“How could things have taken such a cruel and unforgiving turn?” Lornus asked himself.
He dropped the embraced husk, black ashen remnants spilled onto the floor from the impact.
The Baronet had observed Lornus throughout many crisis. Political, economic and social. But she was now witnessing a rare glimpse into his own personal vengeance. She felt unnerved by this errant and unpredictable behaviour.
Her preparations for finding those responsible for the attacks had already begun. But Lornus cared not about such trivial things. The Palace could be rebuilt, the people held down under the force of his will. The Kingsmen would patrol the streets and resume order to Tallagate. She would have a different purpose.
“Veruth, you know her?” he asked.
She suppressed a bemused smile. Even in times as these, talk always inevitably reverted back to Tommamare's Creed. “She accompanied the hero in his final journey to the world's inner workings to face the dragon at its core.”
His face beamed in joy. “Yes. She did. And so shall you, my Baronet. You have silenced those that would slander me, carried out my most sacred requests. And now you shall undertake alongside me this final journey.”
“If I recall, Veruth perished on the journey, I do hope the metaphor does not require such a sacrifice?” she jested.
But Lornus found no such humour, allaying her supposed fears with a frantic scrabbling through the wreckage until he found a blackened shard of wood. Tracing the charred edge along the ground he began to paint a most crude and frantic picture.
“All this while I had been following the tenants of Tommamare's Creed. But it was just the beginning, the ceremony was not a failure, it was the genesis of a new Creed. Lornus' Creed. I have undertaken hardships in leading Tallagate. And now this dragon, the evil that has plighted our fair and noble Kingdom, it is mine to vanquish. Then the tale shall be told. Tommamare's Creed is dead, I will hear no more of it.” He tossed the burned wood aside, the item resting indistinguishable among the burnt dead. “Even as we venture into the world's very soul, you shall be by my side, Veruth.”
The Baronet knew that this was not the field of promotion she was looking for but chose to accept the title humbly, allowing her mind to wander onto a more pondersome plain as Lornus again began to rant about his vision of a greater quest. When he returned once more to the areas of the practical, she resumed her focus.
“You found the dragon once. I shall order every Kingsmen to be watchful for the winged abomination. Together, we shall hang its head on the precipice of this very Palace!”
Lornus and his 'Veruth' stood aside as the embalmsmith mused about how to proceed with his task. He had seen butchery aplenty and was not in the least bit squeamish, but the blackened husks that lay in his charge bore little in the way of the Royal family. But regardless, the etiquette of his position had to be observed. Making educated guesses as to what protrusion equated which part of the body, the remains were collected and preparations for the Royal funeral began.
The town of Ivalfyl was an ominous indicator for future business in the wake of what the information-brokers were calling 'The Regal Inferno.' Whilst Lornus bore the Sonkiller moniker almost exclusively in every town, Ictuse and Prince Tidos were only reviled by proxy. And when word reached of their fiery end, a surge in royal sympathy was noted. The brokers may have been eloquent in their descriptions but were also errant in their details. With the Insurgents burying all trace of their involvement, muddled accounts now placed the destruction of the Palace walls as the sole doing of the dragon's wrath.
Thus, when Geron planted the idea of a dragon's potential appearance, instead of mystic awe, he was taken aback to find nothing but terror in the eyes of his supposed patrons. Word was indeed spread promptly, but not of any show, rather a heeded warning of impending doom. Mothers clutched children, proclaiming their desire to not see their offspring perish in flames. When the rabble formally manifested itself into a mob, Geron knew that the time had come to move on.
The next town did not fare any better. Though Geron temporarily thought he had happened upon a reprieve when incredulous locals dismissed the happenings in the Royal City as heightened fiction. Alas, when he was on the cusp of proving the legends true, all that was understood by the townspeople was the legitimacy of the destructive description and so the medallion went unused once more.
