The Obsidian Throne

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Where will you go?’ Morgwm’s question echoed his own thoughts as he clasped her jewel tight in his fist, holding the other in front of his face.

  ‘I don’t know. I should see what has happened to the other diggers, I guess. Maybe the explosion hurt them.’ Feeling around, Errol’s hand brushed an iron rail set into the ground. He followed it slowly, expecting to find clear air, but it brought him eventually to the tunnel mouth, black as death itself.

  The explosion in the large chamber had clearly swept along the tunnel and into the area where the diggers had been working. The force of it had extinguished most of the torches, upended all of the carts and thrown bodies around as if they were no more than dolls discarded in a child’s tantrum. To make matters worse, a flood of effluent had cascaded over the mess, smothering anyone who might have survived the initial blast. Errol cast out with his mind, trying to feel any thoughts while at the same time listening for signs of life. There was nothing, but then the Grym was so weak in this place, almost missing entirely, he could get no sense of anyone. The low moan of a distant wind and the dripping of water somewhere off in the dark drowned out any nearer sounds.

  Errol left the party of diggers reluctantly. He would have liked to have checked them all, made sure that they were beyond helping before abandoning them to their fate. But he was weak with hunger, desperately tired, his head ached from the foul air and the beating it had taken. Even if any of the other men had still been alive, there was little he could have done for them. Helping himself to one of the remaining lit torches, he took one last look at the carnage, then stepped into the narrow tunnel, searching for the room where he had first woken.

  It was only when he came to a fork in the tunnel that it occurred to him he didn’t know where he was going. His memories were jumbled, distant, like a bad dream that he had woken to find was still true. Taking the left-hand passage sent him down to another fork, only this time with three options. He retraced his steps, turned right and ended up in the cave where he’d eaten. The pot still hung on its tripod over the fire, but the embers had long since died and the stew congealed into something no more appetizing than the muck in which the diggers had drowned. All around the cavern, the dead lay unlamented, huddled bones wrapped in shit-encrusted clothes. The sight of them, and the occasional loud crack as he put a foot down in the wrong place, had the hairs on the back of Errol’s neck standing proud. Still he fought down the fear and made a full circuit of the cave in search of another entrance. Finding none, he returned to the fork and took the left-hand passage again.

  It went on for hours, or so it seemed. Errol found what he thought was the cavern where he had first woken up, but again there was only one way in, one way out. The passages had been carved in the rock and were big enough for all but the most massive of dragons to pass through without too much difficulty. Nonetheless they pressed in on him with each passing step. At each new fork in the route he marked the tunnel down which he went, though often he had to backtrack. The only consistent direction was down. He was free though, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Errol had hope. He had escaped. He had survived. Now all he had to do was find the way out. Find his friends.

  8

  Men worship an invisible being they call the Shepherd. At least men of the Twin Kingdoms do. Those hardier souls to the north, in the land called Llanwennog, have abandoned all pretence of such belief. It is a curious thing to venerate a being that cannot possibly exist, and yet it is a clever way to bind a people together. The rich mythology that has grown up around this god of theirs, woven in with exaggerated tales of heroes from centuries – sometimes millennia – ago works on the credulity of the uneducated. The message is as simple as the folk to whom it is directed: while the Shepherd’s boon is a welcome thing, the attention of his great rival, the Wolf, is to be avoided at all costs.

  But perhaps the most fascinating aspect of this system of belief is that it requires faith in a being who will only reward you once you are dead, and the nature of that reward is based upon how closely you have adhered to the rules laid down by the priests and kings. For only they can know the will of their god.

  Disobeying these rules rarely brings any kind of intervention by the Shepherd himself. Rather it is the priests who dole out his earthly punishments and by so doing keep the masses in line. The priests – and by extension the king – hold the power and will do whatever is necessary to make sure that they keep it. As a means to control the masses, this religion is breathtaking in its simplicity, and yet any creature with but a scale of curiosity can see it for the lie it is.

  Corwen teul Maddau,

  A Study of Men and Their Ways

  He is beginning to understand their language now. It has similarities to his own tongue, but noticeable differences too. It is coarser, less nuanced in particular when it comes to the subtle arts. And yet these men he finds himself surrounded by are far more openly magical than any he recalls.

  It is becoming harder to remember his life before he appeared in the field outside the village. They had assumed him one of the mindless, the empty husks of men who have tried to become one with the Grym and failed. Or perhaps succeeded too well. At first they had brought him to the almshouses, put him in a room filled with drooling, unresponsive bodies sitting in rows, waiting not so much patiently as idiotically for their next feed or for their nappies to be changed. It had smelled bad, a mixture of human waste and rotting flesh that turned his stomach. Leaving had been the only sensible thing to do, even if it had caused alarm and consternation among the men who had found him. They had seemed reluctant to accept that he wasn’t one of their charges, until an old man in white robes had visited. Then things had begun to change.

