The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  The Royal Projector cleared his throat. Having had several days’ notice to prepare for this event he was able to absolve the illness that caused a most unsavoury raspy sound to his proclamations. He had practised all those hours, envisioning the words that may be spoken, recalling Lornus’ characteristics, an ability that had retained him his post even as his voice degraded over time. But no preparation was sufficient for the speech that Lornus had prepared. Far removed from the usual eloquent decrees of status and honour, the King launched immediately into a celebratory rant.

  The Projector could barely keep up with the frenetic harangue, forcing him to utilise a tool oft frowned upon in his trade. Paraphrasing.

  And though not for a lack of trying, a great deal of context was missing from the words jettisoned out towards the crowd. Most did not seem to mind, though Lornus would have been most disappointed to learn that the subtle nuances and intricate parallels his speech drew with the Collegiate musings of the Creed were lost upon them. The sole person that could have understood or even enjoyed the speech was now naked and unconscious in a waiting room within the Palace.

  But much to the Projector's relief, the speech wound down. Fleeting emotions solidified and Lornus embraced the magnitude of the event. He chose the next words carefully.

  Geron heard each and every syllable, but even with the Projector's efficient vocals the words were lost upon him. For his gaze instead followed Lornus’ deliberate gesture back toward the Palace. The Royal Crest, impressed upon three banners, draped elegantly down the Palace walls. With a clench of his fist, Lornus signalled to the Knights standing guard upon the Palace's upper-most realms. With a downward thrust of their elegant axes, the ropes holding the middle banner were rendered asunder. The material collapsed in a crumpled heap; all parties present shielded their eyes at the raised dust the collision made upon the ground. All bar one. Geron resisted the stinging at his eyes, peering through welling tears at the sight of the dragon, chained outspread upon the Palace wall.

  The banners that lapped gently in the afternoon breeze moved with more vigour than the serene beast. Geron could feel his heart sinking, a vile clutching gripped his stomach. He recognised the sweeping sensation as nausea and immediately drew his eyes away, taking in the Honeyroot scented air in full, deep breaths.

  “I know...” the delegate whispered back to him. “Quite the magnificent sight, is it not?”

  It was not the term that Geron would have used to describe the seared image.

  As if the crowd had melted away, Geron suffocated himself within silence, the Projector mumbling incoherent, the jabbering dignitaries dismissed, until at last just he and the dragon remained. The wings were spread unnaturally, extended to their fullest span, a hefty matted mess of chains keeping them in place. Geron shuddered to see the looping steel pierce the dragon's wings. A clamp of iron held the jaws of the beast closed. Its once shimmering scales that would catch the sunlight in slinking patterns looked dulled and bruised. He had feared the worst throughout this ordeal and yet somehow, he was unprepared for this sight.

  The moment seemed to linger, awash in helplessness, until an intruding sensation yanked him free of his imposed solitude, and once again Geron was stood in the midst of the ceremony's attendance. But something was amiss, the attention was seized away from the sight of the captured beast and instead was solely implanted upon him. He remembered his rouse and accepted Lornus' summons to the speaker's perch.

  Though eyes were cast in his direction, Geron knew that the dragon held all of their attention. This fact however did not dilute the apprehension of what he was about to do.

  Until this very moment, the biggest crowd he had ever performed to was the gathering he had successfully amassed in the fishing village of Barnfeed. A most profitable day, where every member of the community had seemingly turned up. But like then and all the other public conventions, there was a dragon by his side and deceit in his heart.

  Inside the throne room, he had received a prompt to his forged role, but stood in front of the gathered citizens of Hybrawn, accompanied by nobility and ruler alike, he was undirected and rather lost. The anger that was stirring within him was a numbing agent, a weight that burdened him. He looked to the clothing that draped undignified upon his person and felt a rush of inspiration. If he was to be the Pontiff then he shall fulfil that very role. Needing not a prompt, he embraced the assumed power of his position.

