The Broken World (16 page)

It took a surprisingly long time to notice that he wasn't being burned. Far from harming him, the flames filled him with strength, caressing his bare skin like warm water, cleaning away the dirt of the road and the camp. He could feel the fire envelop his head, easing away the dull ache that had been with him ever since he had woken in Lord Gremmil's castle, the weariness of long days riding, walking, hiding, all gone in that warm, welcoming flame.

The knife at his throat dropped away; Tegwin's grasp relaxed, and only then did Errol hear a distant screaming, like a man being tortured. It reminded him of his stay in the palace dungeons. Then it had been him crying out as Ballah's guard smashed a hammer into his ankles, but now
he was sure it was someone else in pain, and idly he wondered who it might be.

Slowly the flames faded, evaporating into the night. The last of them lingered around his feet and legs, filling them with a healing warmth as a foul stench of burned meat rose into the air. Something fell to the ground behind him with a noise like dried leaves trampled underfoot on a frosty morning. He turned to see a roughly man-shaped pile of ashes billow out on the dark ground.

‘Gog breathes the Fflam Gwir. Hee hee. Old Tegwin's going to be sorry. Yes, he is.'

Errol's wits slowly returned to him. They brought a deep shudder with them, loosening his knees and tipping him forward. Strong arms caught him, arms that had held him tight as he flew over the Rim mountains and the plains of the northlands. He looked up into Benfro's concerned face.

‘What are you doing here, Errol?'

‘I came to find you. I've been following since they took you. I was going to try and break you out of here somehow, but … What's going on?' Only then did Errol register the chaos, the flames leaping out of the big tent, the distant screams of fear and pain.

‘Melyn's here.'

‘Old Magog knew a Melyn once. Scrawny little kid, he was. Ran off to the castle, and no one ever saw him after that.'

Errol looked past Benfro and saw another, older dragon staring at him with a look of mild interest. ‘Who are you?'

‘I am Magog, Son of the Summer Moon,' the dragon said, his voice like a mummer rehearsing his lines. ‘And
this is my brother Gog. No doubt you've heard of us. We are the greatest dragons ever to rule the skies of Gwlad.'

‘He was here before they captured me,' Benfro said by way of explanation. ‘Loghtan did something to him, removed some of his jewels so he wouldn't remember who he was. He's been living his circus act for so long he truly believes he's Magog and I'm Gog.'

‘Removed his jewels?' Errol wasn't quite sure he understood, but he remembered the small wooden box on the table in Loghtan's wagon. ‘Hold on a minute.'

He sprang up the steps, his ankles feeling better than they had in months, and retrieved the box, handing it to Benfro. ‘Can we put them back?'

‘I don't know. Maybe Corwen could. The real Gog certainly would. If we just knew how to find him.'

‘Well, we can't stay here. If Melyn's about, there'll be warrior priests everywhere. We've got to get away.' In all the excitement Errol had quite forgotten his unusual arrival in the middle of the circus camp, but now he thought about it, he didn't know which way was out. The big marquee had almost all burned away, but the blaze had spread to the smaller tents, if the flames and sparks leaping above the dark line of the wagons were anything to go by. Their dying light spread red over the nearby city walls. Opposite was the tented city, no doubt in uproar now, and beyond it the forest.

‘We should head for the woods,' he said finally. ‘We can hide there for now, try and work out what to do. It's not safe here.'

‘Magog is not afraid of anything. Hee hee. Gog will keep him safe with his burning flame.'

Errol looked at the old dragon, then at Benfro and finally at the chaos of flames and screaming. A couple of circus performers ran past and he saw the major flaw in his plan.

‘Can you fly still?' he asked.

Benfro nodded.

‘And what about … Magog?'

‘He glides a few feet off the ground and a few dozen paces at a time. Why?'

‘There's a mile of tents and people between us and the woods. I don't know how they'll react to us just walking through.'

‘I don't think we're going to be walking.' Benfro stepped away from the side of the wagon, his gaze shifting to the wagons on the far side of the campfire, now little more than glowing coals. Dark shadows moved in the gloom. Then a panicked-looking woman rushed out into the space. Errol recognized Griselda and was about to shout to her, but one of the shadows resolved itself into a warrior priest wielding a blade of light. Without a word he swung, cutting the old woman down with a single blow. She toppled forward into the fire sending sparks crackling up into the night. Momentarily distracted, Errol searched for the warrior priest, but he had gone, his blade faded into the shadows.

