The Broken World (23 page)

‘Please do not take this the wrong way, my queen. You
have been through an ordeal I cannot begin to imagine; you are tired and perhaps not completely in your own mind. I would strongly suggest you consider raising the infant yourself.' Cassters paused a moment before adding, ‘Feeding your child yourself.'

Beulah almost laughed, except that she didn't have the energy, and the herbs were beginning to make her drowsy. She was sure that she would feel something for her child when she had recovered from the trauma of the birth, but right now all she wanted was to be rid of the thing, have her skill at magic return, get back to how it had all been before.

‘I will think about it, Cassters,' she said, patting him gently on the back of his liver-spotted hand. ‘But now I would rest.'

A dull throbbing pain began in the stump of his arm after a couple of hours' walking. Benfro tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the strange trees, the glimpses of exotic
animals, the different scents and sounds of this forest which convinced him more than anything that he was not in the Ffrydd any more. The trees were too big for one thing, their trunks swollen like the bellies of long-dead deer, ripe to burst at any moment. Wider than his outstretched wingspan, they looked like enormous mushrooms except for the tiny branches that spiked out from their tops, clad in far too few leaves as if winter were already approaching. And yet no dead litter covered the forest floor, just dry, dusty earth and wiry brown shrubs.

He didn't know what they were called, but talking was difficult, admitting his lack of knowledge even more so. Cerys was a good companion, supporting him without complaint, at times talking, at other times falling silent. She had said it wasn't far, but without any frame of reference Benfro had no idea what that meant. Was it an afternoon's walk? A day's? A week's? With each new step he grew wearier, the pain seeping into him and draining his energy. His vision darkened, and he thought the sun must be setting, somewhere far beyond the green canopy.

‘Whoa! Steady there, Benfro.' Cerys tightened her grip on his good arm as he stumbled, then regained his balance. The rush brought him awake again, lightening the view as he realized he'd almost fallen asleep walking. It put him in mind of the endless march through the forest after Melyn had killed his mother, the stupor that had allowed Magog to lure him in. The thought sent a shudder through him.

‘Can we rest a moment? I've no energy left.'

‘Well we could …' Cerys let her words trail off as Benfro started to sink to his knees. The ground here was
hard-packed dirt and stone, uncomfortable, but he didn't really care.

‘Or you could walk another dozen paces to Myfanwy's house. I'm sure she'll have something to perk you up. And get that hand a-healing.'

Benfro looked up and saw they weren't alone. The hard earth beneath his feet was actually a road, straight and wide, and either side of it were not the bulbous trees he was expecting, at least not immediately. There were houses, after a fashion. Quite unlike the solid constructions that the villagers at home had lived in, crafted from stone and carefully worked seasoned timbers, these were more flowing in their construction, and at first he couldn't work out what they were made out of. They were tall too, stretching up higher even than the old stone hall that had stood at the centre of his village. The hall that Inquisitor Melyn had set aflame.

‘Who's that you've got with you, Cerys?'

Benfro started at the voice, at first not seeing where it came from. And then he saw it all as if a veil had been pulled from in front of his eyes. These houses were trees. Dead ones, he guessed, by their lack of branches and leaves. The trunks were darker grey, split carefully to form doors, windows. By the look of things, they had several storeys; his neck ached as he looked up to see roofs of bark shingles. Walking stooped for so long had tied his muscles in knots, and he winced as they tried to unravel themselves.

‘I found him out by Bagger's Hill, Myfanwy. Says his name's Benfro. Sorry. Sir Benfro of the Borrowed Wings.' Cerys ducked away under Benfro's arm, leaving him
standing on his own for the first time in hours. He swayed dangerously, convinced he was going to tumble to the road, and then another dragon was in front of him.

‘He's fair fit to pass out. What've you done to him, girl?'

Benfro tried to focus, but the world was dragging him down. He felt a hand on his face, the grip firm but not unkind as it lifted his head and turned it. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, but then …

‘Corwen?'

‘Corwen? Who's Corwen?' The dragon in front of him coughed, then spat something slippery on to the ground. As Benfro studied the face he realized his mistake. This was an old dragon, most certainly. Only the passage of many years, thousands perhaps, could leave a face so wrinkled and wizened. But it was also the face of a female dragon.

‘I'm sorry. I thought you were—'

‘Where're you from, lad? That accent's not local.' The elderly dragon turned Benfro's head this way and that, peering at him closely with eyes that seemed too clouded to be able to see anything. She let go of his head, which drooped under its own sudden weight, then took up his arm. ‘My, you have been in the wars, haven't you. How did this happen?'

Benfro gathered the last of his strength, sure he was going to faint at any moment. The pain in his arm was spreading past his elbow and up into his shoulder now, swamping what little energy he had for thinking.

‘It was Melyn. He cut me with his blade of light. I had to escape. Didn't know where to go. I …'

The memory of it rushed up at him as he spoke. Or maybe it was the ground. Benfro thought he might have
heard the old dragon mutter something, but the words were lost in the blackness.

The village was like many he had seen before and at the same time like none. Errol tried not to let his mouth hang open as he walked down the track that led from the thinning trees to the first few buildings, past enclosures with low stone walls. Goats ambled up to greet him, but they were much larger than the animals he remembered from Pwllpeiran and the few hardy beasts that lived in and around Emmass Fawr. A couple of stringy-looking dogs eyed him suspiciously from their resting place in the shade of a large tree, but they did nothing more. Everything was normal, except for the heat.

