The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  But there would be time to address this later he mused, looking down at the felled Knights, whilst those unafflicted by the blast attempted to resuscitate the fallen by removing their dented armour. The slabs of stone that once lined the Palace walls had spared him in their collapse, leaving him with only superficial scrapes and a renewed appreciation for one's own luck. He staggered back towards the dragon. The beast was still entwined in chain but a clear path lay ahead in both intention and obstruction.

  Slinging a Knight's claimed broadsword over his shoulder, Geron darted through the gaping window-frame.

  Escaping servants gave way as he ascended the Palace's tiered structure. The rooftop awaited. Ready and most willing for a fight, Geron was rather disappointed to find the area barren upon his arrival. Although in his winded state, perhaps it was another blessing to be celebrated.

  Gathering his strength, he brought the sword down upon the chain's spread. Frustration followed at the steel's mocking and abiding rigidity. It would take hours to achieve the deed, Geron sighed and went to throw the sword down in a symbolic display of defeat, when he realised that the mechanism holding the chains in place looked rather humble in comparison. The wooden wheel relented after a mere three blows and the chain careened free from its housing, Geron cared not the path it took to the ground.

  Peering over the edge, Geron could see the dragon exercising most heartily its new-found freedoms. But it still did not fly and Geron could see the cause, the iron clasp holding its jaws shut was independent, a custom peripheral for the Palace walls.

  Easing himself gently over the edge, Geron idly wondered what it would be like to fall to one’s death and hoped that his curiosity would not be satiated.

  Angered at its treatment, the dragon was wary of his approach.

  “Easy... Easy... Take it easy...” Geron whispered, though mostly to himself to watch his footing's descent.

  The iron mask was solid and bore nothing in the way of co-operation when Geron tried to pull it free. The dragon's floundering also provided little aid. Digging the sword into the base of the mask’s housing, Geron felt a surge of hope as the blade began to win out against the iron's insertion. The explosion had loosened it sufficiently, and after several pained heaves detached itself. Apologising for the discomfort, Geron pressed his boot against the iron's edge, at last freeing the dragon from its final restraint.

  The dragon dug its talons into the stone wall, its damaged wing preventing its immediate flight, and uttered a roar so ferocious that, for a moment, he did not recognise his companion, but instead saw only the fabled beast of Tommamare's Creed.

  The Knight's Order was formulated as a means of gathering the best and brightest in ability, honed with a reverence for duty and an allegiance to the crown. Over the years, that idealism had waned somewhat with the position seen as the endgame of job security for the Kingsmen. Thus, had this most heightened incident occurred pre-war, the Order’s assembly to face down the unruly dragon whilst chaos reigned from an assault upon the very Palace itself by an invisible foe, the encounter might have gone somewhat differently.

  The gaggle of heavily armoured Knights amassed, armed also with the most brutal and finely crafted weapons in all of Tallagate. Their opposition, a lone man bearing a sword that he was not equipped to handle and a wounded beast, seemed like a mismatch and rather unsporting in combat.

  The supplemental Kingsmen, seeing that the combative elements of the incident were being seen to, saw an opportunity for merit and acclaim in escorting the Royal family from the scene. Queen Ictuse and Prince Tidos obliged, taking the Kingman’s outstretched hands and started to leave. However, Lornus took the suggestion to withdraw as a blasphemous affront.

  “The dragon must die!” he bellowed. Incredulous, he looked around for someone to see through this fog of madness to the shining beacon of the greater good. Typically surrounded by those desperate to appease him, Lornus found himself in the unfamiliar position of being solitary in sentiment. All of the nobility had scattered, the citizens below had diminished from an attentive throng to bare streets.

  Though inundated with the flow of adrenaline and anger, a rash and foolhardy combination, Geron still had the wherewithal to realise that the odds were too great to overcome. The Knights approached; weapons drawn. The dragon could possibly decimate one or two of them before being overrun, not to mention what fate awaited him also.

