Skylantern Dragons and the Monsters of Mundor

by Scott Taylor

  ‘My mother always spoke to me with kindness, told me of the days when men lived with more optimism than they do now.’

  His voice sounded weak and inoffensive because, even though he felt angry, he did not wish to provoke his father’s rage any more than he had to.

  ‘Men?’ the old man echoed the boy’s words. ‘You speak of men, though you have no idea what it is to be a man.’

  Propping the poker against the fireplace, the king turned to view his son with an accusing look in his beady little eyes.

  ‘I have never met anyone quite like you. You are abhorrent to me, something alien, a crude malformation that will one day sit upon this throne. And on that day, Mundor will witness not a king, but a fool, a cretin whose weakness will be an invite to our enemies! On that day Mundor will fall to ruin. No, I have never met anyone quite like you.’

  ‘My mother raised me to be an individual, that which you find so sickening, she taught me to cherish independence, and to acknowledge an era when these traits were commonplace and accepted.’

  ‘I do not care for the prating of women! She was weak, just like the rest of her sex!’

  The king’s voice was low and rasping. The boy could not bear to hear the slander of his dear mother’s memory.

  ‘You dare, father’ appeared the words which were nothing more than a weakling whine.

  ‘Get out.’

  The boy looked astonished.

  The older man turned on his heels, brandishing the metal poker which he had snatched from the wall.

  ‘Get out!’

  The boy feared that this time his father was going to beat him to an inch of his life. Quickly he bent down to snatch the gown from the floor and darted from the king’s chambers, the long robe tethered to his midriff like a towel.

  Forced into acting out the role of court jester by the simple virtue of being different, the prison of life was the loneliest and sweetest one of all. It served to augment the individuality with an intensity that could not be quantified or understood by anyone else.

  The king stood alone, muttering in his chambers, erecting barriers in all directions, and fuelling the estrangement of his son. How in God’s name could he even hope to bridge the gap between Mundor and the hordes of the Sinistrom when he didn’t even love his own wayward son? Two conflicting emotions rose to beat him down at every turn. How could he reconcile such a paradox? How could he talk peace if peace itself eluded him?

  Chapter 2

  Four hours later:

  A storm front had approached, filling the skies with darkened cloud, and an oppressive wind had brought many of the trees in the royal courts toppling to the ground. But this was nothing compared to the truly appalling situation that had arisen, though King René had been prepared to meet it head on.

  Thousands of Sinistrom soldiers, Mecha Villeforms, stood in regimented formations before the armies of King René. Most of these Mecha Villeforms, as they were known, were robots or cybernetic creatures, half man, part metal, but mostly maggot. They were foul, unctuous creatures with white slime covered skin, and equipped with technological armaments. They had wide necks with large compound eyes, and crushing beaks. Some rode on caterpillars the size of horses and held the banners of their king, the mighty Kardas Vallor. Ahead of the vast army the dark and terrible Malecarjan stood ready. His face was always a mystery, concealed behind a plumed helmet, his eyes glowing bright red behind a dark void, and an iron grate. Next to him stood the true enigma in this immense gathering, a tall man who gave the impression he was not of this realm, but of a world that preferred fashion, and a strict business code over the blood, muck, and horror of combat. He looked to be a man in his 50s with a mane of white hair, a stoical appearance, and eyes that were black as pitch, with red dilated pupils. This enigma of a man remained, sporting a tailored suit, tie, and was too well groomed, one might have thought, to consider doing bloody battle with an enemy.

  The two opposing armies faced each other, one clearly outnumbered by the other. King René looked on and was in awe. There was no chance in hell of winning in an all out confrontation with such numbers as these. The only option was diplomacy. Why diplomacy? Why did he believe negotiation was viable? Because he saw hope with the one stranger who seemed out of place among the hordes of the Sinistrom army. He saw optimism when he witnessed the enigma standing there. This man was definitely in a position of authority.

