The Obsidian Throne

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘We may be in luck.’

  They stepped into the great hall of the Neuadd and Dafydd almost gagged on the smell. He had thought the dragon musk unpleasant when they were outside, but trapped by the massive vaulted roof high overhead, the stench was unbearable. Thick and meaty, it reminded him unpleasantly of the sewers that ran beneath his grandfather’s palace. There were undertones of dog mess in there too, only somehow worse.

  ‘By the Wolf. What is that?’ He coughed, burying his face in his sleeve without letting go of either Iolwen or Usel’s hands.

  ‘I think they might be using this place as a privy,’ Usel said.

  ‘But I thought they said this was a dragon-made hall? Isn’t that what the one who spoke to us said? Sir Morwyr?’

  ‘Which suggests to me it was possibly made by the wrong dragon. Either that or they feel it has been too long despoiled by our kind.’

  The dais on which the Obsidian Throne stood was fully fifty paces away, the polished stone floor strewn with rubbish, broken glass and lead. They huddled together, not daring to break contact even though there was no sign of the great black dragon who had entered the hall earlier. A light breeze blew through the holes where the stained-glass windows had been, but it wasn’t strong enough to disperse the reek. By the time they reached the first step up to the back of the throne, Dafydd felt like no amount of fresh air would ever get the smell out of his nose.

  ‘Hold.’ Usel stopped, pulling Dafydd close. Iolwen pressed up beside him, and peering around the massive base of the throne he could see why. It had been hidden before, but now they could see the black dragon, hunkered down not far from the main doors, over on the far side of the hall. It appeared to be preoccupied and hadn’t noticed them. There was no way it could have smelled them over the stench, the fall of the light meant they were in shadow beside the throne, and the whole place was so awash with the Grym it would be all but impossible for any magical sense to spot them. That was what Dafydd hoped anyway.

  And then a roar went up from outside. For a moment he thought it was another dragon, come to challenge this one or maybe just join it. Then Dafydd began to hear words, the sound of metal banging off metal. The dragon looked up, stretching its long neck to peer out through the doorway. It grunted something that might have been speech and then shook itself, flapping its wings half-heartedly before stomping out of the hall with all the grace of a duck on a frozen pond.

  ‘Waste no time. Princess Iolwen, you must take the throne.’ Usel let go of Dafydd’s hand, and the magic shimmered around them as the concealing spell ended.

  Walking round to the front of the great chair, Dafydd could see the full extent of the damage the dragons had done to the Neuadd. It was clear they were using it as a dumping ground and toilet, clear too that these creatures were not in any way civilized. Half-eaten bodies were strewn across the floor, piles of ordure in every corner. If most of the windows hadn’t been smashed, the air inside would have been unbreathable. As it was, it was hard to concentrate for the stench. At least the throne itself seemed to have been left unsullied, and as he processed the scene, so Dafydd could see that the mess ended in a rough circle perhaps twenty or so paces from it.

  ‘They’re scared of it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Or at least wary.’

  ‘Scared of what?’ Usel asked, then obviously noticed the exclusion zone himself. ‘Oh. How curious.’

  ‘Curious or not, we’ve a job to do.’ Iolwen set her foot on the first of the small steps that led up to the throne, paused for a moment, then continued. She was still holding Dafydd’s hand and pulled him with her.

  ‘Iol. I can’t. This is your throne, not mine.’

  ‘No time for that, Dafydd. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own.’ Two more steps and she was there, Dafydd reluctantly following. He called back to the medic, still staring at the mess and the ominously open doors.

  ‘Usel, keep watch. If that beast comes back we’ll need to run.’

  Despite its great size, there wasn’t a lot of room to sit on the Obsidian Throne. Close up, Dafydd could see quite clearly how the much larger seat had been filled in to create a chair a king might sit in. Skilled masons had carved stone to bulk up the seat, widen the arms and fill the open back, but they had not managed to match perfectly the stone, nor the quality of craftsmanship that had gone into the original. As he touched its cold, unyielding surface, Dafydd almost cried out in surprise. If the Grym had been strong in the Neuadd and in the cavern deep below, here it was almost unbearable. He had barely brushed the throne and yet he felt like he was connected to the whole city. No wonder so many of the House of Balwen had gone mad, seduced by the power that eddied all around them.

