The Broken World, page 7
‘Oh come now, Dondal. Why do you do anything? To save your scrawny neck. Osgal.’ Melyn nodded at his captain and felt the telltale surge in the Grym as Osgal conjured his blade of fire. It cast an eerie white light over the room, harsher by far than the smoky daylight outside.
‘Inquisitor, please. I can be of great use to you alive. Ballah would—’
‘Ballah would sell your neck for a handful of beans, Dondal. Why do you suppose he’s sent you upcountry when all the important things are happening in the south?’ Melyn focused on the duke. He was easy to manipulate; his fear was real and intense. It was a shame he probably didn’t know very much about the king’s battle plans at all. Still, Melyn was determined to extract every last nugget. He built up an idea of what it might feel like for a blade of fire to burn its way through skin, cauterizing blood vessels as it bit its way down towards the spine, searing through bone.
‘I only know what they discussed at the council of war before Ballah sent me here to recruit more men.’ Dondal’s words spilled out like water from a broken dam. ‘Geraint was to take the main force to Wrthol to guard that pass. Tordu was in charge of the smaller garrison at Tynewydd. That should have been my command, but—’
‘But Ballah couldn’t trust you not to let me in without a fight. He’s wise. That’s why he’s king and you’re begging for your life. What of Dafydd? Is he in his father’s army, or has Ballah put him in charge of the city defences?’
‘I’ve not seen Dafydd for months. Nor his wife either. Ballah sent them to Talarddeg to get them out of the way. The boy kept coming up with wild schemes that would only end up getting him killed.’
‘So who’s guarding the city then?’
‘Guarding it against what? Any attack would have to get past Tordu or Geraint. And even then it would have to march for two weeks at least to reach Tynhelyg. Ballah would have plenty of time to prepare the city for a siege.’
‘How many soldiers are garrisoned there now?’
‘A thousand maybe. Plus two hundred of Ballah’s palace guard.’
‘So few?’ Melyn probed Dondal’s mind as he spoke the words, looking for the lie. But it wasn’t there.
‘Geraint wanted to leave five thousand men, but Ballah shouted him down. Said if he didn’t want them they could go with Tordu’s army. Then he sent most of his guard out with the army too.’
‘And what of your own efforts? If the army that met us here is anything to go by, you’ve not been too successful in drumming up more men. When were you going to slink back to your master and admit your failure?’
‘King Ballah wanted me back in time for the festival. And I’ve already sent three thousand men to the front, so I don’t think he’ll be too upset.’
‘The King’s Festival? I’d have thought with war looming that would have been cancelled. But no, I suppose that’s not Ballah’s style.’
Melyn settled back in his chair, digesting the information. If it was true that Tynhelyg was largely unguarded, neither Llanwennog army could ignore his threat. If there were just a way to isolate the king from his palace guard … They were the problem. A thousand men with iron swords were no match for even a hundred warrior priests, but two hundred well-trained magicians would ruin everything. Then again, if the king was outside the city, and with thousands of people gathered for the festivities … The elements of a plan even more daring than his strike through the forest and into the northlands began to form in Melyn’s mind.
‘Lady Gremmil, I said you needn’t fear for your life. I’m sorry, but I lied.’ He concentrated on the Grym, summoning it to him, channelling it. Lady Gremmil turned at his words, but she scarcely had time to respond. With a mental flick he unleashed a surge of pure energy at her. She let out a tiny ‘Oh’ and crumpled to the ground, dead.
‘You …’ Dondal’s eyes bulged in fear and anger. ‘Did you have to do that?’
‘Regrettable,’ Melyn lied. He had rather enjoyed himself. ‘But yes. I had hoped to draw the army from the passes by torching the northlands, but what more tempting a prize than Tynhelyg itself. Osgal.’
‘Wait. Melyn. I can help you. I can—’
Contrary to the image the inquisitor had put in the duke’s mind, this blade of fire cut without heat and didn’t cauterize as it went. Dondal’s blood sprayed wide over the wooden floorboards as his head clattered to the floor, separated from his neck by Osgal’s swift stroke.
‘Come on, you old nag. You can do better than that. Call yourself Magog? I’ve seen more convincing lizards.’
