Skylantern Dragons and the Monsters of Mundor

by Scott Taylor

  The two moved closer to each other, and hugged. It had been a very long time since he had felt this complete in his life, and he was sorry when the mages had to leave finally. But they promised they would return within the year and they would spend more time together.

  ◆◆◆

  Katt Brutal remained outside. She lay in the shade, dreamily remembering her recent adventures. Unexpectedly, she caught the sent of something vaguely familiar in the air.

  Waking, she caught a sudden flash of something in the sky above her. It was too large to be a bird, she thought. Whatever it was, it alighted and settled upon the verdant lawn in front of her. She sat up suddenly, catching the winged creature’s eye. It was a baby dragon, the only one of its kind. No doubt it had recently been spawned by one of the freed Skylanterns. It made a yawning sound. It was so cute, the way it sat there with its mouth gaped wide open.

  Katt suddenly darted off to tell the others, crying excitedly, ‘It’s a child! It’s a child!’

  The others came to see what all the commotion was.

  Full of curiosity, Marl came to the instant conclusion that this was indeed a child of the Skylantern Dragons. Its many tiny scales that adorned it like a dazzling Coy Carp were the brightest gold. The horns on the back of its head, which were small and undeveloped, would one day grow and curl to form types of antlers capable of wreaking damage upon wrong-doers and ne’er-do-wells.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ Tweak asked, hiding behind the legs of his king, and only taking a peak around the corner gingerly and in cowardly fashion to see if the coast was clear.

  ‘It is quite safe’ Marl asserted as he bent down to pick the infant creature up.

  ‘A pet for the king’ he added a suggestion.

  ‘But is it house broken?’ replied King Fabian taking a step forwards.

  At that precise moment the dragon leapt from Marl’s hands to land squarely into the arms of the king. The potentate flinched as a massive wet, forked tongue slid mercilessly along the surface of his face. Not wanting another barrage of licks-though not wishing to offend the creature since all he was offering was his affection really-Fabian held the dragon further away, though with a gentle will for refusal, at arm’s length.

  ‘I think he’s house broken’ observed Iron May dryly.

  ‘I think its love’ the dwarf muttered to himself.

  Chapter 13

  Three months later:

  The rain and the wind clattered against the stained glass windows of King Fabian’s quarters. The young potentate could barely sleep because of it, though mostly because the spectre of his father still preoccupied his mind as well as his conscience.

  Three months had passed agonizingly slow, and the funeral was ever most on the young king’s mind. He had spent the hours during the final wake alone in the company of strangers, or people with whom he had almost no connection. There was the footman, that dreary old fool, not to mention the bastard who had dragged him from the forest that day when he had saved that child from certain death. He was no friend, the sly, posturing devil that he was. Of course, there had been Tweak, the dwarf, his only friend left in the entire kingdom. And there was Demetrius too, the frail old court magician in whom he sometimes confided. And lastly, there was his aid, Jackal, the trusted servant…though some of them tried their best to lend an ear when he needed it, none of his so-called friends truly understood his needs. These people belonged to the past and were ignorant of the changing present. Yet, he was now their king, their ruler, and he would forever be chained to this duty.

  Secretly, he resented his obligations, even going so far as to begrudge the people that demanded so much from his time.

  But it came down to one question: indeed, how much power was a king allowed to have? Fabian was merely a figurehead, a puppet, and consequently had very little sway when it came to influencing change in the hearts and minds of his people. But love transcended politics. It also transcended institutionalized laws of state, as did anything natural in point of fact. Love, real love, had the capacity to embrace everything at once. So why couldn’t the general populous understand this, or even go so far as to stretch their minds to it? Love did not have any boundaries.

  He sighed heavily. For all his inexperience, his confusion, and dwindling self confidence he had a duty to these people, did he not? Alone and vulnerable, he dreamed of his mother, of his true home and heritage: childhood. It was a time of joy and contentment, a moment in time distant from the tribulations of adulthood. Needs ripped through his tired frame as he tossed, turning in his sleep. His ambassador, the one he had come to know as Tør, had long returned to his own lands. Out of desperation, King Fabian clung to his pillow and cried the tears of the soul locked in the prison of self, and the confinement imposed on him by duty. True love would never be permitted. His desires too would never be legally recognized.

  He wept like a man who had been trying to be strong for too long. In such a moment the body would start to tense, muscles tighten, provoking a sensation remarkably akin to a heart attack. Pins and needles travelled down his left arm to his hand. His shallow breathing was enough to ensure he was awake. He sat up in bed, his chest heaving faster and faster with every shallow breath.

  To the uninitiated the presence of a stress related anxiety attack was often misconstrued as an arrest. He reached for his chest as the cycle continued nourishing the fear within. He rose to his feet and began to pace the room, so sure that his life would come to a distinct end sooner or later.

  The embers in the great fireplace that adorned his room flickered to life as though kindled suddenly by an unseen hand. He turned to face the roaring fire that ensued, unable to understand or explain the impulsive quickness with which the conflagration had ignited. He was bent forward, his hand still clutching at his chest. The moment seemed to exacerbate the emotion that the world had gone mad in a brief moment, not so critical really when he considered that his life was reaching its terminus. The fire licked higher in the hearth, meandering unexpectedly, making a shape that appeared to be a bright orange face framed by smoke.

