The Dragon's Custodian

by Paul C Rogers

  Grips loosened upon the ropes, burdens grew as posts were abandoned, some feeling unbearable resistance against their station, whilst those nearer the top caught eye-contact with the beast that unnerved them most fearsomely. No matter their stated admiration for such a legendary creature, such a legend carried dire consequences, and not one of them had forgotten the sight of the consumed hog.

  Removing the medallion, Geron rushed to the dragon’s side. “Back! Get back!” he bellowed, although those that fled did so more out of concern for a proximity to any incoming vengeance from the beast, rather than any wrath of Geron’s sword.

  He peeked behind the shifting dragon’s rear, the tunnel back to the community was clear. With Geron leading the way, the two clambered inside, racing for escape.

  Thankful for small fortunes, Geron could hear the dragon hastily following in pursuit rather than its usual trepidatious shuffle.

  Cursing, Geron stopped, taking a moment to recollect the mirrored journey that had led him from the residence to the supposed altar. It was haphazard at best, but he was willing to try and carry on. This optimism was rewarded when an educated guess correctly presented another tunnel path.

  However, as all matters of serendipity are want to do, Geron eventually found himself succumbing to the fortunes of random chance. And where a left turn was anticipated, nothing but the cold unforgiving stone wall of the mountain roots awaited his searching hand.

  “Blood of the deities!” he hissed, seeking the dragon’s snout in the darkness. A comforting reassurance that he was not alone, though the beast’s breathing may have been indicative enough.

  “Blind luck or blunt force may be our only ticket, friend,” he whispered, leading the dragon back. The tunnel split east and west, he always had a good feeling about west.

  It was seconds after he realised that east may have been preferable that Geron paused, hugging the side of the tunnel, the clattering of footsteps upon the wooden-plank laden floor was unmistakable. Members of the community were in pursuit, whether they had returned to the residence to arm themselves or were thinking they could overwhelm him by sheer numbers, he cared not to find out and led the dragon away from the incoming sounds.

  However, the clattering only grew louder, the treacherous echoes of the tunnel rendering Geron’s senses the fool. Holding his breath, he watched as four community members stopped mere feet from his position. He looked to the dragon, its snorts and reshuffles were random and intermittent and no means of communication could stop it from doing either. Listening out for the revealing sounds, Geron instead heard the group converse their strategy. They were indeed on the hunt, though the proceedings were not going as well as they hoped, calling for prompts of splitting up to comb through the tunnels, lest the two escapees reach the residences where a non-imposing sky awaited the dragon’s flight.

  Deciding to stick together, the group departed. Not long after, the dragon eventually shifted its position. The loud scraping sounds of scales upon stone emanating out for all to hear.

  “Come on!” Geron muttered softly and raced off in the other direction.

  Stealthy movements were futile, the dragon too large to be anything resembling subtle. Though their brash swiftness was seemingly rewarded as Geron could make out a sliver of light leaking from the distant tunnel exit. His delicate pacing abandoned for the sake of unrestricted speed, he ran towards the exit, only to find that it was not the exit of this particular journey, but rather had hosted their initial trek. For the altar awaited them once more.

  “Dammit!” Geron cursed loudly.

  The space was vacant of the community members, only the lone Grawnya remained. A most astonished look upon her face, as she wielded the beast-slaying dagger she hid in the folds of her dress.

  Encompassed in frustration, Geron had no time for mockery, instead he retrieved the medallion. “They cannot sacrifice what is not here. Go, find the skies, and go far. We shall meet again once more.”

  The dragon looked confused at the prompt at first. The sloping slant of the mountain enclosed them with only a faint slip of an opening, not enough for the dragon to fit through. And so it bounded through the tunnel, seeking the directive. Geron hoped it would fare better in their separation than he had managed, pitying any of the community it encountered along the way would they try and stop it.

  Keeping Geron at distance with her dagger, Grawnya laughed incredulously. “You would untether it so? I cannot allow you to leave this community. When that dragon returns, it will only find you slain.”

