The Golden Cage Page 19

  ‘You are but a dozen winters old, kitling. Skilled in the subtle arts for one of your age, I will give you that. But you should live a century or two before tying yourself to a mate. Now tell me, Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi. What is this place, this accursed forest of shadows? What is it called?’

  ‘You do not know? But this is the great forest of the Ffrydd. How can you not know that?’

  ‘The Ffrydd? You speak madness, kitling. The Ffrydd is a place of rocks and sand, a barren wilderness, and has been ever since Gog slew his brother Magog there millennia ago.’

  ‘I am no kitling. I have watched two hundred summers pass. And this is the Ffrydd as I have known it all my life. Gog and Magog are creatures of myth. What is your name, good dragon, who are so confused?’

  Frecknock’s irritation had weakened her spell; Melyn no longer had to fight off the urge to run to her side and could instead concentrate on the words echoing in his head. It was a strange sensation to eavesdrop on dragons; few of them had been foolish enough or desperate enough to make a calling in his lifetime. Frecknock’s earlier contact had been the first time he had heard the strange language flowing through the aethereal in decades. But if the call was intended for any to hear, then presumably any reply was too. What other dragons might be listening in? He doubted there were many left alive, aside from Benfro. What would he make of Frecknock’s calling? Would he flee from his forest retreat or come rushing to her aid?

  ‘If you are truly two centuries old, then why are you so small? I’ve seen twelve-month hatchlings your size. Larger.’ The dragon’s voice was a loud rumble that made thought difficult. It pervaded every corner of Melyn’s mind, and he had to fight to keep control of himself. There was something about the language that spoke of an indulgent adult patronizing a small child, spoke of looking down on something scarcely worthy of attention.

  Looking down.

  Melyn cursed himself silently, raising his head to scan the skies. How could this dragon know Frecknock was small? He had to be close by, watching her. But had he flown here, or had he walked? Melyn had banked on the creature flying in, landing in the clearing and being distracted by Frecknock long enough for his warrior priests to get close. Once they had it surrounded, it would just be a matter of swift dispatch with a dozen blades of light. The beast would be slain, and they could get on with their journey. But if it walked in, pushing through the trees and bushes, then it would almost certainly discover the trap before it could be sprung.

  ‘Come to me, stranger. You will find me full of surprises and wonders. I have travelled all of Gwlad, studied the subtle arts at the feet of great mages. I am entrusted with many secrets I would gladly share, would you just tell me your name.’ Frecknock resumed her spell of allure, though it was not as potent as before. No doubt her confidence had been shaken by the unusual turn her magic had taken. Melyn cared little for her discomfort; he only needed her to bring the creature to him.

  ‘I am Caradoc, son of Edryd, son of Tallyn, son of Mortimer, son of Gog.’ Something dark shot overhead, blanking out the sun for an instant. Melyn ducked instinctively. A great wind buffeted the trees, pushed the leaves of the bush into his face, temporarily blinding him, and he felt something massive hit the ground with a thud that reverberated around the clearing. The wind died as quickly as it had come. Silence settled so heavily, he thought for a moment that something had deafened him. And then he realized he was no longer listening to Frecknock’s words in his head. The pull of her spell had evaporated completely, leaving only a faint disgust that he had shared that connection with her.

  Shaking his head as if to get water out of his ears, Melyn peered out through the leaves and almost gasped. Only a lifetime of discipline stopped him from letting out an audible shriek. If this was the creature that Clun had faced down, almost defeated, then the newly elevated Duke of Abervenn deserved his rapid promotion to the status of warrior priest far more than Melyn had realized.

  The dragon had landed in the middle of the clearing right alongside Frecknock, and was now looking down on her with a curious expression on his massive face. Side by side the differences in them were so striking that they might have been mistaken for different species altogether. The top of Frecknock’s head scarcely came up to Caradoc’s chest, even though the beast stooped. His tail was as long as her entire body, Melyn reckoned. One of his outstretched wings could have sheltered her completely. No wonder he had considered her a kitling.

