The Dragon’s Custodian
Paul C Rogers
1
The quartermaster had said it numerous times before distributing the swords, adding an extra emphatic repetition when handing each individual blade to the gathered throng. His words, that the weapon was just that, a weapon and not a toy nor a tool were sentiments mostly lost on the huddle. For any thoughts that were categorised as practical, were that of self-preservation. Others, those not in the midst of a mortal pondering, were eager to lay claim to the instrument that would win them their fame from battle, or at the least momentarily quench their blood-lust.
It was a memory that seemed etched in the annals of a forgotten year, but for Geron, the recollections were less than a week old. And as he violated the quartermaster's rule, tapping the blade's edge to detach the clumps of mud that engulfed his boots, he spat on the already moistened ground. The dulling of the weapons after the initial skirmish a factor overlooked in their hasty briefing.
As he wiped upon his sleeve the last of the mud's residue from the blade's face, he couldn't help but remark what a tangible shade of brown the entire ensemble had taken. How proud they all stood as they were outfitted in the pristine white tunic. All white to represent Tallagate's native blanc flower. How carefully the bowls were carried to tables, the ladled hot soup a danger to be avoided with just as much vigour as any swinging blade from the enemy, the Arconans.
He trudged onward. The rain had let up but that was not the cause of his misery. In truth, the gentle tapping of the cleansing droplets was almost soothing. Instead, the source of his disdain lay ahead in the stretching chasm of murky brown. The fields disturbed by horse steps and layered with rain to create a most inconvenient sludge.
Was this even the right direction? A question that regurgitated at regular intervals amongst the platoon, ranging from concerned whispers to screams of panic. The Battlemaster, even as the arrows plunged into his back and shoulders, had yelled for them to retreat west. Unbeknownst to Geron and the dozen or so that survived to flee, the hope was to reconvene with another company moving east from a hopefully successful campaign. But even without these details, the survivors were all but ready to retreat to where the battle was not so lost. Far from where a seemingly never-ending stream of Arconans spread out in a pattern of slaughter, unrelenting.
Geron did not see himself as a leader, and thus did not enact the role when one by one desertion struck the remnants of his group. The continuing lack of any solace was a contributing factor as those with the most nervous of temperaments fed off each other’s concerns until, at last, fleeing towards a town unaffected by the war seemed the only sensible solution. It reeked of cowardice, something that Grendel, a distant friend of Geron through their shared home-town of Rivermouth agreed. That was, until the last of the provisions ran out.
However, Geron was quite content with returning to Rivermouth without the branding as a scurryer from war, and thus proceeded east with little else to satiate him but the knowledge that he was still following orders, however futile they now seemed.
Thoughts of sharing disgrace with Grendel were soon banished by a sight most bitter-sweet. Fellow Tallagatians, their uniforms stained with equal parts mud and blood, stomping slowly upon a path leading west.
At the forefront, a weary soldier plodded, guiding his ramshackle convoy onward. The flicker of movement caught his eye. Panicked, he drew his sword, halting the entire brigade. But amidst the muddy slope upon which Geron was now diligently careening down, there was no threat. Re-sheathing swords, word was sent down of the false alarm. Geron attempted to find humour amongst the irony of the friendly faces he had been seeking were now accosting taunts and other barbs. At last he completed his descent and trekked slowly toward them, boots sinking into the deeper mud that lined the roadside.
The Tallagatians began to simmer down, relieved that the disruption was not an Arconan ambush. Dignity sacrificed for pace, Geron crawled up onto the pathway. Taking a moment to get his breath back, he identified himself, the last trace of the Northern campaign. It was a mutual introduction of sorts, for the convoy was what was left of the Eastern campaign. Geron eyed the dozen or so battle-scarred husks that cast a shameful gaze upon the ground. For such a tragic gathering, it was still better than how he had fared within his own company.
