The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  Troubadours serenaded their efforts with a melody originally penned to honour great warriors. The theme was appreciated. Though the greatest warrior of the day had yet to emerge from the Manor.

  There had been so many hunts before, some formal, most casual, why now was he stricken with a nervous disposition?

  The Lady Pentelli ignored the weapon propped by her son’s bedroom door, bypassing the ugly tool to approach her frantically pacing son.

  “Grace, the staff are waiting-”

  “I care not if they all burn and crisp in the fires of damnation. The staff!”

  The Lady Pentelli could tell by his frenzied words and actions that her son was slightly upset.

  He had not considered the embarrassment the attention of the day’s deeds brought upon him. He enjoyed the anonymity of stalking the woods unperturbed. The fear and secrecy. Now it was unveiled. Exposed to those he would sooner have at the mercy of his weapon than celebrate him.

  “This is a special day,” she whispered soothingly.

  “I know,” he whimpered, for that in itself was the issue.

  “For many reasons. You are special Grace; your title alone ensures that. But what makes a person great is not only their name, but their actions. I am aware-” she caught herself straying from her pre-planned speech. “There is an affliction burdening you Grace. What has been festering in the dark, we will bring to the light. And purge it!”

  “The dragon?” he asked, confused.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “a necessary sacrifice,”

  She took his hand gently; it ceased its tremble.

  The workers were unsure what to do next as they stiffly ceased their applause. The Lord giving them all a lumbering wave of humility as he stomped into the midst of the forest. Some gathered to gossip of the great beast, the panic its revelation caused, servitude subdued. Others ploddingly resumed their now apparently inconsequential tasks. Yet all held onto the hope that perhaps the Lord would not return. So beguiled were all in their reflections, that none spotted the unassigned and unfamiliar figure that clambered over the adjacent wall, tumbling unceremoniously into the bushes.

  He lay there, expecting resistance to his bungled entry, but when none arrived, Geron counted his blessings and tried to make up lost ground to the already in-progress hunt.

  Away from judgemental eyes, Lord Pentelli could feel his anxiety quell. He was in his element once more, and for the first time since his mother had proposed this game, he found himself beginning to enjoy it.

  The weapon trailed at his feet catching weeds and moss, the grasp of the fauna failing immediately to the numerous acute edges.

  “Where is the damned thing?” he hissed aloud. One would think a beast so grand would be a straightforward target.

  His concealed assigned aides agreed, knowing the beast was several strides ahead of the lurking Lord. They sighed in frustration, knowing it was going to be an arduous endeavour.

  “Probably couldn't see the thing if it were right in front of him...” one of the guards jested, but received no response from the others. “Haughty loyalists,” he tutted, knowing his joke was amusing. And truthfully it was, yet the closest within hearing range was somewhat disposed by the clean strike to the back of his head levied by an unseen figure who was now making dainty haste toward the caterer of humour.

  Lord Pentelli strained his neck at the muffled commotion. “Impossible,” he thought, his brow furrowed, “the dragon would be north.” No doubt his mother had sent someone into the woods to assist. Futile. He alone would be the hero of the day. Incompetent fools were making something of a din too, thwarting his keen hunting skills.

  The racket ceased. Geron released his grip from the guard's neck. The ambush had failed, the conflict strenuous and, notably, more elongated than he had planned. He had only spotted these two guards and was uncertain how many more lay awaiting. The answer was but a solitary one more, who, at that moment was pondering continuing his shadowing of the Lord, or investigate the disturbance that lay beyond the concealing tree-trunks.

  Ignoring the incurred injury, for if it were not slowing him down, it could wait for a more prudent time to be ascertained, Geron swiftly moved forward, trying to flank any remaining threat between himself and the dragon.

  On the horizon a divergence in the trees spread, and for a brief fleeting moment, Geron spotted the Lord Pentelli moving between. He had just enough time to register the alarming weapon he was carrying, when a twig snapped in his peripheral. The volume of which told Geron he had but a small window to brace himself for the inbound strike.

