The Obsidian Throne

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘You know my name,’ Errol said after what felt like the thousandth turn in the endless tunnels. His voice sounded strange, muted by the silence all around, thin and weak. ‘How is it you know that?’

  ‘Ah, Errol. I have known you as long as anyone. I was present at your birth. The same day my Benfro hatched, at the height of the confluence.’

  ‘Confluence?’ It was the smallest of the many questions Morgwm’s words demanded but perhaps the easiest to ask.

  ‘Our kind venerate the sun and the moon, Fair Arhelion and Great Rasalene, the mother and father of all dragons. Once every hundred years they come together in the sky, and day becomes night for a while. A dragon hatched at such a time is destined to great things, or terrible. A boy born then would surely be marked too. Thus it was with Benfro, and thus it was with you.’

  ‘But I was born in Pwllpeiran, wasn’t I? There were no dragons there. Well, apart from Sir Radnor, but he hardly counts.’

  ‘There are some would say you weren’t born at all, Errol. Your birth was unusual, to say the least. And it didn’t happen in Pwllpeiran, but in the cottage I called home for five hundred years.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Errol found he had stopped walking. The passageway here was no different to any other in the endless warren. He sank to the floor, leaning the torch up against the rock wall to stop it from going out. He had not realized how heavy it had become, how stiff were the muscles in his arm. He flexed his fingers, trying to squeeze some life back into one cramped hand, then gently opened the other, palm upwards. Morgwm’s jewel was so white, so small, and yet it contained so much.

  ‘Hennas Ramsbottom is not your true mother, though she raised you as if she were. She could do nothing less, since she truly believed you were her son and your father was a young Llanwennog man cruelly slain by a mob of ignorant Twin Kingdoms folk. That was the story she asked me to plant in her mind. She feared she would not be able to hide the fact that you were fostered if someone skilled in magic came asking questions. How right she was to insist.’

  Errol tipped his head back slowly until it rested against the cold stone. Morgwm’s words were more like images in his head now, memories of events seen long ago. And yet somehow he knew the truth of what the dead dragon told him. He saw Hennas, someone he would always think of as his mother no matter what anyone else might say of her. She was younger than he remembered, and the cottage where he had grown up looked different – tidier perhaps, newer. She was sitting out on the porch at dusk when a dragon Errol instantly knew to be Morgwm the Green appeared from the shadows. Smaller than Benfro and with tiny vestigial wings, Morgwm was nevertheless an imposing figure, towering over Hennas in the gathering dusk. She carried a wrapped bundle in her arms, and when she held it out, Hennas took it without question. Morgwm reached out a surprisingly slender hand, touched Hennas lightly on the side of her head, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness whence she had come. The whole exchange took only moments.

  And then the scene changed, evening becoming night becoming day, cycling forward with dizzying speed. He saw himself crawling across the porch, then tottering on unsteady feet, then running. He grew before his own eyes from an infant to a boy, his life hurtling forward to the inevitable day when the inquisitor and the queen-in-waiting would swoop down on the village and spirit him away. It passed in a flash, and he saw the cottage grow cold, dusty and abandoned. It made sense, even as it saddened him. Hennas had married Godric; of course she would have moved into his house in the village.

  Except that as he thought it, so his view, his dream, shifted perspective. He seemed to fly, rising above the cottage and its rough shingle roof. He saw the trees that stretched away behind it, his childhood playground. They formed the very edge of the great forest of the Ffrydd, where it spilled through the Graith Fawr, that massive hole rent in the circle of the Rim mountains. But long before they reached that distant point there was a far more recent scar in the land. Broken branches, whole trees uprooted, the ground churned into mud and dug up as if a herd of giant pigs had been let loose upon the woodland. Everything was destruction. As he focused on it, so Errol saw the scattered white of bones flecked with bits of flesh, scraps of wool and hide where some great creature had devoured sheep and cattle whole. And there in the middle, something that should have been impossible to see, more impossible than this dream turned nightmare, the all-too-recognizable bones of human prey. Two skulls atop a pile of jumbled limbs and bloodstained vertebrae. Hennas and Godric Defaid.

