The Obsidian Throne Page 24

  He calmed himself, building up the image of the cave again, picturing the spot where Benfro had placed the chest all those months ago. He remembered all the times he had risen, hobbled on sore, healing ankles across the cave and opened the lid. Inside he could see the piles of clothes, worn a little, perhaps getting a bit on the small side, but his. Errol reached out an imaginary hand and took a hold of the rough cloth tunic his mother had sewn for him not long before her wedding. Beneath it lay a pair of soft leather trews that Godric had given him. There were stiff wool socks, smallclothes and more blankets. And there, washed and dried and tidied away, the jerkin he had been wearing when he and Martha had almost drowned. It was too small for him now, but it reminded him of her. For a moment he thought he could hear her voice, calling him, dragging him away from the cave and the chest and the clothes. He hardened himself against it, focused solely on the chest. He knew all too well the lure of the Grym, the distractions that could tear his soul from his body and dissipate it throughout Gwlad. He needed enough to wear, and something for Nellore since her skirt wasn’t going to last much longer if they started walking through deep forest. No more than that. They could search for Martha later.

  It was strange, rifling through his clothes in his memory. Errol felt no sensation as he picked up one garment then another, but each one he remembered handling before. Not really sure how he did it, he imagined himself selecting the best of what was on offer, tucking things under an invisible arm until he had all he could manage. He still felt the cold stone of Magog’s skull plate in the hand of that arm, and as he focused on that sensation, so the image of the cave, the smell of its soil and the rush of the waterfall out beyond it faded away, morphing into the dry wind through the wiry shrubs, the soft trickle of the sluggish stream and hiss, crack and pop of the fire.

  As he came back to himself, Errol felt the weight of the clothing under his arm and a sense of elation that he had succeeded. And then at the last moment he felt something else. A rush of the Grym like a surge of water cascading over him. He clung tight to the clothes, fearful they would slip back to Corwen’s clearing, or worse be lost for ever in the lines. He squeezed hard on the piece of bone in his hand, digging his fingernails into it and using the pain to remind himself of his own body. For a moment he thought his head was being squeezed tight by some huge hand, then his ears popped and he was pitched forward.

  Errol sprawled on to the sand, the clothes tumbling from under his arm and partially cushioning his fall. The effort of reaching out along the lines had left him even more drained than when Nellore had pulled him out of the pool, but he was dimly aware of a commotion over by the large rock. Then he heard Nellore scream in alarm, a high-pitched wail that reminded him just how young she really was, and how helpless. He didn’t know what he could do to protect her, but he had to try.

  Mustering all his energy, he pushed himself up off the sand and struggled to his feet. The ground swayed alarmingly as he tried to find his balance, searching all the while for whatever it was that had scared Nellore. His vision was dull and blurred with exhaustion, and he had to shake his head, blink a few times until things came into focus. Only then did he see something he couldn’t quite understand.

  Two figures stood halfway between the great rock and their fire. One was a young boy who seemed strangely familiar, even though Errol was fairly certain he had never met him before. He looked pale and was wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve as if he had just thrown up. The other Errol recognized at once, even though she was thin and bedraggled, her hair awry and her long green cloak in tatters. Martha stared first at him, then at Nellore standing on the other side of the fire. Then her gaze narrowed into a deep frown as it returned to him once more. Looked him up and down and up again.

  ‘Who is this girl, Errol? And why are neither of you wearing any clothes?’

  20

  First you will feel the heat in the tips of your fingers, as if you have grasped a mug just filled with boiling water. Arms and legs are mere conduits for the Grym, so next your stomach will begin to churn, acid leaching through into your lungs and lights as it bubbles through you. The very air you breathe will seem like flames, searing your throat and swelling your tongue until speech is impossible. It is unlikely at this point you will want to do anything but scream.

  As the power floods into you unchecked, so the soles of your feet and the palms of your hands will blister. The fire will engulf your joints, twisting elbows and knees, hips and fingers so that you curl up like an ancient man, withered by time. The fluid in your eyes will boil, turning them white like poached eggs as the heat travels up to your brain.

