by J. D. Oswald
Now there are more men living in the vast palace than dragons, scuttling about the darkened corridors like mice. Great Gog, the Old One, keeps to his high tower and is rarely seen. Those few who have not succumbed to his brother’s parting curse and abandoned the paths of wisdom and learning eke out their days in quiet contemplation or earnest but dull discussion. Not without reason is the Council of Nantgrafanglach known for its utter lack of mirth.
But the magics that conceal the palace also preserve it. The ballrooms and dining halls stand unchanged since those happier times. And if you should venture into them alone, some say you can hear the music still, echoing down the long centuries from the past.
Sir Nanteos teul Palisander,
The Forgotten Halls of Nantgrafanglach
Errol tried his best not to look at the destruction all around him. Dragons lay dead, their wings twisted, scales black with the soot of a hundred cuts from blades of fire. Their blood stained the marble floors, the going at times so sticky his feet almost popped out of his over-large boots. At other times the floor was so slippery he found himself grabbing for Martha’s arm or leaning heavily on Nellore as they hurried down the long, wide corridor.
There were too many dead people too, most dressed in the uniform dark-grey cloth of the Nantgrafanglach servants, but here and there he saw the more gaudy colours he associated with Twin Kingdoms folk. How had they communicated, these people who spoke such different tongues? Had it been enough to unite them that they fought a common enemy, desperation making allies where previously the locals had cast Errol into their foul dungeon?
‘Hold!’
Errol froze as Martha put her arm out to stop them. She was at the front, peering round a corner where the corridor intersected with one only marginally less grand.
‘Hide!’
They pressed themselves back against the wall, and Errol sank down on to his haunches. He held his breath and drew his aura in around him, cutting himself off from the Grym even more than they had been; the lines still surging and twisting dangerously around them. Martha took hold of Nellore’s hand and the two of them slowly faded from view. Glancing back, Errol saw Benfro and the green dragon, Cerys, a few tens of paces away. They did not seem to have heard Martha’s warning, nor noticed their companions hiding. Benfro’s head drooped, his one remaining eye staring at the floor by his feet. His exhaustion and sickness were evident even without seeing his aura. Cerys was doing her best for him, but Errol could see that it wasn’t enough. Benfro needed the attention of a skilled healer or he would surely die. Dropping his hiding spell, he waved desperately at the pair of them, but they weren’t watching.
‘It’s all right. They’ve gone down a different corridor.’ Martha’s words came from nowhere, and then she and Nellore melted back into view.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘Two dozen perhaps. They’re headed for the main entrance, I think.’ Martha frowned as she looked first one way and then the other. ‘Poor Xando. We could have done with his knowledge of the palace now.’
‘I worked here for weeks; I can find my way around.’ Nellore pointed across the corridor to a smaller opening, more suited to men than dragons. ‘That way leads to the laundries. From there we can cut through the kitchens and up to Myfanwy’s house.’
‘What of Benfro and Cerys? They can’t follow us down there.’
‘What of us?’ The green dragon had caught up with them, Benfro leaning on her shoulder.
‘We can’t all stick together like this,’ Martha said. It’s too slow, and too easy for us to be spotted. It’ll be quicker if you stay here and hide. Wait for us. We’ll bring the jewel to you. Myfanwy too, if we can find her.’
‘Myfanwy is not at her house,’ Cerys said. ‘She has gone to the Old One’s tower. She and the elders of the council are trying to stop this storm in the Llinellau.’
‘Then you must take Benfro to her. We’ll fetch the jewel and meet you there.’ Errol looked along the wide corridor towards the stone stairs that must lead up to the top of Gog’s tower. This part of the palace was older than the room he had woken up in, less ornate.
‘Is that wise? To split up?’ Cerys asked.
‘Errol is right,’ Benfro said, pulling himself upright with an effort of will. ‘I need Myfanwy’s help. Either hers or Earith’s, and I fear Earith is too far away. Without her strength I may not be able to breathe the Fflam Gwir again.’
