by J. D. Oswald
‘What is a god, then? Have you so little faith, Melyn son of Arall?’
‘Difficult to have faith when you have met your god and found him full of lies. You are a dragon, not a shepherd.’ Melyn’s words were quiet, his throat still dry despite the soothing water. He would have drunk more had it not turned into wine.
‘I am so much more than a dragon. I was the greatest mage who ever lived. I stepped beyond life when I spread my unreckoned jewels throughout Gwlad. And I am a shepherd. I have guided men since the time of Balwen and before, taught them the ways of the Grym and the secrets of my kind. Everything I have done has led to this moment. I have lived in hope of seeing my hated brother dead. Truly dead. And you, Melyn, have been the perfect instrument of my revenge.’
Melyn heard the words, felt the surge of healing power that once would have forced him to his knees. Now it was a welcome gift, but he felt no gratitude. Does a sword feel grateful for being swung in battle? That was all he was, after all, a weapon forged long ago. He pulled at the ring on his left hand, meaning to take it off and fling it out into the storm, but his fingers could not grasp it properly. He tried the right hand with the same result. Turning them over, Melyn saw his fingertips glinting gold in the insipid light fighting its way through the thickening storm outside. He squinted, held his hands closer and saw tiny scales where once had been flesh.
‘My gift to you, Melyn. A glimpse of your true form. You need never fear being consumed by the Grym now.’
‘My true form? Or yours?’ Melyn clenched his fists tight, conjured a blade of fire from each. The surge of power was intoxicating, so easy to control. He stared into the red light for a while before absorbing the Grym back into himself. A novitiate, even a battle-seasoned warrior priest, would have been consumed by the fire, but Melyn felt only the gentlest heat. He studied the protective wards that kept the wind and most of the snow outside. Then, with a thought, he pushed through them into the storm. The noise was sudden and brutal, engulfing him as the wind buffeted his body, threatening to pick him up and throw him over the edge. Still Melyn felt no fear as he approached it, peered over and down through the swirling storm to the grey rooftops far below. Somewhere out there was Benfro.
‘He holds the key, my faithful servant. You must track him down, capture him and deliver him to me. Then you will know rewards such as you cannot comprehend.’
Melyn smiled inwardly at the thought. He knew so much more now, his earliest memories falling into place. He knew this palace and the city that surrounded it; he’d been born here after all. And more, he knew so much of the secrets of Gog, who had cast him out, and Magog, who had taken him in. ‘He is linked to you by your jewels,’ he said. ‘And so he is linked to me. I can find him any time. There is something else I must do first.’
This was how it had all begun. Up here on this tower. A small boy learning secrets never meant for his kind, taught by a creature who looked down at him as an oddity, saw him as some strange project. Like trying to teach a sheep to walk upright, to read and write and talk. Melyn remembered now how that sheep had done so much more. Found the lines, the Llinellau Grym, and reached out along them into nothing, into everything.
He took one step forward into the gathering storm and disappeared.
Benfro knew he wasn’t dead. Death could never have been such torment. Everything hurt: every breath, every twitch of muscle, even the thumpity-thump of his hearts beating their irregular rhythm brought with it little jolts of fire.
He didn’t know where he was, but it didn’t really matter. There was no way he could move. Something held him in place more firmly even than Circus Master Loghtan’s drugs, even as it left his mind free to wander.
The darkness worried him until he realized his eyes were closed. Thinking about them, he felt the press of fabrics against one side of his face. Trying to open the other eye didn’t seem to work, the darkness not changing at all. He remembered Fflint’s hands squeezing, his pointed talon reaching in, the noise it made as it pierced his eyeball. He panicked at the memory, struggling against the bonds that held him down.
‘I think he’s coming round, see. Hold still, Benfro. We’re not done yet.’
The voice confused him. It wasn’t his mother, nor Lady Earith. Not even the Mother Tree. Yet something in the tone soothed his fear away, eased his anxiety just enough to let him relax. Then another wave of pain spasmed through him. It felt like a wild animal was gouging out his flank, ripping apart his scales and tearing great chunks of flesh away with its teeth.
