The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  The curtain lifted and Geron could bathe in the comforting warmth of passive ignorance no longer.

  “One does not need to be a Fatespeaker to know where your destiny lies, and that is far beyond the reach of a King who wants that creature dead, and I suppose by extension, you too.” She paused, thoughtfully enraptured in recollection. “Our group included at one time a savant who claimed to have extensive knowledge of the beasts of Tommamare's Creed. A curious fellow. Impossibly old, yet still spry in mind, if not in body. He left our convoy at the ruins of Gatelay's Castle. If it is a home for a dragon you seek, then he is with whom you should speak.”

  It was there he shall go, Geron concluded. Yet it would not to be a callow, naïve quest. He had a very simple question for this supposed expert savant’s knowledge of the world of beasts.

  All those years ago, when the dragon came into his life through the trader from whom he acquired the egg. Where had it come from?

  Equipped with minimal provisions, yet queries plentiful, Geron departed, distracted only by the hopes that the stench of Brownwaters would vacate his clothes in time.

  16

  Stoking the fires, lest they perish and she have to sacrifice another hour to re-ignite their cooking pit, the Baronet sighed wearily, and resumed sharpening her side blade. Over the last few years she had been tasked with patrolling an entire Kingdom. Legions of aides, Kingsmen and dignities at her feet. Blood spilled in quantities numerous. And yet, above all else, these last few days had by far been the most trying of her entire royal career.

  Lornus however, seemed to not mind missing the trappings of luxury and was relishing the prospect of another night under the stars, their provisions cooked in the blackened pot. He shivered slightly and retreated from his overlook to the fireside by his companion.

  An established understood silence had matured between them. The Baronet was uncertain how long it had been since they had conversed in anything beyond the immediately practical, but Lornus was soon to decimate that record with an effort that was so blunt, she lost her grip of the whetstone.

  “You were close with my Ictuse, were you not?”

  The Baronet glanced upward, but the question carried the mere innocent air of inquiry, absent of accusation.

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, your majesty. We were. The Queen was a good friend of mine.”

  Lornus idly arose to impotently poke at the fire, his efforts thwarting the flames' ascent. “Good,” he said with a soft ease. “There are those who would say that our marriage was one of simple political prowess. But in time love did bloom.”

  The blade had been sharpened sufficiently, yet the Baronet maintained the repetitive effort to avoid further direct participation in the conversation. Her thoughts turned inwards, where a nagging memory had been awaiting an opportunity for her concentration to slip. Banishing this thought did little to prevent it re-emerging stronger and even more piercing.

  Their last conversation. It had been of anger.

  Ictuse had shown her the letters. Secret lines of communication she had shared with Queen Raim of Arconan. Dissecting the ensuing argument, seeing where the outcome could have differed proved little catharsis. In all outcomes, she was the Baronet, exclusively charged with suppressing treachery, and here the Queen herself was going behind the back of her husband, their King.

  “It is for the good of the entire Kingdom!” Ictuse had claimed. “Raim holds sympathy for Tallagate and wishes to see our suffering end.”

  The Baronet could hear no more. For she had removed herself quickly. There was much to do before the Dragon-killing ceremony that morning.

  Lornus too was in the throes of a deep self-reflection, and the Baronet was rescued from hers by his sudden intake of breath.

  She looked to him, his gaze cast into the fire, eyes widened in revelation.

  “There was much to digest in Tommamare's Creed but one facet always troubled me. The hero suffers much adversity and great loss. I always thought it cruel that the fates punished the hero in such a fashion. But as the fires of that ghastly beast entombed Ictuse and my son, their sacrifice sparing me, so too did the flames fuel the forge that shaped my destiny. And that was my punishment. My adversity. My loss. The new Creed fulfilled. All is as it should be.”

  The Baronet caught herself in the midst of an impassioned glare at Lornus. There was no-one around. No ears of accusation. She felt the surge of impulse. To chastise. To condemn. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps a deeply ingrained loyalty, or perhaps it was her shared hatred for the dragon and common desire to see its end that forced her to agree.

