The Broken World Read Online Free PDF

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