The Broken World (37 page)

Benfro had grown up in the forest of the Ffrydd. He thought he knew all about trees, but the ones he was staring at now with his one good eye were like nothing he had ever seen before. They were in many ways the complete opposite of the great Bondaris trees, their trunks thin and whippy, with no branches at the top, just long spiky leaves in great profusion. They swayed from side to side in a breeze he could not feel, the motion strangely hypnotic, lulling him into a stupor. It was easier this way, he thought, to drift off peacefully, lapped by the warm water at his back. Moving was too painful, breathing was too difficult.
Perhaps if he rested a little his strength would return, at least enough to think straight.

‘Dragon?'

The voice was part of his delirium, Benfro was sure. Same as the tiny weight on his head, the upside-down face peering so close that he couldn't focus on it. Just an image of red-tufted ears and black button eyes.

‘Benfro?'

He swallowed, tried to speak, found he couldn't. He had no strength left to chase off this cruel hallucination. Why couldn't he be left alone to die in peace?

‘Malkin fetch help.'

The weight was gone and with it all feeling. Benfro drifted away, warm as if he were nestling in his mother's arms. The soft swish of waves breaking on the sand behind him grew quieter and quieter. His eye closed of its own accord, and he welcomed the darkness. Everything hurt and he was so very tired. All he wanted to do was sleep.

How much time passed, he couldn't have said. Benfro had been listening to the slow breaking of the waves for so long that it took a while for him to realize the noise he was hearing was different. Where the sound of the water was soft, now something crunched rhythmically through the sand, heavier by far than the strange bird-like creature from earlier. It came closer and closer, then stopped. Benfro couldn't have moved if he had wanted to, but he was happy enough just to lie and wait for the end.

‘By the moon! What's happened to him?'

As he heard the words, so Benfro felt the presence of someone close by. Soft hands touched his cheek, his ears,
moved to his neck and shoulders. He should have felt fearful, unable to stop whoever had come from doing to him whatever they wished, but he was too weak. Too weak even to open his one remaining eye.

‘These are bites. And see here, talons have done this. He's been attacked by a dragon. But what manner of creature would do this to one of its own? And why dump him here?'

There was something soothing about the voice. It reminded Benfro of his mother. He struggled to open his eye, roll over. He wanted to see her, tell her he was sorry, though he wasn't quite sure what he was sorry for. Or where he was, for that matter.

‘Shhh. Calm yourself. Don't try to move.' He felt a hand on his forehead, gently restraining him. The touch was warm, comforting. An energy seemed to flow from it, easing the pain that racked his whole body. Benfro managed to open his eye, just a slit, and saw another dragon's face close to his. She was immeasurably old and yet more beautiful than he would have thought possible.

‘Wh … Who?' His voice was barely audible above the quiet wash of the waves, the rustling of the wind in those high leaves.

‘I am Earith. And you are very badly injured. Do not try to move or you will only make things worse.'

‘Don't think I can. Can't feel my legs.'

‘That is the least of your worries. Now rest.' With these words Benfro felt a surge of something he couldn't explain. It washed away his pain, cooled the fever he had not realized he was running, filled him with a perfect, blissful warmth. His eyelid drooped closed, but he didn't
mind the darkness. For the first time in ages he felt safe as he drifted away.

The dungeons of Tochers Castle were perhaps the most dismal Beulah had seen this side of Beylinstown, hewn deep into the rock where the Grym could scarcely reach. She felt the chill in the air as she followed Clun and Captain Celtin down the narrow steps, her newly reawakened sense of magic ebbing away with each footfall. The only light came from small torches set at too-distant intervals along a wall slick with seeping dampness and green algae. Silence hemmed them in, dulling even the click of boot on flagstone, killing any thought of conversation as they passed door after open door until, finally, they reached the end.

The two warrior priests on guard came to attention as the interrogation party stopped. ‘Your Majesty. Your Grace. Sir.'

‘Is he still alive?' Beulah asked.

‘He's still moaning, so I guess so, ma'am.'

‘Open up then. I want a word with him before we leave this shitty little place.'

