“Fifty-fifty,” he concluded, sitting back into the chair whose slackness undermined his steadfast poise.
Voltere laughed deeply. Geron could tell it was genuine, for instead of the bravado of mockery, it rather degenerated into a hacking splutter. The offending slime cast from his mouth as a punctuation to the offer.
“You are lucky we don't take the other one, let you get by being deft with whatever limbs you got remaining.”
But Geron did not flinch, matching Voltere's eye with a held gaze that underneath was racked with a deep questioning doubt. After several protracted seconds, the gambit won out and quarters were assigned for Geron to be Voltere's guest for the evening. Back in the employ of the Spider’s Legs, it was a destiny that Geron had thought he had evaded once before.
A promise trodden upon.
“Where have you been?” Geron's mother asked as he collapsed into the welcoming mound of hay. He flayed, flustered in surprise at the intrusion upon his designated hibernation space.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, a confused anger at her lack of self-preservation. Her gaunt figure standing in the barn's doorway a full illustration of her failing health.
Her accusation stung, partly because Geron could not outright deny it, for he had indeed returned from an activity that he was keeping hidden from Kingsmen's knowledge. Yet on this particular occasion, nothing of the sort involved the Spider’s Legs. Geron's mother had always held a reluctant acceptance of his proclivity to sleeping in the barn till late in the afternoon, even when chores were to be done, however it seemed that even when the sun shone the brightest until it set in the evening, all his time was spent in that forsaken building. He would always dismiss her inquiries with deferrals to her health, but she was not so disposed that she noticed the doors to the barn were now being locked upon his various departures.
The dragon was in a constant state of growth. Far from the delicate fragile reptile that had emerged from the egg months ago, the beast stood on its hind legs now, a habit it used to spy the lands beyond the barn doors. When its head began to scrape the barn's roof, Geron realised a new plan was needed. Fortunately, he already had one in mind. Substituting one illicit activity for another, the caves by the forest's edge at the outskirts of Rivermouth were a fine place for delinquents to occupy their time out of sight of both parents and Kingsmen. Geron and Mallagy had wasted many a productive hour there, usually in the accompaniment of lifted flasks from the Inn's store.
Under the cover of nightfall, he led the docile beast far from the spying eyes of his neighbours. The dragon seemed to take to the cavern as a home rather instantly. And after Geron had finished binding it with enough slack rope that it would not voluntarily venture from its sanctuary, the dragon bound to-and-fro with playful enthusiasm as it availed of the high-reaching ceiling. Geron felt the relief of a lifted burden both at this, and the fact that if the Kingsmen ever did happen upon their stowed beast, the implication upon his mother was thwarted.
Geron had toyed with the idea of telling her. But truthfully, he was not entirely certain how she would react. She had never outright condemned Lornus as King. The wounds suffered by Tallagate were worn with pride by some in the Kingdom, decreeing them a necessary hardship in their stance of righteousness. Doubly so were those who held Tommamare's Creed in acclaim.
And so, he had to relent to her accusations of nefarious deeds. Which unfortunately were accurate in a general sense, as he had in this case returned from an intensive three hours training with the dragon. (Whereupon he learned that the beast was mostly susceptible to noise commands rather than any human vocabulary.)
It was a monumental discovery. One which he was still keen with excitement over, and so when he found himself ambushed on the receiving ends of desperate inquiries from his ailing mother, Geron could not summon the ready-made excuses he kept on hand when such discussions threatened to arise.
“When you were summoned for the war, I was hopeful you would return, but part of me knew that you might not. And for a while, I grieved that I had lost my son. But when you returned and when I saw what the Arconans had done to you, I grieved a second time. Now that you were home and healthy, once more I prayed that you would find a path in this world where I would not have to grieve you a third time. I know that the Spider’s Legs have infected their way through our society like a poisonous weed. They have brought nowt but sorrow to those that align with them. I know that you are doing what you can to help us both survive Geron, but I also know how dealings with the Spider’s Legs end. Please Geron... please promise me that I will never have to grieve you again.”
He did promise. Though it was mumbled and non-committal. And as she retreated back into the warmth of the house, he realised that he had indeed been absent-mindedly wandering down a path. One with a clear beginning, but no discernible end. Whose start was layered with Mallagy's blood. Was his own awaiting at the end? He had a task due for the criminal syndicate that evening, but instead Geron decided that he would keep his mother company, then visit the dragon once more.
The ailment claimed her that winter. The last of her resistance had endured as long as it could against a particularly unforgiving climate. He severed the last of his ties with them that Spring, and departed Rivermouth, with dragon in tow, that summer. And although she had not lived to see it, he felt assured that she approved of his finally keeping his word.
The sting of Geron’s freshly broken promise was felt even until the moment he was summoned to begin the show. By now, sundown was imminent, casting an auspicious haze over Fateskeep as he was escorted to the space that had been designated for the performance, a converted place of worship abandoned after Lornus declared that Tommamare's Creed was the only link to the divine. The building may have been robbed of its purpose, but the ranged seating and open altar was a perfect place for theatrical performance.