The rattling of his belly was Geron's call to arms in remedying his current predicament. With the dragon's presence a confirmation of Tallagate's manifested fears, he was forced to turn to the secondary facet of his mercenary existence.
One benefit the network of information the Preachers provided, was tales of beastly doings throughout the neighbouring regions. Amplified, no doubt, for the purpose of fulfilling Lornus' task of inspiring fear and revulsion, but still remained a legitimate guidance as to where work may be found.
After an informed judgement that the town was too trepidatious to any form of revelry, Geron instead seated himself for a different kind of show.
The Preacher was of the same ilk as the others of his kin, so much so that Geron wondered if Lornus had personally recruited a certain type to be his ideology's mouthpiece. Regardless, the rant continued, naturally the crux of the speech was the recent occurrences in Hybrawn.
“A confirmation of the Creed. That the dragon was born of evil and has nought to contribute to this world but destruction and despair.”
Repressing the urge to point out that the significant part of the damage was caused by the Insurgent's stolen Cannonfire, Geron instead listened further, until at last fresher topics were brought to the forefront. Tales of a beast in the town beyond the mountains, whose wrath had claimed the lives of farmer and Kingsman alike. From the description it seemed like an agitated talon-hawk. Tricky creatures, but easily thwarted by a dragon's barrage.
With no trace of irony, Geron thanked the Preacher and departed the Inn, the journey's route all but undertaken. Whilst scanning the skies, looking for the tell-tale erratic patterns that segregated the dragon from the other birds above, he could make out the sounds of footsteps deliberately approaching him. Letting the medallion slip back into the crevices of his shirt, he turned to see whom was initiating contact.
“Leaving already?” the man asked. He stood assured, looking off into the distance at the pathway that led to the mountain's terrain.
“It would seem that way,” Geron responded, indicating his purpose to immediately depart.
“You seemed a tad interested in what the raver was talking about.”
Feigning distaste, Geron merely pointed out his allegiance and firm belief in Lornus’ decree. The theatrics were cynically received with a sceptical squint. “And that is why you are heading there now? To dispatch the beast that is… how did the raver put it? …tormenting them.”
Geron chuckled. Keeping a low profile when necessary was something he prided himself on. Without any obvious tells, to his knowledge at least, he seemed to have projected his very intentions to this curious, probing individual.
“You give the impression of being far from a business novice, not unlike myself. So I reckon that whatever your line of business is, it involves that talon-hawk. And thus I aim to make myself indispensable.”
Just how he would go about achieving that status was through a series of maps pulled from his satchel. Though crude in design, they seemed detailed and, to the naked eye, accurate to scale. “Flora, fauna, beast and tame critter alike. If you wish to traverse these mountains in one piece, you will need me. Many an unfortunate tale is told of passing travellers not taking heed of the local's familiarity of these treacherous cliffs. But fortunately,” he isolated an individual map and tapped at a nondescript section. “I know a shortcut, both removing the element of danger and saving time.”
Geron was aware that his desire to remain anonymous was being exploited. The very public interaction, the way those that walked nearby were observed, the eye of someone looking for that familiar shade of black cloth.
“What will this knowledge cost me?” Geron asked, knowing that for now he had no counter ploy.
“Your business in Hermegnese. I want a cut. Twenty percent.”
Geron pursed his lips, impressed. The going rate for extortion was usually at least fifty. A good deal. But for now, he would play the role of the put-out trader.
Accepting the bargain, Geron reached for the map.
“Wonderful,” the man said, retracting the parchment and placing it back inside the satchel. “We shall conclude the deal in Hermegnese. The priceless knowledge will be imparted to you in person. But never fear my new friend, the journey is less than a full day's travel, so no need to worry about us lying awake at night waiting for one to slit the other's throat.”
“After you,” Geron gestured.
“If it is all the same, I do believe we shall trek side-by-side. Makes for a more trusting discussion.”
Geron was forced to agree.
