by J. D. Oswald
‘What is it?’ Dafydd asked, although he had a suspicion that he knew.
‘This is the last remaining true jewel of Magog, Son of the Summer Moon. You may have heard of him.’
‘I …’ Dafydd remembered his talks with Earith and her tales of the warring dragon brothers. ‘Yes. But what do you mean by true jewel?’
‘You are aware that a dragon’s essence is stored in their jewels, I take it?’ Myfanwy began to wrap the dull stone back up in its soiled cloth, as carefully as any gold dealer might wrap in fine black silk the tiny nuggets panned from the streams of the Northlands.
‘They grow in your brains, I have been told. They are your memories, are they not?’
‘Memories?’ Myfanwy tilted her head in consideration. ‘Perhaps, yes. But they are so much more than that. Red, like this, they absorb the Grym, commune with it, focus and direct it and all who are connected to it. They are the fundamental core of our magic, our subtle arts as we call them. When we die, our bodies are burned in the Fflam Gwir and our jewels become white. The reckoning we call it, and it sets those memories firm. An unreckoned jewel left in the wild, perhaps from a poor dragon who has died alone and unremembered, will slowly dissolve away into the Grym. That dragon is lost for ever, unless someone should stumble upon them. If the finder is weak-willed then the jewel will possess them, and the dead dragon will try to live on. It doesn’t ever end well for an unreckoned jewel or the poor soul possessed.’
Dafydd nodded at the cloth, now neatly folded and concealing its dangerous cargo. ‘So what is it doing in there? Why hasn’t it been reckoned? And why did you call it the last true jewel? Are there others out there that are false?’
‘You see to the heart of it, Dafydd. There are more of Magog’s jewels out in Gwlad than I can begin to trace. Some have been fashioned into rings, amulets and other items given to your kind. Even though he died over two thousand years ago, his influence is everywhere. But those jewels are ones that Magog tore from himself while he still lived.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Clearly, or he would not have been able to do it. But it is a foul perversion of the subtle arts, and quite possibly what drove him mad. Or I should maybe say madder.’ Myfanwy closed her fist around the bundle before reaching out, turning her hand over and dropping it. Instinctively, Dafydd caught it.
‘Is it dangerous?’ he asked.
‘Very. It has already sunk its claws into a young dragon who even now battles to save himself from becoming Magog risen anew. Perhaps the only thing stopping that from happening is this storm in the Grym, this cataclysm brought about by the merging of Gog and Magog’s long-separated worlds.’
‘Can’t we just, I don’t know, break it? Smash it into pieces?’ Dafydd held the cloth in the palm of his hand just like Myfanwy had done earlier. He knew it wasn’t hot, and yet it seemed to burn through his skin like acid.
‘That wouldn’t work. Only the Fflam Gwir can destroy its hold, and only when burned in conjunction with Magog’s body. I fear that will have long rotted away to nothing, even if I knew where it was he had died.’
‘What should I do with it then?’
‘You?’ Myfanwy made a noise that was quite possibly a laugh. ‘Why nothing, young man. You would be best putting it back where you found it. If we cannot reckon it, then we must strive to stop it from taking control of Benfro when this storm finally blows itself out.’
Dafydd recognized the name, but before he could ask more the door swung open and a group of people hurried in. He recognized only some of them. Usel and Teryll were there as were a number of his palace guard and some of the Candlehall men. But right at the front and running to greet him was Princess Iolwen, their son fast asleep in a sling across her body.
‘You woke up. I should have been here.’ She wrapped him in the tightest of embraces, and he hugged her to him as if he never wanted to let go. Prince Iolo woke almost at once, stared up at his father, and an infant grin spread across his face that matched the one on Dafydd’s own. Both he and Iolwen were shaking with relief that they had found each other after the worry of the weeks that they had been apart. Dafydd was content just to hold his wife and child close to him and breathe in their scent, oblivious to everything else in Gwlad, including the square of torn and stained cloth wrapped around an inert red stone which he had hastily shoved in the pocket of his borrowed jacket.