‘Hold still. We’re so close.’ Another voice this time. Lighter, smaller somehow. Benfro felt a tiny hand touch the side of his nose, the spark as the Grym flowed from that small point and into him, easing away the worst of the agony. The wild animal was still gnawing away at his side, but the pain was somehow once removed, as if he were watching someone else endure it.
‘Ah. There you are. Have a care, Martha. This is going to be rough.’
Martha. The name meant something to him, but before Benfro could think what, the animal at his side thrust its whole head into the wound, drove its fangs deep into one of his hearts. He let out a great bellow, distantly aware that along with his breath and the noise had come flame, palest blue and magical. Even though he was blind, he could see it sweep over him in a protective wave, the feral beast leaping from his side in surprise. Only it wasn’t a feral beast, it was a dragon. Small, young, with scales of dark green, the fingers of one hand squeezed together to a point and slick with dark red blood. His blood.
‘Got it, by the moon. Quickly, Martha. Fetch me the salve.’
The pain in his side lessened, although Benfro still felt a dull throb in time with his heartbeats. He was weaker than a kitling and could barely summon the strength to roll his head over, open his good eye. Figures moved around out of focus, and then a face appeared close to his, long black hair tumbling in tangled curls around it. He knew that face, and as he saw, so he recalled the name that had already been spoken twice since he had woken.
‘Martha.’ His voice came out as a thin, dry, reedy sound, like wind through rushes. He was so very tired and thirsty.
‘You’re awake. That’s good.’ Martha frowned, an expression Benfro had seen many times on Errol’s face as he set to a difficult task. ‘I think that’s good.’
She disappeared from view again, except that Benfro’s missing eye saw the whole room now. It showed her stepping past him to where the dark green dragon stood close to his wounded flank. Cerys. How could he have forgotten her? Martha handed her what looked like a stone bowl, which she held with hands wrapped in heavy cloth. As he saw it, so Benfro noticed the smell and began to understand what was happening. The sharp, jabbing pain in his side was gone, which meant that Cerys had removed the splinter of wood. The dull throb was the infection that had inevitably set in. The bowl would be a salve to draw out the foul humours and promote healing. He could think of a few different recipes his mother might have prepared, mixing the herbs with rare soils and heating them all up in a cauldron until they steamed. Too late he realized what would have to be the next step.
‘This will sting a little, Benfro. Please try not to belch fire again. It gave me quite a shock.’
Cerys worked as she spoke. She had the bowl in one hand, using the other and a thin iron bar to lever apart Benfro’s scales. Before he could protest, she tipped the contents of the bowl into the opening. No delicate touch here.
Benfro had scorched the tip of his tail on more than one occasion, not paying attention while he was about his chores. Once, out hunting with Ynys Môn, he had foolishly tried to catch a glowing ember and chuck it back into their camp fire. Each of these times he had been burned, if not badly then enough to remind him for a month or so not to be so stupid. The salve burned like nothing he had ever felt before. It was as if that glowing ember had been rammed deep into his side. Was it his imagination or could he smell charring flesh? The stench of the deer slung across the cooking fire too early, before
the flames had died to nothing. He bit down on another great bellow of pain, steam jetting out of his nostrils. Or was it just that the air in the room was cold?
‘There. That should do it.’ Cerys gently eased the iron bar out from between Benfro’s scales, stepping back the better to see her handiwork. The heat still burned through his flank, and Benfro wanted nothing more than to sit up and tear at it until he had removed every last bit of the molten mess. But he was too weak even to move his head, could only see the room directly ahead of him and the disorienting aethereal view from his missing eye.
Slowly the pain eased, his body absorbing the heat of the salve in waves that slowed the hammering of his hearts. He was completely helpless, could do nothing but breathe heavily, gasping in the cold air as if he had flown a thousand miles against a storm. Cerys walked past him over to the fireplace, where a much bigger fire than Xando’s earlier effort was burning merrily. She ladled something from a large cauldron into a smaller bowl, then brought it back across the room to him. He could smell the herbs in the water, identify some of them as pain relievers, medicines for the infection, and something else he hadn’t encountered before. It didn’t matter; he was so thirsty he would have drunk from a muddy puddle.