  Geron realised that although a reunion was idyllic, the goal ultimately was to rescue the beast, and even at cost to himself he was determined to see it through.

  The dragon raised up on its haunches, ready for the first round of attacks. Geron dropped the sword and grasped under his shirt to retrieve the medallion.

  “Goodbye friend,” he whispered and signalled for departure.

  The dragon heard the command, though never quite under this duress and did not immediately respond.

  “Go on!” Geron shouted, signalling once more.

  A Knight had enough of this exchange and initiated the first attack, but his axe fell short, striking only the stone floor as the dragon careened upward. Struggling with the significant wound to its wing, as well as the piercings from the chain, the flight was anything but elegant.

  The smile Geron wore was not of happiness, as he knew what fate awaited him, nevertheless seeing his companion free once more was a most uplifting final sight.

  “Wait!” a voice cried out, commanding enough to halt the Knights where they stood. Lornus approached, in the midst of the chaos he still managed to carry himself with a regal air. “Who are you really? An Insurgent? I was certain that the Baronet had subdued you all.”

  Geron chuckled, he had dismissed the Insurgents as a pack of idealists treating treason as a game, but they had struck at the very heart of their foe and yet he was none the wiser as to the nature of their existence.

  Lornus took hold of one of the Knight's weapons, a hearty battle-axe, but finding it surprisingly heavy and most cumbersome, decided that the best course of action would be to ensure the destruction of his enemy by his word alone.

  Staying the execution once more, Lornus signalled to the Kingsmen to bring his family closer.

  Ictuse grimaced, envying those who had sought shelter, but young Prince Tidos was quite enraptured with the hectic occurrences, a far cry from his endless days within the soft furnishings of the interior rooms.

  The King knelt in front of his son, adopting a prideful tone. “See how your King deals with those that oppose him, and one day you too shall rule the realm of Tallagate without mercy or credence for the tolerance of beasts.”

  But the Prince possessed plenty of tolerance for beasts as demonstrated by the gasp of awe he uttered at the sight of the dragon re-emerging from the rooftops of the noble quarter.

  Shaking his head, Geron cursed the foolish beast. But the dragon had little in the way of heroic intentions at first. Its damaged wings carrying it only so far before it needed to rest. In doing so, found itself without an inkling as to what to do next. And thus, it sought what only seemed natural.

  To seek harm on those that harmed it.

  “Poor creature, so majestic so capable of great destruction, yet also so fragile. Made of flesh and bone as are we, but carrying a black heart that must be purged.” The Royal Projector had long fled, the words Lornus spoke were for his own personal gratification.

  Brought to his knees, helplessly held at bay by several lethal ends, Geron was forced to watch as a branch of the Knights broke away, tasked by Lornus to conclude the overdue ceremony, proper etiquette or no.

  The King gathered his family close, determined to salvage something of the divine from the situation. “But remember,” he called out to the advancing Knights, “I must fell the lethal blow.”

  Geron could not help but indulge in a selfish act of not observing the inbound dragon, merely out of concern for his soon to be ended life. His executioner muffled something of a witty line, but Geron took no pains from it, for it was thoro
ughly muffled by the helmet, and instead grimaced, awaiting the felling of the axe.

  At the height of anticipation, he felt a sensation that was pained, but not in the sharp blackening end he expected. Instead a surge of insufferable heat singed at his skin. Geron felt himself relent to the ground, covering his face with his arm, as fire burned all around him

  Another attack from the Insurgents? They had done their part sufficiently, he thought in commendation, when he then realised that the blast was different in nature. No tremors rocked the stones around them. Nor were his ears traumatised by the roaring blasts. When the fires died down, the flames licking the stones eager to hunt a fuel source, the overbearing heat fluttered away to the clouds as a blanket of dissipating smoke.

  The dragon stood tall amidst the burning, the last of the flames falling involuntarily from its snout like droplets of expelled mucus. Yet the beast seemed rather taken aback at the fiery rampage. In just as much awe at its accomplishments as Geron was.

