Skylantern Dragons and the Monsters of Mundor

by Scott Taylor

‘Okay’ replied Marl, nodding his head. ‘It has been a long journey. You should rest my friend. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

  ‘I know’ Centorionn said, turning away. The night hid the tears in his eyes.

  ‘You’ll be okay?’ uttered Katt.

  ‘I’ll stay with him’ answered Fabian, taking hold of Centorionn’s arm.

  As the two entered the tent Centorionn began to lie down on the ground. A satin pillow cradled his head. Fabian knelt down behind the creature’s back and gently he placed his hand flat against his hair, caressing his thick mane of brown locks.

  ‘Thank you’ the creature said, deeply appreciating the affection.

  ‘Hush. Go to sleep.’

  The boy continued to stroke the long thick hair as though caressing a cat.

  Fabian waited till Centorionn was fast asleep before steadily and quietly deciding to leave and re-join the others.

  ‘He’s sleeping peacefully’ he told them as he perched himself by the fire.

  ‘You have a paternal nature’ Marl observed with a smile. ‘I like that.’

  ‘I guess I had my mother to thank for that’ Fabian responded, realising what a major part she played in his development. ‘She taught me how to cook, and take care of myself. My father was always too busy with stately matters to care one way or another what happened to me.’

  The chief mage nodded and said,

  ‘Though most boys in my experience who have had feminine natures-and I hope you don’t think me rude in saying this-had more than just a mother’s influence. Usually the motivations lie behind the fact of growing up in a large family, with lots of sisters. Sometimes the male, if older than his siblings, feels obliged to act more masculine in order to provide and protect said siblings, while a brother, perhaps much younger than his sisters, would feel more obligated to fit in as it were, to appreciate more feminine attributes.’

  ‘I am an only child’ answered the prince honestly. ‘I never had any sisters or brothers.’

  ‘Then I would suggest that there is some other influence at work here. Genetics is a possibility. Your alter ego is an influence perhaps. The Dragon Tolan which you become may be female, or indeed feminine enough to have its very nature rub off on you while you are still in human form. Who’s to say? Nonethe-less, I find this concept new and fascinating.’

  Katt Brutal perched herself on a stone next to Fabian and, placing a clawed hand on the boy’s shoulder, said:

  ‘Whatever the reason, we girls should stick together!’

  Fabian laughed heartily in response to this.

  ‘So, Kat, what about you? What’s your story?’

  The cat-like entity thought about her life for a second. Truthfully, the cat was pampered as all cats were invariably. She smiled a wide, energetic smile and leapt into the telling of her story,

  ‘I was from the same province as Centorionn’ she began explaining, preening herself. ‘We were pets to the ogres. They built us litter trays, and they groomed us, and fed us.’

  ‘Fed you what?’ Fabian said, shooting Kat a sudden look of astonishment.

  ‘Meat, of cause, what else do owners feed their cats?’

  Fabian looked flabbergasted.

  ‘Does Centorionn know about this?!’

  ‘What do I look like—bloody oracle?’ Katt replied temperamentally, and leaped from the stone she had been perched upon.

  Fabian blinked, unable to register her apparent lack of shame.

  It was then Dreathor’s turn to tell them a story next. He started in that hearty, though loud, croaky voice the others had come to know and love: ‘Last time I was out here I came across a trio of mountain trolls. Bare in mind, it was a Monday if memory serves. Bad things tend to happen on a Monday in any case. Though I do not know why people hate that particular day so much. It is a day just like any other. I believe the reason is so noted in the collective conscience because it is the first day that marks our defeat. But I digress. Now, where was I? Where was I going with this? Now I’ve completely lost my train of thought!’

  ‘Trolls’ prompted the young prince.