  Errol started from his dreaming with a cry that echoed in the tunnel. His heart pounded and a shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. The image had been so real, and yet even now it began to fade. What had brought it on? He looked down at the jewel in his grubby upturned hand, purest crystal against the crust of shit. He could feel the warmth and reassurance from it, but nothing as strong as the voice he had heard.

  ‘Morgwm?’ He spoke the name aloud, thinking about the jewel as he did so. No answer came, and then the torch, propped up against the wall beside him, guttered a couple of times and finally went out. He reached for it, foolishly thinking he might be able to save the flame, and that was when he noticed that he could still see his hands, still see the gravel floor of the tunnel and the rock wall. Smoke spiralled off the charred end of the torch, away in the direction he had been walking. The faintest of breezes tugged at his matted hair and chilled the skin on his face. Straining in the gloom, he imagined he could make out the silhouette of something not too far off. He hauled himself up, clasping Morgwm’s jewel in his fist, but leaving the dead torch where it lay. Perhaps no more than a dozen paces on, the light grew into an opening, the sound of distant crashing water tickling his ears. The breeze blew stronger, air so fresh it made him more giddy than any wine thrust down his gullet by Inquisitor Melyn.

  Errol stepped into a wide cave. The rock glistened with light refracted through the wall of water that cascaded in front of him, clean and pure and cold. He stepped up to the falling water, reached out his free hand, let the flow wash away the filth. Leaning forward, he inched his face into it, felt the water strip the muck from his skin. Further in, and it pounded at his head, tugging the knots and braids from his too-long hair. Through the crashing water he could see daylight beyond and knew that this was a waterfall hiding a cave mouth like the one in the clearing where Corwen’s jewels had lain. What had become of the old dragon mage? Where had Melyn taken those jewels? One more task to add to the list. One more friend to save.

  He pulled his head back, blinking as the fresh water ran from his face. Still filthy, yet he felt cleaner now than ever he had. Stronger too, as the Grym came rushing into him, bringing with it a renewed resolve. Clutching Morgwm’s single white jewel tight in his fist, Errol took a deep breath and stepped out into the stream.

  ‘Benfro! It’s really you!’

  The dark green dragon rushed into the room, the door clattering closed behind her. Benfro had thought her young before, running with the rough and ready dragons of the Twmp. Now she looked civilized, her scales clean and polished, and that made her seem younger still. She could not have been more than twenty years old. Not much more than him, really.

  ‘What are you doing here, Cerys? How did you get here? Who was that other dragon you were flying with?’

  ‘Sir Nanteos?’ He is one of the elders of the Council of Nantgrafanglach. I don’t know why, but they look up to Myfanwy as if she were their leader.’ Cerys hurried over to where Benfro lay. As she stood beside him, he became acutely aware of her scent, less powerful than when he had known her at the Twmp but still enough to make his head spin, his hearts beat a little faster.

  ‘Myfanwy? The healer?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. All my life she’s just been this mad old dragon living in the dead tree houses and tending to the sick and injured of the fold. But she’s more than that, see. When I told her what had happened to Fflint, and to you, she changed. Became very serious a
ll of a sudden. She’s been teaching me about the old ways for a while now, so when she came here she brought me with her. Said it was about time I grew up and learned how to be a proper dragon. It’s all very strange. She has a house, you know. It’s enormous. Almost as big as the whole Twmp. And she has servants – dragons and men. Everyone here looks up to her, and because of her they have been kind to me. I never thought I would end up in such a wondrous place.’ Cerys looked around the room, her eyes wide. Then she finally seemed to notice Martha and Xando. ‘But who are you? You don’t look like servants.’

  ‘They are my friends, Cerys,’ Benfro said. ‘They were up at the top of the tower when Gog was attacked.’

  ‘The Old One! Is it true what they’re saying? He really is dead?’ Cerys rocked back on her long tail.

