The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  “I left you alive,” he said softly, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  Geron hummed in acknowledgement, circling around to the foot of the bed. “Drink it, and find out if I granted you the same courtesy.”

  The Freckle Sponge-cake was a delicacy known only to the elite of Tallagatian society. So decadent in its preparation that anything inferior would be unacceptable in its reception. Although, its indulgence was also a contributing factor to its rarity upon the serving table. However, Lord Pentelli's appetite for the eccentric extended beyond that of his recreational activities into his palate. Thus the preparation of the cake was a weekly tradition in the Pentelli kitchens.

  The practical arrangement, as any of the staff could inform you, was an intricate affair with temperamental ingredients and a most haphazard manner of presenting the delicate pastry upon its porcelain shrine. Hence why the kitchen worker threw their utensils to the floor in a most agitated manner as the cake crumbled at the miscalculated transfer. The error caused solely by the raucous occurring just outside the kitchen doorway.

  Lord Pentelli was storming the corridors of the manor again. The workers sometimes would eavesdrop to ascertain whether they needed to maintain a proximal distance. But no such subterfuge was required, for the voices were elevated and most impassioned.

  “He won’t play! He won’t listen to me!” Lord Pentelli lacked the deliberate diction his mother possessed; an oration that mirrored his childhood speak.

  “Grace, you're bleeding,” came Lady Pentelli's voice, growing louder as she approached the kitchen’s perimeter. The workers stiffened in prudence. She was in pursuit, caution undercutting her calm.

  “I don't care, I hate him!” Lord Pentelli screamed.

  They could tell there were tears. Each shuffled on the spot, not wanting to inadvertently bring the attention towards their abode.

  Whatever was drawing the lord's ire resided under strict security in the stables. The horses now roamed the fields without shelter. Despite the gnawing intrigue, the kitchen workers erred on the side of caution, stemming their curiosity. For they knew that whatever the secret entailed, it was distracting the Lord from an interest in any of them, and as such no suspect incidents had been reported over these last few weeks.

  “I hate him!” was Lord Pentelli's departing bastion.

  The nurse was summoned. Cleaning blood was a common task for her, but she was surprised to find that the source was from Lord Pentelli himself. She had learned not to ask questions, though the wounds that were inflicted upon his skin were most peculiar. This was no fencing accident, as Lady Pentelli had informed her with a warm smile, the punctures were similar to a wolf's claw or a boar's tooth. The Lord whimpered and grimaced as she cleaned the wounds. His words no clearer after her departure, as he continued to mope about in a most exaggerated manner of melancholy.

  At last the Lady crossed the room's threshold. The finest and most eccentric items lined the walls of his domicile. Each holding his fancy for mere days at a time before resigning to relics of a passing fancy. But unlike say, the musical instrument from Arconan that only the fingers of a certain bloodline could play, his latest attraction would not be so easily stored away.

  “I hate him,” he mumbled.

  “It is a dragon Grace; you cannot expect it to be friends.”

  “In Tommamare's Creed, the dragon is evil and taunts the hero. My dragon doesn't even talk. He can’t fly because you say he will fly away, and when I untethered his jaws, he struck me with his teeth. I hate him!”

  With a most tactful retrieval, Lady Pentelli wiped her brow with a finely stitched kerchief, the stresses of running a manor as well as holding the influence of Tallagate's most influential were starting to wear on her lately.

  The Pentelli Legacy had been immune at first to the post-war Tallagate decline, but even so, cracks were starting to form in the once unshakeable foundations. Fortunes were finite. The purchase of the dragon had been an expenditure that she had hoped would stem the patterns she saw in him. The temporary comfort of distractions and the deflecting of lies were only prolonging the inevitable. But he was her son. And that alone made him elite, and immune to any such judgements that might occur.