Yet Geron's soul was not roused with anything resembling the spiritual as he lurked in the shadows of the foyer, the ever-present escort a reminder of his doubts and troubles.
Voltere entered the building with as much pompous flair as the old divine regulators would insist upon. So too was his attire designed to imprint an impression of authoritative excess. Robes fashioned in the latest and most expensive trends swept at his feet, no doubt hiding protective undergarments and personalised weapons. The divine regulator’s ceremonial entrance was to maintain the illusion of grandeur, Voltere was aiming for something similar. Although fear of his wrath rather than that of the gods was the desired outcome.
“I trust everything is as it should be?” he asked proudly, a reminder that he was pulling all the strings of this spectacle.
Geron nodded politely. Truthfully, he rarely needed anything other than an open space and a willing audience. And as he was once again escorted towards the rooms that lay behind the altar space, he felt nervous for the first time in his show-business career. Perhaps it was the formality of the space and awaiting audience, perhaps it was the armed guard that stuck to his side at every turn.
Voltere was not one for prolonged public appearances, but the appeal of the dragon was too great for even he, and so he made for the overlooking balcony, a perfect elevated isolation for special guests.
“Wait here,” Geron heard as the door closed behind him.
At last he was alone.
Quickly scanning the room for a means of escape drew a frustrating conclusion. Sitting on the floor, he allowed his vision to blur, desperately thinking of a plan. The swaying of the candlelight broke his concentration, the small orange hue dancing in his peripherals.
Geron looked around. Two candles illuminated the room. One was idle, a gentle flickering of the lit wick, the other danced erratically. A source of breeze jettisoning it to-and-fro.
Listening at the door, Geron could hear the conversation was still ongoing. He had a window of time. Retreating to the rear of the room, he ran his hand over the wooden lining. The panelling was loose, no doubt succumbing to
the effects of being gnawed upon by beast and insect alike for several years. With a subtle nudge, the wooden planks were encouraged to give way. Geron felt an optimistic surge of hope at the newly revealed sight of potential freedom. The rear of the building was just as neglected as the interior, and Geron prepared himself to journey horizontally through the gathered dirt, debris and other collected masses.
His progress was brought to a halt by the sound of approaching footsteps outside. Hastily easing himself back inside, he slid the panelling across the opening, just as the boots stopped at the spot where he had just moments prior lay prone.
“Quit hogging it you fool.”
“I lifted it from Voltere's private stores, I risked Voltere's blade, thus I get first dibs.”
Errant dribbles of wine trickled onto the floor as the source of the voices traded the stolen flask back and forth in elongated gulps, each trying to get the lion's share of the supposed illicit liquid.
“Voltere sure knows how to hoard the good stuff,”
“Yeah but he has got no taste for it, I swap the stores with my own supply all the time. He doesn't even notice.”
“You're playing a dangerous game, idiot.”
“I didn't hear you complaining just there.”
“Bah!”
The debate on who possessed a finer taste in wine carried on in a similar trend of confrontation for several more moments, as Geron waited rather impatiently for them to disperse. Their stolen drink completed, and grievances about their leader aired.
“So what are we supposed to do?”
“Graybird is keeping an eye on him now, after he does whatever he does with the dragon, we poison him. Voltere says no blades. Too messy, who knows what the dragon could do in that time.”
They continued on in their shared musings about the dragon's mythical capabilities, but Geron cared not to listen more. He hated being right, suspecting that Voltere would never let him remain uncontrolled or unharmed.
Uncertain of what Voltere's knowledge of dragon folklore extended to, Geron was certain however, that a man committed to such an enthusiasm would be familiar with all the tales. And as such, was certain that all contingencies would be accounted for. The building, in a noticeable state of disrepair was still fortified enough that it would take a significant effort for the dragon to break through the wooden-beam lined ceiling. The Spider’s Legs were second only to the Knight's Order in combat endowment and thus he assumed, correctly, that they would be equipped with only the finest and deadliest of armaments. If escape was to be a plan then he would need to be certain of his approach, doubt and guesswork would only lead to a grizzly end for both him and the dragon.
But above all else, Geron knew that Voltere had him thoroughly sussed. Even at a passing glance one could tell that Geron was no cold-blooded mercenary and with an audience full of innocent bystanders, contained in a single, easy to dispatch group, the risk of collateral damage was a tethering leash.
It was a routine that Geron had performed dozens of times, and on each occasion, he found a new way to inject a level of whimsy into the act. But upon this modified stage it was to be the first performance under duress. Understandably his heart wasn't fully into it.
Cynical faces lined the audience, most had gathered to disprove the rumours spreading rampant since the dragon's appearance that morning. Even the most stoically sceptic were easily parted with coin to reinforce that doubt.
Centre stage, Geron began the festivities with a solemn raising of his arm for attention.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is-” Geron began, but no sooner than he had started, the attention of those gathered had waned into malicious hostility.
“We don't care who you are!” came one discernible voice.
“You are a bit skinny to be a dragon!” An opinion shared by riotous laughter.
“Yeah, where is the dragon? We paid to see a dragon!”
