, grasping the gem before it could tumble away. For the briefest of instants he felt something vast and ancient and unstoppable reach towards him, and he jerked his hand back, letting go of the jewel like it was a hot coal. Fear brought pinpricks of sweat to his forehead; he had come so close to losing Magog’s jewel, then closer still to falling under its influence. Still he felt an echo of that enormous presence, always questing, probing. Folding the cloth over neatly several times until it was as thick as a travelling cloak, he scooped up the gem, wrapped it tight and pushed it back into his pocket.

  Then he remembered Corwen’s cave: how he had fled from Melyn’s approach by walking the lines back to Benfro, and how he had found his way there by following the link between the young dragon and the jewel now nestling in his pocket. It was true that Corwen had helped him, pushed him away even. And every other time he had walked the lines since Melyn had messed with his mind had been almost by accident. But before then he had managed to do it. When Martha had shown him how. Surely he could do it again, now, on his own.

  Errol searched the ridge for the lines, seeing them as a pale web against the midday sun. They were thin, spread wide over the barren land as if there were no life at all for them to feed on. Certainly there was nothing here like the life force that ran up the valley from Pwllpeiran to Jagged Leap. But was size important? He didn’t know.

  Shifting his focus so that he could see his aura, he searched for the thin red cord that linked Benfro to the jewel. It should have appeared at his pocket, and sure enough there it was, looping away and splitting as it joined many different lines at once. Perhaps that was the answer. He would have to follow them all. Or maybe the jewel was influencing more than just Benfro. Maybe there were others out there being slowly leached of all life. Maybe there was more than one jewel, and they talked to each other.

  Errol shook his head to rid it of the endless questions. He needed to be calmer, more focused. He closed his eyes and tried once more to picture the scene. It came to him as vividly as if he were looking, perhaps even more so. And now the lines swelled, those joined by the rose cord turning pink at its touch. He built up an image of Benfro: his shape, the way he walked, his voice, his smell and the way he sat still when thinking. Relying on his memory of the dragon, Errol started to think his way out along the lines, trying to sense him among the endless possibilities presented, always keeping the feel of that overpowering vast presence in the back of his mind.

  He saw images too brief to register in his mind that made no sense. Some were close, others distant; some happening now, others long past. Sights and sounds and smells mixed into one great confusion of sensation as he searched for the one needle hidden deep within the haystack. Benfro was out there, he knew. He just had to find him.

  And then he felt a strange melancholy, at once alien and deeply familiar. It was like a mother’s lullaby long forgotten bringing back memories of earliest childhood. It was sad and it was angry, fractured and incomplete. It wasn’t Benfro, but Morgwm – lonely, confused, defiant. Errol recalled the memories he had touched when he had taken her final jewel from Corwen’s cave, the strange images of Princess Lleyn’s death and the child nestling with the hatchling. She had taken that infant boy and walked the lines with him, given him over to fostering. Was he that child? Was that how he had learned the power of the Grym?

  Something shifted in Errol’s mind. He needed to know, needed to ask. He needed to be closer to that broken memory. His head spun, and it felt like he was being pulled in every direction, but he held on to that one simple feeling of need as the whole of Gwlad rushed past him. And then his head was filled with cotton wool. The wind stopped whistling past his ears and instead he could hear only the rush of blood in his veins. Everything external was blocked off as if he had stuck a blanket over his head. He took a breath and felt his lungs fill with a richness he had all but forgotten. The ground beneath him felt different, softer, the damp spread of melting snow soaking through his trousers.

  Errol opened his eyes and found himself staring straight at the motionless snow-covered form of Benfro.

  22

  The Fflam Gwir, or true flame, is nothing like the fire that cooks our evening meal and lights our candles. Or at least it need not be. When applied to the recently deceased, it reckons a dragon’s jewels, setting their thoughts and memories for all eternity, but it will not consume the bier or table upon which that dragon is laid. When used upon the injured, it can heal and restore strength. When used upon an enemy it can inflict a burn that will heal slowly, if at all, and cause constant pain. The Fflam Gwir will consume only that which the dragon who has brought it forth wishes it to consume.

  Few dragons can produce the Fflam Gwir, though most can breathe base fire if pressed. Such common fire-breathing is considered impolite, a throwback to feral times. Sadly this narrow-mindedness has meant that those blessed with the ability to breathe the true flame have tended to suppress it.

  Maddau the Wise, An Etiquette

  Melyn watched with a mixture of pride and alarm. He was proud of his warrior priests’ calmness, their efficiency as they set about dismantling the camp and calming the horses. The magic storm descending upon them was enough to chill the blood of any man, and yet they went about their tasks with swift precision and attention to detail. They had been trained to be the best, of course; no man who went to pieces under pressure could hope to gain the coveted rank of warrior priest. And yet these long weeks in the forest, culminating in this attack, were far removed from anything they could have expected to encounter.