  “I am sorry that the dragon decided to not be your friend, Grace. But you are a Pentelli. And Pentellis do not have many friends. You see the people come and go; they talk to your mother as if they are friends, but they all crave things. Things that I can provide them with. And that is what friendships are Grace, a series of people using each other to gain things. But we are Pentellis, we do not have friends, we have allies. Those that do not support us?”

  “We destroy them?” he responded, remembering the family rhetoric.

  She beamed proudly at his most correct answer. “Exactly, and that is what you shall do to that dragon.” She embraced him, rocking back and forth in a soothing tone. “We shall take your special instruments and have a special hunt. And when you kill that beast, there will be a celebration and you shall be the hero that killed the evil dragon.”

  He pulled his head away from hers, his eyes beheld innocent joy, it lifted her heart to see such a sight. He jumped to his feet and ran past her, his footsteps bounding down the staircase. The Lady Pentelli sighed relief and began to make her way to the stables where the preparations could begin.

  The dragon had a mild temperament for one so laden in folklore as a beast without equal in ferocity. A tamed upbringing in the nooks and shadows of the Rivermouth countryside had softened the edge that burned within it. Geron had seen the capabilities of its wrath, but often attributed it to hunger. A raw animalistic, beastly nature that cannot be remedied by human logic.

  Nevertheless, the dragon too was angered by provocative stimuli, and as it lay unwillingly in the darkened stables, cracks of light leaking through the beams, a fury built within it. A storm that rose in waves, tipping at the point of resistance against its restraints before futility registered and once more it settled into a prone position, sighing a deep, growling wheeze that each time unnerved the guards stood at the stable doors.

  Thoughts that they would be the first to be consumed should the great beast break free were side-lined as the Lady Pentelli approached them. They stood to the side, trying not to observe the Lady peering into the darkness of the stables, confirming that the beast was both present and docile. Whilst informing the guards of the new plans, she searched inside for details of the beast. Its presence untainted by sunlight, it now carried a mystery that she was, in that moment, overwhelmed with curiosity for.

  “You shall remove it from its leg shackles, and in time release it into the Hunting Woods. Its wings shall be tethered doubly,” she instructed the guards, and turned to leave in the throes of a most heavy distraction. The dragon's eyes pierced through her, matching her gaze with an inhuman glare. The same heartless look she saw in her son. A look that hopefully shall be purged with what should be a most illustrious hunt.

  9

  It was a special morning, a jovial mood usually only seen on birthdays or on Tommamare's Ascent, a holiday acknowledged by all, but celebrated exclusively by those with means to do so. And a special day required a special morning routine. The troubadours harmonised an ambient hum as the breakfast feast was spread lavishly over several tables. But neither of the Pentelli's were in a digestive mood. Lady Pentelli watched her son, hoping by day’s end to light the darkness within him. Lord Pentelli enraptured by visceral thoughts of the hunt. And so as the disenchanted kitchen workers removed the neglected efforts of their toil, the troubadours escalated their pitch to a song of elevation. A fitting theme for the hunter as he prepared his tools.

  When duties were being delegated for the hastily planned affair, a guardsmen found himself with the unenviable task of gathering the weapons. How did one even hunt a creature such as that, he wondered as he spied the array of swords and axes that he initially had amassed. But eventually, after much plundering and bartering in the nearby town, he had purposed i
ndustrial tools and Kingsman-level grades of weaponry. All in all, he was rather proud of his achievements, and watched on as Lord Pentelli observed the deadly spread of items arranged before him, levelling from simple blades and daggers to conventional swords and elongated pikes. A shift of his expression upon completing his inspection however, told him that his preference did not lay here.

  Standing by, the attendants waited as the Lord retreated to his room. The hidden compartment was not particularly well disguised, the floral patterns upon the wall disturbed in a rectangular shape. Removing the concealment, he reached inside, careful to clasp the item by the designated handle indicated by the cloth wraps around the base. The steel tip made a low droning noise as it scraped across the floor.