  Instinctively flinching saved Geron's life. For the raised sword deflected the guard's precise thrust. Unfortunately, the impact ricocheted through the steel blade quite significantly, jettisoning the weapon from his grasp.

  The woodland floor was uneven, laden with rocks, moss and errant branches; thus the guard required a significant re-step to position himself back on the offensive. It was just enough time that Geron needed, whose approach cared not for any subtle and deft footwork as he heaved himself forward into the midsection of the guard. The ground welcomed them both with a heavy thud. Yet Geron found himself the victim of his own enthusiasm as they both rolled over, positioning himself underneath. Dazed, the guard did not immediately capitalise on the advantage, but his wits promptly returned, throttling Geron with his entire body weight.

  Attempts to free himself proved to be in vain. He was outmatched physically. Prising the fingers away from his throat was a trivial task, as no sooner had he undone the grip, the guard had reapplied the lethal grasp. He had no time to pursue this avenue further, as the burning of his lungs helpfully pointed out. Senses dulling, Geron could hear the wheezing of the guard, the soft bed of leaves his draping hand collapsed into. His knuckles rapped something solid, his fingertips tracing over the carved hilt of a sword. Whether it was his own or the guard’s he cared not to investigate, rather he inched his fingers over the handle, raising it feebly towards the face of his attacker.

  The guard could see something encroach his vision, the blurry shape took on a physical form as it impishly poked at the side of his face, he tried to lean away from the threat, briefly loosening his grip. A minute, yet precious intake of air was all Geron needed, pressing the sword further into the face of the guard. The raised screams told Geron his estimated aim was accurate, the clasp on his throat weakened for a moment, but suddenly raised in intensity. It was a matter of endurance for both parties now. Geron pressed his grip on the handle of the sword further, feeling soft resistance to the blade's journey. The warm dribble of blood trickled onto his face amply, creeping up his nose. With one last twist of his wrist, the sword completed its odyssey, the guard went suddenly limp.

  Swatting the wilted hands away from his neck, Geron rolled over, inhaling with an urgent desperation. The cough was hacking and unrelenting, spitting blood from his lips he lay on the woodland floor, waiting for the debilitating dizziness to pass.

  Only the Lord Pentelli and that horrific monstrosity of a weapon lay in the path to the dragon. They circled, each eyeing the other’s capabilities. Geron felt most inferior. The sword twirled in his palm. Only a couple of playful demonstrations. (As he found that the sword would oft slip from his grip should he press the trick further.) The Lord Pentelli was unmoved, understandably so for the ghastly bladed assembly in his grip needed no demonstrations of prowess to underline its ferocity. Geron felt his teeth scrape as he unclenched his jaw. The Lord Pentelli was not humble in this early psychological victory.

  “I am going to gut you,” he said, most plainly.

  “You'll understand if I object to such an effort,” Geron said, sneaking a glance at the surroundings, no tactical advantage presented itself.

  “I am going to disembowel you with this blade, and then I shall tear your skin asunder with this hook. And all the while you shall be screaming. Screams so joyous. And then I shall purge the great evil. Your bloods shall be entwined upon my blade. In so y
ou-”

  The Lord Pentelli gasped, he had only taken his eyes off this degenerate for a moment to bask in the rays of the sun as he completed his grand speech. That surely was not sufficient time to lose the fray. And it wasn't. Estimating his chance at survival, Geron gambled for a single shot.

  Glancing down, The Lord was surprised to see the hilt of Geron's sword protruding from his shoulder. Whispering a curse, Geron braced himself for reprisal. He had aimed for the mortality threatening realm of the neck, but all-in-all, a passing neutral observer would still classify it as a relatively impressive and accurate landing.

  The Lord Pentelli staggered, dubiously debating whether to detach the weapon from his person. It would take skill outside his measure, and luck beyond his fate to outmatch his opponent now. Geron would have to tackle this defensively and so he rooted himself to the spot, awaiting his foe’s counterstrike. Steely determination upon his face was matched by his opponent. The Lord Pentelli’s lips pursed, his eyes creasing as tears dripped freely.

