The Golden Cage (23 page)

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.

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.

‘Come to me, dragons of Gwlad. Come to my side.'

Like straining his ears to try and pinpoint the source of a noise, Errol tried to determine where the voice he heard directly in his head originated. It was coming to him along the lines, of that much he was sure, but it seemed to come from all directions. Even the pull behind the words was formless: it filled him with an unsettling urge to act, to move, but gave no indication of where he should go. Frustrated, he pulled away and struggled to his feet. He walked slowly back to his clothes, letting the wind dry him as he went and scanning the skies all the while. He needed to talk to Benfro – perhaps he would be able to throw some light on the mystery – but the dragon was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling on his trousers and shirt, Errol went back to the cave and stoked up the fire, warming himself as best he could without touching the Grym and that unsettling call. He sat for some time wondering about the voice. What could it mean? Were there other dragons out there? Had Benfro heard the call himself and flown off in search of this female? Was she still calling? His natural curiosity, so long suppressed by Melyn's influence, niggled at him until he just had to find some answers. He brought the lines
back into his focus, felt out along them, savouring the different textures each one presented to him, always trying to keep himself centred. He wanted to listen, not to be drawn down any one path, or worse, all of them at once.

‘Dragons of Gwlad, hear my call. You who walk the long road, I am Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi teul Albarn. Come to me.'

For an instant Errol thought he heard something else, then the dragon opened her eyes. He could see what she saw: a small clearing in the middle of the forest, a clear blue sky. In the distance a rocky outcrop speared out of the trees like the bleached and dried hulk of some long-dead leviathan and overhead, descending on outstretched wings, Benfro?

Startled, Errol almost lost whatever strange connection it was he had made through the lines. The vision dimmed and he could see the cave, the fire flickering as it ate into the dry wood. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the sense of longing that Frecknock seemed to exude. At once he was back with her, watching as a huge creature wheeled and swooped down. Now that he could see it properly, Errol realized that the dragon was not Benfro. He, and it had to be male, was twice Benfro's size, his wings larger still, blanking out the sun high overhead as he came in to land. Errol was buffeted by a great wind that knocked him back both physically and in his mind. He was pushed away from the scene into his own body, falling back on to his bed in the cave, with such force that he tipped over backwards, knocking his head against the stone wall. Dazed, he sat back up again, felt his skull for lumps. He tried to reconnect with the dragon, but he could hear
nothing, though the lines were there as clear as ever. The feeling of longing was gone too, which Errol supposed made sense. If Frecknock had found what she was looking for, then she would of course stop her calling.

A noise outside the cave distracted Errol from his musings. He levered himself up off his bed and went to see what was happening. As he emerged into the light, he saw Benfro pick himself up off the ground at the far side of the clearing. Dusting himself off with a shake like a wet dog, the dragon slung something over his shoulder and started the long walk to the cave. It was unusual for him to make a bad landing these days, Errol thought.

As the dragon came closer, Errol could see that he carried a large deer, already gutted and cleaned.

‘Good hunting, I see.' He nodded towards the dead beast. Benfro said nothing, slapping the carcass down on a flat-topped rock and beginning the process of skinning, jointing and butchering. Errol ignored the silence; Benfro was always a bit surly when he fluffed a landing. ‘Did you fly far today?'

Benfro continued to hack away at the deer with his talons. They were formidable weapons, Errol could see, and the dragon would have made a fearsome enemy for even a skilled warrior priest, such was his size now. But he was a child in comparison to the dragon Errol had just seen.

‘I almost didn't come back.' Benfro didn't turn as he spoke, and his voice was so quiet Errol had to strain to hear him over the roar of the waterfall. ‘I was chasing eagles in the morning, and it wasn't until midday I realized I was heading south, to Cenobus.'

‘Cenobus?'

‘You
know, Magog's ruined palace. Where his repository is, and all those jewels. I was so near I could see it sticking out of the trees like a great stone finger. As soon as I realized, I turned away, but it's taken me all day to fly back. I only stopped the once, when I spotted this deer a few miles south of here. Every time I think I'm beginning to fend Magog off, he finds a new way to get to me. I didn't even feel him this time, just a strange compulsion to fly south.'

‘It might not have been Magog.' Errol tried to make out Benfro's aura and the almost invisible loop of the rose cord that tied him to the red jewel hidden in Corwen's cave. That he found it almost impossible to see showed that Magog's influence was minimal, and the colours shifting and swirling around the dragon were far more vibrant than he had ever seen them. Benfro was in rude health.

‘What do you mean?' Benfro finally turned, still holding a slab of venison in one hand, dark blood dripping from his claws and covering the top of the flat rock.

‘I heard a dragon make a calling this afternoon.' Errol told Benfro all that he had seen and heard, watching the expression change on the dragon's face from weary resignation to wonder and perhaps fear.

‘This dragon you saw,' Benfro asked when Errol had finally finished. ‘Was there anything noticeable about him? Apart from his size?'

Errol thought back to the brief glimpses he had seen, trying to build a picture of the creature beyond his sheer size. Details came to him now – the shape of his ears and the tufts of hair that sprouted from their ends like in the pictures of mountain cats he had seen in the library archives at Emmass Fawr. The dragon's wings had been
patterned too, each one showing an image of a dragon with its wings outstretched, and on them a pattern of a dragon, and so on in mesmerizing detail. But there was one detail he had missed before, though rebuilding the image in his head, it was strange that he could have overlooked it.

‘He had one hand in some kind of bandage, strapped to his chest.'

‘Then he's the same dragon I saw before, flying over Cenobus. And you're sure it was Frecknock who was calling him?'

‘That's what she said her name was: Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi teul Albarn. I didn't see her, but her voice was familiar. I think I saw her once before, when she spoke to Melyn.'

‘But that doesn't make sense. Melyn captured her and took her off to Candlehall in chains. There's no way she could have escaped from the queen.'

Errol's hand went up to his chest, feeling the pain of Beulah's knife sliding between his ribs even though there was no longer even a scar to mark its passage. Most of his memories of that time were a haze of drugs and pain, but he remembered a dragon, small and frightened, chained to the Obsidian Throne like some obscene parody of the toy dogs favoured by court ladies.

‘I saw her at Candlehall,' Errol said, dredging up the past. ‘I spoke to her, but she didn't reply. She couldn't have escaped from there alive.'

‘So what's she doing in the forest not more than a day's flight from here?'

Corris
was a miserable little town clinging to the highest navigable reaches of the mighty River Hafren. Even so, seeing its low defensive wall surrounding a motley collection of two- and three-storey houses clustered around the unimposing bulk of the castle, Beulah could have wept for joy.

They had dumped the dead mercenaries in the woods after searching them for any clues as to who might have paid them and finding nothing more illuminating than a large supply of narcotic leaves, which explained the berserker rage of the attack. Two warrior priests had been killed, and they were given a proper burial, then the wounded had been loaded on to one of the carts and the whole royal procession set off once again, silent and more vigilant. Beulah herself had refused to ride in a wagon, taking the horse of one of the dead warrior priests and hoping it would last her longer than her previous mount.