The Broken World (3 page)

Benfro started to piece things back together, bit by bit, memory by memory. It was slow work; he seemed only to be able to hold a few things in his mind at once. He had no idea how long it was since he had been in the cave, nor how long he had been in this moving wooden box.

This cage.

The idea came to him just as he started to notice the sensations from his arms and legs. It was as if he had forgotten what discomfort was and it had taken him that long to put a name to the feeling. Now that he had made
the connection, he realized he had been uncomfortable ever since … when? He couldn't remember waking any more than he could remember going to sleep. But he must have done both at some point.

Benfro shifted his body, tried to sit up from the unusual lying position he found himself in. It was harder than it should have been. Not only was his sense of balance not working, but his arms and legs appeared to be tied together. He rocked back and forth, rolled over on to his front so that he could lever himself upright, but in the confines of the cage it was near impossible given the way he seemed to feel things only long moments after he had touched them. Finally he managed to reach some sort of tipping point, realizing as he did so that he had no way of staying upright. With a graceless certainty he toppled over, landing partially on something slightly softer than the wooden floor.

A voice muttered something harsh that he didn't understand.

‘What? Is there someone there?' Benfro's words sounded oddly thick to him, slurred and heavy.

‘I said watch where you're sitting. You're not the only one in here.'

‘Sorry. I didn't know.' Benfro shuffled himself as best he could away from the voice, backing himself into a corner. Only then did it filter through his muddled thoughts that the words had been spoken in Draigiaith. Not only that, they were perfectly formed, the voice itself deep and old, slightly reminiscent of Sir Frynwy. Not the speech of men.

‘I don't mean to be rude, but where are we? And who are you?'

‘I am Magog, Son of the Summer Moon. But you can
call me Moonie.' Something shifted in the darkness, a looming presence dragging itself across the floor towards him. The light playing on the ceiling should have been enough for Benfro to see by, but the same cloud that fogged his thoughts robbed him of his keen eyesight. All he could make out was a glint, perhaps the reflection of an eye. Then he felt hot breath on his face, rancid with the taint of rotten meat. ‘And you must be my brother Gog. I've been waiting for you. Where have you been all these years?'

‘No, I'm Benfro. Sir Benfro.' The presence in front of him withdrew; there was a shuffling sound and something slumped against the far wall, upsetting the regular motion for a moment.

‘A shame. And I was so sure. I was—' But whoever the creature was, Benfro didn't find out then. The cage stopped suddenly, throwing him forward so that he sprawled painfully on the floor. He heard the noise of bolts being drawn, a key turning in a lock, and then light flooded over him.

Benfro looked up to the far end, where the creature was slumped. It was almost impossible to make out the dragon who sat there, his colouring so perfectly matched the dark wood. He seemed thinner than Benfro, though otherwise much the same size. Except for his wings, which, while large for the dragons of the Ffrydd, were pathetic in comparison with Benfro's own. But what grabbed Benfro's attention most, what filled him with fear and pity and anger, was the expression on the dragon's face, the look in his eyes. He was frightened, broken and quite, quite mad.

Something hit Benfro square in the back. Whatever it
was that had been distancing his mind from his body dissolved in one instant of exquisite pain. He yelped, turning to see what had happened, and saw a man standing in the open doorway clasping a long whip in one hand. The man said something in a voice that sounded like it was used to being obeyed.

‘I don't understand.' Benfro held up his hands. His wrists were cuffed in irons, a short length of chain looping between them.

‘He says you're to behave yourself and stop spooking the horses. Otherwise he'll—' Benfro felt the tip of the whip fly past him across the cage and saw it strike the other dragon square in the face. Magog, as he called himself, shrieked, dropped to the floor and covered his head with his hands, speaking quick words in the same language as the man. He in turn hurled what sounded like abuse at the dragon, then turned to Benfro.

‘So. Not speak Llanwennog, do you. Will learn. Not learn, not eat. Now be still.' And with that he slammed the door shut, plunging them once more into darkness. Moments later the regular rhythmic motion started again with a first sudden lurch that had Benfro sprawling on the floor again just as he was beginning to lever himself upright.

