The Golden Cage (40 page)

Errol opened his eyes and found himself staring straight at the motionless snow-covered form of Benfro.

Melyn watched with a mixture of pride and alarm. He was proud of his warrior priests' calmness, their efficiency as they set about dismantling the camp and calming the
horses. The magic storm descending upon them was enough to chill the blood of any man, and yet they went about their tasks with swift precision and attention to detail. They had been trained to be the best, of course; no man who went to pieces under pressure could hope to gain the coveted rank of warrior priest. And yet these long weeks in the forest, culminating in this attack, were far removed from anything they could have expected to encounter.

He was alarmed by the sheer power building against them. Despite their years of training, these men were no match for the raw magics that boiled in the air. Melyn himself was no match for them, and that unsettled him more perhaps than anything else. He wasn't sure he believed Frecknock's assertion that the forest was after the jewels he had taken from the hidden cave. More likely the unravelling ancient spells thick in this part of the woods were all being drawn towards the most powerful magical source around. That might be the jewels, but was more likely the combined power of five hundred adepts tapping the Grym for a little extra energy to light their way to the latrine pits or conjure a flame rather than use flint.

‘Captain, pass the word to the men. No one is to use any magic whatsoever until I say they can.' Osgal nodded his acceptance of the order, though Melyn doubted he understood the reasoning behind it. He shouted to the nearest warrior priests and they all ran off to spread the word.

‘It's too late for that, Your Grace. We have to leave this place now.' Frecknock stood to one side, trying to keep out of the way of the milling warrior priests. She was
constantly glancing up at the sky and wringing her hands together. Melyn could almost taste her anxiety.

‘Can you lead us to the valley?'

‘Yes, but we must hurry.'

‘Then lead on.' Melyn swung himself up into his saddle, looking out over the hastily struck camp at his men. Most were mounted, their spare horses roped behind them. Those few who were still loading saddlebags and tent rolls would have to catch up.

‘We follow the dragon,' he shouted to Osgal, who waited nearby. As the order was relayed down the line, Melyn turned his horse in the direction he and Frecknock had flown earlier.

‘Your Grace, this way.' Frecknock pointed to the opposite end of the clearing, downhill and seemingly back into the deep forest. Melyn felt his anger rise, but something in the dragon's voice, and her very posture, stopped him short. She was frightened of him, that much he both knew and expected. But she was frightened of the oncoming magical storm much more. He couldn't risk the time to slip into his aethereal trance, so he had to rely on her ability to see past the confusions and spells that made everything seem different. As he stared at her, torn between his hatred of all dragons and his need to trust this one, a low rumble of thunder echoed out over the trees. The wind picked up from nowhere, rippling the leaves as if a heavy downpour was on its way. Melyn's mind was made up. He turned his horse and nodded for Frecknock to lead on.

She set off at a steady run, an ungainly motion that nonetheless covered the ground with surprising speed.
With a shout to encourage his men to follow, he spurred his horse into a fast trot and then a canter to make up the distance.

It was a surreal journey. He knew it was only a matter of a few miles to the valley and the lake, and their route should have been steadily uphill towards the mountains. Yet from what little he could see through the gathering clouds, they were heading in completely the opposite direction. The path appeared to narrow down to the point where only one or two horses could pass side by side, but Frecknock never slowed, nor even looked back to be sure they were following. Glancing over his shoulder, Melyn could see only a great cloud of dust, such as you might expect from five hundred riders and a thousand horses. Even Osgal, who should have been close by, was indistinct.

The magic was all around them, enveloping them in a fog which crackled and glowed with strange colours. Shapes loomed and receded, the shadows of enormous beasts warring. The horses were galloping now, their necks straining at the reins, muscles taut and ears held flat. Ahead, Melyn could see Frecknock running, her hands outstretched, and he fancied he could hear her voice in the wind, speaking strange words that sent shivers down his spine.

Something shimmered in the air and the beat of his horse's hooves changed. Looking down, Melyn almost unseated himself. He was riding across the glass-smooth lake, each footfall kicking up a tiny spray that hung in the air far longer than it should have done. Ahead of him Frecknock had stopped running and was standing at the
edge of the water, the great bowl-shaped cliff rising above her like some vast mouth full of teeth. He reined in his horse, sending calming thoughts to its terrified, simple mind, but his head filled with the dragon's voice.

‘Don't stop. Keep riding. I'll hold it open until the last are through.'

Melyn didn't have time to stop and consider. He was at the bank already, and his horse showed no sign of slowing, even though the cliff reared up in front of them. He tensed himself, expecting the beast to swerve either left or right at the last moment, but it carried straight on. For an instant he knew real fear; he was too close to the rock, going too fast towards it for anything other than a fatal neck-snapping crash. He gripped tight with his thighs, dropped his hands to the horse's neck to brace himself for the impact. There was a jarring in his knees as his horse stumbled and corrected its pace on a new surface. And then everything changed.

The day turned bright, sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The air was cooler, with a gentle breeze that tugged at his hair. Melyn's horse seemed to calm in an instant, slowing in response to his pull on the reins. He looked around and found himself in a wide valley with steep sides. Ahead the mountains rose far closer than he was expecting, their tops swathed in snow even in summer. He let go of his reins and the horse immediately dropped its head to the lush grass that blanketed the valley floor. There were no trees here at all, as if someone had cut them all down and none had dared grow again.

