The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  “I don't suppose you could tell me what that was?” he asked.

  But the question seemed to infuriate her further. “Get out of here, before they know you've come back.”

  “They?” Geron began, but the conversation had been most emphatically concluded, she turned away to where another patron was waiting to be served, eyeing Geron with a disdainful once over.

  Feeling the heightened capacity of unwelcomeness, Geron withdrew, uncertain if he had made progress. Whatever had occurred the night before, he had apparently offended parties, some of whom were looking for him now. He wondered if the other coin in his pocket was to be utilised in buying further physical protection.

  This town was hiding more than its simple, foul smelling exterior let on. All eyes looked upon him with deep suspicion and trepidation. Whatever he had inadvertently stumbled into, it was more than a mere Spider’s Legs plot.

  As the pain in his cranium diminished, beckoned visions danced about his head.

  The night sky ablaze in illogical colours.

  Buildings mocking in their laughter then yawning, mouths agape, spilling forth the subjects inside.

  It was a lot for his mind to recover and digest and Geron was beginning to wonder if what was being summoned was but some fanciful workings of his imagination.

  Nonetheless, he could not shake the physical sensation of their lived reality. This was no idle dream, nor was it a recollection of his unconsciousness, these were memories. Jagged and incomplete, but indisputable.

  A trek through Brownwaters informed Geron of nothing but the landscape. A random happen-stance was not in his fortunes.

  Upon a self-made and self-erected perch the Information Broker leaned, staring at the clouds lest they dispense the very trade he practised.

  He took a break from his sky-watch to observe the passing Geron, chuckling to himself at the downtrodden figure.

  Aware that he lacked grace in his current state, Geron still felt the need to defend his integrity. “Something amusing you friend?”

  “Recalling my first night in Brownwaters. I too nibbled at the Bogmoss, and had just as miserable a morning as I take it you are having?”

  Reeling from the accurate take, Geron felt a sliver of hope. “I knew Information Brokers were adept at acquiring news and rumour, did not think that would lend itself to the personal.”

  “Well, all talk is concerned with the King having survived the Palace dragon attack, now missing and a Hybrawn ruling council formed in his absence. A turn of events that has my channels clogged with valueless opinion at the moment. That means slim pickings for me alas.”

  “Bogmoss?” Geron asked, seemingly the sole person unconcerned with events transpiring in Hybrawn.

  The Information Broker hummed knowingly. “Considered by some to be a delicacy in mind and mood alterations. Foolish imps if you ask me. Rots the brain asunder. I was a rambling, wandering idiot for several days before my wits returned. Though what Information I lost, burned by that cursed bog, may have been costly. I shall never know.”

  He must have been drugged by this product of the bog Geron thought, or more truthfully hoped. For he assumed that he would not partake of this debilitating condition willingly.

  Geron thanked the man, and departed.

  “Wonderful work Clyde,” the Information Broker chastised himself aloud. “First purveyor of information for days and you just give it away for free.” He leaned against his post, watching Geron stride off in search of answers. “Oh well, one can’t put a price on a nice conversation I suppose.”

  But he was wrong. Geron would have gladly parted with his remaining coin. But sometimes an Information Broker need not know everything.

  It would be a harrowing philosophical musing to rank the importance of one’s sense, but in Brownwaters territory the question proved a lot more practical. For the brook Geron settled himself along the banks of was a strikingly uplifting sight. The trees, though bare, moved in faint rhythm, as the sunlight shone through the stark branches, the river carrying uncertainty in the aptly named water of the town. Yet overriding all these pretty aesthetics was the earthy-aroma stench of the surrounding bog-lands.

  The recollections of his breached memories were slow and un-intrusive in their return. Gentle reminders of his past reclaimed with the nuance of renewed appreciation for neglected truths. Regardless, Geron felt something larger was on the cusp of his mind. He was no mere former soldier from Rivermouth, carving his own niche in the Kingdom of Tallagate as a wandering mercenary. There was another aspect to him. But again, this observation was steeped in optimism, for such a summary did not leave him with a prideful boast as to his person.

