The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  “Play the game,” Geron reminded himself, swirling the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He watched the room's occupants, each wearing a self-important put-upon menace. It was a borderline facade, but often those with illusions of power are more perilous than those who wield it.

  Geron's contact was stood next to the man seated opposite. Her satisfied gaze above folded arms told him that his current predicament was justified. The others were nondescript. Interchangeable peasantry that would inconspicuously line Hybrawn’s streets.

  The man seated opposite was either the leader or the one tasked with the hands on wet-work. The fact that he was asking questions, and not inflicting harm, raised Geron's optimism for the former. The questions were not of the philosophical kind, nor was Geron's musings on the nature of Lornus' rule required.

  Underwhelmingly, identity and intentions were all that were asked of him.

  Realising that satisfying his own humour would lead only so far and likely to a pained conclusion, Geron chose the truth making sure to surmise it as bluntly as possible, lest he give these fanatics a dignity in acknowledging their shadowy nature.

  “I seek the help of the Insurgents to free a friend of mine held captive in Lornus' custody,” he said matter-of-factly. “Freeing my friend won’t bring down the King, but it will deal him great embarrassment. A rescue to which I can guarantee none of your affiliates will be harmed. I just need access.”

  One of those standing by misread the leader's flabbergasted, breathless chuckle as an instigation for a round of mocking, riotous laughter. They were silenced with a stern look which softened when he turned his attention back to Geron.

  “Insurgents? We had not settled on an official name for this 'gathering,' and yet it seems that is the title for which we are continuously addressed.”

  “True, it is not too flashy. But it is to the point,” Geron offered.

  “As are you, my friend. However, you ask us to risk exposing our entire operation on the basis of freeing a single prisoner. Let alone one to whom we hold no alliance. I am sorry, but many of our brothers and sisters already languish in Lornus' penal dungeons... or worse.”

  “This is no mere petty crime prisoner. And I can tell that by your restraint, you savour the prospect of taking the King down a peg.”

  The leader smiled and introduced himself as Targus, and his initial contact Byre. Though Geron suspected these were not their real names.

  “We know that changing the whole social order of Tallagate will take time, but for now I'd take anyone ruling apart from that buffoon.” Targus spat on the ground, joined in chorus by spittle of the others.

  Regicide was a lofty goal, and one that Geron would not be opposed too, but the Insurgents were showing their idealistic maturity in not immediately advocating a storming of the castle.

  “We are still feeling the burden of the Arconan defeat,” Targus sighed. “However, that does not mean we cannot put a sting in the ruling elite's behinds from time-to-time.”

  “Then it seems we can indeed help each other after all. Lornus will feel that collective sting when I steal the dragon out from under his nose.”

  From his first introduction Geron gave the impression of a bull-headed, reckless and foolish blow-hard. This statement did little to alter that initial diagnosis. But Targus was intrigued. The public execution of the dragon had been the exclusive talking point of the city since the announcement. Economic turmoil and the disgruntlement of the underclass were being overshadowed by this ceremonial event. News Troubadours told the tale of the heroic capture of the 'alpha beast.' How King Lornus the Wise was fulfilling Tommamare's Creed. Rhetoric about Tallagate's future was lost to the simplistic aim of stroking the Sonkiller's ego.

  A mutual understanding was at hand. Geron snatched the medallion from around his neck and triumphantly slammed it upon the desk.

  But this bold gesture alone told the Insurgents nothing and so, as he re-affixed the medallion, Geron outlined his daring proposal.

  The servants were the key. Lowly and insignificant, they posed no immediate threat and thus bore little in the way of scrutiny. It was the perfect level of anonymity for nefarious hi-jinks.

  “Weapons won’t be allowed,” Byre reminded him.

  Geron smiled, the only weapon he needed was already inside.

  11

  The serving tunic was stifling. The Royal City always carried a muggy air that teased trickles of sweat. This was not helped of course by the air-snatching sickly sweetness of the ever-present Honeyroot trees. Geron tugged at the chafing collar and was immediately reprimanded by his accomplice, Byre.