‘Then we must hurry,’ Cerys said. ‘I will take Benfro to the tower and Myfanwy. You three find this jewel that is so important and meet us there.’
‘What about the warrior priests?’ Errol asked.
‘Pray to the moon that you don’t meet any. I will do the same.’
Errol watched as Benfro and Cerys moved off slowly in the opposite direction, then he, Martha and Nellore hurried across the corridor to the small opening on the other side. True to the young woman’s words, the passage led to stone stairs that spiralled down into a large room filled with vats of water, strange contraptions to squeeze clothing dry and heaps of dirty laundry. There were no people anywhere to be seen as the three of them hurried through to the far side. Errol wondered whether the warrior priests had come this way, but there was no sign of destruction, no dead bodies, no scorch marks where blades of fire had been used. The place was just deserted, as if everyone had heard the call to arms and run for the main corridors, leaving their tasks unfinished.
It was the same in the kitchens, except that food left unattended halfway through the preparation of the evening meal had attracted the cats of the palace. Dozens of them were up on the tables, sniffing, chewing and licking at anything they could find. A whole ox was roasting in a large fireplace, but left unturned it had charred and blackened, fat dribbled on to the burning wood of the fire. Errol’s stomach grumbled at the smell of it cooking, but there was no time to waste.
‘This way. It’s not far.’ Nellore led them down another, wider corridor that ended in the familiar wide low steps favoured by the dragons. They climbed slowly, listening for any sound that there might be warrior priests nearby, but the air was silent. As they reached the main floor of the house, Errol realized what it was that had been bothering him. A large window flooded the hall with light from the parkland outside, and he could see through it to the distant wall. The sky was still heavy with cloud, but it was white rather than the leaden purple-grey of recent times, and the wind had dropped so that inside it could not be heard at all.
‘The storm. It’s over.’
‘The lines are calming too.’ Martha held out her hand, palm up, and a tiny ball of light appeared to float in the air just above it. ‘Myfanwy must have succeeded.’
‘Succeeded? Succeeded in what?’ Errol asked.
‘In calming the Grym, silly. All the workings old Gog cast around his tower and this palace. The whole of Gwlad for that matter. They’ve been unravelling since Melyn cut off his head. Why else did you think the lines were all mixed up and that horrible storm was everywhere?’
He had no answer for that, but there were more pressing matters at hand. ‘Which way to the room I was staying in?’ Errol asked Nellore. The young woman was transfixed by the sight of the tiny glowing orb and didn’t seem to hear him.
‘Nellore!’ Errol shouted this time, earning himself a withering look.
‘This way. You were on the first floor. I should know. Spent enough time watching you sleep.’ She set off up the stairs at speed, and Errol had to run to catch up. The first-floor landing was lit by another large window overlooking the parkland, the distant mountains showing their white peaks. He paused a moment, transfixed.
Martha stopped beside him, following his gaze. ‘The Rim mountains. I recognize this view. We can’t be all that far from Emmass Fawr.’
‘How would you know the mountains around that awful place?’
Martha raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Really? I spent months looking for you, Errol. When Melyn and that horrible Captain Osgal took you at Hennas and G
odric’s wedding, I left Pwllpeiran too. Spent a while in the village outside Ruthin’s arch, just hoping I might find a way in, but it was impossible. Only the families of those who have served the order are ever allowed in to work in the monastery, and it’s protected by such powerful magics I couldn’t hope to walk the lines into it without them knowing where to find you.’
‘So you went to Llanwennog instead.’
‘I hoped I might be able to do something to help. Princess Iolwen was always happy to have the company of people who spoke Saesneg, and I thought there was a chance you might appear there at some time. Melyn could only ever have had you in mind for a spy; if he’d known who you really were he would have had you killed on the spot.’
Who he really was. Errol had barely thought about his true parentage since it had been revealed to him. It hardly seemed important; as far as he was concerned Hennas was his mother, and his father had died before he was even born. He didn’t want to contemplate the implications of his real mother being heir to the House of Balwen, his father King Ballah’s son. He wanted no claim to any throne, much less two.