  For her part, Frecknock looked up at Caradoc with a mixture of fear and longing in her eyes. She had not moved from the spot where she had begun her spell, but she had taken the book up and held it close to her body as if protecting it.

  ‘You are no kitling, it’s true.’ Caradoc’s voice was no less impressive than when Melyn had heard it in his head. ‘Your face shows more experience than a few summers would allow. And the strength of mind required to make such a powerful calling is not learned in an afternoon. But why are you so small? Gog’s balls, Lady Frecknock. Are all your kind like you?’

  ‘I am all of my kind. There are none left. But before … before they died, yes, they were much like me.’

  ‘And you say this is the Ffrydd? That it’s been this way for all your life?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Then what in Rasalene’s name has happened to me? Have I died and gone to hell?’

  ‘I do not understand, Sir Caradoc. What do you mean?’

  Melyn edged from his bush as silently as his old bones would let him, heading for the spot where Captain Osgal stood. Frecknock had only to keep Caradoc distracted a minute and all the warrior priests would be in place. Still, he couldn’t help himself listening to the huge dragon’s words. They sounded lucid, not the mad ravings of a blood-crazed beast. Looking across the clearing, he could see now his arm-stump was bandaged. With a cloak ripped from the back of one of his victims, Melyn guessed. The stump was held to his chest with a complicated sling.

  ‘You call this world Gwlad, but it’s no Gwlad I know,’ Caradoc said, seemingly oblivious of Melyn and the other warrior priests. ‘Where are the rest of my tribe? And where did all these men come from? Who taught them such brutal use of the subtle arts?’

  ‘No one taught them. Men have always wielded the power of the Grym. They have always hunted us. They killed my parents, my village. They will kill …’ She fell silent, staring up at the massive beast. Caradoc reached out with his one hand, cupping her head in his massive palm as Melyn reached the captain. Osgal stared open-mouthed at the winged mountain, but pulled himself together when he saw the inquisitor. He said nothing, only moved silently away through the bushes to approach the dragon from behind.

  Melyn held his position, waiting until the first warrior priest appeared from the trees on the far side of the clearing. Then, taking a deep breath and making the sign of the crook, he stepped out into the light.

  At first Caradoc didn’t notice him, so entranced was the dragon by Frecknock’s face.

  ‘You have a strange beauty about you, Lady Frecknock,’ he said. ‘Nothing like the rough females who fly with my tribe. You are more delicate, like a spring flower. But how can you bear never to soar through the skies?’

  ‘I can’t miss something I’ve never had,’ Frecknock said, and Melyn could see her shake as she clutched the magic book close to her. ‘And there’s no point wishing for something that can never be. I’m sorry, Sir Caradoc. I truly am. But what you do, what you have done – it is an abomination.’

  ‘I am not Sir Caradoc. My father still heads our family. I –’ Frecknock’s words seemed to sink in at the same time as Caradoc noticed Melyn standing not more than ten paces away. The beast dropped his hand away from Frecknock’s face, then with a casual flick of the wrist sent her tumbling head over heels.

  ‘So, you not only wield power that isn’t yours, you turn my own kind against me,’ he roared at Melyn, drawing himself up to his full height, spreading his wings until they shadowed the inquisitor completely.

>   Melyn stared up at the beast calmly, any fear he might have felt before stepping out into the clearing now gone. His mind was calm and ready. With a thought he manifested his blade of light, felt its power warm him, chasing away the last few aches and pains of the past month’s riding.

  ‘You are a creature of the Wolf,’ he said, forming the words carefully, the Draigiaith sounding alien and awkward compared to the way Caradoc spoke it. How it should be spoken, he realized. ‘The Shepherd has charged me with your destruction. I do not fear for my soul setting one of you to catch another.’

  ‘Shepherd!’ Caradoc laughed. It was a terrible sound, like the screaming of trees crushed by a landslide, but it was a laugh nonetheless. ‘You know nothing of the Shepherd, little man. Your precious god is no more than an—’ The noise of a dozen more blades of light burning into existence stopped the dragon in mid-sentence. He whirled, seeing that he was surrounded, and Melyn took the opportunity to strike.