‘Hee hee. You upset Tegwin. You don't want to be doing that. He can be nasty. And old Loghtan's worse still.'

Benfro started to struggle up again, then remembered the man's words and the pain of the whip. Perhaps when his head had cleared a bit more he'd teach this Tegwin a lesson, but for now it might be best to get rid of these chains. Taking a deep breath, he held his arms up in front of him and pulled them apart to stretch the links taut.
He thought of how they were an affront to his dignity, how they would be better off gone, and he tried to remember the feeling that had spread through his stomach before. Then he breathed out.

There was no flame.

Puzzled, Benfro took another deep breath and tried again. And still he failed to produce so much as a spark. It should have panicked him, should have angered him. Thinking about it, he realized that being in chains should have angered him too, and yet he had accepted it as merely a bit of an inconvenience. Something was deeply wrong with his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Instead he settled himself back down on the floor, the weight of his body coming down hard on his arms. They would hurt later, when the circulation came back into them, but right now he was too tired, too confused to care. He closed his eyes, for all the difference it made in the darkness, and tried to sleep, but the other dragon kept muttering under his breath.

‘Magog?' Benfro said, wondering how this pathetic creature had come by the name. The muttering stopped, so he assumed he was being listened to. ‘What is this place? Where are we? And who's Loghtan?'

‘Loghtan is the boss man. Oh yes. You think Tegwin's nasty with his little whip. Just wait till you meet Loghtan. Takes away your thoughts, he does. Takes away your mind.'

‘But where are we? How did I get here?'

‘We're in the circus, brave Sir Benfro. Oh yes. In the circus.'

Dafydd paced the rolling deck, listening to the constant chatter of gulls and the thrum of the wind through the rigging. He didn't understand why the ropes attached to the sails were called sheets, rather than the sails themselves, but during the course of his journey he had come to accept that there were many things about sailing he would never understand. For a start, why anyone would willingly choose it as a career.

Their passage through the Sea of Tegid had been calm enough, and they had even made it past the great looming cliffs of the Twin Spires of Idris without incident, but as they headed south into the Great Ocean the swell had risen and the wind strengthened. Dafydd had gone
through seasickness: he was past huddling in a miserable heap beside the railing, clutching his aching stomach and waiting for the cold wind to blow the pain from his head. It had taken five miserable days, but he had finally found his sea legs during the storm that had sent them past the Caldy peninsula, beyond Bardsey Island and into the middle of the Felem archipelago. Now he felt fine, but he would never forget the torment he had endured.

It was made all the worse by the fact that Iolwen, who for months had been sick every morning and sometimes throughout the day, had taken to the rough waters with casual ease. Her mood had lightened, and she had become ever more beautiful in his eyes. She was radiant. Dafydd just wished that she would wear slightly less revealing clothes. Her pregnancy was well evident now, and it seemed somehow improper for a princess of the realm to parade her condition so openly among the common soldiers and seamen who shared their ship.

He found her, as usual, up at the front, sitting staring out over the huge carved figurehead. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow around the edges of the myriad islets dotted about the sea here like so much chaff.

‘Captain Azurea tells me he knows of a large island nearby where we can find fresh water and provisions. He plans to stop there for a few days to let the horses graze.' Dafydd settled himself down on to the scrubbed wooden deck beside his wife and understood something of her liking for the place. Ahead of the busy ship all you could see was the sea and the islands, all you could smell was the tang of saltwater and the hot sun-baked air.

‘It's so peaceful. Sometimes I wish I could stay here for ever. Never go back.'

‘Do you really?' Dafydd asked. ‘It's nice, I'll grant you, and I'd far rather have peace than war any day. But I think I'd get bored very soon. And it's not always this tranquil either. Don't forget the storm that forced us here.'

He put his arm around Iolwen's shoulder and held her tight as the ship moved slowly through the narrow channels between the islets. They passed one rocky headland, a cliff of crumbling stone spearing out of the water several hundred paces high and streaked white with guano. Beyond it the sea was calm in the lee of a much larger island, the centre of which was dominated by a cone-shaped mountain wreathed in cloud. The ship turned towards the coastline directly beneath the summit, and as they neared the shore Dafydd made out a long stone jetty pushing into the bay. Behind it stood the crumbled remains of long-abandoned buildings shaded by tall palms and other exotic plants he didn't recognize.