When Geron inquired where they were now headed, the leader straightened his shoulders with renewed purpose, announcing their retreat towards the central plains where the Royal Gathering was supposed to be. His tone and posture conveyed a false optimism that this was but a mere set-back and as proud and fighting Tallagatians they would regroup, beginning the battle anew against the Arconans. But his words fell upon no shared patriotic ears. No stirrings of inspiration, no rousing cheers, just the slow trudge of boots in mud. Standing aside, Geron waited for the tail end of the parade to pass before enveloping himself in their midst.
The fatigue of walking and wrestling with uncooperative landscapes had drained Geron to the point of exhaustion, but the presence of fellow company had lifted his spirits enough to continue. It was dreary and ominous, but it was still an improvement in scenery. They had proceeded no more than a few metres when the silent order to halt trickled down the pathway. Geron peered at the hillside to their left, hoping to see Grendel or the others. But instead the disturbance was emanating from their right, in the thickets of the forest. A slight breeze was rattling bare branches, the trunks embracing these wandering scrapes, but throughout this continuous buzz the sharp intermittent snapping of trodden upon sticks could be heard. A flock of birds fluttering away disquieted from their housings was the tell-tale warning, but it came too late as upward necks barely had time to readjust toward the tree-lines as the arrows spat from unseen bows.
The soldier that had marched alongside Geron fortunately proved a literal human shield, felled from the first volley. Geron didn't need a second warning, diving face first into the mud he scrambled towards the ditch. In the embrace of the mud, he slowly drew his sword, for what little damage it could do he was insistent that the limits of such be tested.
The sounds of slaughter were slow and measured. Geron closed his eyes, clutching the blade to his chest as one by one those that had survived the archer's onslaught were in turn slain by the emerging swordsmen. Gripped in fear's clasp, Geron was resigned to sit and listen as the last gurgling gasp of the Tallagate convoy was uttered. The wet retraction of the sword, footsteps moving slowly toward him.
The ditch provided little in the way of visual cover, but Geron's sharp breaths were sufficient to place him as the last survivor. He roused himself suddenly, uncertain where this new-found courage originated, but regardless stood upright, emerging from his mud-lined ditch, brandishing the sword at the Arconan that approached him. The foe was ready however, swatting away Geron's efforts at attacks with gentle ease, whilst the others took a break from scavenging the remains of the fallen to watch the show.
Another unsuccessful volley of swings had moved Geron back onto the pathway. The Arconan, slid the visor back from his helmet, the taunt would not suffer the limitations of misunderstanding. He dropped his fighting stance, and Geron could at last see the face of his enemy. Far removed from the snarling savages that had killed so many of his countrymen, instead a young man stared back at him, not much older than himself. Geron was stunned, he had seen Arconans before, traders from the North passing through Rivermouth, beggars in town banished from their own kingdom, but here on some unmarked pathway the animosity seemed trivial. The sentiment was shared by the Arconan, who, growing weary of sparring with a tired hungry young boy, put away his weapon and gestured for him to flee.
Geron remained, sword still pointed upward in a dismal untrained st
ance of aggression. The Arconan repeated his choice of mercy, as the rest of the attacking party began to retreat back into the forest. Placing his helmet back on the facade of antagonism resumed. Whatever kindness he had been shown it was not shared by the rest of the Arconan party, and as Geron remained transfixed, eyes welling up in sorrow at his slain kind and frustration at his ineptitude at vengeance, another Arconan soldier strode up to him and with a firm shove placed Geron back into the muddy ditch once more. Fatigue and sorrow urged him to remain, but Geron scrambled back to where his sword lay and struck out with a sloppy, mistimed blow to the Arconan, who sidestepped it easily, bringing his own more girthy and sharpened blade down with a focused strike, severing Geron's arm at the elbow.
Geron's eyes widened, hearing the clang of metal upon the pathway followed by the deep earthy thud of the detached limb. His gaze could not help but glance upon the vacancy, but fortunately he did not have to bear the sight long, for the Arconan, with one sturdy strike from the hilt of his blade, rendered Geron unconscious.
