The Broken World (15 page)

‘Who's there? What's going on?' The voice came out of the darkness. A circus performer. Melyn didn't need light to see him. He reached out and turned off the man's mind with a single thought. There was the muffled sound of a body slumping to the ground, and he felt a surge of power once more, as if he had drunk the man's life force and found it more potent, more wonderful than any wine.

Behind him Melyn was aware that his warrior priests had stopped. He turned to them, feeling their fear. It was good.

‘What are you staring at? We've work to do. Come.'

They rallied, stepped past the prone bodies and into the circus camp, but Melyn knew that they were afraid. Legend told of the old kings and first inquisitors who could kill a man just by looking at him, but no one had wielded that power in a thousand years. It filled him with an almost childish glee, both that he should be given such a wonderful gift and that his men should react to it so.

The great circus tent rocked slightly as he approached, as if something huge were trapped inside and trying to escape. Melyn heard the audience within give a great cry of alarm, then settle again. Somewhere in among the
noise a lone voice was declaiming loudly, though he couldn't make out the words.

‘Hide yourselves. Deal with the guards.'

He watched as his warrior priests shimmered out of sight, rushing to do his bidding. Alone, Melyn half listened to the story being told in the ring, a tale of warring dragons that sparked a memory in him, long suppressed. He must have heard the story before, he supposed, but it felt more personal than that. As if he had lived it, known the creatures well. Perhaps it was a side effect of the ring; it had been the Shepherd's gift, after all. It was imbued with unimaginable power and had been witness to great and terrible events stretching back millennia.

And then the voice stopped, the story ended. There was an instant of utter silence followed by tumultuous applause. Taking this as his cue, Melyn pushed aside the odd feeling of hiraeth. Now was not the time to be distracted by anything, let alone something as intangible as a longing for a past he couldn't even recall. He once more conjured up his blade of light, strode in through the wide opening under the tiered seating. Wood creaked and groaned as the appreciative audience stamped and cheered, their attention entirely focused on two dragons sitting in the centre of the great tent. Even with its back to him, Melyn recognized one as Benfro. With a surge of fury that turned his blade of fire crimson, he stepped forward into the ring.

The applause was deafening, filling his head and blotting out all thought. Benfro felt his body bend into a bow, just like the one he could see his fellow performer making alongside him. He fought against it with all his will, and yet he could not control himself. Even though the ghostly images of a hundred or more warrior priests surrounded
him, taunted him, mocked his weakness. They had killed his mother, and now this circus would kill him. Only where Morgwm had died in an instant, he would be slowly destroyed, his jewels ripped from his skull by the circus master. Better to go mad now than face that fate every day. And surely he was going mad. There were no warrior priests here. And that wasn't Inquisitor Melyn walking into the ring with his blade of light turned crimson like blood.

Before he knew what he was doing, Benfro was running. Pounding his way across the ring towards the hated figure. He vaguely registered the applause dying away, barely felt the power behind Loghtan's words as he waved his arms and spoke in an odd voice that sounded almost like Draigiaith. But mostly he saw Melyn, the hated enemy, alone and vulnerable. And that hatred, that anger, cut away whatever spells and drugs had bound him as if they were no more substantial than cobwebs. It boiled in his stomach too, filling him until he was ready to burst. With a roar that had been trying to escape since he had first been captured, Benfro belched out a huge flame.

Loghtan stood between him and the inquisitor. For a second the circus master looked astonished, and then he disappeared into the fire, screaming. Benfro paid him no more heed than to smile inwardly. He ran on towards Melyn, breathing in deeply, ready to burn the inquisitor to a crisp. The fire came easily, leaping away from him as if it had a life of its own. But Melyn simply waved his arm and the flame parted around him.

And then the fear hit.

Benfro reared back, a long-forgotten part of his mind
taking control of his body. This was far more terrifying than the fear that had swept over him when his mother had been murdered. Worse than anything Magog had ever thrown at him. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that the fear wasn't real. But that place was hiding from the voice that spoke in his mind.

‘I knew I would find you soon enough, dragon. You're mine now. I will take you, crack your mind apart and find out what secrets it holds. And then you will cease to exist.'

