by Paul Cude
After barely a minute, Gee Tee called Yoyo over to have a look at the very still Flash. It only took a matter of seconds for the physician to confirm that the mantra had indeed frozen him, right down to the cellular level. With that done, the three settled down and waited for the requested items to arrive.
As they all once again took in the intricacies of the room, the king poked his head round the corner of a doorway and asked Peter to join him.
Tearing himself away from a picture of the king jamming with the Beatles, Peter crossed the room and followed the monarch's soft footsteps into the space beyond. A wide twisting corridor, sparsely lit, wound its way up a slight gradient to open out into a very plain bedroom. Upon entering, Peter was taken aback by the sight of the wooden floor, which was made from the most amazing oak floorboards. The colouring and grain were remarkable, but that wasn't what had caught his attention. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of intricate carvings across all the boards throughout the room. Kneeling down, running his hand across a carved scene that depicted a running battle of some sort, he was hardly able to believe the quality of the craftsmanship that had gone into making it.
"Nice, aren't they?" chirped the king from the far end of the room.
"Magnificent," answered Peter, momentarily lost for words.
"A very famous dragon artist by the name of Flirty Downdraft, probably a little before your time, owed me a favour for saving his life. Anyway, when I became king, Flirty offered to make me something that he said would 'make me change the way I think every day.' He spent nearly five years designing and crafting those boards. It took a whole month and five dragons to fit them. Oh the council kicked up a fuss about the cost of putting them in here, but in the end I got my own way, despite making one or two more enemies because of it."
"Why would dragons go as far to become your enemy over something like this?" asked Peter. "It seems so petty and... small."
A low chuckle rumbled from the king's mouth as he sat down on the edge of what could only be described as a proper 'king sized' bed, because it was, in human terms, more like a ground-floor-of-a-house sized bed, with a duvet that could have covered streets, and pillows the size of cars.
"Contrary to popular belief Peter, we as a race are not nearly so far removed from the humans as we'd like to think. Pettiness, squabbles, bickering, scheming, one-upmanship, plotting other dragons' downfalls... it all goes on I'm afraid to say. If you asked most dragons in the outlying suburbs, they'd tell you that we're above all of that and we leave it to the humans and their politicians above ground. But it's simply not true. It goes on in the council and in a lot of other parts of the dragon domain."
Stunned, that's how Peter looked. In the fifty years that he'd spent studying in the nursery ring, there'd been no mention of anything like that, and he'd had no cause to believe that dragons didn't live in complete and utter harmony with one another.
"I'm slightly surprised that Gee Tee hasn't put you straight on that front. I'm pretty sure he has a tale to tell on that subject, as well as a few others," said the king.
Peter thought for a split second.
"Come to think of it, he did mention... Councillor..."
"Ahh... yes," ventured the king, knowing exactly where Peter was going, despite the fact that he hadn't finished his sentence. "Councillor Rosebloom, disappointed about not being employed, does everything in his power to make life hard for the old shopkeeper. I know all about it, from the things his family arranged that led to the royal seal of approval being taken away, to the regular visits from the guards that are supposed to search for anything untoward in his shop."
"You know all about it?" asked Peter incredulously.
"Of course," replied the king, matter-of-factly. "I am the king after all."
"Why do you let it go on if you know all about it and know that it's wrong?"
"Because I'm constantly fighting battles, many of which I can't possibly win. Not real battles of course, but battles within the council to affect political decision making, to pass constitutions and to uphold dragon values and our laws. I, much to my disappointment, have to pick and choose which I can win, which I can lose and how much each will cost me in favours, resentment and prestige. I could probably have put a stop to the shop visits by the guards long ago, and believe you me, I wanted to. I really did. But the cost of doing so would diminish what little power I have, power that I need to keep the council in line, to wield when absolutely necessary. Being king is not the be all and end all that it seems. In that, your grandfather had a much greater understanding than I ever did, that is until I gained the position of king, by which time it was more than a little too late. As for Gee Tee, even though he looks a little frail at times due to his age, he's more than capable of looking after himself. I know full well that the guards and captain in charge who go to his shop to carry out the searches just sit around and listen to his old stories, something Councillor Rosebloom has absolutely no idea about. Long may it stay that way."
