The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  Were he ever to tell this tale, he would no doubt amend the fact that his evasion of the hurtling giant was due to a reactionary cowering and not a nimble parry.

  Regardless of the heroics, Geron ducked, planting his rear to the floor. The Keymaster, with outstretched arms finding nowt but empty space and intangible air, hurtled forward, his head colliding into the cell wall with a wet thump.

  To the Keymaster's credit, the wall too looked like it had taken the worst of the exchange.

  The serving tunic was ruined, tears both micro and major lined the surface amidst evidence of scuffles aplenty. He looked down at the downed Keymaster's attire, his jurisdiction was only in the Penal Dungeons but it made more sense than to wander about in a tainted uniform.

  The hefty black shirt, draped over Geron like a wedding dress. He glanced mournfully at the Keymaster's flowing belly and tree-trunk like limbs, before swimming his way free of the clothing once more.

  It would have drawn more attention than if he were stark naked, Geron mused, choosing the lesser of two evils.

  A quick glance out of the main passageway to the Penal Dungeon confirmed that the coast was clear. He had lost precious time to his incarceration, Geron hoped he was not too late.

  The Palace grounds were unnervingly quiet. A vast difference to his arrival that morning. The bodies likely swarmed towards the Ceremony grounds. Anger re-ignited within him once more, but Geron knew a plan had to be fashioned, or not just the dragon would perish that day. But such a shrewd strategy was not immediately forthcoming.

  The doors to the Palace lay open, an invitation. Perhaps an elevated viewpoint would inspire a course of action. Slipping inside, Geron's jaw was agape at the lavish décor that lined every surface. The polished marble beneath his feet, impossibly smooth. Ornaments and trinkets of gold and precious stone adorned both table and walls. Overhead, a single substantially vast jewel hung on display, as if snatched from the deepest facets of the world’s inner core.

  The Sonkiller was surviving Tallagate's suppression well, Geron grumbled to himself as he made for the winding staircase that led to the upper floors.

  The evident lack of any significant presence within the Palace was making Geron careless, and thus when he turned the corner and bumped headlong into the figure that was travelling at haste in the opposite direction, he was just as dumbfounded as the portly man he had tumbled over.

  Poised to enact a plan that would begin the official unravelling of any semblance of order in the rescue, Geron was surprised to instead be on the receiving end of some heartfelt and profound apologies.

  “My word, I am lost, you see,” the man explained. “I was designated a room for lodging and refreshments and well, when the time came to be retrieved for the practice, my guide was called away on some other task and goodness, I have been wandering these halls for several minutes now.”

  He was wearing garments not dissimilar to those worn by the preachers he had encountered in the towns and cities across Tallagate. But there was something more garish about the robe. Though the man too shared an observation for fashion, casting an acute glance at Geron's frayed uniform.

  “Have you just come from the Ceremonial preparations?” he asked, waving his fingers and the disturbed materials. “I was told the beast was to be most securely restrained.”

  Completing the mental arithmetic, Geron placed the man, and his purpose.

  “Then you must be the Pontiff Cade,” Geron smiled. He had only heard the stories. Legendary accolades of the council responsible for the establishment of the Preacher Order. The simple few figures who had formalised Tommamare's Creed into a tangible practice, enforced by Royal law. And yet here one stood, unattended, and significantly less mythical than the epic legacy had entailed.

  “Not my first time at the Palace, but alas I must confess, I am not normally left to my own devices here among the residential suites.”

  The opportunity was tantalising, yet fleeting. Geron needed to act.

  “The preparations are complete Pontiff Cade. You are needed at the Ceremonial grounds at once,” Geron said, adopting the servants poise once more, as he inched closer to the door that stood beside them. It opened unopposed; a plush waiting room lay within.

  “Say now, we could practically be twins,” Geron gently smiled, eyeing the Pontiff's figure.

