Dreamwalker (12 page)

It was like swimming in warm water, yet staying dry. There was no sense of motion but suddenly he was off-balance, as if he stood on the back of a moving cart that had stopped without warning. Dizzy, Errol collapsed to the ground, cracking his knees painfully on hard stone and grazing his outstretched palms.

‘Excellent,’ the voice said. ‘You’re a natural, Errol.’

He looked up, taking long moments to comprehend what he was seeing. He was kneeling on the rock at Jagged Leap, transported there in an instant by something his brain wasn’t quite ready to comprehend. But it wasn’t his miraculous journey that took his breath away. His mouth hung open in wonder at the creature which stood before him.

It was a dragon, but quite unlike any of the crude illustrations Errol had seen in books. Those had been sorry-looking, sad creatures with lacklustre scales and saggy, flaccid wings no bigger than a half-door, certainly not big enough to lift their bulk. Dragon’s wings, the books had told him, were not for flying at all, but were simply there to allow them to catch the sun, to warm their blood so that they could function. Much like lizards.

This dragon was different.

It was huge, for one thing. Errol had imagined the creatures to be about the size of a large horse. This one towered over him almost as big as a house. Its long tail was curled around in a loop, surrounding him like a tapering wall. Its scales were polished and shiny as mirrors, scattering the afternoon light in a magical rainbow of colours. As he looked up, craning his neck to see that great head, the dragon flexed open its wings and two great sails spread across the sky. They were massive, powerful things that could have no other purpose than to allow the magnificent beast complete mastery over the air.

Errol knew he should have been scared. Confronted by any other creature even half as big, with great pointed fangs, razor-sharp claws and talons, those massive, oval, piercing green eyes, he would have run a mile. Or more likely frozen to the spot in abject terror and died helpless, paralysed. Yet here, in front of the dragon, he felt safer than he had ever been. Safer even than his earliest memories of his mother soothing him after something bad had happened.

‘Welcome, Errol,’ the dragon said, his voice strong and deep but not so loud as to be uncomfortable. ‘It’s been a long time since last I had an apprentice, longer still since one showed so much promise.’

‘Apprentice?’ Errol asked, confusion taking over from his initial surprise.

‘Do you not wish to learn from me?’ Sir Radnor asked, a gentle mocking in his voice.

‘Of course,’ Errol blurted out, lest the chance be taken away from him.

‘Good,’ the dragon said. ‘Then let us begin.’

It was only then that Errol realised his trousers were still lying on a rock a mile downstream.

*

Melyn limped into his private chapel, bolting the door behind him. Fresh mountain air blew in through the unglazed narrow slits of two windows, chilling the small room. He turned towards the heavy black slate altar that sat on a dais raised above the rest of the flagstone floor. Hanging from the wall above it, the image of The Shepherd, arms outstretched and crook held high as he did battle against the Running Wolves, glowed as if it were alive, lit from below by two stubby tallow candles.

On the altar, the reliquary stood closed, its ancient wood smooth with the touch of millennia. Trembling slightly, Melyn reached up and unclipped the plain bronze clasp, opening the box to reveal the desiccated finger, still wearing its simple gold band, set with a lone crimson stone. Balwen’s ring, gifted to him by the Shepherd himself and passed down through generations of the royal house, until Brynceri had lost his finger in his fight with the dragon Maddau. It glowed with an inner fire that filled him with the strength of his convictions. This was his direct link to the Shepherd, the gift of his god.

He was at peace in this place, calm and collected. Even the pain in his knee seemed less. Countless Inquisitors before him had made the private chapel their own, adding heavy woollen drapes to the smooth stone walls; filling the massive oak chest at the far end of the room with other relics gathered from all four corners of Gwlad; decorating the floor with bizarre sigils and runes that had become scuffed and indistinct over the centuries. Melyn was loath to remove any of this, although he felt much that had been added to the room was unnecessary. He could feel The Shepherd all around him. His presence was as solid as a man standing by his side. And he knew that his God would be there for him if he truly needed His advice. His God was always there, always with him of course. But here, in the chapel, high in the mountains of the Rim, The Shepherd would speak to him.

Melyn settled into the twin dips in the floor that marked the spot where every Inquisitor had prayed since Ruthin had first been charged with founding the order. It was not a comfortable position, especially with his stiff and swollen knee, but then no man should deign to approach his God in comfort.

Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes. Isolated from the hubbub of the monastery and shielded by thick oak and solid stone, the chapel was a point of perfect stillness in the midst of chaos. Melyn let the silence wash over him, as he had done countless times before, trying to suppress the hope in his heart. If The Shepherd wished to speak with him then He would appear. If not, well who was he to question the reasoning of his God?

‘You are troubled, my faithful servant.’ The familiar voice filled Melyn with the same ecstatic thrill that it ever had. He did not look up, did not dare, but knew that perfect bliss of being in the presence of his maker. All his aches and pains were washed away, as if they had never been. He could feel the swelling in his knee shrinking away, the pain soothed as the wrenched muscles and cartilage mended themselves.

‘I have received news that concerns me, my Lord,’ Melyn said, not knowing quite how to voice his anxieties.

‘You fear that Padraig seeks to take control of the lower Ffrydd,’ the voice of God said. ‘You worry that you will not be able to keep an eye on the last of the dragons that live there.’

‘That they live at all is an affront to me,’ Melyn said, the flush of anger reddening his neck before cold embarrassment washed over him. Such emotion had no place in the presence of God.

‘They serve a purpose in my great plan. For now at least. But do not fear, my Inquisitor. The time will come soon enough when you can fulfil the obligation placed upon your Order. King Divitie’s amity towards dragonkind will not outlive his great grandson.’