It was Melyn's voice, but in his terror Benfro heard Magog's too, cackling triumphantly as it ate into him chunk by chunk. He scrambled to get away and crashed into something, tripping and falling to the dirt floor. Wide-eyed, he saw a pillar of flame running around the ring. It was Loghtan, burning up, screaming, scattering fire as he went.

There was uproar in the big tent as the fire spread far too quickly. It leaped up the great wooden poles and tore into the canvas. In no time at all huge chunks of burning cloth began to rain down on the hysterical audience. People were scrambling over one another to escape the flames that licked along the wooden seating.

‘Hee hee. Gog's been a naughty dragon now. Old Loghtan didn't much like that, did he?'

Benfro shook his head, trying to push away the fear that still smothered him. The old dragon had appeared at his side, a wide grin on his wrinkled face and a light in his eyes far brighter than the flames surrounding them.

‘You'd better come with Magog, hadn't you. Don't want to get all burned up in the fire.' He wrapped a bony arm around Benfro's shoulder and helped him up. Dazed,
Benfro was only too happy to be guided through the thickening black smoke towards where he hoped the exit was. He had lost track of Melyn, and the fear seemed less somehow, as if the inquisitor had been distracted from him. At least for now.

Benfro held his breath and together he and Magog pushed their way out into the dark circus camp beyond. Escapees from the audience were running back and forth, and some of the performers were trying to form a human chain to throw buckets of water at the conflagration – as if that would make a difference.

‘Old Loghtan can't order Magog around any more. Oh no. Old Loghtan's gone to join the Wolf in his lair. See if he hasn't.' The dragon let go of Benfro's arm and danced a little jig. Then stopped all of a sudden. ‘But where will Magog go now? Who has he got to go to?' His voice was suddenly sad and lost.

Benfro looked around. They were being completely ignored in the chaos; they could just walk out. But the question stood: where would they go?

‘Come with me,' he said, heading towards the back of the camp, where the performers' wagons were drawn up.

‘What? Where is Gog going?'

‘I'm going to find your memories. Maybe then we can work out what to do.' He ran across the camp, pausing only to make sure the old dragon was following. With each step he could feel the stupor of the past weeks falling away, his anger growing all the while as he realized how helpless he had been, how badly treated. Loghtan's death was sweet, but there were others here who deserved the same.

The wagons were arranged in a rough circle around a central fire. Everything was deserted, all hands gone to try and save the big tent. Benfro went from wagon to wagon, throwing open doors and thrusting his head inside. He knew he would recognize the one he was looking for by its smell, but before he got to it, the door burst open on its own. An unwelcome and familiar figure backed out, struggling with something. Benfro didn't care what it was. He just shouted.

‘Tegwin!'

As the circus master's son turned, Benfro backed up his cry with a roar of flame. And only then did he see what the man was struggling with. Dressed in women's clothes, a knife at his throat, was Errol.

Melyn ignored the flames as they surged up the poles and tore great holes in the canvas. Their heat was not intolerable, and he knew he was safest in the middle of the tent, rather than fighting to get out like the panicked audience. He pushed them from his mind too, along with his disappointment at seeing the dragon escape. He would catch that quarry soon enough; now there were more important matters to attend to.

‘Are you afraid to face me, Ballah?' he shouted above the noise of chaos and fire. The old king sat still and calm as if he were on his throne rather than at the centre of an inferno. Without so much as a command from him, four of his guards leaped over the barrier that separated him from the ring. Their blades shimmered into existence as they spread out, trying to surround the inquisitor. Melyn chuckled and threw the full force of his mind at the nearest.

The soldier was prepared. His thoughts were tight, disciplined. He had no fear, no doubt. Melyn didn't care. He simply reached deeper in and turned his attacker's mind off. His blade flickered and disappeared as he toppled like a puppet abandoned in mid-play.

To their credit, the other three didn't flinch at the death of their comrade. Melyn almost regretted that he had to kill them; they would have made fine warrior priests if only they would accept the Shepherd into their hearts. But there was no time for mercy, and they fell before one of them could get within a dozen paces of him.

‘You'll have to try harder than that, old man.' Melyn walked towards the still smiling king. The remaining two guards didn't leave his side, no doubt waiting for the inquisitor to clamber over the low wooden railing into the royal box. He would be momentarily vulnerable then, and that was when they would strike.

