If one were to wander the streets of Fateskeep at night, one was oft advised to keeps their wits about them. Ne'er-do-wells lurked and threatened harm, as well as countless other plots that would befall any unarmed and unaware victim. However, a sobering reminder of this alertness was given to each passer-by who sidestepped the talons that thumped down the streets. Gangs dispersed, windows were closed and opened in an equal measure of fear and curiosity.
But the confidence of his cool, calm exit was quickly disintegrated by the amassed gathering that awaited by the city gates.
On one hand, Geron was flattered that every affiliated member of the Spider’s Legs had been rounded up on account of him. But part of him also knew that the vastly assembled platoon of ill-will was for his beastly accomplice. Ominously lit by torchlight, the hundred-strong parted as Voltere emerged from within the huddle. The chatter of the throng immediately ceased as their leader spoke.
“Upon these rooftops, await dozens of arrows. I know but a single one will fell you, but that creature, as great as it is, I am certain is not invulnerable.”
Geron shook his head. “No, not invulnerable, nor immortal, but very durable. And although you have brought together a group of what I shall assume are very competent fighters, I guarantee all but a handful would survive the encounter.”
It was a hearty bluff, but one steeped in an educated guess. For Geron was not alone in this mental arithmetic. Feet shuffled on the spot as those previously antsy, itching for a fight, eyed with trepidation the sharp talons and wide-toothed grin of the dragon.
Ruthlessness had risen Voltere to the top of the Spider’s Legs ranks, but a keen appraisal for conflict had kept him there. Knowing when to strike down, when to compromise. Though a dragon was a far cry from the bureaucratic dilemma of a potentially defecting underling.
Geron could tell Voltere was in no rush to spill blood. An admirable trait, but also a weakness to be exploited. It was an impasse but one that was surmountable if one knew what strategy to play.
“Allow me to pass...” Geron clutched the medallion close to his chest. “And the dragon is yours.”
Voltere was no novice to gambling, but anyone who had faced him across the table knew that he was a terrible masker of his emotions, and his tell was clearly telegraphed as he licked his lips mid-thought.
“I will turn it over to you,” Geron offered with a submissive humility. “And you alone shall be the dragon's master.”
The words were carefully chosen and with good cause for this stately splendid image clinched the deal. Voltere barked orders at his seconds to disperse the crowd. “Begone!” he shouted repeatedly.
Grumbles of disappointment came from those denied combat, whilst others roused from both slumber and drinking were all too eager to return to their previous activity. Those at a loose end departed regardless, aware of the punishment for deviating from Voltere's word.
The walk back to the performance space was weighed with the heaviness of a most palatable tension in the air. The members of the Spider’s Legs eyed Geron with disdain. Both parties aware that but one vocal command had ensured his safety, though another would spell his doom.
The dragon plodded towards the altar, it recognised the space, though seemed far from comfortable. Whilst the show had only lasted mere minutes, the hazardous bounding for an exit the beast made when dismissed indicated it was not overly fond of the building.
It shifted on the spot, cumbersome in its enclosure. Patting it on the snout seemed to only agitate the dragon further.
Geron looked around, guards were posted at every door. He could feel whatever control he held over his own fate slipping away.
“The key to taming this magnificent beast, it clearly lies within that medallion.” Voltere clicked his fingers, opening his palm to receive.
Geron complied, delicately slipping the looped thread over his head. A lieutenant snatched it from his grip, keen to be the one to present it to Voltere
Despite its implied powers, Voltere seemed unimpressed with the device, turning it over in his hands to uncover a secret hidden in the intricate stone and steel carving.
“In Tommamare's Creed, the hero spoke to the dragon using a bowl that was buried in the ground for hundreds of years, a device outcast from the deities. I take it this shares the same principles?” Voltere asked, scrutinising the medallion further.
Even though the dragon stood before them, flesh and blood, its mythical prowess endured, aspects from Tommamare's Creed bleeding into the supposed lived reality.
