The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  “Maybe your mind was otherwise occupied during your initiation, 'friend,' but members of the Spider’s Legs don't usually go around announcing that they are members of the Spider’s Legs,” Geron chuckled.

  The more haggard of the two slapped the other across the back of the head. “Blood of the deities, some days I think I would be better off shanking you and going me own way.”

  Nursing the spot whereupon he had been beaten, the supposed mugger watched as his partner-in-crime stormed off in a huff, muttering some swears and shouting others.

  Geron, feeling generous and most empathic, decided that his amusement was punishment enough for the transgression.

  However, another pair of eyes observed the failed transaction with a less forgiving demeanour. The pleas for mercy by the haggard man were ignored as they usually were, for an execution without mortal pleading was an unaccustomed soundtrack. The other mugger met a similar fate. The embarrassment suffered mere moments earlier he had foolishly cast as the worst thing that could happen to him that day.

  As the fresh and abundant blood was wiped clean from the dagger, instructions were given to dispose of the bodies in the usual manner. No hint of subtleties, a message must be sent. The Spider’s Legs had a reputation to uphold and the sight of the gutted twosome piked upon the gates of the city was a clear enough message of the penalty for impersonation of their ranks.

  And yet, this matter was not at the precipice of priority. As a matter of fact, such a proceeding was almost a ritualistic weekly occurrence in Fateskeep. What really had set the criminal syndicate members into a flurry was with whom the two vagabonds were speaking. His name had been lost to the follies of time, but the description endured. Although there were many who returned from the Arconan war with wounds evident and empirical, there were few that had in turn risen through the Spider’s Legs ranks, and not long after, acquired their enmity.

  It was not the most auspicious of starts, Geron mused, but at least it set the tone lest he let his guard down around a more menacing threat. And such a scenario was far from hypothetical, for ill-intentions were cast upon him through frowned gaze and doorway leaning reposition alike.

  But despite his successful orientation, Geron was not keen on embarking upon some foolhardy trek through Fateskeep's backstreets. There were no affiliations through uniform nor peripherals but Geron could spot the behaviours in those that wandered. Gangs were numerous and he was most certainly outnumbered. But there was also coin to be made, and the only way to do so was to engage the public.

  There was no Preachers to be seen, nor was the office of the Thane in any state of affairs. But there was order to the chaos, a pattern of day-to-day operations that kept Fateskeep from consuming itself. He needed to expose those veins.

  The dragon was overhead. Lower than usual, Geron remarked with a grimace, but regardless the entrance would be just as spectacular than if it emerged cloaked from the clouds.

  Blending in with those that lined the street's perimeter with an acted nonchalance and hiding the medallion's purpose with a carefully cupped chin, Geron summoned the dragon.

  The grace and flair of the dragon's sail, was underlined with a mass of fleeing panic on the streets below. The dragon paid no heed to the flurry, enjoying the low descent. It always did relish being close to the ground. The thrill of peeking spires and passing rooftops. But its fun was soon brought to an end as Geron dismissed it, almost as immediately and with just as little acclaim as it had arrived. The beast's presence had been thoroughly teased and instantly his sowed seed had borne fruit. The topic was unanimous. But one name was upon everyone's lips. Voltere.

  Inquires as to where Voltere was. Did he know about this? Where could they find him? All questions seemed to be rhetorical but Geron had a name and in his line of work that usually was enough to open the right doors. Those without impending business had fled indoors, whilst those who had not witnessed the sight and also possessed few tendencies of self-preservation were now craning their heads skyward hoping to see what all the panic was about.

  But there was one head that Geron hoped would emerge. Piquing the interest of this Voltere would have a trickle-down effect until every last rogue in this lawless city would part with coin to see the mystical beast.

  Running a large criminal organisation was just as taxing as any legitimate business. Every lived hour of the day seemed to be filled with a constant stream of people management, number alignments, as well as maintaining an air of preserved discipline and entrepreneurial innovation. It was a taxing ordeal, which was the full extent of any tax that was paid from the ventures. And truly the vast profit garnered from the innumerable synchronous operations in effect was the sole comfort.