The shadows. They moved, spreading out. Four indistinct shapes defying the light that leaped up from dead Griselda's burning clothes.

‘Oh my. That's not a good place to sleep now, is it, missy.' The old dragon's voice cut through the tense silence that had fallen on the scene. Errol couldn't see
Benfro anywhere. Then there was a high-pitched scream, a billow of flame as one of the shadows coalesced into the figure of a man writhing, alight. He crashed into a wagon, setting it ablaze.

The remaining three shadows resolved themselves into warrior priests, and as they did, Errol understood what they were doing. It was the same magic Benfro had used to hide himself, if far more subtle. But there was no time to reflect on that, as one of the men rushed straight towards him, blade of light held high.

‘Melyn will reward me for your head, traitor!'

Errol stood his ground, unsure why he wasn't afraid. With a thought he brought the lines to his vision, seeing how the warrior priest tapped them for the power he wielded. And, overlaid, he could see the aethereal form of the man, so ill defined, his aura just barely containing that terrible force. It was simple to reach out with his own mind, divert a little more of the Grym and tweak that fragile hold. He had never done anything remotely like it before and yet it seemed so obvious.

The warrior priest didn't even have time to scream. He lit up like a beacon, then dissolved into the air. There wasn't even smoke, and as Errol watched, still seeing the lines and the aethereal superimposed upon the dark world of the mundane, he could see the man sucked apart as if he were no more solid than air, dissipating back into the Grym whence he had come. It wasn't until he heard another scream that he remembered there had been other attackers.

Instinct saved him. He ducked and felt the heat of a blade of light pass over his head right where his neck
would have been. Looking up, fully expecting to see the blade coming back for the killing blow, Errol was instead confronted with the sight of booted feet, kicking wildly, at the same height as his head.

‘You shouldn't be so rude to Gog's friend. Magog's not happy at all with you.' The old dragon had the warrior priest by the neck, two long talons curving under his chin as he held the man aloft. There was a fire in his eyes, as if he knew he should be angry but couldn't quite remember what anger was or how it worked. The warrior priest still had his blade of light, and flailed around with it, trying to cut the arm that held him tight.

‘Now now. Don't be like that,' Magog said and squeezed. Errol saw the warrior priest's eyes bulge white in the darkness, his face darkening as veins stood out on his forehead. The blade shivered out of existence, a warm pulse of Grym flowing out along the lines, and then with a horrible wet crunching sound the man's neck snapped. The old dragon threw him to one side like a discarded bone. ‘Not very well made, these men.'

The dragon stepped forward and Errol instinctively retreated, his back against the wood of Loghtan's wagon.

‘Don't be afraid of old Magog, little man. You're Gog's friend and my friend too.' The old dragon looked suddenly confused. ‘But … where is Gog?'

They both scanned the open space, lit clearly by the burning wagon on one side.

Benfro appeared from between two more wagons and hurried towards them. ‘We've got to go. The last one got away. There'll be more of them soon. Melyn's seen me. He'll come for us.'

They hurried through the narrow alleys between the wagons, searching for a path that would take them to the edge of the circus camp without getting too close to the burning mess of the marquee. That was where all the noise came from – the panicked shouting, the screams of pain. Errol listened for any sound of pursuit, but there was so much din it was difficult to tell if any of it was directed their way. Still he knew they were being followed, and it was only a matter of time before more warrior priests appeared. Their last victory had been luck more than skill. Faced with a larger force they wouldn't survive.

Turning a corner, Errol was hit with a smell at once sickening and familiar. It was the taint of manure, a sickly heavy odour overlaid with acrid ammonia. He saw the animal wagons parked in a long line, their far sides forming the wall of the circus camp. A short distance off, the lioncats gnawed at the iron bars of their cage, their eyes glinting in the reflected firelight. All the animals were terrified, trapped when their every instinct was to flee.

‘Damn. I should have brought the keys.' Freeing the creatures would have added to the chaos and made their escape easier.

‘These keys?'

Errol turned and saw the old dragon holding up a heavy bunch. ‘How …?'

‘Old Loghtan won't be happy if he loses his keys, will he. Magog'll keep them safe for him for now.'

