Draconis' Bane

by David Temrick

  He hefted the bucket high over his head and glanced mischievously at his Queen. She nodded once, smiling despite her aggravation.

  Tristan cursed loudly as he sputtered and spit out water that had found its way into his slack mouth. He flailed about on the bed, uttering threats as he often did when forced to do or learn something he didn’t wish to. He opened his eyes and became silent as the grave as he stared up at his mother.

  The Queen wasn’t a very foreboding looking woman; she was of average height with a slim build and long dark hair. Though her green eyes communicated her anger clearly enough. Her voice hid the anger behind disappointment.

  “What in the Gods names were you thinking, Mykl?” She asked calmly, invoking the pet name she used for all of her children.

  Tristan had the good grace to avert his eyes from hers.

  “You could have killed him.” She continued. “My nephew.” She accused.

  Tristan couldn’t make eye contact with her. Fallon looked on, feeling sympathy for his young charge despite his many faults.

  “Just what were you trying to prove?” She said with rising anger. “Your sister’s honor is perfectly safe and even if it wasn’t, her virtue is mine to protect. You, your overblown ego and your sense of entitlement are going to get you killed and I’d rather not burn your body thank you very much.”

  Fallon felt supremely uncomfortable being in the room with them and doubly so due to his mother having similar words with him as a youngster. He felt the Queen was being a little harsh though. If Eurydice had been his sister he couldn’t honestly claim he would have done any differently. Be that as it may, he was a soldier and not a Prince. For Tristan, the stakes were higher, which was probably why the young man rebelled so regularly. Fallon knew that the responsibilities of office were something the young Prince never wanted. The young man tried his best to hide it, but the weight of other men’s lives depending on his decision frightened him.

  “Another stunt like that and I’ll have you tossed into the bay!” She yelled, finally allowing her anger to show. “Have his wounds cleaned and dressed then bring him to afternoon court. I’ll let his father met out the punishment.” The Queen ordered as she stormed out of the room in a flurry of hair and dress.

  Fallon had never seen the Prince ashamed of himself before. The old Swordmaster wasn’t sure he liked the sight to be perfectly honest.

  In mere moments there was a knock at the door and the nurse came in to dress the Princes superficial wounds. She clicked her tongue impatiently as she dressed the dozen or so small abrasions. Within the hour the Prince was dressed and summoned for court.

  Foreboding tension was thick in the air as though the Prince knew he’d gone too far one too many times. Fallon escorted him through the hallways towards the main audience chamber where the Housecarl beat his metal tipped staff on the floor to announce the entry of the King and Queen thru their private entrance to the central room in the Palace.

  Fallon could hear the Prince flexing his toes in his boots, clearly showing nervous tension at the very public dressing down he was likely about to receive. In retrospect, Swordmaster Fallon wondered if he should have put a stop to the fight rather than let the childish scrap play out. He felt nearly as responsible for what was about to transpire as the Prince should.

  “May I present, Prince Tristan Vallious!” The Housecarl shouted from the front of the room.

  With a gentle nudge from Fallon, the Prince walked forward. He made his way forward, into the chamber with as much poise as he could muster. The Swordmaster was sure that the Queen’s recriminations were still ringing in the lads ears as he came to a halt in front of the throne and respectfully bowed low.

  “Well.” The King said loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

  “We understand you took it upon yourself to instruct the Swordmaster’s lessons today.” He accused, casting his eyes toward Fallon who had quietly taken his place to the right of the throne between the King and Housecarl.

  King Dion Vallious wasn’t an overtly serious person, though he had a quiet authority that gave the impression that he was always deadly serious. In reality the King was a good natured man and more often than not was the mastermind behind pranks his children played on their teachers. For Dion to adopt a serious expression, as well as his choice of words, he betrayed his temper boiling under the surface of a calm façade. Fallon decided that the King must be furious.

  “Yes, father.” Tristan admitted, lowering his eyes.

  “Since you’ve clearly gone from pupil to teacher, there is nothing our home can offer you anymore.” The King announced.

  Tristan’s head snapped up, looking at his father in open shock.

  “With that said, we’ve decided it’s time for you to earn the reputation you seem to think you deserve.” The King ordered.

  Tristan looked back down at his feet.

  “You’ll be leaving at the end of the week for Kenting. There you will assume the post of Man-At-Arms under your brothers’ command until such time as he thinks you’re ready.” Dion said in his most commanding voice.

  “Ready for what, father?” Tristan asked quietly, still keeping his eyes downcast.

  “Ready to grow up!” The King shouted.

  “Hold!”

  The Prince looked over at the Swordmaster, irritation clearly evident on his face. Again Fallon was forced to admit that while the Prince was quite gifted with the sword, he found the young man’s attitude irritating.

  Apparently the chastising he’d received from his father yesterday afternoon had long since been forgotten. The boy was a talent and his abilities led him to impetuous moves that would likely earn him an early death if he couldn’t reign in his arrogance. Even as a child, the eldest son of his King and Queen had shown great promise. He lacked the discipline or at the very least the desire to see it through though.