  “Alright...” he hissed through his teeth, a mantra of reassurance. He needed but one opportunity. The dragon was located and was alive. These were victories. Yet, no celebration could be had in any meaningful manner until the mission was completed.

  The gathered awaited, assigning the delay to a self-righteous maintenance of the Pontiff's own importance. An illusion Geron bore well, for his encounters with every Preacher was recollected in that moment. They all shared that same posture, the same elongated manner of speaking born of an unearned confidence. It was a stirring act that would have impressed those aware of the deception. Fortunately none were, bar Byre who was stood to the side, carrying a jug, awaiting the command to refill a designated cup, a most puzzled expression emblazoned upon her face as to why this flippant outsider who at last encounter was dressed in a humble servant’s outfit, now stood among the ruling powers of the Kingdom.

  Geron was being wry with his speech, but the enraptured crowd, still basking in the authoritative glow of the Palace, cheered his every word, or more truthfully the words of the Projector who was capturing this methodical speaking pattern quite well. A welcome change to the usual individual who stepped forward atop Speaker's Perch. So welcome a change in fact, that the Projector absent-mindedly forgot that he had already met the real Pontiff earlier that very morning and had even lamented that the shuffling and wistful older man could possibly be a challenge to discern.

  “And why must we kill this beast?” Geron forced himself to look at the strung dragon, but abandoned the motion mid-gesture. “Why indeed...” he whispered to himself, much to the chagrin of the Projector. Aware that the mask was slipping, Geron had his fill of subversive jibes and rescinded the Speaker's Perch.

  Lornus resumed the position

  Disgusted at his applause, Geron was returning to his seat when his eye caught Byre's. He had reached the crescendo of his solo efforts. Though hoping to utilise their services for only the intrusion, the subsequent heroic rescue then undertaken by himself, it burned Geron’s ego to admit that he needed the assistance of the Insurgents.

  The method by which the execution was to occur still had not emerged, and thus Geron placated himself in that as long as the executioners had not made their entrance, he still had time to formulate a plan. The dragon would have to be lowered. Recalling the fatal blow outlined in Tommamare's Creed, the golden lance was the illustrious weapon utilised. No such lance was present, nor any pike or spear bearing said precious metal.

  Byre watched Geron retake his seat. The dejected shuffle of a man who knew not his next step. By good fortune, she did. Their eyes met, his lay below a worried frown. But she returned naught but a firm determined stare, nodding slowly as she departed from the ceremony. Whatever they had planned in the manner of a distraction, it needed to be enough to now divert the attention of the entire population of the city. Stakes raised somewhat from the briefing the night before.

  “And now at last,” Lornus continued. “The summation of why we have gathered. My deeds for this Kingdom have received much in the way of criticism. Untrue, treasonous criticism. But now I shall at last purge the final and most devious beast from this land. Ushering in a new era of prosperity!”

  Those engorged with patriotism envisioned fuller bellies and found themselves roused into frenzies unseen since before the war. Lornus was ecstatic, he had dreamed of this moment, tracing his fingers over the pages of Tommamare's Creed. Premium edition, of course. His father shall at last be avenged.

  “And much like the hero who slayed that dragon and was escorted into the
heavens as a demi-god, I shall be the one to cast down this vile creature. Lornus the Wise no longer, I shall be King Lornus... the Dragonslayer.”

  Geron readied himself to interject, but such an action did not occur.

  An air of expectancy lingered lined with trepidation and suspense, the dragon remaining displayed upon the Palace wall, until at last a beckoned Knight approached, bearing in his arms a hefty crossbow. The weapon was custom built, intricate in lavishness and looking at least twice the size of the ones archers would nonchalantly drape over their shoulders upon watchtowers. A Kingsman followed in tow, tasked with the less taxing duty of carrying the arrow. Geron squirmed in his seat as he saw the tip of the elongated projectile, for it was lined in gold. A deviation from the original text that the real Pontiff would have mildly chastised. The faux Pontiff however realised that the culmination of the ceremony was nigh.