  Their quest was righteous.

  The barn had held an unusually merry atmosphere on that particular morning, aided no doubt by the still lingering effects of the last night’s visit to the Rivermouth tavern. Nevertheless, the predominating contributing factor was that Geron knew the egg was on the precipice of hatching that morning. Inspecting where he had rather basely left it out in the open, he noticed several minute fractures forming on the outer surface.

  He also knew that it had value. Expecting a particular breed of valuable bird. His mind wandered at the anticipation of selling it on to a vendor. There were folks in the cities to the west, noble types that would likely part with coin for any form of exotic creature. So long as it was not in violation of Tommamare's Creed.

  One could only imagine his disappointment when a lizard-looking reptile emerged blinking into the world.

  Immediately his thoughts turned to anger. At his good nature being abused by that trader who had played him for a fool. Likely the valuable item he had been transporting was hidden away in the carriage, the box a diversion to the real treasure. Doubly foolish for how he had watched over this egg for days, optimistically and naively thinking of the possibilities. And in the end? Vermin? Worse, a beast!

  He had drawn his sword in fuelled anger, but knew that he should dispatch this creature lest trouble from the Kingsmen bother him and his mother. The creature had scuttled free from its shell casing and began tentatively exploring the floor space.

  “My apologies, small friend,” Geron muttered, raising the sword.

  The creature ceased its travels and stared up at the towering figure before it.

  “Dammit,” Geron sighed and re-sheathed the sword, plucking the small beast from the barn floor. It was a most unusual creature. Unlike any of the other river vermin that roamed the basins of the creeks, this one wore darker scales. Dismissing this as some sort of process in the creature’s development, Geron decided to ease his conscience by transporting the small reptile to the mouth of the river that ran near the farmlands. A decision that remedied his scruples and made the best of what had been a most unsatisfactory morning.

  “What did Tommamare have against you, huh?” Geron lowered his face to the creature still swimming in the ample space of his palm. It was still determining how its legs functioned, flopping onto its back and righting itself once more. About to pocket the secret beast, Geron noticed a growth protruding from the reptile’s back. The tiny beast found its trekking space enclosed as he cupped his palm to take a closer look. It was no birthing process, nor moulting issue. Quickly looking to the barn's open door, Geron, with as ample haste as he could muster, stepped to close the decrepit entrance shut.

  Safely isolated, he confirmed his findings with a delicate, tender prod of his finger.

  “Wings...” he whispered, and felt himself laugh.

  History was never a strong point for Geron. Legend and fable were equally maintained alongside recorded events. And so, as he gazed upon the ruins of what was once home to the Lord Gatelay, a plethora of explanations as to how this majestic manor fell into such disrepair were at hand. Riots, rebellions and royal wrath were all potentially accountable. But the superstition that a curse lay over the stone ridden grounds was the most enduring. So long as one was not susceptible to such belief, it was an ideal space to call one’s home.

  The Fatespeaker had told him of name of this savan
t, yet in the days it had taken Geron to travel to the Gatelay Castle, he had ultimately let this detail slip. No matter, the dragon would serve as introduction to his intentions. And with no legitimate rest on his travels, Geron was eager to find some form of refuge.

  The dragon was noticeably irritated at another elongated flight concluded. With the opinion of the Kingdom swayed by the events at Hybrawn, Geron could no longer afford any chance encounters. The grounds though desolate, were sprawling. If this savant was as sharp of mind as the Fatespeaker claimed, then their presence should already have been registered.

  The interior was a spectre of former luxury. Ravaged by time, neglect and one inciting incident, the walls wept broken stone, the ground beneath his feet cracked and splintered. It was hard to believe that this once held the highest nobility in the east of Tallagate.

  No tell-tale signs of residence however, if the Savant was not forthcoming, Geron had the unenviable task of searching each room one-by-one.