  In horror and confusion, Fabian felt the fire’s heat on his bare flesh, its high temperature reaching out with a single tongue of sheer lustre and combustion, taking hold of his arm, seizing it, and forcing him to enter the hot blaze that towered before him. Realizing his peril, Fabian tried to call forth the dragon. His efforts were for nought as the panic tensed his sinews and muscles to almost breaking point.

  The flame took a hold of him and pulled him closer. The face in the hearth smiled back at him, sneering. Those elliptical eyes prized every little emotion of his victim before engulfing him completely. The flames were all encompassing, like a blanket from which one could barely escape. Then darkness…Then Silence.

  Finally, Fabian came to. He had no idea that he had passed out. All he remembered was the snippets of a dream. His face was pressed against the tiled floor. He rose uncertainly. The reality returned to his conscious mind and he felt that dull pain, the same dull pain he had felt the day before, and the day before that.

  Tør, the young man with whom he shared his love, was from another world. Yes, he had taught Fabian the complexities of true devotion, but when all was said and done, they were both from vastly different worlds. The Sinistrom empire had its purity, it wisdom, and its power while Fabian’s world was more backwards in comparison, inhibited, and mostly driven by years and years of trite tradition.

  In his torment he had forgotten his appointment with his advisers. He was late. He was supposed to discuss the village’s aqueduct and how to better transport the clean water supply to the neighbouring towns surrounding Mundor.

  Quickly and with a rising panic, he rushed on his trousers and began to button up his shirt en rout to the conference hall where all his advisers were waiting.

  “I apologise for my tardiness” said he with as much dignity as he could possibly gather.

  The debate went on and on interminably. Talk of aqueducts and filter sy
stems was boring enough without the steady thrum of that dull pain that continued to vex him from minute to minute. Love unrequited was more of an immediate problem than conduits and bridges, though he made a show of listening to the suggestions and reports from his trusted advisers. It was the kingly thing to do.

  He then noticed the strange look on the face of Jackal, his faithful servant. Jackal was looking straight at him as if carefully scrutinizing his features, as though he could tell that his king was somehow preoccupied with concerns other than the aqueduct. Both their eyes met for a brief moment, then Jackal looked away.

  After the meeting, Jackal approached the king and asked him:

  “My liege, if I may be so bold…”

  “By all means, speak your mind. We are friends” replied he with an air of familiarity.

  Jackal paused before continuing, and then said:

  ‘It has come to the attentions of those among the court, as well as those closest to you, that you seem very preoccupied. I would even venture so far as to say…unhappy?”

  The other stood back in surprise, not because of what his servant had said was true, but because he had been stayed and unaware for so long, ignorant that his unhappiness was so apparent, and that others had noticed it. The natural state of the ego quickly determined a suitable course of action, which was to deny the accusation entirely.

  “Unhappy, Jackal? I do not know what you mean. I am perfectly fine.”

  “With all due respect, sire, we understand that your father, the late king René was terribly hard on you. His loss, equally, must have come as a great blow. But, sire, Demetrius too believes that some other concern troubles your soul. Please, my liege, go to see him. Talk to him. I beg you.”

  Fabian did not speak. He spoke no more words of denial for such words were like glass, clear and betrayed his true feelings which he sought to hide. He looked away thoughtfully, and silently Jackal made himself scarce.

  ◆◆◆

  He had absolutely no idea why he went to visit the court wizard in his spire-top dwelling, or even why he was entertaining the concerns of his friend, Jackal, but he went all the same.

  The wizard stood with his back arched before him, an old and grey, bearded man. His arms were raised in the act of spell casting as the young king entered.

  Perhaps he should have knocked first, but for some strange reason he had been sort of remiss, even forgetting the simplest of protocols.

  Almost as sudden as Fabian had penetrated the threshold a quick burst of sparks shot passed him, narrowly missing his head. What ever this illumination was it looked like a firework and had a blazing tail. The king spun round only to watch the thing disappear down the long corridor behind him, and withdraw around the next bend.

  “Damn and blast!” exclaimed the old wizard, Demetrius, not yet realising that Fabian was behind him. “All that work and careful preparation and I still can’t manage to get this magic spell to work!’

  He turned and in his frustration failed again to see the king standing agog in the doorway.

  “Oh, damn and confound it!” the elderly man exclaimed.

  The king looked back towards the wizard and decided that it would have been more seemly for a king to knock before entering. This time he knocked.

  The wizard looked up.

  “Demetrius” spoke the king.

  A smile was raised upon the face of the old man.

  “Fabian, dear boy” said he with a jovial demeanour. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Please sit, sit.”

  The old wizard brought a wooden chair into existence. In fact he didn’t even have to fetch one, it simply walked up to the king on all fours like an obedient dog and awaited the king’s regal posterior. Fabian had seen Demetrius bring furniture to life before, but each time it just seemed wrong. But such a thing was a minor feet for one so adept in the magician’s arts. Fabian sat as Demetrius poured them both a cup of herbal tea.

