The Obsidian Throne Read online

  Father Charmoise,

  Dragons’ Tales

  It happened so swiftly, Dafydd couldn’t really understand what was going on. One moment he was screaming, stuck on his back and unable to get away as the great black dragon reached for him with a hand that would crush and rend him at the same time, the next he was staring at an empty space where the doorway and wall had been. There was an instant of perfect silence, and then it felt like the whole world had collapsed. The ground shook, dust clouded the air and a noise like the toppling of mountains bludgeoned his ears. Part of the wall collapsed, bringing down some ceiling with it in great lumps that Dafydd watched stupidly until something in his brain finally kicked in. Scrambling back as the last few blocks smashed into the space he had been occupying, he saw the black dragon through a gap in the wall. It was lying on its side, wings twisted around its huge body as if it had rolled up against one of the shattered windows of the Neuadd. The top of its head lay against the floor, neck and underbelly exposed like a dog sleeping in front of a log fire. It wasn’t moving, although he could see the slow rise and fall of its breathing.

  ‘What the …?’ Dafydd struggled to his feet, his ears still ringing and his heart thudding in his chest. He slowly approached the broken wall, searching everywhere for the dragon twins, Ynys Faelog and Ynys Feurig, but they were nowhere to be seen. He looked back to the top of the stairs, down which he hoped Iolwen had already fled along with Usel the medic. The stairwell was jammed shut with fallen rubble, a beam thicker than his torso wedged across it. He hurried over, tried to move it even though he knew it was pointless. Straining to hear anything over the hissing that filled his head, he clambered up the pile of debris and shouted.

  ‘Iolwen? Usel? Are you in there?’

  He pressed one ear against the stones, listening for any sound from beyond. Was that a scratching noise? A voice? Dafydd tried to reach out with his mind, but he had never been as skilled in that magic as his grandfather. Now he was too anxious, too pumped up with fear to concentrate.

  ‘If you can hear me, go. Escape with Iolo. I will find you. I promise.’

  He waited for an answer, but there was nothing. Had the tunnel collapsed on them? Were they even now trapped in darkness or crushed beneath the broken floor of the Neuadd?

  ‘Calm yourself, Dafydd son of Geraint. You wife still lives, her companion too.’

  Dafydd spun round, fear choking his breath in his throat as he saw a dragon leering at him through the broken wall and ceiling. For a moment he thought it was the black monster, recovered from whatever calamity had befallen it and coming back for the kill. But then he saw that the beast looking down at him was smaller, its face iridiscent in the light filtering through the broken windows. He had not seen many dragons in his life, just those that the circus brought to the King’s Fair each year and now these brute creatures who had appeared out of nowhere to destroy Candlehall and devour its population. And one other, Merriel, daughter of Earith.

  ‘I said before that if you ever needed my help all you had to do was ask. I heard the princess calling even though I was on the other side of Gwlad and could not understand how her voice could be so loud and so clear. Now I think I know.’

  Unlike the twins and the dragon who had forced his way into the Neuadd the day Iolwen had refused to take the throne, Merriel spoke aloud and in only slightly accented Llanwennog. She glanced over in the direction of the prone black dragon, then back at Dafydd.

  ‘He will wake soon. Probably best we are not here when that happens.’

  Dafydd climbed down off the pile of stones and plaster, picked his way to a hole in the wall that had once been a door and looked out across the Neuadd.

  ‘Where are the twins?’

  ‘Twins?’ Merriel paused a moment, her head cocked slightly in thought. ‘Ah yes. I thought there was something odd about them. They fled, will most probably be seeking help. We must hurry.’

  She set off towards the main doors, paying no heed to the throne. Dafydd didn’t follow, looking first to the stairwell blocked by rubble, then to the black dragon, who showed signs of stirring, and finally to Merriel. She had stopped just beside the dais and was staring back in his direction.

  ‘We will find them later. Do not worry yourself, Dafydd son of Geraint. They are as safe as any can be in this place. We, on the other hand, are very much exposed. I had the element of surprise on my side when I bested that brute. I don’t want to give him a second chance.’

  Dafydd hurried across the hall to where she stood. ‘How did you beat him? He’s twice your size.’