  A staircase echoed Geron's steps as he was elevated unto the second level, where a balcony overlooked the front gardens. A single figure was silhouetted in the sun's generous light. He did not turn to face Geron but simply sighed and tapped his cane against the stone ledge.

  “About time you came here,” he said softly, the voice tremor by age still held a strength.

  “You foretold my coming?” Geron asked as he approached.

  He gave a mocking laugh and shot Geron a look that implied their intellectual relationship was now off-balance.

  “Goodness no. I am no Fatespeaker, nor do I hold any value in the nonsense that practise claims.”

  Geron apologised, pointing out the error of assumption lay in his former associations.

  “Bah, that menagerie of oddities was a passing trend. We were an intellectual carnival. Troubadours of exquisite range, Fatespeakers spouting nonsense and myself, a veritable cornucopia of knowledge and wisdom. Guess whose tent was the most infrequently visited, hm? After several years, I saw my amassed wealth spoiled in that gathering and so I retreated here to formally amass my legacy.” He gestured feebly towards the mounds of shoddily crafted manuscripts. “My life's work committed to page.

  Eyeing the mass of scrolls and bound pages, Geron could not help but be impressed, yet hoped that the answers he sought were more readily accessible than the plentiful reading.

  “You may not be a Fatespeaker, but I assume that you do know why I have come here.”

  The Savant nodded. But instead of unveiling this rare and precious knowledge, matters were turned to a more pressing issue. The brewing of the afternoon tea.

  Politely staring at the steaming brown contents of his cup, Geron waited for the Savant to avail of his portion before sipping his own. The suppressed grimace told the Savant that he was not a local to this part of Tallagate, for the brewed wild nettles were an integral part of growing up in the eastlands.

  Without prompt nor question, he began his tale. Of beasts unregistered by Tommamare, menageries unfamiliar to any farmer or hunter of Tallagate and the Kingdoms beyond. Rarity, migration habits and even extinction, all factoring into his told knowledge of these illusive beasts.

  For someone whose companion was a fabled dragon, Geron was surprisingly sceptical. “The fictional beasts are real?”

  “Are real? Uncertain. Were real? Oh yes, most certainly. It is unknown just how old the original incarnation of the Creed is. But the Tommamare interpretation takes a more fanciful angle to the tale. There are domains beyond Tallagate, where creatures unspoken of in the Creed roam the lands. Legends speak of a land ruled by dragons. Wyrmgard. But no cartographer could tell you its location, nor any historian refer to the lands. Such a journey is beyond my ability alas.”

  Freed from the grip of Tommamare’s legend, Geron still viewed the dragon as something beyond any other animal or beast. The concept of other dragons existing was foreign, even novel.

  But the dragon egg had to come from somewhere, and this Wyrmgard was the most probable according to the savant, whose proficiencies as host had about expired.

  “Supposed I'd had better take a look at it then, before you go,” he said, rising slowly.

  Far from the traditional gasps of astonishment, nor even screams of terror, but a soft, nonplussed hum of acknowledgment was the savant’s sole summoned response for the glorious beast’s vivid landing.

  “You've seen one before?” Geron asked, astounded.

  The savant shot him another withering look that cast discrepancy on his assumption of intelligence. “No, it is indeed a magnificent sight, but I am hardly surprised at its existence. You will have to head east to Arconan. There are those who say that Wyrmgard is some sort of sanctuary, those who breed and care for old and sick ones as well as trying to tame wild ones.”

  “That could have been where the original egg came from, smuggled.” Geron deliberated thoughtfully.

  “The first chapter of Tommamare's Creed mentions it in passing, I am somewhat surprised that even a dullard such as yourself did not know this basic fact.”

  Though Geron cared not for the insult, he could not help but be in appreciation of the irony that the cause of their persecution may contain the key to their asylum.

  The bare road to Arconan seemed to stretch on indefinitely, as Geron’s spirit dwindled alike. In a hypnotic trance at the identical path beneath his feet, he was caught by surprise at the long line of carriages awaiting upon the road ahead.