  It was very disappointing. The best his teachers could expect was a competent administrator, though Dukes had been made of far worse material he grudgingly admitted to himself. Fallon would have liked to have broken the Prince like one would a horse and reformed him into someone much less arrogant and spoiled. Today he was conducting the lessons as none of the other instructors wanted to be responsible for a repeat performance of the previous day, unlikely though it was. Jason had been chastised in a much less public way and quietly sent home before the sun had set.

  “My Prince. After the riposte, you need to remember not to leave yourself open.” Fallon instructed.

  The Prince rolled his eyes, a show of disrespect that would have earned one of the other students a sound beating.

  “My opponent is too slow to take advantage of any opening I leave for him anyway.” He shot, looking over the Swordmaster’s shoulder at his sparring partner.

  There, Fallon was forced to agree. There were few other options though as many of the more gifted students simply refused to spar with the spoiled Prince. Even if they did best him, the Prince was full of excuses and accusations that robbed them of any pride they felt at their victory.

  An ear ringing explosion launched the Swordmaster across the room. He slammed against the opposite wall and gasped as he felt ribs break with the impact. Pain shot through his body and he felt his arm snap as he spun through the air and collided with a support pillar. He cradled his broken limb as he shakily pushed himself against the wall. He struggled to breath, which only brought tears to his eyes as he attempted to push himself up against the wall.

  A robed man stood at the doorway with his arms outstretched, his hands glowing with a strange blue light. After a few moments, a beam shot from his hands and hit the Prince, who was still dazed and laying on the floor a short distance away from the robed man.

  The Swordmaster stood and fought to stay conscious; spoiled brat or not, he was still his Lord’s son. He took a staggering step forward, only to have his vision collapse in on him. He fell forward in a heap; the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of s
andals running away down the hall.

  Nightmare

  Eight years old, Tristan sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands as he tried desperately to deal with a single unarguable truth.

  His grandfather - was dead.

  Years of his laughing face teaching Tristan all sorts of things, at the time it had seemed so trivial. Those memories came flowing back to his mind…unbidden.

  “Remember Tristan.”

  “Yes?”

  “A man is judged by the quality of his work, not the quantity.”

  “But Anne gets everything grandpa. How come I have to earn it?”

  “Because Tristan. That’s what men do.”

  It didn’t make sense then and it definitely didn’t make sense now as Tristan could hear his mother fussing over the state of his younger sister in the next room.

  “I DON’T WANNA!” His sister yelled.

  “Anne. Please. Not today. Just be a good girl, put on your new dress and come downstairs.” His mother begged.

  New dress, scoffed Tristan. Of course she had a new dress. Here Tristan sat, partially dressed in the hand-me-down suit he’d been given two years ago by his cousin. The cuffs of his dress pants were shorter than he would have liked and revealed his mismatched socks. It didn’t matter though, none of his relatives would notice. Quiet little Tristan, never raised a fuss, never complained, always did as he was told. The socks didn’t appear to be mismatched from a distance anyway, he mused darkly. They were both, after all, black. One sock was a sport sock…already making his left foot sweat in his dress shoe a size too small. The other sock had black designs cut into it, another hand-me-down from his cousin, Greg, who was four years older than Tristan.

  Everyone was in fours in Tristan’s family. His eldest cousin, Joy, was eight years older than he, his cousin came next, then Tristan and then…much to his irritation…Anne. Everyone in the family doted on Anne. She was the baby; she was so adorable, so cute, and so funny.

  Mocking laughter, another wonderful side effect of Tristan’s pathetic life; everyone around him seemed infected by it. When Greg would pick on Tristan, Tristan got in trouble for antagonizing him. Just walking into the room was enough to raise Greg’s ire.

  “Hey Pud! What are you up to!?”

  Wincing at the name Pud, such a clever and witty nickname he agonized. Not that brains factored into its creation mind you. It was his nickname for anyone he wished to associate with the male reproductive organ.

  “Nothing.” Tristan would often reply sheepishly.

  “Ya right. Come here!”

  More often than not, this simple phrase meant…..flee! In whatever direction was the clearest path to safety. More often than not his short strides were never enough to escape. He often sported black eyes, bruised ribs and sprained fingers as each was pulled painfully back towards the back of his hand. Tristan then had to endure ministrations from his mother, dark looks from his father, and Greg, so proud at his accomplishments, smiling as Greg’s mother reprimanded him half-heartedly.

  When Joy was around she would then offer to take care of Tristan while his relatives would return to whatever adult conversation they were in the middle of. Using spelling for words they didn’t want Tristan to know and eventually another language when he’d learned how to spell. The times Tristan spent with Joy though, were the most happy of his childhood memories.

  She would introduce Tristan to all her friends, who simply loved this adorable quiet little boy who never once complained about having tea parties or listening to God awful boy-band pop music. Today there would be no comfort though. Grandpa had passed away. He was Mom’s father not Dad’s. Dad’s father was still very much alive, overly sensitive about being bald, but still alive.