  ‘Sit. Please.’ Iolwen had shuffled up close to one arm of the throne, leaving enough space for Dafydd to settle in beside her. She still clasped his hand, more tightly now than ever, and her voice was higher, slightly strained. He did as he was bid and understood why.

  Candlehall was in a state of terror. Thousands of innocent people were trapped within its walls, threatened by the dragons overhead and Beulah’s army on the plain beyond. Their only glimmer of hope was the rumour of an escape route under the palace, but even though many had descended into the cavern, there were still doubts.

  ‘We must try to keep them calm, reassure them that they can escape, but it will take time. If there are any still out in the city, I will encourage them towards the palace.’

  Dafydd concentrated, remembering the many hours he had spent being tutored in the magical arts by his grandfather. King Ballah’s skill at manipulating the Grym was legendary, but he was more interested in defeating his foes with it than influencing his subjects towards peaceful ends. Still, the principle was the same, surely.

  He relaxed a little into the seat, feeling the power radiating from the stone. The voices were everywhere, hard to distinguish, like standing in the middle of a large room full of people. Concentrating harder, Dafydd tried to fix on just one voice, one anxiety. It was close by, already in the palace. He couldn’t speak directly to whoever’s mind it was he heard; they were not adepts and his thoughts were framed by the Llanwennog language he had grown up with. Instead he tried to think of his most calming memory from recent times and settled on the few days they had spent on the island in the Southern Sea, halfway to Eirawen. The soothing sound of the waves on the beach, the warm sun and gentle evening breeze, all of these things Dafydd sent to the anxious voice. Once he was confident he was doing the right thing, he spread the influence further. Alongside him, he could feel Iolwen doing the same, spreading calm through the city along with the message that anyone who wanted to escape should make their way to the palace.

  Aided by the power of the throne, it should have been an easy task, but Dafydd felt the pull of the Grym in ways he had never encountered before. He had to keep his focus or risk drifting away. At one point he recalled a lesson with his grandfather, and before he knew it he was seeking that familiar mind, reaching far out along the lines. Further than he had ever been before.

  ‘Focus, Dafydd.’ He could not be sure if Iolwen had spoken the words or just thought them at him, but the squeeze of her hand in his was enough to anchor him.

  And so it went on, for what felt like hours. He was dimly aware of the sky darkening, the day passing into evening. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered too that the clanging of swords on shields as Captain Derridge and his irregular army distracted the great dragon had faded away to nothing. Had he heard screams? The agony of dying men? He couldn’t be sure. There were too many voices, too much to contain.

  Then another feeling swept across him, and Dafydd felt the hairs on his neck stand up. It wasn’t a voice, but it had the same keen intelligence, a sense of curiosity and hunger and irritation that was both utterly familiar and completely alien. Too late he understood what manner of creature could think such thoughts. Too late he felt the anxious shaking at his shoulder, opened his eyes to see Usel standing right in front of h
im, white as a sheet.

  Behind him, framed in the open doorway, not one but two massive dragons stared straight at them.

  There was something wrong with his hearing. Noises intruded into his darkness, muffled but annoying. He couldn’t have said when he had first noticed them any more than he could have said where he was. For a moment he couldn’t even have said who he was, but the thought sparked memories and the memories brought with them sensation, understanding.

  ‘Hush now. I think he’s waking.’

  The noises coalesced into words, a voice he didn’t recognize speaking Draigiaith. Not the pinched, slightly uncomfortable accent even the people of Gog’s world spoke, but the pure pronunciation that could only come from a dragon’s mouth. Slowly Errol opened his eyes, feeling grit in the corners that drew tears as he blinked. He was in a large room, lying in a comfortable bed and staring at a ceiling high enough for it to be in the most grand of palaces. What little light there was flickered slightly, a flame in a lantern of some kind off to one side, but he didn’t have the energy to turn his head and look. He didn’t have the energy to move at all. It was enough to just lie there, warm, comfortable, enveloped in blankets that smelled of lavender and other soothing herbs.

