dragon sat at the far end, staring at the sunset over the grassland. He didn’t move as the door was slammed shut and locked again.
‘Rest yourself. We’ll have another practice in the morning before we leave. I want you to put on a good show for the king.’ With a last flick of his whip across the bars, Loghtan strode off in search of some food.
There was nothing for Benfro, and despite the buckets that had been thrown through the bars, there was no water to drink either. He slumped down against the closed door, thirsty, hungry, but not tired. Most of his days were taken up with sitting in this dreadful cage, either cramped like now or more uncomfortably rocking back and forth as the circus rolled slowly south and east.
‘Another day gone. Goodbye, sweet Arhelion.’
Benfro looked up from his musings. The old dragon spoke to the sunset as the last shimmer of red disappeared. He sounded so sad and lost that Benfro was left wondering how many times he had said the same thing.
‘How long have you been in here?’
‘Magog was always in here. Magog will always be in here. How long is how long?’
Benfro sighed. Getting sense out of the old dragon was like squeezing water out of a stone.
‘But surely there must have been a time when you weren’t caged like this?’
‘This is Cenobus, Magog’s home. Do not call it a cage.’
Benfro remembered the ruins deep in the heart of the great forest of the Ffrydd. It was difficult to decide which was worse: being stuck there under Magog’s control or here under Loghtan’s. At least he didn’t dream here. There must have been something in the drugs he was given that made him sleep soundly. It would have been too much indeed to be caged during the day and forced to sort
through the dwindling pile of dragon’s jewels in Magog’s repository through the night.
‘Have you met many other dragons here?’ Memories of his mother, of Sir Frynwy and the other villagers, of Corwen, reminded him of something he had forgotten under the influence of Loghtan’s drugs. A shiver ran down his spine to the tip of his tail as his slow brain followed the logic of it.
‘Magog has seen many dragons. They come to his court for his wisdom.’
‘What about a dragon called Sir Trefaldwyn? Do you remember meeting him?’
The old dragon considered a moment, his rheumy eyes glinting in the failing evening light.
‘No. I knew Palisander, of course. And Albarn the Bard, but no Sir Trefaldwyn. What manner of name is that for a dragon anyway?’
‘How about Morgwm. Morgwm the Green?’ Benfro studied the old dragon’s face for the faintest flicker of recognition. But there was nothing. It was both frustrating and a relief; if this had been the sorry, mad wreck of his father, then what hope was there left?
‘I knew a Morrin the Fool once. But he was no dragon. No, he was an ass, and a fine fellow to boot.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Old Loghtan didn’t like him, so he struck him down with an axe. Then they chopped him up and fed him to us. Very good he tasted too. You should be careful, young Gog. Loghtan doesn’t like you much.’
‘I don’t think he much likes anyone.’
‘Hee. Old Loghtan’s a misery guts. That’s for sure. But
you don’t want to upset him. Oh no, sir. That would be bad.’
‘Worse than this?’
‘You think this is bad?’ The old dragon laughed, a noise like pigs fighting in a sack. ‘You don’t know nothing, my boy. You don’t know nothing.’
‘What? We’re locked up in this shit hole for days on end, drugged into submission, made to fly endlessly round and round, whipped … What could be worse than that?’ Benfro’s anger came out in his voice, but he was powerless to lash out, to kick and punch like he wanted to. His body was barely under his control. It took all of his strength just to find a slightly less uncomfortable place to sit.
‘Old Loghtan’s a magician, see.’ The dragon went on as if Benfro had said nothing. ‘He
‘Rest yourself. We’ll have another practice in the morning before we leave. I want you to put on a good show for the king.’ With a last flick of his whip across the bars, Loghtan strode off in search of some food.
There was nothing for Benfro, and despite the buckets that had been thrown through the bars, there was no water to drink either. He slumped down against the closed door, thirsty, hungry, but not tired. Most of his days were taken up with sitting in this dreadful cage, either cramped like now or more uncomfortably rocking back and forth as the circus rolled slowly south and east.
‘Another day gone. Goodbye, sweet Arhelion.’
Benfro looked up from his musings. The old dragon spoke to the sunset as the last shimmer of red disappeared. He sounded so sad and lost that Benfro was left wondering how many times he had said the same thing.
‘How long have you been in here?’
‘Magog was always in here. Magog will always be in here. How long is how long?’
Benfro sighed. Getting sense out of the old dragon was like squeezing water out of a stone.
‘But surely there must have been a time when you weren’t caged like this?’
‘This is Cenobus, Magog’s home. Do not call it a cage.’
Benfro remembered the ruins deep in the heart of the great forest of the Ffrydd. It was difficult to decide which was worse: being stuck there under Magog’s control or here under Loghtan’s. At least he didn’t dream here. There must have been something in the drugs he was given that made him sleep soundly. It would have been too much indeed to be caged during the day and forced to sort
through the dwindling pile of dragon’s jewels in Magog’s repository through the night.
‘Have you met many other dragons here?’ Memories of his mother, of Sir Frynwy and the other villagers, of Corwen, reminded him of something he had forgotten under the influence of Loghtan’s drugs. A shiver ran down his spine to the tip of his tail as his slow brain followed the logic of it.
‘Magog has seen many dragons. They come to his court for his wisdom.’
‘What about a dragon called Sir Trefaldwyn? Do you remember meeting him?’
The old dragon considered a moment, his rheumy eyes glinting in the failing evening light.
‘No. I knew Palisander, of course. And Albarn the Bard, but no Sir Trefaldwyn. What manner of name is that for a dragon anyway?’
‘How about Morgwm. Morgwm the Green?’ Benfro studied the old dragon’s face for the faintest flicker of recognition. But there was nothing. It was both frustrating and a relief; if this had been the sorry, mad wreck of his father, then what hope was there left?
‘I knew a Morrin the Fool once. But he was no dragon. No, he was an ass, and a fine fellow to boot.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Old Loghtan didn’t like him, so he struck him down with an axe. Then they chopped him up and fed him to us. Very good he tasted too. You should be careful, young Gog. Loghtan doesn’t like you much.’
‘I don’t think he much likes anyone.’
‘Hee. Old Loghtan’s a misery guts. That’s for sure. But
you don’t want to upset him. Oh no, sir. That would be bad.’
‘Worse than this?’
‘You think this is bad?’ The old dragon laughed, a noise like pigs fighting in a sack. ‘You don’t know nothing, my boy. You don’t know nothing.’
‘What? We’re locked up in this shit hole for days on end, drugged into submission, made to fly endlessly round and round, whipped … What could be worse than that?’ Benfro’s anger came out in his voice, but he was powerless to lash out, to kick and punch like he wanted to. His body was barely under his control. It took all of his strength just to find a slightly less uncomfortable place to sit.
‘Old Loghtan’s a magician, see.’ The dragon went on as if Benfro had said nothing. ‘He
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