  “There is a certain etiquette to the attire,” she tutted, re-fluffing the ruffle.

  “This alone would make me want to join the Insurgents,” Geron grumbled, resisting the urge to scratch at his freshly shaven neck, which burned with a foreign irritability.

  Appreciating the jest, Byre still warned him of no further talk on the matter of their allegiances.

  They were approaching the servant's entrance. Unlike the suave and sprawling front pathway that welcomed chariot and carriage alike to the Palace, the servants instead entered through a most unassuming back passage that ran parallel to the Palace compound.

  Even with no immediate evidence of wrong-doing, Geron could still feel a surge of guilt as he was scanned by a barrage of Kingsmen and Royal Guards. Passing through the inspection gauntlet, it left little in the way of dignity and much in the manner of resentment. Uncertain if the procedure was medical or security based, Geron emerged on the other side. Immediately he was cast into the throng of busy workers, all carrying out their designated duties under the scornful eye of the Palace Crew, still lowly in the social order, but making the most of their minuscule elevated position.

  “Come with me,” Byre whispered, sweeping Geron away before he could be set to a mundane chore by the eagle-eyed Crew, whose vision seemed based on an absence of movement.

  “Blood of the deities,” Geron hissed. He had expected the Palace grounds to be awash with luxurious frivolity. Instead, human labour accounted for almost all of the grounds' activity.

  Byre began pointing at random destinations, her actions not mirrored in her words, the guise masking their true conversation. “Alright, the Ceremony is due to begin at noon, that gives you four hours to find this dragon and release it.”

  Geron nodded, adopting the formal stance he had been demonstrated in agonising detail the previous night.

  “But until then, you need to blend in. You see those flowers over there?” A bountiful display of various blooms were gathered in a pile. “Take some and transport them to the other side of the Palace. For some reason no-one questions the futility of this task, I think it is something to do with Queen Ictuse's condition, but that is a discussion for another time.”

  They parted, Byre leaving to carry out legitimate duties lest any more suspicion be risen than was necessary.

  Gathering the flowers in an assorted bunch, Geron deftly carried them around the side of the main Palace grounds. When the opportunity arose, he would quickly steal a significant glance in every direction, but each time, nothing was out of the ordinary. No presence of a dragon could be felt.

  Finding somewhere discreet to dispose of the flowers, Geron completed his circumference. At the rear of the Palace tucked away almost discreetly, he found the site of what he rightly assumed was to be grounds for the Ceremony. It was to be an intimate affair. With a simplistic seating arrangement and the killing floor, an elevated stage hoisted by wooden planks, on display for the whole of Hybrawn to see.

  Quashing his fury, Geron retained a cursory calm. Looping back around to resume his search, another batch of the flowers in tow, brought him past the security hut, wherein the Knight's Order resided.

  A chuckle came from within, as two knights emerged, their armour clanked in heavy jolting rattles as they walked towards him. Geron looked around, no-one else was present. One of the Knights repeated his guffaw and gra
sped the flowers, pretending to smell them through the grill-plate lined helmet.

  “Well, well, well. This is a first,” one said, opening the visor on the helmet to enact an exaggerated stare.

  “Yeah, I know times are tough, but that's no excuse for Palace standards to be slipping,” the other reciprocated. The two interacting as if this were a well-rehearsed comedic routine. Which in a manner of speaking was true, for the hazing they subjected both servants and Crew allowed them plentiful opportunities to practise their bullying quips.

  “You even able to push a broom about with that thing?” the first knight jested, tapping Geron on the shoulder. The gauntlet was a heavy craft, and Geron struggled to keep his balance from the weighted prod.

  “Hey now, don't sell him short, looks can be deceiving,” the other said. “Maybe he is a special kind of servant, one that can only carry out tasks that us fully stocked folks can’t.”

  “Like what?” the other knight asked, breaking the comedic rhythm they had established in a moment of genuine curiosity.

  “Maybe he could tell us, eh cripple?” Another heavy pat on the shoulder wobbled Geron.