  ‘Ah, yes, trolls! That’s right! None of whom were very intelligent and neither were they particularly pretty, but they had stolen a bunch of clothes and dresses from a passing caravan of unlucky traders, and proceeded to put them on. Now trolls aren’t particularly dainty creatures as you have no doubt been told, and neither were the women they stole the clothes from to be totally honest, but these three ugly morons were trying on these dresses, thinking that they looked all awesome and dainty. Well, I of course, being of sound mind and, incidentally, sound gender, decided to approach these freaking morons and, with all the dignity I could muster, asked them which way to the bathroom. Now, this particular line of enquiry, as you probably know, is most offensive to a troll since during the times of the vile unrest there was a certain troll king who once resided over these here valleys. Casting my mind back to the legend of King Dunny, ‘ere was a potentate, a fat old troll who sat upon a gold throne. But one day his throne wouldn’t flush properly and he called his fellow subjects and trolls to council. Well, there was one particularly stupid troll going by the name of Burk who actually thought he was a dab hand at plumbing. As it turned out, the poor old king trusted Burk to fix the problem, and when he was asked to test his throne out after he’d scoffed down a curry and fries he was then swallowed into the pipework and was never seen from again. Of course, this sad case of affairs has always been a bit of a sore spot with trolls in general and they found my question to be insulting to say the least. Well, the three jeepers creepers first looked at me, then at each other, as you do, and said in a tone louder than a fog horn “bee bi bo bum…who the hell do you think you are, buster?” Well, I flatly told them that particular query didn’t rhyme, and that all trolls speak in a corresponding syntax of terminal sounds of words or of lines of verse. Well, the big sissy blew a damn hissy fit, didn’t he, and told me where I could go stick it. Well, I told the dickens that if he didn’t start talking polite an’ all, I’d be obliged to find the washroom all on me lonesome. He said fine and I tore the fella’s dress. He wasn’t too impressed with that, I can tells yah. His friends looked pretty mean, but I was meaner. I looked at the one with the wonky eye and I said, “hey, Lilly, how did you get to be so flamin’ ugly!” and he ran off crying. I couldn’t believe it. He actually picked up his damn ball gown and fled into the desert crying his bleedin’ eyes out. Great fairy! The other troll decided to come at me with a club, so me, who just happened to be wearing a regimental skirt and very little in the way of underwear, decided to reveal all. The big brute fell down in a big shaggy heap on the floor. “Now” I said to the one who was left standin’, grabbing him by the dewlaps, “which way to the toilet?”’

  The others just stared blankly at Draethor, wondering if maybe this charming little tale was going to lead anywhere, but knowing Draethor it probably wasn’t. There was a protracted silence before Katt Brutal laughed and remarked,

  ‘You know, your stories really crack me up…dewlaps!’ and she chortled even louder.

  ‘Okay’ said Iron May grabbing Katt’s plate, ‘I think you’ve had quite enough lizard curry for one evening.’

  ‘You really do need to understand the subtleties of troll mores and morays to appreciate the joke’ Draethor endeavoured to justify his little anecdote. ‘If not, then throw in a word like “dewlaps” and it becomes funny nonethe-less’ the man of stone added, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘So then’ the prince quickly changed the subject, ‘how did you all become mages?’

  Justas Marl took a sip of his soup and then answered,

  ‘Well, how did you become a mage? Our story, I would guess, is no different than yours.’

  The prince stared at the older man blankly.

  ‘Magical powers were thrust on us whether we wanted it or not’ continued Marl, blankly. ‘We each have powers of our own, unique to each and every one of us.’

 
Marl focussed for a second, closing his eyes. The expression on his face was one of serenity as the bird tattoo repositioned itself, moving to the centre of his face, and then shifted to the opposite side. It was fully animate. It was only an ink outline, though it had taken on a life of its own.

  ‘How do you control your tattoo like that?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Easy. It just takes a little bit of focus.’

  ‘You try it’ commanded the man of stone.

  Prince Fabian was unsure. His dragon persona had always revealed itself in certain situations when trouble seemed to brew. He had never called on the power before.

  After a goading from his fellow mages he stood up, walked to a safe distance and began to try, first closing his eyes, and then tightening his lids as though there was a great fiery sun in the sky and it was blinding him.