  ‘He is feral, a throwback to when our kind were base and mindless beasts. I’ve no doubt he can speak, but he has no skill at the subtle arts whatsoever.’ Merriel raised her head and wrinkled her nostrils. ‘They are using this place as a midden, I expect because they are confused by it. A place of great power, it calls out to us all, even those who don’t understand the nature of that call. And yet when they arrived they felt only fear of the throne. You can see how none dared approach it. The Grym is strong here, as if there were a hoard nearby. But I cannot feel any individual thoughts from it. Were we not in such imminent danger, I would investigate further.’

  ‘A hoard? Of jewels?’ Dafydd looked at his feet, imagining the floor was no longer beneath them. ‘There is a cavern directly below us, and it is full of jewels. Rows and rows of them.’

  ‘Rows?’ Merriel had been moving towards the open doors, but she stopped, turning to face Dafydd. ‘Not a great heap?’

  ‘That’s not what I saw, no. There were countless stone columns carved with hundreds of alcoves and filled with jewels. They glowed red all the time, and I could hear whispering voices even though I couldn’t tell what they were saying.’

  Merriel stood as motionless as a statue for a while, all worry about the black dragon forgotten. Then she turned back to the throne as if studying it more closely.

  ‘By the moon. He couldn’t have. Surely not even Gog would do such a thing.’

  ‘Do what? And who is Gog?’ Dafydd wasn’t sure where he had heard the name before. And then it came to him – Usel’s unusual expletive.

  ‘No time, no time. We must flee this place before it corrupts us entirely.’ Merriel turned again, her tail whipping around with her and almost knocking Dafydd over. She hurried to the door, past piles of foul-smelling dung and half-devoured carcasses. Dafydd had to run to keep up, but he wasn’t about to stay in the Neuadd alone. From the far corner by the smashed wall into the anteroom a low moan grew in volume, turning into an angry roar as the black dragon awoke. It was echoed by another, louder roar, but he was running too fast to tell where that came from.

  Until he leaped over the fallen door and burst out into the daylight.

  A dozen or more of the creatures, ranging in size from big to vast beyond comprehension, were lined up in the courtyard between the Neuadd and the cloisters. Dafydd had thought the black beast the largest of the creatures, but it seemed a pup in comparison to the one that sat across the flagstone path. It ignored him, looking straight at Merriel as it screeched at her in its strange language. The sounds hurt his ears, but that was the least of his worries. Most of the dragons were just sitting, watching and waiting, but the twins he had seen earlier paced around in their oddly joined manner, weaving in and out between the larger beasts, eyes fixed on him. There was something mesmerizing about their stare and their voices ringing in his head, so loud he almost forgot about the black dragon lumbering through the Neuadd behind him.

  ‘Take my hand, Dafydd son of Geraint.’

  The words startled him almost as much as the hand thrust in his direction. He had never really studied dragons, never really had occasion or desire to do so. Surrounded by them, dwarfed by them, Dafydd was learning quickly. For one thing, they were huge, far bigger than the poor downtrodden creatures he remembered from the circus and the King’s Fair. Even Merriel, who was one of the slighter dragons in the courtyard, was the size of a small house. Her hand was
n’t something he could easily take. A finger, on the other hand, he could just about manage.

  ‘What am I—?’ he began to ask as the world dissolved in front of his eyes. He felt the Grym surging through him with more power than he had ever experienced. Nothing to which his grandfather had ever subjected him could compare. It filled him to bursting, and then he was flying outwards in all directions, losing himself in a swirl of colour, flashing lights and heat.

  ‘Keep a hold of yourself. Keep a hold of me. We are almost there.’ The voice of Merriel filled his head, and as he heard it, so Dafydd remembered that he had a head, a body to go with it. He felt the fine-scaled texture of her finger in his hand and an ache in his arm as if he had been clinging fast for his life.

  The light faded like the after-image of staring at the midday sun, and as his vision returned Dafydd saw a swaying green backdrop. He stumbled as if he had been moving forward at great speed and had only just now touched earth. Except that it wasn’t earth beneath, nor the heavy stone slabs of the entrance to the Neuadd at his feet. He fell to his knees in sand, soft and white. The air was warmer than Candlehall’s slight autumn chill too, and heady with a scent it took him a while to recognize.