  ‘He is. Enedoc too. We would be dead with them had I not leaped off the tower into the storm. Just a pity my wings weren’t up to carrying all that weight.’ Benfro glanced across at the pile of snow on the carpet. Martha and Xando had collected up all the broken joists and rafters for the fire. ‘I’d have been fine if Fflint hadn’t tried to pull them off.’

  Cerys stood again, walked over to the snow and stuck a foot in it, then looked up through the lazily spiralling flakes to the hole and the sky above. ‘Oh.’ She carried on staring, as if a stormy grey sky was something she had never seen before.

  ‘Are they really searching for us? Do they think we’re responsible?’ Benfro asked after a while. Cerys took longer still to drag her gaze from the ceiling.

  ‘The whole of Nantgrafanglach is in turmoil, but the palace is madness. It’s like when Caradoc went missing and Fflint and his cronies fought over who was going to be in charge. Only here there are many more dragons than in the Twmp fold, and they’re not so much fighting each other as arguing and crying and tearing out their scales. A few are angry and looking for whoever murdered the Old One, but in truth most can’t comprehend that he’s truly dead.’ Cerys shook her head. ‘How did he die, Benfro? Who killed him? And why are you all hiding in here?’

  ‘We’re hiding because they think we killed him, but it was Melyn.’

  ‘Melyn?’ Cerys cocked her head to one side. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Not what. Who,’ Martha said. ‘Inquisitor Melyn is the head of the Order of the High Ffrydd and possibly the most powerful mage in Gwlad at the moment. He is also possessed by the spirit of Magog.’

  Cerys let out an involuntary squeak at the mention of the name. ‘The cursed? Don’t say his name or the wrath of the Old One will be upon us.’

  ‘The Old One is dead, Cerys. His wrath is all spent.’ Benfro laid a hand on her shoulder and was surprised to find her shuddering. It wasn’t that cold in the room, at least not for those touched by the Grym, so it must have been fear.

  Martha approached the two of them, a strange look in her eyes. ‘If you truly know nothing of Melyn, then we can take some solace in that. We’ve been hiding from him as much as from the other dragons here, but he must have fled once his foul deed was done. He will be back though.’

  ‘He will?’ Through his touch, Benfro felt the shivering grow stronger.

  ‘He burns with a desire to see all dragons dead. I cannot fathom why, since your kind are the source of all his power, but then he is quite mad. And very dangerous.’ Martha sat down on the edge of the sleeping platform, a frown on her face. ‘We have to warn the others about him, and yet I fear they will not listen. Not if they think Benfro killed Gog and we helped him.’

  ‘If Myfanwy were here, she would probably knock some sense into them. They listen to her, see? But she’s gone missing, off on some errand of her own, and nobody knows where she is.’

  Benfro sank down on to the mouldy furs in defeat. For a moment he had hoped they might be able to get help from the old healer, but if she was away then they would have to stay in this room, pray that no one found them.

  ‘Why did you come looking for us, then?’ Martha asked. ‘You say you saw us hiding. How? And why not tell the others?’

  Cerys pulled herself up as if affronted by the question. ‘As to how, it wasn’t hard. Sir Nanteos has a musk it’s impossible to ignore, especially when he’s agitated, but I grew up on the Twmp, learned to hunt as a kitling. I can scent another dragon easily enough, especially one I know. Benfro’s scent was all over the landing, but I couldn’t work out how he could be there. I thought he was dead, gone back to the Grym. But I could smell him, and two people with him. So I looked to the lines, like Myfanwy taught me. Then seeing through the concealment was simple. Smart thinking using a hunting trick, though. An old dragon like Sir Nanteos would never consider something so simple.’

  ‘So you saw us yet said nothing. Why?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Why would you ask that, Benfro? Of course I wouldn’t say anything. We’re friends, aren’t we? And anyway I could see you were hurt.’ Cerys pointed at Benfro’s side, then to Xando. ‘He is too, though less severely and his injuries have been tended to, at least partially. I have some skill in healing, as you know. I thought I could help.’

  Benfro made to nod his head as a sign of thanks and acceptance, but when he did, the splinter in his side pricked him like a hot knife. His legs lost all their strength, and he found himself toppling forward.