‘Umm. Can I have them?' Without a word, Magog handed them over. It was almost as if he had to obey. Errol didn't want to think what terrible things had happened to him over the years to make him so compliant.
And mad. Instead he set about finding the right key for the nearest cage. It was slow work, there were so many. He was on about the fifth wrong one when massive gnarled hands reached over and took the ring from him, sorted one key from the bunch, inserted it in the lock and twisted. There was an oiled
clack
and the door swung open. Timid eyes peered at him from the darkness beyond.

‘Magog knows all the animals, he does. Knows which key works for which.'

‘Can you free them? Free them all?'

There was something about the word that brought a spark to the old dragon's eyes. He stiffened as if he had been stabbed with a sharp stick, then trotted off with surprising speed, sorting the right key for each wagon as he ran between them. Faster and faster he went, throwing doors wide, shouting encouraging words to the creatures, who poked their heads out of newly opened doors, until finally he reached the lioncats.

‘Better put some distance between us and them,' Benfro said. He pushed between two wagons, leaning against the boarding until it splintered and cracked, forming a hole big enough for Errol to squeeze through. ‘We'll come over the top.'

Errol stepped through, then watched as the planks were pulled back roughly into their original positions. He looked out over the tented city and saw a mass of people running here and there. Fires had broken out all over, and the air was filled with the stench of burning. Flaming rags of canvas danced about in the wind, carrying this way and that, falling to the ground and starting new fires. He doubted anyone would stop them passing through.

A blast of wind overhead was Benfro landing close by. A short while later the old dragon appeared on the roof of the nearest wagon. He spread his wings wide, nothing like as magnificent as Benfro's, and leaped into the air, gliding to the ground a few dozen paces away. Almost at the same moment a cry went up. Errol looked round and saw Captain Osgal running his way, two dozen or more warrior priests hard on his heels.

‘Quick. To the forest.' Errol set off at a run, hampered by his disguise. It had not fooled the warrior priests for an instant. There was no need for it now, and he would gladly be rid of it. He stole a look back over his shoulder and gasped to see Osgal much closer and rapidly narrowing the gap. His face was a picture of pure rage, and his blade of light burned fiercest white.

There was no mercy in his eyes; he meant only to kill.

‘I only wish Iolwen could be here at my side.'

Prince Dafydd sat on his horse looking from the ridge across the valley of the River Abheinn towards the city of Candlehall. Behind him his impromptu army, the Abervenn Irregulars as they had taken to calling themselves, camped in readiness for the coming siege.

‘She's safer back in Abervenn, believe me. And if Beulah and her army come anywhere near, Master Holgrum will have her and your son out to sea and safety before they're in any danger.' Usel nudged his own horse forward until it was alongside the prince's. He was never far away these days, Dafydd thought. Always popping up when he was least expected, always smoothing over the inevitable problems that a mad endeavour such as this campaign generated. It was just as well, really. Without the medic they wouldn't have even started out, and his knowledge of the Twin Kingdoms was vast: there wasn't a village or town they had passed through that he
hadn't already visited and made friends with the nobility and common people alike. It had made their journey that much easier.

Now, however, with the capital in sight, there was little even Usel could do to avoid the inevitable. There were warrior priests stationed at Candlehall, many hundreds of them. And the two other orders, though less well suited to fighting, would likely side with Beulah against a foreign invader even if he commanded an army of locals.

‘How do we get in without enormous bloodshed?' Dafydd asked, looking back to the high-walled city perched on its hillside and almost completely surrounded by the wide twisting Abheinn.

‘It shouldn't be too hard to take,' Captain Pelod chipped in. ‘We've control of the river, so they can't get supplies in. It's a busy city, filled with people not accustomed to hunger, and their queen's not around to encourage them. I'd guess it won't take more than a week to starve them out.'

‘And meanwhile Beulah's force-marching her army back from Tochers. They could be here in a fortnight.' Dafydd strained his eyes, trying to make out what was happening at the city gates.

‘We don't know that,' Pelod said. ‘Chances are she doesn't know anything about us yet.'

‘I'd rather not leave things to chance, Jarius. You know what a fickle mistress she can be.'

‘I don't think you need concern yourself with a siege just yet, sir.' Usel kicked his horse into a walk that took it over the ridge and down the shallow hill towards the river.

‘Where are you going, man? We don't want to give them any more warning than necessary.' Dafydd spurred
forward to catch up with the medic, who had let his horse break into a trot. Behind him he was aware of Captain Pelod and the rest of his mounted troop of Llanwennog soldiers following. They soon caught up with Usel, but by then a similar party was riding out of the city to meet them. Dafydd's heart sank; he had hoped his advance had gone unreported, but in reality the city must have known of his approach for days.

