by J. D. Oswald
‘When did you stop sedating the prisoner? I gave no order.’ Beulah’s anger had returned in the weeks following the birth of Princess Ellyn, and it too was stronger than before. She tried to keep it in check, all too aware that the prisoner was listening.
‘Your Majesty, it was administered this morning. Same as every morning since you captured him.’ Captain Celtin himself answered, his earnest tone going some way to ease her irritation.
‘In his food? Has he eaten it?’
‘He wouldn’t eat anything, ma’am, so we’ve been force-feeding him with a tube. I personally supervised this morning’s dose.’
‘And yet he is awake and lucid, despite the act he hopes to fool you with. Restrain him.’
Beulah watched as three of the warrior priests entered the cell. The young man didn’t put up a fight, but she could see the resentment in his eyes. Only when he was bound to his bunk with iron chains did she approach him.
‘Do you feel stronger now you are close to your beloved throne? Not much of a guardian if you could let my sister take it so easily.’
‘Princess Iolwen refused the throne. As did Prince Dafydd. Neither of them was ever a threat to our plans.’ The man spoke slowly, his words slurring slightly as if he truly were drugged, and yet Beulah could see the clarity of his thoughts. He made no attempt to hide them.
‘Our drugs still your body but don’t affect your mind. Curious. I shall have to tell my men to up the dose.’
The man had been gazing at the floor, but now he raised his head slowly, weaving it from side to side like a drunkard as he tried to focus.
‘You’re too late, false queen. You’ll never sit on your stolen throne again. His vanguard are here. I can feel them.’
‘The dragons?’ Beulah almost laughed. ‘They are doing my work for me. They take orders from me. They serve me.’
‘For now. Maybe. But they are only the first to come. He will follow, and he will not suffer our kind to be in his presence. Why else do you think your sister is betraying your family’s oldest secret?’
Beulah paused before answering, once more skimming the man’s thoughts but delicately, as she would when sparring with Inquisitor Melyn or Seneschal Padraig. She understood a little of what was happening now; the sedatives they had given this man might have dulled his body, but there was a walled-off part of his mind that was as sharp as a pin. Sharper, even. He was freed from the worries of bodily sensation. If he was an adept, then his aethereal self might well have been wandering far and wide while his body sat here guarded by her finest warriors. What might he have seen? Who might he have contacted?
‘What do you mean, betraying our oldest secrets?’
As she had hoped, the answer to the question came swiftly to the front of his thoughts. Beulah saw the aethereal view of the Neuadd, first from outside, then inside with the massive bulk of the Obsidian Throne towering over everything. Then the view changed, sinking through the marble floor, the hard granite that formed the great mound upon which Candlehall was built, and then into the cavern deep below. The cavern that few were meant to know about and only those with the blood of Balwen in their veins could ever hope to enter.
‘Balwen’s seed is spread further than you think, false queen. We might even be cousins.’ The young man managed to slump forward a little, but it was clear his body was not under his control. ‘Kissing cousins.’
Beulah ignored the jibe. It had been intended to irritate her, but the news of her sister’s betrayal had already done that. If it was true, of course. She couldn’t take the chance though. Even if Iolwen shouldn’t have known about the cavern, let alone the routes out of it and the ancient, powerful magics that protected them. She turned her back on the man, walked past the waiting warrior priests and out of the grim wooden prison.
‘Kill him,’ she said to Captain Celtin in passing. He clasped a fist to his breast by way of salute and nodded to one of the guards. Beulah felt the tug on the Grym as a blade of light was conjured, the last gasp at the edges of her mind as the young man lost his head. She was already many strides from the execution though. She needed to find Clun, and then she needed to talk to these dragons.
‘Keep very still. As long as you don’t move he cannot see you.’
