The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  Another rap with the rapier's tip was Geron's reward.

  “Do not treat me as a fool, friend. It is my job to patrol these lands. A gargantuan winged beast feasting on Berry's prize-winning mare? Hardly subtle. I sat over there-” he gestured with the rapier towards the nearby high grass, “and watched the macabre sight. Until at last you of all people came wandering merrily from the woods and began conversing with the damned thing.” Viscal had a thought, dismissed it readily but took a moment to revisit it. “Can you... I mean, can it... understand you?”

  Incredulous, Geron laughed again. A most shrill guffaw that Viscal couldn't help but wince at the obnoxiousness quality infecting his ears. But Geron continued, unremitting. The proposal that he had a pet dragon was one that he was keen to find the utmost hilarious. And so, the laugh persisted, nasal and sharp.

  “Hahaha. Hahahee. Heeheehee. Heeheeya.”

  Viscal shouted at him to cease this foolishness, but Geron held aloft a single digit to indicate he was nearly done. For he was. Inching ever closer to the call, he climaxed the laughter-session with a final focused “Heeeeyaaaah!”

  Unamused, Viscal was about to chastise him, hoping for matters to proceed in something of a more dignified arrest, when the ominous screech from above cut him off mid-sentence. His words slowed as his eyes widened.

  The speck above grew at an alarming rate. Transforming from mere dot, to an idle bird, to a fierce bird of prey, to, for a fleeting moment, a rabjaw falcon from Tommamare's Creed, until at last the full frame of the undisputed dragon blotted out the sun's rays, casting Viscal in an artificial night. He looked into the beast's eyes. It was impossible to tell if it was enraged or neutral, for the optics oozed an amber menace regardless of what sat before it. Viscal couldn't help but feel very foolish brandishing the rapier toward the beast.

  Stammering, he retreated as Geron soothed the dragon, patting its snout with a firm palm. “Now here is what I think should happen, friend. Normally, I would take the moral high ground, proclaiming that not all beasts are bad and that mine especially is exempt from the Sonkiller's wrath. But erm... well you saw what happened with Berry's prize-winning mare. And so, I have a proposition. You stand aside and allow me and my friend here to pass onto the next town incident free before the Beastslaying Elite arrive. Do so, and my dragon friend here doesn't eat you. Do we have a deal?”

  Viscal had yet to break his gaze away from the matched, unblinking stare of the dragon and thus understandably only caught about half of what Geron had said, but given the circumstances he nodded passively regardless.

  Impotently wavering the rapier at arm's length, Viscal watched as Geron led the dragon away, but not before it turned and snorted in his direction. Viscal held his breath as the hot air washed over him, squeezing his eyes shut as he expected to be either blanketed in flame or ensnared within fangs. Neither occurred, and teasing his eyes open he felt his breathing resume as the criminal man and illicit beast began to depart.

  Geron had just began lamenting the loss of this town's potential earnings when just out of the corner of his eye he could see some flashes of movement emanating from Gaim's town square.

  The gathering was too precise, too collected to be a coincidence. Geron looked to the dragon, it was too late to send the beast to the skies to hide among the camouflaging clouds, its ascent would draw even more attention to what seemed now to be a very attentive mob.

  Unifying further, the group unquestionably was moving in their direction.

  Geron cycled through his stockpiled anecdotes of explaining the presence of the dragon, but in this case, with Viscal watching and an already riled up townspeople hunting a great beast, there did not seem to be a ready-made excuse for this particular, very specific situation. Geron hoped one would come to him as the distant figures drew closer.

  “That's it...” Geron murmured excitedly, praising his own ability to conjure narrative under pressure, but before he could reveal the purpose of the dragon, a stone sailed through the air, clonking the beast on the snout.

  The dragon snorted, seemingly confused as to the turn of events. But before it could adequately process what had happened, another stone followed, a less precise throw, clipping the wing. More and more stones were lobbed until a continuous volley hailed down upon the creature. Geron shielded his head suffering from being in the proximity to the ricochet and errant throws of the townspeople.