  He was alarmed by the sheer power building against them. Despite their years of training, these men were no match for the raw magics that boiled in the air. Melyn himself was no match for them, and that unsettled him more perhaps than anything else. He wasn’t sure he believed Frecknock’s assertion that the forest was after the jewels he had taken from the hidden cave. More likely the unravelling ancient spells thick in this part of the woods were all being drawn towards the most powerful magical source around. That might be the jewels, but was more likely the combined power of five hundred adepts tapping the Grym for a little extra energy to light their way to the latrine pits or conjure a flame rather than use flint.

  ‘Captain, pass the word to the men. No one is to use any magic whatsoever until I say they can.’ Osgal nodded his acceptance of the order, though Melyn doubted he understood the reasoning behind it. He shouted to the nearest warrior priests and they all ran off to spread the word.

  ‘It’s too late for that, Your Grace. We have to leave this place now.’ Frecknock stood to one side, trying to keep out of the way of the milling warrior priests. She was constantly glancing up at the sky and wringing her hands together. Melyn could almost taste her anxiety.

  ‘Can you lead us to the valley?’

  ‘Yes, but we must hurry.’

  ‘Then lead on.’ Melyn swung himself up into his saddle, looking out over the hastily struck camp at his men. Most were mounted, their spare horses roped behind them. Those few who were still loading saddlebags and tent rolls would have to catch
up.

  ‘We follow the dragon,’ he shouted to Osgal, who waited nearby. As the order was relayed down the line, Melyn turned his horse in the direction he and Frecknock had flown earlier.

  ‘Your Grace, this way.’ Frecknock pointed to the opposite end of the clearing, downhill and seemingly back into the deep forest. Melyn felt his anger rise, but something in the dragon’s voice, and her very posture, stopped him short. She was frightened of him, that much he both knew and expected. But she was frightened of the oncoming magical storm much more. He couldn’t risk the time to slip into his aethereal trance, so he had to rely on her ability to see past the confusions and spells that made everything seem different. As he stared at her, torn between his hatred of all dragons and his need to trust this one, a low rumble of thunder echoed out over the trees. The wind picked up from nowhere, rippling the leaves as if a heavy downpour was on its way. Melyn’s mind was made up. He turned his horse and nodded for Frecknock to lead on.

  She set off at a steady run, an ungainly motion that nonetheless covered the ground with surprising speed. With a shout to encourage his men to follow, he spurred his horse into a fast trot and then a canter to make up the distance.

  It was a surreal journey. He knew it was only a matter of a few miles to the valley and the lake, and their route should have been steadily uphill towards the mountains. Yet from what little he could see through the gathering clouds, they were heading in completely the opposite direction. The path appeared to narrow down to the point where only one or two horses could pass side by side, but Frecknock never slowed, nor even looked back to be sure they were following. Glancing over his shoulder, Melyn could see only a great cloud of dust, such as you might expect from five hundred riders and a thousand horses. Even Osgal, who should have been close by, was indistinct.

  The magic was all around them, enveloping them in a fog which crackled and glowed with strange colours. Shapes loomed and receded, the shadows of enormous beasts warring. The horses were galloping now, their necks straining at the reins, muscles taut and ears held flat. Ahead, Melyn could see Frecknock running, her hands outstretched, and he fancied he could hear her voice in the wind, speaking strange words that sent shivers down his spine.

  Something shimmered in the air and the beat of his horse’s hooves changed. Looking down, Melyn almost unseated himself. He was riding across the glass-smooth lake, each footfall kicking up a tiny spray that hung in the air far longer than it should have done. Ahead of him Frecknock had stopped running and was standing at the edge of the water, the great bowl-shaped cliff rising above her like some vast mouth full of teeth. He reined in his horse, sending calming thoughts to its terrified, simple mind, but his head filled with the dragon’s voice.

  ‘Don’t stop. Keep riding. I’ll hold it open until the last are through.’

  Melyn didn’t have time to stop and consider. He was at the bank already, and his horse showed no sign of slowing, even though the cliff reared up in front of them. He tensed himself, expecting the beast to swerve either left or right at the last moment, but it carried straight on. For an instant he knew real fear; he was too close to the rock, going too fast towards it for anything other than a fatal neck-snapping crash. He gripped tight with his thighs, dropped his hands to the horse’s neck to brace himself for the impact. There was a jarring in his knees as his horse stumbled and corrected its pace on a new surface. And then everything changed.

  The day turned bright, sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The air was cooler, with a gentle breeze that tugged at his hair. Melyn’s horse seemed to calm in an instant, slowing in response to his pull on the reins. He looked around and found himself in a wide valley with steep sides. Ahead the mountains rose far closer than he was expecting, their tops swathed in snow even in summer. He let go of his reins and the horse immediately dropped its head to the lush grass that blanketed the valley floor. There were no trees here at all, as if someone had cut them all down and none had dared grow again.

  Looking back, Melyn saw a bank of fog spread from one side of the valley to the other. It reminded him of the haar that swept in from the sea and enveloped Abervenn for days on end. As he wondered how close Beulah and Clun were to that city, he saw a mounted figure ride out of the fog, followed by another, and another. Soon dozens of warrior priests were appearing, filling the space, all with the same look of bemusement on their bloodless faces. He cast his eyes over his men, seeking out Osgal, finding him at last.

