The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  How often Geron had laughed along with the people at the Preacher's condemnations of the dragon. The placid and apparent gentle beast on the receiving end of such harsh words. A reminder that Tommamare's Creed was fiction.

  Now, every one of those sermons were vindicated.

  The mountain pathway had been warned off with a hastily erected sign, bypassing trade and travel through the adjacent valley.

  “Perfect,” thought Geron. For he wanted no eyes upon him and the activities that were to occupy the rest of the day's light.

  The dragon flapped its wings, stretching from the longer than usual flight. Geron squinted at the dust and dirt raised by the errant gusts, but still stood before it, maintaining a domineering eye contact.

  There was no section of Tommamare's Creed that detailed how to interact with a dragon. Only that it must be destroyed. And so, it went that all of Geron's commands were discovered by trial and error and self-taught through the same haphazard method. There were nearly twenty commands that he could recall, such slapdashery reinforced the idea that perhaps he should formalise the list by writing it down, especially when it came to accidentally duplicating commands.

  Therefore, the re-training would have to go in sections. Starting with the simple, directional movements and prompts, until eventually, the hardest and most inconsistent, behavioural controls.

  Their isolation ensured, Geron was in no rush to complete the exercise. And so, focused primarily on repairing what went awry in Gaim.

  The dragon looked nonplussed at the contextless commands, moving about at the medallion’s instruction. But each time, it complied. Geron was satisfied at the progression but could not yet be content until the final test.

  He unwrapped the blanketed package that he had carried over his shoulder for the better part of the journey, the damp darkened patch on his shoulder evidence of the task, deeply entrenching his clothes with the fragrance of mortality. Had he coin for the transaction, Geron was certain that he would have undertaken a fair exchange, but given that the sheep were unattended, making off with one proved a more straightforward proceeding.

  The carcass lay on the ground between the man and the beast. The dragon was passive no more, standing upright it stared down at the still somewhat fresh meat. A sniff confirmed its delicacy. But before it could snap its jaws forward to consume, it heard the command to halt. Two elongated and one short chirps of the whistle. The dragon stopped mid-motion, a statue of confusion. Perhaps it had been a falter? Three incomplete? Or two with an extra? Regardless, the dragon resumed indulging in its awaiting meal. But once again it was halted by the command. The dragon snorted with frustration at the unjustified obstruction to its goal. But Geron maintained firm eye-contact, with no deviation nor wavering.

  “No,” he whispered softly, “stay there.”

  The dragon remained in place, but inched its talons into the ground, diverting its pent-up energy into minute shuffling movements. Geron recognised this behaviour, it was usually pre-confrontation, when the dragon was sizing up its opponent. He would feel it too, the surging of adrenaline as the opponent drew closer. But this time, he was that very opponent. Truthfully, Geron was uncertain how the next phase was to proceed. He had no plan b, no alternative means of escape. The mountain pathway was enclosed. He had deliberately trapped the two of them together. With the most evident feelings of vulnerability, Geron issued the command once again. He held his breath, remembering the countless dispatched beasts, how easily the Kingsmen were slain in Gaim. Imagining the moments of agony they must have felt and if he too were to share their fate.

  Gripping the sheep's remains by the hind legs, he hoisted it upward, deliberately slow, wanting the dragon to observe every one of his movements and intentions.

  Turning his back, Geron could feel his face involuntarily change. Firmly stoic no more, his brow creased, awaiting the potential attack. Certain every noise he heard behind him was the preceding to his end. But even until the moment he cast the carcass off the side of the pathway to the awaiting ground far below, the dragon obeyed. The unfortunate splattering sound was punctuated by his sigh of relief.

  Gaim hopefully was an exception. A tragic, bloody exception.