The warrior priests nodded, unlocked the door and stood aside so they could enter the cell. It was larger than Beulah had been expecting, hacked out of the rock with rough blows that left a jagged finish to the walls and low ceiling. A torch hung near the door, casting scant light over the room, and on the other side, lying on a pile of damp straw, the young adept lay shivering. Every so often he let out a low moan, but he didn't seem to notice them come in. The stump of his amputated leg was wrapped in
a bandage, already red from his blood. The stench of the place suggested he'd soiled himself at some point, although it might just have been that this was where all the sewage in the castle ended up.

‘He is awake, my lady.' Clun strode across the cell and gave the man a prod with his boot. He groaned, rolling over on to his back before opening his eyes and staring straight at Beulah.

‘You came. I knew you would. Couldn't keep away, eh?'

Beulah felt the whisperings of the man's mind as he tried to cast a glamour over her, but it was a weak effort. He had lost too much blood and the wound was already turning septic, poisons flowing through sluggish veins to his brain.

‘Spare us the cheap parlour tricks. Who put you up to this mad scheme? What did you hope to achieve by kidnapping my daughter?'

‘A diversion, perhaps? A delay? The Shepherd is near, can you not feel him?'

Beulah skimmed the man's thoughts as he spoke. The pain was dragging down his defences, the infection weakening him yet further. She could read him far more easily in this state than when they had first met. Then he had been cocky and sure of himself. Here he was struggling, but that certainty was still rock solid. He knew his god was coming, knew that his place in the gathering fields was assured, his life of eternal bliss and happiness. But there was more to his belief than blind faith. There was knowledge there that Beulah could not quite glean.

‘Can you? Can you truly say the Shepherd speaks to you?'

‘Speaks, and more. He comes to me in my dreams. Comes in his true form. Not the god you worship, no god of men.'

Beulah saw an image unfurl in darkness. Eyes burning red like disturbed coals. Black upon black, writhing snakes and scaly skin as something uncoiled itself in the young man's mind. With an involuntary step back, she withdrew from his mind, bringing down her own mental barriers hard before she had even registered the primal fear that had made her react so. Something mad had possessed his soul long ago. They would get nothing of value from him.

‘We're done here.' Beulah turned her back on the man as he slumped back down on to his bed of fetid straw. Clun looked up at her, the question in his eyes going unasked as he nodded once, then walked out.

‘The torch. He'll not need that.' Beulah pointed, and Captain Celtin plucked it from its sconce on the wall. The corridor felt crowded with five of them standing by the door, but she waited until the first of the guards had made sure it was locked tight.

‘Come. We're leaving. All of us.' She headed back up the corridor, sensing the warrior priests fall in behind her, Clun bringing up the rear. If the Shepherd truly was coming for his fanatic disciple, then he could find him lying in the darkness with his sliding, scuttling thoughts.

The memories came later, hidden under layers of pain and interspersed with long periods of blissful unconsciousness. Benfro remembered waking to find himself surrounded by men. It was dark, and all he could see were faces shadowed by flaming torches. He should have been
terrified, but he could still sense the presence of Earith and that calmed him. Even her healing powers could not completely ease his pain as the men lifted him, straightened his wings and tail, and he blacked out again.

When he woke, it was to a rhythmic motion that he eventually realized was a horse-drawn cart, much like those that had transported him and the other circus attractions through Llanwennog. Only this was flat and open; no walls to keep him from escaping, no chain around his leg. Neither were necessary; he was as helpless as a newly hatched kitling. Whatever fate they bore him toward, he had no choice but to accept it.

The journey seemed to take for ever and yet no time at all. Benfro passed in and out of consciousness as the levels of pain in his back, his wings, his arms increased or decreased. When he was awake he first saw dark forest, the undersides of the tall trees painted flickering orange by the fiery torches the men carried. Then he was being pulled through open grassland as the dawn began to tinge the sky pink. And finally he was wheeled past buildings fashioned from stone the colour of straw, lining either side of a road so wide even Fflint could have stretched his wings without fear of hitting them, so smooth it was as if he were floating down a river on a windless day.

