The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  His last words were accusatory enough for Geron to feel the brunt of a guilt's wave, yet he was reaffirmed of his moral standing when he saw his former guide stretched out on the pathway ahead.

  “Incompetent fool,” Geron sighed as he turned away from the commencement of the dragon's earned meal.

  Hermits. Scavengers.

  Whatever the information-brokers called them; they shared the same trait in each description. Of desperation. Those that the economic turmoil had hit hardest, returning soldiers that had nowhere left to turn.

  “Come on,” Geron urged the dragon, the beast beyond satiated, now undertaking the disturbing sight of playing with its food. He knew that more eyes were likely upon him, but the beast in tow and the gory show was message enough that he was to pass through the rest of the valley unperturbed.

  Nonetheless, it was not until he had emerged from the valley, as the shrouding shadows of the rock face were gradually replaced by the creeping darkness of night, that he finally felt safe. Turning back, he saw the movement, less subtle this time. Instead of hunters stalking unwary prey, families had emerged to witness the beast that walked in their midst.

  Although he would retrieve no coin from the parade, it was somewhat gratifying to tread upon this old ground of reverence once more.

  14

  The thwarted scavengers and his former guide had little in the way of remuneration, but it was sufficient to rent a corner of the Hermegnese Inn, where Geron, with aching shoulder wound, could nurse a single tankard for hours and prop his head against the window-frame under a long-practised pretence of wistful gazing at the passing world.

  He awoke to the sound of his long since emptied tankard being clattered into a bowl, collected by the landlady who scowled at the thrifty occupant. Saluting his most gracious and welcoming host, Geron departed into the crisp morning air, eager to set the plan in motion.

  The defter option when pursuing a bounty was to casually stumble across word of the beast, the local farmers were the usual source of introduction. Tales of condemnation at the loss of irreplaceable crops and dispensable people. But the hunger pangs that gripped his stomach and the sharp throbs of his healing shoulder encouraged an abandonment of the indirect, and thus Geron made straight for the Thane.

  The doorway was barred by but a single attendant, whose responsibility was to oversee those worthy enough to cross that threshold. The aide barely glanced up from the parchment she was perusing, but gave Geron enough of her attention to warrant the prolonged ignoring of his effort at introducing himself.

  “The Thane has just begun his morning conclave. Of which I am certain you have no business with. After that comes public appointments, of which I assume you have not scheduled one?”

  Rather than answer, Geron brushed past her, checking firstly with a summary glance of his own that the aide was not armed. Whilst true that the aide was not prone to confrontation, she was however quite adept at summoning Kingsmen and thus fled to the first sighting of the black cloth.

  Whatever the Conclave were discussing, it must not have been an overtly grave matter for Geron's entrance was punctuated by a chorus of hearty laughter, of which the Thane was at the centre. Adoring eyes upon him and his witticisms were diverted to the uncouth entrance by the uninvited stranger.

  “By the fates. Who are you?” the Thane went to ask, but found himself being bundled under the table by the accompanying attendants.

  “Assassination!” they were crying.

  “Blood of the deities,” Geron hissed, before yelling for silence. He was to have trouble enough convincing the town to part with hefty coin for his services, without having this facade to contend with as well.

  After explaining his presence, Geron set out his terms. Dispensing of theatrics, he applied a different, more direct approach.

  A travelling huntsman, who made his living from capturing and killing rare and dangerous beasts. His expected fee for the service would provide, as well as the head of the beast, a peace of mind to the people of Hermegnese and an exemplary example of the Thane's leadership that Lornus himself would approve.

  But the Thane was not so easily swayed, instead demanding proof of these deeds and more importantly, his House-name association.

  Impatient, hungry and weary from the previous day's unfortunate trek, Geron was in no mood to placate the Thane with pleasantries, let alone entertain an etiquette that required such a lofty acknowledgement of class difference.