  He ran forward without a noise, ignoring the book that lay in the flattened grass and the overturned cauldron of herbs. Raising his blade high, he brought it down in an arc that should have severed Caradoc’s other arm. At the last moment, as if sensing the attack, the dragon flinched sideways, and Melyn’s blade clattered down the scales on his chest, raising sparks. A smell like burning rocks filled the clearing.

  Caradoc let out a scream of rage, sounding far more like the feral beast Melyn had taken him to be. With impossible speed, he whipped out his wings, their tips striking two warrior priests and knocking them to the ground. His tail slashed round in a wide arc, the sharp scales at the tip slicing the legs out from under another one, who fell to the ground screaming as blood pumped from his severed thighs. Then the screams fell silent as Caradoc’s tail came back again, this time taking off the man’s head.

  Melyn stepped closer still, bringing his blade up, point first, to stab the beast through one of his hearts. Again the blade skittered off the dragon’s scales, and a sharp pain ran down Melyn’s arm. He ducked and rolled out of the way as Caradoc tried to grab him with a sharp-taloned hand. The dragon spun again, knocking down three more warrior priests with his wings as he lifted up a huge foot to stamp on the inquisitor before he could regain his feet. For an instant Melyn was paralysed, lying on his back, staring up at a foot the size of a barn door coming down towards him, all leathery skin and razor-sharp talons.

  All leathery skin. No scales.

  Melyn thrust his blade up. The heat welled up in him as he channelled the power of the Grym into cutting. Caradoc bellowed in agony, pulling away from the blade. Warm blood spattered out of the wound on to Melyn’s face.

  ‘Damn you! Damn you all!’ the dragon screamed, hopping like some great mythical bird as it smashed its wing tips out again, forcing the remaining warrior priests back. Melyn rolled away as rapidly as he could, gathering his feet under him and finally standing just out of the dragon’s reach, his blade fiery with his rage, pointed at his quarry.

  ‘For Queen Beulah!’ He ran forward, raising his blade for a renewed attack as his remaining men did the same. Caradoc crouched as if preparing for the onslaught, then leaped into the air with a bound that would have cleared a house. He threw his wings out to their fullest extent, bringing them crashing down with a force that knocked all his attackers off their feet. Once, twice, three times they battered at the thin air, with each wing beat gaining a little more height. The wind pinned Melyn to the ground, helpless to do anything but watch as the creature rose straight up. Blood still poured from the wound in its foot, falling to the ground in a stinging crimson rain that thinned to a mist and slicked the grass all around them.

  ‘To your feet, men!’ Melyn struggled against the wind from those massive wings, which lessened only slightly as the dragon rose. All his life he had dreamed of fighting a real dragon, the kind of beast that Brynceri and Balwen had faced, not the cowering animals he had slaughtered by the dozen with casual ease. Now confronted by Caradoc, Melyn had a renewed respect for his ancestors.

  When it came, the attack was far faster than he could have anticipated. One moment the dragon seemed to be struggling to lift its great bulk above the treetops, the next it was pirouetting on a wing tip and swooping towards him. Singling him out. Melyn stood his ground, knowing there was nothing else he could do but rely on his instincts and decades of training.

  Caradoc was off balance, reaching out with only one arm, the stump of the other still strapped to his chest. Melyn watched his eyes, judging the moment as if this were no more than a childhood game of catch. At the last possible moment, when he could almost feel Caradoc’s talons at his throat, he twisted back and to the side of the dragon’s missing arm, dropping to the ground as the beast swept over him. Too quickly to see, let alone think, he hacked his blade of light around in an arc, feeling it bite into something, then pass through. Then he threw himself to the ground as that lethal tail followed, sweeping over the top of his head with no room to spare.

  Melyn looked up, expecting to see the dragon wheel and come back for a second attack. But instead he flew away, heading for a rocky outcrop that rose out of the forests away to the north. Fleeing from the fight.