“I suppose...” Geron shrugged. “Though it is more of a whistle.”
This left an unpleasant taste for Voltere. “A whistle?” he asked, face scrunched in disappointment. “Like for a dog?”
“Sensing that the mood had shifted from the promptness of lethality, Geron gestured towards his intended exit.
“Oh no, no, no.” Voltere chuckled sinisterly. “I shall have both the dragon's obedience and your death. That display by the gates was a touch too public for my reputation. I cannot have the dragon-wielder swanning about Fateskeep after so boldly challenging the Spider’s Legs. After so boldly challenging... me!”
Voltere brandished the medallion, waving it at the dragon as if it were to omit a magical spell. The dragon ceased growling, transfixed by the odd display and turned to face Voltere.
“There we are,” he smiled reaching out to pat the dragon on the snout. “I am your master now, cannot be having you growl at me, can we, huh?”
The dragon shifted its weight, turning its body fully to face Voltere. The two bared their teeth. Voltere with a simpering grin, whilst the dragon clamped its jaws down upon the syndicate leader.
No screams were heard, just the dual pair of legs, now abandoned of their upper tier, plopping idly to the floor. Others rushed forward, some to attack, some to instinctively check upon their leader though he no longer stood in that spot.
Geron cradled himself in the corner. At first, he shielded himself from the carnage, but as the blood curdling screams and yells of terror rang out, he was reminded of the Arconan ambushes, the sudden and frantic bloodshed that he was once again fortunate to escape from. The stones that lined the floor were uneven, the blood pooled in a honeycomb of tiny crimson moats. At the centre, the dragon stood, breathless in its efforts, but rewarded in the wreckage. Geron too accepted his spoils, the sack of coin was heavier, now absorbed in the blood of his former employ.
7
Legitimate traders had learned to keep a wide berth from Fateskeep; thus the roads were quiet in the lands beyond the city perimeter.
Geron had endured too many threats on his life over the last day and was quite content to enjoy his own company, as the dragon, also agitated from its brief employ in the Spider’s Legs swooped about, most carefree and jovial. It was an uplifting sight, so much so that Geron almost did not notice the approaching carriage on the distant horizon.
Banishing the beast to the skies above, Geron stayed the path. The sturdy carriage rocked slowly towards him, slowing to a stop as the rider lifted his hat to greet Geron with a subtle nod.
“Carriages like that are used for hauling ale casks no? Risky business, plenty of thirsty deviants on these plains.”
“Well if there are, these deviants are in for a dry disappointment. Nothing back there,” the driver said, tapping slowly on the wooden frame.
Geron smiled politely, but though the conversation seemed to have reached a natural conclusion the man remained parked, whispering placates to his horses. Geron innocently probed his intentions.
“I'm moving south, coming from a big sweep by the Beastslaying Elite. Rumours from Fateskeep that there is a dragon in the skies? Talk of the mad and the foolish, right friend?”
Whether he was a sly aid or a coy jest, Geron took the man at his alarming word. “Well regardless of such talk, I am certain those brave fellows shall vanquish those ghastly beasts that prowl our lands and affront our great King.”
The trader
scratched his beard. “Maybe, but maybe there are also those that have learned to live side-by-side with the beasts. Those who felt the undeserved brunt of the Arconan war and do not share the same fealty to the Sonkiller that others do.” He maintained eye-contact, measuring Geron's response.
Geron smiled. “Maybe, folks are often strange these days.”
“Where were you deployed friend?” he asked.
It was a tale lacking bravado nor heroics, but the driver received it with admiration.
“Right at the heart of the core battles. I'm amazed you made it back.”
“Not all of me did,” Geron replied.
A shared silence of understanding brushed over them.
“Well, like I said, a horde of Kingsmen are conducting sweeps, the Beastslaying Elite are back there too, in their wake. If, hypothetically one wanted to stay away from them, Fateskeep would be their best bet.”
