The soldiers had long abandoned any pretence of duty and honour, now resembling the pack of thugs Geron had the misfortune in getting on the wrong side of one drunken night in Rivermouth. All bar one, who stood behind the unflinching wall of Arconan uniform and Arconan steel. Even with his most stern-entrenched glare he was the calmest of the group. “Nobody crosses the border without a seal of transit,” he spoke.
It was a statement of fact and a broach of finality to the discussion. Both he and Geron could see the itch of attack imminent. Standing post within such isolation and around such monotony builds up a frustration that three particular activities purges oneself of. And Geron could only see himself party to one. Though in his weakened state he couldn't see himself faring well in that. Nor was the potential of evading patrols for several days a tantalising prospect. The closest Arconan town of Casteel was less than a day away. A trek he believed he could endure. This was the only way forward.
“I am not an enemy of Arconan, nor am I fleeing the strife brought on by Lornus' rule, I am seeking sanctuary for not just myself...” he raised the medallion. Immediately the soldiers clasped their arms, wary of the strange motion.
After a moment of silence following the medallion's call, the stale-breath Arconan soldier could bear the wait no longer. “Alright, that's enough of this, there are actual people here-”
He stopped, not certain of the cause. The noise that sounded above tore through the skies like the rippling of thunder. But instead of a bold rattling of nature, this sounded like the screaming of something altogether more living.
The dragon had been summoned as evidence, a gargantuan motion to halt aggression and transfer belligerence into calm talk. Yet the Arconans, with weapons drawn, quickly opted for a bloody skirmish. However, in their defence, the rash actions of the soldiers were not born from a vacuum of lust for combat. Rather the sudden and unannounced arrival of the mythical beast whose confirmed existence was tinged in stories of blood, destruction and fire was seen as the most immediate of threats.
Appeals for peace were ignored, outweighed by dulling fear and the haze of frenzy. Their blows were valiant, and expertly executed, the dragon registered the attacks and bore them well. The scales suffering the mere minuscule blows that steel could inflict.
But pacifism served little in Geron’s own protection as, deferred by another volley of ineffective strikes, one of the soldiers locked eyes with the one who brought this great indestructible beast, and pointed his sword towards a target whose flesh was more relenting to steel.
With nary a moment to spare, Geron avoided the lunge, darting behind the dragon, avoiding the ferocious flip of its tail. Shouts and screams resounded, the situation had thoroughly spiralled beyond Geron's control, and thus he focused upon evading the single soldier that intended him much harm.
Carried by the surge of self-preservation, Geron utilised the gained ground to draw his sword. With tremendous effort and mustering of will, the soldier’s efforts were momentarily thwarted. On another day it may have been an even fight, with the odds tipping in Geron's favour, though with blade dulled and body weary, it was rapidly on course towards one conclusion.
A failed block, a stumble in his stance, the fight deteriorated until eventually Geron lay at the mercy of the impending death-blow. But it did not come, for the soldier was most overtly occupied with the jaws of the dragon that turned from impenetrable barricade to inescapable terminus.
Flecked with blood, Geron rushed to confront the soldiers, to end the slaughter.
“Please, wait, stop!” he went to cry out, but there was no-one to hear.
Not a single Arconan stood, nor did plentiful evidence as to their existence remain. All bar the bloodied smears that darkened the scales of the dragon.
The carriages all stood empty, those witnessing the hysteria had abandoned their wares, fleeing for the sanctuary of the nearby hills. The trader at the rear, frozen in stature, peeking from beneath his covering hat, remained still, watching in a dumbstruck awe as the stranger gave him a composed wave before crossing into the lands of Arconan.
17
Casteel carried the blurry delirium of battle. But instead of swords and shields, the combat was fought with luggage and nimble footsteps. It was immediately evident who was accustomed to this battlefield, their comings and goings unintruded upon by the passing others. Whilst Geron, inexperienced and glaringly conspicuous, was bumped to-and-fro from spot-to-spot without sympathy or tolerance from the plethora of shoulders and protruding paraphernalia.