  But Voltere was adamant the day not be reduced to counting coin, and thus was most pleased when word came that a ruckus was occurring in the town square.

  Drawing himself away from the heist plans that still lacked a crucial ingredient for success, he readily made for the balcony that offered a spectacular view of the Fateskeep horizon.

  “Another coup? It’s been a while since we've had a melee, we don't want them thinking we're getting soft,” Voltere spoke, leaning ominously on the balcony's edge.

  The underling shook his head. This was no human occurrence; the turbulence was altogether more unnatural.

  “A dragon?” Voltere repeated, adding a scoff to mask his rapidly elating mood. The heist planning would have to wait. Such a rare incident required his own personal appearance.

  The legion of thugs that loitered in the hallway lifted themselves from their state of recline, forming an impenetrable human wall around their leader as he emerged from the Thane's residence. So impassable was the Spider’s Legs security that the informant, who until now had been occupying himself with the disposal of the two impersonators earlier, had to peek over the burly collection of shoulders to relay his news. Another matter needed to be addressed, one that had originally taken precedent until the unique matter of a dragon's visit occurred.

  “Our representative in Rivermouth has re-emerged,” he reported wryly.

  Stopping in his tracks, Voltere struggled to recollect the name. “Of course. The one-armed fellow. A good earner, then went off on his own volition. Perhaps he has returned to present the sizeable cut he owes us.” He laughed, shared by the informant, but to those familiar with Voltere, also knew that this chuckle was born from nothing jovial.

  “This is unlike any other capture. I want it done quietly and I want him alive. I want you to comb the entire city, turn it inside and out, and scoop him out from whatever hovel he is hiding in. I want this to be your top priority. Take as many men as you need. Do not rest until he is brought before me... I want... I... Are you kidding me?”

  Voltere tapped the underling on the shoulder and nodded at the approaching figure.

  “Hello my good sir, I am looking for one 'Voltere,'” Geron asked to the least threatening looking member of the public he had happened upon. He received no response but a meek point as the trembling finger indicated the throng huddled outside the Thane's residence.

  “Oh no...” Geron muttered as the mob of security separated in two, a burly half coming straight for him.

  He had met this Voltere once before. An ominous meeting by the fireside at the Rivermouth Inn, as he formally pledged his allegiance to the Spider’s Legs.

  As Geron looked around, taking in the lavish surroundings of the room within which he was being kept, the modest tidings he had been brought as a meal, he was still aware that he was a prisoner and that he shouldn't let his guard down.

  As soon as he was left to his own devices, with a promise of a prompt return that was tinged with threat, he immediately began looking for an escape. But after a thorough search, it was clear that the selection of this room was by no means an accident. The sole window, narrow and obstructed, only offered a morsel of the outside light and no feasible passage of escape. The walls were soundly structured, immune to the feeble blows that he
chanced upon them. And lastly, nothing that lined the room's walls could be utilised as a makeshift weapon. The sole item in the bare room, an ornate vase that looked so aged it may very well break apart in his hands rather than on anyone's head.

  `The medallion rested on his chest, waiting to be utilised, but he would need to be outside these encompassing walls before he could even begin to think about summoning the dragon.

  So, for the time being, Geron relented to his capture and gulped down the contents of the tankard brought to him.

  “At least they aren't trying to poison me,” he smiled, until he glanced at the floor, whereupon the lavish décor of the walls stopped short at the ground. The bare stones absent of spoilable material for one clear, macabre reason.

  “Geron of Rivermouth. After all these years.”

