Geron moved to interject, uncertain where to place his bloodied palm. “I am sorry. I was raised in a small village where such abilities and customs were viewed with suspicion. Either you were a con, scamming good naïve folks of their coin, or you a product of evil and dark forces, bending the realm with unnatural powers.” The drying blood upon his palm reminded him of the gravitas of her craft and his predicament. “I'm sorry. Please go on.”
Composing herself, she resumed the ritualistic preparations, taking his blood-stained palm as her portal once more.
“Yes, you were raised in a small village. Rivermouth is its name. But that small village proved too large for such a creature that you were bestowed. The same creature that travelled with you across Tallagate. That killed the leader of the Spider’s Legs. That was responsible for the devastation at Hybrawn. The creature that now wanders alone, away from your guidance and from the medallion that hung around your neck.”
Her words conjured images as if she held his mind in her hands crafting and painting the colours and shapes. Flashes of faces and moments. All familiar, yet seen with fresh eyes. It was an overwhelming sensation.
“This is impossible,” he whispered, leaning closer. “How do you know all this...”
“Because, fair traveller,” her eyes widened. “You told me, last night.”
He stuttered in confusion, as her suppressed smile could bear no more resistance against the rising uproarious laughter.
“Okay, I deserved that,” he admitted.
“My trade is legitimate and fair, but doesn't bear insults well. I was there, I tried to warn you. But I am sorry to say you were outwitted by the seller. Often those suffering the influence come to me seeking my assistance.”
Geron smiled, a fleeting blushing to another witness of his bogmoss tirade. “Ah, you're good, get a lot of trade this way.”
“Yes, but in your case, I’ll spare you the charge I usually impart. Your antics were payment enough. The effects of the bogmoss take time, several days usually. But in your case, I feel that a more pressing concern is driving you.”
“You could say that. Then you know what happened to the dragon?”
“Alas no. Some animals in these woods happen upon the bogmoss and the effects vary from comical to dangerous. The fellow that tricked you, I did not know his intentions of feeding it to a dragon of all things. After you sold the medallion to purchase more bogmoss, I did frolic alongside you for several hours until weariness took hold of me. I invited you to my bed but instead you grew a sudden obsession with swimming in the lake. That is where our acquaintance parted.”
Geron winced at the opportunities lost, but took a small solace in the progression of his search. “Then once more I shall venture to that lake. Unless I am once again denying myself...”
“You are not.”
Nodding with aplomb, Geron excused himself, to once again be maligned by the day’s sun. Grimacing with the accentuated headache, he sought the lake's shimmering shore in the distance.
The lake's tranquil serenity offset its foul surroundings and for a moment Geron felt a solidarity for his former incapacitated self. For even sober, he felt like the waters were calling to him. The lake though ample and far-reaching, would not hide a dragon's presence, and Geron felt a plunge of disappointment. The outer woods that served as Brownwaters’ perimeter stretched in the horizon. There was nothing for it, he would have to trek on foot and hope that luck or the fates would cross his path with his lost beast.
The solace of the lakeside trek eventually was swallowed by the treeline. Having walked for nary several hours the whisper of the branches was elevated into full converse. Geron stopped and looked around, the overhead sun, shrouded by the trees was starting to concede to nightfall.
A glow of light hovered in the distance.
Moving closer, Geron could see that the source emanated from a single lit torch, the bearer of which also the source of speech.
Spying flashes of fabric between the tree branches, Geron could see it was not a solo traveller but a gathered group. The coloured garments were worn by individuals who were so engrossed in their task they did not hear Geron's less than subtle approach.
Upon his detection they scampered to conceal their doings, yet their efforts were insufficient, thwarted through haste and incompetence. Beneath their feet, growing wild, neatly arranged in harvested packs was a plumage of the bogmoss.
A discovery that Geron had not planned, nor prioritised, but one he certainly saw the value in. Drawing his sword quickly, he easily gained the advantage over the group who still were coming to terms with an intruder in their midst. Camaraderie was evident by their protests at seeing one of their own in mortal danger.