The twiglets of hay were no longer tickling at his facial orifices but instead were violating them. And so, choking on the stale straw strands, Geron turned over onto his back and spat the bits out. It was an unfortunate and frequent consequence to what was otherwise a perfect napping spot. For accidental hay ingestion was an acceptable trade for an afternoon of farm-work avoidance.
He went to rub the sleep from his eyes, bringing the stump up to complete the task. A still ingrained habit. Correcting himself, he now remembered what the dream entailed, transforming his annoyance at the awakening to gratitude.
With his wits restored Geron was able to discern the commotion that had disturbed his slumber. A most raucous rabble of a crowd were making their way past the farm into the town. No unified chants nor songs were discernible within the din, each individual wanting to lead the array, and so the entire racket became a barrage of unintelligible noise.
Geron had no doubt that this sorry affair was arranged by Wesker. The man was incapable of supplying the village with root crops without somehow causing issue with the reaping of the harvest, let alone being capable of putting together a cohesive force of unity to rally against a royal decree.
Geron stifled a yawn as he detached the strands of hay from his jacket, twin evidence of his afternoon deeds. His mother was stood waiting by the house. With arms crossed and brow furrowed, Geron knew that the encounter was not going to be pleasant.
“Mother, you're looking most radiant this afternoon,” he cried out, controlling with shallow platitudes whatever trouble he was now ensnared within.
The compliment was in vain. “She's here again. Just because you can now legally drink in the tavern doesn't mean you should be every day,” she warned. “And don't forget to fix the fence where the horses escaped,” she called back to him as she re-entered the house. “You should be well rested to do so.”
Geron winced, his secret exposed. It had only been two years since the unconditional surrender to Arconan. The monumental defeat, a factor of the war's end, had dampened his hero's welcome upon his return to Rivermouth. His mother did not care about his lack of accolades, nor the Kingdoms humiliation. She was just glad Geron was still alive, especially since so many of the village’s other mothers did not share that same joy. But it would seem that life was returning to normal in all aspects, reprimands for slacking off on farm-work included.
Mallagy was waiting by the front gate. In a display of most unsubtle disapproval, Geron's mother had made her wait there. But offence was hardly taken since the two had never really got along. The dislike had taken years to fester, from Mallagy's supposed negative influence on Geron's schooling, to their mutual comical hi-jinks in the village, culminating in their shared naming of disrepute at the annual Rivermouth gathering of Tribunal Council Hearings. A shame that Geron was certain to never hear the end of, that was until the mandatory Call to Arms was issued by King Lornus.
The protest was still passing the farm as he joined her by the front gate. By now, isolated individual shouts and lamentations were identifiable in the rabble.
“Idiots.” Geron sighed, leaning on the post as it tilted frailly under his weight.
“Some have them as pets, others see them as harmless, even tame,” Mallagy shrugged, turning to face him.
“Yeah, but with all that's been going on with the aftermath of the war and the threat of famine, you would think that people would worry more about filling their bellies than some wild beasts.” Geron was on the precipice of pontification but caught Mallagy catching a side glance at his arm.
“I would have thought you would be happier about all this post-war fame. The only boy in Rivermouth, getting all the attention,” she gave a wry smile and turned to follow up on the jest, stopping when she saw his newly dour face.
“I'm the 'only boy in Rivermouth' because the others all died. And I nearly did too.”
She was unable to hide her shocked surprise at the sullen reprimand. He was always boisterous, and she would even enjoy rising him until he would dismiss her barbs with a cranky outburst, but this was the first time she had ever seen him legitimately upset.
