Geron listened as the carriage pulled away outside. His gaze remained locked on the list, the names ranging from the familiar to the unknown. The influential and affluent, to the common and unassuming. A tableau of the hierarchy in Rivermouth and the neighbouring towns. And soon each would become familiar with him.
Unbeknownst to Geron, without his acceptance, nor enthusiasm, nor even whatever in the syndicate passed for fanfare, he had found himself being granted the providence for the Spider’s Legs’ affairs in the Western region of Tallagate.
An honour by some regard.
But it was something that Geron could not embrace the notion of celebration for. He felt his collar tighten around his neck, a flush of heat at his brow. All the while his gaze never left the list, the light from the fireplace casting a macabre dance of shadows over the names.
3
Before he was labelled the Sonkiller, King Lornus' subtitle was due to be 'The Wise.' The Royal attendants agreed that it sent the right message towards the neighbouring Kingdoms that Tallagate's rule was one that would be considerate. A beacon of sense and acumen. Even though he was but a young teenage Prince, they still agreed that he could be easily groomed for the title.
The first challenge to the freshly crowned King Lornus becoming Lornus the Wise was his decision to continue the ritual beast hunt. When delicately reminded that he came to power as a result of his father perishing in an errant beast hunt, Lornus was quick to display his admiration for tradition, pointing out that the beast hunt had been carried out for several decades and as such deserved respect.
The attendants lowered their head, scrawling their instructions upon the parchments.
In all other respects Lornus was destined to be a rather stark ruler. His decrees on the economy and of morality fell more often than not into the uncontroversial centre of people's sensibilities. And thus whilst it was far from being a 'golden age of prosperity,' without a tyrant lording over them, the Kingdom of Tallagate was free to pursue its ambitions relatively unimpeded.
That was however, until a visiting delegation from Arconan made an untended faux pas over dinner on the final evening of their stay.
Satisfied that the matter of a mutually erected bridge had been established with the work to commence the following season, idle chatter turned to matters of the trivial and jovial. But as conversations are want to do, when wine and egos are plentiful, a rather innocent musing on the nature of beast-killing struck a nerve with Lornus, whose role in the evening's affair had amounted to little more than presiding at the head of the table, whilst the more boisterous noblemen engaged in negotiations. Rising from his seat, all heads turned unanimously in a single direction, though eyes were slowly averted as Lornus the Wise spouted his hatred for beasts. For their nature, their destruction, the death of his father.
Not one to read the situation well, an Arconan lord remarked that the deliberate killing of beasts was in itself rather 'beastly.'
One had to wonder, had cooler heads prevailed, had one party acknowledged the silliness of the escalation that the path to war could have been averted. Alas, when the affronted Arconan Queen Raim heard of the banishment of her dignitaries, she responded in kind, inviting a Tallagate delegation with the prospect of responding to rudeness with a mirrored disparagement.
Thinking his delegates were bringing back a formal apology for the offence he had suffered, Lornus instead learned of the prank. Good humour, or well-placed advice could have halted the spiral at that very moment. Instead, casting his gaze at the mounted beast's head that hung above the throne, the very creature that had slain his father, Lornus calmly gave the directive. And as the villagers marched from Rivermouth, a young Geron waved goodbye, each man none the wiser as to the real reason for their impending death march.
“My liege all the goats have been slaughtered,” the King's aide proudly stated.
Lornus did not remove his glance from the window that overlooked the court below, keeping his face pressed against the cool glass. “That was the easy bit,” he said, tracing his finger in the condensation. “But if every last beast in Tallagate is to be slaughtered to extinction, then we must divert more forces towards the effort.”
The aide bit his lip, he was hopeful that this summoning would only involve the provision of good news, and that maybe today was the day Lornus the Wise exercised his fleeting wisdom and ended this resource-diverting and oft ill-spoken of crusade.
“My liege...” he started, wishing other attendants were present to provide support, but alas they were all occupied with the various facets of Tallagate continuously and overtly affected by the King’s opinion-splitting orders. “We lost the war to Arconan. Our economists say the instability is reversible, but only if we repair relations with Arconan, and utilise the Kingsmen towards stopping illicit trade, instead of... enforcing anti-beast measures.”
“Do you know why they call me the Sonkiller?” Lornus asked, turning to face the aide, witnessing his exposed, rousing panic.
Of course the aide knew full well the correct answer. The manner of which he may phrase it however, left much to be desired. Especially when treason was a potential implication of his interpretations.
Fortunately, Lornus relieved the aide by answering his own question. “When I protected the dignity of Tallagate against the brute arrogance of Arconan, we suffered casualties. Numerous, yes. Tragic, yes. But whenever a beast, roaming our fair lands, slaughters one of my people or destroys precious crops. Nobody complains. I am the 'Sonkiller,' yet these beasts have slain just as many sons and daughters. Their presence is a stain, a disease on our lands. I am the remedy, and yet they call me Sonkiller!”
These were the words intended to be spoken by Lornus, and were articulated quite well within the stream of his consciousness. But to the aide, a flummoxed barrage of stuttering and wailing was all he could hear, the King's words and righteous sentiment lost within, as he vainly flexed and gestured his lost point.