  Stepping onto the charred remains of the Speaker's Perch and over those that had opposed it, Geron approached the dragon. There was a familiarity in its eyes, locked beneath the widening of fear. Its wings were still spread, its haunches tense, watching the lone survivor approach.

  Tommamare's Creed spoke of villages and towns ablaze in the wrath of the dragon. Academics agonised as to the interpretation of the flames. Some saw it as the corrupting influence of immorality, burning the very fibres of social living. Others saw it as the manifestation of a demonic presence, the dragon in turn the ultimate evil made flesh.

  The interpretations were numerous, but if a new study entered the fray, offering a literal explanation, mockery and a sullied reputation surely awaited. How devastated those scholars would be to learn that such a simple explanation for the transcription existed.

  Although Geron had long since lost the lustre that those with fresh eyes laid upon the dragon, for the first time in several years he was renewed in a mystical view of the great beast.

  “This seems like the worst possible time to try this but...” Geron glanced at the disposed Knights, their armour warped and twisted, “I don't think a journey by land is on the cards right now.”

  Delicately easing his foot onto the crooked haunch, he stepped slowly and gingerly up onto the dragon's back. There was nothing in the way of handles nor footholds, but regardless Geron gave little clout to any thoughts of dramatic imagery, instead bracing himself with a tight hug around the dragon's nape.

  Two whistles from the medallion, the signal to depart. The dragon was nonplussed as to the additional weighted presence, but still took flight.

  Geron closed his eyes at the swooping sight of the ground discarded to a stretching wide landscape of the entire city. Listening to the heavy beats from the wings carrying them both free from the Palace. A profound tightness in his chest choked him of air, but Geron still managed to direct the dragon with the medallion, their destination lay outside the city's perimeter.

  13

  The feeling still hadn't returned to Geron's land-trodden legs. Instead they felt hollow. His entire body shook with small tremors and an unrelenting wave of nausea remained. But after several deep breaths and a few sturdy steps upon confirmed solid ground, Geron had recovered from his maiden flight.

  The dragon however, needed much more for its recuperation. Loosened skin hung in strands from the imposed hook-holes. The arrow wound was fortunately a clean pierce, but also would need attention. Geron barely knew how to stitch up his own received lacerations, let alone what kind of repair a dragon's wing would require. Yet, throughout all the hubbub of their reunion and escape, he registered that this was his first time alone with the dragon since their separation in Wormtrail.

  The anger. Righteous in his hunt, suppressed in his retrieval, now needed no outlet. He sighed relieved, patting the irritable beast on the snout. It too was feeling better having been reunited with its familiar, but bearing his weight for that lengthy flight had soured the reunion somewhat. And thus Geron was content to leave the slumbering creature to its repose, as an emerging Byre beckoned him toward the rendezvous.

  The barn was decrepit and unwelcoming, but social grace was not its purpose, rather its dilapidated state ensured that no-one would venture voluntarily within. But those inside had most certainly entered of their own volition, seeking sanctuary from the ramifications of their actions. Targus however was in no celebratory mood. The rotting straw and sunlight-defying roof was a far cry from the sleek and mystical back-rooms of the city hideouts.

  Geron wondered if that was the cause of his irritation, but found himself shortly corrected.

  “I don't blame Byre for wasting our plan on your little pet-hunt. No, as far as I'm concerned, that is all on you. You're responsible for this.”

  Geron turned to look at the dragon dozing amicably on the grass, and nodded slowly in agreement. “Yes, you are right. I am responsible. The Knight's Order decimated. The Palace charred and the Sonkiller himself? The fires took all that stood before the dragon. For all you know I carried out your little insurgency single handed. And for that...” he stepped in front of Targus, tempered hot breath bellowing upon Geron's face.

  “...you're welcome.”