  Turning tail, the Lord bolted, fleeing toward the Manor. The weapon clanging awkwardly against the trees as he ran past.

  “That was a free fortune,” Geron sighed, watching the tragically comic sight, though somewhat lamenting the loss of his weapon.

  Unimpeded, Geron pursued the dragon, the psychopathic Pentelli heir was no doubt amassing a regrouping, and thus time was not something to be taken in leisure.

  So frantic was Geron's pace that he almost passed the beast as it rested idly amid a comfortable collection of bushes.

  Both were startled. The dragon rose, bounding upright.

  “Hey there, friend,” Geron spoke gently.

  The dragon recoiled to his touch, its instincts were ablaze in heightened preservation and incited vengeance.

  Geron recalled this sensation before, of vulnerability. He was far from fearless, and but few humans could unnerve him in a fight, however, at this moment he knew that the dragon could kill him in mere seconds and he would be powerless to prevent it.

  The dragon lunged forward, stopping mere inches from Geron's rigid stance. He could feel the hurtling warmth of the beast’s breath rain over him. Gently, and with a deliberate ease he gradually inched the medallion to his lips. The dragon's eyes moved in intense flickers, darting to and fro from the depths of the thicket and back to Geron, before the gentle call of the medallion ceased the erratic movements most suddenly.

  The dragon inched upwards upon his hind legs, glancing down upon the quite prone Geron. The confrontation eased and the dragon inched closer, this time in a curious nudging. Geron felt foolish, his eyes burning and the uneven shuddering of his breath. There was no time for this sentimentality, he admonished himself, the gap between those in pursuit had no doubt closed further.

  The harness was structurally sound and would not give way to the limited physical interactions that Geron imposed upon it. He had to give kudos to that blacksmith, for even working in mystery, he had indeed achieved exactly that the Pentelli's had requested. Nevertheless, now he wished he had asked him what the means of removing it were. There was no doubt some sort of key to release the mechanism, but Geron knew that the solution was to be somewhat more brash.

  The Pentelli Estate had a walled enclosure in the residential area, but as the land grew wilder, they relied upon the natural density of the thicket to provide a barrier between them and the outside world. Geron knew it was a hefty trek, but unimpeded freedom lay beyond these woods.

  Voices sounded from the direction of the Manor. Adversaries were inbound. Spurred, the two began their dash to liberation.

  The raucous increased in volume behind him. It was no longer an individual hunt, but a gathered party on their trail. The flippant path of destruction that the dragon left in their wake providing the clear indication where to follow. Geron knew that it would be impossible to lose them within the woodlands, they would just have to outlast until they could emerge on the other side.

  Relying solely on his memory of the surrounding area, he knew that a lake was on the other side, amongst a small mountainous terrain. Not the best in concealing cover, but should provide enough cracks to slip into and give their pursuers the slip.

  He could see the uninterrupted landscape coming into view, trees giving way to more trees eventually revealing the pleasant rolling green hills of the other side. Vigour renewed, he increased his speed, the dragon smashing through trees and bushes alike until at last, they emerged into the welcoming open plains beyond.

  A dozen tactics danced in Geron's mind. Some deft, others brazen, each offering their own tantalising prospects of escape, with equal warning of the consequence of capture.

  The terrain offered little in the way of assistance. A sprawling majesty of hills was all very well and good for someone with an appreciation of the lofty aesthetics of scenery, but for an escape route it proved vulnerable and exposed.

  It is a disconcerting feeling to fall unwillingly, an elated panic at a misstep of a rung upon a ladder or a drunken stumble in an alleyway. However, in cases such as these the stimulus for the plunge is often a remedy to the panic. But Geron could not, (in the minute moments before the ground welcomed his crumpled landing) ascertain just how his body could have been so recklessly jettisoned. It was as if he had been detached from his own reality. His ears throbbed with a pounding flutter. His eyes rendered momentarily useless as they struggled to offset the sudden glare of the dozen suns that had descended upon them.

