The Obsidian Throne

by J. D. Oswald

  And that was when it hit him: there was no pain. None of the ache from the wing twisted in his fall from Mount Arnahi; none of the agony from Melyn’s blade where it had neatly severed his hand; no aches from the fall through the trees when he had fled to Gog’s world. There was no hint of the damage that Fflint had done. Even the wound in his side was gone. And both eyes saw the vista ahead of him.

  A fat moon hung low in the sky, reflecting off the tops of the trees as he sped along. The wind ruffled the tufts of his ears, whistled over his scales and the tips of his wings as he locked them straight and glided. He had no idea where he was going, but he was in control. No Magog riding his thoughts this time. A warm sensation ran through his hand, reminding him curiously of Malkin the squirrel’s excitement at flying. Bringing it in front of him, he saw that it was clenched tight in a fist, and when he opened it, there was Morgwm’s jewel. He could not hear her voice, but he knew she thrilled at his mastery over the air. Snatching his hand closed lest he drop his precious cargo, Benfro flew on.

  The hill rose out of the flat plains far in the distance, the river surrounding it like a ribbon of silver. It might have been a purely natural feature were it not for the angular, spiky mass at its top, piercing the night like a broken fang. Benfro’s hearts stilled as he flew with impossible speed towards Candlehall and the Neuadd atop it. He could turn, fly away; nothing was compelling him to go there save his curiosity and the inevitability of it all. Father Gideon had begged him to destroy the throne, and here he was in a dream.

  The city appeared deserted as he circled above it, but then it had appeared so the first time he had been here too. It was changed though, damaged as if some vast beast had lobbed great chunks of stone at the walls, smashed in roofs and toppled towers. Even the Neuadd was broken, its doors hanging off their hinges, its windows smashed. Benfro circled it once, twice, looking for any sign of a trap, then finally came in to land. He tensed as he touched the cold flagstones immediately in front of the great hall. Then the ground beneath him turned to water and he sank into it.

  For a moment Benfro panicked. He splayed his wings, meaning to soar into the air and fly away, but the cold earth swallowed him up like it had Father Gideon. And then he was falling slowly through a cavern underground. From high up he could see stone columns radiating out from a central pillar. They glowed white near the centre, but soon dulled to an angry crimson he knew too well. As he fell, more like drifting down through water than tumbling through the air, so he began to hear wails and moans, the shrieking of a thousand thousand tormented souls. And so he began to understand something of what the old man had meant when he had talked of the horror beneath the Neuadd. Magog’s repository had been an abomination, but at least the dragon jewels he had collected had been reckoned. These were red and raw, and all linked to that huge throne up above. It was a nightmare beyond imagining, but there was worse to come.

  As his feet touched the hard dirt floor of the cavern, the clamouring of voices grew in intensity. Benfro began to see shadowy figures, red wisps flitting about between the rows of carved shelves. Like Magog’s store and the smaller repository beneath King Ballah’s throne room in Tynhelyg, the jewels here were separated from each other by lifeless stone. Quite mad, the dragons whose memories these should have been raged against a torture they could not possibly understand. There was no hope for them, no hope in them. These were the slain of two thousand years. The spoils of the House of Balwen and the true power behind the Obsidian Throne. Jewels pillaged from their slaughtered bodies, bones, flesh and scale left to rot down to pale earth, there was no way to reckon them. And should he even try, then what greater cruelty could there be but to lock them in this state for ever?

  ‘There is hope, Benfro.’

  The voice was almost lost in the turmoil. Had he not known it from his earliest memories he would surely have ignored it, just one more whisper hidden in the screams. Benfro searched for the source of it and saw to his surprise that the central pillar was piled around with jewels, white and reckoned. He had been so overwhelmed by the horror he had not noticed them before. Now as he approached, white smoke spiralled from the pile, twisting until it formed into a shape he recognized.

  ‘Mother?’ He reached a tentative hand towards her, then withdrew it. Then reached out again, only to pull back at the last minute. He knew too well the danger, but longed more than anything else to be reunited with her.

  ‘You have changed, little one. You have grown so big. Much bigger than your father. And your wings.’ The smokey dragon remained motionless, Morgwm’s voice inside his head.