  Biting the bullet, King René rode out to meet his enemy on horseback. If Malecarjan’s face had been visible at all one would have seen the contempt, the sneering disdain which he felt. The enigma put up his hand, knowing the rash and belligerent nature of his general, and indicated to Malecarjan to stand down.

  ‘Make no sudden moves!’ the enigma ordered.

  René slowed as he approached the enigma. The stranger was indeed foreign to these parts. His eyes were bedevilled with a blood-red tinge and his clothing was peculiar to say the least. Non-the-less he seemed to exude an air of trust and diplomacy, concepts that would have proven alien to his fellow cohorts-in-arms.

  Dismounting from his horse, King René approached the enigma on foot. The two men advanced, meeting face to face.

  ‘I admire your courage and your wisdom’ the enigma looked at the man with the highest regard. ‘These traits are regarded as high commodities among the Sinistrom.’

  Silently, Malecarjan turned his head away as he did not share his master’s policies.

  ‘I’m here to discus a peaceful alternative to war’ spoke the king.

  The enigma smiled. He had once thought the native peoples of this realm were barbaric and thuggish. It was nice to be proven wrong once in a while.

  ‘I am glad to hear it’ the enigma replied, frankly. ‘Under our borders we would enjoy many years of trade, and you would prosper greatly under Sinistrom protection. I am John by the way—John Dafoe!’

  The enigma extended his hand towards the king and they both shook, agreeing to cease fire, and allow talks to begin.

  ◆◆◆

  Nine hours earlier:

  The king settled in his seat. His words carried outside of the corridor as a small shadowy dwarf-like creature stood, silently eavesdropping.

  ‘This is madness!’ came a sudden outburst from the king’s adviser.

  ‘The Sinistrom will never listen to a plea of reconciliation, not in a thousand years!’

  The strange dwarf-like creature eased one pointed ear, pressing it closer to the door.

  ‘They will listen!’ the words continued.

  This last affirmation came from King René himself.

  ‘They will have to. After all, no one wants a war, do they? I shall go out in a few hours to speak to their representative. I just pray they listen.’

  This was news to the dwarf eavesdropper who looked stunned and, appearing worried, gave a moment to silent contemplation. Then the king called for his son, to whom his aide replied, ‘No one has seen the prince, sir…He simply left without any explanation.’

  ◆◆◆

  Another two hours passed. The dwarf-like creature, loitering amid shadows, watched the hunting guards escorting a young man over the castle’s moat, a man who was wrapped in a long sheet or cloth. The face was concealed under a hood, though this dwarf could tell who it was.

  The young, dishevelled man was ushered straight into the king’s chambers and the doors were closed shut behind him. Voices were raised.

  ‘Get out!’

  Fabian, anxious that his father would beat him to an inch of his life, bent down to snatch the gown from the floor and scurried from the king’s chambers like coward or weakling.

  ◆◆◆

  Prince Fabian had gone back to his room and was not seen for what seemed like hours. The young heir stared at his reflection in the mirror and had been for the past 15 minutes, looking deep into the likeness of his reflection, wondering what monster had revealed itself in the woods that day. He looked pale and in truth he was concerned that it would happen again, thi
s terrible metamorphosis. There was a fiend locked within, threatening to emerge once again. Something lived beneath the flesh waiting, watching from behind his eyes. Only next time it wouldn’t happen in the middle of nowhere. Most likely it would occur in a crowded room, or somewhere where his father would see, and he was already in enough trouble with the good king. He grasped his hand quickly to stop it from shaking.

  It took time for his concerns to subside, though the old fears, the angst which he kept locked secretly in his heart, began to resurface as it often did after being on the receiving end of his father’s frustration. He kept going over the same words in his head, the same secret dialogue that came out in such a flood of emotion; words such as: “I am a freak! I am unworthy of love and I don’t deserve to be happy!” Then the tears came, the distorted, strained tension of muscles around the eyes and the mouth which was often a strong indication of unhappiness. He went over to the open window that looked out towards the mountains in the distance, and the black sky that never seemed to let.