“Alright! Alright! Easy! Easy does it,” the torch-bearer spoke up and edged forward, with the responsibility and burden of implied leadership, though Geron was uncertain if their paths had indeed crossed before, for the individual’s teeth-barren gums and fire-scalded crown proved an unforgettable sight.
“Twas just a lil' joke is all. Out of town folk wandering through, some are ripe for a little mischief.”
Morally, Geron knew that his judgemental condemnation of their practice merely stemmed from his own personal, unfortunate experience. The group seemed confused upon his vocabulary however, swapping puzzled looks at his uncharacteristic use of the word “outlandish.”
Feeling that they were sufficiently reprimanded for his inconvenience, he edged the sword closer to his chosen hostage and demanded information as to the dragon's whereabouts. But once again he was met with stares either blank or befuddled.
“Dragon?” The leader repeated, looking to the others for confirmation that it was indeed the word uttered. “You mean that creature that we spied you with? That was a dragon?”
“Folks were harpin' about a Dragon in Hybrawn that tried to kill the King!” Interrupted another.
“What are you one of them Preachers?”
“Nah, Preachers don’t care much for dragons.”
It was a most mundane interaction and Geron for a moment was stuck with a paranoia that this doltish conversation was a ploy. A diversion for one of the members to sneak around and flank him. Yet upon assessing the group, he saw that none had moved. All remained ridged to the spot.
It would be best to conclude this business before this dim collective eventually realised their advantage. Clearing his throat to interrupt their debate as to what exactly constituted a dragon and what was merely a large 'land-fish' they saw that one time, Geron demanded to simply state where they had seen his beastly partner.
With mumbles of the caves on the other side of the lake the fruits of his pressings, Geron indicated his intentions to depart, with his hostage's well-being the implied barter.
The torch-bearer tutted at this.
“Now Frick there, we like you Frick we do, but this fellow has discovered our moss patch, and we can’t have him going to the Thane or the Kingsmen telling them about it. You see, before the war this stuff was all but stomped out. Only the most elite in Hybrawn took it, givin’ us the means to withdraw the moss and transport it past the Kingsmen. But after the war? People wanted to forget their woes. It was a coin paradise for us, then the Thane shut it all down, took in the Kingsmen to stamp it all out, trying to… what was it they said? Preserve the integrity of Brownwaters’ name.”
Some laughed, some spit on the ground. Some did both.
“With that Sonkiller's decree occupying the minds of all things lawful around here, there was a gap in the market. Everyday travellers pass through here, some seek us out, some make themselves known that they are receptive to a pitch.”
“Sounds like a sound business strategy,” Geron said, eyeing the potential skirmish and disliking the findings.
“Yeah, that it is, a sound business thing.”
The tone was turning sinister and though he was the only one with weapon drawn, Geron felt like he was the victim of hostile aggression. They numbered five in tota
l, including the held at bay Frick. Swords all by their sides, easily wielded. The bogmoss beneath their feet, delicately avoided. A collection more of value to this torch-bearer than his lackey’s own lives.
Geron gripped his sword tighter. “I am not looking for a fight, friends. Still muddled by the effects of your product, I am seeking the dragon you also inflicted. That is all.”
The steel pressed against Frick's neck, who gasped. “You just have to drink the water of the bog to clear the remainder of the head-fog! Please I don't want to die!”
“Nobody has to die Frick,” Geron assured, though the leader did not agree with this pacifist outlook.
“Ah Frick, now he knows the patch location and the remedy? Well he definitely has to die, and if you go first Frick remember your loose tongue and looser head got you here!” The leader looked to the others and one by one they begun to unsheathe the various implements of harm upon their persons.
Geron did not flinch, nor flee, rather taking Frick by the waist he charged toward the leader, human shield in arm.