  ‘How is it that you can speak to me? You didn’t before.’

  ‘My jewels are here, in this hoard. Melyn placed me in the stone cells, but I was freed not long ago. We all were, only I cannot join the others fully as I am incomplete.’

  Benfro held up his hand, uncurled his fingers. ‘I have the last jewel. I can reunite them and you can be whole then.’ He held the jewel over the pile, ready to let it go. But something stayed his hand. This was his last memory of his mother; could he really let it go?

  ‘Someone is coming.’ Morgwm’s ghostly image still did not move, but her voice took on a sudden urgency. ‘You must flee before you are seen. You are too vulnerable like this. I can sense your presence, so others still alive will have sensed it too. It cannot be long before they come looking for you.’

  As if her words were a cue, Benfro felt the presence of others nearby, questing thoughts like the brush of Magog’s mind on his own. An invisible hand seemed to push him away from the pile of reckoned jewels, his mother sending him away as she had done back at the cottage when he had witnessed her death. Reflexively he clenched his fist once more. Behind him the rows of jewels burned an angry red, and he remembered his mother’s earlier words.

  ‘You said there was hope, for the unreckoned.’

  ‘There is. For these poor souls, for all of us. If they can be reckoned, then they can be saved. It will take time for them to overcome this nightmare. Some have been trapped here many thousands of years. It can be done, and you can do it, Benfro. But not if you are caught here, and not if you are overcome by Magog’s dead spirit.’

  ‘But how can they be reckoned? Their bodies are long gone.’

  ‘There is a way, or so I have read. The Llyfr Draconius speaks of it briefly. It is ancient magic, the most subtle of our arts. But you must go, Benfro. Flee before you are found. If you are caught then there truly is no hope.’

  Benfro opened his mouth to ask more questions, but a roar from above silenced him. He looked up to see an enormous dragon descend through the cavern ceiling. For a moment he thought it was solid, but then he noticed the outline of the jagged rocks behind it showing through. An aethereal projection, it scanned the room, tasting the air like a snake before drifting slowly over to the central pillar. It reached out, traced hands as big as Benfro’s head over the smooth black surface, reading the runes beneath as it sank slowly to the ground. He was hidden from view, shadowed by the stone columns with their carved alcoves, but that was his mundane self thinking. He had no idea what the aethereal dragon could see, and no idea how to escape this place.

  ‘I smell you, young dragon. You are not of our fold. Nor of those mindless brutes who have come to join us. None of them have much time for the subtle arts, but you? You reek of them. Where are you?’

  The aethereal creature’s voice was unmistakably male. He glided silently around the pillar, momentarily out of sight, and Benfro reached out towards the pile. He wanted to stay here, to be with her, more than anything, but he had to go. Somehow he had to flee.

  ‘Go, Benfro. Seek out Ystrad Fflur and the elder dragons. They will tell you what you need to know. I will wait for you.’ The voice was little more than a whisper, an echo in his head, but the shove that accompanied it was like being hit by a gale. Benfro staggered against the nearest column and his hand flew open. He could feel himself waking back in the cottage so many miles away, but as the sce
ne dissolved to blackness he clearly saw the tiny white jewel arcing through the air towards the hoard.

  It wasn’t the longest of rides, but Beulah enjoyed the privacy all the same. Just her and Clun, who while frail seemed well enough able to sit atop his enormous horse. They ordered the guards to keep their distance and rode through the hunting park to the west of the city, pausing only when one or other of the great lumbering dragons flew overhead. The creatures annoyed her. Beulah had been raised to despise them. One of her first edicts as queen had been to reinstate the Aurddraig, the bounty paid for the head of any dragon. And yet now they were everywhere, arrogant, destructive and smelly.

  ‘It is turning cold, my lady. There’s a storm coming.’ Clun drew his cloak around him as he stared off into the distance.

  Beulah glanced up at the clouds, dark and threatening overhead. ‘We should get back to the palace then.’ She turned her horse towards the path that led to the city gates, or at least what was left of them.