  On the ground beside him lay three talons, each as thick as his fist, each tapering to a needle-sharp point.

  13

  When the Shepherd left them, journeying to the stars, his followers were bereft. Grendor and Malco fought with each other. Wise Earith turned in upon herself, speaking to no one. Only brave Balwen found the strength to cope with his master’s departure. Summoning them to the throne chamber, he addressed them all.

  ‘Friends, these are dire times indeed. But did not our master the Shepherd bid us continue his great works? Did he not gift us with such powers that we might spread his love throughout Gwlad? He has left us, true, but in time he will return. What poor servants we will seem to him if he finds us like this. Or worse, if he finds that we have failed in our duty to protect his works.’

  And so saying, Balwen stepped up to the great throne and, turning to face his companions, took the seat.

  The Book of the Shepherd

  Errol hobbled down to the ford slowly but without his crutches. Each step was an experiment, as if he had forgotten how to walk and needed to learn all over again. His ankles were stiff, a little sore if he was honest with himself, but the dragging pain that had been his constant companion through the months since he had escaped from Tynhelyg was now little more than a memory. Still, he was determined to take his time recovering, not to make the mistake he had with the chest.

  Reaching the water’s edge, he slipped his shirt off over his head, dropped his trousers on to the grassy bank and stepped into the water. It had become a daily routine to swim in the river, building up his strength and stamina by fighting against the current. As ever, the water was cold against his skin, but he ignored his shivers, wading right in before plunging under the surface. Flashes of light were salmon darting away from him, swimming to the bottom and hiding in the fronds of weed that swayed in the flow. He held his breath and let the river carry him slowly downstream, watching the fish through eyes made bleary by the water. They slowly overcame their fear, emerging from the weeds, darting forward and back, each movement a flash as if they didn’t swim but rather jumped from point to point.

  Thinking of them brought the lines into his vision. Where everything else was blurred, they were clear and strong, painting the shape of the river bed. He reached out to the nearest, pulling the power of the Grym into him, feeling it warm his cold skin and push the dull ache from his bones.

  ‘Come to me, dragons of Gwlad. Come to me.’

  Errol nearly choked on a mouthful of water. Kicking off from the bottom, he burst through the surface, coughing and spluttering, water pouring out of his nose. He fought his way to the bank and hauled himself out on to the grass, shivering as the wind tugged at his bare skin. He reached back to the lines for warmth, touching them lightly, wary of any more surprises.

 
‘Dragons of Gwlad, come to me. I await you.’

  This time Errol was a little more ready to hear the voice, which spoke in perfect, eloquent Draigiaith. It was familiar, but at first he couldn’t place it, distracted by the power behind the words. He felt like he needed to leap to his feet and run off into the woods in search of this damsel so obviously in distress. But that was absurd. He was naked, his clothes a hundred paces or more upstream. And he had no idea where this dragon was, what direction to set off in. Shaking his head to dislodge the mad impulse, he felt out along the lines, trying to see where the strange calling came from.

  He had a memory of something similar, but it took a while to dredge it up from the confusion of his past. He remembered Melyn’s chambers, a meeting with the inquisitor abruptly cut short. He had stood guard outside his chambers, but why would he have done that? Surely Osgal was never far from Melyn. But Osgal had been ill, had eaten something that disagreed with him. Errol could picture the captain’s face almost perfectly, green where usually it was florid and sweaty. He had stood guard outside Melyn’s chambers while the captain took himself off to the privy. The lines had drawn him in, past whatever magical wards Melyn had placed on his door, and he had seen the inquisitor in conversation with a dragon, pretending to be one himself, tricking the creature into giving her location away.

  The memories slotted themselves back together out of the maelstrom of images and voices that assaulted him whenever he tried to think back to his time at Emmass Fawr. Errol knew that Melyn had worked some terrible magic on his mind, filling it with false ideas and thoughts skilfully blended with the truth until he could scarcely tell which was which. But now, here, with this strange voice calling to him through the lines, some of it began to make sense.