  “No, I highly doubt that,” Geron beamed at her with a wide, confident grin.

  “Come now, you may be a skilled swordsman, even with one arm, but every one of this community would lay down their lives to ensure this destiny.”

  “Oh no, no. You mistake me,” he replied, tapping his sword hilt to show it would remain sheathed. “I wasn’t been braggadocios. Your men and women are a hearty folk and I am sure would put up a merry fight indeed. No, what I meant was that the dragon will not be returning here. That sound, undetectable to your ears, was the command that was originally reserved for when we should ever encounter the Beastslaying Elite again, a company that I would not be making any braggadocios claims towards. Should we cross their paths as we had the misfortune of doing before, that command was for the dragon to leave the realm of us grounded mortals and flee to the skies, not to return until I command it, or until hunger or tiredness claim it, which can be most inconsistent in time.”

  Gasping with breath, two community members emerged from the tunnel, gesturing frantically back towards from whence they had fled.

  “Grawnya! The dragon! It has reached the village!” they gasped in breathless fear.

  Vexed at Geron’s satisfied chuckle to this news, she made no effort at masking her disdain. “Was anyone hurt in the recapturing of it?”

  The two exchanged dubious looks at each other. “Recaptured? No, it is gone, taken to the skies before anyone could even draw a weapon nor cast a strike toward it.”

  One by one, the rest of the community regathered at the altar, all running to confirm what they had witnessed.

  “We have been deserted by the dragon!” Cried one. “Wyrmgard is beyond us!” Agreed another.

  Abarath was the last to arrive, pushing past the crowd, he conferred with Grawnya who reluctantly agreed to whatever he had secretively proposed.

  All eyes of the community gazed upon Geron. Gone were the glances of admiration and respect. Instead, grimaces of desperation rained upon him. Pleas to bring the dragon back followed. Utterances of yearning that grew until the throng entirely roared in unison in a frantic united song.

  Abarath silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Enough! He is no dragon speaker, nor does he hold power over beasts. That medallion contains trickery, manipulation of sound that controls the dragon’s actions.”

  The community’s collected lustful stare lingered at Geron’s neck, interrupted by Abarath’s whispered instructions to seize him. After delivering one blow to a fellow whose grip contained more than what was required in arresting his movements, Geron relented to the inevitable.

  Abarath approached, casting pity upon him with a mournful shake of the head. “It is a fate larger than you or I brother, why would you resist it?” Taking the medallion between his fingers he elevated it, freeing it from around Geron’s neck.

  “A distaste for indoctrination…brother,” Geron replied. “You forgot to take this and all,” he said, spitting in Abarath’s face.

  Gently wiping the jettisoned spittle free in passive pardon, Abarath studied the medallion with a careful inspection. He looked to Grawnya who approved. And with a deep inhalation, Abarath placed his lips upon the whistle’s tip and cautiously blew forth.

  The community waited, Abarath and Grawnya stood by, staring intently at the tunnel entrance. “Be ready!” she warned, her blade in hand matched by the others now.

  But nothing came.

  Deducing that the mountain
was interfering with the call, Geron was marched back towards the residence where a clear sky awaited the dragon’s return. Abarath sounded the medallion again, though with less ceremony this time.

  Yet again, a disappointing silence was the response. Abarath quickly was losing patience, blowing sequentially into the medallion.

  Geron would be lying if he said that this reprieve from the tension was not most enjoyable. “Careful now, you nearly sounded the kill all of you command,” he joked, much to Grawnya’s exasperation.

  “It is not like ordering about a horse or a hog,” she hissed, “there are specifics that only he knows.”

  Sufficiently chastised, Abarath dangled the medallion before Geron’s face. “Tell the dragon to return.”

  “Say please.” Geron replied.

  Abarath looked to Grawnya, relieving the pressure of silent judgment from the community at his ineffectiveness.

  “Please…” he muttered.