The dark green dragon stooped down to his level, lifted up his head with a hand still covered in his blood. ‘The splinter is gone. At least I think it is. But you’ve a lot of healing to do, Benfro. Drink this. It will help.’
She lifted the bowl to his lips, and he drank greedily. Fully half of the liquid ended up on the dusty furs surrounding him, but the half that made it into his mouth soothed his throat. It was hot, though not so hot as to burn like the salve. Instead the heat spread through him like the warming power of the Grym. It eased the aches he hadn’t known were there, relaxed the tension in his wings and legs. And finally it moved up to his head, sweeping him away on a wave of glorious relief.
It took far longer to climb the spiral stairs up to the anonymous corridor in the palace than it had to get down them. People were starting to file through the door at the top, still calm although Dafydd could feel the barely contained panic. He tried his best to spread an aura of tranquillity, but it wasn’t easy having just left his infant son in the care of a woman he barely knew. Ahead of him, Iolwen was a rock, radiating quiet determination to get the job done. She had changed in the months since they had left Tynhelyg, become more assertive, more decisive. He couldn’t help but love her all the more for it.
‘We should disappear. It will make things easier.’ Usel the medic had gone first, and now he stood in the corridor waiting for them, hand outstretched. Dafydd reached to take it instinctively, but Iolwen stopped him.
‘Easier isn’t always best, Usel. My people need to see me.’
The medic paused a moment, then gave a curt nod. ‘You are right. But whichever way we go, we must hurry.’
They set off down the corridor towards the old palace and the cloisters where Jarius Pelod had died. It wasn’t long before the people queued up and waiting began to notice the princess. Iolwen insisted on stopping, talking to them, reassuring them that she wasn’t fleeing and that their best hope for escape was in the opposite direction. Still a few insisted on following, so that by the time they reached the lower chambers there was a small army behind them. Dafydd bade them stay below while he, Usel and Iolwen climbed quietly to the top of the stone steps, where they could look out on the cloisters and the Neuadd without being spotted from above.
He didn’t need to be able to see the damaged grass and stone paths leading to the great hall to know that at least one dragon still remained there. The smell was enough, mixed in with the battlefield stench of rotting bodies and spilled entrails. He hadn’t noticed it when they had met the great beast on the island, but these creatures had a musk about them that struck fear into the hearts of the bravest men. Between them and the main door, still hanging open since Iolwen’s ill-fated declaration, the neatly mown grass was gouged and battered, the flagstones cracked. The bodies of men, women, horses lay bloated and broken. Some had clearly been half eaten, bones stripped of most of their flesh, unwanted pieces scattered hither and yon. And there in the midst of it, back turned to them and wings half-furled, one of the largest dragons Dafydd had ever seen was continuing its grisly feast with horrible sucking and crunching noises. Was this the creature that had killed Seneschal Padraig? He couldn’t be sure.
‘How are we supposed to get across there?’ Dafydd whispered the question although the great beast seemed oblivious to their presence, consumed by the task at hand.
‘There are more ways into the Neuadd than these doors, sire.’ Usel placed a hand on Dafydd’s shoulder, pulling him further back into the shadows where Iolwen still stood, paler than before.
‘Then why are we here?’
‘We need to know how many of them are in the cloisters. Hopefully there are none in the Neuadd itself. That would make things … difficult.’
Almost as if it had heard them, the dragon swished its tail, crunched down on some particularly hard bones, then tossed aside what appeared to be half a cow. It let out a loud belch and strode off towards the Neuadd. In moments it had disappeared through the open doors.
‘Ah, by Gog’s hairy balls. That’s most unhelpful.’ Usel leaned back against the stone wall of the cloister and put a hand to his face as if in thought.
‘Can you hide us? Could we walk in past it?’ Iolwen asked the question, although it had occurred to Dafydd too. He noticed the slight waver in her voice as she spoke, but was heartened by her courage to even think it.