  The billowing flaps of the robe proved even more cumbersome when Geron exited the Palace into the soft breeze that entangled the surplus material betwixt his limbs. It was a most cunning disguise but yet still one that bore much perusal, and so Geron did not rest on his laurels, keeping as low a profile as one could in a distinct silken maroon robe. It was impossible to tell where one truly resided within the fabric, a small favour in maintaining illusion and deferring questions.

  However, no matter how inconspicuous Geron maintained his pace, the approaching Knight was on a straight course toward him.

  “Pontiff, your Grace is requested at once,” the Knight spoke humbly, full of reverence. It was most unnerving.

  “Ah, of course,” Geron piped up, “the dragon-killing awaits.”

  The Knight bowed slightly, a formality. “Almost, your Grace, but firstly King Lornus requests your presence.”

  “King Lornus...” Geron repeated with no other inquiry, to which the Knight simply confirmed, instructing the way forward.

  It was a surreal journey to venture undeterred into the very bowels of the Palace. At any moment Geron expected to be seized by a barrage of Knights or to meet his end suddenly and quickly at the receiving end of their ornate spears. But at each junction, the Knights uncrossed their way-barring weapons, allowing passage with reverence. Past the receiving lobby they travelled, where idle nobles lounged with melancholic draping, unfettered by the cares of Tallagate, merely their own trappings. Onward, through the inner chambers, as dignitaries whom shared the King's passions, stepped aside at the presence of the Pontiff, whilst those who bore resentment and cynicism at the obsession, exposed their allegiances with a nonplussed glare.

  The deeper the venture into the palace's interior they ventured, the quieter the ambiance became, a disconnection from the outside world. Lost to the winding enclosure of the lavish wall coverings and glowering portraits. All that remained was the clanking footsteps of his escort and the low, gentle flickering of the candles, lighting their way.

  The Knight ceased his pace suddenly, stepping to the side. At first, Geron assumed that they had arrived at their destination, but instead he was surprised to see the Knight giving significant way to the figure travelling in the opposite direction. The steel plates of the Knight's armour pressed so hard against the wall's surface, Geron could see the small scrapings of loosened debris from the wooden panels.

  The figure gracefully acknowledged the newly freed passageway. But now a new challenger emerged. Though the battle of wills as to whom could lay claim to being the highest-ranking affiliate of the crown was immediately indicated by Geron's unassuredness. A trait that the real Pontiff would have found appalling.

  The Baronet did not seem to mind and passed by graciously, showing her respect with a simple tap of her elegant feather-lined hat.

  Throughout this entire journey, the end of which now lay ahead through a clear indication of décor and a sudden swell of attending Knights and High-Kingsmen, Geron was desperately seeking a detour, an opportunity to escape the linear path he walked. But each time the opportunity teased; execution was banished by the presence of accusing eyes. The rouse had inexplicably maintained thus far, its breaking point was surely at hand as he unwillingly shuffled across the threshold, into the inner throne room.

  His arrival was heralded by several eyes immediately turning toward him. And among them, at the very centre, stood the Sonkiller himself.

  12

  Lornus paced toward him, a deliberate interception. Geron looked quickly to the attendants present, of which there were numerous. Several Knights also stood-by for an added obstacle. If this were to be the
unravelling of the plan, or at least what was left of it, he wouldn't stand a chance of surviving intact. Running out of options, Geron quickly examined the room's passageways, yet none offered the welcoming refuge of escape should things go awry. Time had run out and fate was offering no favours, the King now stood inches from him, inspecting his face with a careful, curious study.

  The examination concluded, Lornus nodded slowly. “Excellent!” He exclaimed suddenly, causing Geron to flinch. “I trust the grounds for the ceremony are in line with your written proposals?”

  “Oh, oh yes. Most certainly,” Geron spluttered and offered a reassuring smile, hoping that a nervous introversion was a common facet in Pontiffs. Lornus' suspicions were not riled however, instead he seemed to be most pre-occupied with the upcoming grand event. So shrouded in glee was the King, Geron pondered if Lornus had indeed already met this particular Pontiff before.