  First Officer Golid's footsteps echoed down the stately chambers of Lornus' inner sanctum. The King had converted the traditional Summons Room into a private dining parlour, and requested the royal labourers to convert the Hall of Relics into something more befitting a King's reception. The effect was palpable, and although his mind was sufficiently weighted by the events in Gaim, Golid felt smothered by the oppressive majesty of the stretching hallway. Eyes of past Kings and Queens provided surveillance for his journey. Suits of armour, decorative in design and brandishing archival weaponry, looked to come alive as he passed their posed stance. He couldn't help but watch them suspiciously in his peripheral vision.

  Eventually, the statuesque posture that Golid could make out in the distance filled into its regal intentions. Lornus awaited, slovenly draped across a faux throne, one designed for supplemental comfort rather than a position of power. As a Kingsman, Golid had a keen eye for observation and thus knew well that the illusion of privacy offered within the sanctum was a folly, and that hidden protectors watched them from the shadows and behind carefully placed banners and flowing curtains.

  The King made no pretence of looking busy, instead remaining seated, watching this lone Kingsman shuffle toward him.

  “First Golid,” Lornus spoke.

  The officer shuddered; he was certain that the King knew not his existence let alone his name. He swallowed, feeling his throat exceptionally dry, and responded in the affirmative.

  “Believe me Golid, the briefing that you provided the Beastslaying Elite, and in turn my aides was not merely for administration. And so, I would not have you waste both mine and your own time by repeating it. But I did force you to undertake this journey all the way to the Royal City to answer but a simple question.”

  Golid sensed the measured pause, lifting his head to meet Lornus' gaze.

  “The beast you encountered in Gaim. That killed those people's livestock and slaughtered your men. They say it was no ordinary beast. No bullhog, not a charmylion but a...”

  Nodding slowly, Lornus implored him to speak.

  “My liege, it was a...”

  The King's jaw was agape, his hands tensed like claws, beckoning the words.

  “…It was a dragon.”

  Lornus’ breath shuddered at the revelation. His gasp not of shock nor outrage, but instead the King's eyes lit up with fanatical joy.

  It would be several days before Golid could muster the courage to regale the tale of his Royal summons. Friends and colleagues assumed his sudden cold distance was a period of mourning. Musings about a close bond with his lost unit was the leading theory.

  But eventually the ale loosened his lips. It started with a gentle incursion into the idle conversation, steering away from joking assumptions about how the hill-folk in the Sepocore Valleys breed. Even after complying with requests to repeat himself, his words were unreceived by ears that were nothing but attentive. Breakaway side-conversations fractured.

  “What is he talking about?” one asked, puzzled. But none could deduce the man's words.

  “Did he say the King's eyes?” whispered another.

  By now the whole attention of the Royal Serviceman's Inn was on Golid. He had been given a special seat in the centre by nature of his most recent affiliation, it now served as an involuntary theatre. A hushed audience awaited, listening to his mutterings.

  “Madness. The whites of his eyes. Sheer madness,” repeated Golid. But scrunched faces bearing a collage of scrutiny and concern was all that met his desperate appeals.

  Emerging from the off-limits, private back-room, a figure fastened her tunic, carefully slipping the golden buttons between lapels adorned with the most intricate of stitching and physical proofs of deed, rank and adoration. She leaned on the bar, looking questionably
to the innkeeper, who immediately averted their gaze. A most wise choice, she concluded. Downing the rest of the thimble of liqueur, her deliberately heavy boots made their way over towards the centre table. The thin piercing clink of the steel soles evenly sounded as the screeching of retreating chairs serenaded the journey in a ghastly orchestra.

  Golid felt the hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Her eyes were so kind. No hint of malice. “Come with me,” they said. He immediately complied. It would be foolish not to.

  The Kingsmen, independently commissioned Beastslayers and Royal labourers synchronised their breathing in a mutual exhalation when they heard the door of the inn close.

  “Blasted fool...” one whispered, looking to the now empty chair beside him. But in the corner of his eye he could see the door reopening just as soon as it had shut, the figure standing in the passage. The flashes of movement and gasps of horror were enough to tell him the outcome. But to remove all doubt, he watched as the dismembered head of Golid smacked into the empty chair. The evenly severed neckline smoothly settling the head gently in place, as Golid's vacant stare met his own.