It all seemed pretty complicated to Peter, and sounded a complete nightmare; however, he was glad the king had at least one eye on the wellbeing of the old shopkeeper.
'The master mantra maker deserves that at the very least,' he thought, watching the king lean down beside the giant bed and flick a switch of some kind.
A whole section of the wall in front of them swung around one hundred and eighty degrees to reveal a really old and well worn... trunk. Its dark, oily wood was scuffed and scratched, the metal holding it together had started to rust, and numerous dents and knocks had taken their toll.
As Peter sat and stared at it, suddenly it dawned on him what it was.
"My grandfather's trunk," he remarked excitedly.
"I hadn't forgotten," claimed the king. "Even with the sudden arrival of Flash, and the urgency of the situation, I still remember why you're here, and since there is a natural lull in proceedings while we wait for everything to arrive, this seems like the perfect opportunity for you to have this," the king said, gesturing towards the haggard old trunk. Peter wandered over to where the king was sitting, not once taking his eyes off the chest. Standing up, the king put his hand on the youngster's shoulder.
"I'll leave you to it."
Peter looked perplexed.
"You should open it on your own. Whatever the chest contains is yours, Peter. I've done my part in looking after it for you. If you want to tell me after you've looked through it, then that would be great, but I really think you should open it and check it out on your own... in private. I'll make sure you won't be disturbed in here. Come back into the main room when you've finished. I doubt we'll have gone anywhere."
Smiling, the king turned and left, leaving Peter alone with the trunk.
Plonking himself down on the bed, he felt reluctant to open it, not having the vaguest idea as to what it might contain. Instead, he chose to study the outside, knowing that his grandfather would have once opened and closed this chest all the time by the looks of things. From up close, the trunk appeared even more magnificent than when he'd first clapped eyes on it, only a few moments ago. Despite being old and worn, he could see and feel just how sturdy it was. Clearly well made, he found himself tracing the lines of different patterns and initials with his fingers. Something else nagged at the back of his mind as he did so. It was a... feeling. A feeling of... power. That was the only way to describe it. Something inside the box, or the box itself had power. Gulping, he knew that he should just get on and open it up.
Carefully avoiding the splinters of wood that surrounded it, he flicked open the old latch, with much less force than he'd thought he'd have to use, and opened the lid right up. Inside, it was a mess. All sorts of one off mantra scrolls littered the top. Pulling out one or two, he couldn't make head nor tail of what was written on them, and that was just the ones where the ink hadn't faded. Working meticulously through the scrolls like a child opening his presents at Christmas, he lost all track of time and his surroundings.
&nbs
p; After opening the last scroll and reading something that looked more like a cave man's scrawl than a complicated mantra, he delved deeper into the chest. Reaching in, he pulled out a pair of worn, dark brown, leather boots. They smelt... awful, but looked awesome. Putting them to one side, he grabbed hold of some sort of frame and gently tugged it out. Turning the small wooden frame over in his hands, he gasped... shocked. Inside, lined by dark blue velvet, sat a shimmering golden medal that seemed to quite literally be... on fire! Pretty sure he knew what it was, his eyes read the text that appeared under the medal anyway, just to be sure.
'The Flaming Cross presented to Fredric Bluewillow on the 6th day of September 1843 for heroic deeds beyond the call of duty, in service to your king.'
Tears splashed onto the smoky glass, racing down its length until they reached the frame and dripped silently onto the oak flooring. For minutes, he just sat and cried, but so absorbed was he, that it might as well have been for hours.