  “Is anything the matter?” Lornus abruptly shot back at Geron. The question thrown casually over his shoulder with so a swift glance, that the shook Geron did not give a very clear first response, and after a mumbled clarification, shyly shook his head.

  “It is quite the event, I suppose. Not every day one sees a dragon...” he said, about to float the innocent inquiry as to the creature's location when the King interrupted.

  “Nor every day that one kills a dragon neither!” Lornus laughed in a hearty guffaw that was reciprocated by those in attendance. Geron smiled politely with a deliberate gritting of his teeth, forcibly swallowing the bile-laden rage that rose from the pits of his stomach.

  Measuring himself once more, Lornus toasted the Pontiff with a slight raise of his chalice. “I assure you; I wouldn't have invited a Pontiff to undertake a journey to the Royal City of Hybrawn without good cause. On this very day, the slaying of this dragon shall be the fulfilment of Tommamare's Creed.”

  It was at that moment that Geron realised what Lornus had been not so subtly indicating towards in a series of frantic sweeping gestures, calling attention toward the mural that hung auspiciously over the room.

  The King's pride was noticeably hurt as the supposed Pontiff passed nothing in the manner of glowing praise for his artistic efforts.

  “Well then,” Lornus clicked his fingers, to which the awaiting attendant brought forth the waiting crown in a serene, paced stepping. A process born of tradition rather than function. As the journey was at last completed, the copper and jewel laden crown eventually rested upon Lornus' freshly swept back hair, a separate task assigned to another attendant. Satisfied that his appearance for the people was sufficiently regal, Lornus gave the signal to an awaiting aide to begin formal preparations for the Ceremony's initiation.

  “But first!” Lornus said suddenly, stopping the wheels of progress in their place with a deliberate halt, the two aides designated in carrying the tails of the sweeping royal coat tripping at the change of direction. “Pontiff, since we are about to fulfil the Creed, it seems fitting that perhaps you should regale us with a rendition of the tale's culmination. The premier edition print, of course,” he added wryly.

  Geron could feel the congregating sweat upon his brow form an agile bead at his temples. The pressure of the situation not helped by the stifling robe's layers of silk and wool that both trapped and accentuated his own body heat.

  “But of course,” he could hear himself answer, the enduring lack of any alternative forcing the default response.

  In Geron’s household, within the dusty confines of the back shelf, tucked away beneath layers of spare Winter fabric and discarded, chipped crockery, a copy of Tommamare's Creed did lay. However, the revered text did not always find itself in such a neglected and banished state.

  In fact, the former residence for the humble edition of the book, was pride of place upon the mantle of Geron's bedroom. A deliberate placement, for it provided the room with a comforting reassurance of its presence. Its demotion to misplaced irrelevance was a significant downfall, but if the ragged collection of pages could talk, it would regale fondly the memories of being read aloud at Geron's bedside, seeing the young lad through both illness and exuberance. How the stories stirred an imagination that would eventually succumb to the cynicisms of adolescence and the brutality of war.

  But for those few fleeting moments, this portrayal of the establishment of the great animal order, the tales of their taming and of their carnage were the principle ingredients for the formation of a young boy's understanding for the nature of all things.

  The apogee of this was the loose memory that Geron possessed of the tale's culmination, maintained on occasion by casual, indirect reference, also sullied by the erosion of time. Thus what little remained, was what was transposed to the room.

  Those who possessed an affinity for Tommamare's Creed, notably most of those present in the throne room at that very moment, could tell that the tale did not begin with the most prestigious of starts, as Geron immediately corrected himself in the opening sentence. So too did the lack of correct grammar, details added and neglected in equal measure, piled atop a telling muddied by the muddled diction of Geron, whose desperate efforts at recollection meant a sacrifice of any trademark theatrical nuance.

  When the tale was concluded, the fictional dragon slayed and mankind the master of his fate, supplemented with an added flair of repetitious summation for anyone lost on the moral message of the story, the room was silent. A foreboding contemplation in the gathering of those intrigued by this new telling and those who feigned knowledge of the text but could still sense something was amiss in the presentation.

