The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  With purse a quarter-filled, thanks were given. It was a meagre offering, but collectively was enough to justify the journey and more importantly patron for the next. And as show of encore, the dragon departed with a rushing rise and elaborate soar, whilst Geron strode onwards, past the town's perimeter, leaving behind enough material for a month's worth of anecdotes and gossip, but nary a mention of summoning the Beastslaying Elite.

  No matter how many years had passed since that fateful skirmish with the Arconans, Geron always dreamed he held the world with both hands. Memories engrained so substantially that awakening was a fresh realisation to his impairment each time. He grew weary of the tradition. But his reflection was diverted outward when he noticed that the dragon was absent from their makeshift bedding.

  With the mound of crackling sticks that surrounded the enclave they had been sheltering within, either Geron was in the throes of a deep sleep or the dragon was improving its ability to move about stealthily. A handy trait, but one that he would like to be in control of.

  Their resting nook was secretively tucked away under a most neglected bridge. But upon stepping up onto the open plain, Geron scanned his horizons and could not help but feel a rising unease. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked about the sky, squinting at shapes that revealed themselves to be smatterings of birds and idle wisps of cloud.

  He scrambled for the medallion, as thoughts of the Beastslaying Elite rummaged through his mind with graphic depictions of capture. They were a collective of expert hunters, would apprehending a dragon be so simple a task for a superior group such as them?

  Upon blowing the whistle, he heard a noise coming from the woodlands beyond. Geron waited, expecting any second for the beast to rise from the treeline or scamper comically upon its hind legs, an ability it somehow could not master.

  But neither occurred.

  Geron scurried back to the resting spot to quickly grab what little provisions were left and, without further delay, headed towards the forest.

  The dragon had never disobeyed the whistle's call, instilled as a youngling as the primary command. Even before he had the special emblem crafted, the young creature would flap its underdeveloped wings and curiously approach Geron whenever he gave a high-pitched call. Experimenting with tone and length, Geron was quick to decipher the beast’s receptiveness. It had started simple, assigning frequency and pitch to basic commands.

  It was a nerve wrecking day when he eventually opened the barn doors and the dragon, mere months old though already grown triple in size, stepped outside and unfurled its untested wings. Geron looked on, like a proud patriarch, fully aware that if this maiden flight were successful the dragon could easily continue onward and never look back. Something he had mixed feelings about. For sneaking its food, and avoiding talk from the neighbours about the strange sounds coming from the barn, were a daily nuisance.

  The undergrowth was thick and parted with idle reluctance as Geron swept his way through. Arriving at a clearing, but still with no visual conformation of the dragon's location, he closed his eyes hoping that the faint noises that infringed on what would otherwise be a serene woodland, could be amplified and serve as a guide. A partial success in this technique drew him further north, pausing in front of a rather apparent, inorganic gape in the treeline. Branches and whole trunks cast aside in stacks of debris. Geron was no master hunter or tracker but the overt passage was clearly the work of a dragon.

  Travelling through this makeshift tunnel, Geron was shortcut to the other side, where a grisly scene awaited him.

  The dragon leaned over the creature, savouring the next bite which occurred with the snapping of jaws. The tendons and cartilage resisting momentarily before relenting in a crude fracturing, the dragon swallowing whole what he retrieved in the struggle.

  Whilst the dragon would be satiated, a rising problem that Geron was indeed searching for a solution, however the prey was no beast nor any other animal condemned by Tommamare's Creed. Rather the mane of a horse peeked out from beneath the spilling viscera.

  Geron had so recoiled from this lurid sight that he only was then able to register that the rooftops of the town to which they were travelling were but a couple of miles away. Cursing the hastily purchased makeshift map that estimated another day’s travel, Geron also was also aware that villagers, farmers or any other resident from the town could feasibly be in proximity. Let alone the owner of this mound of pulp that was formerly a horse.

