The Golden Cage Page 18

  Corwen teul Maddau,

  On the Application of the Subtle Arts

  ‘You didn’t honestly think you could slip out of the city unnoticed did you, Dafydd?’

  Captain Jarius Pelod of the King’s Guard wore the kind of smile that Dafydd would happily have run through with his sword, if he hadn’t been both a lifelong friend and backed up by twenty-five heavily armed guardsmen. Still, it was humbling to be caught out so soon.

  The war council had been adamant. There was absolutely no way that the second in line to the throne was going to be allowed to go anywhere near the Twin Kingdoms, even if his intelligence – that Abervenn would rise to fight for him and King Ballah against its own queen – was gold standard. The idea of taking the pregnant princess with him, and on a dangerous sea journey at that, only showed that he had no idea of the bigger picture, perhaps wasn’t even fit to be a full member of the council. Dafydd remembered all too well the arguments that had rattled back and forth. The king had kept silent, watching from his throne with that indulgent expression of his as Tordu and Geraint were for once united in their disapproval of his mad scheme. In the end he had conceded that it was likely to end only in his delivering himself to Beulah as a valuable hostage, or worse yet losing both his head and that of his wife. He had accepted their ruling that he should stay in Tynhelyg and oversee the city guard while the bulk of the army was split between Tynewydd and Wrthol.

  It was only when Tordu had announced that he would be supervising the army at Tynewydd himself, and that Duke Dondal would be sent to tour the northern regions to drum up more fighting men, that Dafydd had decided to ignore the council anyway. There was nothing he could do in the capital and it was an insult to keep him so far away from the action. That same night he had contacted Usel and outlined his mad plan, persuaded Iolwen of it too, though she had needed little convincing. He had thought himself so careful, so well organized, and yet the council had known all along what he was doing. He knew Tordu’s spies were good, but he thought he had identified all of them. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘So, Jarius. They sent you because they knew you wouldn’t hesitate to use force against me, and I’d be unlikely to hurt my old sparring partner.’ Dafydd edged his horse closer to the line of guardsmen, trying to recall their names. They were some of the best soldiers in the king’s own troop and perhaps too many to bring in one wayward prince and his pregnant wife.

  ‘King Ballah said something along those lines,’ Pelod said. ‘He also said I should see that you didn’t get yourself into any difficulty, and that if you were in danger I was to protect you with my life. But that if it came to a choice between you and your unborn son, I should err in favour of youth.’

  ‘He would say something like that. So tell me, Jar. Am I to be taken to the West Tower like my grandfather’s previous guest? I can’t promise to escape the executioner’s blade in quite such a spectacular fashion.’ Dafydd joked, but he knew he was in deep trouble. King Ballah had executed family before when they showed overt signs of coveting the throne. He only hoped he could find a way to exonerate Teryll. The stable hand deserved reward for his loyalty, not punishment.

  ‘His Majesty said nothing about taking you anywhere. Merely that I should follow you and see you kept out of trouble.’ Jarius’ smile was wider than ever.

  ‘He did what?’ It took a moment for Dafydd to catch up with the words.

  ‘No prince of Tynhelyg should sit behind stone walls when the enemy masses at the borders. And besides, you have two brothers to take your place if you fall. I think those were the king’s actual words. He sent me and my men to escort you on this mad quest of yours, Dafydd. We are at your command.’ Jarius bowed in his saddle

  ‘What does the major domo think of this?’ Dafydd asked. ‘What does my father think?’

  ‘As I understand it, they will think you’re sleeping late. They most likely won’t miss you until the next meeting of the war council, which the king sees fit to call in two days’ time. By then we should be well on our way to Talarddeg. If you’re ready for a hard ride.’

  Dafydd turned back to where Iolwen and Teryll waited with the packhorses. Where moments earlier he had felt despair, now he felt a reckless abandon. Not only was his plan still achievable, now he had the tacit backing of the king and a troop of the finest warriors in the land to help him. What could possibly go wrong?

  ‘What say you, my princess? Do you fancy a morning gallop?’

