The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  The farmers laughing merrily as if their display was nothing boast-worthy. The mare placidly moped about the enclosure. No more ferocious than its peers that nonchalantly gnawed upon the bare field, it was stripped of its daunting presence.

  Preparations began for transport. Geron watched as a large carriage trundled over the uneven landscape. Kingsmen ordered about by the Beastslaying Elite, reduced to humble labourers as they stood about analysing how best to heave the gargantuan beast up onto the carriage platform.

  A figure arrived on horseback, supervising the affair with impunity, her presence seemed to have a greater effect on the Beastslaying Elite than the dragon did. It was a regally affiliated attire, but Geron did not recognise the uniform. A fashion unto itself, most of all, the decadently indulgent feathered hat, which sat atop the daunting individual like an ornate decoration.

  Dismounting, she approached the writhing struggle. Even under the better part of incapacitation, the dragon was still resisting the efforts of the Kingsmen, whilst the Beastslaying Elite ordered positions and rhythms for movement. So engrossed were they with the considerable burden, that none noticed the emerging platoon of armed guards from the woodlands, until all stood, almost face-to-face, weapons drawn.

  No melee ensued, rather the private army parted as the Lady Pentelli calmly strode to the front of the congregation. She nodded at the captain of the guard, who raised his sword in symbolic defiance.

  “You are trespassing upon the lands of the Pentelli estate!” he barked, a rabid dog kept on the leash of his master, who glared at the opposing gathering with fury a limited few had the displeasure of bearing the brunt of.

  The Baronet removed her elegant hat, a display of temporary reverence for it was donned just as quickly once more. “I am no member of the cartographers guild, yet I know these plains are King's country. Your borders cease emphatically at that tree-line.”

  Lady Pentelli's reserve was tested. “I recognise the brave souls of the Beastslaying Elite and the proud regiment of Kingsmen, all attending to my property I may add, yet I do not recognise you.”

  “Unlike most, I do not revel in the pomp of society. I am the Baronet of King Lornus,” she said plainly, and added no further details for that usually was significant enough for satisfaction.

  The Lady Pentelli however was audacious in this decree of titles. And thus answered back with a proud declaration of her own position. It may have lacked formal recognition, but carried in relevance through traditional networks. (And some would say that such an influence bore more impact.) She knew power at levels unseen only to the monarch. Yet, so too did the Baronet enjoy the liberation of unimpeded jurisdiction, weaving her way through the undergrowth of society, cutting aside with impunity. Neither were capable of admitting retreat and neither knew the bitter taste of admonishment, thus the uncharted territory of the other's imposed authority was throwing each from their usual routine.

  Equally, the Beastslaying Elite troupe were aware of the unflinching stand-off. The Baronet had acquired their loyalty through royal orders, but the Pentelli family was an institution just as powerful as their own. They, along with the Kingsmen, stood by, all distracting themselves with the convenient task of keeping the dragon grounded. Although none would complain if the matter was resolved in a timely fashion for each could feel the growing strain of the beast unrelenting against their ever-weary extremities. The effects of Torpor's Kiss were not overtly extended and time was of the essence.

  “Your 'property,' yes?” The Baronet gestured towards the dragon. “I am certain a lady as influential as you would be aware of the decrees passed by our King. And as such the protection and fostering of beasts, even one so rare as this, is a direct affront to the crown!”

  It was a strong opening salvo, and the Baronet was certain it was a match-winning point. The Lady Pentelli smiled with a confidence that irritated the Baronet, for the Lady knew that the logistical order of things placed her at an insurmountable disadvantage, yet she had faced dilemmas more pressing than this before and emerged the clear winner. This would be no different.

  “But of course. I am a very close confidant of the great King Lornus the Wise. I advised him in the formulation of the Beast Decree. And spent many evenings discussing the thematic ramifications of Tommamare's Creed.” She paused with deliberation, the Baronet went to speak, yet Lady Pentelli continued unabashed. “And thus, I know how greatly Lornus places the values of the Creed, so when a dragon appeared in our fair Kingdom, who but my son would be the one to capture it, to present to the King directly as a display of fealty and respect?”