  With a nonchalant nuzzle of its snout among the leftovers, the dragon concluded its feast. A protruding tongue whipped at the side of its jaws, capturing the last particles of carcass. Geron blew the medallion but gave no order. For no such teaching for an incident as this had ever occurred.

  Staring up at the beast, the blood smattering undid any semblance of the innocuous and for the first time Geron felt a terrible awe.

  “I don't know if you can understand me,” he said, slowing his tone in the implausible case that it may. “This might all just be a series of noises to you, but you have to listen to me! You have to follow me! You go off and do your own thing, hunting whatever you like and you become no different to the beasts that you feed on. The beasts that I kill. The beasts most Tallagatians hate. And worst of all you prove the Sonkiller right.”

  The dragon snorted, looking off at the other horses trotting in the field below, oblivious to their theoretical plight. Geron followed its gaze. The dragon smacked its lips, letting out a low humming groan that Geron always suspected was the dragon equivalent of a yawn.

  The medallion sat perched upon his lips, the nib of the whistle resting on his tongue, Geron gave a light blow, the dragon's eyes widened, looking toward the source. Geron gestured to move away from the carcass, to which it did with its usual lumbering stomps. The horses turned toward the movement, watching with vested interest at the sight of the winged creature in the distance.

  Geron smiled, giving the signal for the dragon to free reign. But part of him knew that if his grasp of control were to slip any further, the bloody outcome was inevitable. As Geron felt his own hunger pangs grip, they offered a more sinister implication, the dragon was no longer content to skim along on the diet of a travelling attraction.

  So deeply waded in troubled thoughts was Geron, that he noticeably jumped when the man who had been watching him from the treeline vocally introduced himself. In his peripheral vision Geron clocked the dragon’s movement, elevated and out of conventional sight. Viscal, as he had so called himself, approached, his eyeline level oblivious to the creature above. Instead it was the remains of the animal below that held his attention. Giving a low, sombre whistle, he lifted his hat to take in the full picture of the desolation, adding some tuts of disapproval.

  “What in the King's name happened to Berry's prize mare?” Viscal asked, the mutilation masking any attempts of deducing the original cause of death through sheer obliteration.

  “Damned beasts,” Geron tutted, sharing in the disapproval, placing his hand on his hip for added emotional resonance.

  “Blood of the deities,” Viscal swore under his breath, before reprimanding himself for his blatant and unfettered blasphemy. “Better break word to Berry about this tragedy.”

  Viscal's friendly demeanour was immediately disarming and so Geron was satisfied to accompany him to the town of Gaim, swapping idle conversation about the nature of all things, even so far as waiting outside the farm of the aforementioned Berry, as Viscal hesitantly entered to break news about the incident.

  Prize-winning or no, there were still plenty of horses left on that plane. Geron was slow to empathise with the loss considering the last memories he possessed of the farming situation back in Rivermouth was his neighbours scrabbling in the fields over the few ripened crops.

  Re-emerging, wiping the sweat from his brow and affixing his hat, Viscal saluted the awaiting Geron, approaching him bashfully.

  “Not to bear too much of a burden upon you friend,” he started, most apologetic, “
but it may be best to report this to Gaim's Thane and Regional Protector, and of course, if it is beast related, then the Preacher will want to know also.”

  Geron nodded, though feeling his faux smile was a tad too emphasised, instead switched to the tactic of embracing the morbid gravity of the situation. The dragon would fly for hours if needs be, exerting the pent-up energy it would accumulate during its slumber and keeping up with Geron's plodding human footsteps.

  The Regional Protector required no introduction, for he could easily be identified in the entire assembly of Gaim. Untouched by Tallagate's post-war plight, flippant and soft by the spoils of nepotism and delegation. And yet, an introduction of this seemingly unimportant stranger was still enquired. Earnestly apologetic, Viscal stood to the side, allowing Geron to take the lead in updating the Royal liaison to the region of the newly developed situation.