  His temper was frayed, but Geron was not backing down nor was he squaring up. Any undue attention could foil the entire plan.

  “That's what I thought,” the knight said, opening the visor to spit on the ground. “There's something for your ilk to clean up.” He closed the visor, letting it fall so that the metal clasps slammed shut. “Besides,” he continued; his voice obscured by the protective shield. “It's a lose-lose situation. Win, and you've only beaten up a cripple. Lose, and you have lost to a cripple, I don't know which is worse.” He laughed and turned to leave, but a low grunt from Geron reclaimed his attention.

  An advantage of the grilled helmet was its protective capabilities. A disadvantage however, was the limiting scope of the wearer's peripheral vision. And thus neither knight saw Geron crouch down to pick up the lump of jagged rock that protruded invitingly from the ground. Neither did they see him wind back. Only too late did they see the makeshift weapon coming toward them. The stone was hefty but could not break through the armoured layer. It was nevertheless, most successful in denting the grate so that the Knights stumbled blind, the inverted spokes of steel pressing them in the face in an eminently uncomfortable fashion.

  “Well then?” Geron snarled, dropping the rock to the ground with a pronounced thud. “You can tell this cripple now, which is worse?”

  But he got no answer to the conundrum, for the knights were too concerned with freeing themselves from their makeshift metallic prison. Though the sight of the gargantuan suits of armour stumbling about, their limited range of movement working to their disadvantage, was decidedly cathartic.

  Eventually one of the Knights successfully wrenched the helmet free, whilst the other was still wrestling with the broken locks most comically. But the anger scowled across his face, indicating his intending wrath, softened and retreated to a shocked pale. It was not from fear of conflict with Geron, but rather for the one who had emerged from the Palace interior.

  The melee had attracted the attention of the Viceroy, whose only motive that morning was a pleasant walk through the grounds. Such a kerfuffle was most unbecoming of a Royal assembly. Two Knights no less, in uniforms tainted and a servant of a curious disposition. There was nothing for it, not with the Dragon Ceremony occurring later than afternoon. The Knights were sent to Border Watch Duty, a punishment known well to those that had served it. And as for this servant whose lowly position revoked any degree of innocence, he was to be imprisoned in the Palace Dungeons until the Ceremony was over.

  The Viceroy did not mince words, nor were the proposed actions rhetorical. And thus Geron waited until the dungeon cell door locked behind him and the Keymaster had retreated out of sight before he let loose with a flurry of frustrated exclamations.

  In spite of its host, the dungeon of the Palace bore little dissimilarity to any regular dungeon seen across Tallagate. And Geron should know, for he had witnessed the interior of several. Though usually, it was on account of drunken revelry, or drunken brawling. And with a sheepish apology and nursed headache, he was on his way once more the following morning.

  However, there was no time to wait out this particular sentence.

  After being reprimanded for the noise made in checking the structural integrity of the bars, and thusly reminded that a further layer of the dungeon existed where none re-emerged, Geron reluctantly waited. Twin burnings lay within. Of a hope for an opportunity to escape presenting itself, and that said hope was a fool's naivety.

  No sooner than he had planted his rear on the floor that seemed to double as the cell's bedding, but a cacophony of disjointed disquiet sounded beyond the veil of his enclosure, disturbing Geron's contemplative solitude.

  A riotous uprising? The Insurgency facilitating his escape?

  Neither, for in pressing his face beyond the capacity of the bars, Geron could see a kitchen worker pushing a rickety cart upon which sat a most unsteady trough of steaming liquid.

  “You should count yourself fortunate,” the kitchen porter said. “Any later and you would have missed breakfast.”

  The servant was scrawny and could be easily dispatched. But the Keymaster loitered nearby, A burly stock of a man whose frame no doubt earned him this position over any other merit.

  The cart stopped outside Geron's cell. The door remained sealed however, as the porter tilted the bowl through the slits of the bars, spilling most of the contents in the process.

  “Enjoy!” he said, most irritatingly chirpy.

  The cart trundled away once more. Retrieving the bowl's contents confirmed Geron's suspicions that the food, like the surroundings, were no more improved by their Royal affiliation.

