The Broken World (11 page)

‘That was priceless. I would have given anything to see that, and I got it for free.' Dafydd chortled. ‘Ah, my boy. This is a tale I will dine out on for years.'

‘He's his father's son. To piss on the queen. But what shall we call him? He cannot be Divitie or Diseverin, no more than Ballah or Geraint.'

‘True, true. But what about Iolo? That's as fine a name as any.'

Iolwen looked down into her son's eyes, then back to Dafydd, her brow wrinkled at his suggestion. Then, as if deciding she could think of no better, she smiled.

‘Iolo it is then. Let us hope he lives long enough to be proud of it.'

As disguises went it was very effective, but Errol spent the whole of his journey to Tynhelyg wishing that there was some other way to keep from being discovered. The closer he came to the capital city, the more people he met on the road and in the towns and villages. Places to sleep were hard to find, and in some villages it was all he could manage to buy some bread and cheese. At least Lord Gremmil had furnished him with more than enough coin for his journey.

Errol fell in with some merchants and families who had already banded together. It made sense, since they were all heading the same way and travelling at much the same speed, and if Dondal's men were looking for anyone it was a lone young man, not a shy girl in a crowd. And yet he spent the first few days with the group in a state of nervous terror, waiting for someone to see through his disguise. With time, though, and as he got to know a bit about his companions, so he began to relax a little.

‘You're always so quiet, Eleni. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours, I wonder.'

Errol took a moment to respond. He had chosen the name at random, not quite sure where he had heard it before. Perhaps one of the barmaids in one of the many taverns he had visited since losing Benfro. In fact he was wondering how the dragon was faring at the hands of the circus master; he couldn't help remembering the sorry state of the lioncats and the way everyone had been in fear of Loghtan. And what if Benfro couldn't keep back Magog? Would there be anything of his friend left to rescue? Or would he have to carry out Corwen's fatal wish?

‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking me there's not much other than grass around here. Where am I supposed to find me some healing herbs and suchlike?' He had taken to trying to make his speech sound more like the rough dialect of the northlands rather than the formal court tongue he had learned from Andro and perfected at Tynewydd.

‘Dearie me, girl. Where'd you grow up? There's more than grass in the plains.' Mollum was a great bear of a woman, round and jolly with a forceful personality that made it easy to hide in her shadows. She was taking her family of young children to the city to stay with their grandparents, then she was going to head south to join her husband, stationed near Wrthol with the army. The King's Festival was a good way to distract the youngsters from the upheaval of the move. She had unofficially adopted Errol – or the apprentice herbwoman Eleni as he had to remind himself several times a day – the day after he joined the makeshift convoy. It had been easier to fall into her orbit than make a fuss about trying to stay private.

‘It all seems so barren to me.' Errol repeated a sentiment he had expressed many times before. ‘I'm used to trees and mountains. The sky's so big here.'

‘Well, that'll change soon enough. We're almost at the city – not more than another day, I'd say. There's streets there where the houses meet at the top and cut out the sky altogether.'

Errol tried to look suitably awestruck at this description, though he knew already how narrow the streets of Tynhelyg were.

‘And where will I find me my herbs there, if the sun never reaches the ground?' He rolled his eyes, flicking his long hair over his shoulder as he had observed some of the girls do.

‘Ah me, Eleni. I don't think you'll have much trouble finding what you want in the city. Truth be told, a pretty little thing like you might find much more besides. Just don't sell yourself cheap, if you get my meaning.'

It was a favourite topic of Mollum's, and Errol was happy to let her do the talking as his horse kept time with her lumbering wagon. The afternoon wore on to evening in much the same way as many before, and when the setting sun made travel along the road dangerous, the caravan simply pulled off on to the grass and made camp.

There was much excitement around the fires that night as everyone reckoned they would reach the city by the next afternoon. Friendships had been forged over the long march south and east, and sitting out on the edge of the camp Errol could hear the beginnings of a great party. Tomorrow everyone would part, going to houses of relatives or the large encampment that sprang up on the eastern plains every King's Festival. Either way, the camaraderie of the journey would be over, so tonight was a chance to say farewell. The noise would only grow, and it was unlikely he would get any sleep.

The sky was clear, and a quarter-moon had risen, painting the rolling plains in eerie light, when Errol decided he might as well head off. He could get a good head start on the caravan and reach the city by mid-morning; he might even catch up with the circus before it found its spot and set up. Quietly he gathered his things and saddled his
horse, making sure by touch that everything was properly attached. It was only as he was preparing to lead the gelding out on to the road that he sensed a presence behind him. Before he could turn, a fat fleshy hand clamped over his wrist.

‘Be careful, Eleni. The roads are not to be travelled lightly, not alone and at night by a young woman. Nor even a young man.'

‘I don't know what you mean, Mollum.' In his shock, Errol's voice was lower than the breathless high whisper he had adopted for his disguise, his Cerdys accent gone.

‘It's your hands, boy. They give the game away. Don't worry, old Mollum won't tell on you. If I thought you meant ill I'd not have let you ride with us to start with. I dare say you've good reason for the disguise – maybe your father didn't want you to join the army. Reckon he's got more sense than you there, but you'll find out that lesson your own way.' She let go of his wrist, then ran her hand through his hair. ‘Still, it'll be a shame when they take the shears to you.'