  It was the warm gracious welcome of a host embracing a long-lost friend, but Geron still reminded himself of the floor on which he stood. This was lethal ground. His company a swarm of snakes that could strike at their own leisurely whim. He decided to play their game as best he could, and returned the embrace with as much warmth as he could muster

  Voltere stepped back, eyeing Geron's appearance, gripping him proudly by the shoulders. “I rarely made personal appearances in those days. I have since learned to delegate such matters, but expanding our operations into the Western realm of Tallagate was a fledgling endeavour, one that was showing some purpose until you abandoned your oath. Others tried to move into the vacuum you created, some forgot their fear and respect of us. Lessons were made to ensure these changes in attitude were never repeated. Blood does not always have to spill, but when it does you must not flinch. Why then Geron, why did you flinch?”

  Voltere at last released his grip, the onus firmly upon Geron to speak.

  He cleared his throat more nervously than intended.

  “I was young. I felt trapped in Rivermouth and wanted to see where my destiny in Tallagate lay. I have betrayed none of the inner workings of the Spider’s Legs, nor have I conferred with the Kingsmen.”

  “Your destiny was the end of our blades when you abandoned your oath. Blood of the deities, you speak as if you merely cast aside an apprenticeship,” Voltere sighed, scratching his beard as a means of collecting his thoughts. “I was wrong, I thought perhaps some enterprise had caught your eye, or maybe even you were one of the pretenders to my throne, nipping at my heels. How wrong I was.”

  The conversation was complete, and a look was exchanged between Voltere and the guards, one so practised and deliberate that there would be no room for interpretation.

  Feeling the clasp of finality at his throat, Geron stepped forward. “You're wrong,” he shouted after the departing leader.

  Voltere ignored him and exited through the door.

  “I have a business, one that surpasses the entire Spider’s Legs itself.”

  The two burly brutes left behind issued an order for Geron to be silent, but he resisted, wriggling free from their grip. (In their defence, they had not anticipated Geron to be so elusive, but on the other hand rarely did a meeting in that room end without someone pleading for their life.)

  Geron could hear mocking laughter coming from the end of the corridor. Voltere was still within earshot, but the goons were growing weary of the struggle and were implementing more strenuous efforts of keeping him captive. Before a girthy arm silenced him with an entangled grasp across his face, Geron was able to blurt out his control of the beast that roamed Fateskeep's skies. Whether the gambit was successful, Geron could not tell for his vision was rather impaired by the barrage of muscle that now also entwined his limbs, carrying him back to the 'special treatment' quarters.

  The auspicious stone floor welcomed him graciously as he spilled outward from the hefty toss. Their methods were brutish, Geron concluded, understandably distraught. He had hoped for a quick death, but knew that the criminal syndicate were rarely accommodating in their executions. A message always needed to be sent. But if the message carried through his eventually to be displayed remains was a disparaging one, at least he would not be around to witness it and suffer embarrassment atop all else.

  But mercifully, the onslaught ceased suddenly as Voltere brushed the two aside. He stood over him, attentional at Geron's word.

  “Go on,” Voltere instructed. “No, not you, him,” he corrected, slapping the interrupting brute across the neck.

  Geron eased himself upward. “By now I assume you have heard of the reports stating a dragon flies in the skies of Fateskeep. I assure you that this is no trick, nor was it an exaggeration by excitable fools. I, and I alone control that beast.”

  Voltere was brash in his judgements and vicious in his manner, but he also possessed a sentimental streak that oft threatened to undermine the stature he had carved so meticulously in his rise to, and maintenance of, power.

  Alongside a handy dagger and emergency flask of wine, an old battered and well-read copy of Tommamare's Creed could be found on his bedside table. But rather than a fearful damnation, the dragon always held a reverence for Voltere. An admiration that he attempted to capture in crudely scrawled works of art that were always destroyed before any eyes could happen upon them.

  “I have heard men proclaim their knowledge of hidden riches, secret plots, even connections to the Sonkiller himself, but never have I heard someone plead for their life with the promise of a myth.”

  “It is no myth,” Geron spoke with the confidence of a man both in the right, and fearful for his life.

  It was high afternoon, peak trade hours in both the legitimate and illegitimate game, and so no-one paid heed to the sight of Geron's re-emergence, being rough-housed out of the Thane's residence with Voltere in tow, a veritable brigade of muscle-men protecting his every side.