Benfro winced as each crack of the whip hit the old dragon’s shoulders. He still couldn’t call his companion in misery Magog, even though that was how he referred to himself. The mad old beast was running around the makeshift ring, his skinny wings held wide, flapping like a cockerel about to crow. Every so often he would leap up and glide a short distance before crashing back down to the ground, stumbling, and running some more. Plainly it was no longer enough of a show for Loghtan.
‘You can fly higher than that, you useless wyrm. Put some effort into it.’ Loghtan let fly the whip again, and Benfro imagined himself getting up, ripping out the post to which he was chained, striding over to the circus master, taking him by the throat and squeezing until there was no life left in that hated body. But he stayed where he was, held still by the stupor of the drugs he was forced to eat.
‘What is it now? Run, damn your hide. Ah, this is useless.’ Benfro looked across to see the old dragon had stopped and was leaning against the nearest wagon, trying to catch his breath. Loghtan jumped down off his box and walked over to him.
‘Right, you. Back to your cage. And don’t think you’re getting a feed tonight. You know the rules. If you don’t work, you don’t eat.’
But the dragon didn’t move. Benfro could hardly believe it. Whenever Loghtan gave him an order, it was like his body was completely in the circus master’s control, yet here was Magog – and suddenly he was Magog, Son of the Summer Moon – not so much defying the man as ignoring him completely.
Maybe he would reach out and pull off Loghtan’s head. It would be easy, and then they would be free. But Loghtan’s head stayed firmly on his shoulders. He dug one hand into the satchel he always wore over his shoulder when training the dragons, and pulled something out. There was a muffled pop and a cloud of smoke or dust enveloped the old dragon’s head. Almost instantly he dropped to the ground in a heap, motionless. Loghtan looked at him for a moment, kicked him a couple of times, then walked to where Benfro was chained.
‘Reckon two dragons might be more than any circus needs, if you understand me.’ Loghtan selected a key from the heavy ring on his belt and opened the padlock securing Benfro to the post, handing him the heavy length of chain to carry. ‘Now get over there and drag that useless bag of bones into the middle of the ring. Then wait here. I’m going to get Griselda to help me.’
Help you with what? Benfro thought, but he couldn’t make the words come out. Instead his traitorous legs turned and carried him to where the old dragon lay. He could smell the dust in the air as he neared, an aroma that reminded him only of sleep. To his relief, Magog was still breathing. Benfro carefully moved Loghtan’s box so he could place the dragon at the exact centre of the ring, then went back to the post where he had been chained, hating himself, Loghtan, the circus and the whole of Gwlad with every breath.
He didn’t have to spend long cursing before Loghtan returned. Griselda hurried along behind him, and Tegwin brought up the rear, lugging a small wooden trunk. Benfro still didn’t fully understand their language, but he could translate enough to get the gist of what they were saying. Their anxiety was obvious.
‘It’s too soon, surely. Once a year at most. Never twice.’
‘Well, that’s what the old man used to say. But he also said two dragons was bad luck. Maybe the youngster’s sparked off something.’
They approached Magog, who was sprawled on the ground as if he had fallen from a great height. Loghtan kicked him a couple of times to make sure he was still asleep, then Tegwin put down the trunk and joined in.
‘Give it a rest, boy. That’s our meal ticket there.’ Griselda put a hand on Tegwin’s arm. He shrugged it off angrily but stopped kicking.
‘What we need him for? I got you another one, didn’t I?’
‘Quiet, the both of you. This is delicate work.’
Benfro struggled to see what Loghtan was doing. The three clustered around the old dragon’s head, bent down and talking in low voices. Then Loghtan opened the trunk and pulled something out. It looked like a hammer and chisel, though Benfro couldn’t be sure.
He watched for an hour or more, unable to make out what was happening save that they were doing something violent to the old dragon’s head. Then suddenly Griselda shouted, ‘There it is! Be careful, Loghtan.’ To which he merely grunted a wordless, angry retort. They all fell silent for a few moments, and then Benfro saw Loghtan hold up what looked like a pair of giant tongs. He dropped something into a cloth that Griselda held out ready. She wrapped it up and put it in her pocket, watched hungrily by Tegwin.