The voice in Errol’s head came with a compulsion far more powerful even than the silver chain that bound him to the cart. It didn’t need to, he had frozen the instant he had seen the supervisor emerge from the tunnel. Senses dulled by whatever strange magics this place contained, he hadn’t really considered the man before. He was cleaner than the diggers, but the light of his torch showed a face still smeared and grubby, scalp shaved no doubt to make washing himself at the end of the day easier. His face was fuller than the others, a pronounced gut suggesting that he had access to more food than the rancid cauldron of slops. He was well dressed too, a short cloak revealing stout leather boots and trews made of some oiled material that glistened in the darkness. But it was the small leather purse strung from his belt that caught Errol’s attention; a brief glimpse as the supervisor turned this way and that, swirling his cloak as he tried to see where the missing digger had got to.
On the face of it, there was nothing all that unusual about having a purse, except that down here in the caverns there wasn’t much need for coin. And this purse had an aura about it, something he had never encountered before. Almost as if it were a repository of the Grym. Was that how the supervisor controlled the diggers? Could that be the source of his power in this otherwise lifeless place?
Errol wondered what had become of his own money bag, gifted to him by Poul Gremmil what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was probably back in Tynhelyg or the village where Nellore had lived. Where they’d tried to sacrifice him to their gods, the dragons.
Nellore!
The memory hit him hard. Sitting in the cave, trekking the lines to steal food. His companion for the weeks they had spent walking towards the mountains and Gog’s castle. How could he have forgotten her? Except that he had forgotten everything.
‘Still yourself. Keep your thoughts quiet.’ The voice of Morgwm the Green was little more than a whisper but the scolding in her tone was unmistakable.
‘His purse. It’s where his magic comes from. It’s what binds us all to this place.’ Errol thought the words, still trying to hold himself motionless as the supervisor walked towards him. For a moment he thought he had been spotted, but the man’s gaze slid over him, over the cart and on to the next set of rails.
‘You have a rare skill for one of your kind. Of course there must be a source of power here. Had I been whole, had I been alive …’ Morgwm’s voice faded to nothing.
‘Can we take it from him?’ Errol wasn’t sure how. The supervisor wasn’t the biggest of men, but he was large enough, and Errol was weak.
‘We?’ There was a hint of amusement in Morgwm’s tone. ‘I’m not sure how much help I can be. I am incomplete and I am dead, and here the Grym is almost non-existent.’
The supervisor was close now, still looking everywhere but at Errol and the cart. He stepped to the edge, held out his torch and peered down into the inky depths. Had he been just a little closer, Errol could easily have rushed him, shoved him over. But the purse would have gone with him, and somehow it was linked to the chain that tied him to the cart and muddied his senses. He needed to get the purse. Needed to find out what lay within it.
Errol tensed as the supervisor turned once more, scanning a slow circle. This close, he could see the confusion on the man’s face. He bent down and inspected the rough iron tracks along which the cart was wheeled. Stood again and followed them to the edge, clearly unable to see the cart itself. He let out a howl of pain as he walked straight into it, his shin smacking against solid wood. He dropped the torch, hopping as he reached down to clasp his injured leg. Bent double, his cloak folded back on itself and Errol saw the purse close up, within reach.
There was no time to think, no time to plan. He launched himself at the supervisor
, knocking him to the ground. Even so, he had misjudged the man’s bulk, jarring his own neck and shoulders with the impact. One hand still clasped tight around Morgwm’s jewel, he reached out for the purse, only to find a strong hand wrap itself around his wrist, pull him up hard.
‘Thought something smelled wrong. Hiding was he? Trying to escape was he?’
The supervisor struggled to get his footing. Errol tried to break his grip, but it was tighter even than the chain. He kicked out, his soft boot connecting with hard shin, and the supervisor collapsed again. He let out a roar of pain and anger, then swung his free hand around in a fist. Errol saw it coming, ducked as best he could, but it still clipped the top of his head, stunning him. This time when the supervisor stood, Errol was too woozy to fight back, could only dangle as he was lifted by his wrist.
Then Errol saw it, just within reach of his other hand. The dropped torch still burned, sputtering slightly in the greasy mess smeared all over the cavern floor. It was a good weapon, but to use it he would have to let go of Morgwm’s jewel.