Except that he had no intention of getting that close. He reached out with his mind again, feeling the power of the Grym coursing through him, directed by Brynceri's ring.
His
ring. Gifted to him by the Shepherd himself, along with the secrets of the magic that the dragons had stolen. What harm could these second-rate magicians do him?

Melyn's arrogance was almost his undoing. He searched for the minds of the two guards, finding nothing there. And then he realized why Ballah had not moved, had not spoken. He was a projection cast while the inquisitor was occupied with the first four guards. The only four guards.

He whirled, blade of light at the ready, looking for the king. With a single thought the aethereal enhanced his
vision and he saw him too close, lunging. Melyn stepped aside and felt the cloth of his cloak part as Ballah's blade appeared from nowhere and sliced at him.

‘Not quick enough, old man.' Melyn twisted, bringing his blade down to slice into the king's back. It was a killing blow that would surely split the man in two, but it passed through without meeting any resistance. Melyn tipped forward, off balance. At that moment he sensed rather than saw the attack. He fell to the ground and rolled like he was twenty again, back on to his feet in a flash, blade held high to parry Ballah's blow.

It wasn't there. And the low chuckle he heard came from several paces away. Shaking his head, Melyn tried to calm himself. Distracted by the dragon, he had given Ballah the upper hand here; the king was just toying with him. Meddling with his mind. Well, two could play that game.

‘Your soldiers are all dead, Ballah,' he said, erecting even stronger mental defences than normal. ‘In here, in the barracks, in the palace. My men have taken your city and you didn't even know we were here.'

‘Your arrogance is every bit as great as reported, Inquisitor. How long do you imagine you can hold this place when my army returns?'

‘Long enough for Beulah to attack them from behind.' Melyn focused on Ballah's words, pushing the misdirection aside and turning to face the real king. For a moment Ballah was indistinct in the mundane, though he blazed bright and clear in the aethereal. Then he dropped all pretence of hiding, and Melyn felt a great rush in the Grym as the king drew its power into himself.

‘She'll find only your blackened corpse.'

Before the words were even finished, Ballah had thrown a great ball of fire at him. Melyn lifted his ringed hand, forming the spell in his mind exactly as he had read it in the book. The fire hit an invisible shield two paces ahead of him, splaying out either side and bouncing back at the king. Ballah looked momentarily shocked, but rallied. Melyn felt the surge as the Grym was tapped for miles around; every living thing would have felt a sudden sickening weakness as its very life was leached. The king shuddered with the power of it all, and for a moment Melyn thought his work was done. Surely Ballah would simply explode, burn up like a novitiate conjuring his first blade of light before he was ready.

But incredibly the king held on to that force, concentrated it into a glowing orb about the size of his head, then sent it rocketing towards the inquisitor. Melyn didn't even bother forming the spell; he knew how it felt now. With a casual flick of his hand, he sent the ball spinning away. It missed the nearest tent pole but collided with the next, exploding with a deafening roar that sent splinters flying through the air. Melyn's shield protected him, but Ballah's face and hands were peppered with tiny cuts, making it look like he sweated blood.

Then Melyn saw the fear in the king's eyes and knew that he had won. He stepped forward, narrowing the gap between them, ignoring the screams as men and women were enveloped in burning canvas. He swung his blade of light, parrying Ballah's attacking thrust, countering it with one of his own.

‘It's over, old man. I win.' Melyn feinted, parried, then
swung his blade with a flick of the wrist that brought it round in a neat arc, severing Ballah's arm at the wrist. The lifeless hand fell to the earth, and Melyn half-expected the king to explode as the concentrated Grym that had powered his blade flowed back into him. But even in his agony Ballah retained enough control to let it dissipate.

‘You'll never live to see your precious Emmass Fawr again.' Ballah staggered as the shock began to take him. ‘And Beulah will never rule over Llanwennog.'

‘Empty words, old man,' Melyn said. And he drove his blade forward, burning a hole through Ballah's heart.

Errol had no time to react, even if he had been able to do anything. Tegwin had him in an arm lock, a thin dagger at his throat. One moment he was being pulled backwards out of the wagon, promises of sexual violence whispered in his ear, the next a voice mad with rage roared in the air. Then he was engulfed in flame.