  It had taken many iterations before the weapon in his hands became realised. He liked the control he held over it. Both hands gripping the base, the single blade lining the top, jagged edges unrefined and brutal in their protrusion. The sweeping hook dangled at the side, affixed by a chain it was cumbersome, but a necessary sacrifice for the simplicity in its execution.

  He had practised the technique numerous times ad nausea. Eventually, when the right moment came, with confident removal of the protective gauntlet from his arms, he struck the cadaver with the blade, swinging the hook as a grisly following. The unsoiled brutal viciousness of the blow was a sensation he had yet to recapture.

  It was his most prized possession. The pride in his craftsmanship, lined with a sentimentality of memory, and now it would be bestowed with an unmatched prestige with its striking at the very heart of evil.

  An involuntary murmur escaped the lips of those that watched the weapon's descent down the staircase. They had seen its silhouette in the forests surrounding the estate, but it was the first time the weapon had seen daylight. And now, in its fully illuminated horror, those aware of its usage bowed their heads to the floor in cowed silence.

  The guards stood posted at the entrance gates to the Pentelli manor were most relived when they saw that day's rota. They knew fleeting details of the event occurring inside the house, but frankly wanted little to do with it. Not many would utter the sentiment aloud, but the Lord Pentelli unnerved the entire staff by default, whilst others would outright claim disturbance by his manner, his speech and his actions.

  The newer of the two had inquired what the other knew of the day's events, but was shushed down in a matter of decorum. Truthfully, he did not dare speculate lest fate intercede and he somehow become part of the ghastly affair.

  And so the two silently stood to attention, keeping an eye on the horizon for the only scheduled guest for the day, the blacksmith who was delivering a prized and most special item necessary for the festivities. The Lady Pentelli had informed the captain of the guard who in turn had informed them. The notes had only mentioned that he was due to arrive by the height of morning, but unlike any person imminent upon the Pentelli perimeter, afternoon was approaching.

  The blacksmith was already running late. The hastily requested and equally hastily fashioned item had taken him through the night. The prototype had failed and consequently a modified version had to be conceived and then executed, even as the morning sun ascended.

  Sleepily he lugged the contraption upon his back, eager to carry out the delivery himself and ensure no ramifications of the Pentelli's wrath should the task be unfulfilled. A decision he was somewhat regretting, as the sweat dripped in liberal quantities from his brow. He sighed wearily, knowing full well the distance remaining on his trek and how he would register each pained footstep along the way. Perhaps he could have hired someone to carry it and walked behind at an unburdened pace, but these thoughts were futile wistfulness, and so instead he consoled himself with thoughts of the fee that had been proposed by the Lady Pentelli's associate.

  But after this distraction was resolved with the more practical decision of spending it upon a repair to his furnace, he instead pondered what the true nature of the contraption served.

  “A most reckless and dangerous horse,” was the reason given by the associate. An explanation delivered with such dry cynicism that implied no further elaboration was to be had.

  He found himself repeating this very answer to the stranger that joined him on the dusty pathway that served as a shortcut to the Pentelli manor.

  “I'm delivering the restraints that are to be used on a most reckless and dangerous horse,” he wheezed, taking the interruption as a sign that he deserved a break from his physical endeavour. The stranger joined him, taking a prolonged sip from his flask, offering it in solidarity to the blacksmith. Replenished, he returned the question, the fellow's purpose in these hills.

  “I am on a search for something very particular. I have committed foul deeds to make it this far. And with the goal so near in sight, I find myself unbound in my efforts.” He stood and drew his sword. The blacksmith tripped as he attempted to scamper free, but Geron stepped in front of the botched escape, stopping the man short.

  “Please, I have no coin,” he began but Geron silenced him with an agitated shush, turning the blade over towards the item. Wrapped in a shroud of tarp, the covering gave way to Geron's slashing, unveiling the iron contraption.

  “Hey now this item, its... its worthless!” the blacksmith begged. “Honestly, it doesn't fit the dimensions of a horse. Regardless of how reckless or dangerous they claim it is.”