  With the weapon crafted on such short notice, the finished product lay before Lornus' inspection for the first time. Pleased with the results, he clapped his hands in joy like a child enjoying a parlour trick. The Knight set the handle of the bow down, the thick wooden block thumping deeply as it rested upon the ground. The Knight breathed a sigh of relief at having being relieved of the chunky extravagance. But the pass-off was not a smooth one. Those in attendance fidgeted with their hands as their King valiantly tried and noticeably failed to retrieve the weapon. The Kingsman, standing by with elongated golden arrow in hand, was summoned to assist, and in doing so raised the crossbow the final inches upward to at last reside within Lornus' hands. Standing back to retrieve the arrow and complete his duty, he was most concerned to hear the thud of the bow hit the ground once more.

  The murmuring of the crowd was evident, whilst Lornus' flushed face told all that he was fully aware of the indignity of the situation. The Kingsman beckoned the standing-by platoon to assist. Together, little-by-little, they all raised the bow once more, this time all who aided remained in place.

  Geron wondered if there was some leverage to be found in this pathetic display. All eyes were either trained solely upon the King's failings, or diverted away lest a treasonous titter emerge at the slapstick endeavour.

  The path to the dragon was clear, however climbing was not in his forte, and releasing the beast from the chains required another level of planning that, even with such a bumbling show the King and his assistants were putting on, would nary buy sufficient time for.

  An ironic cheer went up as the crossbow was eventually loaded and stood ready to fire. Aided by three Kingsmen, Lornus' knees still trembled at the effort. (Though he would be certain to tell all that the tremors were caused by an overwhelming righteous emotion.)

  The citizens looked on in passive excitement. There was no activity from the Insurgents. No storming the gates. Beneath Geron's robes there lay no weapon, no means of dissuasion. His anger alone could not deter the abundance of Knights and Kingsmen that stood in his way.

  Geron felt his throat contract, as his eyes succumbed to a hazing burn. Averting his gaze to the floor, the drops dashed at his feet as he heard the snapping whoosh of the bow's release.

  The gasps and utterances of awe, changed suddenly in tone.

  Geron looked up, fighting the sense of physical resistance to gaze upon the impaled dragon.

  It was still alive.

  The golden arrow now embedded upon his left wing, the creature was enraged, confusion and pain combined, but no catharsis to be found as the chains rattled against the antagonism.

  Beneath the iron clasp that held its jaws shut, the dragon bellowed a stifled roar. It resonated through the restraints, causing a most significant unease to those present. Most of all Lornus, whose dreams of a fulfilled Creed had hit a very tangible snag. His glee had faded. The Knights and Kingsmen all stifled a moan, the entire weight of the crossbow now bared upon them as Lornus stepped away, staring with contempt at the dragon. Clearly the evil nature of the beast was keeping it alive, and not the errant strike.

  “I need another arrow, large enough to slay that damned thing. Golden tipped to fulfil the Creed,” Lornus hissed at the aide who nervously approached to appraise what to do next.

  He began to jot down the requirements but immediately stopped. “We don't have one, my liege.”

  The King stopped short of jettisoning his crown at the nearby wall as his frustration mounted. “Well go and get one then! Craft it immediately, blood of the deities!”

  The aide turned to go, but stopped once more seeking further clarifications. “My liege, what about the people, should we reconvene and-”

  Lornus screeched, “to hell with the people! To the very bowels of hell!”

  Fortunately the Projector took this as a personal moment and chose not to amplify these words to the citizens. Although the more observant in the crowd could tell that something was amiss. The dragon still lived, its movements stifled, whilst below, the King paced about Speaker's Perch in a state of great agitation.

  In the midst of this disarray, Geron had collected himself, with deep breaths he rose from his seat. No matter the cost, this affront was to end now.

  “Your Majesty!” he spoke, “This display is certainly not in keeping with Tommamare's Creed, regardless of any iteration. I must insist that this cease immediately.”