Shadowed by the distant citadel on top of its hill, the parties stopped, leaving a space of some five hundred paces between them.

‘Who are they – Melyn's men?' Dafydd asked Usel.

‘No, indeed. Quite the opposite. I don't see any warrior priests there, which is most surprising. And that appears to be Seneschal Padraig at the front. I didn't think he even owned a horse, much less knew how to ride one.'

‘Introduce me to them, will you? I'd like to parlay.'

‘I think that's a very good idea.' Usel turned in his saddle. ‘Captain, would you join us but stay a few paces back?'

They rode at a slow walk, seeing three riders break from the opposite group and trot towards them.

‘The seneschal. I don't recognize the other man, probably a scribe. Oh, and my old friend Father Gideon. He must be representing Archimandrite Cassters. This does look promising.'

Dafydd kept his thoughts to himself, glancing nervously up at the citadel. It loomed over him, its shadow a portent of doom, and yet it was also a place of obvious power, calling to him in a way he had never felt before. As if he were meant to be here.

Twenty paces apart, the two groups stopped. Dafydd
was primed for a shouted exchange, but to his astonishment the grey-haired old man, Seneschal Padraig, climbed stiffly off his horse, handed its reins to the scribe and walked forward. Dafydd tensed, suspecting a trap, though he could sense no one within a couple of hundred paces but those he could see.

‘Am I addressing His Royal Highness Prince Dafydd of the House of Ballah?' The seneschal spoke perfect Llanwennog without a trace of accent.

‘You are,' Dafydd replied. The seneschal bowed deeply in response, taking rather long to rise again, as if his back were not used to such exercise.

‘Then I bid you welcome to Candlehall, sir. We throw ourselves upon your mercy and hope you will not destroy our proud city.'

Dafydd stared at the man for some moments before realizing that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it, unsure what to say.

Usel stepped in for him. ‘I am to understand, Your Grace, that Candlehall does not intend to put up a fight?'

‘Quite so, Healer Usel. Our gates are open now, and they will stay open. The Order of the Candle has long argued for greater ties between the House of Ballah and the House of Balwen, and the Order of the Ram is well known for pursuing its own ends regardless of fealty.'

‘But what of the High Ffrydd?' Dafydd asked. ‘Are there not many hundreds of warrior priests guarding the citadel?'

‘Most of them have been recalled to Emmass Fawr by Master Andro, at my request. Several hundred have gone to join the queen at Tochers. Those that remain are
confined to barracks and will not be a problem. Not all of the Order of the High Ffrydd are as dedicated to Queen Beulah as Inquisitor Melyn, Your Highness. And no one has seen or heard from him in several months.'

Dafydd looked at the seneschal, trying to see into the old man's mind. It was like beating his arms against a stone wall. The other elderly man, Father Gideon, was just as inscrutable, though he had a warmth and friendliness about him that Dafydd couldn't explain but which soothed his nerves nonetheless. The scribe was terrified, dragged by the leader of his order into a situation that one such as he should never have to experience. But his thoughts were clear and easy to read: as far as he was aware, everything the seneschal had said was true. There was no great love in the city for Beulah, and the news of Princess Iolwen's return had cheered the people enormously. The scribe had even been present at meetings where Padraig and various other city luminaries had discussed how best to deal with Melyn's warrior priests and how to welcome Dafydd to Candlehall.

But it was all a bit too convenient, almost as if the seneschal had picked this young man particularly for his openness, then made sure he was fed all the information that Dafydd could possibly want to know.

‘You'll forgive my suspicion, Seneschal,' Dafydd said after a period of silence had passed. ‘But my grandfather long ago taught me that when something appears too good to be true, that's usually because it is.'

‘King Ballah is a wise man, though I would not myself have provoked Queen Beulah in quite the way he has. But please, Prince Dafydd. There is no need to remain out
here in the cold. You are welcome in Candlehall, your army too. I offer myself as hostage to the good behaviour of the citizens.' The seneschal bowed his head, and in that moment Dafydd saw the truth of his words, as if the old man had consciously lowered his mental defences.

‘What do you think, Usel? Jarius? Should we ride up to the citadel?'

‘Seneschal Padraig is nothing if not a man of his word. If he guarantees your safety here, then he truly believes you'll be safe,' Usel said.