  The story could still stand up to scrutiny, but not if the dragon grew weary of this nuisance and became hostile. Geron held his hand up, about to appeal for calm when a great force struck him across the shoulders, his face pressed into the grass.

  Viscal beckoned the townspeople on. “That's the one, that's the beast that killed Berry's prize-winning mare!”

  For such a weaselly frame, Viscal was deceptively strong and it took Geron a good three heaves to free himself from the clandestine Kingsman’s grasp.

  Rising up, sword in hand, Viscal was waiting, the rapier thrusting already in his direction. Geron swiped it away with great force, but the broadsword was designed for powerful swinging strikes, and deflecting Viscal's intrusions was taking more time and energy than it required for Viscal to reposition and thrust again.

  Suffering minute cuts to his arm, Geron could feel the blood seep through his tightened fingers upon the hilt. Insufferably, Viscal knew he was winning and wore a grin throughout the fight, pausing only to feign shock when Geron managed to counter a strike, but each time his dainty footwork kept him out of danger.

  The afternoon sun was at its highest and Geron used the opportunistic taunting by Viscal to distance himself and slip out of his overcoat. The unveiling of his wounded arm, now stained in a smeared red, spurred him on as the sweat, born of both heat and frustration, dripped off his fringe splashing onto his nose.

  “I consider myself a gentleman combat artist,” Viscal spoke, gesturing for a moments reprise. “And thus, in the interest of fairness, I shall not relieve you of your one functioning arm. How about instead I give you a matching lower half?”

  The rapier danced in his grip as he twisted the hilt and heaved Geron's sword from his grasp. Out of self-preservation, or perhaps even cowardice, Geron fell backward, his movement the only prevention from the rapier impaling his leg.

  As he scrambled upward, Viscal had already elegantly rolled towards his sword that stood vertically out of the dirt, retrieving it as if he were plucking a delicate flower.

  The dragon was holding its ground, snapping warningly at the Gaim townspeople that ventured too close, prodding and jabbing with home-made weaponry that in non-dragon-related usage would be resigned to farming. If Geron were not so occupied, he would be proud that his training in restraint was holding up so well in so strenuous an environment.

  But patience always has a breaking point, and for a dragon it came not with the repetitious but rather the audacious. No matter how much it hissed and snorted, they resumed their venture forth. Flapping his wings outward in a most intimidating sign of aggression was indeed met with awe, but was promptly then followed by a stone's throw.

  With the dragon not explicitly fighting back, some of the townspeople were starting to enjoy themselves, laughing at the vicious yet docile beast, forgetting for a moment the fate of Berry's prize-winning mare.

  Not one for pretence, Geron made no effort at hiding his weariness. Wiping the bloodied sleeve to relieve the sweat from his brow, his now bloodstained face grimaced as he readied for the next wave of taunting attacks. He knew time was a factor, focusing on the fight ahead of him, he couldn't help but worry about the threat of impending chaos looming behind him.

  Adding to his list of woes, his foe was intent on adding a mocking layer of maliciousness to the fight. After another encounter where once again, Geron found himself on the defence, he dropped to a knee, letting his sword fall from his grasp. Viscal smirked, tucking the rapier under his arm as he gave a polite, gentle applause to his fallen opponent.

  “No shame in admitt
ing defeat, friend. Truthfully, I expected to vanquish you rather sooner, even more so because of your condition. Now, toss me that sword and we can wait for the Kingsmen in a more civilised manner.”

  But Geron could not comply in grasping his sword, for his fist had collected a most hearty palmful of loose dirt, that upon release, sailed effortlessly upward directly into the face, and more specifically, eyes of Viscal. Momentarily blinded, he spluttered and staggered in surprise, even more surprised to feel the sharp sting of pain as Geron's sword carved a significant chunk free from his torso.

  For someone who until now held nothing but poise and dignity, it was rather unbecoming to hear Viscal swear. He continued his vocal tirade of slurs as Geron collected the rapier, for practical safety rather than enthused admiration of the weapon.