  ‘You awake then, Errol? Only you’ve been sleeping ages now.’

  That voice he did recognize. It brought back memories of falling into the waterfall, being rescued, of the cold. He remembered leaning heavily on Nellore, staggering up the snow-covered riverbank towards the trees, distraught at the loss of Morgwm’s jewel but too tired, too weak to do anything about it. And then his memories stopped.

  ‘How did I get here?’ Errol struggled to sit up, but the heavy bedclothes pinned him down.

  ‘Lie back, Errol Ramsbottom. Rest. You’ve come closer to death than is wise, and there is much still for you to do.’

  He collapsed back into pillows as soft as freshly plucked goose down. His tears had cleaned out the worst of the gunk from his eyes now, and he gazed at the ceiling high above, decorated with fine plasterwork. Intricate patterns wove themselves in shadow and light, depicting scenes from a story he couldn’t help thinking he had heard before. It was yet another puzzle for his mind, another distraction from what he was supposed to be doing, but it was so hard to concentrate. Someone had just spoken to him, he really should have been more interested in finding out who, what they wanted from him, how he had come to be here. So many questions. He tilted his head to one side, towards the source of light, and saw what he had known would be there. It still came as a shock.

  ‘Dragon?’ His own voice was as weak as everything else about him, and his throat ached as if he had worn it out through shouting.

  ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself.’ The dragon bowed her head slightly in his direction, and Errol knew that she was a she though he couldn’t have said how.

  ‘I am Myfanwy the …’ The dragon paused a while, then shook her head. ‘No, just Myfanwy. None of that naming nonsense here. And you? You’re Errol Ramsbottom. Heard a lot about you, so I have.’

  ‘You have?’ Errol felt the strain in his neck from holding his head at an angle and looked back up at the ceiling. ‘From whom?’

  ‘From your friend Nellore, mostly. I had an interesting conversation with a dragon named Sir Radnor too.’

  ‘Sir Radnor? But he’s—’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I was going to say he’s back in Magog’s world.’ Errol frowned at the ceiling, too weary to do much else.

  ‘Indeed he is, and I was not at all pleased to find myself there. The magics that Gog and his mad brother wove were supposed to have been impenetrable, but time has a habit of unravelling such things.’

  ‘Gog. You know him?’

  Myfanwy let out a deep rumbling laugh. ‘Know him? He is the father of my daughter and my three sons. Yes, if anyone can say they know him, then I can. Or knew him, I should say, for we have long since parted ways. But something is wrong. I fear he is dead. The Grym is in turmoil around his great tower, and the entrance is barred to all who would enter.’

  This time Errol managed to heave himself upright, wincing at the pain that shot through his head. ‘Dead? But how?’

  ‘That much I have yet to discover, but only something momentous could have displaced me into his brother’s world. And I wouldn’t have been able to find my way back so easily either, had he still been alive. That cursed spell of theirs is failing fast.’

  Errol only half heard the dragon’s words, his mind still reeling at the turn of events. ‘Where is Nellore?’ he asked.

  ‘Right here, int I.’

  He turned his head too swiftly, the pain starring his vision. As it cleared, so Errol saw her, sitting on a chair at the other side of the bed. He had scarce noticed it at the river, but now he could see a change in her. She was well dressed, for one thing, her face fuller as if she had eaten well for several weeks. And her hair had grown long, down past her shoulders rather than the boyish crop he remembered. That didn’t make sense, surely? It was only a few days since they had been attacked in the cave.

  ‘Far longer than that, Errol Ramsbottom,’ the dragon Myfanwy said in her deep, slow voice. ‘And yes, I can see your thoughts all too easily. You are open to the Grym like no man I have ever met before, and that makes you easy to read. Nellore is unusual too. I suspect that might have something to do with what you taught her of the Llinellau. It was through her that I was able to find my way back home, and for that I am most grateful.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Longer? How?’