  ‘Stone walls will not protect us from this storm.’ Clun shook his head and squeezed the flanks of his great stallion with his legs. Godric flicked his ears, snorted once, then turned to follow, picking up his huge feet and clattering them down against the hard earth with unnecessary force. Clearly he was unimpressed with their slow pace.

  ‘Patience, my friend.’ Clun leaned down across the horse’s neck and patted it firmly. When he sat back up again, he was smiling.

  The ride back to the palace took them through the army encampment, still occupied and busy despite their victory. The city barracks had been badly damaged by the dragons, and no one seemed keen to stay within the walls for long except those few who were billeted high up the hill at the palace. Beulah could hardly blame them; the devastation was depressing, and the smell of the rotting dead would take a long time to clear even if the bodies themselves had been removed, buried or burned. Perhaps the storm would bring rain to wash the dried blood from the streets.

  ‘Gwlad is in pain. You can see it in the lines. Something momentous has happened and I can’t help but think Inquisitor Melyn is behind much of it.’ Clun steered his horse on to the parade ground, and coming up behind him Beulah was relieved to see that the dragons had all flown away. The heaps of bones and pieces of rotting flesh strewn about the place didn’t help her mood, and neither did the fat flakes of snow that now began to drift down out of the leaden sky.

  ‘And where is he, our good inquisitor? I’ve heard nothing from him since he took off for Emmass Fawr in such haste. Has he contacted you?’

  ‘No, my lady. I have heard nothing, seen nothing despite my strong connection with the aethereal.’ Clun guided his horse to the steps that led up to the palace, positioning him perfectly so that he could slide off. If he hadn’t leaned heavily against Godric’s flanks once his feet were firmly on the ground, Beulah might have been fooled into thinking there was nothing wrong with him.

  ‘I do not think he is at Emmass Fawr any more,’ Clun said after a while. ‘I have tried to sense him there, but the halls are almost completely empty of warrior priests, novitiates and quaisters. Only the servants remain.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘I do not know, my lady. I could not follow them. The aethereal is … disturbed.’ Clun let his head droop as if ashamed that his show of skill was somehow inadequate.

  ‘But you were at Emmass Fawr, in the aethereal?’

  Beulah dismounted from her own horse, handing the reins to a groom who approached as soon as she touched the ground. The guards who had ridden out with them were still mounted, and she dismissed them with a wave of her hand. There were more guards in the palace, and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t defend herself. No groom came forward to take Godric back to the stables, although some strong-looking men stood nervously nearby.

  ‘What are you waiting for? His Grace the Duke of Abervenn’s horse needs seeing to,’ Beulah snapped.

  ‘Not this time.’ Clun addressed the grooms, whose shoulders slumped in relief as he slowly reached up and eased off the rope halter that was all the harness Godric had ever worn. The enormous horse lowered his head to allow the rope to be removed, remained stock still even once that was gone.

  ‘You have served me well, Godric. Now it’s time you looked after yourself. The coming battle will not be won by strength alone.’ He placed one hand on the horse’s head, scratching him behind his massive black ear, then leaned in close, pressing his forehead against Godric’s cheek. They stood there, motionless, for some moments, and all Beulah could feel was a growing sense of jealousy. Clun had been hers and hers alone, but now he seemed to have more of a bond with his horse, more of a bond with their daughter. Thinking of her reminded Beulah that the infant would need feeding, and she started up the steps towards the entrance. Clun’s words stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘Farewell, my friend. May we meet again some day.’ He took a step back, gave the horse one last pat on the withers. Godric snorted, took a couple of slow steps across the parade ground. He broke into a trot, then a canter and finally a full gallop as he sped away towards the gates. The guards that Beulah had dismissed scattered in panic as the great black horse ran right through them and was gone.

  ‘You sent him away? Why?’

  Clun looked up the steps at Beulah, his white eyes locked on her face for once. ‘The time for riding into battle has passed. It would not be fair or right to cage him in a stable.’

  ‘What do you mean, passed?’

  ‘Do you not sense it, my lady? Can you not see it?’