  The headache was easing, but debate as to whether to obtain refreshment at the hands of the town's namesake was dismissed by the sudden piercing rise of the strain upon his brow. Brownwater's streets, he could see them, disrupted and irregular, he was among them, his lungs ached as he ran, glances thrown over his shoulder. But no-one followed, rather he was following the shouts and acclaim, as well as disturbances to carriages and carts.

  Still he ran.

  He was in pursuit, his target always a corner ahead.

  Then he saw it, a great beast raised upon its hind legs, roaring furiously to the skies.

  A mighty dragon.

  Fanciful summons of his mind's eye, he jested.

  But no, he remembered now.

  This was no fantasy. This very beast had walked by his side.

  Uttering a vocalisation that took no form, Geron arose in a panic. He had not only misplaced his memories, but also a dragon.

  With instincts freshly awakened, Geron's hand glided towards his chest. There was something there to be retrieved, but all he grasped upon was his own bare neck.

  With a new-found sense of urgency, Geron pursued further. Whether he was hunting this mythical creature, or by some unfathomable circumstance he was guiding it, regardless it was loose and unaccounted for.

  A day had passed since his succumbing to the bogmoss' effects, and in that time, according to his recollections, the dragon had escaped him, through a rampaging scarper of its own.

  A vendor's enthusiastic proclamation of his wares stopped suddenly, eyeing Geron with a frown of apprehension that gave way to inevitable anger upon recognition.

  He was on the right path.

  “Oh yes, I remember,” the old lady said, accompanied by a laugh that Geron was not expecting. Then again, he had expected little from the encounter. But having found himself at a literal crossroads, he hoped her assistance could guide him where he had been, and thus where to go next.

  “And that would be?” Geron gently encouraged.

  She seemed to think this question was even more amusing than her recollection and required several more moments to recover.

  “I remember when I partook of the bog's offerings. I was much younger then. Oh my, it took me on a journey. Of course I couldn't possibly do it now, not even with the Kingsmen watching.”

  Geron had to sidestep her spittle. “Alas it took me on a similar journey. And at the end I seem to be in the deficit of two items. So if you recall seeing me-”

  “I remember you!” she said pointing a withered finger into Geron's facial domain. Inching backwards, he was about to ask for clarification when she laughed again, regaling his physical exertions across the rooftops of the nearby buildings.

  With sufficient embarrassment and thanks, Geron headed to where she had pointed, shuddering at the thought of being up that high.

  Bogmoss-Geron had a lot to answer for.

  Retrieving this information may have seemed pained, but it was an ease compared to his subsequent interaction with the residential district.

  Children pointed and laughed at the sight of the “silly man.” Acknowledging that he may have earned that title, Geron did not want to question what earned him the slap from the passing woman.

  Yet, it was the tree stood in the centre of the road, originally serving an idle purpose
as a landmark and divisor for the road, that pointed Geron with the greatest of purpose. The tree now stood feebly, blanketed in black and ashen to the touch. Could the dragon be responsible? A fire-breathing gargantuan on the loose at his behest?

  Evidence of the beast’s wrongdoings were numerous. Those who did not place Geron's culpability lamented to him of Hybrawn's despair now upon their streets. But Geron could recall this frightening memory as if he himself had lived it. Of how the sky rained fire, the screams of fear and agony. Brownwaters was tranquil by comparison. This hyperbolic assessment was a shared one though as calls for the Kingsmen had been made at his recognised presence.

  Stealthily Geron crept, by now his efforts at incognito appraisals were thoroughly rumbled, a makeshift mob were combing the streets looking for him. Though if they were unable to locate the dragon, Geron was confident he could elude them just as effectively.