  Anger subsiding, Geron realised that the cursed damnations and blights he was being wished upon were arising from the humiliation of defeat, not mortal fear. Eventually the swears began to take on a more telling class as accusations of treachery and ungentlemanly conduct in battle were levied. Geron shrugged placidly at the words, he was the one standing tall.

  With Viscal placated, tending to his wound, Geron analysed how best to diffuse the chaotic picture before him. The villagers were like children taunting an increasingly angry adult, one with a capacity for violence that matched the tales of carnage told in Tommamare's Creed. The dragon was keeping any serious frontal attack at bay, snatching pitchforks and spades away in his jaws, crunching the wooden handles between his fangs and deterring any other physical encounters with a mere threatening snort.

  The futile scene was almost comical, but Geron knew that if provoked sufficiently the dragon would eventually attack. And in doing so, would negate months, if not years of training to never harm a human.

  Sufficiently riled, the dragon flinched as Geron stepped towards it. But then relaxed, recognising a non-hostile face. The townspeople murmured in confusion, stones in fists, ready to throw. Geron gestured for calm, recollecting the finer details of his cover story. It was an outside bet, but he hoped that Viscal's hostility could factor into the story somehow.

  “Ladies and gentlemen...” he began, but as he did, another batch of figures appeared on the horizon at the edge of the roadway to Gaim. “Oh no...” he whispered through gritted teeth, spotting the tell-tale all-black attire of the Kingsmen. The outlandish apparel easily identifiable, even at this distance.

  The townspeople of Gaim did not take kindly to the sudden stoppage of their heroic beast-battle, nor too were they enraptured by Geron's stalling silence. The Kingsmen were moving closer. Rallied with such urgency, surely the Beastslaying Elite were none too far behind.

  The charming spell he had cast over the people of Gaim was dissipating fast, many already siding with the more familiar Viscal's words, a tangible truth to grasp. The Kingsmen, en route, already had their swords drawn, never a good sign of a pacifistic outcome. Geron decided that his losses had already been cut, all that was left was to avoid the local penal dungeon. Sounding the medallion that would dismiss the dragon to the skies, Geron readied his own departure into the thickets of the nearby forest.

  But fates are often deferred by a single action, a solitary item altering the course of destiny in swerves severe. In this particular case, a lone stone, held deftly for several minutes by a by-standing Gaim resident, until finally committing to the act. The offending item struck the dragon upon the brow. It was a deed too far for the dragon, who abandoned its pre-flight ascent to alight to the ground below. Geron too abandoned his sprinting escape, hearing the fuss flourish behind him.

  A typical Kingsman unit is comprised of an orderly formation involving a descent of hierarchy. Leading in the physical and logistical sense was the most senior Officer, the actions of his group bearing upon his role as Kingsman Officer Senior.

  And so, it went that the second and often third and so-forth, would strive for action to prove themselves in the service of crown and country, though usually the latter, in order of fulfilling the career ambition of eventually leading a unit.

  First Golid and Fourth Imahg had very similar reactions to seeing, at the epicentre of their summons, a real-life dragon. Though their subsequent actions differed slightly. Had Imahg been Third, whomever was logged behind him would have enjoyed an immediate promotion, as the Fourth without question nor restraint turned tail and fled back towards Gaim. His muffled words from beneath his helmet may have been to the tune of “Monster!”

  Golid however, though in awe of such a presence, still maintained his poise, approaching his contact, the wounded Viscal, who only needed to raise a single pointed finger to implicate Geron as the cause of all this disturbance.

  Normally Geron would have perceived this predicament as the height of trouble, but a new uncharted problem was arising. The dragon did not heed his second call to ascend, nor the third. Instead the beast was in the throes of losing its temper.

  Armed with the finest in royally commissioned Tallagate steel and clad within protective tunics that defied the harshest of blows, the Kingsmen were unlike any normal foe, let alone a rabble of stone-throwing villagers. Thus, Geron faced a most thorough conundrum. Placating the dragon required both time and privacy, and neither were within a fathom of abundance. In addition to his woes, the Kingsmen were no humble riled farmers and would easily dispatch him if provoked. A solution seemed beyond bounds.