“Mitsca” the man introduced himself, offering his hand.
“Geron,” he responded, accepting the clasp of solidarity, as the two began the walk to the town's perimeter.
Not wanting for conversation, Geron scarcely had a moment to himself to contemplate the situation. The dragon could not sustain flight for so long a period. Sooner rather than later, an introduction may be in order.
Mitsca however, was seamless in his transition from one topic to the next. Every occurrence, every forum, he held an opinion on. An opinion that he was not shy on sharing. Content to grumbles of acknowledgement, Geron was surprised to find himself on the receiving end of a non-rhetorical question.
“I said, just what is the deal you are running in Hermegnese?” Mitsca repeated, seeing Geron's disinterested face gazing back at him.
“You assume my business to be immoral?” Geron asked, eyeing the rocky pathway ahead.
“Someone whose trade was on the King's register would not have so readily accepted my proposal.”
“Ah, so then you acknowledge your business is immoral,” Geron responded, taking a moment to observe the noticeably scenic view their increased elevation had brought.
“Think of me like a mirror, Geron. I am whatever you claim to be. Whatever it is that your affairs involve with that beast in Hermegnese, whether you are an information broker, or like one particular fellow I sold a map to, a herbalist who made outlandish claims that his constructed potions not only warded off beasts, but were capable of felling even a dragon.”
Geron looked up, the two sharing a differently sourced smile. “Is that so? Well, sorry to disappoint but nothing that exotic awaits. Not certainly anything that could be classed as Spider’s Legs business.” Geron had hoped that the less than subtle name-dropping of his former associates would indicate a level of discretion and quiet, but Mitsca, willingly or no, continued his regaling of the world's affairs.
Pausing only for hydration from concealed cannisters, and the repose given to aching feet, the journey still was losing the race against the setting sun. Mitsca's estimation seemed off by several hours. The utmost ascent of the mountain not even within closing distance.
Parallel to their pathway a valley cut deep within the mountains core.
“Treacherous footing in this light, and no telling what beasts may reside down there, but it would be a direct path to the other side,” Mitsca said with a confidence that arose from habit rather than knowledge.
Geron grunted, weary of the incessant conversation more so than the exerting journey. If this shortcut through the valley was to alleviate but one of these woes, he would be content.
The stones that lined the passage of the valley were unforgiving in their jaggedness and numerous in their frequency. Geron swore intermittently as his feet succumbed to the barrage of rock shards that had at one time lined the valley's enclosing walls. But small victories were to be celebrated, for Mitsca's ramblings had ceased, instead full focus was given to navigating their deceivingly complex, yet linear pathway.
Sweeping the rocks aside with his shoes as he walked, the crunching sound of the pathway being cleared was intruded upon with a foreign element. Geron paused to see what his feet had come into contact with. Bending down, he retrieved a rusted oval broach. At one period it may have been decorative, but exposed to the elements for a seemingly long time, the trinket was anything but aesthetic. Having second thoughts about hanging onto the broach for any commercial value was soon dismissed by yet another encounter with a wayward possession.
Though the light was dim, Geron could feel in its leathery texture that the firm strip of material was once in the form of a belt. Though the pathway gave precedence for focus, Geron couldn't help but defer his attention to the surrounding landscape. Nestled in the heart of the valley, ledges and overlooks surrounded them. The day's sun was setting in the nook of the rock's bosom, casting a glaring veil over their destination.
Crouching down, Geron inspected the latest find, a lone homely tin cup that looked more in place within a domestic home rather than abandoned in the midst of a forgotten valley. The shadows that lurked in the crevices of the rock seemed numerous.
There were many explanations for the lost items. Cast aside on journeys past, carried on winds of fate to a nondescript location. But it was not until Geron glanced upon the lower walls of the rock face that he pieced the whole solution together.
“Mitsca...” he whispered, trying to mask his urgency.