‘I live only to serve you, my Lord,’ Melyn said. ‘But I am weak. I fear for my people. Your people. Our enemies harry us along our borders, yet the king is grown old and senile and his most trusted adviser seeks to appease them at every turn. I fear that we will soon be overrun and still Padraig claims to speak with your authority.’

‘As he does in many things, Melyn. Were not each of the three orders cut from the same cloth? Do you think because I deign to speak directly to you that your order somehow has an exclusive hold on the truth? I have good reason why Padraig should pursue his diplomatic route with the heathen Llanwennogs, as I have good reason why you should keep your army of warrior priests ever at the ready. It is not the place of any man to question those reasons.’

Melyn felt the displeasure as an echo of unbelievable pain. It was a light punishment, he knew, yet within it was the promise of eternal damnation, of perfect wretchedness and torment. He knew that his God could be a cruel God and in that moment he caught a glimpse of just how cruel that God could be.

‘I could never hope to understand your great plan, Lord. Please forgive me for my pride,’ he said.

‘Do not immolate yourself just yet, my faithful servant. I still have need of your pride, and your strength. That is why I chose you in the first place. But I need you to have patience still. There will be no Llanwennog attack whilst Diseverin still sits on the Obsidian Throne, and I have every confidence in young Beulah to keep her father alive until such time as she can take up the mantle of power herself. Then you can have your war, Melyn son of Arall. Then you can spread the word of truth over the whole world.’

Melyn’s heart soared at the prospect, his mind full of the possibilities. He would lead a mighty army of warrior priests out of the Ffrydd and into Llanwennog. He would burn the word of God into the unbelievers and bring the glory of The Shepherd to the ignorant. And he would know, without a doubt if ever one had troubled him before, that he was doing the bidding of his God. He could not fail. He burned with righteousness, alive in a perfect moment of holy bliss.

~~~~

Chapter Seven

The subtle arts are so named because, like the grym they attempt to manipulate, they are interwoven and complex. There are simple spells, wards and other glamours which the novice should be able to master with relative ease, but as you seek to combine the effects of different workings to achieve some greater end, so the complexity multiplies. Great care should always be taken when employing the arts to understand both what it is you are trying to achieve, and what other workings may already be in progress around you. Unexpected effects are commonplace, and quite often one spell will negate another entirely.

On The Application Of The Subtle Arts by Corwen teul Maddau

Benfro hated collecting herbs. It was monotonous, repetitive work and yet he couldn’t let his mind wander. If he mixed up his Devil’s Bane with Ground Sedge at best he would get an earful from his mother and have to do the whole thing again. At worst he wouldn’t find out until he was preparing poultices and his hands began to itch.

It wasn’t even as if his mother needed half of the potions she stored. The villagers, though old, were in the main healthy. Sir Frynwy needed a steady supply of galan root for his arthritis and there were a few staples like wood sorrel and dandelion leaf that went into the cooking, but most of the more exotic potions seemed to sit untouched in store from the day they were made until the day Morgwm decided they had lost their potency and needed to be replaced. Then it was up to Benfro to scour the forest for ingredients. And as if that weren’t bad enough, most of the recipes required that leaves be picked during certain times of the day and phases of the moon. Some could only be picked in darkness, others only when in full sunlight. The variations were endless and yet somehow he was supposed to remember them all.

It was an impossible task, Benfro knew. And still his mother expected not only that he master it, but that he master it now. For his part, Benfro couldn’t see what the rush was. There were far more enjoyable ways to spend the days. Hunting with Ynys Môn, for instance, or sitting with old Sir Frynwy and listening to tales of ancient times. Meirionydd had promised that she would show him something of the magic that filled the world around them, if Morgwm would let her. As yet, Benfro’s mother had shown little sign of giving this permission and he sometimes wondered if she weren’t using it as a cynical ploy to get him to do his share of the work. But ever since his hunting trip into the deep woods with Ynys Môn, when he had first heard the story of Gog and Magog, Benfro had been desperate to learn more. So he went along with his mother’s demands in the hope that, sooner rather than later, she would let him learn what he really wanted to learn. And in the meantime, he could practise the concealment spell that Ynys Môn had taught him, even if there were only forest creatures to creep up on unseen.

The part of the forest in which he now hunted for birdsfoot trefoil, wild garlic and other hard to find plants was a place Benfro didn’t often visit. Half a day’s walk from home, it was a dank place where the river broke over a series of rocky escarpments before tumbling through rapids cut deep into the softer rock as it splashed down towards the village. There were paths through this difficult country, but more often than not, they led only to areas of deep, muddy bog cleverly disguised as firm ground. Springs welled up from rocky areas bringing with them a strange, metallic smell that reminded Benfro of the Delyn oil he had poured over the remains of Ystrad Fflur.

Benfro paused in his journey across the latest in a seemingly endless sequence of rock-strewn bogs. The escarpments climbed away from him, one by one, like a staircase built for some inconceivably large beast. From where he was now he could just make out the edge of the next one and beyond it the next. There were few trees here and he could see, far distant, the green-clad slopes of the Rim mountains rising up out of the forest at the edge of the Graith Fawr. Their size made him shiver, their distance impossible to comprehend. All his short life, Benfro had lived in the forest, his existence defined by proximity to trees. They acted as a frame, something in which to set things. He could cope with a clearing as big as that in which the village sat, it was perhaps no more than two thousand paces from end to end along the track, half that across. Those mountains, hazy and unclear in the afternoon sun, were too distant to understand. They frightened him.

A buzzard screaming overhead brought Benfro back to his senses. This was the reason why he tended not to come to this place often; it was too exposed, too wild. Downstream, where the river separated into deep, fish-filled pools and short stretches of white water overhung with the close canopy of the forest, he could be more at ease. Still, there was a job to do and here was the only place he knew that it could be done.