  The knack for an enchanting tale was not a talent that Geron discovered he possessed naturally but rather was born from intense practice. Identifying when to swell emotions with picturesque language, when to be coy, and when to attempt to mask fact with charm. By his tale's end, Geron had successfully painted a most vivid picture of a ravenous beast that had emerged from the woods, prowling for its prey, and with great misfortune to Berry, swooped down upon the poor, defenceless but still noble prize-winning mare.

  The horrors of the feast that followed, how he had hidden himself fearing that he would be next and how relieved he was when the beast, now satisfied, then departed, leading to the meeting with Viscal. Those that listened intently felt that they themselves had lived the story.

  The Regional Protector stroked his most shapely beard and gave the only course of action that he could think of, to summon the Kingsmen.

  Geron internally winced. But it was only a minor setback, for he was now on the precipice of the second part in his two-fold plan.

  “My liege-” he began but was immediately cut off by the shrill objections of the Regional Protector, who informed him that 'Lord' was the correct title.

  “...my Lord. The Kingsmen are a faithful and loyal band. Their service to this realm is unparalleled in bravery. However, as a former soldier of The Tallagate Brigade, I know a thing or two about fighting for my homeland.” He raised his arms in the air, murmurs rippled, as they always did when he chose to exhibit his impairment. “I then humbly request that instead of bothering the Kingsmen, or indeed the Beastslaying Elite of this menace, that I instead offer my services to its end.” He placed his fist on his chest and bowed his head, staring down at the startlingly clean tile floor.

  The Regional Protector hummed, weary of ceremony for his life was a daily chore of prose and poise. “But you said you had seen this beast, and instead of fighting it, cowered like a simpering fool.”

  Geron chose to ignore the supplemental details added by the Thane, taking the barb in stride. “Tis true, the sight of the beast was at first, a most daunting assault upon my senses. But with both my own dignity, and the safety of the good and fair people of Gaim at stake, I know I shall not waver.”

  Enraptured, the Regional Protector was giddy at this theatrical lyricism, and at once accepted the delay for the summoning of the Kingsmen. This mysterious figure was just the entertainment the day required, and furthermore if this former soldier was successful in the brave deed, he could always latch onto any credit served by King Lornus himself. Perhaps even the dashing figures of the Beastslaying Elite could arrive, for ceremonial sake, as per his long-standing invitation.

  Not one for subtle behaviours, Geron was confident his display had sufficiently wooed the Regional Protector, who was still fanning himself, borderline woozy at the accolades this beast-hunt could bring to Gaim. Thinking two steps ahead, Geron knew the endgame to the situation he had embroiled himself in. He needed a patsy. But no ordinary one, a beast that technically was capable of fulfilling the rather ornate description he had given. And a beast as fearsome and brutal as that was, thankfully for the residents of Gaim, a rare thing.

  Macabre thoughts of fashioning some kind of a super-beast from the remains of several smaller beasts was interrupted by Viscal who cheerfully jogged with vigour catching up to Geron with a hearty tap on the shoulder.

  “Greetings friend, if you are indeed going to undertake such a deed, then I would be remiss to not accompany you, maybe even offer a modicum of assistance.”

  Assurances that such a gesture was unnecessary were dismissed rather annoyingly by Viscal, who continuously and most infuriatingly cheerfully maintained his insistence. Geron was running out of options. And short of outright telling Viscal to bugger off, he had a shadow that would tail him to this task's bitter end.

  At Viscal's suggestion, the plucky twosome started their heroic quest at the site of the original slaying. The carcass of Berry's prize-winning mare had already been collected, to what ends Geron cared not, but in terms of salvaging nutrition, the dragon had already seen to any discernible meat.

  “Been in the hunting game long?” Viscal asked, watching Geron's technique of stalking the surrounding high grass for signs of any clues.

  Though his unwilling partner's demeanour was of friendly enthusiasm, Geron saw no reason to stop being cautious about his past. Exciting tales of his affiliation with the Spider’s Legs, as well as his personal mythical beast companion were left to the wayside on favour of a sombre tale of post-war wanderings, taking on odd-jobs in various towns across Tallagate. A lonesome life, with no close friends, no deep roots. A nomad. It was a harrowing account of isolation and hardship, designed to elicit sympathy by default, but also to dissuade Viscal from any notions of maintaining this working relationship beyond their current assignment.