  Pondering it over, it did not take Geron long to respond in the negative. But Geron was no fool blinded by glee, and knew that this momentary victory was fleeting.

  “Return the dragon,” Grawnya spoke with the formal tone of a commanding officer rather than any personal request.

  Again, Geron politely refused.

  She signalled for the community’s attention, and immediately they surrendered it to her. Geron could feel the hands and fingers that bound him contract.

  “My brothers and sisters, we are so close to finally fulfilling what we have strived to obtain. Those who reject our peaceful way of living with beasts have sought to give us harm, those who would have us swear fealty to a King or Queen would have us chained for treason. We have all made sacrifices to found this great community, I know none of you hold fondly the memories of our attempts to open the portal to Wyrmgard, but I do hold that memory with such fondness. For I saw a bravery in you, a dedication to the end. When we spilled that stranger’s blood in a failed sacrifice, we may not have weakened the seal to Wyrmgard, but we strengthened our bond to each other. And now we must do so again.”

  The murmurs were reluctant, but in agreement.

  “Again?” Geron repeated, “you blind fools. Just how much harm have you caused?”

  Whatever the amount, Geron knew he was about to involuntarily contribute towards the culminative total.

  Abarath conducted the actions with a learned flair. Geron had not seen the like since a back-alley Spider’s Legs interrogation that went awry. He was placed on his back, two persons attending each limb, his head given free liberty, the medallion perched close to his face. The intent was clear, he had been given control of his destiny.

  Sound the medallion and end the suffering.

  “Remember, small incisions. We are looking to provoke action. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.” Abarath stood back and took the post of an observing supervisor.

  Looking past him, Geron could see that Grawnya, though present, had averted her gaze from the proceedings. He called out to her.

  “When you spilled your own blood upon that altar, perhaps if you spent a few droplets more-” His flesh torn by the blade’s edge silenced the jest with gasps of agony, involuntary and sharp.

  Rallying, Geron advised himself that he had endured much worse throughout his endeavours. This new-found zeal withered quickly as another cut was made.

  For nature enthusiasts sworn to pacifism, Geron could not help but wonder at their capacity for inflicting pain. They had either missed their calling in the realm of penal dungeons or Abarath had recruited them there in his travels. Regardless, Geron attempted to endure, but their enthusiasm was not lacking, nor were their options for alternative means of punishment.

  Abarath advised that the blades be set aside. “Blood loss leads to unconsciousness,” he warned. Instead the wounds must be agitated.

  “Wonderful news,” Geron sighed, gathering his breath. “Am I to be marinated and flavoured then?”

  “Something like that,” Abarath said, nodding to the community member who had retrieved the cloth sacks, distributing handfuls of the various salts and spices.

  The powders contact was gentle, almost a physical action of clemency. However as the acrid substances conjoined with his wounds, their purpose for woe became apparent.

  “I do declare that I would taste rather delicious now,” Geron wheezed. The humour was but a temporary shield. Defeat seemed inevitable.

  “Alright!” he declared, inching his lips towards the medallion. With a loathsome reluctance, he sounded the command for the dragon to return.

  “Ease his pain,” Grawnya ordered, to which Geron felt the quenching respite of water upon his person, soothing the raging fires that burned in his wounds.

  Grunting in relief and then surprise, Geron found himself roused to his feet. His extremities ached in a pitched sting, but glancing down he noticed, rather disappointingly, that his suffering did not feel accurately displayed in the series of diminutive wounds upon his person. He chastised himself for not resisting longer, as he prodded at the most significant of the incisions, slipping his fingers through the slit formed in his trouser leg.

  “You cut the fabric? Animals.” He tutted.

  Those bearing the brunt of this reprimand did not hear, for all eyes were cast upward, the distant speck of the dragon growing closer.

  Even with the blade pressed against his neck, Geron’s captor shuffled to the rear, using him as a shield should the dragon conduct any nefarious acts.