  Standing by in a state of wounded withdrawal and confusion, Lord Pentelli could neither confirm nor deny this, but the Baronet knew that she had been matched. Which was a defeat in and of itself. “Then the Beastslaying Elite shall share in this glory,” she replied. “And will accompany you to the Royal City.”

  With elegant articulation and sufficient humility, the Lady Pentelli agreed. And when word spread throughout the Kingdom of a dragon captured, most picked up their long-neglected copies of Tommamare's Creed, some celebrated the King for protecting the realm from true evil, whilst others, towards the western realm of Tallagate lamented the fleeting novelty that the great beast had brought in passing through their town.

  10

  Those in the Royal City of Hybrawn were used to the finer things in life. In the Noble Quarters, influence and connection ensured that even in Tallagate's most pressing times, the aghast of impoverishment was deflected back onto the lower classes. Whilst in the Worker's District, as it had been so affectionately dubbed by the supposed superiors, those that toiled at their better’s behest also enjoyed a level of finery unseen in the regional towns and cities across the Kingdom.

  The Royal City did not always go by that name. For in fact, for several generations, the monarch had resided in Eibyrd for a habitational timespan of several hundred years. It was not until the economic overhaul that transformed Hybrawn from a fledgling mining town into a colossal city with its own micro-infrastructure, that King Leopold looked on enviously. With haste, construction began on the erection of the Palace that would lord over the new Royal City.

  Thus the structure of Hybrawn was a haphazard confusing navigation to anyone unfamiliar with the layout. Natural navigational instincts were thwarted by the development of the societies within the Royal City. The elite ostracising themselves into a huddle to maintain proximity to the palace, whilst nobles wanting to enjoy space to flaunt their privilege found themselves on the outskirts of the city, encircled by the lower classes on all sides.

  Through the centre of this muddle however, lay the Parade Lane. Formerly a major trade route, usurped now to serve as the display of pageantry for the King's comings and goings, as well as official tours of celebration.

  Although lately, there was little in the way of spectacle on the designated space. Attempts at turning the lane into a market were promptly thwarted both in formal legislation and later by rampaging Kingsmen.

  And so Parade Lane remained barren of any jubilance, for truthfully there was nothing for the Royal City, nor even Tallagate as a whole, to celebrate. Even the Annual Hunt, in which Lornus had sat atop a most pristine carriage upon which slumped the carcass of a boar, (not the most vicious of beast but symbolic in its kin's responsibility for his father's death), drew little in the way of clamour.

  Rather, the most rousing incident that day was the arrest of a citizen who attended the meagre affair to hurl taunts and insults at the King, topped with the uttering of his unofficial slang-title.

  Therefore, little heed was paid at the declaration of a parade to occur at noon later that day. Though some did make a note to attend, curiosity piqued at what could possibly warrant such a public display. Feelers were sent out to those in the employ of the palace. The structure of the Royal City ensured that information spread quickly. The lifted remarks, transferred and swapped, elaborated and denied, eventually formed into one un-contradicted
truth. That in the dead of night, the Beastslaying Elite had arrived in convoy, accompanied by the Baronet herself, bringing with them something kept under heavy guard. This circle of truth was expanded upon with prongs of speculation. The Arconan Queen Raim's captured was the prize accusation.

  Nevertheless, when noon approached, those citizens who attended out of blind loyalty were accompanied by the passive curious (who resided in the Royal City for mere financial reasons.) A mass of shuffling feet trying to keep warm on a most chilly afternoon.

  Firstly, the Kingsmen emerged. A mere formality, keeping the public in line. Then the Knights, proud in their armour, lined the streets. The start of the parade had commenced. Initial carriages carrying the upper nobles were met with tuts and little else in the way of acclaim, yet it was what regulation called for. Eventually, the Royal carriage emerged through the gates. Necks strained to see who was sat alongside Lornus.