  Justas Marl rose and commenced to instruct his young friend in the art of transformation.

  ‘It’s simple, look, you’re trying too hard. You are too tense. You have to relax. Up till now your metamorphosis has been a mere reflex. You have to relax your body. Let it come. Think of something…a place or a person that gives you solace, and then let that thought fill you. Try it.’

  The prince relaxed himself. He then began to cast his mind back to his mother. The tenderness of feeling merged with sensation, integrating thought into corporeal awareness—then the image of her broken body in the snow, and the howl of those wolves still fresh in his thoughts.

  ‘I-I can’t do it!’ he stammered, opening his eyes.

  ‘You will, in time’ the mage told him.

  ‘What if I never learn?’ the prince replied despondently. ‘What if I cannot save Mundor, or make my father understand that I have these feelings and abilities?’

  Something in Fabian’s words made Marl think that maybe some other emotion, some fear was impeding this boy from reaching his full potential. He nodded suddenly and said,

  ‘An artist, much like a mage, has an uncanny ability to make use of his talents simply by seeing. That which can be seen by the eye can just as easily be destroyed by the eye as well. Sight is the father of all accomplishments, as it is the mother of annihilation. You must first master annihilation and death before you can muster the transformation you seek.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You say I have to die before I can master this thing?’ the prince asked, confused.

  ‘I did not mean to use the word death so literally’ came the glib reply. ‘Death is simply a beginning. It is like the complex caterpillar that changes into a beautiful butterfly. Death comes about as you realise that what you have learned is a lie, and begin to live your life as destiny sees fit. Defeat and death are not bad things, and definitely they are nothing to be feared. Though, many people fear change. Both defeat and life are inseparable as one leads invariably to the other. The man whom the elect calls artist or magician knows this. He knows too that his fellow man is putrescent with fear and trepidation. Alone, the artist has courage…the courage to see.

  ‘I trust in my own destiny. I have walked my own destiny, made my own rules, and have lived my own life and am happy. How many people in your not-so-broad experience can say the same? Be under no illusion, this is not arrogance speaking…it is merely certainty. Man’s greatest defeat came during the great cataclysm. Our history books tell of the day when magic stole technology. Though, it wasn’t enough of a defeat to lead mankind to the next phase of awareness. He still hides behind a comfortable lie. But one day, perhaps, he will see the road to destiny in more lateral terms than he does now. Because, in that moment, he will hit rock bottom and find only the truth, the truth that life, much like art, is not linear, or as malleable as he first imagined, but indeed disordered, tangential, spreading outwards, and downwards, and inwards, like a tree baring fruit. That which the civilised man has denied himself for centuries will one day fall apart. It is inevitable. But you must be brave, my young friend. You must dare to look deep into the chasm and overcome everything you know, every fibre and falsehood which you have learned. You must take a blind leap in the mysterious realms of the unknown world, and measure the deep, and then turn your gaze inward to the knowledge, the understanding that retains its certitude in the natural world. Sight will only take you so far. You need courage, the ability to drop everything, and recreate yourself in order to be transformed. And it is a transformation you seek, a revolution of mind, body and spirit as all of these attributes are asynchronous, and central in the creation of what you must achieve.’

  ‘You speak in riddles!’ the boy spoke, folding his arms dejectedly.

  ‘I speak an old language…ancient in fact, and yet it is a language not yet conceived in the womb. It is not a riddle, but the natural truth. Ask yourself, how would you be able to move beyond the known, beyond the safety net of home without even a scrap of courage? The only real problem you face at present, Fabian, is that the life you have known is constantly holding you back. I would be inclined to call it tunnel vision, a sight so narrow it hinders the very transformation you seek. True, you have the desire to see, but desire is but the flame overshadowed by fear. By your own admissions I am able to deduce that you wish to win favour with your father, and redeem yourself in his eyes. You even said that you wished to save Mundor. But what if I told you that you had nothing to prove?’