The sun, high overhead, beat down with an intensity he had never before experienced. It didn't help that his head still hurt from whatever it was Captain Osgal had used to knock him senseless. The pain was focused around a lump at the top of his neck, but it was very similar to the terrible wine hangover that was the most abiding memory of the end of his childhood. The ache pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and the glare reflecting off the dry dusty track made him squint. The drink from the sap of the tree had helped, but its effects had worn off after the first hour of walking. Now he just wanted to find somewhere cool to lie down and sleep for a week.

‘Is this where you live?' Errol asked of the young girl walking beside him. Nellore said nothing but pointed further up the track. The houses either side here were single storey, windows no more sophisticated than openings in the walls. Rope curtains hung over the doorways, and
Errol thought he might have seen one or two twitch as they walked past, but he had seen no people yet.

Further up the track, where Nellore had pointed, the houses were larger, with narrow alleys between them. Some had awnings around them, over raised porches, and this was where Errol caught his first sight of another person. At first he thought the man was dead, lying in a rocking chair with his head back and his mouth wide open. But as they approached, he let out a great grunt of a snore, snapped his mouth shut and looked straight at them. For a moment his face showed only puzzlement, then it deepened into a scowl.

‘Who's that with you, Nellore? You should know better than to go speaking to strangers.' The man made a great show of hauling himself out of the rocking chair and hitching up his canvas trousers. Then he clumped down off the porch and stepped into the track, eyeing Errol up and down suspiciously. A couple of other people appeared from silent doorways, and suddenly there was a crowd.

‘I'm sorry,' Errol said. ‘I don't mean any harm. I'm just looking for a friend of mine.'

‘A friend, eh?' The man from the rocking chair looked like he had heard of the concept of friendship and wanted nothing to do with it. ‘What's his name? What's your name, for that matter?'

‘His name's Errol,' Nellore answered before Errol could speak, and he was surprised by the bitterness in her tone. At her age he wouldn't have dared speak to an elder like that.

‘He?' The old man peered more closely, the suspicious
frown deepening on his brow as he did so. ‘Looks like a woman to me.'

‘I had to dress like this. Some … people were chasing me. Wanted to kill me.'

‘Sounds like trouble, if'n you ask me.' The old man addressed his comment to Nellore as if Errol no longer existed for him. ‘Don't want no trouble round here.'

‘Well you just go back to your rocking chair and your pipe then, Ben Sorrenson. The lad looks half dead and I don't suppose he's seen a square meal in days.'

Errol looked up to see who had spoken and saw a middle-aged woman at the front of the crowd. She had a careworn look about her, but the smile on her face was genuine and welcoming.

‘He's trouble. I can see it plain as the day.' The old man turned away, headed back to his porch muttering all the way. ‘Don't want to upset the gods. Don't need that kind of bad luck here.'

‘Pay no heed to Ben, lad. He's always grumbling about the gods. But we make ‘em sacrifice when we can, and they leaves us alone. Come on. Let's see if we can't get you something to eat, eh?'

Errol was about to ask what gods the woman was referring to. As far as he was aware, there was just the one, the Shepherd. Something stopped him though, possibly the thought of food. His head hurt but not as much as the knot of emptiness that was his stomach.

‘I'll go have a look through my da's old things, see if we can't get you some better clothes. He was about your size.' Nellore hurried off in the direction of one of the larger buildings, leaving Errol alone with the crowd.

‘So, Errol. Where you from then?' The middle-aged woman took him by the arm, steering him to the opposite side of the track from the old man and his rocking chair. Too weary to resist, Errol let himself be led towards a low stone house, single storey, between larger buildings. It had no porch, just a set of wooden steps climbing to an open door.

‘Where did I come from?' The question gave him pause. Not that he didn't know; he'd come from King Ballah's throne room in Tynhelyg. But that would mean nothing to these people, and for the most part they were already viewing him with suspicion. He settled for a compromise answer. ‘North of here. A long way away. You'll probably never have heard of it.'

The woman gave him a knowing smile, nudged him gently in the ribs. ‘Don't want anyone coming after you to know where you've gone, eh?'

‘I … Ah, no. Not really.'

‘Well, no mind. We don't get many through here anyway. Not exactly on the way to anywhere special. Just us and the gods out here.'

Again that reference to the gods. It put Errol on edge. He wanted to ask more but knew his ignorance of something so important would make him seem even more suspicious. Best to puzzle it out for himself, or maybe ask Nellore if the right moment presented itself.

He followed the woman up the steps and into a large room that took up the whole of the front of the building. It was cool inside, a welcome relief from the sweltering heat of the afternoon. Of even greater interest to Errol though was the smell of cooking emanating from a tiny
stove on the far side of the room. A mixture of unfamiliar spices and rich meaty notes, it immediately set his stomach to growling.

‘Dearie me, when was the last time you ate, Errol?'

‘I'm not really sure. A while ago.'

‘Well sit yourself down at the table and I'll bring you a bowl of stew. There's a loaf on the side there too. Cut yourself a slab.'

Errol looked to where she'd indicated, seeing a board, a knife and a loaf of darkest brown bread. He could have just torn chunks off it and shoved them in his mouth, such was his hunger, but he resisted the urge, slicing off a piece as the woman busied herself at the stove. By the time he'd turned back to the table, she had placed a wooden bowl of something brown and lumpy in front of the one chair.

‘Sit, Errol. Eat. Before you fall down.'

‘I'm sorry. Thank you for your kindness. This looks delicious. But I don't even know your name.'