‘Bring him inside,' he heard Earith say. Then the pain as many hands lifted him off the cart swept him back into oblivion. Benfro didn't know how he knew, but a long time passed between that moment and the point at which he woke again. Perhaps it was because the pain was gone, replaced by a terrible stiffness that gave him a new understanding of how Sir Frynwy must have felt all the time. It
may have been because the loose, bubbly noises of his breathing were gone, the sharp jabbing pain in his lungs no more now than a wince. Or it might just have been because he felt rested, even if he was still more tired than he could ever recall having been.

‘You're awake now. Good. How do you feel?'

Benfro opened his eyes, confused for a moment that he could see only through one. Then he remembered Fflint's talon and the horrible feeling as his eyeball had popped. He groaned at the memory of the pain.

‘My eye.' Without thinking, he lifted his hand to his face, then stopped. It was his hand, the one that Melyn had cut off with his blade of fire back in the throne room at Tynhelyg. It wasn't the half-grown thing that Myfanwy had coaxed into being. This was his hand. Full size. He twisted it around, popped out his claws then withdrew them again. Flexed his talons. They felt strong, but there was something not quite right.

‘My hand.'

Holding up the other one he saw what it was. Where this one was chipped and scarred, scales missing, skin tight and leathery, the other was shiny and new. As if it belonged to a dragon who had never climbed a cliff or fallen out of a tree, never spent days sorting, drying and preparing herbs, never done anything in fact.

‘It will grow battered like the other in time. Of that I have no doubt.'

Benfro looked up, only then properly seeing the dragon who had spoken. She sat on a low stone bench on the other side of a surprisingly large and airy room. Behind her a wide door opened on to a courtyard bathed in
sunlight. Benfro could hear the trickle of water, and as he noticed it, so other sounds began to filter in. Birdsong, wind, the chatter of voices too light to be dragons. A shiver of fear ran through him as he realized he was hearing men and women talking in perfect, unaccented Draigiaith, but before he could do anything a bundle of blurred red fur appeared at a window and dashed across the room. Leaping up on to his arm and from there to his shoulder.

‘Benfro awake! Benfro better!'

‘Malkin?' Benfro held up his hands again as the squirrel scampered over his head, peering upside down at him from a sitting position between his ears.

‘Where Benfro's eye?' The look on Malkin's face was hard to read, inverted as it was. There was no mistaking the concern in his voice though.

‘Calm yourself, Malkin. Our guest is still healing.' The ancient dragon stood up from the bench, walked slowly across the room towards him. Benfro tried to raise himself.

‘Don't try to get up. You need rest, and lots of it.' She crouched down beside the raised pallet that formed his bed and for the first time Benfro noticed his nest was made of fabrics much like those that people wore. Purest white, they were soft and supportive and gave off a scent of lavender whenever he moved.

‘You are Benfro, if young Malkin is to be believed.' The ancient dragon smiled and held out a slender arm. The squirrel leaped from Benfro's head on to it, scampering up to her shoulder.

‘I am Benfro, and if I remember rightly, you are Earith. Thank you for healing me.'

‘You're not done healing yet, Benfro. Though you are not as close to death's door as when our mutual friend summoned me to your aid.'

Benfro blinked. He was still very tired, very weak. Everything appeared sideways on, even though he knew it was just because he was lying down. He reached out a hand, missing the point he had aimed for. Everything was flat, as if there was no difference between near and far. No focus.

‘My eye.' It was part question, part remembering the fight with Fflint.

‘There are some things it is beyond even my skill to heal.' Earith sighed, her ancient frame seeming to deflate. ‘Your eye was too damaged, and growing something like that back is … Well, I've never heard of any dragon who even tried.'

Benfro moved his hand back to his face, knocking himself lightly on the end of the nose as he misjudged the distance. He felt his scales, the tough leathery skin, his fangs, and then recoiled from the tenderness and swelling around his eye socket.

‘Best you try not to touch it,' Earith said. ‘I've healed the flesh, driven off any infection. If your looks bother you, I know a man who can make you a glass eye to match the other so no one will know.'