Only a handful of dragons throughout history had ever been decorated with the flaming cross, understandable given that it is the highest honour that can be bestowed upon any dragon. It was something dragonlings are taught about in every nursery ring throughout the world. And Peter's grandfather had earned this particular one. Remaining dumbfounded, he cried his eyes out with pride at what little he knew about the grandfather who he'd never met. All the things the king had told him in the hospital in Salisbridge shortly after his near fatal encounter with Manson, had made him so proud of his grandfather, but this, this was just... well, words couldn't really describe it.
'Why didn't the king tell me about this?' he wondered as he stroked the case that contained the medal. He resolved to ask him about it later. Placing the case gently down on the bed, he reached into the trunk and pulled out a set of human shaped robes from near the bottom. Standing up, he unfolded them and let them hang out in front of him. Clean white with a purple trident running from corner to corner across the front, the material they were made from felt scratchy and uncomfortable.
'If these were my grandfather's robes,' he mused, peeking around the front of them, 'then in his human form he must have been nigh on a giant.'
Folding the robes back up, he placed them carefully on the bed. Leaning over, he looked down into the very bottom of the chest. Reaching in, he pulled out a metal canister that sat firmly in the darkest corner. Holding it up to his face, he took a sniff, and immediately wished he hadn't. An overpowering, petrol/cleaning fluid kind of smell that his sensitive nose couldn't quite place threatened to overwhelm him. Turning the canister over, he noticed a small, faded label which read: 'Fox's Igniting Scale Enhancer.' Not knowing exactly what it was, only that it was clearly very old and very flammable, he carefully put it down on the floor next to the chest, telling himself to safely dispose of it at the earliest available opportunity.
By now, there were only a few things left inside the trunk. Rolling around next to each other, right at the bottom, were two giant sticks of charcoal, looking very much like sticks of rock that the humans, and Peter himself were very partial to. It wasn't until he tried to take them out that he realised they ran the whole length of the chest. It took him a minute or so to jiggle them out without breaking them. Once he did, he held them up to the light, admiring them for all they were worth, never having seen charcoal quite like it. Both looked almost too good to eat, despite the gurgled protests of his stomach that told him he should just go for it. Against his better judgement, he put them down on the floor, on the other side of the chest to the flammable liquid in the metal canister, as he was keen to show the king and his friends everything he'd found.
By the look of it, only two things remained: something folded up in a piece of raggedy material, and a half sheet of faded old newspaper. Reaching in, he gently picked up the newspaper. Unfolding it as though his life depended upon it, due to its delicate nature, he glanced down at the very faded picture and the headline that accompanied it.
Spending a couple of minutes reading the story, its caption, and studying the photo, Peter had no idea who the couple were, or if they were in some way connected with his grandfather.
'Something else to ask the king about,' he supposed, putting the paper gently on top of the folded robes. Taking a deep breath, he wondered how the others were doing in the main room, whether or not Flash had been unfrozen, if the items Gee Tee had asked for had arrived and if everybody had managed to resist the temptation to string the old shopkeeper up from the rafters. Chuckling at that last thought, knowing the master mantra maker had the propensity to get under even the calmest dragon's fingernails (Tank being the prime example of just that), he started to study the wrapped up object lying at the bottom of the trunk. Whatever it was wrapped up in the rags, he could feel the power positively oozing from it. Excitement and nervousness tickled his fingers and toes in equal measure as he reached in one last time. It felt heavy as he retrieved it and set it down on his lap, the power threatening to consume him, almost as if it were... talking to him, caressing him, at the same time. He could almost taste its electrically charged tang, as if it were coursing through him. Slowly, he unwrapped the rags, despite his hands shaking ever so slightly; he was giddy with excitement, awash with energy. After the third turn, a glint of metal caught his eye. Reaching into the rags, he grasped the handle of a... dagger, and pulled it free. Mesmerising beyond words, rubies and emeralds dotted the hilt, but that was not what had him so captivated. Unheard of in fact and only whispered in legend, the whole weapon had been carefully crafted from... laminium! Time disappeared, vowing to never return, as Peter's dragon senses exploded out of his body. In stunning detail he could see Flash lying prone on the king's red sofa, not moving at all, whilst off to one side, the king and Gee Tee argued, with Tank and Yoyo looking on. Reaching out further into the council building, his vision washed over the reception area where two guards had just arrived with a giant fish tank containing the clown fish that the master mantra maker had demanded as part of the mantra to save Flash. Suddenly a dragon battle was taking place over a small village, in the... in the desert. Images and memories assaulted his mind as he sat hunched over on the king's bed. Good versus evil, a battle to stay alive, to get vital information back to the council, all played out against the backdrop of the pyramids. It had just the tiniest ring of something familiar about it. Expanding even further, his mind returned to the present and raced down the steps outside the building, past the lava pools either side and the curious dragon tourists who had now gathered to view this iconic landmark on a Sunday, when it was closed for business.