  “Go ahead, summon your myth,” Voltere ordered, gesturing for Geron's escort to release him.

  A simple enough task, Geron mused, but yet he was also aware that these were not the most scrupulous of folks. Thus he decided to muddy the waters of his practices. Crowing a vocal cry to the sky, he waved his arm erratically, whilst stomping his feet in an irregular pattern, hoping the performance was enough to distract from the real significance of the medallion's usage.

  With emotions frayed, Geron decided that further showmanship could wait and for now merely summoning the dragon would be enough. The manpower Voltere possessed would be a tricky adversary to emerge from unscathed, so he hoped the beast would be an endearing facet rather than combative.

  Tommamare's influence on the people of Fateskeep was tangible as the burly ensemble were reduced to a flock of simpering wide-eyed spectators. Several flinched backwards in fear of the so-called 'evil presence.'

  “By the gods...” Voltere could be heard to whisper. His dumbfounded protectors watched on as Geron left their side to approach the landed beast. The dragon was antsy, having loitered in the air as much as it could before seeking out some form of distraction. There was plenty to indulge upon in the bustling city, but Geron gestured for it to remain where it was. And so, it nestled in the cramped enclosure of the street, turning its head beguiled at the steady stream of sounds that rose from the increasing number of windows opening and heads emerging, whilst other more wary citizens peeked around corners. The entire city seemed to come to a standstill, a hushed awe at the sight of such a fierce and fearsome creature receiving a genteel pat on the snout.

  Escorted back inside the Thane's residence once again, Geron was this time led into another room, the door shutting ominously behind him. The floor beneath his feet however, was lined with immaculately polished, unstained wood. Geron sighed a breath of relief.

  The hospitality did not stop there, Geron was gestured to avail of the fine furnishings that lined the room and upon choosing a deep and nestling chair, was brought a tankard of wine from the very individual who had, only moments prior, placed a well-meaning blow to his face. Clearly Voltere's goons were men of many tasks.

  Geron had nary a moment to
ponder his fate, let alone appreciate the physical pleasures now enrapturing him when Voltere began outlining his excitement at their business proposition. The dragon was the last link in so many of his aborted schemes. Troublesome members of the Spider’s Legs ranks would fall back in line. Nuisance Kingsmen who paid too much heed would turn a barrage of blind eyes.

  Geron interjected before the speculation grew too fantastical, for truly Voltere was imagining a raid on the Royal City itself, engulfing resistance in a wall of fire.

  “Does it breathe fire?” he asked, breaking his distant trance to gaze upon Geron in wonder.

  “Some myths remain just that,” he replied dejectedly.

  The disappointment was palpable, and Voltere masked his with a well-timed sip.

  “But most importantly, the dragon is not a tool to be used, nor is it an infallible weapon to cement the Spider’s Legs domination.”

  Voltere was not used to being corrected, but his irritation was stemmed by the strange sense of admiration he held for this curious dragon-wrangler.

  “Lornus has cast beasts as creatures to be feared and to be disposed of, now whilst that may be true is debatable. But most beasts fall into the category of pest or at most a danger in the wilds to be avoided. This dragon, is something the likes of which Tallagate has never seen. And from my experience, that fear becomes curiosity and that curiosity becomes coin.”

  “You want to put on a show?” Voltere's face was soured. The whole practice sounded entirely jovial and not nearly gritty enough for a Spider’s Legs enterprise.

  “Precisely. Plus it shall be a large gathering. If those in your employ have more wherewithal than the two I encountered this morning, then the pocket-liftings should be a hefty prize also.”

  Geron found himself slipping into his spiel that he usually saved for the legitimate Thanes but given their surroundings, it was entirely appropriate. Leaving out inconvenient details like panics and the occasional banishment from towns, as well as the nuisance of the looming Beastslaying Elite on his trail, Geron outlined the profitable ventures he had stumbled upon in his own employ. An alliance with the Spider’s Legs could be beneficial for all.