‘I do not know. The magic fools men, unless they are adepts and are looking for it. Dragons are inherently magical creatures though. They see the world very differently to us. We might be invisible to the people down there and yet plain as can be to that creature.’
Dafydd shuddered at the thought. Bad enough to walk past one of the monsters knowing it couldn’t see you, it would be madness to attempt if there were any uncertainty. They still needed to get to the throne though, and it stood in the middle of the hall, no way to approach it without being seen. That was the whole point, after all.
‘Beggin’ pardon, Your Majesties, but I couldn’t help overhearing.’
Dafydd and Iolwen turned as one, seeing a stout man standing two or three steps below them. He wore simple clothes and had the look of a store keeper about him. His heavy cloth cap was folded in his hands and he twisted it nervously as he bobbed his head in a simple bow. Greying hair clung to his shiny scalp, but it was clearly giving up the battle with age.
‘You have a suggestion? Or were you just eavesdropping?’ Dafydd stepped down until he was directly in front of the man, a head higher than him even without the added advantage of the stairs.
‘Where’re me manners?’ The man bowed again. ‘Name’s Derridge. Mercor Derridge. Used to be in the city guard ’fore I got a bit of an injury to me leg.’ He reached down and rubbed at his right knee just in case they were unsure what he meant.
‘I’m sure you served the city well, Master Derridge,’ Iolwen said, ‘but I’m not sure how that helps us.’
‘Well I reckon you’re wanting to get into the Neuadd there. Probably need to do something with the throne you weren’t so keen on taking afore them dragons turned up.’
‘If I’m to evacuate the city, then I need to use the power of the throne to keep everyone calm.’
‘And you can’t do that with yon big fella in there, using the place as a toilet or whatever it is he’s doing, yes?’
Dafydd took a step to the side as his wife came to join him above this strange old man. ‘Something like that, yes. You think you can persuade him to leave?’
Derridge nodded once, looked over his shoulder to the gang of people at the bottom of the stairs, then back up again. ‘Reckon me ’n’ the lads could set up a fair diversion. Run along the cloisters here making enough of a racket. Should draw him out.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Dafydd said
. ‘A creature his size could just smash the place down. You’d all be killed.’
‘Can think of worse ways to go than helping our folk escape. And it’s not like you’re taking the easy option either, sir.’
‘You command these men?’ Iolwen asked, looking past the man to the crowd below.
‘They do what I tell ’em, yes. And we’re all here to help, Your Highness.’
‘Then I accept your kind and brave offer, Captain Derridge.’ She turned to Usel. ‘How long will it take us to get to the Neuadd by the back route?’
‘Ten minutes, ma’am. If we don’t dawdle.’
‘Very well. Give us ten minutes, Captain, then start raising hell. And if we both survive this your bravery will not be forgotten.’
Freezing cold knocked the breath out of him like a punch to the gut. Errol was swept down in a torrent of water so powerful he didn’t even have time to gasp. The fall was short, and then he was plunged into a pool of bubbles and froth that couldn’t support his weight, pressed down by the force of the cascade above him.
Currents surged and spun him round, knocking his arms and legs against rocks. He couldn’t tell which way was up, which way down. All around was a rage of motion, muffled sound still deafening in his ears, light exploding in all directions. His manure-caked travelling cloak twisted around him like a heavy net, squeezing his legs together so that he couldn’t kick out, swim like he had done so many times in the river back home. Like he had done that time he and Martha had both fallen into the pool at Jagged Leap.
‘Calm your mind, Errol. Try to relax.’
The voice was in his head again, and for a moment he thought he was back there, listening to Sir Radnor. But the tone was wrong, and the currents far more deadly than the ones that had almost killed Martha.
‘Be still. Let the flow take you downstream.’
The advice was reasonable, except that Errol was convinced he was being dragged in circles, held down by the waterfall, and he was fast running out of breath. The explosions of light were less intense now, his vision fading even as his limbs began to feel heavy and useless. Only his left hand was tense, clasped in a tight fist around the tiny jewel. He could not let that go. Would never let that go. Otherwise what was the point of struggling?