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In which Mermul goes to see the King.

Icon art from the Mermul reference by Billie/FeatheryFlukes

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Chapter 6 - Interview

"Who's Verthyr?" Fardon asked, as the three dragons landed at the the mountainous capital of Taria.

"She was one of my friends," Fiskul said. "The Hunters got her. Cultists, not the run-of-the-mill opportunists like the ones who attacked us. The type who believe that we're all too dangerous to live. The ones who are sworn to kill dragons because... Well, because a dragon is supposed to be the one to end the world."

"I'm sorry," Fardon said quietly.

"So was I. I think that was when I started eating the mountain. Didn't make very good comfort food."

Fardon looked troubled.

"This may be a personal question," Mermul interrupted, "But what you were saying about your friends... That's not true, is it? You're not marking people to devour their souls?"

"'Course not," Fiskul said. "That's just a stupid myth. But I do understand where they're coming from, though. I'm the one chosen to end the world. By most definitions that makes me the bad guy, right?
"But at the end of the day, I'm still a dragon... Or close enough to one as makes no difference. We're social creatures, we need to have company. And who would want to hang out with the Evil One?
"So when someone can see past that... it's a precious thing I don't want to lose. And maybe I come over a bit too pushy..."

"You're doing fine," Mermul said.

Fiskul gave an embarrassed smile.

Mermul glanced around and saw that Fardon had been approached by the staff managing the landing area. He was given an ornate scroll, which he scanned through and then arched his neck to face the other two dragons.

"Mermul," he called. "Lord Varl wishes to meet you at the palace, to discuss your citizenship application. I can escort you there, but Fisk...? If you could wait for us in North Plateau Park..? Meaning no disrespect, Mermul's interview would go a lot more smoothly if you are not present."

Fiskul slumped a little.

"I don't like it," he said finally. "But given how things went at the temple... Maybe you're right."

* * *

Lord Varl's hall was spacious, about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. The roof above was designed to open up, allowing the Dragon King to enter or leave directly, though this was generally only used in exceptional situations, such as emergencies.
The hall was eerily quiet and empty. A large, muscular orange dragon lay sprawled upon a massive golden throne, which looked a lot like a bed or couch, dragons tending to lay flat where they could.

"Well met, Mermul," the dragon said, craning his neck to look at Mermul more closely as the blue-grey dragon approached. "I am Lord Varl, ruler of this land."

Mermul gazed up at the Dragon King in surprise. He was a large, muscular creature with red-orange scales, a pale orange belly and a dark red mane flowing down his back. He wore jewellery, an emerald disc on his forehead, and gold bands on one horn and one of his forelegs. Beside him sat two advisors, representing the human and furre citizens of the realm. A pair of dragon knights in their ceremonial armour and tail-blades stood watchfully to the sides.

"These are my chief advisors... Lord Olson," he glanced at the human, "And Lord Farar," he glanced at the maned wolf. "Between the three of us, we try to ensure that the realm of Taria remains a fair place for our respective races."

"Well met, milords," Mermul said at last, bowing his head respectfully.

Lord Varl pressed something on a large keyboard attached to his throne, and a projector flickered into life behind Mermul. Craning his neck slightly he saw a screenful of text and a photograph of himself.

"Just relax, and answer my questions as best you can," Varl said. "Let's quickly run over your file... You hatched in Arkwright, correct?"

"So I'm told," the blue dragon answered nervously. "I was a foundling... Lost my parents during one of Lord Thurr's attacks when I was young, so I'm not quite sure where or when. The hatchday I give people is the 3rd of Naruary, 1735. Which would make me 247."

"I see," Lord Varl said, editing some of the details. "And you are a snow dragon, or largely of that heritage. Frost breath, I take it?"

"Yes, Majesty," Mermul said. "I can demonstrate, but I'd rather not. I've seen enough violence. I don't want to cause more."

"Ah, indeed. From Sir Fardon's notes, I see that you were being pursued by Hunters."

"They found me while I was trying to reach your lands from Arcaia," Mermul admitted, looking upset. "And... And I'm afraid Lord Thurr's mob are after me as well. Being a dragon around their parts... It's not great if you're opposed to him. You tend to die. The Elders of Arcaia suggested I come here to plead for your aid. I had help... I was saved from the Hunters by another dragon who lives in the disputed lands."

"Fardon also reported that a band of Hunters were attacked and burned, along with a civilian vehicle," Lord Varl pointed out. "Disputed territory or not, it's a serious matter. We have enough racial tensions as it is, without some maniac cremating innocent settlers."

"They were like that when we found them, milord," Mermul protested, looking horrified.

"That may be, but... Well, if you can demonstrate that you are a frost-dragon, it would greatly help to clear you of suspicion in that affair," Lord Varl pointed out. "Though we will also have to ask questions of this 'Fisk' you were travelling with."