33
Bronwyn the White was mother to the brothers Gog and Magog, twins hatched of the same egg. Legend has it great Rasalene himself made a prophecy that two dragons so closely linked would lead to the destruction of Gwlad, and so their mother hid them away for many months after their hatching. Gog she named Son of the Winter Moon and his brother, Son of the Summer Moon, claiming to all that they were hatched six months apart. Such swift procreation is unusual for a dragon, but not unheard of. She claimed too that Palisander himself was their father, although he was ancient beyond reckoning by the time they were hatched, and had not so much as looked at another dragon since Angharad had returned to the Grym. Still, he took them under his wing, treating them as his own until the day he died. And yet most of the dragons in the palace of Claerwen knew that he was long since past fathering kitlings. Who their true father was none could ever guess, and Bronwyn never said. There were plenty of lesser families around at the time and any number of virile young bucks who might have performed the task. All could trace their lineage back to the greatest of all dragons, so perhaps the lie was not so hard to swallow.
Whatever their true parentage, the twins grew up believing they were of Palisander’s direct line and learned the subtle arts from him. Perhaps if Bronwyn had been more honest and acknowledged the truth, Gog and Magog would have been raised first to hunt and fly. They might not have learned so much of the ways of the Grym, and their warring over the love of Ammorgwm the Fair might have been less damaging to all of Gwlad. But there is no future in might-have-beens, as Palisander himself once said. So the brothers were raised in a lie, and we live with its consequences to this day.
Sir Nanteos teul Palisander,
The Forgotten Halls of Nantgrafanglach
‘These are not men but devils. How can we hope to meet such violence?’
Iolwen ducked out of a corridor filled with smoke and the screams of dying men. Dafydd was close behind her, along with half a dozen local men, all dressed in the drab uniform worn by the servants of Nantgrafanglach. All that was save the one who had spoken. The princess had taken an immediate dislike to Mister Clingle and nothing he had said or done since had swayed her mind on that. Older than most of the palace servants, he had a stoutness about him that suggested a man more used to ordering others than doing things himself. The permanent sneer on his face didn’t help either, nor his whining tone.
‘The warrior priests of the Order of the High Ffrydd are trained soldiers, but they rely too heavily on their magics. The turmoil in the Grym means they cannot maintain their blades of fire for long. We have the advantage both of numbers and a familiarity with these corridors and passages.’
‘But we are not fighters, Princess.’ Mister Clingle sweated profusely, quite clearly unused to exerting himself.
‘Then don’t fight. Use the terrain; isn’t that the first rule of warfare?’
Mister Clingle didn’t answer, merely wrung his hands together as if that would help. Iolwen ignored him, focusing her attention on the young man behind. He at least had managed to arm himself, although the sword he carried looked like it had last seen use when Gwlad had been whole before.
‘You, lad. What’s your name?’
Startled, the man looked first to Mister Clingle, as if needing permission to speak. ‘Meidrim, Your Highness.’
‘Well, Meidrim. Here’s what you must do. Get the word out to all the servants you can find. Do not engage these warrior priests unless you have no option. You know the palace, so lead them away from the centre. Open doors that will take them to empty halls and corridors. Let them see you onl
y briefly, then disappear down the servant stairwells or through the minor reception rooms. If you have to fight them, then keep back as much as possible. The longer they conjure their blades, the more chance they have of losing control of them.’
Meidrim stared at her for perhaps longer than was necessary. Iolwen’s grasp of the language of dragons was not as good as Usel’s, but she had been given a swift and painful lesson by Myfanwy and she was fairly sure she had the basics right.
‘Go!’ She pushed a little compulsion at the young man as she barked the command. He jumped as if stung, made an unsuccessful attempt at a salute and then scurried off, taking the rest of the palace servants with him.
Mister Clingle remained. He had ceased his hand-wringing and now looked at Iolwen with ill-disguised contempt. Not a man used to taking orders from other men, let alone a woman. ‘And what will you do while those youngsters risk death? Hide away in the dungeons?’ he sneered.
