The Golden Cage (22 page)

She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't cooperate, and her head was fuzzy with pain and shock.

‘Stay down, my lady.' Beulah looked up at Clun's determined face. His travelling cloak was stained dark with blood, his face splattered with gore, his hair tinged pink at the ends. He watched the approaching brigands calmly, as if this were just a training exercise.

He held a blade of light in each hand.

Beulah blinked. She had to be hallucinating. No one
could conjure two blades. Not even Melyn. But as she knelt on the wet road, he wheeled, slicing one attacker clean in two, following up with the second blade through the next. Further away, mounted warrior priests hacked at the backs of the bandits as they piled in on her, eyes more feral even than the dragon that had attacked her out of the mist.

Time seemed to slow down. The attackers came at her as if they cared nothing for their own lives. Every time one launched himself forward, Clun was there, his blades whirling like lightning. But as soon as he moved one way, they surged in from the other side and he had to swing round to counter their onslaught. Beulah was surrounded by a wall of insane contorted faces, throwing themselves on Clun's blades, hoping to overwhelm him by sheer numbers, something driving them that was more terrifying even than painful death.

And then with a shriek it was over. Warrior priests cut down the remaining attackers from behind, chopping them like so much autumn wheat. Clun finished off the last one with a swift backhand cut that sliced the top off the man's head. His eyes shot up as if looking for the missing section of his skull, then he slumped to his knees, wavered a moment and toppled forward. Beulah stared at the grey bloody mess that oozed out on to the ground and noticed the silence that descended on the scene. She felt a momentary rush in the Grym as Clun extinguished his blades, and then he was kneeling beside her, taking her arm in gentle hands and inspecting her wound.

‘I'm sorry, my lady. I wasn't fast enough to stop this one for you.' Clun's voice trembled slightly. Beulah looked up
at his face, felt his all-enveloping embrace and knew that she would always be safe with him to guard her. She allowed him to pick her up. As he carried her to the nearest wagon, she saw the carnage of their small battlefield, the dismembered bodies of dozens of brigands. Most of them were piled around the area where she had fought and fallen. The warrior priests were walking among the rest, making sure no one was still alive.

‘I've never heard of bandits operating in such large groups before,' Clun said.

‘These weren't bandits, my love. These were mercenaries. Someone paid for them to be here. Paid them to kill me.'

‘Merciful Arhelion, hear my prayer. Show me the ways and the paths to the world.'

Melyn stood motionless in a thick-leaved bush, watching the still form of Frecknock as she began her calling.

‘Great Rasalene, hear my supplication. Lend power to my voice that I may be heard throughout Gwlad.'

She had the book in front of her, along with a small metal cauldron in which she had mixed some herbs. Smoke wafted in the air and Melyn could smell a faint aroma, an indefinable scent that would turn any head.

‘Hear my voice, all who walk the long road. I am Frecknock and I would call you to me.'

Her voice was inside Melyn's head, louder than he had ever imagined anything could be and yet not painful. Behind it there was a pull so strong his muscles tensed, ready to step forward. At the last moment he managed to
stop, realizing what he was doing. All around the clearing a sudden rustling of the bushes showed how powerful Frecknock's calling now was, how all-pervasive.

‘Come to me, dragons of Gwlad. As Angharad called Palisander, so I, Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi teul Albarn, call to you.'

Frecknock fell silent, but the potent force that demanded he respond still tugged at Melyn as if he were a fish caught on a hook. He had known the dragon book was valuable and powerful; it had been hidden with great skill and even he could sense the weight of knowledge locked within its pages. Perhaps that was why he had kept it with him when all the others had been sent off to Emmass Fawr for Andro to catalogue and translate. Seeing for himself the difference in Frecknock's ability with and without it confirmed its importance, but it also concerned him. The dragon had sworn a binding oath, and all he had read, all he knew about their kind, told him that the creatures would rather die than break such a thing. But he worried still she might turn on him, use the book to make her escape. He couldn't bring himself to kill her. Not yet, not while she was of use. But he determined to watch her closely and keep her away from the book as much as possible.