  Geron squatted and poked at the looping strands of iron. “If you had to use your imagination, then what could it be used for?”

  The blacksmith's eyes widened at the sudden preposterous line of questioning. He contemplated outright abandoning the item and making for the sanctuary of the town, but the ire of the Pentelli's may be more severe than this stranger was capable of. And thus he played the game. “No such animal resides on that estate. But I have heard tales of strange hunts that occur there.” He glanced at the sword tentatively. “Look, this is under duress so if you work for them that has not factored into what I am saying.”

  Geron apologetically turned the blade away and beckoned for him to continue.

  “The Lord Pentelli, he keeps to himself. Not a public figure for such a public family, but there are people that disappear up there, and those that manage to escape say he is carrying out most dastardly deeds. I think this may be part of it.”

  “So it is for a human then?” Geron asked, eyeing the unusual shape.

  “Hardly, maybe a beast of some kind. A large talon-hawk perhaps, the wingspan could easily be clasped within those hinges there.”

  Geron nodded, he placed the imaginary dragon within the iron frame and found it to be a perfect match. “This hunt... it is happening today?”

  “And so you understand my peril,” the blacksmith laughed uneasily.

  “Indeed I do friend,” Geron spoke as he re-sheathed his sword once more. And with a nod of acknowledgement for the predicament, he disappeared over the horizon of the hill into the thicket of the woodlands.

  The blacksmith waited several moments until he was certain the accosting man would not re-emerge, before lifting himself off the ground and dusting himself down. With both his wares and own self intact, he viewed the interaction now as a source of inconvenience, condemning this strange fellow for wasting his time with no intention to take anything.

  But Geron had scored the exact prize he sought.

  The Pentelli Manor boasts amenities to suit all manner of interests and leisurely pursuits. Those with an appreciation for the fauna of Tallagate could peruse the amassed collection of the garden. The crafted lake was heated by the sun and cleaned meticulously by the staff for a relaxing swim. But despite this wealth of recreational distraction. The dense thicket that bordered the rear of the Manor was where the Lord Pentelli’s attention lay. The forest had always stood as part of the grounds, though if it had not, and bare acres surrounded the Manor, then every tree would be scavenged from across the Kingdom to give the Lord his domain within which to practice his craft.

  The for
est was home to a plethora of wildlife. Insects roamed the grounds, whilst birds jaunted about on the generous treeline above. Thus one could not depend upon sound for tracking their prey. Unless of course they were whimpering a desperate plea, as they often did, a clear and concise trail for the Lord to home in on.

  The trees themselves were Gutberch, characterised by their wide trunks and narrow branches. Climbing to escape was not an option, one had to run for their lives. But the haze of sunlight and mortal fear often threw the pursuit into chaos, running in circles until they were at last captured.

  A confusion that the special guards, assigned to parallel the hunt, were currently experiencing. They had plenty of time to take their posts, the delay in securing the dragon with the special harness had left them to their own devices. The serenity of the forest had grown wearisome, now boredom and apprehension trickled upon their nerves.

  “Did ye hear that?” one asked, sitting up from beneath his resting nook.

  “Hear what?” was the unanimous answer. Agitation at the delay, and uncertainty to the nature of their deed was putting them all on edge. Should the Lord Pentelli be endangered in his hunt they were to come to the rescue, whilst also simultaneously keeping the Lord unaware of their presence. It was a delicate operation with much room for error, but the Lady Pentelli had insisted most ferociously that they accomplish it. It was an unsettling sight to see her usual composed manner tinged with unfettered anxiety.

  Now they knew where he got it from, one joked with constraint.

  Discussions of revised pay were on the minds of the guards that ushered the dragon from the stables.

  Keeping the great beast at bay with lengthened pikes, the futility of their weapons was realised when one inadvertent jab resulted in the beast chomping the wooden-handled weapon in twain.