  ‘I am sorry I had to bring you here. There are few places I could think of that would be safe. Fewer still with enough shared memory for us both to reach.’

  ‘I …’ Dafydd struggled to his feet. He recognized the stone pier and derelict buildings, the sea as clear blue as Iolwen’s eyes. He knew this place, just couldn’t get his head around not being outside the Neuadd any more. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘You travelled the Llinellau Grym. Not something your kind can do.’ Merriel raised her head and sniffed the air, turning slowly through a full circle. ‘No men have been here since you last left. There is food here, and fresh water. I must leave you now.’

  Still reeling from the magic that had transported him halfway across Gwlad in the blink of an eye, Dafydd took a while to understand what the dragon was telling him. ‘Leave me here?’

  ‘I must return to the great hall. Even now I can hear Iolwen’s plea for help. I made an oath, and a dragon’s word is not something given lightly.’ Merriel took two steps towards the sea and then seemed to dissolve into the air. Dafydd couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the lines of the Grym pulse brightly, flashing into his vision unbidden before fading back to nothing. He stared at the spot where the dragon had been, his mind catching up with events, eyes slowly focusing out on to the still sea and the distant small islands of the archipelago. A seabird shrieked overhead, emphasizing the terrible stillness and quiet of the island. He was safe, it was true.

  But he was utterly alone.

  ‘Cerys has been gone too long. Something is wrong.’

  Benfro paced the room, more anxious even than he had been while trapped in the circus. The green dragon’s skill as a healer was evident in how little discomfort he felt from the wound in his side, although every so often it would send a little twinge of pain through his muscles, too close to one of his hearts for comfort.

  ‘She will return when she has found Myfanwy, Benfro. Just be patient. Rest. Build your strength.’ Martha sat at the table closest to the fireplace, although unlike Xando she clearly had no need of its warmth. Benfro’s missing eye showed him how easily she tapped the Grym. It surged around her like a second skin, colouring her aura and constantly changing.

  ‘I don’t like it. We’re trapped here if someone comes looking for us.’ His pacing brought him to the nearest window and he stopped for a moment, creaked open the shutter and peered outside. Snow crusted the glass and the frame, sliding down into an ever thicker pile at the bottom. Through a gap towards the top he could see the storm still raging outside. Was that natural? He couldn’t remember it ever having been so bad when he was in Magog’s retreat at the top of Mount Arnahi.

  ‘They’re not looking for us any more, Benfro. They’re trying to figure out where to go from here. Gog was ancient before his kin began to lose interest in the subtle arts. No one remembers a time without him. It’s hardly surprising that they are in mourning. Myfanwy will be part of that too, even if Cerys doesn’t understand. There will be ceremonies, meetings to decide what to do next, arguments. Dragons live a long time; I’d be very surprised if things didn’t take years to settle down, not days.’

  ‘Years?’ Benfro turned away from the window too quickly and a stab of pain shot through him. He tried to hide it, but Martha saw. She hurried to his side.

  ‘Rest, Benfro. I know it’s hard, but there’s nothing you can do right now that’s more important than healing. We’re as safe here as anywhere. Nobody’s going to be out flying over the city while that storm’s still raging, so they won’t see the hole in the roof. I’ve a feeling it’s not going to let up any time soon either.’

  Benfro limped across to the sleeping platform and slumped down on to the bedding. He was tired, he had to admit. Despite all the sleeping he had done since they’d arrived here, he never seemed to wake up refreshed.

  ‘Do you think it’s natural, this storm?’ he asked as he settled down on his good side. Martha dragged a chair across to the platform and sat down. Without needing to be asked, she extended her aura and tied it in a knot around the rose cord of Magog-tainted Grym that still joined Benfro to the jewel, wherever it was. While he was awake he could keep it distant, but asleep it would invade his dreams without someone to guard him. Martha had taken that task upon herself without any prompting.