‘What manner of mage art thou, to so proudly summon all to your side?'

The voice broke into Melyn's head with a roar like thunder in the mountains. Unmistakably male, it was at once profoundly alien. He recognized the Draigiaith, but the dialect was thick, inflections in all the wrong places.

‘I
am Frecknock.' Across the clearing the female dragon tensed, raising her head as if scanning the sky, though her eyes were still tightly shut. ‘I have walked these paths alone for too many years. I would have some company.'

‘And where exactly are these paths? Just where in Gwlad is this cursed place?'

‘Can you not see me? Do you not know where I am?'

‘By the moon, kitling, I see well enough where you are. What I don't know is where that place is. What do you call this cursed country?'

‘I am no kitling.' Frecknock's reaction to the perceived insult made her seem very much like a child, Melyn thought. Her voice was petulant, and for a moment he thought she might ruin everything by sulking. Instead she drew herself up to her full height and spread her wings to the sky. It was a bit like watching a chicken trying to take off, and Melyn had to stifle a laugh.

‘You are but a dozen winters old, kitling. Skilled in the subtle arts for one of your age, I will give you that. But you should live a century or two before tying yourself to a mate. Now tell me, Frecknock, daughter of Sir Teifi. What is this place, this accursed forest of shadows? What is it called?'

‘You do not know? But this is the great forest of the Ffrydd. How can you not know that?'

‘The Ffrydd? You speak madness, kitling. The Ffrydd is a place of rocks and sand, a barren wilderness, and has been ever since Gog slew his brother Magog there millennia ago.'

‘I am no kitling. I have watched two hundred summers pass. And this is the Ffrydd as I have known it all my life.
Gog and Magog are creatures of myth. What is your name, good dragon, who are so confused?'

Frecknock's irritation had weakened her spell; Melyn no longer had to fight off the urge to run to her side and could instead concentrate on the words echoing in his head. It was a strange sensation to eavesdrop on dragons; few of them had been foolish enough or desperate enough to make a calling in his lifetime. Frecknock's earlier contact had been the first time he had heard the strange language flowing through the aethereal in decades. But if the call was intended for any to hear, then presumably any reply was too. What other dragons might be listening in? He doubted there were many left alive, aside from Benfro. What would he make of Frecknock's calling? Would he flee from his forest retreat or come rushing to her aid?

‘If you are truly two centuries old, then why are you so small? I've seen twelve-month hatchlings your size. Larger.' The dragon's voice was a loud rumble that made thought difficult. It pervaded every corner of Melyn's mind, and he had to fight to keep control of himself. There was something about the language that spoke of an indulgent adult patronizing a small child, spoke of looking down on something scarcely worthy of attention.

Looking down.

Melyn cursed himself silently, raising his head to scan the skies. How could this dragon know Frecknock was small? He had to be close by, watching her. But had he flown here, or had he walked? Melyn had banked on the creature flying in, landing in the clearing and being distracted by Frecknock long enough for his warrior priests to get close. Once they had it surrounded, it would just be
a matter of swift dispatch with a dozen blades of light. The beast would be slain, and they could get on with their journey. But if it walked in, pushing through the trees and bushes, then it would almost certainly discover the trap before it could be sprung.

‘Come to me, stranger. You will find me full of surprises and wonders. I have travelled all of Gwlad, studied the subtle arts at the feet of great mages. I am entrusted with many secrets I would gladly share, would you just tell me your name.' Frecknock resumed her spell of allure, though it was not as potent as before. No doubt her confidence had been shaken by the unusual turn her magic had taken. Melyn cared little for her discomfort; he only needed her to bring the creature to him.

‘I am Caradoc, son of Edryd, son of Tallyn, son of Mortimer, son of Gog.' Something dark shot overhead, blanking out the sun for an instant. Melyn ducked instinctively. A great wind buffeted the trees, pushed the leaves of the bush into his face, temporarily blinding him, and he felt something massive hit the ground with a thud that reverberated around the clearing. The wind died as quickly as it had come. Silence settled so heavily, he thought for a moment that something had deafened him. And then he realized he was no longer listening to Frecknock's words in his head. The pull of her spell had evaporated completely, leaving only a faint disgust that he had shared that connection with her.