  The beast was inbound, even one who knew not of its existence could not deny the shape of the beast on the horizon. The flight was raising tension within the community. The anticipation of a frontline before battle, eyeing the opposing army’s ranks.

  Grawnya commended all once more, appealing for a practical calm. “I must confess I saw this moment with more grandeur. Of elated words, song and a more dignified end. I suppose we all enjoy the festivity of ceremony. But regardless, you cannot deny fate Geron, we shall all enter Wyrmgard. But to do so, we must have the blood of the dragon!”

  Usually the command to return was the start of a demonstrative show, or a desperate battle. The dragon would soon find it was the latter. Lamentations for forgiveness were uttered by each of the community as they raced forward towards the beast, blades in hand.

  It was a display of naïve idealism, or perhaps noble stupidity, but regardless the wailing residents continued their ineffective attempts at passing the impenetrable scale armour of the beast. Throughout its encounters with many hostile humans, the beast began to register these nuisances as an antagonistic act and its passive grunts turned to a low growl of agitation.

  Abarath found his arm being seized by Grawnya. “We need to sacrifice the dragon at the altar, not here!” she said. He wholeheartedly agreed with this justification for fleeing, and so Grawnya ordered the community into the tunnel, the beast following suit, snapping its jaws at the retreating blade-wielders.

  Trying not to take the insults and demands for him to shut up personally, Geron winced at the enforced walking, his wounds thankfully not incapacitating. Though being swept up in the retreating community was not as amusing nor cathartic as he would imagine, for he too felt a tad unsettled by the enraged dragon, its errant temper a problematic issue for as long as he could remember.

  The altar space was wide and circular, the perfect grounds for an enclosing battle, the tunnel provided a restricted entrance. Thus the community would have one effort at striking before being entombed within their own killing ground.

  Geron was about to point this out, but decided that the mockery was not worth any tactical advantage he may inadvertently benefit them. So too was he distracted by the small section of the community that sheathed their puny weapons and begun scaling the sides of the Insurmountable that draped over the tunnel’s mouth.

  But their fight was not abandoned, instead they stood ready, awaiting the signal from Abarath, whose intent gaze through the tunnel opening was interrupted
only by his utterance of the word. “Hold!”

  The dragon was imminent, fulfilling its complete return. Abarath raised his hand, his single worded instruction repeated at increasingly frequent intervals.

  The community member whose blade held Geron in place could feel his assigned prisoner flinch, for Geron had deduced their intentions. It was no flanking manoeuvre, above the cave’s entrance a precarious shard of the Insurmountable drooped precariously.

  Noticing his distress, Grawnya confirmed his suspicions.

  “Yes, we are not foolhardy, we know that it would take another beast of the dragon’s nature to slay it outright, yet the very holding of Wyrmgard itself has provided us with the instrument with which to gain its entry.”

  Rocks rained over the cave-mouth; the mountain shard perilous in its housing.

  “Hold!” Abarath continued to cry, the dragon’s steps growing closer. He did not give the final command, his fluttering, fleeing footsteps the sign that the dragon had traversed the tunnel’s interior.

  Geron felt the pressure of the blade upon his throat as he attempted to pry himself free, watching as the shard collided with the beast’s elongated neck. The ground rocked with the weighted double impact, the mountain shard cracking upon the ground, the dragon slumping into a heap.

  The laceration upon his own neck was not fatal, yet Geron scarcely had time to confirm this as he raced into the billowing dust cloud that had rushed upward in the wake of the fall. Choking on the unrelenting particles, panic rose as he struggled to breathe, vainly casting broken stone aside, searching for the familiar touch of the scale.

  It came, laced with a strange viscous substance, Geron shielded his eyes, bringing his hand to his face, his palm and fingers lined with a dark black substance.

  “Dragon blood!” Grawnya cried out. To which a cheer rose up from the community, who reassembled in a hysterical huddle of celebration.

  “Wyrmgard, it is within our grasp,” Abarath whispered, embracing Grawnya.