  Sensing that the theatrics were dissipating, the villagers resigned their roles from antagonist to bystander. The Kingsmen divided, Golid ordered the remaining Second and Third to apprehend the dragon, whilst he, from a safe distance would deal with the human ruffian.

  The Second and Third adapted a pattern formation that closely resembled the criteria for the current situation but truthfully, nothing in their training had prepared them for anything of this sort. The only reference they had to draw upon was the two dragon themed tales within Tommamare's Creed. Yet in this case, until this moment, they had considered it to exist only within the plains of fiction. Loyalty and duty were two core tenants to the Kingsmen but at this moment, they both resented Golid for proceeding with this task, and not waiting for the more capable Beastslaying Elite.

  Inching closer, swords drawn, the dragon sensed their impending threat and responded in kind. The beast violated its fundamental training in the most precise manner possible as the Third was seized by its jaws in an impossibly quick snapping forward of the dragon's elongated neck. His screams were more of fear and panic, rather than pain, as his suffering was only momentary. The sharpened fangs immediately pierced through the protective tunic, deep into his flesh. Tossing the severed torso aside, the Second was next, allaying his horror to instead attempt a blow to the prone cranium. The scales, smooth to the touch, but tough as hardened stone, deflected the blow easily, and thus he made no subsequent efforts in attempting another. Instead the Second chose to enjoy his last moments by closing his eyes and thinking of the family he was soon to leave behind.

  By now Golid realised the decimation of his unit. He lamented his vanity. The Beastslaying Elite were celebrated heroes, approaching legendary levels of fame and adoration. Slaying this creature would have given him, and to a lesser extent his men, an elevation to those very same status of champions. Lornus himself would even praise their deeds. Now, all that was left was his lone self. He spotted a shimmering in his peripheral vision, something catching the sun's light upon his tunic. Running his fingers across the speckles, he wiped the scattered lifeblood of his men between his fingers. The wide spread arc had covered most of the Gaim's townspeople also, who in the midst of their fresh trauma, dared not move lest they draw the attention and, more importantly, the wrath of the creature.

  Geron surveyed the scene. The slain carcases of the Kingsmen, a spectacle of gore lay between the dragon and the townspeople. The remaining Kingsman stared at his hands, idle and passive to the dragon's movements and so Geron seized the slim opening of opportunistic calm.

 
The dragon bore anger unseen, and even Geron felt a tremor in his hand as he reached out toward it. He could hear himself involuntarily gasp at the snort, hot air raining down over his outreached hand, but nothing followed just the slow patting of his fingers across the bloodstained snout of the beast. Inching his chin toward the medallion, he gripped the tip of the whistle betwixt his teeth and gave three short blows. The dragon seemed relaxed now, at odds with the carnage surrounding it. And with no defiance and the utmost compliance, it prepared for departure.

  5

  Breathless, Geron leaned against the tree, the burning in his lungs began to subside as he took precious intakes of air. Part of him knew however, that not one person had dared given chase after what had transpired upon what would no longer be known as the site of the death of Berry's prize-winning mare, but instead a bloody massacre of Kingsmen by a rare and dangerous beast. Geron grimaced at this description. For it was incriminatingly true.

  The debacle in Gaim forced Geron to rethink his strategies. Truthfully, the entire scheme always carried a risk. It was not always clear on what side the people of any given town or village lay in regard to the Sonkiller's decree. Whilst beasts were often dangerous in the wilds, only rarely would an unprovoked domestic incident occur. Thus, most people were content to carry on with their day salvaging something of a life amidst the scraps of a post-war Tallagate.

  The Preacher, a nemesis for his trade, was also a perfect tool to gauge the mindset of the people. Whether the performance would be met with enrapture and forthcoming with coin, or an enraged summoning of the Beastslaying Elite. If the Preacher was in a central location, accommodated with both venue and audience, Geron knew to keep his head down and acquire coin the old-fashioned way, through menial tasks. But if the Preacher was in the midst of the Inn or wandering the streets with a portable message, the rhetoric had not taken hold. And thus, the dragon would be safe from both scorn and harm.