Looking back, Melyn saw a bank of fog spread from one side of the valley to the other. It reminded him of the
haar that swept in from the sea and enveloped Abervenn for days on end. As he wondered how close Beulah and Clun were to that city, he saw a mounted figure ride out of the fog, followed by another, and another. Soon dozens of warrior priests were appearing, filling the space, all with the same look of bemusement on their bloodless faces. He cast his eyes over his men, seeking out Osgal, finding him at last.

‘Muster the men further up the valley. I need to know how many made it through.' Osgal nodded but said nothing. Melyn didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so terrified. It reminded him of the boy he had been. ‘I'll see to the rest of them,' Melyn added. ‘Just get everyone as far away from that … that barrier as possible.' He kicked his horse, riding slowly towards the fog bank as a few more warrior priests stumbled through. Some were on foot, and some of the horses were riderless. Scanning the grass, he could only guess how many there were, but it didn't look like five hundred had made it through.

Close up, the fog was more like a wall of ice, sculpted and carved by the wind. It didn't move like mist, but faint colours pulsed through it as if some terrible battle was going on inside. His horse whickered and threw its head about as he came closer, while his spare mount, attached to his saddle by a long rope, bucked and reared, so he turned them away, dismounted and approached on foot.

The white wall was hot to the touch, though no heat radiated from it. He tried to push his hand into it, but it was as solid as any rock face. Melyn opened up his mind, trying to sense the thoughts of anyone who might be on the other side. Instantly he snapped it shut again as a
barrage of terror more potent than anything he had ever conjured himself swept through him, weakening his knees.

Then the wall shuddered, and a warrior priest fell through it, crashing to the ground. Melyn went to him and rolled him over. The man flopped like a rag doll, his bones broken or just gone. Blood seeped from his eyes and nose, and his skin was red as if he had been plunged into boiling water. He was dead.

Cursing, Melyn again put his hand to the wall, ignoring the pain as it burned his palm. He opened his mind once more, pushed past the fear that pulsed about him, searching for a thought, any thought, that might give him an idea of what was happening on the other side. It was all noise, screaming, pain and confusion as one by one his men succumbed to whatever terrible force that was ripping them apart. And then he felt it, a mind unlike the others. It was scared but calm, working some protective magic he couldn't begin to understand.

‘Frecknock?' Melyn sent the question as a thought. The dragon didn't answer, but almost as soon as he had voiced her name, he began to see in his mind as if he were looking through her eyes.

It was the lake, surrounded by that great arc of cliff, trees lining its far side. Only whereas before it had been a mirror-flat surface, now it boiled like a cauldron, great bubbles erupting steam into the air. A few men and horses bobbed in the water, most still, but a few writhing in agony. On the shore a dozen warrior priests struggled against unseen foes that lashed them with invisible claws, although the bloody welts were real enough.

The
storm that filled the sky with impossible colours grew ever fiercer, and with it the pain in Melyn's palm. Still he kept his hand in place, unwilling to give up on his men. At his thought the view shifted. Dragon hands reached out for the nearest warrior priest, lifted him off his feet and threw him at the barrier. Melyn's contact was momentarily lost as the man came flying through, landing with a heavy grunt on the grass. Two more arrived together, then another two, each further along as Frecknock moved down the shore. Melyn reached out and tried to renew his contact with her, but she was closed to him. Pushing harder, he saw something similar to his aethereal view of the place, only this was some hellish version surely, some place deep in the lair of the Wolf.

Dead men and horses boiled in the lake like meat in the pot. The trees on the far side were aflame, lighting the cliffs in flickering red. The air was charged with magic, countless spells bouncing off each other, merging, breaking apart again, more powerful than they had any right to be. And, huddled against the rock wall, Frecknock struggled to help the last living warrior priest.

The lake was rising, approaching the cliff edge where they stood as the dragon finally managed to push the man back through the barrier to the safety beyond. Melyn watched as she slipped, struggled to her feet and stepped towards the cliff, one hand outstretched. At her touch the rock face flexed and shimmered, then hardened against her push. The boiling water reached her tail as she hammered her fist on the rock and then drew it back with a yelp that he almost heard. She pressed herself closer to the wall, trying to keep her feet from scalding.

‘Your
Grace. Can you hear me? Help me, please.' The voice was a whisper in his head, a shout drowned by the turmoil all around. Melyn felt his connection with Frecknock strengthen, his perspective shift so that he saw once more through her eyes. He could sense her fear now, steadily eroding her calm, and he could also feel her exhaustion. Whatever she had done to get his men through this barrier had worn her down until there was virtually nothing left.

Well, it would be a good way to die, he supposed. He had never intended letting her live beyond her usefulness, and the whole reason for bringing her in the first place was to find this pass. What did he really need of her now?

‘Please, Inquisitor. I can't find the way through. If you're there, let me know.' Her voice was tiny, distant, helpless. Melyn knelt in the grass, one hand placed flat against the burning barrier, oblivious to his own pain as he felt Frecknock's instead, wondering why he was even thinking about helping her. She was a dragon, a beast who had disobeyed the laws laid down to control her kind, who existed only at the sufferance of his queen. And yet this creature had saved his life at least twice already. She possessed knowledge that would make the success of his mission almost a certainty. And what if there were a similar barrier at the other end of the pass?