  Cold rain fell in sheets from lead-grey clouds driven by the ceaseless wind. The train of riders and wagons moved slowly across the open plain, huddled against the weather. At the head of the column Beulah wrapped herself tight in her heavy woollen travelling cloak and muttered curses. Two weeks out of Beteltown and the weather had dogged them the whole time. The past three nights of wet camps had been the worst, their only fires those lit by the cook to prepare their evening and morning meals. Beulah’s canvas tent was soaked through, put away each new day still wet. It dripped constantly through the night, keeping her awake more effectively than if she had slept wrapped only in a coarse blanket. She was an adept and knew how to draw warmth from the lines, but with each new hour of unremitting grey, her mood blackened further, her enthusiasm for the whole tour the only thing evaporating.

  ‘By the Shepherd, will this rain never end?’ Beulah nudged her horse close to Clun, who rode at her side. The beast baulked at her direction and she cursed the dragon that had killed her favourite mount. Melyn had given her Pahthia for her sixteenth birthday. A flighty young filly for a flighty young filly, he had said, but over the years they had grown accustomed to each other. She missed her horse more than she cared to admit, as much, perhaps, as she missed the man who had gifted her. Another sign of reliance on others, Beulah noted, only adding to her anger.

  ‘They say it can rain for forty days without let up here, my lady. I know my father used to complain that the wagons always took longer to cover this ground than anywhere else on the route from Castell Glas.’ Clun’s face darkened, his brow furrowing at the thought of his father. He didn’t complain, Beulah noted. Clun never complained. But he felt the loss perhaps even more keenly than she missed her horse, and every time something reminded him of his past the blackness fell over him. She hated to see him so sullen.

  ‘Melyn will have tracked down the dragon and killed it by now, my love,’ she said. ‘He’ll bring you its jewels and you can add them to the collection at Candlehall.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He fell silent, drawing his cloak around him, though he hadn’t pulled the hood over his head. The rain plastered his fair hair to his scalp, ran down his face in rivulets and dripped from the end of his nose and chin, but he didn’t shiver, barely moved a muscle except for the rhythmic sway that kept him in balance with his horse’s steady walk.

  The road took them over bleak, empty moorland, visibility never more than a few dozen paces, the occasional fords swollen and wild. The sun moved through the sky somewhere overhead, but the clouds hid its position so effectively they moved in permanent twilight, heedless of the passage of time. It might have taken them a few hours, or a few days, but eventually the road crested a final hill and began its slow descent towards the River Hafren.

  After a while they saw trees looming out of the mist, ranks of moss-decked spruce and pine flanking the road like silent sentinels. Then the rain eased, first to a steady drizzle, then to a hanging cloud of moisture in the air, and finally it petered out altogether. Beulah sighed with relief, digging deep into the lines, pulling the power of the Grym into her so that she might dry herself out. It was hard work, no longer the instinct she had known all her life. The child growing within her made even the most simple of magics an effort. But slowly the warmth suffused her skin and she basked in it as she might enjoy a long soak in her deep bath back home at Candlehall.

  So wrapped up in the sensation was she that Beulah didn’t notice the first cry of alarm. Ahead of her, the point guard stiffened on his horse, then toppled sidewa
ys, falling to the ground with a wet slap. Before she could react, dozens of armed men swarmed out of the trees, screaming like demons and running straight at the column.

  ‘To the queen!’ Clun shouted beside her, his blade of light flaring into existence with a smell of burned air. In no time at all Beulah was surrounded by guards on horseback, obscuring her view of the attackers.

  ‘Out of my way, you fools!’ she shouted, drawing her thin steel sword and wishing for her own blade of light as she kicked her horse on. The enemy had avoided the riders and were heading for the few wagons. Beulah didn’t wait for anyone to follow her, spurring on alone towards the running men. The first two went down before they knew what had hit them, heads neatly severed by her blade. The third dodged, wheeled round and flailed at her horse’s legs with an evil-looking curved blade. Steel sliced through muscle and bit into bone as her horse squealed. It reared up, kicking out at the man, who expertly dodged the hooves and brought his blade round in an arc that half sliced through the creature’s neck.