  The carriage to the rear of this convoy housed a stringy man lounging within, whose cap was pulled down over his eyes,

  Geron interrupted the fellow's nap and inquired if this indeed was the road to Arconan.

  “Aye, next town over yonder is Casteel. The main trading port for the west of Arconan. Need to cross the checkpoint first though.” He eyed Geron’s absence of any accompaniment. “Few travel by foot though.”

  Sparing the long and incredulous tale, Geron merely stated seeking work as his goal for crossing. “Are all these people waiting to cross also?” he asked, pointing at the stretching void of static carriages lined along the road.

  The merchant shifted in his seat to eye the distant queue. To his chagrin it had not moved since his last check. “Aye, traders crossing from Tallagate tend to received more scrupulous inspections.” His tone conveyed sufficient cynicism that Geron nodded understandably. “Aye it’s not too bad though, I've taken to factoring the time into my journey.” He yawned and replaced the hat over his eyes, resuming his slumber.

  Bypassing the convoy of carriages, each story was the same. Bored looking merchants awaiting their turn to edge along the trail, all expectant of the treatment. Nearing the top of the queue, the cause of the inconvenience was surprisingly humble. A hut that looked as if it was erected under slovenly haste and a small platoon of Arconan soldiers standing guard. Even if such a meagre, yet formal divide did not exist, one could still identify the divide between the two lands in the sudden and drastic change in the quality of the roads. Beyond the border, a smooth stone path awaited, so sleek Geron was certain it possibly gleamed. But he was sure that was a trick of the eye as he stumbled across another patch of loose stone in the neglected Tallagatian road.

  The Arconans posted were arranged in an assembly of hierarchy. Those of a more senior rank, loitered closer to the hut where flasks were easily obtained and availed of without scrutiny of the lesser ranks, who in themselves were inert portraits as they idly chatted and ignored the line gathered before them. The conversation that until that moment had been punctuated with belly-laughs came to a grim halt when they spied the lone traveller inching his way towards them.

  “Blood of the deities, what does this cretin want?” one muttered at a volume intended for Geron's benefit.

  For the sake of civility, Geron ignored the spur and carried on. But he soon found his progress impeded by the soldiers moving to block his path.

  “I know Tallagatians are raised in the mud, not ones for learning and social order. But there
is a clear line of entry.” The soldier’s breath was lined with stale ale and contained no capacity for kindness.

  “I have no need for inspection, I carry no goods,” Geron said, raising his hand in a gesture of disarm.

  “You hear that lads? No need for inspection, he must be royalty! Free to come and go as he pleases.” The others gathered, eager for some distraction in their otherwise mundane goings-on. “Huh, he doesn't look like Lornus, would've made some ramblings about Tommamare's Creed by now.”

  Any attempt made to clarify were drowned out under the gathering storm of the assembling attempts at humour.

  When no more original barbs came to mind, the stale-breath soldier bathed Geron in a more potent scent as he inched his face closer. “Do you realise the amount of Tallagate ruffians that cause trouble in our fair lands every day. You rise out of the filth, dragging it across our lands.”

  “I'm not seeking trouble. Not in source nor in cause. I just need to get to Arconan.” Geron’s passivity was proving futile. The mood was sour with bitter hostility and he had inadvertently made himself an easy target for their pent-up frustrations. Savouring the disdainful interaction, they had no intentions of ceasing.

  “Pfft. Do you know how many times I've heard that sob story? How many of your ilk I had to watch flee here when your mad king started raving about beasts, and then led your Kingdom into a war,” he paused to catch the eye of his fellow enlisted, “if you could call it that.” Their laughter, his reward. “And when our most glorious Queen Raim, long may she reign, finally put a stop to it, we could finally preserve Arconan. We make sure anyone coming here, has a reason to do so and then turns back. And anyone who tries to skip by, feels our wrath or that of the hunting parties that scout these fair hills and fields.”