Seeking sanctuary in an alley that saw only a fraction of this incessant foot traffic, Geron attempted to gather his bearings. Not even the formality of Hybrawn nor the disorder of Fateskeep saw such levels of hectic bustle.
Adapting from the small village of Rivermouth to the wider towns of Tallagate, Geron considered himself capable and worldly experienced, but now in this foreign land he only felt lost and alone.
But fortune revealed itself in one universal truth. The harbinger of safety and the beacon of hope. The Inn.
Whatever the differences in culture, the staple of civilised living remained the same. Although in Casteel, or perhaps indeed throughout all of Arconan, that civility was slightly more refined than what Geron was accustomed to in Tallagatian establishments.
Where once stone floors lay, tempered by boots and spills of ale from neglected tankards or involuntarily regurgitations, now a fine layer of polished lumber lined the floor, peppered with spoils of plush animal hides.
His dirt (and blood) encrusted boots did little to appease the innkeeper, nor was inquiry for employment rather than libations an endearing introduction.
“Plenty of work for those that want doing...” was the grumbled response.
This was not as sequential as Geron had anticipated. Attempting to clarify his experience as a beasthunter in Tallagate, and his other acclaims as a mercenary for hire were met with an aghast aplomb.
“Tallagatian huh...” the grumble tuned to something more resembling a growl. “We don’t have need for 'beastslaying' here, our Queen is not so mad in that respect. And anyone who boasts of being a sell-sword is usually of the criminal variety and a layer of scum that is barred from this establishment!”
Wearing the shocked silence of a scolded child, Geron ambled his way back outside into Casteel's fray.
Prospects slim, he had hoped to seek out his next step, little did he know fate had chosen it for him. The door to the Inn had no sooner closed behind him than it reopened, a herd of stomping boots exiting the premises to stand alongside Geron. He did not notice, for any such movements were lost in the abyss of tumultuous bedlam of the passing traffic. However, the hand that clasped his shoulder was not so easy to miss.
“Come with us friend,” the owner of said hand spoke to Geron, who eyed the posse and considered little other option was viable.
The sliver of optimism was thoroughly dashed when his large escort culminated in an isolated patch of grounds wedged between three buildings, far away from the bustle of the crowds and more importantly, the eyes of any witnesses.
“I should warn you, I have literally nothing of value-” Geron began, but any form of vocal threats were bypassed, the agenda turning to the physical instead.
Clutching his struck jaw, Geron righted himself upright. The perpetrator had stood aside, allowing another of the group to take their turn. And that they did, delivering a winding blow to the abdomen. Taking solace in the rest between strikes, Geron was in no rush to stand up anymore. The single individual who had not partaken in the beating saw this as ample opportunity to intervene, gesturing for the others to stand back.
Distracted by the numerous lacerations and contusions that lined his person, Geron was forgiven for not paying attention to the man as he crouched down next to him. Focus was soon diverted by the clasp he placed on Geron's jaw, pulling his face toward him.
“Do you recognise me?” he asked, the time he allocated for Geron to answer him seemed to
indicate that this was no rhetorical question. Thus after some recollection, Geron had to admit that he did not, though he did wonder if this was some sort of ramification for Voltere's fate at his hands.
The man believed him, though the question was in part a formality for he had a speech readily prepared regardless.
“We are all former soldiers of the Arconan army. Each and every one of us served in that war that your stupid King started. And each and every one of us lost something in that war.”
Grumbles of approved acknowledgement reverberated around.
“Well, I can empathise there...” Geron chuckled, raising his right shoulder stiffly.
“Think that earns you sympathy?” the man spat on the ground, deflected flecks splashing Geron's face. “That was given to you by Arconan steel. That is something I celebrate. There is no place for someone like you here. So, consider this your only warning, go back to Tallagate and read Tommamare's Creed. If we ever see you again, the Queen's Guard won’t even find your body.”