  Beulah leaped from her saddle as the horse went down, blood spraying over the road. The blade she carried with her was completely inadequate, but such was her rage, she had no difficulty focusing the Grym along its length. Not as good as a pure blade of light, but more than enough for her needs. The man who had killed her horse turned on her, a strange smile on his face. His eyes were bright black buttons in a face swollen and red. Whatever he had taken before the attack, it had relieved him of any sense of self-preservation, any inkling of fear, but had left his skills intact. He moved lightly on his feet, swinging his sword through a short arc, back and forth, as if searching for the right place to strike. And all the while he giggled like an insane girl.

  ‘Who are you people?’ Beulah shouted, though she knew there was no chance of getting an answer from the man. She doubted he knew what his own name was right now. At the sound of her voice, he lunged with his blade. She parried it, then stepped aside as his momentum took him past her. A flick of the wrist and his head parted from his shoulders, his body crumpling to the ground with a noise like a dropped coal sack.

  There wasn’t time to stop and consider his worthless life. All around her the battle raged as the warrior priests struggled to regroup after the initial surprise. There were crossbowmen in the trees, judging by the whizzing of quarrels. Standing still was not a good idea, so she rushed towards the wagons and the band of attackers hacking wildly at the horses and terrified passengers. Beulah launched herself at them, spearing and slashing, heedless of the screams of agony, the stench of spilled guts and the blood that drenched her front, splashed her face and hands. She wasn’t scared; there was no time for fear. In its place a cold fury directed her arm and primed her senses. How dare these people attack a peaceful convoy in her country?

  ‘My lady, are you hurt?’ Beulah paused a moment, hearing Clun’s voice behind her. At the same time another blade of light flashed past her head, removing the arm of one attacker. Eyes mad, her attacker simply reached down and picked up his sword with the other hand. As he stood back up again, Clun removed his head, and his body crumpled to the ground.

  ‘What manner of men are these?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen bandits fight so hard.’

  ‘They’re drugged with something,’ Beulah said, then let out a shriek as something slammed into her arm, spinning her round.

  Her knees were suddenly weak and her legs buckled under her as Clun screamed, ‘Beulah!’ She tried to look up at him, to see his face, but her head was unresponsive, her stare fixed on her bloodstained arm and the sword clutched in her hand. White heat burned through its leather handle and into her hand as the Grym sought a way back to the land. Reluctant fingers dropped the melting steel, and she was grateful that it had taken the force of the blow, rather than herself. For a moment that was all she could think of, and then her focus shifted. A crossbow bolt had buried itself in her upper arm, the wicked barbed point poking right through. Dark red blood oozed down her arm to merge with the slick that already covered her. Royalty mixing with common thieves.

  Without a word the remaining bandits around the wagons broke off their individual fights as if they were puppets controlled by some invisible hand. All eyes turned to her; Beulah thought there were at least twenty men. How many had there been in the original raiding party? There were dozens lying dead on the ground.

  She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate, and her head was fuzzy with pain and shock.

  ‘Stay down, my lady.’ Beulah looked up at Clun’s determined face. His travelling cloak was stained dark with blood, his face splattered with gore, his hair tinged pink at the ends. He watched the approaching brigands calmly, as if this were just a training exercise.

  He held a blade of light in each hand.

  Beulah blinked. She had to be hallucinating. No one could conjure two blades. Not even Melyn. But as she knelt on the wet road, he wheeled, slicing one attacker clean in two, following up with the second blade through the next. Further away, mounted warrior priests hacked at the backs of the bandits as they piled in on her, eyes more feral even than the dragon that had attacked her out of the mist.

  Time seemed to slow down. The attackers came at her as if they cared nothing for their own lives. Every time one launched himself forward, Clun was there, his blades whirling like lightning. But as soon as he moved one way, they surged in from the other side and he had to swing round to counter their onslaught. Beulah was surrounded by a wall of insane contorted faces, throwing themselves on Clun’s blades, hoping to overwhelm him by sheer numbers, something driving them that was more terrifying even than painful death.