‘I rather think that is your place. Prince Dafydd and I will go and speak to the council. If the dragons can be persuaded to act then Inquisitor Melyn’s attack will be very short-lived indeed.’
‘The council mourn the loss of the Old One. They will not see you.’
‘Then I will speak to Myfanwy alone.’
Mister Clingle opened his mouth to respond, and Iolwen knew he was going to say something unhelpful, quite possibly rude. But before he could speak, the door burst open and a wild-faced man charged in. He wore the robes of a warrior priest, but his eyes blazed with a bloodlust quite at odds with the discipline for which his order was renowned. He screamed something unintelligible, conjured a blade more ragged and fearsome than any Iolwen had seen. In an instant he had cleaved Mister Clingle in two, laughing like a madman as his remains slapped wetly to the floor. And then the warrior priest pressed on. Iolwen stepped back, Dafydd at her side. The room they had entered was small by the standards of the palace, but still large enough that they could evade the wild lunges of their attacker’s blade. There was only the one door though, and he blocked their route to it.
Iolwen cast out for the lines, trying to conjure her own blade. She could sense Dafydd doing the same, but the warrior priest somehow sucked all the Grym from them, his ragged weapon growing longer and hotter so that it was more like a spear now. As it grew, so she weakened, her mental barriers withering under the onslaught of the man’s madness. Then Iolwen felt something behind her and realized that she had been backed into a corner. Nowhere to turn, no escape from that terrible flame. The warrior priest grinned like an idiot, raised his blade high.
And stopped.
The blade disappeared, surging back out along the lines. For a moment confusion replaced madness in the man’s eyes. And then he coughed, bright red blood choking past his lips as a huge, leathery, taloned hand appeared in the middle of his chest. Iolwen blinked, and a dragon appeared, standing in the place where the warrior priest had been.
‘I would have come sooner,’ Merriel said. ‘Looks like I got here just in time.’
The smell of burning hair and bubbling skin would take a long time to leave him. Errol had dragged the dead warrior priests to the fire and one by one hefted them on to the flames. It was something to do while Martha attended to Benfro, aided by Nellore. He had thought some of their attackers had survived the fight, but if so then they had fled, for none of the bodies he discovered showed any sign of life. Neither did the pale, limp form of the boy Xando, who he had moved a distance away and covered with a blanket. They would have to bury him; he was not for the fire or for the forest animals to tear apart.
‘How is he?’ Errol walked across to where the dragon lay unconscious. Nellore was busy cleaning the blood from his side while Martha held a hand over his forehead and whispered in Draigiaith. Errol could feel the flow of the Grym as it passed through Martha and into Benfro, speeding up his healing and restoring his strength. It was dangerous work, all but impossible to predict if a surge might overpower her, kill both her and Benfro too. Or it might suddenly drain away to nothing, leaching what little life the dragon had out of him.
‘He is badly injured.’ Martha took her hand away, and Errol breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Without proper help, he will die. We need to get him back to Nantgrafanglach. Myfanwy will know what to do.’
‘How? We can’t hope to carry him. And I don’t know how to get back there.’
‘Can walk. Not far.’
At first Errol thought it was Nellore speaking, muttering low under her breath, but Benfro was struggling to get himself off his side and back on to his feet. He used the nearby trees, gripping their trunks tight with his talons and heaving himself upright. He swayed in the pale morning light, gouts of steamy breath jetting out of his nostrils.
‘You should rest a while. You need to heal.’ Martha reached up and put her hand on Benfro’s shoulder, the Grym flowing through her and into him once more. He shuddered a little as if cold, then gently shrugged her away from him.
‘There is no time. We have to get to Nantgrafanglach and find Magog’s jewel. That’s the only way we can put an end to this.’ Benfro raised his head to peer through the canopy at the dark grey clouds that blanketed the sky. Soon there would be snow, and that would make their journey even more difficult.
‘We must bury Xando first,’ Errol said. ‘It’s the least he deserves.’
