The Broken World by J.D. Oswald Page A

‘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