  A gloopy slop awaited as feast. Simultaneously watery and unrelentingly thick, it was still free nourishment. However, before he could pour the seeping viscous substance into his awaiting mouth, an idea hatched in Geron's mind.

  Running through the hypotheticals left little in the way of optimism, but Geron knew no other alternative was present.

  Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, he began the charade. “It wasn't me! I swear it!”

  “Pipe down,” the Keymaster growled in a tone so barbed that Geron immediately second-guessed his plan.

  The fear served Geron well, for his voice took on a most authentically pathetic pitch. “That porter must have me confused with another prisoner. I am loyal to King Lornus and am willing to serve my time.”

  The Keymaster repeated his order for quiet, with added threat of relocation to the more silence-inducing inner-dungeon.

  “But that is the point, I am no Insurgent! I don't want this weapon that the porter smuggled in my food,” Geron whined, clutching the bowl tight.

  The Keymaster did not move in a manner one could describe as nimbly, but the mention of several words taboo to a Palace dungeon inspired his motion.

  The cell was dark, damp also, each factor no doubt to contribute to the prisoner’s discomfort, but for now Geron wished it were darker still.

  The candles in the corridor, lit the Keymaster with an ominous silhouette as he peered through the bars. Cowering in the corner, for it was the most deprived of light, Geron presented the bowl as evidence.

  “Come 'ere,” the Keymaster ordered.

  How on earth did a man as that grow so large and imposing? Tommamare may have had something to say about this fellow.

  “No, thank you. I am aware of how this looks and I do not desire a beating today, thank you very much. Instead I shall leave the bowl, the weapon hidden therein, in the centre of the room. Whereby you can retrieve it, while I maintain my innocence over here.”

  The Keymaster grumbled. Who was this simpering fool? Not an Insurgent indeed. No doubt locked up over cracking a joke about the King. Lucky the Baronet didn't get wind of it. As his name suggested, a thorough rattling of heavy, rust-laden keys clinked as he unlocked the door.
That kitchen porter was always in too good a mood, now he knew why.

  The Keymaster was lost in thought, picturing the porter locked away in the inner-dungeon, not so chirpy anymore, but his fantasies were shattered as he prodded at the bowl’s contents.

  “There's no weapon in-” he began, but was cut off by the interrupting splatter of the substance, splashing into his mouth and eyes.

  Geron was certain he had sustained a sprain of some kind in executing so high a kick, but the successful jettison of his former breakfast into the Keymaster's face distracted him from any affliction.

  Tackling the guard proved futile, as Geron felt his momentum crunch to a halt against the frame of the non-budging man. A solid blow to his exposed back crumpled Geron. As he crawled away, aiming to regain his breath from the debilitating strike, the Keymaster wiped the remainder of the residue from his eyes.

  “This is my realm little man, Lornus may be King out there, but in here-” he grabbed the foot of Geron pulling him upright, dangling prone in the centre of the cell. “I am your King!”

  The cell wall was unforgiving it its embrace of Geron's heaved body. Sighing a shuddering breath, he had little time to recover as the Keymaster hoisted him upward by the neck.

  Swinging his legs against the frame of the colossus proved as effective as droplets of rain against a stone wall.

  Attempting to return the favour found Geron's reach wanting. As he pawed at the Keymaster's torso, searching for some degree of leverage, his fingers caught the tangle of keys that were clipped to his belt. After two desperate wrenches, the bundle of keys were free. The Keymaster laughed at this, “Doors already open boy,” he mocked, tightening his grip. “And you 'aint leaving it willingly.”

  Clasping the keys together, Geron struck at the gargantuan arms of his foe. The Keymaster yelped. Riding this wave of optimism, Geron swung again in a single tearing blow across the Keymaster's face.

  Geron crumpled to the floor, cast loose from the lethal grip as the Keymaster wheezed, delicately patting the fresh lacerations. An eye had been precariously close to the scratch. Satisfied that he still had his vision intact, the Keymaster, ripe with blinding fury, charged at Geron.