  But King Lornus could not be reasoned with, in the throes of his own grand design, this act must be carried out to the bitter end. The dragon would remain erected, set amongst the royal banners. Soon the glorious weapon would be reloaded and at last his destiny shall be fulfilled.

  “Very well,” Geron settled himself, the course was set. He had at least tried the diplomatic route; none could fault him for that.

  The Kingsman was most surprised to see the robes of the Pontiff flowing in his peripheral vision, doubly so to find himself tumbling towards the ground, freed of his side-arm.

  Jettisoning the upper-most layer of his trappings, Geron felt a renewed dexterity. The Knights and Kingsmen all looked toward him, perplexed at this new turn of events. Lornus realised that Pontiff or no, such lack of decorum and etiquette was unacceptable on Palace grounds.

  Coaxed by the collective of Knights and Kingsmen sent to retrieve him, Geron ignored their pleas and reassurances to surrender and instead continued his clamorous attempt at scaling the Palace walls. He had valiantly reached several feet off the ground and was reaching desperately towards the window frame of the second floor, when a heavy gauntlet yanked him free

  “Wait! Wait a second!” Geron pleaded, to which the Knights complied, allowing Geron to swing a most cumbersome blow that knocked the first Knight aside. Re-wielding the blade took time, but the second Knight, so shocked by what he had just witnessed, gave Geron another opportunistic opening to try.

  But eventually, as they are want to do, the odds won out. The Knights, most weary of the flailing, de-armed Geron with sheer force, bundling him up against the wall, as the stolen sword was retrieved from his grasp. With no physical recourse, Geron resorted to a most vicious torrent of verbal barbs and swears that the more dignitary among those present decreed to be the most violent and distasteful occurrence of this ceremonial execution.

  The quartermaster massaged his temples, saving his tongue from the readied slur. “Very well, our King shall have another...” he sighed to the weary, but grateful aide.

  Fashioning the arrow was a simple enough task, re-purposing a spear from the fresh array of pikes that lined the walls. But as for the golden tip? A more resourceful attitude was required. The action was fulfilled by the most unwilling aide, who feared the repercussions of not providing the projectile more than the consequences of the stolen golden candlestick hidden beneath his tunic. The quartermaster was quite proud of his efforts, given the short time-frame, assuring the departing aide that the supplemental gold would be put to good use.

  Geron watched as the freshly minted arrow was carried past him, aggravating his vain struggle further. The Knights had endured enough in the way of this nuisa
nce however, resorting to physical strikes to subdue the raving man.

  Trouble abound, at least Geron did not have to witness the mortifying display of the multiparty act in reloading the crossbow. With the Knights occupied, additional Kingsmen were summoned to play the role of the King's illusion of strength.

  The futility of the situation bolstered Geron further, but regardless, it too was insufficient. And thus the Knights were again subject to a tirade of insults.

  Lornus, content to dismiss the Pontiff's behaviour as some sort of eruption born of jealousy, still felt the intrusion was spoiling the ceremony somewhat.

  “Blood of the deities!” he hissed at no Kingsman in particular, “get that madman out of here!”

  The Kingsmen’s silent deliberation as to whom was being addressed was rendered moot by a deafening scream, as Speaker's Perch rocked at its foundations.

  Panic spread through the citizens. The crowd having an unimpeded view to the ball of fire that bloomed from the eastern side of the Palace's exterior walls. And as panic is want to encourage, feet were activated, fleeing in all directions bar the source. Acrid smoke billowed as cries of Arconan attacks were deduced.

  Similar conclusions were being reached among the nobility, as they scattered seats and shoved the less able-bodied out of the way in a bid for safe haven.

  Trinkets of glass rained down upon Geron from the disintegrated windows. His ears felt numb. The chaos unfurling before him oddly serene in volume. It was not until an involuntary cough emanated from the raised dust, that he realised the explosion had rendered him so sensory deprived.