  Beulah glanced around the parade ground, searching for clues. Aside from the destruction the dragons had wrought on the buildings and the remains of their most recent meals, she could see little that had changed. But then that wasn’t what Clun meant. There was something else that was wrong about Candlehall, even more so than the snow that was beginning to fall heavily now. It took her a while, like realizing a sound she had always heard had suddenly been muted.

  ‘The throne.’ Beulah reached a shaking hand up to her neck, suddenly weak and exposed. ‘I can’t feel it.’

  Benfro woke with a start, jerking his head up from the wooden table where it had lain. Dazed, it was a while before he managed to gather his thoughts and calm his racing hearts. Outside it was still dark, and judging by the state of the fire he had been asleep, dreamwalking, for only an hour or so. He sat for a long while, the events of the night going round and round in his head. He could still hear his mother’s voice, but it was overlaid with the darker, deeper tones of the aethereal dragon who had come looking for him.

  Even in the darkness he could tell his mother’s jewel was gone. Benfro felt the weight of it in his fist, but when he unfurled his reluctant fingers, his hand was empty. Part of him mourned his loss as intensely as he had the day she had died, but another part remembered the dream, the pile of jewels now heaped together rather than caged. And there had been his mother’s parting words about the unreckoned jewels and the Llyfr Draconius. He hardly dared hope, but if there was a way to reckon a jewel without the dead dragon’s body, then maybe he could free himself of Magog’s influence even though Gog was no longer alive.

  Benfro groaned as he stood up, his body stiff from having slept while slumped at the table. He had neither the Llyfr Draconius nor Magog’s jewel. He didn’t even have his mother’s company any more. What he would have given for her calm advice, for the wise counsel of any of the old villagers for that matter. But they were all trapped in Magog’s repository half a world away. Except for one. Seek out Ystrad Fflur, that was what she had told him. So that was what he would do.

  There was a dreadful sense of finality about the way he went from tiny room to tiny room, collecting those few things he thought might be useful. Benfro knew he would never come back here again; the cottage held too many memories. It also held useful medicines though, and only a fool would have set off without at least some of the more difficult-to-replace unguents and potions. He found a large leather bag in th
e back of his mother’s room. There was nothing in it save for a fine white scarf not unlike the one Meirionydd had given him on his fourteenth hatchday. As he was taking it out, something heavy fell to the floor, wrapped in the cloth for safekeeping. Benfro stooped, feeling about on the rough floorboards until his hand fell upon a thick silver bangle. He had never seen his mother wear any kind of adornment, and in the darkness he could make out little about the piece except that it was smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch. It would have fitted easily around his wrist before Inquisitor Melyn had come to the cottage, but now it was all he could manage to slide it on to one finger. He lifted it up to his face to look closer, and his missing eye showed him a twisting spiral of ancient magics woven into it. When he tried to pull it off again, it wouldn’t budge, but far from feeling alarmed by this, Benfro was reassured. It felt right that he should wear it.

  Dawn was still some hours off when Benfro left his mother’s cottage for the last time. The bag over his shoulder was weighty with all the useful things he had found. He had wound the scarf around his neck, and the ring on his finger gave him strength as he looked around the overgrown clearing, eerily coloured by the light of the setting moon. He didn’t really need to get his bearings; he knew well enough where he was going. But still it was hard to start walking. Hard to leave knowing he would never be coming back.

  The forest chittered and squawked, nocturnal creatures hurrying about their business as he started his silent march through the trees. As a kitling, this journey had taken many hours, most of a day, but now his legs were so much longer, each stride covering three times the distance. He made such good progress that by the time the sun was lighting the clouds he had reached the steps where the river passed over low waterfalls. Benfro paused a while at the pools, eating some breakfast and drinking from the chill, fresh water. He stepped easily out on to the flat rock where Frecknock had performed her calling, such was his great size now. There was nothing particularly special about it apart from the privacy it afforded. The Llinellau that criss-crossed the area were strong, flickering and buzzing in strange patterns that made his head hurt, pulses spearing through them in what he knew was the direction of Gog’s palace. The pale rose cord that linked him to Magog’s jewel still hung in the air at his head, but it was quiet now, the turbulence in the Grym acting in his favour.