‘We'd best get out of the way of the sailors. They'll be wanting to drop anchor or whatever it is they do.' Dafydd stood and helped Iolwen to her feet as the ship turned towards the jetty. They picked their way back along the deck as all about them the bustle grew in intensity. Sailors scrambled up masts and began furling sails; a group of men prepared the longboats, breaking out heavy wooden oars; and all about them shouted orders were answered with curt grunts and the occasional oath.

It was much quieter in their cabin, and in the hour or so it took for the ship to finally come to a halt Iolwen busied herself selecting clothing more suitable for wearing on
land. Dafydd watched her, wondering if he should tell her that the place was uninhabited. A knock on the door finally stirred him. He opened it to find Captain Pelod and Teryll waiting outside.

‘We've docked, and the men are unloading the horses. Teryll and I'll see to the camp arrangements, but Usel wondered if you'd like a tour of the island. Seems it's got quite a history.'

Up on deck, Dafydd was surprised to see that the ship was moored alongside the jetty; he had expected it to anchor in the bay. But as he walked down the gangplank and stood on firm ground for the first time in far too many weeks, he could see that the stonework of the jetty, ancient though it was, still held firm. The crystal-clear water showed a pale sandy bottom many spans below the ship, shoals of fish darting about in the newly cast shadow.

Usel was already waiting for them at the landward end of the jetty. He had about him the air of an excited schoolboy, Dafydd thought. The man bristled with energy and was impatient to get going.

‘There's something you really must see.' Usel didn't wait for them to reply but headed off along the beach towards the nearest of the derelict buildings. Iolwen strode off after him, speaking in Saesneg and just as full of excitement at being ashore. Dafydd shrugged at Pelod and Teryll, then jumped down on to the sand to follow.

It was a curious sensation to walk on ground that didn't move and pitch under his feet. Away from the open sea and its cooling breeze, the air was hot, the sunlight reflecting off the fine sand. Up from the beach the land levelled off into a wide plain before the sudden steep rise of the
mountain. A fringe of trees marked the boundary between beach and plain, and beyond them lay a tangle of long grass and shrubs. Large lumps in the vegetation were the remains of yet more buildings, making up what must once have been a sizeable town.

‘Who lived here, Usel?' Iolwen asked as they walked along a pathway through the brush which was obviously still well used.

‘This is Merrambel, the most northerly outpost of the people of Eirawen.'

‘What happened to them? Why did they abandon the place? Surely this must be a paradise to live in?'

‘So you'd think. But Mount Merram's not as peaceful as it looks. The histories say it erupted violently over three thousand years ago. Many of the people perished, and those who survived were scattered throughout Gwlad. Most of them returned to Eirawen, but a few were blown north to the Twin Kingdoms. Some say that they were the first people to reach there and were the ancestors of Balwen's tribe.'

‘Isn't that a bit far-fetched?' Dafydd asked.

‘Not really, no. The cities of Eirawen are ancient compared to Candlehall and Abervenn. The people might be superstitious and backward now, but there was a time when they were as sophisticated as us, if not more so.' Usel led them down a steep slope into a river valley between the rows of broken buildings and the looming presence of the volcano. The vegetation on either side thickened, but the path was still clear, laid with flat stones butted perfectly together and formed into a series of long shallow steps. The shadows lengthened as they neared the
bottom, though the sun still hovering on the western horizon shone up the valley past them. Usel was almost running now, so eager was he to get to whatever lay around the corner, and as Dafydd stepped past some overhanging fronds of vegetation, he understood some of the man's excitement.

The path down which they had walked opened into a wide clearing at the base of the valley. Immediately uphill the bulk of the mountain climbed away in a cliff. Vegetation covered it like the straggly hair of a drowned maid, but a great patch in the middle, perhaps a hundred paces wide and twice as high, had been cleared back to bare stone. And then it had been carved into the image of an immense dragon.