  The man in the white robes was called Lembath, and he was addressed as Quaister. The boy had no idea what that meant, or what Lembath was saying, but he was cleaner than the men who had found him, and kinder too. They had gone from the almshouses, under the great arch and into the enormous fortress that the boy understood was called Emmass Fawr. Its name had echoes of his own language in it, but the meaning eluded him. Even so, he had seen as soon as he had walked in through the massive gates that it was built for dragons. In those first few days, deep inside the building, he had kept looking out for any of the great creatures. They had been a part of his life before … but then every time he tried to think about it, his memory failed him. He had nothing but a sense of dread about them, a deep-seated resentment bordering on anger. Dragons had done him a great wrong, after all. Even if he couldn’t remember what that wrong had been.

  Days have turned into weeks and then into months. He has helped out Quaister Lembath in the huge library, and he has slowly begun to learn something of this place, the religious order and the god they worship. The Shepherd’s story is a powerful one, the favours he bestows on his most faithful servants something the boy covets. He wishes to join this order, which has taken him under its wing, but first he must persuade them that he is old enough and worthy of the honour.

  And so he prays daily to the Shepherd, waits for the sign he knows must come. The chapel set aside for the librarians is an ancient space deep within the heart of the mountain upon which this fortress is built. It should be cut off from the Grym, but instead the power that binds all living things together seems unnaturally concentrated here. It reminds him of a place from before, even if he can’t remember what before was. Where before was.

  ‘That is because in coming to this place you were reborn, my faithful servant.’

  The boy looks up from his prayers, scans the small chapel for any sign of who might have spoken, but there is no one. He is alone here.

  ‘Never alone. I am with you always.’

  He understands then that he is hearing a voice without sound, deep inside his head.

  ‘Who are you?’ The boy speaks the words out loud, the first time he has used the language of these people.

  ‘You know who I am, Melyn son of Arall. Are you not praying to
me, after all?’

  ‘You … you are the Shepherd?’

  He feels the presence now, a warmth in his veins lending him strength and easing away the ache in his muscles that is the result of a long day carrying scrolls and heavy books. He is kneeling now, but bends lower until his forehead is pressed to the cold stone floor, eyes squeezed tight just in case he catches a glimpse of God and finds himself blinded by the experience.

  ‘That is better. I expect humility in my chosen, and I have chosen you for great things.’

  9

  The Old One is the father of us all. Or so it is taught to us as kitlings. It is true that all the dragons of Gwlad can trace their lineage back to him, and many a feud has grown from a simple argument about who is more closely related. As if such a thing were of any importance.

  Few in Nantgrafanglach have ever seen the Old One, and fewer still remember a time when he flew with his fold. Those who know him will tell you of a solitary dragon of such great age as to appear immortal. Alone in his great tower, he pursues knowledge and a mastery of the Grym like none before. He has no companion in this task, though servants among the men speak of young boys enlisted to help him. Such tales can be discounted, for no man could possibly assist the works of a dragon. But there is one whom history appears to have forgotten, for where the Old One is the father of all dragonkind, so there must also be a mother.

  Myfanwy the Bold, or sometimes Myfanwy Bach, is perhaps even more mysterious a figure than the Old One himself. Mother to all of the great houses of Nantgrafanglach, she shows favour to none, keeping herself to her own residence close by the walls. And should you make the journey through the deserted halls to meet her, chances are you will be disappointed. It is said that she pursues her own studies as avidly as her sometime mate, but that where he seeks to understand all there is to know about the Grym, her study is into the healing arts and the malaise that has stricken our kind in recent centuries.

  Sir Nanteos teul Palisander,

  The Forgotten Halls of Nantgrafanglach

  ‘It’s not much, but I found us some food.’

  Benfro was roused from troubled sleep by the words. He looked up from his resting place on the sleeping platform amid the dusty furs to see Martha at the massive door. He would have leaped up to help her, but it had taken long enough to get comfortable and he really didn’t want to move again. The young boy, Xando, had been tending to the fire, its heat barely registering in the large room. With one arm strapped up in a sling there wasn’t much else he could do.

  After their narrow escape from the grey dragon and Cerys, they had hurried back down the corridor, looking for an escape route that didn’t involve going down the stairs and into the hall below. In the excitement Benfro had forgotten the wound in his side and the sliver of wood working its way ever closer to his heart, but a sharp jab of pain had soon reminded him. There had been no option but to return as swiftly as possible to the room they had first entered via the ceiling, where he had collapsed on to the sleeping platform. Xando and Martha had scoured the room for cushions, wedging them around him until he felt he could relax again. The effort had left him exhausted, and he’d fallen asleep as the two of them argued quietly about what they were going to do next.

  ‘It’s mostly fruit, a few raw vegetables. But I managed to steal this.’ Martha dropped a handful of what looked like small pumpkins on to the table in the middle of the room, then pulled a makeshift sling over her shoulder and opened it up. Benfro’s stomach growled as the aroma of cooked ham wafted across the room.

  ‘Where’d you find that?’ Xando hurried from his spot by the fire, eyes wide. It occurred to Benfro that none of them had eaten in a while. The last thing he had done before leaping from the top of Gog’s tower was to breathe the Fflam Gwir and reckon the old dragon’s jewels. That always left him empty, but the shock of his injury had dampened his hunger. Now his stomach growled like an angry dog.