“Very good, my liege,” the aide spoke, leaving the breathless King to slump into his throne.
The royal structure of delegation each bore the same brunt of displeasure at carrying out the decree. Knowledge of the general disgruntlement about the beast-slaying decree was already apparent in the rural towns, doubly so in the ones that organised protests. But in the Royal City of Hybrawn, the impending famine already had the populous rattled. Attention deviated towards further beast killings was not going to appease the aristocrat's' hunger. And yet, whilst rumblings of dissent and insurgency were dispelled to underground whispers, the monarch hierarchy held fast. Reinforced by a loyal adherence to the tradition of royalty and a respect for the elevated Creed.
Tommamare's Creed of All Creation. The leather spine of the book could be seen in not just every home in Tallagate, but also within the kingdoms beyond. Whatever Tommamare's intentions for the publication were, glossary, myth, musings on morality, it incorporated all three into a tool for the education of children and for the allusion of adults.
Nary a moment of teenage idleness could pass without someone uttering the conclusion of 'The Crow's Tale,' as a warning to the dangers of slacking. The foolhardy, reckless and naïve all had their avatars. Lore so ingrained in the heart of Tallagate, that Lornus himself was no stranger to its contents. Of course, the Royal edition contained detailed illustrations selected from the artist's guild. Fantastically realised images of the beasts and characters depicted within.
When the priority of outlawed beasts was revealed in Lornus' controversial decree, an aide had a moment of familiarity. It gnawed upon him, until eventually he solved the puzzle when reading to his daughter that night. She went without her bedtime story as he summoned those in the inner circle who could be gathered at a moment’s notice.
“But of course I was guided by Tommamare!” Lornus emphatically cried upon the disclosure of the shared concerns. With such an explicit catalogue of the evil and noble creatures. It was clear which beasts were a burden to society.
&
nbsp; “But what about the talon hawk?” An aide protested in curiosity.
“It's on our crest!” Lornus responded, pointing to the meticulously stitched banners draping the throne-room's walls.
“But we have had reports that one has killed a villager's child in the last month alone.”
Lornus matched the gaze of the proud hawk, spread majestically above the royal seal. “A few bad apples cannot taint an entire species.”
Geron's tactic counteracting the impending hangover by drinking more was proving to be a failure. And as he grumbled his way back into the house, having spent the night once more in the barn, he realised that no sustenance was present. A consequence of an earlier drunken decision that there was no need to keep any food.
Nor was there anyone to disturb now with his clumsy stumbles, but the habit was hard to break. Though perhaps he enjoyed the musky smell of the hay as he drifted off. Regardless, his destination was the town square, where any patron would confirm that the Caretar sisters' cooking was the less ideal way to start one's morning.
The results of the previous day's endeavour rattled in his pocket. He didn't care to count the summation, feeling the hefty weight was sufficient. Though all throughout his meal and subsequent liquid intake, the tapestry of the task that paid for his refreshment grew with greater clarity.
As a prominent member of the Spider’s Legs, word had organically spread of his affiliation. Often times when intimidation was the tool to be utilised, his unspoken allegiance was enough to render those targeted into submission. However, at times anonymity was also an instrument of his craft. And although there had been several maimed survivors from the war, eventually his association with the infamous one-armed man would become undeniably explicit.
The solution came in the form of a crudely carved prosthetic. The idea was clear, the undertaking muddied said clarity and truthfully Geron was disappointed with the initial result. However, after attaching it beneath the bulky layer of his plated tunic, a concealing glove slipped over the poorly formed hand, one could be forgiven for being duped by the charade.
It was always a comforting thought to be on the fringes of the affiliation. The best of both worlds. Carving his own niche within the economic turmoil of Tallagate, whilst keeping his hands clean of the grislier tasks the criminal syndicate were known to have laid claim to.
But this fence-sitting was soon toppled. Neighbouring farms, those still trying to survive in a more legitimate sense, were aware of his new trade. Some were wary. Others approached seeking favour. Oddly few involved proposals for illicit trade and most revolved around assistance in circumventing Lornus' Beastslaying Decree.
On one particular occasion, Geron had been approached by one of these voluntary potential clients, who informed him worryingly that she was aware of who he was. He ceased the puppetry of the prosthetic and inquired what she wanted. The task was simple. Within the local congregation of Kingsmen, one particular soldier had undertaken the job of personally slaying a beast. When Geron did not react to this information with sufficient nor indeed any astonishment, she impatiently informed him that said slain beast was tame, a pet to her, and a good-luck charm to her parents. Suggestions that remnants of the carcass could be fashioned into something resembling a more traditional good luck charm were met with an ungrateful scoff. Though Geron was only being slightly facetious. For, regardless of the coin offered for retribution in kind, he did not enjoy the prospect of deliberately running afoul of the Kingsmen.
With great reluctance, arising more so from the extra preparation a successful undertaking of this task would require, rather than any moral qualms, the woman was sent on her way.