"Very well, milord," Mermul looked unhappy. He picked a spot on the tiled marble floor, breathed in, and neatly drew a ring of ice over it.

"Excellent," Lord Varl said, looking pleased. "So... What do you hope to do now you are here?"

"I was a courier at Arcaia," the fluff dragon said eagerly. "I can do that right away. I've also... well, wondered about becoming a medic. Though I worry I might be too squeamish for that. But, it would be nice to help save lives..."

"I see," Lord Varl said, and typed a few words into the keyboard. "And where do you see yourself in five years time...? What do you want out of life in Taria...?"

"What does anyone want, your Majesty?" Mermul shrugged his wings. "A place to live, earn enough money to get by, find a partner, start a hoard... But that's longer-term stuff. My immediate plans are to... Well... not get murdered by Lord Thurr."

"Very good," Lord Varl said again. "I must confer with my advisors. If you can return at the tenth hour tomorrow morning, I will let you know how things stand."

"Thank you, my lords," the blue-grey dragon said, bowing his head respectfully.

* * *

"Well, it seems we're going to need somewhere to lair overnight," Mermul said, meeting up with the other two in North Plateau Park. "Any suggestions? And how much is it likely to cost?"

"I do have a place in Eastcrag," Fardon said. "My main residence is in Tarnover, but I have to report in to my Lord regularly, so I need a home from home. You are welcome to stop over until you have found your wings in Taria. However, you will have to share a den unless Fisk has some kind of lair here as well."

"Not anymore," the Devourer said. "Once, centuries ago... Until it was destroyed as a blasphemous temple of darkness. Those bastards... I was still inside it at the time! Nowadays, when I visit the capital I don't usually stop over. Sometimes I'll stay in a hostel, but my resemblance to the Evil One isn't looked upon kindly and I often get turned away. Sometimes I have to sleep rough in the park."

* * *

Fardon's lair was set into one of the cliffs, one of numerous circular openings bored into the rock with some kind of tunnelling machine. The landing porches were all decorated to tell them apart, and were large enough to accommodate two regularly-sized dragons, but since Fiskul was unusually small, all three of them just about managed to squeeze in. Fardon put his hand to a raised pedestal and the door opened up like the iris in a camera aperture.

"Neat," Mermul said, looking impressed.

"Saves space," the dragon knight explained. "A bulkhead door would be more secure, but the whole thing would have to slide into the ceiling or walls and there's other properties above and beside mine. Space is at a premium unfortunately, and to be honest this place is a bachelor apartment really. Nice, but... Well, I prefer the villa in Tarnover."

The tunnel widened into a fork. Flying was out of the question, but a dragon with their wings tucked in could trot quite quickly on all fours, an adaptation to their tendency to lair in caves and tunnels. There was a living space with a projection screen on one wall, a kitchen, a bathroom and then the two dens.

"Do you need a hoard to sleep on?" Fardon asked. "There's some roll-up clutter in the cupboard if you need to make a pile of something."

"Thanks. I think just the mattress will be fine," Mermul said. "I can sleep on the floor," Fiskul added. "Better than the park, at least."

* * *

Fardon slept uneasily. He dreamed that he was a wyvern - his hands were gone, fused into his wings and forcing him to lumber painfully along the ground, too weak and injured to fly away. Dragon-slayers in their leather armour and armed guardsmen crowded around him, baying for his death like a pack of animals... Condemning him to die for attacking a watchtower, even as he tried to explain that it was another brown dragon who looked like him...

Meanwhile, Lord Thurr's elites circled above him, massing for the kill. Flames seared down from one of them, swathing the ground beside him with fire and setting alight the collar around his neck along with one of the guardsmen's shields.
As he watched, one of the enemy dragons swooped low with claw-blades outstretched, cackling evilly, while another followed, eager to watch the brown dragon's death close up. He realised with horror that they had become the Devourer, tendrils of void escaping from a gaping maw, and they were making excitable yelps at the prospect of seeing Fardon die. Eager to consume his powerful dragon soul, destroying his life utterly just so they could use his precious life energies to perform some cheap magic trick. He reached desperately for the protection enchantment, a pair of gauntlets, and the only thing that could save his life, but without hands, he couldn't understand how to put them on...

Fardon woke up with a gasp, heart pounding, and craned his neck to the dim light of the clock. It was still some an ungodly hour, but his eyes narrowed with puzzlement. Parts of the nightmare still lingered and he could distinctly hear the excited yelps of his would-be killers. He uncurled suspiciously to investigate, wondering groggily how intruders had breached the wards around his sanctum - and then suddenly remembered that he had guests in the spare room.

Oho, he thought, and a terrifying grin spread across his features as he curled back up to sleep. Fiskul's friend now appears to be a friend-with-benefits.