  “The problems that you are having with this talon-hawk, seem unlike any other that I have encountered, thus an abnormal hunt requires an abnormal fee. And as for deeds and associations,” he raised his war wound, “I trust this is the mark of sufficient experience.”

  This outrage carried with it a certain novelty for the Thane, but he was growing weary with this scam-artist's unabashedness.

  “Impossible, you foolhardy cretin. It is a vicious beast that tears man limb-from-limb,” he paused, knowing he had happened on the phrasing by habit rather than a pointed example, but each man knew what the other was now thinking.

  “Then I have less to lose it would seem.”

  But this supposed 'blasted fool' could not help but grin when several hours later, dirt stained, he placed the head of the beast upon the floor of the tavern watching the Thane eat his words in a mumbled gesture of thanks, extending his hand in an offer of reconciliation. Geron deliberately offered his right, pausing when he realised his 'error.'

  The innkeeper grumbled something about her pristine wooden floor sullied by the beast's liberated crown, to which Geron proudly declared that the fee could be deducted from the handsome reward he was now due.

  Several tankards later, as friendships had been repaired in a blurry, frothy haze, the Thane approached Geron, slinging his arm around his shoulder with a brash camaraderie.

  “Don't tell the others, but I am truly grateful for what you've done, and if you ever need a favour,” he gathered his focus to display a knowing wink before resigning his face once more to a drunken sloop, “just let me know, I am quite close to King Lormas, but I try not to brag about such things.”

  Geron smiled. Even if this braggart did indeed have a connection to 'Lormus' it would take a multitude of favours higher than the peak of the Insurmountable itself to undo his past transgressions against the crown.

  “But I have to know,” he continued, breathing an ale-soaked breeze, “that beast felled a Kingsman, two of my farmers. The Beastslaying Elite nowhere to be seen ...cowards.”

  “You want to know how?” Geron guessed, to which the Thane eagerly nodded, spilling his ale further.

  Maybe it was the comfort of the remaining coin pressed against his hip, or maybe it was the superfluous ale that resided in his belly, but Geron felt a surge of self-assured resolution. Taking the nearby stool, he tipped the occupant free, for a more noble purpose awaited it as the bastion of his words. Standing aloft now, Geron addressed the room, but not before he waved away the rounding cheers that were aimed in his direction.

  “Whilst we toast me and my heroic deeds, celebrating the end of this most troublesome beast, the true hero of the hour goes unsung!”

  “To his blade!” came a voice amongst the crowd, followed by another rousing celebratory cheer, to which Geron had to once again dismiss with vigour.

  “No! No! You damned fools. I am no hero. The real hero is out there!” He flung an indirect finger in the direction of the window, pointing at the nearby hills. But those present looked past those hills, their adoring gaze following in a linear path towards the Royal City.

  “Yes! To King Lornus, ridder of Beasts!” cried the more vocal among them, to which once again, a rousing round of cheers broke out.

  Geron tossed his tankard to the floor, rather than a satisfying smash drawing the crowd's attention, the tin cup rolled way unsullied. Regardless, the crowd noticed his indignation and simmered down.

  “Damn it all! Follow me,” Geron declared and stumbled towards the door.
/>   A most merry entourage was formed. The Kingsman defied by numbers alone, until they saw that the Thane was at the forefront of this drunken rabble. And so, out of curiosity, they followed suit. The gathering amassed several others who knew that something peculiar was occurring, for the only time such a throng marched with this intent, something malicious was afoot. But this mob carried no weapons nor bore any scowls. Hands cheered and clapped, or swilled tankards.

  Bringing the assembly to a halt in a suitable open forum in Hermegnese's plains, Geron gathered their focus with but a single rise of his hand. A hush fell over the crowd as he removed the medallion, bringing it to his lips.

  “Behold, your hero,” he said softly, before blaring three short bursts. Long since requested, the dramatic, non-aggressive entrance.