“Yes, I know it is a perilous walk, but trust me the time we save shall reimburse all physical effort.”
“Stop walking you idiot!” Geron hissed, subtly allowing his eyes to wander upward as if he were none the wiser to the distress.
“Hey now, we had a deal, we reach Hermegnese and then we can go our separate ways-”
“We won’t reach Hermegnese through here-”
“Yes we can,” Mitsca sighed, pointing at the horizon. “The town is literally on the other side of this valley; the pathway is a little irregular but-”
“Look at the rock,” Geron said, tapping his fingers against his right leg, indicating the direction to look.
Mitsca scratched his head, nonplussed at the distraction. “This valley has all sort of rocks and stone formations; I am no stone-smith so I couldn't tell you what that is.”
“It is blood, you fool. Old blood, but the pattern is clear. Someone was killed here. There are items scattered all around, some older than others. But clear signs that people had parted with their wares. Usually that is not willingly.”
Mitsca's laugh was hearty, usually he was the one spinning tales to elicit unstable emotions, it was peculiar to have someone attempt to do the same to him.
“You have travelled this valley before?” Geron asked, slyly tracking the shadows that lurked above them.
“Yes... Well, no. But many a traveller has passed through here. If there was something amiss, the Kingsmen would surely know about it.”
Geron inadvertently flinched as the shadow he had been watching in his peripheral vision noticeably switched position, slipping away behind the cover of the overhanging rock. “We should turn back,” he said, with muted urgency.
Mitsca laughed again, aghast at the notion of such a wasted trek. His laugh continued even as the arrow pierced his eye. But the laughter was born of something different now, the curious sensation that swept his body. He found it difficult to articulate his thoughts and instead chose to laugh. A gibberish chuckle that grew looser until the functions of his legs ceased and the ground welcomed his crumpled heap.
Geron had watched this unfold in silent horror, being given adequate time to prepare for the next attack of which he would be the intended victim. Yet, the sudden shock of the situation had rendered him quite immobile and thus he was rather fortunate that the last-second scampering to the edges of the rock face was sufficient in avoiding the arrow meant for him.
Hugging the cold stone, Geron realised that the warning signs that halted their walk also placed him perfectly within the bottlene
ck of the canyon. Uncertain of how many lurked above, it would be of little consequence for they had the high ground, all it would take was a simple reposition and he would be under fire once more.
Expecting a projectile to pierce his flesh at any moment, Geron brandished the medallion, sounding the summoning just as the arrow pierced his shoulder. His cry of pain muddied the whistle somewhat, but Geron was thankful for small miracles, a couple of inches to the left and his throat would have been the landing spot.
The dragon's descent was taking longer than usual and every second that passed Geron knew meant added time to reload bows. Usually he liked the dramatic pause. When enchanting village locals it built a dramatic suspense, yet here it was a potentially fatal delay.
Restless, he turned on the spot, unsure if exposing his back was preferable, but if death was inbound, he would rather see it coming. And so he faced away from the rock, spying his marksman foe. On the ridge opposite he could see two of them, each with weapons drawn, aiming with lethal intent.
“Impossible to escape,” he mused, as two talons gripped both archers, careening them free over the edge of the cliff.
Shielding his face from the splatter, Geron could still hear the wet, crunching impact. Stepping over the discarded arrows that were intended for his person, Geron checked on the first attacker, confirming that he was indeed most certainly killed from the fall. There was little in the way of doubt to that matter.
However, Geron was surprised to see the second still twitching. Interspersed with the viscera of his accomplice, he gasped, irreparable lungs trying to find air.
Crouching over the man, Geron pointed out, from a practical point of view rather than one of scorn, that the situation came about through their own actions. A common end rendered uncommon by the presence of a dragon. Regardless a fitting end for a highwayman.
“We are not highwaymen; this is our land. We survive out here,” he grimaced as a flutter of blood escape from an involuntary cough. “You... trespassing.”
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