  And the cruellest thing is that you will feel it all. For the Grym is power, true, but it is also life. It will hold you in its grip as it devours your flesh from within. Only when there is nothing left for it to feed upon will your self be dissipated and the agony be over.

  Inquisitor Melyn,

  Lectures to Novitiates

  There had been much to distract her as they began the slow task of reoccupying Candlehall. Appointing a new seneschal had been the least of Beulah’s troubles, and for the first time in her life she found herself wishing she had more predicants and clerks of the Candle. Dry and humourless they might have been, but they were efficient and skilled in the minutiae of administration. Clun’s background as a merchant’s son had proved useful in negotiations with suppliers and builders. His reputation as the man who had bested the leader of the dragons helped as well, but there was still a mountain of work to be done before the Twin Kingdoms could even begin to return to normal. Which was perhaps why she had not yet returned to the Neuadd since taking back her city. That and the fear that her beloved hall was almost certainly damaged, the throne sullied by the presence both of the dragons and her sister.

  Beulah had persuaded herself that it wasn’t safe to venture through the palace until all the damage had been checked and any people remaining had been vetted to see where their sympathies lay. Those tasks complete, she no longer had any excuse other than her reluctance to return to her throne. Until that was done she could scarcely claim to be queen, so finally she had summoned her husband and bade him accompany her. She took no guards, not wanting anyone to see her reaction to the damage she knew must be.

  It was not an easy journey. The stench grew worse, and with it the destruction as they progressed through the palace towards the Neuadd. Dust and bits of fallen stonework lay everywhere, the thick carpets ruined by the careless tramping of many feet. Some corridors were blocked by collapsed ceilings, others impassable because of fallen floors. Wherever Beulah looked there was more damage, but most of all it was the lack of people that she found unnerving. Candlehall had always been thronged with folk, the palace a bustle of busyness as only the administrative centre of a realm could be. There should have been black-robed predicants everywhere, quietly discussing the running of the Twin Kingdoms as they moved from room to room. Ministers should have been on hand to advise her on matters of state. Servants should have been cleaning, repairing and generally making sure the palace ran smoothly. And there should have been guards on every major corridor. Instead the whole place was empty.

  ‘There were warrior priests stationed here before Padraig let my sister and her band of rebels in. I wonder what happened to them?’

  ‘Very few warrior priests remained here, my lady, and they were older men, ready to turn quaister and teach the next generation of novitiates. The most able rode with Inquisitor Melyn into the Northlands, the rest followed us on our grand tour or went to Dinas and Tochers to train the armies. Candlehall was never seen as being under much threat, so we left it to Seneschal Padraig to defend it with his own men.’

  ‘And look how well that turned out.’ Beulah let out a humourless laugh as they finally reached the stone steps leading up to the cloisters surrounding the Neuadd. It had taken them far longer than it should have to reach this point, constantly doubling back through empty rooms and using the servants’
corridors when the main routes were blocked.

  ‘Not so well for the seneschal, my lady.’ Clun lowered his head as if in embarrassment, or perhaps sadness.

  ‘How so? He fled with all the others, did he not? With my darling sister and her savage husband.’

  ‘I think not. That mess on the front steps is all that remains of him. If I understand Sir Sgarnog correctly, Padraig sought to negotiate terms with Sir Chwilog and was eaten for his pains.’

  Beulah smiled at the news, but in truth her appetite for vengeance was waning with each new discovery in the palace. It was hard to maintain enmity for her treacherous people when a much more tangible threat hung over them all. Hard to even think of her success over the Llanwennogs when her own capital lay in ruins, its people scattered. A hollow victory indeed.

  ‘Come then. Let us see what chaos these creatures have wrought upon the great hall.’ Beulah set a foot on the first step, and as she did so a deep rumble filled the air, shaking the stones and causing plaster dust to spiral down from the ceiling. The noise ended as abruptly as it started, and then a great trumpeting roar blasted down the stairwell. With it came the reek of fresh charnel and an unpleasant heat.