  “Speaking ill of the King...” the figure said softly, almost with a touch of remorse, before she paused her departure to remove a most irritating piece of lint that had attached itself to her fine feather laden hat. Donning the cap unimpeded, the door closed behind her once more.

  In moments such as these she would pause out of sight, hearing the hushed silence slowly dissipate. Shock of ramifications turning to dissection. Murmurs of trepidation, accusatory in tone and hectic in fear. It was a musical encore to the bloody act, which in itself was satisfying enough.

  The night-time air of the Royal City of Hybrawn was an acquired taste. The open sewers carrying the collected day's accumulation of filth in abundance, charting it outwards to the city's edge, mixed with the sickly-sweet fragrance of the Honeyroot, the official royal tree that lined every available pathway.

  The Partner-Escort System to reduce muggings and assaults, unofficially established by the Kingsmen but still thoroughly recommended, did not bear upon her. Any ill-will or bad intentions towards her were deterred by both the crest of her bearing and, failing that, the two decades of acquired sword wielding skill. She knew eyes were watching her from alcoves and alleys. But truth be told, as she continued her lone trek through the inner hub of the Royal City, before emerging out into the more open aired sector of the aristocracy, she was stricken with the suffocating sense of isolation.

  At the duty day's end when she would reluctantly slumber, but only until the sun's rise and no later, the parade of accomplishments, immortalised in trinkets and medals, would provide a meagre of solace that the empty bed and sole set of stained utensils and crockery provided. The private back-room at the Royal Serviceman's Inn provided only bursts of placation. An emotion registered at the sight of a wooing couple sauntering carefree through the backstreets. This affection elevated further by the camaraderie of a pack of peasants sharing jokes on a corner. Each time their joviality would cease in her presence. Terror at a punchline being interpreted incorrectly or, more often than not, entirely correct.

  Not even the most highest-ranking official was immune to her authoritative wrath. The Royal Guard bowed slightly as she passed through the doorway. An unfettered freedom to come and go as she pleased that none of the Committee of Aides shared. And this fact softened her loneliness somewhat under a veil of earned self-importance.

  Lornus awaited inside the throne room. Upon seeing her approach, he dismissed Ictuse who on subsequent departure gave her a most forlorn stare. The Queen's wistful melancholy seemed ever-present these days and thus she took the glance to not be personal. Though she must confess feeling somewhat disappointed that Prince Tidos was not there, no doubt buried within the inner workings of the Royal Domestic Quarters, tended to by a veritable army of caretakers. The Prince was the only person who did not fear her. A fact that had a limited time left.

  “My dear Baronet. Was it as I suspected?” Lornus asked, busying himself with a report that did not require so studious a stare.

  She confirmed. “Talk of your 'obsession' was indeed being spread by the Officer Golid.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement of this most deadly implication.

  “However, my liege, there is more. My network has reported back from Gaim. The account from the locals was disorganised and vague, but enough commonality can be deduced by their words. So too are similar reports coming in from nearby town and city districts in a very deliberate pattern across southern Tallagate. Each saying the same phrase.”

  “A dragon!” Lornus hissed, putting the report down. Whatever unnerving presence she radiated was overridden by the mention of the beast.

  He stumbled out of the throne as if in the midst of a hallucinatory transit, but his eyes, awash in wonder were focused solely upon the mural that lined the entire adjacent wall. She watched him unfurl in his movements, the carefully maintained rigidity of importance melting away as he stood giggling in front of the mass painting. Taking the thin brush from the abandoned easel, he dipped the tip in the awaiting splash of ruby red and added the finer details to the crude drawing that sat at the top of the hierarchy.

  She arched her neck to take in the whole picture. At first, she was content to dismiss it as a project of Prince Tidos, lovingly maintained by his parents as a simple contribution to the domestic presence within the throne room. But the heart-warming crude drawings lost their charm when she realised that they had been each individually scrawled by Lornus himself. The King adding the final touches to what she could now decipher as a dragon lording over the collection of creatures.