  Byre interjected, halting Targus' already raised fists with a firm grasp on the shoulder. “The Sonkiller was there when the dragon breathed fire. He may very well have perished. Tomorrow could see the ushering in of the new dawn of Tallagate. This is what we have been dreaming of Targus, you know this to be true.”

  The leader snorted, his flaring nostrils not unlike the beast slumbering mere yards away.

  “You cannot stay here, we had planned to use that cannonfire when moving on the King, with the plan exposed, we are exposed alongside it. Last thing we need is you and that flying beast bringing the Knight's axe to our heads. You owe us. Remember that.”

  And with that Targus turned his back on Geron signalling that the ensuing conversation was no longer of this outsider’s concern. The topic was the infiltration back into society, feigning ignorance of the deeds done that day and to re-emerge as the thorny presence to the Royal grip on Hybrawn and the entire Kingdom.

  The walls of the Palace had indeed fallen by their hands, but Geron realised that the explosion occurred in a vacuum. Lornus had no idea who Targus was, and Geron suspected that neither did any of the residents of the Royal City. There was no righteous movement here, Targus merely enjoyed playing the role of the outcast leader, the shining inspiration of independence and sovereignty. With Lornus gone, his identity had burned alongside him.

  Geron was content to leave him to his game.

  Byre followed him outside. The two shared a laugh, still incredulous at how awry the plan had deviated. But one could not argue with the status of the outcome.

  “I appreciate what you did, truly.”

  “Nah,” she waved away the compliments with a bashful flick of the wrist. “When I saw you dressed as a Pontiff sat mere yards from the Sonkiller himself, I thought things were a tad out of your control.”

  Geron nodded sheepishly. “But the explosion, how did you manage to wreak such havoc in so little time?

  “The cannonfire was mixed in with the foundations of the Palace's outer wall a long time ago. Benefits of hiring the local Insurgents to do your lowly repairs.”

  Unorthodox use of the explosive had led to both the dragon's capture and its freedom. “Well, regardless of what your illustrious leader thinks, I appreciate everything you've done. We both do.” The dragon snorted contentedly in its sleep.

  Byre looked mournfully at the humble surroundings that held the entire institution of their resistance. “We will be fine, no-one can place this to us, it won’t take long for rumours to spread. Anything from an assassination attempt by the nobility, to an Arconan plot. The waters shall be muddied before long.”

  Her words were reassuring, in righting the wrong he had suffered, Geron had hoped that he had not instigated several more wrongs a
long the way. Though her next question perturbed him the most.

  His next destination.

  Truthfully, he had given the topic little thought, retrieving the lost dragon had so exclusively consumed his thoughts, that all other events beyond that horizon were blinded. Now it stretched before him, a chasm of uncertainty. He had always relied upon the mystery of the dragon to serve as his wares. Now its legacy was cemented. He would need to spread beyond the reach of the Royalty's fingertips.

  But all this was transposed in a mere shrug and a mirrored reassurance that things would be alright on his end.

  The two embraced seeking the positives of a very mixed day's events and began preparations for their mutual departure.

  The Baronet passed through the Palace gates with swift efficiency. Her steps were steadily paced, even through the rubble and scorched earth. It was most important to portray a fair temperament and fairer hand. In times of crisis, abandoning those traits would mean more than just the lives that were lost.

  As usual, those who spotted her turned heel and retreated, a trait that her peripheral vision had grown accustomed to. Entering the Palace, she stopped for a moment, the lingering devastation still hung in the air, a silent grey moan that beckoned her forward into its interior.

  The Knights were gathered in a circle, talking low, shoulders hunched. One spotted her approach, his efforts at subtlety were in vain as the other three immediately spun around, panic registering even beneath a layer of steel.

  “Where is he?” she asked. A mumble of unilateral replies was the fruit of her inquiry.

  “You!” she pointed a gloved finger at one of the Knights, who recoiled amid a plethora of supposed implications. “Bring me to him.”

  Tommamare's Creed was so linear, so crafted in simplicity.