The three collided in a crude inelegant crash. But Geron was the first to recover and sought the prize of his efforts, the dropped torch. The flame struggled resiliently against the raucous but remained lit.
Uttering grunts of warning, Geron lowered the torch toward the moss patch. Despite swords, daggers and a large hammer drawn, this gesture drew the largest gasp of threat. A larger shout of protest as the licking flame ignited the surprisingly flammable foliage. Immediately weapons were dropped as panicked feet attempted to stomp out the spreading flames.
“Stop you fools!” the leader cried, spying the now trampled, burnt leafage. (But to their defence, another method of extinguishment was absent.) The liquid tossed from flasks merely ignited the flames further, the entire collective now engulfed, until at last the leader grabbed one of his underlings and, with great resistance, used the writhing body as a means to smother the flames. Whether the effort was successful Geron did not know, for he had long since slipped away from the frenzy.
Breathless from his run, Geron gasped at the foul-stench air and cursed the necessary sacrifice to his senses. Fighting nausea, he emerged victorious, only to be faced with a grimmer prospect. The remedy to his predicament flowed within the bubbling crevices of the soft bog soil.
It was indeed no wonder that this was a secret, for no-one would willingly sup upon this viscous brown sludge willingly.
The largest pond lay several feet inward from the pathway. For reasons unknown, Geron had reached the conclusion of a collected mass of the liquid being less loathsome than the smatterings of puddles that had oozed from the bog's interior.
There was little time for deliberation, for every second Geron was idle the soft peaty marsh enveloped his shoes further. Hopping from one to the other, he eventually found himself by the pond’s edge. Grasping the tufts of wild growth for balance, he hunkered down until the murky surface of the waters were near. No reflection greeted him.
His palm pooled the water. A hearty skin of slime joined, which was seemingly impossible to dispatch.
“Is it truly better to live in ignorance?” A question that Geron deduced to be preferably rhetorical as he supped from his palm.
He was about to condemn Frick for the practical joke, when a tremendous blackness claimed his vision and in turn, his equilibrium.
Opening his eyes, Geron sat up from the sticky soil.
It was as if awakening from an inverted dream. His previous sporadic state was now a distant, near feigned, muddled memory.
The war in all its grisly recollection. His bonding with the dragon. Running from town to town. The destruction that fuelled their current journey.
His life, in all its imperfect and blunder-ridden glory was his once more.
A warped, bitter-sweet prize.
The lingering headache had fully dissipated, though Geron still winced at the flaring sun, feeling the effect as if he had worn a helmet a tad too small for a tad too long.
With his wits about him, Geron was able to process his pressing concerns. The Kingsmen would be in the town by now, the Beastslaying Elite no doubt had been summoned also. The bogmoss gang would also be seeking retribution should their paths cross once more.
The dragon must have sought something familiar, Geron mused as he approached the caves, hoping also that memories of its upbringing in the caverns of Tallagate would also include its trainer. Yet upon arriving at the mouth of the deep, dark descent, Geron was disappointed to find them less resembling the homely grotto they had shared, but rather was an abandoned mining pit. Rustic treachery beckoned.
The beast had not only sought shelter but was actively hiding in the corner, the abandoned equipment barely covering its wide frame. It quietly watched him approach, an expression peeking out unlike any Geron had seen. Its eyes were wide, and brow arched.
“You've been frowning this whole time then?” Geron jested, kneeling to face the beast. But its docile tameness was underlined with a low, deep growling. The beast was confused and afraid.
The flask would need to be abandoned after this, Geron sighed to sentimentality as he offered it towards the beast.
Following its most basic senses, the dragon was not too keen on accepting this foul-smelling liquid. The growl grew louder. The wide-eyed stare was beginning to resemble the usual stern stoic glare. Geron found himself staring at the bared teeth. Spotting an opening in the piercing fangs, he tossed the contents of the flask within. The dragon understandably was none too pleased at this, rising up upon its legs to bellow out a most unnerving roar that the echoing cavern reverberated around until Geron was convinced the walls would come crashing down around them both.