  ‘It’s chaos down there. Honestly, if they weren’t looking for Benfro we could probably walk out unnoticed.’ Martha stuck her hands into pockets in her cloak, coming out with apples and cheese and a loaf of dark brown bread, a knife and finally a bottle. ‘I think this is wine, which is probably the last thing we should be drinking. We can melt some of the snow for water though.’

  Benfro slowly inched himself upright while the young woman arranged the food on what was a low table for him but was higher than comfortable for her and Xando. The pain in his side had subsided a little. He concentrated, seeing into his body with his missing eye. The flesh had hardened around the piece of wood, but he could tell by the colours swirling about it that infection would set in soon, if it hadn’t already. He needed to clean the wound properly, prepare the salves and unguents that would draw the foulness out. More than anything he needed to rest and build up his strength. But here, in this cold, damp room, hiding from dragons who thought he had killed their most revered leader, he could scarcely relax. And the food which Martha had stolen needed to be rationed as well as shared.

  ‘Come, Benfro. Eat. You look fair fit to pass out.’ Martha held up the cloth-wrapped ham. It would probably provide a dozen men with a couple of meals or more, but for him it was barely a morsel. And yet seeing what else they had, he couldn’t bring himself to eat it all.

  ‘You have some first. Xando too. Perhaps when I’m a bit more rested you can describe for me where you found it all. Then I can try and reach out along the lines, bring some more here for us.’

  Martha brushed long black hair out of her face, peering up at him with her dark green eyes. ‘You have that skill? I can do it, but it takes so much concentration, so much time. A place like here it’s easier just to go looking.’

  Benfro thought back to his time in Magog’s retreat at the top of Mount Arnahi. Alone and hungry he had reached out along the lines and found a turnip. Where it had come from he had no idea, and as he had learned more of the Grym and the subtle arts, so he understood quite how dangerous it had been for him to even try. He had often wondered where Magog had gone during that time, why the dead mage had abandoned him to wander unchecked around his most secret hideaway. Something had clearly dragged him away, demanded his full attention, so clearly he wasn’t as all-seeing as he claimed. The thought that Magog might have a flaw brought the ghost of a smile to Benfro’s face.

  ‘Eat, dragon. You won’t heal if you’re starved.’

  Benfro started. He’d let his mind wander and almost fallen asleep on his feet. Martha stood in front of him, the ham in one hand and a knife in the other. She had cut several slices off, one of which Xando was greedily stuffing into his mouth.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Benfro took the ham. His stomach growled again, angrier than before, but he didn’t take a bite. Not yet.

  ‘We have bread, we have cheese. There’s even some fruit. We’re not going to starve, but if you collapse from hunger then we’ll have to leave you here.’

  Benfro nodded his head once in acceptance, then took a bite of the first thing he had eaten since leaving the mother tree what felt like a lifetime ago. The flavours exploded in his mouth. He took another bite, forcing himself to chew the meat slowly, not wolf it down and regret it later. If he could get back to the palace gardens, the gatehouse through which he had entered, would it lead him back to the tree? Somehow he doubted it. He knew so little of her ways, but if anyone could heal him then it was her. Or Lady Earith, of course. Although after what she had done for him already, the thought of asking more seemed rude.

  ‘We need to make a plan. We can’t stay here for ever. Sooner or later someone’s going to notice the hole in the roof.’ Martha wrapped a slice of bread around a thick wedge of cheese, took a bite and chewed a while before continuing. ‘Xando, do you know a way out of the city?’

  The boy had been methodically feeding his face in exactly the way Benfro wanted to. He stopped at Martha’s question, swallowing hastily before answering.

  ‘I’ve never left the palace. Born and raised here, I was.’
He looked around the room again. ‘Not actually sure where here is, to be honest.’

  ‘I am told this is the guest wing for the elder nobles. The houses of Nanteos, Caerfyrddin and Rhydol lodge here during the Old One’s summer festival. Or at least they used to back when there was a summer festival. By all accounts there’s not been one in many hundreds of years.’

  Benfro stopped with the remains of the ham bone halfway between table and face. Xando turned a shade of white almost paler than the snow piled up in the middle of the room. Only Martha seemed unsurprised, turning slowly towards the door and the source of the words.

  The dark green dragon from the Twmp. Cerys.

  Errol lost all track of time in the darkness. It should have been cold, cut off from the Grym by miles of lifeless rock, but he drew warmth and a little strength from the tiny jewel in the pocket of his cloak. The torch weighed heavy in his hand, its flame growing steadily weaker, the bubble of light around him shrinking ever smaller. Morgwm’s jewel had fallen silent almost as soon as he had left the first cavern. It was warm in his fist, a comfort but not a distraction as he trudged the endless passageways. With her presence at the back of his mind, he didn’t feel completely alone, but with each new turning, each dead end and backtrack, each angry growl of his stomach and parched dry swallow, he longed for more helpful company.