Struggling now, the dagger's power was threatening to spiral out of control. Knowing he had to wrestle back the initiative, he tried with all his might to ignore the power that caressed him and the whispered words the weapon knew that he wanted to hear. It was all so... seductive. In a split second of clarity, he dropped the dagger onto the bed and instinctively wrapped it back up in the rags. Sweat poured from his face as he placed the weapon in its wrapping on top of the robes and newspaper article, like a nuclear bomb ready to explode. Running both hands through his long black hair, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. And then it hit him, like a boxer's knockout punch.
'It's Aviva's dagger, the one she found in the pyramid, the one she used to fight Ptolemy and the two treacherous councillors. How in the name of the laminium ball gods did my grandfather get his wings on Aviva's dagger?' he thought, fighting against the exhaustion that threatened to engulf him now that he'd put the dagger down.
Standing up to stretch his legs, clear his head and go find the king, a brilliant purple twinkle from the very darkest corner of the still open trunk caught his eye. Leaning right over into the trunk, he was astounded at what lay there. Nestled right in the corner, with the chain strewn across it, was an alea exactly the same as the one currently around his neck.
Aleas were the physical embodiment of a mantra from days gone by, albeit in an unstable form. Alea itself means 'gamble' or 'last chance.'
Used predominantly by dragons fighting in wars of yesteryear, who on finding themselves in an almost certain death situation would break open the alea, and amplify the words on them in their mind, to hopefully unleash their power. Because of their instability they had a reputation for going wrong and not achieving what they'd been designed for or were required to do. Sometimes it worked in the dragon's favour, but sometimes it didn't, so they were rare and dangerous artefacts in the present day.
In one swift motion, he slid his right hand down the top of his T-shirt and checked that his alea was still there. It was. Cautiously bending down, he scooped up the one in the trunk and sat back on the bed. Holding it up to the light, he once again marvelled at the exquisite craftsmanship, before using his dragon sight to check the inscription on the shaft and forks of the tiny trident. Zooming in with his incredible dragon vision, he ignored the purple glow, and made straight for the words. They read 'Amplificare... Magicus... Nunc': 'Amplify Magic Now.' The words were an exact match. Peter sighed.
'Gee Tee said aleas were incredibly rare,' he mused, twirling it round with his finger tip. 'I wonder what the odds are against me having two exactly the same.'
After a couple of minutes pondering the nature of all this, he took off the alea left to him by Mark Hiscock and replaced it with the one left to him by his grandfather. It felt exactly the same, the weight against his chest, the slight tingling sensation as it brushed against his skin, everything. Putting the spare alea safely inside his wallet, unsure of exactly what to do with it, he set off to find the king and see how things were progressing with Flash.
On entering the main room of the king's residence, the first thing that struck Peter was that it was a far cry from the relative quiet he'd left an hour and a half ago. Gee Tee was barking orders at different members of the King's Guards who all seemed to be dropping off one item or another, with Tank doing his very best to control his employer's distinct lack of manners. Yoyo was leant over Flash on the sofa, keeping a sharp eye on the Crimson Guard's condition. All the time the king stood watching in disbelief as the once spotless room looked very much like a bomb had gone off in it.