The dragon stomped forward. Geron felt himself reaching for his sword, but as the hot breath of the dragon bathed him, it stopped and made a strange gurgling noise, staring at the recoiling Geron as if nothing were out of sorts.
By the mouth of the cave, nightfall had set in, yet their way was illuminated clearly. Geron had seen this light before. The torch bared once again by the leader of the bogmoss gang. One member short, the rest looked worse for wear. Clothing tinged and faces smoked.
“Word is that dragon has a price for its head,” the leader growled., I wonder if yours will get coin too.”
The others murmured in agreement, fuelled by anger, mostly at their lost product rather than their sacrificed comrade. Though this shared bravery was stilted somewhat at the presence of the dragon, whose head peeked out of the cave's entrance.
Without the medallion, Geron lacked the precise order. He knew the exact one for this situation. An aggressive deflector that unnerved any opposer and caused them to flee without any bloodshed. He would have warned them that this was an option but instead the gang opted for bloodshed aplenty, rushing Geron and tackling him to the ground.
With scarcely enough time to cover up, the blows rained down upon him. He could feel his innards register each strike. Trying to right himself resulted in the exposed area being assaulted further.
Though his body ached, his ears stung the most at the high-pitched roar of the dragon as it eased itself out of the cave's enclosure.
The gang retreated slightly, giving Geron a reprieve from the onslaught. But the leader, motivated by coin and frenzy, ordered them both to be struck down.
Hesitant to the order, the gang inched in closer to the awaiting beast. The heftiest of the bunch, who wielded a large hammer that at one time was for industrial use, heaved the weapon with an arcing swing at the dragon’s snout.
Recoiling at the strike, the dragon gave a strange gurgling sound as if it were about to vomit. Geron had heard this sound once before. A foreign tone that was a prelude to ruin. And instinctively he began to pull himself away from the perimeter of the gang. His limbs screamed with elevated spikes of pain as he nimbly crawled under the crevice of the dragon's belly, just in time as the fire surged from the dragon’s core, incinerating the gang where they stood, the soft bog turning
solid at the bombardment of flame.
The heat was unbearable. Geron winced further, feeling freckles of the blaze rest upon his exposed skin.
At last the dragon retched, reaching the end of its infernal tirade.
The twosome walked upon a blackened path, the flames drowned by the turgid dampness of the bog-lands, leading back towards the town.
Brownwaters' residents parted with haste. Those who had witnessed the inflicted dragon's rampage no less than a day ago fled in fear of another tirade. But those that stealthily observed the beast that had brought destruction to Hybrawn and chaos to their town, watched as the dragon plodded idly alongside the stranger, up to the store-front.
The pawnbroker did not object to not receiving his two gold coins for the medallion. The two golden circles that stared through the window deep into his very being, placated any protest.
The fatespeaker seemed to be waiting for him, as if she had foretold his coming.
“And so your bogmoss odyssey ends,” she jested.
“And so it ends for all of Tallagate...” he muttered, before dismissing the remark to her confused inquiry. “But I did think that you two might want to meet one last time.”
Before she could question whom, Geron sounded the medallion.
The dragon, finding this soft soil of the bog a most displeasing texture, thumped its large taloned claws into the relenting surface.
Still uncertain if the beast registered the affection, Geron showed her where to pat it on the snout. Snorting warm breath, it did not seem to mind.
“Where will you go now?” she asked.
It was a genuine question born of polite curiosity, but its utterance posed a greater pondering for Geron, who until now was content to keep travelling until fate revealed itself in a grand plan, but this naïve blissful ignorance was not tangible.
“The dragon is outlawed. It is more than the Beastslaying Elite's ire, more than the Preacher's word. It mattered not if the motive was reward or duty. It will never be safe in Tallagate.”
The Dragon's Custodian Page 22