Geron grimaced, this was an unfortunate truth. The Kingsmen tended to circumvent Fateskeep. Even the Beastslaying Elite would be wary of running afoul of the Spider’s Legs. It would have been an ideal haven.
“Let's say, hypothetically, one left Fateskeep with a bit of a mess in their wake,” Geron smiled nervously.
“Then further east to Brimm would be the option. Indirect, rural and for now, out of the reach of certain parties. And, for the right price, a certain wandering tradesman could be heading that way.”
The trader introduced himself as Karvel and protested profusely when Geron made for the rear of the carriage.
“Nonsense, can’t have you rattling away back there amid the smell of stale ale. You can sit up front here with me.”
With an elementary level of trust formed, it was time for full disclosure. “I must confess that I am not travelling alone. And would need your assistance in that regard.”
Karvel chuckled. “What is it, a land-strider? I've known many to take them in as pets, before the decree of course. Understandable, tame little creatures,”
Shaking his head with modesty, Geron retrieved the medallion and with suitable theatrics gestured Karvel's attention to the skies. Squinting valiantly against the sun's blanketing haze, he could make out a shape moving closer.
“A talon-hawk?” he asked, answering his own question when the creature moved in closer. “Blood of the deities!” he gasped, scampering back in his seat as the dragon swooped in for a comfortable landing in the spacious field nearby.
Karvel sat up, pulling a dainty blade from his belt. As he brandished the flimsy weapon, which even if wielded by the most proficient in the Knight's Order would scarcely ward off a tamed goat, Geron gestured for him to lower it.
“You see now my predicament.”
Re-sheathing his personal blade, Karvel removed his hat and stood up to inspect the approaching beast. He had seen some unusual sights on his travels, observed his fair share of the wild beasts that roamed the plains, but never had he seen something like this.
He offered a murmur of fear as the snout of the dragon loomed closer, only to be gently patted into remission by Geron.
“But...” Karvel sputtered, “but a beast such as this, it would be impossible to transport without raising suspicions.”
“Whilst it is certainly bigger and dare I say more vicious than a land-strider, I can assure you it is just as tame and manageable.”
Karvel pondered his options, feeling that some of his negotiating leverage had been subtracted by the presence of the dragon. Eventually he reached his decision. The diversion to Brimm would be scarcely profitable, but it would be worth its weight in coin in tavern-anecdotes, something he once had a reputation for, but found that tales of the Arconan war were out of trend.
“I will need to sedate it, put it to sleep,” he said, his stare still cemented upon the dragon. “Then I can pass it off as a meat supply.”
“No need for anything like that,” Geron said, and with the prowess of a demonstrative show, instructed the dragon to enter the rear of the carriage. The wheels of the vehicle noticeably strained at the substantial weight, yet aside from a draping tail that flopped out onto the ground, the beast tucked itself quite snug into the holding space.
“Best make tracks,” Karvel warned. “Last I heard the Beastslaying Elite were holed up in Gaim.”
To the matter of implied haste, Geron agreed and heaved himself up into the carriage seat. The Beastslaying Elite may still be far behind, but they were certainly on his trail.
The carriage, rickety yet sturdy in its travels, was an unknown marvel to Geron. Regarding it merely as the instrument of transporting goods, he never pondered the benefits to a journeyman such as himself. His usually aching feet, protected only by his flimsy dilapidated leather shoes reminded him of his current fortune.
Every few miles Geron would insist on a break to check on the dragon's condition, and on several occasions would allow the beast a moment to re-emerge and move about the fields, before being reluctantly summoned back inside its confines once more.
Geron waved at the passing platoon of Kingsmen, belligerence in his greeting.
Wormtrail was an auspicious little town, whose central axis position amid the cities of influence, Fateskeep and Hybrawn, made for an ideal resting stop for travellers and tradespeople alike. Unfortunately the humble town could never quite find itself capitalising on its potential fortune and alas, by the time the war concluded, it had reverted to a simplistic rural outpost. Brimm was still a ways away and so Karvel opted to avail of the stopping point.