  The crying stopped. There were no more tears to shed. An instant later there came a knock at the door. Fabian had been alone in his quarters and feared company at this time. Uncertainly, he called out.

  ‘Who is it?

  ‘It’s only I, you know, your old friend, Tweak!’

  This was not the time for visitors, Prince Fabian mused. Neither was it the appropriate time for raising suspicions.

  ‘Come!’ he shouted.

  The door opened and in trod the most curious looking little creature. This Tweak was the eavesdropper at the king’s chamber door. His face was accentuated with plenty of fur and made him look all the more comical by his large pointy ears that jutted outwards from either side of his head.

  ‘Why sound so formal?’ the dwarf-like creature asked. ‘Didn’t you recognise my voice?’

  Prince Fabian was hardly in the mood for a social call, but he tried to hide his true emotions, if only to delay any misgivings.

  ‘Of cause I did. I…you just startled me that’s all.’

  ‘Hope I’m not intruding.’

  ‘No, not at all’ he lied.

  Prince Fabian looked again at his reflection for one fleeting moment, and suddenly he caught something dark and twisted gazing back at him. It was a second, but there was something that undeniably caught his eye: a dragon’s reflection.

  ‘Now I know something is wrong’ Tweak deduced. His happy-go-lucky expression turned into a suspicious frown.

  ‘Well, I am not at liberty to tell you anything at the moment, Tweak, I’m sorry. Now if you don’t mind I would like to be alone. Please respect my wishes, my old friend. I-I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Silently, the dwarf stepped away. Something was terribly wrong and it was up to this resident busy body to find out just what. Far be it for old ‘eavesdropper’ Tweak, as he was referred to by most around the court, to stand idly by when there was gossip to be uncovered, as well as a hidden crisis to be exposed.

  ◆◆◆

  Half an hour later…

  Tweak shuffled back to his lodgings. Opening the door, he loosened a collection of mystic contrivances, broomsticks, flying carpets, wooden steps, etcetera, which slid down past the door frame, making a loud clatter as they hit the pebbled floor. He gurned in his habitual manner conveying his sudden irritation and dismay, shrugged and swiftly moved toward his bookshelves. There had to be a tome, some specific manuscript, in his collection containing a magic spell that would help loosen the Prince’s tongue. But then a case of wine would likely have provided the same results. No, such crude methods were not the answer.

  Shortly, the answer came to him. He would use the mirror of secrets to discover what Prince Fabian was hiding. True, he thought to himself, the use of such a powerful looking glass was an impropriety, but then, desperate times called for desperate actions. Uncovering his mirror, he began to whisper a short mantra before his reflection. Soon the manifestation of his likeness changed to be replaced by the image of trees. There was a child who had been snared by a carnivorous plant. Fear was evident on the boy’s face as the vines coiled around his legs. Tweak witnessed as Prince Fabian entered the fray, eventually getting captured as well.

  Poor Tweak clasped the sides of his face with his hands as he watched helplessly, forgetting for a split second that what he was viewing in the magic mirror was a moment from the past, and that he had spoken to Prince Fabian mere moments ago, and that he was troubled, though appearing physically unharmed. It was what happened next that brought a whole new dimension to the horror. Tweak backed away from the reflection in the glass as it presented the past in its entirety. Tweak witnessed an unexpected transformation. The eyes of the dwarf grew wider as the full revelation began to unravel.

  Chapter 3

  The Sinistrom ambassador was the first person who captured the Prince’s eye as he entered the great banquet hall. There was that unmistakable sensation of attraction, a feeling the young heir had rarely experienced in the past. There was a moment when their eyes met. The ambassador who appeared only a couple of years younger than Prince Fabian had such beautiful and captivating features, and, let it be said, there were a considerable aggregate of young women present, both of nobility as well as those who were in the employ of the court, who noticed him and watched, taking in the appearance of his long dark matted hair and chestnut complexion, as well as those chiselled features, and high cheekbones. Though his eyes were indeed the loveliest facets of them all, accentuated by the longest lashes Fabian had seen on another male. The ambassador was particularly well groomed and, like the strange enigma who accompanied him, indulged in a fashion alien to this realm.