Eventually the jeers and taunts began to merge into one sweeping curtain of aggressive noise. Geron glanced at Voltere's pristine seating, elevated above the din. The leader shrugged; this was his call to make.
“Very well,” thought Geron, “in show-business, one should always give the people what they want.”
Giving way to scrutiny, Geron manipulated the medallion into his mouth and tested the resolve of the simple assembly of shaped metal and carved stone, sounding a blast that hopefully rose above the noise that rumbled in the pews below.
Voltere shifted in his seat, gesturing for an aide to come forward. He was about to instigate some levels of crowd control, when the commotion manifested itself from the easily identified rumblings of trouble to murmurings of awe.
The wide doors of the hall served as part of the theatrical pageantry, plus a most suitably built entrance for the sizeable beast.
Geron smiled proudly. No matter the town, the reaction was always the same. A silence fell over the crowd, sombre and reflective, appropriate for their location. The dragon lowered its head and eased itself through the opening, jaunting through the aisle in the centre of the gathering, stepping gracefully up onto the transformed altar to join Geron, who placated the ill-at-ease beast with a reaffirming pat upon the snout. Whether the dragon took this as a sign of comfort Geron was never certain.
“Great show. Voltere sends his regards.” The flask was offered forth with the delicacy of an unstable explosive.
Even having overheard the revelations of his beverage's true intentions, Geron too was acutely aware that three people had been assigned to watch him drink from the flask. As he brought it up to his lips he paused, noting the sack slung over one of the guard’s shoulders.
“Oh my,” Geron grinned, “is that the pocket-lifting from tonight?”
The guard smiled proudly, testing the weight of the sack's contents with a satisfied nod.
“Do you mind if I'm there when you present it to Voltere, it was sort of my idea you see,” Geron laughed with good nature, joined by the others. A bonding session in the Spider’s Legs ranks.
“Nah, I won’t present this to him, this is small change compared to what is lined up this week, this'll go into the vault. I'll go there once... this... uhh.” He paused, looking guiltily at the others for assistance.
“Once we toast your success!” another piped up unconvincingly.
Geron nodded and lifted the flask. “To my success!” he repeated and raised the cup to his lips, the three stared unblinking.
“But surely a man cannot toast his own success alone? That my friends, is an omen for bad luck.” He swept the contents off the table retrieving all manner of different receptacles. A glass vase and two cracked and chipped tin cups were shared the contents from the poured flask. “I insist that you join me.”
Nervous looks were exchanged. Geron knew the time he was buying would still lead towards an inevitable outcome and rather than try alter this tide, he decided to take initiative whilst blades were sheathed. With a flick of the wrist, the flask’s contents were tossed into the face of the guard closest, before Geron flung a tin cup at the head of the next waiting guard, clocking him with enough force that he stumbled backwards, knocking the third over, the heavy coin-laden sack dropping to the ground from his grip.
Panicked at the absorption capabilities of the poison, the first guard was stumbling blind and panicked, a nuisance blockade for the other two, but Geron was already on the move, stopping only to turn heel and desperately grasp towards the dropped sack. A most inconvenient success he thought, for the weight was significant in stopping his momentum for a moment. He readjusted his footing, heaving the sack ahead towards the rotting boards. This time there was no time for subtlety as he drove his weight through the opening he had earlier created, joining the tossed sack of valuables outside.
Though what initial compliance the boards had given in his first aborted attempt at escape had weakened, the physical barrier offered a less than forgiving yield. Something that Geron felt in every inch of his body. Muscles ach
ed with impending bruise, splinters lining skin amid fresh gashes aplenty.
However, Geron was running on adrenaline and would not let such a minor setback impede his escape. The medallion was slick in his fingers, his hand taking a significant brunt of the impact, slowing down his summoning. Exposed in the open streets of Fateskeep, he knew whatever limited time he had left was diminishing rapidly.
Those he had assaulted with a sudden and impressive precision had opted not to follow him through the newest opening, but now made their way through the innards of the building, emerging at the door in plain view of each other.
Geron gritted his teeth, the dragon could be mere seconds away, but it would be seconds too late. Fighting was likely futile, he pondered, as the footsteps clambered towards him. Retribution was inevitable.
But his submission was not accepted by the men, who tackled him roughly to the ground. Geron covered up, absorbing the blows until at last an impact shook the terrain that had no ill-bearing on his physicality.
Geron rolled to his feet rather gingerly but with sufficient bravado, doubling back on his triumph to retrieve the sack of coin that had been dropped in the melee. Deciding that enough face had been lost, Geron refused to stoop and retrieve the handful of coins that had leaked from the cloth housing.
Patting the dragon's snout was a passive manoeuvre that succeeded in drawing the assailants back. Each visibly cowering at the snarling teeth displayed.
Geron was by no means a hulking mass, but the dragon was not receptive to passengers. Even at its most placid, no command would ever abide and each time Geron would find himself gently bucked off. So whilst a quick escape via the skies would have been ideal, Geron instead opted for a less direct, tense walk through the streets. Elongated myth and realised fear keeping all at bay.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 9