  Those hoping for a captured Queen were instead disappointed to see their own matriarch sat equipped with a distant-stare, acknowledging the crowd with little aplomb.

  The Knights broke formation, encircling the carriage as Lornus emerged from within. A murmur rippled through the crowd at this break of tradition. After awkwardly, but eventually successfully, clambering atop his carriage, Lornus raised his arms to the crowd, demanding a silence that had already arrived.

  “Tommamare's Creed has declared which beasts that roam our land are unnatural and should be purged from our great Kingdom. The Kingsmen, my loyal subjects and those within the specially crafted Beastslaying Elite have already began this great cleansing. Their efforts have been magnanimous, for we have already banished several of the decried beasts. And though this struggle may be long, there is hope. As you know, my family was stricken with the tragedy of beasts, a tragedy that many have shared. But I have persevered in spite of this to bring you hope. That like the great hero in Tommamare's Creed, who slayed the almighty dragon and brought peace to the realm, I too have captured the harbinger of evil. For, in the heart of the palace, under guard of the Beastslaying Elite, rests none other than… a dragon! And in three days’ time, the anniversary of my decree, there shall be a ceremony for the execution of this last dragon!”

  It was not the rapturous applause that Lornus had envisioned. But he was content to let the news simmer among those gathered. Truthfully, very few had correctly predicted the mystery guest at the Palace, whilst simultaneously, smug boasts were denied by cynicism and disbelief.

  “Pfft, a dragon? Probably stuck some wings on a talon-hawk.”

  “Aye, takin' us for fools.”

  Several more surprisingly similar exchanges occurred in the dispersing crowd, although some were countered with loyalists who made strong accusations of those that doubted the King's word, giving the shiftless Kingsmen something to do.

  The Inn was surprisingly decrepit despite the proximity to the Royal Sector. The last vestige of commonality before the lavish sweepings of planted Honeyroot trees and an altogether more refined sense of fashion and posture became the norm.

  His tankard, cleaned by previous usage through spittle and thumb-prints, lay bubbling before him. But for once, its contents were not Geron's primary concern. The hubbub inside the Inn was all on the same frequency. The Dragon. Little else had been talked about throughout the Royal City, apart from the more noble classes, where the latest social faux pas distracted the aristocracy from the growing hostilities within Hybrawn's class rift.

  Such hostilities were precisely Geron's aim. He had heard little of their existence, often dismissed as lazy eccentrics or violent extremists. Though if the Insurgency had to describe themselves, they would likely bashfully admit that their ethos lay somewhere in the middle.

  Lornus was a stickler for loyalty. The newly crafted position of the Baronet was the manifestation of that desire. Treasonous thoughts could be outlawed if possible, and thus outright discussion on the matter was driven deep underground. But if one thing was universal throughout all of Tallagate, it was that the local Inn was the starting point for any business venture or illegal enterprise.

  Plausible deniability, it was a skill-set developed within his time in the Spider’s Legs. Seeking contacts was cloak and dagger. Nods, winks and whispers. The whole matter would be so much simpler with directly displayed intentions, but Geron knew he had to play the game. Fortunately, he also knew the rules.

  The patrons were a haphazard assembly of the usual characters that would frequent such an establishment. None possessing any charm, nor a welcoming friendly starting point for his search. But each could be conveniently placed within their own little category and be dismissed in such fashion. First, was the drunkards. Tell-tale signs and smells eliminated their candidacy. Often a contact would disguise themselves as a vagrant to blend in with the environment, seen only to those who were looking closely. But no such subterfuge was present today.

  Next were those to which he would classify his own self. It was perhaps an unfavourable term, but Geron did not hold any such false claims of self-importance or dignity. Characterised by their watching of everything and everyone, they too were on the hunt for opportunity. Tailing their leads would often lead to something interesting, but Geron was in no mood for a spontaneous adventure today.