  The curiosity of the people eventually became vocal in murmurings of confusion, when one-by-one their attention was drawn to the sky. Silhouetted against the night stars, the shadow approached, spiralling downward towards them. The murmuring ceased, turning to outright gasps as the dragon halted its descent, planting two talons firmly into the earth, arching its back to tower above them all like a giant ornate stone carving come to life. The great yawning wings encapsulated the night sky before they rested, draping over Geron who patted the leathery lining in admiration. An almost perfect rendition of the rehearsed routine, even when out of practice.

  But instead of rapturous applause, or the volley of cheers that had lauded Geron at the Inn, silence washed over them. Geron recognised the tone. Fear, laced with anger. It simmered further, as rationality was blurred by incapacitation. The Thane stood at the centre; his face aghast at the sight.

  “A beast?! Here among our homes?! You brought this great evil here?!” He eventually bellowed.

  Geron looked to the crowd and realised he had inadvertently assembled his own lynch-mob. Things were on the precipice of turning sour, violence was teased with the gathering of stones from the ground.

  “Out! Great beast! Bringer of destruction and peril” A flawless rendition of a passage of Tommamare's Creed. Geron recognised it well, for it was the sections that Preachers were understandably focused upon these days.

  “This beast is nothing to be feared-” Geron began, but the anger of the crowd was not directed upon the creature, instead eyes burned with diverted hatred upon him.

  The first stone flew, catching him square on the brow. The stinging pain forced him to shut his eyes as he felt the ground at his back. Footsteps rushed towards him, but the deafening screaming roar of the dragon halted all who approached.

  Geron stumbled about trying to claim the medallion, but no such instruction was required. The dragon, fuelled by the sight of the blood, stepped forward, placing itself as a very deliberate barrier. Those at the forefront inched backwards, their raised fists no match for the jagged jaws that bared before them.

  The firm beating of the dragon's wings scattered those at the rear, fleeing home for either sanctuary or armaments. The rest followed suit, seeing an opening to remove themselves from any harm.

  When wiping the blood from the crevice of his eyes, Geron was surprised to see the Thane as the sole remaining onlooker. The Thane's face swam in shimmering form as Geron struggled to free himself from the grip of his injured haze.

  “This is what you fear?” Geron asked, stemming the blood flow with his sleeve. “A creature that would protect you?”

  “This is a beast. Condemned, and an affront to my realm. Begone before the Beastslaying Elite hear of this. If I ever spy you or that damned creature in Hermegnese again, I shall have both your heads.” The Thane turned, returning to his so-called realm.

  “The families of this town will sleep soundly knowing the deeds of this beast. Remember that,” Geron called after him. “Ingrates,” he whispered angrily.

  The dragon huffed innocuously, fluttered by the surge of conflict, now deferred it plopped down upon its chest, its wings resting to the side.

  Geron felt the blood start to crust upon his brow, the tears in the dragon's wings were still visible even by moonlight.

  “You entertained them, protected them. Saved mine and others lives, and yet they fear you. The Sonkiller's Decree had always been seen as a joke, something that defined his sneer-ridden reign. But after what happened at the Palace, word has taken heed and fears taken form. Even those that spoke of the Creed as a work of irrelevant fiction, now bear a regard to the dangers of the Greatest Beast.”

  Geron reached a conclusion. If he and the dragon were to be safe, his homeland offered no sanctuary. They would need to venture outward, beyond the borders of Tallagate, to where the reach of both Lornus and Tommamare was non-existent.

  15

  As Mothers are want to do, advice was dispelled in rhetorical fashion at regular intervals in Geron's household. Worldly wisdom, that also could be classified as common sense tinged with weary cynicism.

  Among these scenarios of distrust, the most enduring theme was that of the hidden intentions of strangers. The landscape of Tallagate after the war had robbed its citizens of many things.

  Lives and livelihoods.

  But most of all, the conflict had undercut the notion of fellowship in these trying times. Instead, distrust was the default stance.