  ‘Muster the men further up the valley. I need to know how many made it through.’ Osgal nodded but said nothing. Melyn didn’t think he’d ever seen the man look so terrified. It reminded him of the boy he had been. ‘I’ll see to the rest of them,’ Melyn added. ‘Just get everyone as far away from that … that barrier as possible.’ He kicked his horse, riding slowly towards the fog bank as a few more warrior priests stumbled through. Some were on foot, and some of the horses were riderless. Scanning the grass, he could only guess how many there were, but it didn’t look like five hundred had made it through.

  Close up, the fog was more like a wall of ice, sculpted and carved by the wind. It didn’t move like mist, but faint colours pulsed through it as if some terrible battle was going on inside. His horse whickered and threw its head about as he came closer, while his spare mount, attached to his saddle by a long rope, bucked and reared, so he turned them away, dismounted and approached on foot.

  The white wall was hot to the touch, though no heat radiated from it. He tried to push his hand into it, but it was as solid as any rock face. Melyn opened up his mind, trying to sense the thoughts of anyone who might be on the other side. Instantly he snapped it shut again as a barrage of terror more potent than anything he had ever conjured himself swept through him, weakening his knees.

  Then the wall shuddered, and a warrior priest fell through it, crashing to the ground. Melyn went to him and rolled him over. The man flopped like a rag doll, his bones broken or just gone. Blood seeped from his eyes and nose, and his skin was red as if he had been plunged into boiling water. He was dead.

  Cursing, Melyn again put his hand to the wall, ignoring the pain as it burned his palm. He opened his mind once more, pushed past the fear that pulsed about him, searching for a thought, any thought, that might give him an idea of what was happening on the other side. It was all noise, screaming, pain and confusion as one by one his men succumbed to whatever terrible force that was ripping them apart. And then he felt it, a mind unlike the others. It was scared but calm, working some protective magic he couldn’t begin to understand.

  ‘Frecknock?’ Melyn sent the question as a thought. The dragon didn’t answer, but almost as soon as he had voiced her name, he began to see in his mind as if he were looking through her eyes.

  It was the lake, surrounded by that great arc of cliff, trees lining its far side. Only whereas before it had been a mirror-flat surface, now it boiled like a cauldron, great bubbles erupting steam into the air. A few men and horses bobbed in the water, most still, but a few writhing in agony. On the shore a dozen warrior priests struggled against unseen foes that lashed them with invisible claws, although the bloody welts were real enough.

  The storm that filled the sky with impossible colours grew ever fiercer, and with it the pain in Melyn’s palm. Still he kept his hand in place, unwilling to give up on his men. At his thought the view shifted. Dragon hands reached out for the nearest warrior priest, lifted him off his feet and threw him at the barrier. Melyn’s contact was momentarily lost as the man came flying through, landing with a heavy grunt on the grass. Two more arrived together, then another two, each further along as Frecknock moved down the shore. Melyn reached out and tried to renew his contact with her, but she was closed to him. Pushing harder, he saw something similar to his aethereal view of the place, only this was some hellish version surely, some place deep in the lair of the Wolf.

  Dead men and horses boiled in the lake like meat in the pot. The trees on the far side were aflame, lighting the cliffs i
n flickering red. The air was charged with magic, countless spells bouncing off each other, merging, breaking apart again, more powerful than they had any right to be. And, huddled against the rock wall, Frecknock struggled to help the last living warrior priest.

  The lake was rising, approaching the cliff edge where they stood as the dragon finally managed to push the man back through the barrier to the safety beyond. Melyn watched as she slipped, struggled to her feet and stepped towards the cliff, one hand outstretched. At her touch the rock face flexed and shimmered, then hardened against her push. The boiling water reached her tail as she hammered her fist on the rock and then drew it back with a yelp that he almost heard. She pressed herself closer to the wall, trying to keep her feet from scalding.

  ‘Your Grace. Can you hear me? Help me, please.’ The voice was a whisper in his head, a shout drowned by the turmoil all around. Melyn felt his connection with Frecknock strengthen, his perspective shift so that he saw once more through her eyes. He could sense her fear now, steadily eroding her calm, and he could also feel her exhaustion. Whatever she had done to get his men through this barrier had worn her down until there was virtually nothing left.

  Well, it would be a good way to die, he supposed. He had never intended letting her live beyond her usefulness, and the whole reason for bringing her in the first place was to find this pass. What did he really need of her now?

  ‘Please, Inquisitor. I can’t find the way through. If you’re there, let me know.’ Her voice was tiny, distant, helpless. Melyn knelt in the grass, one hand placed flat against the burning barrier, oblivious to his own pain as he felt Frecknock’s instead, wondering why he was even thinking about helping her. She was a dragon, a beast who had disobeyed the laws laid down to control her kind, who existed only at the sufferance of his queen. And yet this creature had saved his life at least twice already. She possessed knowledge that would make the success of his mission almost a certainty. And what if there were a similar barrier at the other end of the pass?