‘Heal him up then, boy.’ Loghtan dropped a number of metal implements into the trunk, closing the lid and standing up to stretch his back.
‘Why do I have to do it?’
‘Because I told you to.’ Loghtan delivered a hard slap to the back of his son’s head, then stooped and picked up the trunk.
Griselda stood, wiping her hands on her apron, leaving dark red stains. ‘I’ll give this a quick wash then bring it to your wagon, shall I?’ she asked.
Loghtan nodded absent-mindedly, watching what his son was doing. Benfro thought he felt something rush past him, less solid than the wind but much more powerful. His senses were so dulled that it was impossible to be sure, but it seemed likely Tegwin was performing some kind of magic. Whatever it was didn’t last long.
‘That good enough for you?’
‘It’ll do, I suppose. We’ve got the other one, after all. This one can take some time to heal.’ Loghtan handed the trunk to his son, who took it with a scowl and stalked out of the ring with it. Griselda followed him, and as she passed Benfro, he saw blood on her hands and face, so dark it was almost black.
‘Pick him up. Carry him back to the wagon.’ Once more the circus master’s voice acted directly on Benfro’s body, leaving his mind powerless to do anything but watch as he walked over to the unconscious form of the old dragon. The back of Magog’s head and his shoulders were slick with blood. The scar line that ran between his ears was livid, like it had only just begun to heal. Benfro knelt down, trying to work out in his mind the best way to pick him up. His body carried on regardless, scooping the old dragon up and into his arms. He was lighter than Benfro had expected, but still heavy. Wings and tail trailed awkwardly as he carried him out of the ring, round the back of the wagons and away to the edge of the camp where their shared cage was parked. No sooner had he walked up the ramp and squeezed through the narrow opening than Loghtan shut the door behind them and locked it. The circus master walked away without another word.
Clumsily, Benfro laid the old dragon down on the thin straw that was all the bedding they had. Magog began to stir almost immediately, one hand going up to the back of his head even before he opened his eyes. When he did, he looked around the cage in startled glimpses, as if everything was new and alarming to him. Finally his eyes fixed on Benfro and stuck there.
‘Who are you then? What are you doing in my palace?’ The old dragon spoke in the language of the men, not Draigiaith as they had used whenever they were alone before.
‘I’m Benfro, remember? What did they do to you?’ Benfro used his own tongue and for a moment thought Magog didn’t understand him.
‘Benfro? Benfro? Never heard of him. Now if you were my brother Gog, that would be a different matter.’
Benfro slumped against the cage wall and tried not to stare at the old dragon as he prattled on, speaking as if he truly didn’t recognize him. And then he remembered what the old dragon had said before, when he had shown him the scar on the back of his head. He can take away your memories. He saw in his mind’s eye a pair of tongs dropping something small into a cloth in Griselda’s outstretched hand. Something small and round and red. An unreckoned dragon’s jewel, plucked from his living brain.
‘Land ahoy!’
The cry came down from the masthead, where for days the sailors had been taking it in turns to scan the horizon for anything other than water. Dafydd instinctively looked out over the waves, though he knew it would be a while yet before he could see anything from the deck.
The ship was making good progress, with a strong wind at its back and all sails spread wide. Since leaving Merrambel they had followed the stars north and west across the southern sea towards the Bay of Kerdigen and Abervenn, but though weeks had passed until Dafydd was sure that they must be going the wrong way, still all there was to see was endless ocean and the odd lonely seabird.
Iolwen no longer sat at the prow watching the dolphins at play. Out here in the open sea it was too choppy, and with each passing hour she seemed to grow rounder still. She spent all day and all night in their cabin now. By Dafydd’s rough calculations she was already overdue; their forced visit to the Felem archipelago had added over a month to their journey time. The sighting of land was the news he had been hoping for, dreading the thought of their child being born at sea.
Captain Azurea hauled himself up the ropes, surprisingly agile for a man of his size. Dafydd watched from the railings as he reached the top and scanned the horizon, arguing with the lookout then finally coming back down again. He bellowed something to the helmsman and the ship changed course a fraction. Only when the sails were trimmed to his satisfaction did the captain turn finally to the prince.
‘We should be in Abervenn by nightfall, if this wind keeps up.’