  The effect was apparent, as Viscal’s enthusiasm seemed muted now, his focus instead on scanning the treeline of the nearby woods for any activity.

  “There is nothing here,” Geron sighed, hoping that the cold trail would deter Viscal further. But instead his companion merely agreed with him, drawing the small rapier that was tucked beneath his belt.

  “You spot something?” Geron asked, eyeing the weapon. A complex discipline was required for that sword, far beyond the brutal bluntness of the broadsword he possessed. Such a weapon would only be issued to, or requested by, one with a significant combat background. Something Viscal, in his meek unassuming poise, seemed to evidently lack.

  Viscal smiled, eventually answering his question with a shake of his head. “No, my friend, I see no beasts wandering these fields. But I will tell you what I see.” He raised the rapier, the impossibly thin blade wavered mere inches from Geron's eyes. “I see a liar and a fraud. But I am soon to be relieved of this vision, the Kingsmen shall see to that.”

  When confronted with the accusation of a lie, Geron had found it most benefiting to fully articulate just what dishonesty he had ensnared himself within. Outright denial was always a simpler step, but often was easily dismissed.

  “Whatever you think of me, I would rather we behave like civilised Tallagatians and sheathe weapons until the Kingsmen arrive.”

  The sword was not swayed by his words and remained raised, rigid in his direction. “Oh, but you are already in the presence of one my friend. Not all of us don the regal black tunic. King Lornus feels much safer with the idea of the common man walking the streets and hills of Tallagate. The lower classes were becoming a little to indistinct, playing in the shadows. Rumblings of insurgency. The tunic brings power and respect but it bars entry to places and to conversations that my humble self can come and go unabated.”

  It was a fascinating revelation but truthfully, Geron was only half-listening as he focused on inching his hand towards the hilt of his weapon.

  “Please don't,” Viscal said, striding forward, tapping Geron with a reserved strike that served to disarm rather than maim.

  “I am going nowhere with you ...friend. So, unless you want this to get ugly, I suggest we part ways.” Geron’s warning was stern, but lacked credence.

  “O
h, don't worry, they shall be here forthwith.” Viscal giggled in amusement. “It is treasonous to say, but the Regional Protector is something of an imbecile. But an easily led one. I merely pointed out to him that the success of your endeavour was unlikely and the delay of the summoning of the Beastslaying Elite was an endangerment to the, as you so eloquently put it, good and fair people of Gaim.”

  Geron nodded in defeat, easing his sight-line to the buildings of Gaim, watching for any incoming unwelcome figures. “That seems somewhat excessive wouldn't you say? After all, I know I cut an impressive pose, even with only one arm, but don't you think the Beastslaying Elite are a bit much for a little light conning.”

  Disappointment inched across Viscal's face, his warm smile setting like the day's end. Even having him at bay with brethren inbound, this criminal miscreant was still trying to deceive him. “Oh, they are not for you, friend. As I happily pass you over to the Kingsmen, the Beastslaying Elite will have their hands quite full I imagine with that great pest that is above us right now. A dragon, I believe Tommamare would describe it.”

  Involuntarily looking upward at the almost indistinct speck, Geron realised he was confirming whatever doubt remained. But in actuality, he was using the stolen glance to gauge the distance. The dragon was out of any conceivable sight line, evidence to his crimes lacking testimony. But Geron knew time was a factor, the dragon would descend eventually.

  In the early days of their bonding, before the fashioning of the medallion, the dragon would respond to a very specific call. After the meticulous crafting of the calling whistle, he had little need for it, until now. For the grasp of the medallion required just as much palpable movement as any sword draw.

  Geron laughed, “A dragon? How positively absurd. Sounds to me like you have been reading too much of Tommamare's Creed, conjuring images of mythical beasts.”