  No matter one's intellectual or academic digestion, each looked to the King, whose request for the story was technically fulfilled

  “That... That is not the culmination of the Creed!” Lornus spoke, his outrage stemming from confusion rather than anger.

  “No, no it is not,” Geron sighed with an acceptance of defeat. The tension in the room heightened, the grips of the Knights upon their weapons tightened as questioning looks were exchanged amongst the officials and aides present.

  “Because...” Geron whispered, taking the last chance at redemption presenting itself, “it is a new iteration of the Creed. A newly officiated Pontificated draft. One whose contents reflect the modern age of Tallagate.”

  Geron could hear himself give the explanation as if he were one of the agape-jawed officials present. Analysing the words and examining their reactions, he felt the story was justified, solid and not entirely from the realms of disbelief.

  But once again, the audience turned to Lornus to form their opinion of the strange Pontiff's words.

  “How wonderful!” he exclaimed.

  Some breathed a sigh of relief at the elation, allergic to confrontation of any kind, least of all occurring in the throne room where decorum was paramount. However, none breathed so freely as Geron, who thought better of testing fate by praising his survival in this scenario through his ingenuity, nor condemning the perception of those he was swindling. Though he did allow one observation to pass, that these were among the most powerful and influential bodies and minds in all of Tallagate, and they were in the midst of revelling in a simple mercenary's atrocious rendition of Tommamare's Creed.

  Suddenly, the state of the Kingdom post-war was less of a mystery.

  The consistent high pitch and buzz was born not of any royal menagerie of bird nor insect, but rather stemmed from the mass throng of citizens gathered in the Address Square. A tactical weakness in a siege, the exposed Palace terrace allowed the lowly lower classes to witness the deeds of their superiors and rulers. And they had turned out in droves aplenty, driven by a strange concoction of curiosity and blood-lust.

  The Sonkiller may have been reviled throughout the outskirt towns and cities of Tallagate where distance stewed the resentment further, but in the Royal City of Hybrawn, his aura still enraptured the traditionalists who proudly revered Lornus the Wise, first of his name. And they lined the streets now, gazing in adoration upon the spot
where their noble King would sit.

  Geron looked out at the sea of humanity. Each having the same objective, to witness a dragon's death. And for that reason he cast disdain upon them all as one entity. However, if polled, the average citizen would have claimed to have attended the display to see the dragon, death or no. And that such an attraction was Geron's source of income for many months. But such logical thoughts could be forgiven for escaping his mind in this tumultuous situation.

  The central thought that took precedence in this dragon-killing ceremony, was the glaring omission of any dragon. Geron could feel his jaw clenching in frustration. But as he calmed himself at the apparent dead-end, he leaned over to a delegate whose name or title he cared not to know, instead whispering an inquiry as to the primary guest's location.

  Irked at the breach of protocol, the delegate managed a frowned suggestion of a shrug.

  Geron looked around for clues. The area was too small to house the beast, not with such a proximity to the supposed elite. The seated platforms housing the privileged were turned inward, facing back toward the Palace in a curving crescent.

  Much of the dragon's nature was unknown, but if they kept to the tenants of Tommamare's Creed, then the utmost care should be implemented. Geron wondered if they would lead the beast out on a chain like a common household pet. Something that he attempted to do in the beast's early life. It did not take too kindly to being physically led. Another discrepancy to its fictional counterpart.

  A commotion rippled through the crowd. Geron could see why, for Lornus had engaged the heightened wait for his arrival long enough, swanning through the grounds with the aura of a walking deity.

  Those seated now stood, Geron following suit out of pattern rather than respect. For the numbers that watched on, the cheers of adoration was severely deficit. Lornus did not seem to take heed, instead gracing the crowd with a generous elevation of his arm, as if the palm of his hand dispensed good favour. Queen Ictuse, making a rare public appearance followed slowly behind, the young Prince Tidos and a plethora of attendants ushering them to the designated Royal seating box.