  The prince looked at once puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean? I know I have nothing to prove’

  ‘But do you? My boy, you seem to be under the mistaken idea that your life is ransomed by the very people you claim to serve. It is. But it need not be. Just look at me. I don’t listen to what people say. I don’t take council from those who talk idly of me, and presume to know what I am about. Neither do I allow people to dictate what I should and should not feel. Neither should you. But this is the problem with civilisation…most the people of Mundor, and indeed most the people of this world, go about their daily lives blindly following the dictates of lying, selfish, maladjusted fools, the type of people who have absolutely no clue how to live themselves. The blind are always trying to lead the blind. Who cares about making magic and having sight or courage when instruction tells us to trust in the realist, when instruction tells us that we cannot move mountains or part oceans in an attempt to live our lives as we should? They will tell us anything just to keep us chained. Kings, law makers, and merchants are all alike, all schemers, particularly in the skill of creating mandates whereby all parties have to adhere to a certain comedy of routine, thus murdering the finest qualities mankind has to offer, namely original thought or, put another way, the most basic force, which is instinct. The mage, much like the artist, follows his own star, his own rules; therefore he is lifted to the higher level, not because he knows how to follow, no, because he knows primarily how to lead. To transform oneself is to know a higher playing field. All men of mental leadership know this, yet society continues to stagnate on the premise that all men are created equal when indeed they are not.’

  ‘All men are not equal’ answered the boy.

  ‘Maybe not so far as caste or class is concerned, but as far as the religious are concerned all men are considered equal under the gods, under their rule. What do you imagine your king and farther would say if he were to learn of your feelings for the ambassador? Do you believe that he would see eye to eye with you, and agree that a man can indeed lay down with another man…No, of course not. All faiths see all men as equal. Conversely, in the case of the non-conformist, in the eyes of the state, disproportion is often seen as a heresy! No one is truly equal. That is a fallacy. That’s the double standard! The man who would be mage or artist is but an outcast, a pariah, and a simple vagabond in the wilderness it is true. It has been long since I have broken bread at the table of kings. It is long since I have walked amidst the proud and civilised folk of the land, for I know the price of living such a life, and know that that life carries too high a price to be sure. I know that men make sacrifices for the life they themselves have not mad
e, and die on the battlefield for a duty they are bound to, not by choice, but by deceit and decree. The banners are raised in protection of a way of life that should in all honesty be allowed to die, because any way of life that demands such a sacrifice is not worth a whole lot in truth. Wars are not fought by the brave. How can they be when men are lined up like cattle, and are told to uphold the decline and progress, and know no better, or feel no better for it? Laws are not commanded by the wise. How can they be? I myself sat pretty, surrounded by all my dusty law books, and found little solace in that venture finally. And commerce is in no way generated by the responsible. How can it when all diligence breeds a tale of everlasting falsity-the promise of happiness, and security-and thus, deceitfully, dispatches young men to their deaths on the battlefield? I am sorry if my words appear harsh, my young friend. I am sorry if I appear bitter in my analysis, but the truth can sometimes taste bitter at first. I know through experience, my lad, that the thing we hold most dear can shrivel and fade once we see its true appearance. We may sometimes recoil from the truth, but the truth is a sobering mistress, oft hard to ignore. And you will transform, believe me. You will do so because you have partial sight already. And you are brave. One day…One day you may open your eyes and become the leader you were born to be, not through blood or birthright, but through strength, and courage. It takes great courage to stand alone against the grain, and in the face of truth. But you have to come upon this realisation by yourself. No one can do it for you. No one else is going to transform your life. Only you can open your eyes, Fabian. Only you can transform.’

  The boy was silent trying to take it all in.

  ‘In the end, it is sight and only sight that will give you the power of will necessary to accomplish great things. Without sight you are merely a Kuli with no more sense of self than a slave.’

  Marl hated to speak ill of Fabian’s people, his kith and kin, but usually tough truths lead to tough decisions. Maybe the boy would take it on board and discover that sight was attained by the simple reflex of opening one’s eyes. In the end, there was really nothing to it.