‘All I ever wanted was to be left alone. To travel Gwlad and learn its secrets. Perhaps help people who were sick or injured.’
‘I know. I’s all I ever wanted too.’ Martha reached out and took his hand in hers. It was warm and the Grym sparked between them as if chiding them for being apart so long. ‘But now we need to help Benfro.’
Errol squeezed Martha’s hand, reluctant to let it go. Then with a heavy sigh he turned away and followed the wide corridor to the one door that stood ajar. The familiar room lay beyond it, that enormous bed more easy to recognize as a dragon’s sleeping platform now. The chest lay at its foot, the lid heaved open. Nellore’s backside poked into the air, her feet almost off the ground as she searched inside.
‘Have you got it?’ Errol asked, approaching swiftly.
Nellore swung back on to her feet, her hair awry, face red from being upside down. She had something in her hand and for a moment Errol felt his heart leap at the thought that they had succeeded. But then he saw what she held. Not the dirty strip of cloth torn from his old travelling cloak, but a neat square of pure white linen, embroidered around the edges in gold thread. She grasped it in frustration rather than triumph, and as Errol hurried over to the chest, peered inside to see everything neat and ordered, so his heart sank.
‘It’s not here. I’ve searched, but it’s not here.’ Nellore held out the handkerchief.
Errol looked at it briefly then handed it to Martha. ‘It’s gone,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Martha unfolded the cloth to reveal a pattern stitched into the middle. A dragon with his arms spread wide, surrounded by a circle that could only have been the moon. ‘But I think I know where we can find it.’
‘Where?’ Errol and Nellore asked the question at the same time.
‘At the top of the tower. With Myfanwy. She must have left this as a sign she had taken it, and as a way to get to her swiftly should we need to.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Nellore said, but Errol did.
‘The lines. They are not so confused now. We can use them.’ He reached out to Nellore as Martha did the same. ‘Here, take our hands and don’t let go.’ He took Martha’s free hand, feeling the crumpled fabric of the handkerchief in it, that spark of the Grym between them. She smiled, the world faded, and then they were somewhere else.
‘Leave them. They’re all dead.’
Melyn surveyed the room with dispassionate eyes as his warrior priests began to file back out into the corridor. Thirty or more dragons lay dead, and a part of him rejoiced at their passing. This was what the Order of the High Ffrydd had been founded to do, after all: rid Gwlad of the dragon menace. Another, quieter part of him mourned their loss. These had been needless deaths, really. Was there any sense in exterminating all of their kind just because they were descendants of Gog? Were not all the dragons remaining from that bloodline?
‘There is still Benfro, still Frecknock. A few others besides. The children of those who remained loyal to me.’ The voice of Magog filled his head, his own thoughts not so much lost as dissolved into it. With each passing hour, each act of magic, each dragon slain, so they were becoming more and more inextricably linked.
‘Osgal will kill Benfro, and Frecknock is hardly the grandest specimen of dragonkind.’ Melyn spoke the words aloud, attracting a fleeting glance from the nearest warrior priests.
‘Osgal has already failed to kill Benfro, and I can do for Frecknock what I did for him. She will be a fine consort, and no dragon queen should have too much unbroken spirit. I shall be rid of my brother’s foul taint and free to build our race anew. But first we must put an end to this storm, calm the Llinellau and bring back harmony to Gwlad.’
‘And how shall we do that?’
‘Go to the top of the tower, where you cut off my brother’s head. His body lies there, his jewels. They must be burned in the Fflam Gwir, reckoned and set. Until then they will be constantly at war with me, and Gwlad will never rest.’
Melyn pictured the scene, the huge room he had come to in madness and anger. Benfro had been there, but he had escaped, leaping off the balcony with the green-eyed girl and some young lad. But that was after he had already killed Gog, wasn’t it? The memories were fragmented, half his own, half those of the vengeful Magog. He struggled to keep hold of that small part of his mind that was still only him, that part where the Shepherd could not see.