  ‘By the Shepherd, what is that?’ Beulah covered her mouth and nose with one hand, summoned the Grym to her and conjured a blade of fire in the other. Beside her Clun did the same. They climbed the stairs together slowly.

  ‘Be careful, my lady. I don’t think this is one of Sir Sgarnog’s fold. There’s something familiar about—’

  An explosion of noise cut off whatever Clun was going to say. Beulah saw the stone pillar at the top of the steps shatter into a million pieces, just had time to register that it had been swiped out of the way by a massive scaly hand, and then she was turning, ducking away from the cascade of rocks that bounced and ricocheted down towards them both. Her blade faltered and went out, too much effort to maintain as something else stole the Grym from far around. Her knees buckled and she stumbled down the steps, rolling as she hit the floor at the bottom. Something cracked like a dead branch underfoot, but in the chaos she couldn’t tell if it was her own bones or those of her consort. Maybe it was both.

  ‘Clun!’ The word escaped from her like the scream of a little girl, but all she could see was billowing dust, shards of stone flying like ballista projectiles and pinging off the far wall. She shuffled backwards, noticing for the first time the pain in her leg. Reaching down, she felt a wetness on her soft leather riding trousers, and when she looked at her hand it was stained with sticky red blood.

  Another crash shook the building, sending more stone tumbling down the stairs. It sounded like something was trying to rip the roof off and expose them to the sky. Beulah tried to stand up, but now there was sharp pain in her leg, unbearable the moment she put any weight on it. Something was clearly broken. She pulled herself further away from the pile of rubble at the bottom of the stairs, searching for Clun through the dust. Up above the beast roared again, and there was something in the cadence of the sounds that made her realize it was speech. Angry words, beyond angry. There was a righteous fury to the screeching sounds even though she could not understand their meaning.

  The dust began to settle, sunlight spearing through the motes at an angle that suggested at least part of the roof was gone now. Still Beulah could not see Clun anywhere. And then she saw a hand, pale and streaked with blood, poking out from a pile of rocks. Did it twitch as she looked? Could she hear a low moan of pain? Her ears were still ringing from the explosions and the noise of the great dragon’s bellowing. It had fallen silent for a moment, but she was sure it was still there, sniffing them out like a terrier after rats. She had put up her mental shields at the same time as she had conjured her blade; years of training had made that automatic. Now she strengthened them against what felt like an alien presence in the Grym, testing and poking the lines to see what it might find. As her hearing returned, she could make out more subtle sounds, the occasional chink of stone upon stone, rough scraping as heavy objects were moved aside, the breathing of a creature so big she could scarce imagine it.

  And Clun was lying there wounded, unconscious, helpless.

  ‘Do not try to move, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I am coming to help.’

  Beulah pulled herself along the floor, back the way she had just come. Large stones had jammed together at the top of the steps, but even with her hearing dulled, she could tell that something was digging away at them furiously.

  Clun lay on his back, half covered in rocks. Blocking out the pain in her leg, Beulah began shifting the smaller ones as best she could, working quickly but quietly. Every so often she glanced up at the jumble of boulders wedged precariously into the stairwell above her. Should a key stone be removed, the whole lot would come tumbling down and that would be the end.

  A weak groan focused Beulah’s attention. Clun’s eyes were still closed, blood seeping from a gash on his forehead, but he slowly raised one hand and began to push weakly at the rocks still covering his chest. He coughed, then let out a sharp gasp of pain. Beulah could see now that his legs were pinned under a heavy chunk of masonry.

  ‘Stay still. I need to work my way round to the other side of you. Help you shift that.’ She started to drag herself around the pile of rubble as Clun hacked and coughed, spitting out dust and blood on to the stone floor.

  ‘Are you hurt, my lady?’ he asked after a while. Beulah noticed he didn’t look up or try to see where she was.

  ‘Not badly,’ she lied. ‘We need to get you free before those rocks give way though.’