  ‘Benfro, have a care!’ Cerys stepped swiftly up to his side, catching him before he could hit his head on the edge of the table. Close up, he could smell her scent more clearly now, over the smoke from the fire, the tang of the foods that Martha had stolen and the cold damp air of the room. It was a warm, earthy scent that reminded him of summer and the forest, a scent that had enveloped him in a dark cave and protected him while he healed. He held on to that, gripping her arm tight as another stab of pain dulled his vision, the splinter working its way ever closer to his heart.

  Then something exploded in his chest, and the darkness took him.

  10

  The Order of the High Ffrydd is the oldest of the great religious orders. Formed by Balwen himself, its sacred duty is to protect the Twin Kingdoms from the godless and spread the word of the Shepherd throughout Gwlad. As befits the first and greatest order, only the finest candidates are selected for the novitiate, and of those fewer than half can expect to pass into the ranks of the warrior priests.

  To step through the gates of Emmass Fawr and swear your allegiance to the order and the House of Balwen is to renounce all family, all thought of anything but a life of training and service. It is both the highest honour and the heaviest burden.

  Father Castlemilk,

  An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd

  He couldn’t quite remember how he had come to be here. Or for that matter where here actually was. It was as if he had been motionless for days, a statue of stone and cold only now woken by … what?

  How long had he been kneeling? Melyn tried to remember the passing of time, but there was only the fight, his blade of fire passing easily through the old dragon’s neck. The others had proven harder to kill, had distracted him while Benfro made good his escape.

  Benfro.

  The name brought with it memories, a confusing mix of his childhood before joining the Order of the High Ffrydd overlaid with flashes of the fight. He had been injured, he remembered that now. The biggest of the dragons had fought hard before it had succumbed to his blade.

  Cold shivered through him, and without thinking Melyn reached out for the Grym. It soothed the aches in his muscles, warmed him from the inside and gave him the strength to stand. Even so he was as weak as a newborn, his head light and his vision blurred. He had to reach out to the nearest upturned table, putting a hand on the rough wood to steady himself as he looked around at the devastation.

  The great glass windows were gone, blown off their hinges. Outside, a blizzard darkened the sky, snow whirling and turning in a terrible storm, and yet he felt barely a breeze ruffling his hair. For a moment he was puzzled. Not that there might have been magics cast about the tower room to ke
ep out the elements even if the windows were open, but that they should have persisted after the dragon who had cast them had died. Then he saw the web of the Grym pushing out against the stone walls to form a near-perfect dome of protection, focused not on the pile of ashes that was all that remained of the great Gog, Son of the Winter Moon, but on him.

  ‘You did not know it, my faithful servant, but you were gravely injured in your fight with Enedoc the Black. It was necessary to protect you while you healed.’

  The voice was all around him, inside him. It brought the familiar feeling of strength, the healing balm of his god. Except that Melyn knew now that the Shepherd was a lie, and as that understanding grew, so the wonder of the Shepherd’s touch waned.

  ‘Healed?’ Melyn raised his hands, clenching them into weak fists. His arms were heavy and his whole body ached. Spasms rippled across his stomach, as empty as if he had not eaten for days. His throat felt like it was made of sandpaper, his mouth as dry as the arid plains of the Gwastadded Wag. ‘How long have I been up here?’

  ‘What matters time when you are immortal?’

  ‘Days, I would guess.’ Melyn stumbled slightly, his legs awkward as he staggered around the room until he found a silver goblet so large it was more of a bowl to him. He carried it to the edge of the room where thin wisps of snow had leaked through the invisible barrier from the storm outside. He scooped handfuls in, packing them down, then summoned the Grym to melt it. The surface steamed gently as he raised the goblet to his lips. No wine could have been as fine, the water soothing his throat and filling his twisted, empty stomach.

  ‘You could have just asked.’ A heavy scent of fine wine filled Melyn’s nose as the water turned a deep shade of red. The Shepherd’s voice had an odd, teasing inflection as he spoke, but then Melyn knew now that the Shepherd was no god.