  Tristan sighed as he looked up. Staring at an ornate dresser, most likely made by Grandpa since it was passed down to him by his mother. It was raised three inches off the ground by carved legs, three drawers on both sides, and a bank of three smaller drawers up the middle. All of the drawers had antique metal handles that clanged when he shut them. There was also a hutch on this particular dresser, the center of which held a large mirror that occupied the entire length and height of the hutch. Intricately carved support posts rose from the simple flat top, to support to top most shelf which held all of his trophies.

  Those trophies never seemed to matter much to his father though. Things like “Most Improved Player” or “League MVP” meant very little if they weren’t sitting beside a “1st Place”. Good at everything, but never the best at one thing. That was the definition of Tristan’s whole life to this point. Being thrown into baseball, softball, soccer, karate…all supposedly to make him a man, all of them Tristan was quite good at. It didn’t matter though. Mom spent hours with Anne shopping or spending time with her. Dad, well….Dad worked a lot.

  Shaking his mind of all of the dark random thoughts Tristan opened one of the drawers and pulled out his tie. He straightened up and glanced at the mirror. There was his face, untidy hair which everyone assumed was always painstakingly brushed, his hazel eyes…today more brown than green or grey, but…something was different. His faced seemed harder, less youthful, and his skin was darker, must be the light. He lowered his gaze and set to tying the knot in his tie. When he looked up, he was just as he should be.

  “TRISTAN! Are you ready yet!?” His father yelled.

  “Yes. I’m coming.” He answered.

  “Quit dawdling!” Father scolded.

  “I’m not dawdling.” Tristan muttered under his breath.

  Dawdling. He was always dawdling these days. Two months ago Tristan had dawdled after his Karate class. He was caught up in the joy of playing tag with three of his friends from class. Dad arrived and honked the horn of the car. Tristan hadn’t even heard it. He was too busy having fun. His Dad honked again. Once again, Tristan hadn’t heard a thing as one of his friends yelled as Tristan got close enough to tag him.

  It happened in a flash; Dad stormed into the Dojo and grabbed Tristan painfully around the bicep. Half dragging him out to the car as his friends looked on, shock clearly evident on their young faces….the other fathers shaking their heads and going back to their conversation. When he got home, his father dragged him up the stairs, threw him on his bed, removed his belt and proceeded to strap him with it so many times, Tristan had lost count.

  The first few connections with the leather belt stung so bad that Tristan cried out. Tears flowed from his eyes as his father continued to beat him until he stopped screaming and simply lay there, flinching, not making a fuss, as was expected of him. When he’d finished Tristan’s father put his belt back on and said to him;

  “When I come to pick you up, be ready. Don’t dawdle around playing with your friends!”

  No answer greeted him, instead he turned and stormed out of Tristan’s room slamming the door and sending Tristans’ hand-me-down framed poster of a 1985 White Lamborghini Countach crashing to the carpeted floor. Tristan cried himself to sleep that night. The next morning, he woke up, had a shower and went to school as was expected of him.

  Tristan dare not dawdle today though; Mom was already very upset at the passing of her father. She was just as likely to break another yard stick over Tristan’s backside. Almost a year ago Tristan snapped in the middle of supper. He was being told that he was complaining too much about his poorly cooked meal.

  “Ya, well, you’d complain too if you got the most overcooked piece of fish and it tasted like moldy cardboard.” He’d shouted.

  That was enough to end supper right there, well for Tristan at least. He was dragged to the basement door, it was flung open and his mother reached inside and grabbed a yard stick she presumably used for sewing. She wound up and swung so yard at Tristans’ hind end that she snapped the yardstick in half. Of course that didn’t phase her one bit. She sent Tristan up to his room, his cardboard fish stick left unfinished and his stomach grumbling in protest.

  He’d cried himself to sleep that night as w
ell.

  Today was a different story though. Tristan couldn’t seem to cry. He didn’t really understand why, but it made him feel guilty that he couldn’t express his grief. For years he’d been punished, beaten and then he would cry. Today, the tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps this is what it feels like when your soul dies he mused darkly.

  “ARE YOU COMING?!” bellowed his father.

  “Yes!”

  Tristan hurried from his room, closing the door behind himself. Why he felt the need to close the door was quite simple; if he didn’t, it just invited Anne to rifle through his things. Always ignored, bossed around and beaten and yet his little sister would add to his misery by going into his private sanctuary and playing with his toys, the few he still had were safely locked away now.

  He existed in a kind of solitary confinement and his only freedom was being sent outside to play with his few friends or being sent off to summer camp, the first of which was coming up this summer. Still two months away it was all that he looked forward to, and his parents knew it, so naturally they used it as a weapon.

  “TRISTAN!” his father screamed.

  “What?” replied Tristan from inside the car.

  “Well finally!” he scolded.

  Tristan sat back in his seat, his features clouded in anger. Of course, why mention that he was the first one in the car? His mother and sister were still upstairs, God forbid he bellow for them. Staring out the window of his mothers’ station-wagon he sighed, again biting back the comments he wanted to make and knew he couldn’t. Dazing off into the clear blue sky Tristan day-dreamed of a life full of people he could trust, people who loved him and he could love.