  Clun moved his head from side to side, eyes open and blinking rapidly now. His gaze slid over her. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘It’s just the dust, a bit of blood. Keep calm, my love. I am nearly there.’ Beulah dragged herself alongside him as she spoke, reached out a hand and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He flinched, then forced himself to relax as she felt his face, wiped at the mess around his eyes and the cut above them. In the gloom she could see no reason why his sight should have failed him, but she buried the worry, turning her attention to the rock that pinned his legs.

  It was a piece of the cloister, she was fairly sure of that. The carving on the side facing her was worn smooth with the passing of ages, and the stone had that dark sooty staining much of the palace exterior wore. It was bigger than her upper body and most likely weighed as much as her filly. What chance Clun’s legs were not crushed entirely beneath it? What chance of her shifting it even a tiny amount?

  ‘Can you feel anything?’ Beulah slid herself closer to Clun, pressed gently on first one leg then the other. He stiffened and grunted at her touch, clearly in agony but unwilling to show it. Still, it was a good sign.

  ‘I’m going to try and move this rock. Can you pull your legs out?’

  ‘I will try, my lady.’

  Clun shifted himself, feeling around with his hands to get the lie of the land. He touched Beulah’s leg briefly and she winced, biting back the cry of pain.

  ‘I think we are both hurt more than we are prepared to admit,’ he said.

  ‘We are alive. Let us try and stay that way.’

  Beulah set her shoulder against the rock and pushed. It gave a little, and Clun tried to pull himself clear. It was not enough though, and after a moment he stopped.

  ‘We need help. Go. Fetch Captain Celtin and his men. I’ll be fine until they get here.’

  ‘I can’t leave you,’ Beulah said.

  ‘You must, my lady. Think of our daughter.’ He reached out with a hand, searching the air for her. Beulah sat upright, caught it in her own and guided it to her face.

  ‘I can’t because my leg is broken, my love. We either get out of this together or not at all.’

  ‘Gather the men. I have a mission that will require the skills we have acquired over the course of this campaign.’

  Melyn sat in King Ballah’s throne deep in the palace of Tynhelyg and wondered why it had taken him so long to act.
A week and more had passed since General Otheng and the first clerks of the Candle had arrived, taking on the burden of running this newest province of the Twin Kingdoms, and yet he had not set out in search of Benfro, nor ordered his warrior priests to begin the long march back to Emmass Fawr. Instead he had barely moved from this room and the dead king’s personal chambers, all the while struggling to calm the storm of new knowledge, the thousand thousand voices that whispered and shouted in his head. He had not been ready, had still been recovering from his wounds. Or at least that was the excuse that he had given himself. Until now.

  ‘At once, sire.’ Captain Osgal snapped to attention, clattering a salute off his chest that had him wincing in ill-disguised pain. The wounds Benfro had inflicted on him showed no sign of healing yet, the sores on his face suppurating, his eyes bloodshot. For all his discomfort he was a constant presence at the inquisitor’s side. And yet despite his words, Osgal paused a moment where once he would have rushed straight to his task. ‘Might I ask what mission?’

  The old Melyn, the one who had ridden out of Emmass Fawr in search of a renegade dragon and a back route into the land of his enemies, would probably have struck the captain for the failure to execute his order immediately and without question. But the old Melyn was dead, consumed by the madness that had descended on him when he had finally met his god. The new Melyn was more accommodating, though perhaps every bit as cruel.

  ‘Come here, Captain,’ he commanded. ‘Kneel before me.’

  Osgal did as he was bid, the fear well hidden behind those red eyes and blistered skin. Melyn placed a hand on the captain’s head and let the spirit of Magog flow through him into the kneeling man. It wasn’t a pleasant healing, not like the gentle touch of the Shepherd as he washed away the aches and pains of years. Melyn had no time nor inclination for such subtlety. In moments he forced flesh to mend itself that would have taken months of its own accord. Osgal clenched his teeth in pain, his breath snorting out through his nose in ragged gasps, but he did not speak, did not cry out. When it was done though, and Melyn removed his hand, the captain slumped forward before struggling back on to his knees.