‘In the pit he goes. No place here for them as don’t want to dig. That’s what Mister Clingle always says.’
Errol felt himself being hefted higher and knew all too well what was coming next. He had no choice. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he dropped the cloth-wrapped jewel as carefully as he could. As it left his hand, so the compulsion to obey, to dig, came back. His thoughts began to dull, but he fought with every last ounce of his willpower. Snatching up the torch, he swung it round in a wide arc. The flame grew brighter, flaring in the darkness, and then it smacked into the side of the supervisor’s head with a jolt that ran down Errol’s arm and rattled his teeth.
For a moment he thought it hadn’t worked. The supervisor looked down at him with hate in his eyes. Then something glazed over them. He staggered sideways, closer to the edge, his grip still tight around Errol’s wrist. One step, two, lurching like a drunkard. Errol tried to get his feet down, but they slipped in the mire. He dropped the torch, reached out for the purse still tied to the supervisor’s belt. Its touch was like holding Morgwm’s jewel, only different. The compulsion to dig vanished, his thoughts cleared.
The supervisor took one more fateful step, backwards over the ledge. Something of a realization dawned on his face as he overbalanced, swinging his free arm around as if that might somehow help. Errol tried again to get his feet down, to anchor himself, break free. But the supervisor’s grip on his wrist was too strong. And with a terrible wail that might have been either of them, they both went over the edge.
The corridors were quiet, the air undisturbed in many a day. It was just as well, really. There was no way Benfro could move quietly, not with the needle constantly jabbing deep inside him. Walking crablike helped, but meant his half-spread wings scraped against the floor and banged off the occasional pieces of furniture they encountered. He’d already sent a couple of old tapestries tumbling, collapsing into billows of dust and broken fragments of fabric. Everything was old, untouched, abandoned.
‘Where are we, Xando?’ Martha asked as they paused at a point where the corridor opened out on to a large landing. Dim light filtered in through glass skylights covered in a thickening layer of snow. Outside the storm was building, charging the air so that the young woman’s hair seemed to float about her head.
‘Don’t really know.’ The boy peered around the corner, looking left and right, then up. Finally he stepped out on to the landing, crossed to where a banister rose from the floor. It was clearly built with dragons in mind, the gaps in the carved stonework large enough for a man to walk through let alone the slight figure with his broken arm. He steadied himself with his free hand before leaning out and down. ‘Long way up, wherever it is.’
Benfro shuffled out on to the landing and leaned over the banister himself. The drop was enough to take his breath away, a repetition of landings plunging down in ever-smaller circles. The storm-darkened sky couldn’t light up the lower levels, but torches flickered yellow light, reflecting off a polished marble floor at the very bottom.
‘Are we going down there?’ He looked sideways to where a wide staircase dropped from this top level down to the next. Walking on the flat had been painful enough; the thought of stairs made him feel sick.
‘Unless you feel up to flying?’ Martha joined the two of them at the edge, leaning over without a care in the world, or so it seemed. Benfro had no great fear of heights despite his many falls – possibly because of them. He had wings and had felt the strength of them holding him up in the air. There would be no saving Martha and Xando if they fell. As if sensing his thoughts, the boy took a step back, but Martha just leaned out even further.
‘There are people down there,’ she said. ‘And dragons. Look.’
Benfro looked down again, and sure enough he could see shadows scurrying around like ants. And then a small band of men ran across the hall on some urgent errand. A moment later a large grey dragon followed them, and then another, smaller this time and mottled green. For a moment he thought it was the fold from the Twmp come to the castle now Gog was dead. The small one might even have been Cerys, but the others weren’t quite right.
He was squinting, trying to make out details in the poor light, when a third dragon strode across the hall, then stopped suddenly in the middle. So large he could only be male, and old at that, he glanced from side to side, turned through a complete circle as if trying to pinpoint something, and then looked straight up. Benfro rocked back on to his tail and pulled his head away from the banister, desperate not to be seen, but he couldn’t help thinking he had made eye contact for a fraction of a heartbeat.