‘That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard in weeks. Thank you, Captain.’ Dafydd left him to begin readying his ship for port and went below to tell the men. The rest of the day was spent in frustrated waiting. The land grew slowly out of the horizon, first the mountain tops of the coastal range, then the tall cliffs, the Sutors, that formed the eastern side of the Bay of Kerdigen. The sea changed as they reached shallower waters, the long slow swell becoming choppier and bringing back a nagging nausea that reminded Dafydd of the long days at the beginning of their voyage. Locked away in her cabin, Iolwen stayed in her bed, too tired even to think about moving until they were in dock and motionless.
As the afternoon wore on to evening they began to see other ships. Merchantmen plied the coastal waters, and fishing boats ventured out much further than Dafydd thought wise, no doubt in search of the best catches. Leaning against the railings and watching it all slide past, he was joined for a while by Usel, who pointed out landmarks as they came into view.
‘See there, that’s the highest point on the East Sutors. Back when Abervenn was the capital of Hafod traitors were cast from there on to the rocks below. And over there – those flat-topped islands – they’re the Thirteen Magicians. Legend has it King Brynceri raised them out of the sea so that he could fight a dragon marauding along the coast.’
‘What happened to the dragon?’
‘Oh, I suspect it was killed. Brynceri had a bit of a reputation for that. He founded the Order of the High Ffrydd to help him.’
‘I know. I’ve made it my business to study my enemies. Is it true the inquisitor worships Brynceri’s severed finger?’
Usel laughed. ‘I’d love to see Melyn’s face if you accused him of idolatry. He keeps Brynceri’s ring, which just happens still to be on the finger cut from the belly of the dragon Maddau. It’s one of the order’s most sacred relics, said to date back to Balwen himself. But he worships the Shepherd, like all the people of the Twin Kingdoms. Some say the Shepherd speaks to him when he prays, but I have my doubts about that.’
‘You’re not a religious man, I take it.’
‘Oh, quite the contrary, Your Highness. I’m deeply religious. I am a coenobite of the Order of the Ram and I take my vows to the order very seriously. But I don’t accept Melyn’s view of the Shepherd as a warlike god visiting terrible vengeance on all who deny him. Rather I think he’s a useful metaphor for the power that runs through the whole of Gwlad.’
‘The Grym, you mean?’
‘Of course, the Grym. But much more besides. Did you know that dragons believe in a being called the mother tree? She dwells in the forests of Gwlad and rules over us all with the dispassionate equality of nature.’
‘I’d not heard that, no. But dragons are simple-minded creatures, aren’t they? I mean, that one we met on the island. It was quite magnificent to look at, but all I did was order my men to stop attacking and suddenly it was pledging its life to me.’
‘And why did you order your men to stop?’
‘Well, it wasn’t doing us any harm. The poor thing was confused, not a threat.’
‘I only wish that more people felt the way you do, sir.’ Usel turned and faced him with a look that Dafydd found oddly disquieting. It was an intense stare, those pale grey eyes boring into him, and for a moment he thought the medic was trying to read his mind. But there was nothing, not even the faint whisper he felt when King Ballah touched his thoughts.
‘You truly love dragons, don’t you?’ Dafydd said. ‘No, it’s more than that, isn’t it? You worship them.’
‘Worship’s too strong a word. The people of Eirawen worshipped a dragon who called himself Gog. Then there was a great calamity and Gog left them, though his spirit remained. Their scriptures tell of a time when Gog will come back and drive the unbelievers from Gwlad. Does that sound familiar to you?’
Dafydd considered. ‘Change Gog for the Shepherd, and it’s the same story. Melyn’s justification for invading Llanwennog is that he’s preparing Gwlad for the Shepherd’s return. It’s nonsense, of course. He just wants to rule the world.’
‘Oh no. Don’t ever think that the inquisitor is motivated by greed or a desire for power. Melyn’s one of the few true believers. He knows he’s right, which is precisely why he’s so dangerous. He’ll do anything his god tells him to. Or anything he thinks his god tells him to. Why do you think he hates dragons so much? When was the last time a dragon harmed anyone? But it’s the sacred charter of his order to rid Gwlad of the beasts, so he hunts them down and slaughters them.’