Captain Pelod rode forward to join them. ‘I would be delighted to take the city without bloodshed, but I'm still wary of a trap, sir. I'd feel very vulnerable going in there alone.'

‘Then fetch your army, Captain,' Padraig said. ‘As I said, they are welcome too.'

Pelod looked at him, and Dafydd nodded. ‘Go,' he said and watched the captain gallop back to his troop. There was a brief discussion, then two riders headed back to the ridge, disappearing over it. Soon the first ranks of the Abervenn Irregulars appeared in their place and began their slow march down the slope on to the plain. Dafydd turned back to the seneschal.

‘Very well then. Lead us to the citadel. I've always wanted to see the Neuadd.'

Padraig remounted, turned his horse and led the party back towards the city. The riders who had come out with him fell in beside Dafydd's men, keeping a careful distance.

The first point of ambush was the wide stone bridge over the river, and Dafydd tensed as they approached it.
Pelod ordered men to ride across and fan out on the other side. Others checked under the arches and shouted warnings to a few boatmen on barges, but there was no threat.

The city gates were thrown wide, and no soldiers stood on the battlements. There were, however, many hundreds of people waiting outside. For a moment all was silence save for the
clop
of hooves on hard stone, the chinking of harness buckles. And then a shout went up, followed by another. More voices joined in, adding to the noise until a great wave of sound echoed out from the city walls. Dafydd tensed himself for an attack, prepared to conjure his blade. His guard closed around him, brave Llanwennogs all, hopelessly outnumbered and yet ready to fight to the death to save him. But the people were not rushing forward to attack; they were parting, lining the route and cheering, throwing hats, confetti and anything else they could find into the air.

And Dafydd felt the combined thoughts of all those minds. These were common people, not soldiers or minions of the state. They were worn down by preparations for a war they didn't want and couldn't understand. They were disaffected with years of neglect by their old king and the callous contempt of their new queen. But above all they had hope that things were going to get better.

There was no way Seneschal Padraig could have engineered their enthusiasm; it was genuine and heartfelt. They wanted him to free them from tyranny.

‘It's all right, Jarius.' Dafydd pushed his horse through the ring of riders, through the open city gates and into Candlehall. ‘We're welcome here.'

More people lined the wide street all the way from the
gates, right up the hill to the citadel. Dafydd began to understand something of his grandfather's magic as he basked in the adulation of so many. It could be tapped – no, they gave willingly of their energy, and he gorged on it until he felt there was nothing he could not do. Should Inquisitor Melyn and a hundred warrior priests appear from nowhere to do battle he might have been tempted to take them on single-handed, such was the heady potency of his exaltation.

At the top of the hill the citadel walls too were unmanned, and the gates stood wide. The party rode into an open courtyard, and Dafydd got his first look at the mighty bulk of the Neuadd, rising above the palace buildings that surrounded it.

‘We must dismount here, Your Highness,' Seneschal Padraig said, swinging creakily out of his saddle and letting himself slowly to the ground. Dafydd followed suit, feeling no danger in this place, the lair of his enemy, but only welcome, as if it had been waiting for him since the first stones were laid millennia earlier.

He followed the seneschal through a series of connected halls, ornately decorated but smaller than those in the palace at Tynhelyg. The place had much the same atmosphere as Ballah's castle – of great power barely contained. Then Padraig nodded to two pages waiting ahead of them. They pushed open a pair of huge wooden doors and the party walked through into a wide cloister, beyond which stood the great hall itself.

Dafydd was staggered by the size of the place. It rose far higher than the substantial buildings around it, as if generations of kings had not dared build anything that
might look down on that one massive structure. Closer, he could see that it was built in a completely different style from the rest of the citadel, formed from what looked like one seamless piece of rock. He had a sudden image of an army of workers laboriously hacking the hall out of the top of the hill, not building it at all so much as sculpting it. There were intricate carvings all over the outer surfaces of the hall, but many of these had been defaced, as if someone had tried to erase the story they told. Dafydd knew his history, was aware of the Brumal Wars and the damage inflicted on the city by sieges and sackings, but this damage seemed somehow much older and on a much more fundamental level.

Everyone fell silent as they walked across the courtyard surrounding the Neuadd. It was difficult not to be awed by the place. Even Seneschal Padraig, who must have seen it every day, bowed his head as he hurried forward and pushed at the doors. They swung open as if they weighed nothing despite their great size, and Dafydd was almost knocked over by the wave of power that swept out.