The vast storage halls of Wormtrail were at one time thriving with parked carriages and wagons, each coming and going at all hours of the day. Now the barren cavern was solely home to Karvel's vehicle.
“These storage halls go unperturbed at night; your beast should be free to emerge under the cover of dark. I shall collect you in the morning and we shall finish our journey to Brimm. Here-” Karvel handed Geron a beaten wooden flask. “Something to keep you warm through the night.”
There was something aloof about Karvel. Worry of his being caught and affiliated with the illegal beast? Perhaps guilt as to his spending the night in the comforts of a bed at the Wormtrail Inn, leaving his compadre to the cold stone wares of the storage hall? Regardless, Geron caught a glimpse of distracted sadness in the trader's face as he went to close the door behind him.
“Hey blockhead! On your feet, you can’t sleep in here!”
“Better not have stolen anything, scum!”
“Pfft, 'aint nothin' to steal in here.”
The voices registered in Geron's head, but sounded like they were filtering from afar. Opening his eyes gingerly to be greeted with a most profound piercing headache, he saw that he was not dreaming, the Kingsmen were stood plainly before him. They spoke again in pointed and accusatory tones but their voices were muffled, as if they spoke through stacked pillows. Geron went to stand, ushered by both his own confusion and the prods of the Kingsmen's lances.
The shackles of his condition loosened, clarity endured, replacing the confusion with heightened panic as he could see that the doors of the storage hall lay wide open, daylight pouring in. The Kingsmen at his side were joined by two others standing guard outside.
Instinctively, he turned to look for Karvel's carriage and the hidden beast within, hoping that he could leave before roused suspicions became evidence of wrongdoings. But his facade at innocence was halted by the absent space where the carriage once lay. The storage hall was grand but even by dim candle-light in the now-passed night, one could see that nothing lay within. Under the unrelenting sunlight that now rippled through the hall, that was doubly true.
Allowing the panic to flood for a moment before it transferred to a more tetherable rage, Geron tried to piece together what had happened. If the dragon had been discovered, then he would not have been let go with only a brow-beating for his troubles. The carriage, Karvel and the dragon all missing. Though missing together as a collective was likely, why leave him behind if trouble was afoot? Geron
felt for his belt-line, his fingers gliding over a vacant spot where once the flask lay. It would hardly have been lifted by the Kingsmen for its contents were empty. Geron feared therein lay the problem.
The tangy ale had lured him into a slumber more willingly than he could recall, but at the time was content to not challenge this, for the thought of sleeping in the storage hall was a miserable one. Trouble had not come, Karvel was the trouble.
Trying the medallion for several futile minutes bore no remedy. Accordingly, Geron made for the Wormtrail Inn in search of answers and liquid catharsis.
Some twelve hours prior, Karvel had sat upon the stool where Geron now found himself perched. Perhaps it was the generous view of the courtyard's sombre bustle that inspired one to choose this spot when pondering dragon theft. And ponder Karvel did, for several quarrelsome hours before reaching his treacherous decision.
Truthfully, he had not been plotting this betrayal for a prolonged period of time, awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike. Rather when said perfect opportunity arose, he suddenly found himself contemplating the practical possibilities of the deception.
Like most traders he too was feeling the pinch of the post-war economy. Some had even fled Tallagate, abandoning patriotic principles in search of a more stable living in the Kingdoms beyond the borders. He had ignored correspondence from his brother, telling tales of the hardships endured in their new Arconan life, but the prejudices suffered paled in comparison to a full belly, warm bed and where Tommamare's Creed was left only upon the bookshelf in children's bedrooms.
He had found himself lost fondly in the memory of his happening upon an abandoned delivery of grain by the roadside just outside Gaim, left in the wake of a beast attack. The guilt that his brethren would eventually return to find it gone was outweighed by the coin he had exchanged it for. The tidings lasted for several weeks before things eventually returned to the usual scarcity and scrounging of daily life.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 10