Benfro shuffled over to where the boy’s body lay. He seemed to gain strength with each step, or at least recover his balance. He knelt slowly, like an old man worried he might not be able to get back up again, then reached out and gently tugged back the blanket to reveal the dead boy’s face.
‘How did he die?’
‘I’m not sure. It all happened so quickly. I think one of the warrior priests must have run him through with a sword. They came out of nowhere.’
‘I don’t think it’s any coincidence they were here. Melyn must know we have the piece of Magog’s skull, which means Magog knows too. There can be no other reason he would send Osgal to intercept us. But why try to kill us? I thought Magog was trying to possess me.’ Benfro reached up to a point on his forehead directly between his eyes, his hand touching the air and describing the arc of a rope fixed to him. Errol shifted his focus, trying to access his aethereal sight. It wasn’t easy; he was too tired for one thing and the shock of the fight had left him unsettled. He finally managed to bring the dragon’s aura to light.
The rose cord was still there, pale and lifeless at the moment. Of greater concern was the sickly hue of the colours as they shifted sluggishly around the dragon’s body. Greys and greens and dull browns, they were far removed from the vibrant shades that had surrounded Benfro before. And there, at his side, part covered by his damaged wing, a dark black smear cut through him like a scar, reaching deep inside. Errol would have looked closer, but the twisting and pulsing of the lines made it hard to concentrate, his vision fading back to the mundane.
‘I didn’t know him well, but he did his best to help me when I was in need. This shouldn’t have happened.’ Benfro stood stiffly, and even without his aethereal sight Errol could see the pain his friend was suffering. The dragon took a step back, indicated that the others should do the same. He took a slow breath in, then exhaled in Xando’s direction. The flame that poured from his mouth was almost white, more like steam than fire. It flowed across to the boy’s body and settled around it like a shroud. Xando didn’t burn, his skin didn’t crisp and bubble like the warrior priests on the bonfire. There was no greasy black smoke. Instead, he slowly faded away, drawn back into the Grym, his essence returning to Gwlad and the trees of the forest where he had died.
For a while the lines settled down to their normal stillness, at least in the small clearing where they had made their camp. Errol wasn’t sure whether it was indelicate or not, but he stepped closer to his old friend, laid a hand on his scaly neck and let the energy surge through him. Standing on Benfro’s other side, Martha did the same, taking the opportunity to bolster the dragon’s
strength for what they knew would be a hard journey and an even harder fight at the end of it.
The calm lasted until the final wisp of pale flame was gone, no trace of Xando left but the blanket in which he had been wrapped and the clothes he had been wearing. How long they had stood and watched, Errol could not have said. It had been early morning when they started, but the day seemed scarcely any brighter, the sun nowhere to be seen through the lowering clouds. As the last vestige of Xando disappeared, so the lines began to writhe once more, the Grym surging and ebbing with renewed ferocity so that they all had to withdraw from it. Even so, Errol felt refreshed despite his sadness, and Benfro stood more upright, his shoulders less slumped.
‘We should go now.’ The dragon turned away from the blanket on the ground, looking towards the east. ‘There is a long walk ahead of us, and the storm is coming.’
‘Earith has conjured a new Heol Anweledig. It leads back to Pallestre from the great hall. It was no easy task creating it, I can tell you. My mother has not set foot in this palace in more than two thousand years.’
Merriel walked so quickly Iolwen and Dafydd had to run to keep up. It was no hardship; they would have run from the carnage even without the dragon to accompany them.
‘Why … so … long …?’ Iolwen gasped out the question as they reached a pair of wooden doors so huge they made even the dragon seem small.
‘That is a question for her, perhaps. I know she does not see eye to eye with her sister for one thing.’
‘Sister?’
‘Half-sister, perhaps. Myfanwy the Bold always held to the promises she made to Gog, Son of the Winter Moon, even though the old bastard never kept any of his. Mother couldn’t forgive either of them for that.’ Merriel pushed at the doors, and with a terrible squealing of hinges they opened.