Times were hard, only the foolish and the patriotic would disagree, Mallagy's introduction to the Spider’s Legs had kept him from the precipice of starvation whilst others were not so lucky, and thus the gnawing words of his neighbour’s judgement lost its sting in time.
“Your mother would be ashamed.”
“I'm sure she's happy. I'm not in the gutter like most around here,” was his reply, flicking a spare coin in their direction. He would later regret that bold symbolic action when he found himself short at the Caretar's bill later.
But Geron was also capable of compromise and thus open to the idea, for the short term, to take on tasks that did not require such levels of post-completion numbing.
The quantity of coin may have decreased as he deliberately bypassed the summons of the Spider’s Legs representatives, who came forth with offerings of opportunities and instructions of deeds, instead letting word spread that one-armed Geron of Rivermouth was a 'problem solver.'
It seemed that bad news took wing more swiftly than good, and thus Geron's operations for noble deeds took a while to gain traction.
Cynicism and poverty being the two main obstacles to his success. A considerable amount of thought was given towards returning to the Spider’s Legs’ inner fold and truth be told, he was growing somewhat anxious at the ramification of his unapproved sabbatical.
Fortunately, a welcome diversion arrived in the form of a most noble task indeed. One certainly befitting a gallant, though morally ambiguous, figure as he.
The ditch that Geron waited within had sufficient depth so that he was able to peer up at the roadside undetected, without suffering the indignity of having to lie amongst the dirt.
With the economic turmoil, there were fewer traders travelling on the roads and so identifying his target was a simple matter of waiting. At last, the trundling sound of rickety wheels approached. Although tinged with judgemental opinion and somewhat vague in the finer details, the man matched the description given. He was a trader from the eastern realms of Tallagate, close to the border of Arconan, where relations ranged from frayed to fraternal. Though regardless of his ethnicity, his deeds were clear. Geron had been approached by a young man claiming his family had been swindled by this supposedly nefarious individual. For what little coin they had left, this family were due to receive farming supplies. Though by the end of the transaction both the coin and the trader had departed, leaving the family with nothing to their name but their spurred vengeance, and an emergency fund better spent upon a fellow Rivermouth do-gooder rather than the ambivalent Kingsmen.
Sizing the trader up, Geron reached the conclusion that he was but a scrawny fellow, the kind who would delegate the physical task of carrying the goods he shipped to an unfortunate underling. Thus, if an altercation were to occur, Geron was confident in his abilities.
However, as so many of his previous Spider’s Legs tasks had proven, the idyllic approach was to merely imply that a fight was the least favourable course of action for not just the target, but for Geron’s own well-being also. And so, with a puffed-up chest, Geron scrambled out of the ditch, halting the passing cart by obstructing its path defiantly.
The recompense was simple, Geron explained, seeking only the return of the coin.
The trader lowered his head shamefully. “I can’t do that. I needed it to pay off the Kingsmen.”
Geron, though sympathetic to the notorious practice of entrepreneurial Kingsmen carving their own off-the-record cut, was also quite articulate in describing the physical differences in crossing the Kingsmen and the current predicament, ominously tapping the blade of his sword against his stump.
The man was no fool and recognised the priorities of his dilemma, but when the time came for the formal request, instead of reaching for his purse, the trader retrieved a small delicate box from amidst the other junk strewn in the back of his cart. Unlike the ramshackle items that looked to bare no trading value, this box, with its intricately carved casing seemed to have something of value to it.
“I needed that coin to pay off the Kingsmen, because this package needs to reach the southern town of Greater Lulling. Its value is apparently very great.” He gazed up over the box at Geron, who could detect no dishonesty in such an illusory tale.
“Apparently?” Geron sighed, unimpressed. “A single man travelling
through the realm unarmed and unaided? Sounds like the ideal defence for so valuable an item,” Geron chuckled approaching the man.
The trader held the box aloft as if the contents contained deferring powers. “No, it is true,” he squealed. “They said a travelling party would draw too much attention. I half expected such an ambush to come sooner. Please believe me, its value must be worth more than my life. They told me so, I thought it was just a passing insult, but now I believe it to be true!”
A pretty sorrowful life if it could be equated to the contents of a small box, Geron mused, making sure to chastise the man for having so little self-confidence. “Look at me, I have had perils, you don't see me grovelling.”
“Well if I may be so bold to say, that may be because the arm you do have happens to be wielding a sword at me,” he said covering his face with his hands, adding another pitiful layer to the cowering.
Geron needed a drink. And wanting to keep this task on the favourable spectrum of nobility, he sheathed the sword, the man's cries of gratitude were cut short by Geron placing his boot on the side of the cart, tipping it over. Not the most noble of actions, but in maintaining a fearsome reputation it was preferable to the alternative.
Barking orders to never show his face in Rivermouth again, Geron turned back to the town, tucking the nondescript box under his arm.
The box sat uninterrupted on the table as Geron continued to lose at the gambling game. When time came for the next round of stakes, he figured that those playing would also not place much value on it. And so, counting his losses, he made for the bar where the Caretar sisters’ glum expressions would yield better results in making him feel better.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 3