  “Oh my...” she murmured in revelation, “it is Tommamare's Creed”

  Lornus cast aside the thin brush, its purpose for finer details no longer of use, and instead he grasped the thicker brush, with bristles engorged. It required a firm fist to maintain the handle as, one by one, he dipped the brush in the cask of paint and sloppily cast a wide, black X through the creatures that lay upon the bottom-most layer.

  “You know the story well?” he asked her, not taking his eyes off the mural's details. “Its fantastical end?”

  The Baronet paused, collecting her thoughts. Tommamare's Creed was read to her almost every day of her childhood but she had not opened its cover in over a decade.

  “If I recall,” she began humbly, “the embodiment of evil, the dragon is lured to the heights of the Carnivorous Mountain top, where Byron the Good slays it and rids the world of evil, forever.”

  Lornus chuckled. “A fine interpretation.” But she was incorrect in one small facet. It was not forever. Evil lurked in his Kingdom daily. At last he had discovered the scourge that had plagued Tallagate for his reign. Lornus the Wise would become Byron the Good, and rid the world of this dragon, bringing about peace and prosperity for not just Tallagate but the world beyond.

  In passing these thoughts to her vocally, something of the finer details were lost in his excitable articulation, but she cared not, merely awaiting her next order.

  It came.

  A dragon should not be a hard thing to find, Lornus proposed.

  The Baronet agreed.

  6

  There were two main problems in interacting with the Cartographers Guild. Firstly, one was never quite certain if one was dealing with an authentic member and not a mere mapping enthusiast, whose direction and distances bore little more than loose hearsay and looser estimates. And secondly, often the same criticism could be attributed towards legitimate members of the guild also.

  Geron, unsure with whom he had dealt with in the procuring of his current guiding parchment, erred on the side of caution and cursed both parties.

  Irritability at charting incompetence aside, the hunger pangs that rattled Geron's insides agitated him further. The lone signpost informed him where his map had misled, Fateskeep was within a tangible walking distance.

  He knew of Fateskeep, the sister city to Hyb
rawn, whose prestige had long been stripped since the fall of Tallagate to Arconan. With the economy in peril, the Kingsmen had been pulled out to maintain both the lawful order and the ambiance of lavish carefreeness in the Royal City. Thus, with the second biggest populace in Tallagate but with nary any enforcement of the law, the city had fallen into disrepute.

  Much like the map that guided him however, the stories about the city's reputation were acquired second-hand, and thus little in the way of palpable credibility could be attributed to their legitimacy.

  Having a dragon by your side had the knock-on effect of making one quite fearless. And when Geron dismissed the dragon to roam the skies freely whilst he continued by foot into Fateskeep, he could hardly lie to himself that the potential prospects that awaited unnerved him slightly. There were many anecdotes to recall, most would be responded to with a tut or an incredulous chuckle, but for now they provided a most savoury practical advice.

  The poise of standing tall and emitting an air of intimidation was hardly unique to Fateskeep. But in a place such as this, it seemed doubly important to maintain the illusion. And so, Geron stretched back his shoulders at an artificial angle, presenting his chest, finding it a most intimidating stance indeed, but also one that rendered it rather difficult to breathe.

  However, the most pressing of these etiquette alterations was display of weaponry. It bore any visitor no good fortune to hide away one's instrument of choice within a sheathe of concealment. Such humbleness was rarely rewarded. Instead, it was advised to keep your weapon in clear sight. That way your proficiency, as well as the form of any ramifications of challenge, was clearly implied.

  “I don't think you understand friend, we're with the Spider’s Legs. That means you hand over your pouch.”

  Geron smiled at his Fateskeep welcome. The situation brought on by his momentary pause to gauge his surroundings. A clear signal to the skulking twosome that a stranger had wandered prone into their realm. Geron's humorous reaction was not what they were expecting however.