  Geron's misfortune did not cease however, for his off-course journey had taken him over the ridge of a nearby hill. Downward he descended, at the mercy of every stick and stone protrusion the ground offered.

  It had been an entirely bewildering experience. But no sooner than Geron tried to investigate, he found himself seeking shelter from a sudden rainfall. It was no blanketing of water, instead thick brown droplets dripped off his skin. The sky was showering dirt.

  “Has the world turned mad!” Geron thought, as he shielded his eyes to observe this phenomena. However, no sooner than it had started, the downpour stopped. Geron looked to his feet, the speckles of dirt lined his clothing amid patches of grass and heated mounds of clay. It was no supernatural occurrence, he had seen this device before, during the war. Cannonfire, they had called it. A substance that when introduced to fire produced a most veritable destructive element.

  Reaching the summit of the hill was no easy feat. The landing had impaired his right leg to the point where his left was burdened solely with the task of supporting his weight.

  A bustle was occurring where he had been so rudely disposed. The dragon was made of sterner stuff than he, but Geron was still concerned to its safety and to a lesser extent that of those responsible for all this grievance.

  His ears still emitted a high-pitched ringing that made it most difficult to focus on what was being said, yet nevertheless, voices were definitely emanating from above. Precise orders belted in a brisk monotone.

  As his head peeked over the edge, previewing what awaiting above, Geron froze, his fingertips clawed, buried deep into the soft soil.

  A dozen figures were swarming. They were like spectres moving through the physical realm. Draped head to toe in a darkened taut fabric that covered even their faces, the Beastslaying Elite moved with a precision seen only in an intricately rehearsed dance.

  A blackened circle was scorched into the earth, this was no implement of war., they had weaponised the substance into the very ground itself. A most devious trap!

  The dragon was at the centre of the ambush, the harness preventing it from flight. It roared with fierce intimidation at the flocking group who paid this no heed.

  Three lines formed. At the forefront, wielding pikes they stood their ground meeting the lunging dragon with firm deflections. Unlike others that tried to herd the beast, no dread was exhibited. Capable of flanking the beast in its efforts at breaking through, they co-ordinated a precise rhythm, whilst the second line moved forward, each unpacking a st
rew of instruments they carried upon their back. The correlative collection assembled through a defined process was activated, a wide wingspan of stitched and tangled material flew forth, the bulk of which landed upon the confused dragon, addling it further.

  Seeing the fruits of their efforts bear a knotted mass of rope, the second line dashed forward, in the shadow of the first line blockade, taking forth the web and encompassing the beast with the entire assemblage.

  The dragon thrashed against the rising obstacles, but the first row fended off the efforts, whilst the second kept the beast static. The third line moved forward, less urgency was registered in their actions, instead they approached with a finesse of respect and trepidation. One took a knee, raising a bow to cover the other two as they approached. Each held a rounded flask. Orders were given again, the figures charged with holding the beast steady strained against the uncooperative dragon.

  One of the flask-bearers made their move, drawing the attention of the dragon, its neck craned snarling this affront, prompting the other to move parallel. The dragon cared not who approached and instead sniped its jaws at whomever was closest. A nimble dodge evaded certain doom for the targeted, whilst the flask-bearer moved in for the culmination of their combined efforts, an accurate toss of the flask containing a potent dose of Torpor's Kiss. Perhaps the Beastslaying Elite's techniques was where Karvel learned that trick.

  The concoction was almost immediate, the dragon feinting before succumbing to the drowsiness.

  The Beastslaying Elite remained rigid in stance until one of their ranks confirmed the dragon posed no more immediate threat.

  Geron remained silent, transfixed by what he had witnessed. He had seen a similar sight once before, years ago in Rivermouth when a stubborn mare required three deft hands in wrangling it back into the fold. Geron had watched as this stout and awe-inspiring animal was countered with improvised wits and learned experience.