  Lastly, there were those who did not want to be seen. Overtly minding their own business, it could easily be mistaken for disturbing someone seeking solitude. But there was always a tell, something off about the isolation.

  Geron spotted it.

  The corner table. Seated with her back placed against the wall, a vacant chair opposite. She could not be ambushed, nor were conversations subject to eavesdropping, whether deliberate or innocent. The signs all added up. He grabbed his tankard and sauntered over.

  A most significant frown greeted his uninvited claiming of the chair opposite.

  “I'm sorry, was someone sitting here?” he asked amiably.

  She shook her head. “No, and that was the way I liked it.”

  He chuckled and took a deliberate sip from the tankard. The intention was to maintain eye-contact and establish an unspoken bond, but the ritualistic greeting was interrupted by his grimacing at the warm, stale ale.

  “Not used to Royal City Brew?” she smirked.

  Geron wiped the residue from his lips and shook his head. “For the capital city of Tallagate, one would think they would at least have something more palatable than this swill.”

  “Not from around here then?”

  “Rivermouth.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I think I've heard of it, though its modest standing is probably one of the benefits in being out of proximity to the Kingsmen.”

  “Oh we still get the occasional Blackshirt passing through.”

  Her eyebrow cocked at the slur. He had played the correct note. Either that, or set himself up for a treasonous conclusion.

  But Geron knew she would not lay her cards on the table so readily. Instead, she asked of his business in the capital. His prepared answer of being a roguish traveller, seeking adventure and infamy, was not well received.

  He grabbed her arm as she stood to leave. Snatching herself free from his grasp, he apologised and gestured for her to sit once more.

  “If I'm seeming facetious, it is because I do not have time for all this cat and mouse secrecy.”

  She rolled her eyes and made to leave again, stopping to make certain he understood that the conversation had hit a dead end. “Look, we get a lot of people like you rolling into Hybrawn. Ex-military types. Angry and desperate for some strike at the Sonkiller.” She chastised herself, glancing around at the ears present. All went about their drinking, indifferent. “But those poor fools usually end up being carted off by the Kingsmen. Or worse...”

  “Worse?” questioned Geron, clearly not heeding the warning.

  “No-one knows her name. Just the uniform. She is the Baronet. A special officer of the Knight's Order. She has one purpose, enforcing the King's will, by force of
the blade. I have seen her cut down even Kingsmen. No-one is safe from her wrath. No-one.”

  “Sounds like a lovely girl, hopefully I get to meet her...” he lost his train of thought for a moment, remembering the confrontation outside the Pentelli woodlands. Her unspoken prestige and sovereignty carried a magnitude unlike any. “But like I said, I have no time for coy stratagem, nor am I on some vengeful quest to make amends for this-” he tapped his left shoulder slowly. “What I need is allies and information. At least one of which I know you can provide.”

  She nodded and rapped her knuckles on the table thoughtfully. Upon the fourth knock, she rose, instructing him to follow at a distance.

  Geron agreed, downing the last of the ale, a decision he immediately regretted and ambled out of the Inn, watching her directions very carefully.

  The tailing concluded after several street's worth of subtle walking. Whilst trying to guess where the Insurgents could be hiding, Geron was rather disappointed to see her enter a ramshackle house no different to the rest of the buildings that lined the district's streets. Aside from some idle conversation between several small groups of people, the street was clear of Kingsmen nor any Baronet. Confidently, Geron proceeded to enter the designated house.

  He initially concluded that it was dark inside, a secondary finding that said darkness was artificial came soon after, but the implications of the conditions did not strike Geron quick enough. The figure lying in wait behind the doorway beat him to it.

  “Again,” he heard a voice say. Wanting to object to the command, Geron went to speak but the fist that caught him on the chin silenced him rather effectively.

  Upon awakening from his imposed stupor, Geron was pleased to find all extremities remaining intact. However, the impending danger was just as threatening as any presupposed action. All eyes were upon him, an audience that awaited an explanation. But when he attempted to give one, the man sat opposite immediately barked at him to be silent.