Shaking his head as if to get water out of his ears, Melyn peered out through the leaves and almost gasped. Only a lifetime of discipline stopped him from letting out an audible shriek. If this was the creature that Clun had
faced down, almost defeated, then the newly elevated Duke of Abervenn deserved his rapid promotion to the status of warrior priest far more than Melyn had realized.

The dragon had landed in the middle of the clearing right alongside Frecknock, and was now looking down on her with a curious expression on his massive face. Side by side the differences in them were so striking that they might have been mistaken for different species altogether. The top of Frecknock's head scarcely came up to Caradoc's chest, even though the beast stooped. His tail was as long as her entire body, Melyn reckoned. One of his outstretched wings could have sheltered her completely. No wonder he had considered her a kitling.

For her part, Frecknock looked up at Caradoc with a mixture of fear and longing in her eyes. She had not moved from the spot where she had begun her spell, but she had taken the book up and held it close to her body as if protecting it.

‘You are no kitling, it's true.' Caradoc's voice was no less impressive than when Melyn had heard it in his head. ‘Your face shows more experience than a few summers would allow. And the strength of mind required to make such a powerful calling is not learned in an afternoon. But why are you so small? Gog's balls, Lady Frecknock. Are all your kind like you?'

‘I am all of my kind. There are none left. But before … before they died, yes, they were much like me.'

‘And you say this is the Ffrydd? That it's been this way for all your life?'

‘It has.'

‘Then
what in Rasalene's name has happened to me? Have I died and gone to hell?'

‘I do not understand, Sir Caradoc. What do you mean?'

Melyn edged from his bush as silently as his old bones would let him, heading for the spot where Captain Osgal stood. Frecknock had only to keep Caradoc distracted a minute and all the warrior priests would be in place. Still, he couldn't help himself listening to the huge dragon's words. They sounded lucid, not the mad ravings of a blood-crazed beast. Looking across the clearing, he could see now his arm-stump was bandaged. With a cloak ripped from the back of one of his victims, Melyn guessed. The stump was held to his chest with a complicated sling.

‘You call this world Gwlad, but it's no Gwlad I know,' Caradoc said, seemingly oblivious of Melyn and the other warrior priests. ‘Where are the rest of my tribe? And where did all these men come from? Who taught them such brutal use of the subtle arts?'

‘No one taught them. Men have always wielded the power of the Grym. They have always hunted us. They killed my parents, my village. They will kill …' She fell silent, staring up at the massive beast. Caradoc reached out with his one hand, cupping her head in his massive palm as Melyn reached the captain. Osgal stared open-mouthed at the winged mountain, but pulled himself together when he saw the inquisitor. He said nothing, only moved silently away through the bushes to approach the dragon from behind.

Melyn held his position, waiting until the first warrior priest appeared from the trees on the far side of the
clearing. Then, taking a deep breath and making the sign of the crook, he stepped out into the light.

At first Caradoc didn't notice him, so entranced was the dragon by Frecknock's face.

‘You have a strange beauty about you, Lady Frecknock,' he said. ‘Nothing like the rough females who fly with my tribe. You are more delicate, like a spring flower. But how can you bear never to soar through the skies?'

‘I can't miss something I've never had,' Frecknock said, and Melyn could see her shake as she clutched the magic book close to her. ‘And there's no point wishing for something that can never be. I'm sorry, Sir Caradoc. I truly am. But what you do, what you have done – it is an abomination.'

‘I am not Sir Caradoc. My father still heads our family. I –' Frecknock's words seemed to sink in at the same time as Caradoc noticed Melyn standing not more than ten paces away. The beast dropped his hand away from Frecknock's face, then with a casual flick of the wrist sent her tumbling head over heels.

‘So, you not only wield power that isn't yours, you turn my own kind against me,' he roared at Melyn, drawing himself up to his full height, spreading his wings until they shadowed the inquisitor completely.