  ‘It’s very likely. Gog’s death has unravelled the last of the great spell he and his brother weaved. This storm is but one symptom of that. I’ve tried to go back to the tower using the Llinellau, but they are too confusing to travel safely that way. Two worlds merging back together. I don’t imagine that’s going to happen easily.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Benfro’s good eye drooped closed even as the missing one opened to the Grym and the aethereal more clearly. It was true what Martha had said: the Llinellau were not the solid, reassuring presence he had grown used to. They shimmered like a heat haze and seemed to shift about unless he focused directly on them.

  ‘Think about it.’ Martha perched on the edge of her chair, leaning close to Benfro. ‘Our world, Magog’s world, is one where dragons are timid and small. They hide their magic, even if they are skilled at it. And it’s a world where warrior priests wield the Grym like a weapon. You saw what Melyn did to Gog and Enedoc. He is not the only one capable of such terrible, violent acts. I have seen the dragons of Gog’s world too, the ones who have turned their backs on the subtle arts. They hunt people for sport. Think of our great cities, Tynhelyg and Candlehall, Tallarddeg and Abervenn. How will they cope if a score or more beasts bigger than you descend upon them? There will be war between dragons and men such as we cannot imagine. Unless we can get between them, explain what has happened.’

  ‘Between them?’ Benfro was suddenly wide awake again. ‘Between Melyn and …’

  Martha looked straight at him, shook her head gently. ‘I know. I keep thinking about it and I can see no way of reasoning with him. He is Magog’s creature now, perhaps always was. Somehow we must find a way to stop him, I just don’t know how.’

  ‘Well maybe Myfanwy will have an answer. She’s old and wise.’ Benfro caught movement in the corner of his eye, then realized that it was his missing eye seeing beyond the room. He pulled himself upright, casting off the bedding so swiftly that Martha was caught by surprise. She dropped her grip on the rose cord and for the briefest of moments he felt something cold and angry and mad a long, long way away. Instinct kicked in and he snapped his own aura around the Grym, knotting it tight as he stumbled towards the door.

  It flew open with a crash before he could reach it. The grey dragon, Sir Nanteos, stood in the doorway for a moment, scanning the room. ‘Seize him,’ he shouted, and a half-dozen more dragons flooded past him. With his missing eye, Benfro saw Martha shrink back into her chair, Xando flatten himself against t
he stone in the fireplace. He could do nothing to save them, nothing to save himself. Strong hands grabbed him, twisted his arms and forced him down on to his knees. Pain lanced up his side, the wound opening again at the rough treatment. It all happened so quickly he barely had time to breathe.

  ‘Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse.’

  For a moment, Benfro thought it was Sir Nanteos speaking, but then he understood the words were in his head, had come not from a dragon but from Martha. Her advice was timely – he would have fought and undone all the healing of the past days – but it also drew attention to herself. The grey dragon looked around the room almost like a dog sniffing out a scent until his eyes alighted on the chair. With a nod of the head he directed one of the younger dragons to fetch her, a third in the direction of the fireplace.

  ‘Bring them too. They have clearly been helping the murderer. They can share in his fate.’

  ‘Princess Iolwen, we have to go.’

  She had always known the risks, understood that something like this might happen – probably would happen – but still Iolwen could not quite believe it. She stood at the bottom of the stone stairs, looking up at the wall of rubble and fallen masonry completely blocking any passage into the Neuadd. Somewhere up there Dafydd was alone with the dragon. He might be dead already, or trapped under a fallen beam, helpless as the great beast came after him. As if to emphasize her fears, something crashed down above her, shuddering the ground and sending little tendrils of dust down through cracks in the ceiling.

  ‘It’s not safe here. We have to go.’

  She turned away from the stairs to where Usel the medic stood. He didn’t look any more happy about the situation than she did, but he had ever been a pragmatist. She remembered that about him from her long journey to Tynhelyg as a child, so many years earlier. The rest of the party had been sombre, addressing her in Saesneg, but he had made a game of the trip and at the same time taught her rudimentary Llanwennog. She could still remember the little rhymes he had made up, nonsense mostly but funny enough to be easily recited, over and over again. How different might her life at King Ballah’s court have been if she had not even been able to speak to the old man. What would he have thought of her then? What would Dafydd have thought?