  Resting for a moment against the window of a shop, his eyes were drawn to the items within. Random assortments of trinkets. Jewellery, weapons and utensils. A shop where the desperate gained coin and the adventurous unloaded unwanted tripe under the pretence of foreign luxury. Geron wondered to which category he belonged as he skulked into the shop.

  Upon closer inspection, Geron could feel an affinity towards this medallion. A family heirloom? Perhaps the stone segments were amassed from the Insurmountable? Or a wise mentor had handed it to him after a passing of the torch moment in which he had finally won their respect? Either way, had Geron paid more attention to the occupancy of the shop rather than his own wandering thoughts, he would have spied the proprietor peering out from behind the curtain of the back-room. Ears attuned to the sound of his front door; he however was not accustomed to seeing his wares being approached in so improper a manner.

  “That piece is three coin!” he bellowed, causing Geron to recoil.

  “A fair price, I'm sure,” Geron retracted his hand from the display. “I do not suppose you recall its history?”

  The vendor rested his hand upon his hip, exposing the hilt of the concealed blade within.

  “Oh yes, I remember you. Some sort of bizarre and stupid story about how it could control a dragon. Of course I could see that you had taken bogmoss so I didn't believe your impish tale. But the carving on the medallion is somewhat pretty, so I gave you a couple of coin for it.” He stepped forward eyeing Geron with a sceptical weariness. “But now I'm hearing rumours that the cacophony in the town last night was the dragon of Hybrawn. Quite the coincidence that this supposed dragon-summoner medallion winds up in my shop.”

  “Fates have a quirky sense of humour,” Geron smiled, “I can take it back, it has a… sentimental value more-so than any mystical one.”

  “The price is still three coin, friend. But you can earn the difference by taking care of a matter for me. There are in Brownwaters who practice more illegitimate forms of trade. I am on the board of taxation. If they won’t pay willingly, I need you to obtain either the coin or something of value.”

  Finding no quirky humour in the fate's decision to ply him with additional labour in order to retrieve his very own possession, Geron departed to the vendor's designated ire. Promising to himself that were he to find the dragon before then, he shall have greater leverage to get the medallion back.

  Even the most misguidedly patriotic resident of the town would attest that the outer regions of Brownwaters were an unappealing province. Stripped of any residential presence, the aromas and sounds were unhindered.

  Side-stepping the air-pockets that vomited forth gaseous residue from the bog's sunken floor, Geron eventually arrived at his destination.

  What kind of deviant would live among such foulness? he wondered, spying the ramshackle living quarters amidst the bushel of trees ahead. A suitable multitude of fabricated figures snarled at Geron and his feebly drawn sword.

  “I could be a King's Champion with this and not know it,” he sighed, re-sheathing the blade. Regardless of the potential wealth of forgotten ability, the stealthy option was the best choice for now.

  Upon closer inspection, Geron could see why the structure was so derelict. Not from neglect, rather much effort and maintenance had transpired in converting the former carriage into a hut.

  The once vehicle indefinitely grounded, as Geron spied one of the wide wheels now converted into an outside tabletop.

  A large fabric covering provided both shelter from rainfall and cast the living space in a warm shade of orange as the sunlight travelled through the material, giving the derelict home an oddly alluring tone.

  After waiting several minutes to confirm the absence of any occupants, Geron entered the abode. A plush interior awaited. So plush in fact, that he immediately lost his footing into the sunken floor. Though an equally soft landing was his reward.

  “Blood of the deities!” he hissed, righting himself and taking a moment to secure his holdings before treading any further.

  He had wondered before as to the nature of the occupants based on the location, though his initial conclusions were widely contradicted by this internal discovery. Dozens of pillows and soft furnishings had been sacrificed to make the supple floor. A delicate lace curtain hung from the ceiling, brushing against his face like a begrudging cobweb. The décor also did not solve the conundrum, but rather acerbated Geron's confusion. Evidence of luxury in golden ornaments interspersed with complex and bewildering artwork that Geron did not have the capabilities nor the time to discern.