  ‘I must say, my Liege, you look troubled. But then, it has been noted by all and sundry amidst the court that you have been a tad serious of late. Now, what is wrong? How may a humble wizard help?’

  The king looked desperately into the old man’s eyes as he took his seat. His lips parted to speak, though the words did not come readily available to him. How could a sovereign speak candidly, especially to one of his subjects, of feelings unbefitting a king? Would he just sit there stuttering and stammering, or just mince words, dancing around the main issue until one of them got tired? The heart’s secrets were not easy topics for powerful men.

  ‘I see’ spoke the elderly wizard with resignation.

  The young man gazed up at the wizard, somewhat taken by the wizard’s ability to search into his very soul, and pluck his secret and bring it to the surface. It was no magic trick however. All the old man had done was delve into years of personal experience. He had read the look on the boy’s face and had intuited the entire story from beginning to end.

  ‘My boy’ he said, dropping the formal act, ‘I know that your father was very hard on you. I would even venture to use the word “Tyrannical”. Yet his passing must have hit you pretty hard. He was your only living relation. I do not mean to pry or meddle in you affairs, or even delve into your most furtive feelings…but I sometimes get inclinations. I am a wizard, you know? And sometimes I can sense the feelings of others; oh these sensations are quite faint you understand. And what I have sensed from you on occasion is a deep, burning desire. For what or whom exactly I do not know, nor do I wish to know. What I can tell you however is that this deep desire stands in opposition to the kingly duties of which you have sworn to uphold.’

  The young man lowered his eyes, knowing full well what the old man was going to say next, if indeed it needed saying.

  The old man gave the boy a dry smile. His expression softened a little.

  ‘Duty is important; it is true, but not as important as one’s health.’ he snorted. ‘Idiots speak of health and safety. Why to hear them site it is like death fidgeting constantly with erectile dysfunction. It is the mantra of the already sick and lame.

  ‘For how can obligation be sufficient if the king is troubled, and knows not how to uphold his sworn duty? How can duty function then? I look in your eyes now and I see that you have tried to be strong. I think that you have tried to be strong for far too long. It is time you asked yourself…what is it you want? This is a question you can only answer yourself. Answer the question and save your sanity, for without your reason you are no king, and without sanity you are no saviour. Don’t let duty be the death of you. Go, if you must—go find yourself. Go find that thing that makes you happy and you shall return a happier man.’

  This was unexpected. Fabian could not believe what his ears were hearing.

  ‘I don’t understand. You are telling me that I should just forget my duties and just leave?’

  ‘Yes. That is indeed what I am saying, master Fabian. But you will not be leaving your duties. I shall create a magic copy of you. A facsimile as it were. You are no good to your people like this. Go. Go and discover what it is that will give your life true purpose. Only then will you be able to rule and to function as king. I shall place your magical clone upon your throne until such a day you decide to return to us. It shall sit upon the throne and become a figurehead here in your stead while you go, seek the answers you need.’

  The old wizard took a handful of powder and hurled it suddenly at the wall. The magic powder fell slowly to the floor as it dispersed. In the wake of the deluge a form began to materialise, humanoid in shape and appearance.

  Fabian stood silently in total shock as he watched the human form standing there. It was a mere golem, a soulless facsimile, a duplicate copy, and identical in every way, right down to the birthmark on his neck. The golem turned its head slowly to look at Fabian. It was like looking at a mirror’s reflection.

  ‘There is nothing to fear, my liege’ spoke the wizard stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘Magic, much like the imagi
nation, is an abstract from what we recognize as the norm. But believe…believe and we might, just might, create windows through which only our dreams may take form. This golem I have created shall sit upon the throne whilst you take your leave. Follow your heart to the land beyond these barren walls. If you stay here your heart will grow callous and old as it would if you were interred within the prisons of Mundoria. Go, my king. Go and be free!’

  The golem stood like a silent shape, incapable of formulating independent thought, much less speech, though the wizard had magic power enough to render life to even the most inanimate of objects. Fabian had witnessed the man bring chairs to life, even something as innocuous as a table, making these items dance and caper for the entertainment of the court. Maybe soon this golem would act, even talk like Fabian, smile and laugh like him, although it had been a little while since Fabian had laughed at anything. The thought was disturbing in truth, but the prince still walked away, happy finally to be free, free to chase his dreams.

  First of all, he visited his bedchamber and sat down to write a short letter. He signed it and rose from his chair. In the other corner of the room, standing like a faithful pet, stood the baby dragon. It looked up at Fabian with affection as he approached. The king took the note, rolling it in his hand, and then tied it in a ribbon, attaching it to the neck of the creature.

  ‘Go, young friend’ he instructed. ‘Go to white valley and King Kardas. Seek Tør and give him this letter. I will be with him very soon.’

  The dragon did as it was instructed. With the note tied round its neck, the creature splayed its wings wide from side to side, lifting itself up from its gilded perch, and then with a cry of its voice it vacated via the open window and was gone.

  Like a carrier pigeon it curried the letter the distance, finding its way to the love for which Fabian yearned.