‘Behold Earith the Wise. This is the god of the ancient peoples of Eirawen.' Usel's voice was full of fervour, almost devotion. But it wasn't this, nor the truly immense carving that made Dafydd gasp and Iolwen let out a tiny yelp of surprise. In the middle of the clearing, dwarfed by the statue, gazing up at its image and quite oblivious to the new arrivals, stood a real, live dragon.

The village was little more than a collection of rude wooden huts clustered around a well. A narrow track meandered away from it downhill towards the undulating plains of the northlands, ending at the scrubby village green grazed by a couple of thin goats and a few chickens, as if this was the furthest reach of King Ballah's long arm. Beyond the last ramshackle house was bandit country.

Melyn rode slowly through the houses, noting the signs of habitation, feeling out with his senses for the
people who lived in this benighted place. They were small-minded, beaten down by the bleakness of their existence. Some time in the distant past a lucky soul had found some gold nearby. There had been a boom for a short while – Melyn had seen the ruins of a larger settlement on his way in, the scars in the landscape where men had toiled in search of wealth – but what had brought the people out here was long gone. The few poor souls still eking out an existence in this place were the losers, mindless optimists who used the vain hope of sudden riches to sustain themselves through a lifetime of miserable deprivation. He would, Melyn concluded, be doing them all a favour.

It took surprisingly long for anyone to appear. There were no dogs yapping at the heels of his horse, just goats shuffling up to see if he tasted better than the grass. He shooed them off, tying his horse to a rickety wooden rail by the well and drawing a bucketful of water for it to drink.

‘Halloo. Is there anyone here?' Melyn's shout dissipated on the cold wind that never stopped whistling across the barren landscape. Shivering, he drew more power from the Grym, feeling its warmth in his bones. He was about to shout once more when he heard a scraping noise and turned to see an old man shuffle out of the newly opened door of the largest house in the village.

‘Who're you?' The man's accent was harsh and unfriendly.

Melyn bowed his head slightly. ‘I am Inquisitor Melyn of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Perhaps you have heard of me?' Melyn's Llanwennog was cultured in comparison.

‘Don't know nuffin ‘bout that. What you want? Taxes?
You can tell ‘Is Majesty we bain't got no money fer ourselves. Let alone ‘im.'

‘I can assure you, I have no desire to take your money. Nor do I come here on behalf of King Ballah. I do, however, bring important news for everyone in this village. I take it you're in charge around here?'

‘That I am.'

‘Then I'd be grateful if you could call a village meeting. I don't want to have to say my piece more than once.' Melyn sent a compulsion with his voice, but it wasn't really necessary. The old man was going to complain about his back, his knees, the state of the roads, anything he could think of, but he was also intrigued to know what had brought this high-powered gentleman all the way out to his sorry village. He turned back to the open doorway and shouted to the darkness inside,

‘Mabel. Send the lads out t' tell everyone I'm calling a moot. Don't argue, damn you. Jes do it.'

Melyn unstrapped a small travelling stool from his saddle, unfolded and set it on the ground beside the well. He saw two young boys dart from the back of the house, heading for the other huts. The message spread quickly, but even so it took several minutes before the first of the villagers began to assemble. Not once did the old man offer any kind of hospitality. Melyn found he didn't mind; anything offered would most likely have made him ill, and to refuse it would have been rude. Not that he particularly minded being rude to these peasants.

On his stool Melyn watched them assemble, feeling their excitement build as they saw him and exchanged whispered words with each other. The old man refused to
say anything more than that this important man had a declaration that had to be made to the whole village. A few of the younger men tried to argue with the village elder, but he obviously still ruled the roost, and they backed down soon enough.

About fifty people had assembled by the time Melyn decided to speak. They ranged in age from a babe still suckling at its dirty-faced mother's breast to a bald-headed woman with a wall eye who must have been eighty if she was a day. They had a look about them, surly-faced and with eyebrows that met in the middle, which spoke of long years of inbreeding. For the first time, viewing the thin children and haggard women, Melyn began to wonder whether his plan was a good one. Nobody would ever miss these people. Nobody would notice them gone.

‘Thank you all for gathering to hear me. Is anyone not here?'