  Making for the attested items of value, Geron decided not to be greedy and quickly tried to pocket the strange ornament that lay upon a precariously tipped table.

  “Should be two coin's worth,” he mumbled, and began to retrace his soft-footed steps out of the carriage when he noticed a figure beyond the doorway blocking his path.

  “Worth far more than that,” she said as he emerged.

  Having moved significantly away from the ornament's placement, Geron abandoned his formulating excuse of merely admiring the object and cumbersomely returned it to its holding.

  “No matter how many degenerates the Thane sends, I will not leave!” She bandied the dagger in her hand with each emphasis.

  Geron gingerly returned to face his discoverer.

  The wield was not of a wary defence but lofty and precise, Geron did not aim to find out just how adept she was with the instrument.

  An explanation was in order, one that the woman must had heard several times before, for she interrupted Geron mid-way through with another pointed gesture. But a fight was not what she proposed, instead a wry smile crept across her face as she slid the dagger back into her belt.

  “Another victim of the bogmoss?” she asked, with a great deal of amusement.

  Geron joined her laughter bashfully. “You seem to be the only one in Brownwaters that isn't interested in ostracising me for it.”

  “There are those here who would look at my trade with a similar disdain to that of a suspicious traveller.”

  “And that trade would be...” Geron began, but realised he had the answer in front of him. Her lavishly impractical gown, the supplemental and unnecessary accoutrements that hung and billowed from the tent.

  “Fatespeaker,” he smiled, most charmed. “I didn't know they still existed.”

  This was almost entirely true. For the practise of interpreting future events was banished from the Royal City and any other reputable strand of civilisation after Lornus the Wise's ascent and subsequent obsession with Tommamare's Creed, she explained with a lack of reverence for their King.

  “Because of the trickster who deceives the hero and tells false futures.”

  “Exactly. I see you are not a devout loyalist. The portrayal of the craft in the Creed is less than complementary. Even less so is its accuracy. We do not bring about the futures we see.”

  Geron cared not for a justification of the outlandish craft, but he was refreshed to converse with a person who did not seem to hold him with such contempt over his previous day's ac
tions.

  Nonetheless, the foul-smelling surroundings seemed at odds with such a fair lady with so strange a profession.

  “Those passing through Brownwaters are often seeking diversions,” she explained. “What was supposed to be a simple stop-over for a couple of days, turned into a profitable week and well, it has been over a year since I pitched this tent.”

  “I find myself with no clarity of my past than I do of my future.” Geron jested, and for a moment he pondered if this was exactly the service needed to solve the mystery, he had found himself enshrouded within.

  She could see his hesitation and his glimmer of curiosity. She excused herself and entered the carriage, shutting the door behind her.

  Geron waited with patience and bewilderment. But after a few moments, she re-emerged. Taking him by the hand she led him through the front opening of the tent. The grim airs of Brownwaters were instead replaced with a sickly-sweet smell of incense, as the low burning candles washed the room in a deep radiant glow.

  The plush floor was not to be trodden upon, she clambered ahead and invited him to do the same. Settling in the centre, they sat either side of a small table. A collection of irregular and arbitrary items were gathered.

  “Tools of a Fatespeaker's trade,” he mused.

  The first item was selected, a narrow pin. Pricking the tip of her finger, she held the wounded digit aloft with anticipation, watching as the slight flicker of blood trickled down onto her palm. Taking Geron's wrist, she pressed their hands together, holding them for a prolonged moment. At odds with the sudden and ill-fitting intimacy, Geron involuntarily cleared his throat.

  “There...” she whispered retracting her hand, as Geron's blood stained palm remained upon the table. “You have suffered loss.”

  He lifted his left shoulder. “That sure is a spellbinding and supernatural sense you have there.”

  Unimpressed, she began to clean her hand with a conjured kerchief. “I see this was a mistake. A true reading requires the subject to be open and willing. You're frozen in distrust.”