Mulling his options, it was not a favourable dilemma easily answered. Fortunately, however, the mob were about to make that decision for him. Unfortunately though, was the means by which they were to carry out their persuasion.
Foregoing their previous polite order of sequential turns, the mob converged into one advancing ill-willed force.
Medallion at his lips, Geron could not help but pessimistically wonder how much pain he was about to endure before the dragon would arrive. It was a morbid conclusion.
Much to his and the mob's surprise, the first cry of pain did not emanate from Geron. Rather it came from the fellow whose yelp arose from both the sensation and then the sight of the arrow that pierced his leg. It was no mystery where the archer stood, for the steps that entered through the alley came beneath a loaded and aimed bow.
“I'll admit I can only kill one of ye, but I'm willing to take a bet that none of ye want to be that sacrifice.” Geron recognised the accent, somewhere in the southlands, but unquestionably Tallagatian.
Relenting their numbers advantage, the mob began to disperse. The man who had spoken left last, pausing to give the woman a most disapproving stare, their familiarity evident through their mutual transparent disdain.
“If you’re not careful, one of these days, you'll be next,” he said, spitting on the ground.
She did not reply, merely testing the tautness of the drawn bow, a last warning and frank reminder that nothing but her restraint was keeping the arrow housed.
Eventually left to themselves, she tucked the bow under the flowing crevice of her cloak and offered her free hand to help Geron to his feet.
“Come, let’s get you patched up,” she said warmly.
Geron had indeed correctly guessed her lineage, for as she told him her name, Ulayse, she also mentioned their common link, the Tallagatian town of Hermegnese.
Waiting for a more solid confirmation of her political allegiances, Geron decided to withhold a full disclosure of his purpose of travelling through her home-town months prior. Not that he had much of an opportunity to do so, focusing solely on following in her wake as she expertly cut through the crowd, until they eventually reached the sought haven of a front door.
The ceiling dipped at an unnatural angle, a hastily assembled erection to accommodate the surplus occupants that, at that moment, glanced up at their arrival.
“Cosy,” Geron remarked crouching under the home-made protrusions, the pain of his wounds a reminder to be polite.
“It’s as good as it gets for us. Some other Tallagatians ventured further east hoping that things would be better somehow. Being so close to the border, I guess it is a daily reminder for people of the animosity.”
Stepping over sleeping bodies, Geron could see the multiple individual territories marked with small personal items. Ulayse beckoned him to follow her into the next room, the kitchen, which was slightly less inundated.
Two figures, engaged in quiet conversation, ceased their words upon the entrance, opting to continue it outside.
“I hope that I am not intruding,” Geron hissed, as he delicately eased himself into the invited chair.
“We tend to get under each other’s feet, but we somehow make it work,” she replied with an upbeat buoyancy that had weathered much grimness. “We are at capacity, but I'll be damned if I turn a fellow Tallagatian out into these Arconan streets.”
The acrid sharpness of her utterance of the word 'Arconan' was as pointed as were she conveying the most heightened of swear words.
“I came here for trade, managed to settle before the harlot-queen Raim blockaded our people. It burns my soul to be so far from Tallagate, from my home, but alas Lornus left us little choice.”
She finished the making of her concoction at the stove and handed Geron the result. “Here, drink this,” she said.
He glanced at the tankard's contents. It was black as night sky, but smelled sickly sweet.
“They drink it here,” she said cynically. “Those seeds are grown south in their orchards. Apparently, it has effects on the body. Increases mood and gumption. The Arconan's would drink it pre-battle in the war.”
Gingerly sipping, Geron could neither agree nor disagree to its effects. It was bitter and his ailments still ached.
“I would try and import some Hybrawn Ale, but I fear the taste of that mulch would quench only my fondness for home.”
It was a relief to have a conversation not tinged with deceit, of posturing or intimidation. Even if it was a hollow indulgence in nostalgia and remembrance, for a moment Geron was able to forget his troubles.