  And then with a shriek it was over. Warrior priests cut down the remaining attackers from behind, chopping them like so much autumn wheat. Clun finished off the last one with a swift backhand cut that sliced the top off the man’s head. His eyes shot up as if looking for the missing section of his skull, then he slumped to his knees, wavered a moment and toppled forward. Beulah stared at the grey bloody mess that oozed out on to the ground and noticed the silence that descended on the scene. She felt a momentary rush in the Grym as Clun extinguished his blades, and then he was kneeling beside her, taking her arm in gentle hands and inspecting her wound.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady. I wasn’t fast enough to stop this one for you.’ Clun’s voice trembled slightly. Beulah looked up at his face, felt his all-enveloping embrace and knew that she would always be safe with him to guard her. She allowed him to pick her up. As he carried her to the nearest wagon, she saw the carnage of their small battlefield, the dismembered bodies of dozens of brigands. Most of them were piled around the area where she had fought and fallen. The warrior priests were walking among the rest, making sure no one was still alive.

  ‘I’ve never heard of bandits operating in such large groups before,’ Clun said.

  ‘These weren’t bandits, my love. These were mercenaries. Someone paid for them to be here. Paid them to kill me.’

  ‘Merciful Arhelion, hear my prayer. Show me the ways and the paths to the world.’

  Melyn stood motionless in a thick-leaved bush, watching the still form of Frecknock as she began her calling.

  ‘Great Rasalene, hear my supplication. Lend power to my voice that I may be heard throughout Gwlad.’

  She had the book in front of her, along with a small metal cauldron in which she had mixed some herbs. Smoke wafted in the air and Melyn could smell a faint aroma, an indefinable scent that would turn any head.

  ‘Hear my voice, all who walk the long road. I am Frecknock and I would call you to me.’

  Her voice was inside Melyn’s head, louder than he had ever imagined anything could be and yet not painful. Behind it there was a pull so strong his muscles tensed, ready to step forward. At the last moment he managed to stop, realizing what he was doing. All around the clearing a sudden rustling of the bushes showed how powerful Frecknock’s calling now was, how all-pervasive.

  ‘Come to me, dragons of Gwla
d. As Angharad called Palisander, so I, Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi teul Albarn, call to you.’

  Frecknock fell silent, but the potent force that demanded he respond still tugged at Melyn as if he were a fish caught on a hook. He had known the dragon book was valuable and powerful; it had been hidden with great skill and even he could sense the weight of knowledge locked within its pages. Perhaps that was why he had kept it with him when all the others had been sent off to Emmass Fawr for Andro to catalogue and translate. Seeing for himself the difference in Frecknock’s ability with and without it confirmed its importance, but it also concerned him. The dragon had sworn a binding oath, and all he had read, all he knew about their kind, told him that the creatures would rather die than break such a thing. But he worried still she might turn on him, use the book to make her escape. He couldn’t bring himself to kill her. Not yet, not while she was of use. But he determined to watch her closely and keep her away from the book as much as possible.

  ‘What manner of mage art thou, to so proudly summon all to your side?’

  The voice broke into Melyn’s head with a roar like thunder in the mountains. Unmistakably male, it was at once profoundly alien. He recognized the Draigiaith, but the dialect was thick, inflections in all the wrong places.

  ‘I am Frecknock.’ Across the clearing the female dragon tensed, raising her head as if scanning the sky, though her eyes were still tightly shut. ‘I have walked these paths alone for too many years. I would have some company.’

  ‘And where exactly are these paths? Just where in Gwlad is this cursed place?’

  ‘Can you not see me? Do you not know where I am?’

  ‘By the moon, kitling, I see well enough where you are. What I don’t know is where that place is. What do you call this cursed country?’

  ‘I am no kitling.’ Frecknock’s reaction to the perceived insult made her seem very much like a child, Melyn thought. Her voice was petulant, and for a moment he thought she might ruin everything by sulking. Instead she drew herself up to her full height and spread her wings to the sky. It was a bit like watching a chicken trying to take off, and Melyn had to stifle a laugh.