In the pale moonlight it was difficult to be sure, but Errol thought he could see tears in her eyes. ‘You've been a good companion these last few days,' he said. ‘I shan't forget you. I hope you have good luck in your travels.'

Before he could say anything more, Errol found himself swept up in a great hug, crushing the wind out of him. Just as he thought he would surely pass out from lack of air, he was released. Mollum took a step back, then thrust a small parcel into his hands.

‘What's this?'

‘A girl needs more than the one pair of breeks, and that
blouse won't wash clean any more. Go safely, Eleni.' And before he could protest, she turned away, waddling back into the darkness.

Errol led his horse on to the road, bewildered and relieved in equal measure. He walked away from the camp and its multiple noisy fireplace congregations, out into the moonlit night. Once he had crested a low hill and dropped down into the next shallow valley, he mounted and let his horse pick its slow way along the road, ever closer to Tynhelyg and the perils it contained.

‘Is this it?'

‘Is this what, Your Majesty?'

‘The army of Abervenn? Is this the best you could muster?'

Beulah looked out over the men arrayed in something distantly related to lines across the large courtyard at the front of the castle. They were dressed in a hotchpotch of styles and colours, as if a dozen colour-blind seamstresses had been given a very rough sketch of what a soldier should wear. Some of the men had spears, some swords, but there seemed to have been no attempt to divide them according to their weaponry. And ranks had apparently been determined according to who had the shiniest and most ornate armour, no matter how archaic it looked. Cadoc was presumably general of this mob because he owned not only a shiny brass helm complete with red feathers, but also a complete set of armour for his horse. The poor animal snorted and puffed even standing still. Beulah was fairly certain it would be dead long before they reached Tochers.

‘This is the last levy, Your Majesty.' Cadoc bowed in his saddle, and for a moment Beulah thought the weight of his ridiculous helm was going to tip him over on to the ground.

‘The last?'

‘We have already sent substantial forces to both Tochers and Dina, ma'am. These are the men who were left behind to bring in the harvest – a good one this year, as it happens. The grain stores are full to bursting.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. We'll need all the food we can produce to feed the armies.'

‘Indeed, ma'am. They're already consuming at a prodigious rate. Let us hope the campaign is short, or the city will surely starve.'

‘I think that highly unlikely, General. Abervenn is rich enough and fertile enough to feed itself and my army for many years.' For a moment Beulah thought Cadoc was going to argue the point with her; certainly his thoughts betrayed a certain belligerence. But he managed to hold himself back, the discipline of his military training taking hold.

‘Perhaps you'd like to inspect the men,' he said instead.

Beulah nodded, though she felt their time would be better spent in marching. Still they expected to be presented to their queen, and she owed at least that much to people who might soon die in her name. She nudged her horse towards the first rank of soldiers. They nervously watched her approach, a few retreating before being pushed back into line by those behind them. It was a rabble, a mixture of the old and the simple, which couldn't be trusted to hold against an attack. She hoped by the
Shepherd that the men already drafted were of a higher calibre.

‘They're not the best of soldiers, are they, my lady?' Clun, ever the master of understatement, rode alongside the queen, his black stallion dwarfing her own fine mare. Perhaps it was the great beast making the men nervous, and with good reason – it had already broken one stable hand's arm and the leg of another.

‘Are you sure that horse is safe, my love?' From where she was sitting, Beulah could look the beast straight in the eye.

‘He's all right once you get to know him. He's just not—'

Whatever it was Clun was going to say, Beulah never learned. At that moment the horse reared up, its nostrils flared and eyes wide. For an instant she thought she was going to be crushed, but somehow the creature swivelled on its back legs, lashing out with its front at the conscripts. Panicked men tried to escape, pushing back into the ranks behind, tripping over each other and reducing the troops to a tangle of old armour and pikes, flailing limbs and shouts of alarm. There was a high-pitched shriek, almost girlish, cut suddenly short. And then the great horse settled back down again, Clun still perched in the saddle. The whole incident had taken no more than a half-dozen heartbeats.

‘My lady, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over him.' Clun backed the horse away from the mess of soldiers as they scrambled to their feet. The chaos spread away like a fan from a single point, and there lay one unmoving man. Beulah looked down at him, well aware that he was dead.
No one could survive the hoof that had caved in the man's face. But it was not his injury that held her attention, rather what he still held clutched tight in his hand.

‘What's that he's holding?' Beulah pointed, loath to dismount from her own horse. Her ever more obvious pregnancy made it hard to get comfortable, and once she was, she hated to move any more than necessary. General Cadoc seemed less than keen to dismount either, probably because he would need a winch to get him back into the saddle, so Clun slid athletically off his horse, patting the beast on its neck as if it had not just killed a man with a single kick. The stallion followed him like an obedient dog as he walked over and stooped to inspect the damage. After a few moments he stood once more, handing a slim wooden tube to Beulah.

‘It had this inside.' Clun opened his other hand to reveal a short feathered dart, its head coated in some dark sticky mess.

‘A blowpipe?' Beulah turned the weapon over in her hand a few times, then handed it back to Clun. ‘Well, I don't suppose we need to guess who its intended target was. Captain Celtin?'