‘Did he see us?’ he asked as Martha and Xando both backed hurriedly away from the edge.
‘I’m not sure.’ Martha crept forward again, keeping low to the floor this time. She peered down for no time at all before scrambling back. ‘Oh yes. We might want to hide right now.’
‘Hide?’ Benfro looked around the landing. There were a few doors, the corridor down which they had come, a couple of open alcoves that looked like they might have been intended to house statues, but nowhere a creature his size could hope to hide. ‘Where?’
‘The shadows. Quick.’ Martha grasped Benfro’s arm in both her hands and tugged him towards the darker of the two alcoves. He couldn’t begin to think how it could possibly help if the large dragon had seen him already, but he followed her lead and in moments all three of them were huddled together in a space scarce big enough for him alone.
‘Your wings. Cover us. Then hide.’ Martha emphasized the last word as if somehow Benfro didn’t know what it meant. He knew how to hide perfectly well; he’d spent most of his early years hiding from Frecknock after all. There were ways of using the shadows and light to make it hard to see you; he just didn’t see how that could work here. He wrapped his wings around them both, pulling himself into the shadows even more, but he was still as obvious and visible as a deer highlighted by a ray of sun through the forest canopy.
The forest. The deer.
Benfro remembered then, the trick that Ynys Môn had taught him all those years ago. The first working of the subtle arts. The simplest of magics. He stilled himself, pulling his aura in tight around him even as he stilled his breathing down to almost nothing, and withdrew himself from the Grym. The cold seeped into his feet and nipped at the tips of his wings, but he kept himself motionless and waited.
It didn’t take long. With a rushing of wind, the dragon he had seen at the bottom of the stairwell rose past the banister on half-furled wings. Benfro almost lost his concentration there and then. He had never seen flying like it, so controlled, so accurate. The dragon could scarce have fitted in the space between the banisters were he to stretch his wings wide, and yet he hovered like a tiny bird, scanning the landing with eyes of deepest black.
‘I could have sworn …’ His voice was deep, cultured. It reminded Benfro of Sir Frynwy when he was reciting one of the great tales after a feast. He flicked the t
ips of his wings and came to rest on the banister before stepping down on to the landing itself as a second, smaller dragon appeared behind him.
‘There’s nothing up here. It smells like no one has been up here in years.’ The second dragon didn’t land in quite such an elegant manner, clattering her tail off the banister and knocking a chip out of the stonework. Benfro almost lost his concentration a second time, revealing himself to the both of them, for he recognized her all too well.
‘You are wrong. I can sense something, Cerys.’ The larger dragon sniffed the air again, moving his head from side to side. Benfro was surprised he could smell anything but his own musk. It rose off him like the stench off a week-dead rotting carcass, so thick Benfro could almost see it. Still, he kept motionless as the great dragon swept past him and on into the corridor where they had just come from. He took a few steps along it, Cerys trotting behind him until they were out of sight. Benfro began to relax, then heard the smaller dragon talking again.
‘Now’s not the time for this. We have to get to the palace. Myfanwy is waiting for me. The Old One—’
‘Is dead, Cerys. Dead. He was immortal. Ageless. And this usurper, this feral creature that calls itself a dragon killed him. He showed it kindness and it cut his head off. Ah, by the sun and the moon, how can this have happened?’
‘We don’t know what happened. Some say Sir Enedoc is dead too, and that it was a man who killed them both.’
‘A man?’ The older dragon strode out of the corridor, Cerys between him and Benfro’s hiding place. His attention was on his companion though, not searching any more. ‘No man could best the Old One, and Enedoc would have bitten his head off before he could even speak. A man wouldn’t be able to reach the top of the tower, much less breathe the Fflam Gwir. That’s old magic, feral magic. This is no dragon but a base beast. Worse even than the ones Myfanwy took you from. We must hunt it down and kill it.’