  Yet, the limit of such inscribed advice was indeed tested by the intruding desires of hunger and shelter. Thus when Geron awoke face-down, entrenched in the mud-lined side-streets of Brownwaters, with an ache betwixt his skull so unnatural it could only have arisen from substances one should only be mildly partial to, a taste upon his tongue that resembled a hearty effort at digesting his own leather tunic, he could recall only one facet. That his trust in a single stranger had led him to such disarray.

  Brownwaters was not a town that could be classified as alluring. Those not burdened with ownership of land in the foul-smelling, bog-ridden plains solely utilised the services of the town in passing through. Therefore Geron's confused staggering through the perpetual marketplace that seemed to line every single street was met with little in the way of surprise.

  Travellers en route to the Royal City often had the misfortune of reaching Brownwaters at a half-way point and thus a natural resting stop. A decision that would entice entrepreneurship in new businesses and regret in the patrons. As a result, the hospitality sector found a surge of those seeking respite from their surroundings with the sensory dulling effects of the local produce.

  But this was no mere over-indulgence of ale, for Geron had grown rather accustomed to those occurrences and consequently had built up what could almost be referred to as an immunity. Rather, as Geron wrestled with the physical symptoms of his situation, the more over-lining concern was that beneath this ache in his head lay a mind that was for the better part, almost blank.

  The streets, though unremarkable in their design and décor, awakened nary a semblance of remembrance within him. Instead he looked upon the humble buildings, whose charm was meagre, with fresh eyes, taking in the sights and sounds of Brownwaters for the first time. This was highlighted by the fact that the smell, the other, more prevailing sense being bombarded was something familiar. A lingering strand that teased his prior presence, but for how long and to what purpose he had no idea.

  Realising that the wandering was achieving nothing but acerbating his headache, Geron retraced his steps back to his lodgings. Identifying his outline embedded in the mud, now caked and dried upon his clothes, he deduced that this undignified rest was the conclusion of his revelry. The start was potentially a long distance away, but at the very least he could retrace some of the steps prior.

  Glancing around, he tried to construct a timeline of his journey. If the rest here had been voluntarily, then he may have emerged from a nearby source, but the manner of which he had positioned himself was off. The mud was sunken at the knees, he had not eased himself gently upon the most welcoming soil, but had collapsed. Further credence that whatever was afflicting him now had also rendered him unconscious.

>   The surrounding buildings looked homely and without purpose. “Domestics,” he mused thoughtfully, and searched for something whose function was a little more public. Above the sprawl of the marketplace, Geron could read the signs that boasted of the services and goods within. None were relevant or appealing until he saw the very business of which he would often frequent. The town's Inn.

  The inside of 'The Water of the Bog' was just as humble as its exterior, the patrons reflecting a segregated mix of local workers and resting travellers. Geron was able to ascertain this visual scene by the very fact that each and every individual present in the Inn, paused their activity to give him a most girthy stare.

  One-by-one, the sets of eyes relocated as Geron walked to the bar. He tapped the purse that rested against his hip. Light, but that was the norm. A tinkle of plural coin sounded. So, the purpose of his state was not robbery. The bartender stood waiting, business was slow that afternoon, but despite the ample ordering space Geron still found himself waiting for the woman to amble over toward him. A sneer of contempt etched upon her lips as she squinted in his direction. He took this as his cue.

  “Whatever this'll get me,” he sighed placing one of the coins on the counter-top.

  The bartender snorted and dragged the coin across the wooden surface, glaring at Geron throughout the entire journey. “This will 'get you' physical safety after last night,” she said, tossing it inside the lock-box.

  Concern as to the implications of this transaction were nullified by the prospect of answers.

  “So I was here last night? I may have had too much to drink... I apologise.”

  But this attempt at heartfelt sincerity was interrupted by further snorting on her behalf.

  “Pssh, you didn't drink here. No, no, you were up to something else.” She leaned in, palms resting firmly on the counter as she stared into his eyes. “Something far more sinister.”

  He drew his gaze away from the noticeably intimidating posture to see that others in the Inn were suspiciously watching his every move.