“Ever since I got back, people look at me like some kind of outcast, no better than the beasts they are now so desperately trying to protect. I didn't get any protests or singing in the streets to my name. When I returned, all I got were awkward congratulations at not dying, usually followed by gasps at this,” he held aloft the stump. It was a foreign action. The comforting tendency to keep it hidden away, angling his body to the right, a deliberate slanting posture. “Congratulations. On what, not being butchered? Not sharing the same fate as pretty much the entire Kingdom? I can barely even help out with the farm-work, even if I wanted to. Now with things going the way they are throughout Tallagate, I can’t even help my own family from starving.”
With a shuddering sigh, he concluded the ventilation, surprising even himself that he had accumulated so much vitriol in his time back. Having already committed to this new-found anger, he was content to not let it subside so readily. The last of his war fund payment weighed heavily in his pocket. If there were any more declarations to be made, they would be under duress of the influence of alcohol. Mallagy did not object to these intentions as he set forth towards the town square.
The tavern owners, a twin beacon of misery and cynicism, the Caretar sisters had collectively lost one son and one nephew in the war, but the continued success of their business, even through the aftermath of devastation, stemmed the tides of their grief. But one would be hard pressed to witness this elation, nor even a smidgen of consolation, as their sour demeanour peered consistently from behind the bar at the plentiful patronage.
Geron glanced down at the tankard and swirled the frothy contents therein. The last of his payment ready to be consumed. Hardly worth the cost of losing an arm. Passing errant elbows nudged their hunched shoulders, diminishing their gratitude at grabbing the last table in the centre of the tavern. The protest had simmered down and those who had been sufficiently riled up now transferred their passions towards mere drunken revelry. Geron was about to disapprove when he realised the generational divide, he was unquestionably the youngest man there. “Sonkiller” was the moniker the people of Tallagate had taken to calling their King. The sentiment was not untrue.
“I have a confession,” Mallagy spoke through the empty tankard, the last residue therein had long since been wiped from her lips, but the Caretar sisters had a knack for ejecting those without the evident possession of coin. “I didn't just come to spend time with Rivermouth's most eligible bachelor.” She leaned in closer. Geron could feel a confusing flutter of embarrassment, but Mallagy's tone changed, genuinely cautious about what she was saying, and more importantly, those in proximity to her dialogue.
With ample intrigue, he matched her tilt until she spoke the words that changed his playful interest into outright cold fear. He immediately darted upright, knocking into the burliest patrons th
at just so happened to be in his way.
Squaring up, Geron was comically dwarfed, but knew he couldn't salvage the situation with either physicality nor coin. The taller of the two who was now bearing down upon him was stopped by the other, clasping him by the shoulder, nodding towards the stump, which Geron had brought up to protect himself. The tall man grunted in a confused concoction of both approval for Geron's service and disgruntlement for his lost drink. Taking what little favour he could garner from the interaction, namely escaping without a severe beating, Geron edged through the crowd of whispering onlookers and exited past the tutting sisters through the door.
Finding Geron was a simple task for Mallagy, for he was the only person travelling away from the town square. The protest, somewhere along the path, had turned into a jovial gathering for the townsfolk, who idly cursed the Sonkiller whilst making gossip and enjoying these alleviating festivities.
Even with the ambient surroundings, Mallagy knew her voice was being heard, but regardless Geron continued his determined walk past the inbound residents. Sacrificing politeness on the altar of haste, she intercepted his path. Caring not for the implications of the words he was about to speak; he nonetheless lowered his voice to an angry whisper.
“Spider’s Legs? The criminal syndicate, Mallagy? Have you lost your mind?”
Her eyes widened as she grabbed his hand and pulled him aside, out of the path of the now onlooking throng into a side-alley. A secretive location most befitting of their conversation. But even with their summoned privacy, all he managed was a repetition of his inquiry.
Mallagy not only confirmed that she had in fact not lost her mind, but rather working with the Spider’s Legs was the best decision she ever made. “Come on Geron, with Tallagate decimated after the war, what other options do people like us have?”
He was about to retort with a paraphrased lecture his mother once gave about the honest nature of farm work, when the chilling realisation that it too was being strangled by Tallagate's war deficit stopped him short.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 1