  The reason for the preparation of this banquet was an utter mystery to Fabian. His father was never this diplomatic in sparing no expense, especially for the benefit of an aggressor or an enemy. These Sinistrom types must have exerted some means of instilling fear, or else the good king would not have bothered to go to such lengths, though far be it for Fabian to ever accuse his father of cowardice. The opulence of this turnout did beg the question.

  ‘Be seated!’ the king spoke in a hearty manner which did not seem forced, though if he had achieved any acting skills since this charade began, Fabian was unaware of it.

  The king resumed in the same manner, not realising that his resonant voice was a little grating on the sensible and sensitive ears of the young guest of honour.

  ‘Please be seated! Let our feast commence with the acknowledgement of our illustrious guests, and also, optimistically, may this banquet be the first evidence that we, that is, our two respective houses can drink and share good food together without ill will or prejudice…’

  The potentate raised his goblet.

  ‘To friendship!’

  The room was alive with talk, full of misplaced joy and happiness as those who were opposed to the possible treaty between these two armies had not attended. Only the unwitting were celebrating along with their king who, quite frankly, was willing to compromise all to quell that irresistible force that was at his gate.

  It was true, the Sinistrom were powerful and their armies numerous, and Fabian was beginning to forget his misgivings too, if only for his desires which were focused on a certain young ambassador and his alluring beauty.

  It took a little while before Fabian plucked up enough courage to ask one of the Ambassador’s aides the name of the fetching young man in question. According to the assistant present his name was Tør. Tør Vallor!

  Fabian was in a whirlwind of anticipation. It was then when he noticed the Ambassador leaving the room via the large open veranda. Bravely, Fabian decided to follow.

  ◆◆◆

  The prince stepped outside. He witnessed the shadow of the subject of his desire pass through the garden beyond, entering the arboretum by a portico camouflaged by a canopy of vines.

  Making his way down the steps and then sprinting across the lawn in the dead of night, Fabian attempted to catch up with the
young ambassador. When he finally discovered him the ambassador was standing alone with his back turned. The prince took a few silent steps closer. He required a moment or two, but finally the boy plucked up enough courage to speak.

  ‘You regard the moon as though there should be only one in the sky, my Lord Ambassador.’

  Fabian did not let on that he was nervous. He had watched the attractive young emissary and heir to the great Sinistrom Empire, noticing his unwavering curiosity of the night sky, as well as the ghostly white light and portly moons above the arboretum in which they both stood.

  The ambassador did not turn to face the prince. He continued to watch the moons, the smallest almost encompassed by the second and largest. Finally, Tør opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Where I came from there was but one light in the night sky…’ and he turned, smiling.

  ‘Not counting the stars of course.’

  The prince stood his ground, feeling as nervous as hell. Never had he seen such beauty, never in all his born years, though the slightest desire on his part would have proven inappropriate, especially since the object of his yearning was another man.

  The ambassador chose not to regard the prince’s discomfort, knowing full well what power he wielded over others.

  The young man turned to regard the heavenly bodies again, this time leaning upon the flat stone, cradled by numerous balustrade-like plinths. The prince came alongside him. The gardens bordering the castle were indeed enchanting in the late hours, but not quite as captivating as those eyes, eyes that peered at the moons with such dream-like reverence.

  ‘It sounds as though you miss your home’ professed Fabian, trying to make conversation without appearing too intrusive.

  The ambassador gave another smile and only looked at his host for a second before returning his gaze to the celestial objects in the lucid sky.

  ‘I was very young’ he admitted ‘What I do remember of my original home is from a recording, a simple holographic recording.’