‘You. Captain!’ Melyn shouted at the nearest officer, action far preferable to the uncomfortable duality of his thoughts.
‘Sir.’ The warrior priest snapped to attention.
‘Do we have the palace secure?’
‘As good as, sir. This building is so large it would take months to check everywhere, but this was the most heavily defended part of it, and these look to be the elder dragons. I do not think there are many more left.’
‘Good. Leave me a troop. Take the rest of the men and begin sweeping the city.’
The captain saluted again, turned and started giving out orders. They were well trained, battle hardened. It took only moments for them to split into two groups, but as the captain’s party marched away towards the palace entrance, Melyn could see how few in number they were compared to the thousands who had begun the attack. The dragons of Nantgrafanglach had not given up their city easily, and the limits of how much magic his men could use had cost them dear. It would take generations to build up their strength again.
‘Follow me.’ He set off down the corridor in the direction of the great tower, past the sprawled bodies of the dead. He didn’t mourn them, but the presence of Candlehall men meant that Princess Iolwen and Prince Dafydd would be somewhere in the palace. Too much to hope that they might have been killed in the fighting. He needed to find them and their child. No one with a claim to the throne could be allowed to survive.
He let out a bark of laughter, startling the nearest warrior priests as they approached the spiral stairs at the base of the tower. What matter the petty arguments of the houses of Balwen and Ballah when Magog would rule over them all? But still, there would need to be a leader of men, someone the simple commoners could accept and understand. Beulah was that person, and he would brook no challenge to her authority.
‘Be wary of the Grym here. We are approaching the centre of the storm.’ Melyn knew he didn’t need to warn his men, the lines were twisted and fat, crimson where they should have been palest white. Much like in the forest of the Ffrydd when he had taken Corwen’s jewels from their resting place, the magics that had built upon each other over thousands of years were unravelling now, loosening that pent-up energy back into the world. He only hoped that Gwlad could cope.
The stairs were wide and low. They were also imbued with magics that should have transported anyone invited there up to the top in just a couple of steps. Melyn recognized the same subtle arts as had constructed the Heol Anweledig. So close to the centre of the vo
rtex, they were unreliable at best, fatal at worst. He guided his troop of warrior priests around them, diverting the unpredictable flows of energy as best he could as they climbed ever higher. Without the helping magics, it was a long, hard journey; by the time they reached the top, breathing heavily in the thin cold air, the line of men trailed back behind Melyn a couple of storeys.
He stepped out into a room at once familiar and unrecognizable. Snow had blown in through the missing windows, covering everything in a thick layer of white. Even now it flurried around, whipped up by the swirling wind. Given the storm raging beyond the broken windows, the whole room should have been scoured clean, but the ancient magics still offered some small protection from the gales. Even so, they were fading like everything else to do with the ancient, dead Gog. Soon they would fail entirely, the full force of the wind given free rein.
‘Fetch my brother’s head, my faithful servant. That is all we need.’ The voice of Magog urged him on, and Melyn pushed through knee-high snow towards the far side of the room. It was hard to make out details in the gloom, harder still to remember how the place had looked when last he had come here. Something had changed apart from the snow, and glancing around Melyn saw that the body of Enedoc the Black was gone. At the same time that tiny part of his mind that was still his own remembered the pile of ash where Gog’s body had been, the fire of palest blue leaping from Benfro’s mouth. He knew that flame. It had burned Osgal, left him with wounds that suppurated and would not heal. Melyn had encountered it before that too, when the young dragon had appeared in his aethereal form in the Neuadd. And there had been the ashes of the man killed in the Northlands, the one Frecknock claimed had been consumed by the Fflam Gwir. Benfro was a fire-breather. A throwback to the time when dragons had been no better than feral beasts. Only that made no sense. There were dragons who were no better than feral beasts, Caradoc for one, and yet even they did not stoop so low.