  Myfanwy paused a while before answering, as if considering how best to explain something very complicated to a child. ‘There is a place deep beneath this palace where the Grym does not flow. A different magic works there, more ancient even than Gwlad herself. We call it the Anghofied, and it is where those things we wish to forget about are sent. It is also a punishment for those palace staff who commit the worst of crimes. I cannot begin to understand why you were sent there.’

  Anghofied. Errol considered the word with his limited understanding of Draigiaith. It seemed to mean forgotten place or something like that, which was appropriate at least.

  ‘I still don’t understand how I escaped from there. How Nellore found me.’

  ‘As to how you escaped, I have no idea. No man has ever done so before. Nellore found you because I guided her, rode her senses as I tried to find my way home. There was a power about you, something I had not felt in two thousand years or more. It confused me because it was not of this world. Had I realized you had brought it across with you, I might have been able to return sooner. Perhaps even saved the old fool from his untimely end. And perhaps if I had known Magog was dead too.’

  ‘Magog.’ The word sparked a memory and with it a surge of panic. Errol felt his chest, noticed for the first time that he had been dressed in a soft linen bedshirt, his old muck-encrusted clothing nowhere to be seen. Bad enough to have lost Morgwm’s reckoned jewel, but had he lost the evil red one too? He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the pain in his head as he shuffled to the edge of the bed. ‘I had his jewel. Where is it?’

  Nellore jumped down off her chair and went to a wooden chest at the end of the bed. She opened it and immediately a rank smell filled the air. Myfanwy wrinkled her nose, then waddled over to the window and threw it open as Nellore produced a tattered velvet bag and a rolled wad of fabric. ‘The washerwomen wanted to throw it all on the fire and be done with it, but I managed to get these out of the pockets first. They didn’t smell that bad then.’ She shrugged, went to hand Errol the bundles, but Myfanwy stopped her.

  ‘Give them to me, Nellore.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Errol said. ‘The jewel wrapped in that cloth is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘More so even than when he was alive.’ Myfanwy placed the package on an upturned palm, then unwrapped it with careful talons. The jewel lay inert, darkest red like congealed blood. She peered at it for long moments before wrapping it up again and placing
it back in the chest. ‘Why are you carrying this, Errol Ramsbottom?’

  ‘We were searching for a way back to the place where Magog died so that we could find a piece of his body. Then it can be reckoned and the hold he has on Benfro broken.’

  ‘Benfro?’ Myfanwy weighed the other bundle in her hand. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Errol shook his head. ‘We were separated. Back in Magog’s world. Just before I walked the lines – the Llinellau – to the village near the Twmp. Where Nellore came from.’

  Myfanwy stared first at the young girl, then back at him, her eyes seeming to penetrate deep into their souls. Errol felt like he was being read the way Melyn had read him, but unlike the inquisitor, whose touch had been brutal and careless, Myfanwy skimmed his thoughts with the lightest of touches. He hardly noticed that she was no longer in his mind when she opened the soiled velvet bag and pulled out the orb. In her hand it looked like a child’s marble, swirled with patterns of grey and white frozen deep within the glass where before it had been clear.

  ‘You saw Benfro in this once before. Could you find him with it again?’

  Errol took the orb from her, feeling the weight of it. He had no idea how he had managed not to lose it since fleeing Tynhelyg, but it sat in his hand inert. ‘I don’t know how it worked before,’ he said. ‘I just picked it up and there he was.’

  Myfanwy took the orb back, held it up to the light for a moment, then slipped it once more into its bag as she shook her head. ‘Its magic is unravelling, like so much else here. I had hoped I was wrong, that the storm gathering around the great tower was his defence, not the result of his demise. I can see that was just wishful thinking. Gog truly is dead.’

  ‘But how? He can’t be.’

  ‘We must go to the tower. I have been detained too long. If the entrance is blocked, then I must take you another way.’ Myfanwy held out both hands and, without knowing why, Errol reached for one as Nellore took the other. The room darkened, he felt a lurching, spinning sensation as if he had drunk too much of Inquisitor Melyn’s strong red wine, and then they were somewhere else.