“What happened out there, I take is a common occurrence for Tallagatians coming into Arconan?” he asked.
She sipped at her tankard, accustomed to the bitter taste, it was the mention of their neighbours that caused her to grimace. “You get those who were enlisted in the war, or expelled after, still harbouring a resentment to Tallagate. Hmmph, Arconans!” she paused, the spittle of disdain retained for want of a clean floor.
Geron looked to his left shoulder. He remembered Mallagy's words. The only boy in the village.
“Everyone in Rivermouth thought I was a hero, that I survived the Sonkiller's rampage. That I sacrificed my body in the service of Tallagate, swinging at Arconans 'till I could no more. Truthfully, when Lornus surrendered and retreated, I spent those days on an Arconan cot. Being attended to by Arconan physicians and Arconan nurses. One Arconan fed me with meals, another fed me with information, of life beyond my cot, of my kinsman being slaughtered in a futile and poorly planned war. And you know the funny part? Those meals, they weren't some slop rescued from the scrap floor, nor were the stories told with jesting mockery. I was treated as a person, by those who, days before, would have killed me because of the crest I wore, but now treated me as an equal. Because they too saw what that war was, far more than the Sonkiller ever did. So in this land, where Arconan lives were also lost in that conflict, I will bear any ill-will directed well, because it is earned.”
Ulayse's cup hovered before her lips, the inbound drink suspended in horror.
“Earned?”
Unnerved by the rapid change in her eyes, Geron nodded still. “Yes. I have seen betrayal and deceit as common currency in Tallagate. We are no better nor worse than the Arconans, the only difference I see is that a mad King and a children's book has not condemned their entire domain, unlike ours.”
The tankard rested upon the table with a heavy dull thunk.
“Rest here,” she spoke, rising slowly. “But by morning's light, I want to see you gone.” Her tone was cold, but lacked menace. Rather, she seemed disheartened as she departed, closing the door behind her.
It was with less menace than the Arconan soldiers, but regardless Geron seemingly had a knack for acquiring ultimatums for his departure of Casteel.
Heeding her words, his afflictions still throbbed and ached as he bypassed his still-sleeping kin before exiting the ramshackle house some restful hours lat
er. The bustle of Casteel's morrow already beginning anew.
An abundance of affairs of the crown and state, meant that Lornus infrequently travelled beyond Hybrawn. When such a circumstance arose, a carefully plotted course was ensured that the regal ruler of the lands passed through the most serene and secure passage. Nobility of the towns would emerge and wave, hoping to catch a glimpse of their King. Many a Thane would boast of their personal contact, embellishing the extent of the encounter beyond that of a brief eye-contact
They were journeys of integrity and dignity. Though as he stood, slowly submerging ankle deep into the mud of Brownwaters’ streets, Lornus dismissed any such longings for the greater cause of his purpose.
His stare at the merchant’s interactions was interrupted by the Baronet's return. Much more prompt than both had expected, for no subterfuge nor intimidation was required to elicit information, folks of the town were all too eager to confirm that the dragon had been there.
“Our trail grows warmer,” she said, though the optimism was tinged by the disgust at her esteemed garments infringed by the splashing and flecking of the Brownwaters ground. She looked at herself and of her supposed King. They resembled a wandering pair of degenerates, but from a strategic standpoint preserved their anonymity well.
“It cannot pass beyond our borders,” he said stoically.
The House of the Thane was a far cry from the Palace of Hybrawn, but regardless it provided a welcome reprieve from the mud.
The Captain of the guard took a withering look at the two stood in the foyer.
“This the supposed King then is it?” he said. On another day he may have found it amusing, however after a trite morning he was in no mood for dealing with such brazen conning ruffians.
“It is Sir,” said the guard that had received them. “Guess that makes her Ictuse then. Looking well for having been burned by a drag-”
He did not finish that sentence nor any others, for his head now rolled gently across the marble floor before coming to a stop, resting by the foot of the Captain.
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