Dragon (A Histories of Purga Novel)
Chapter Two

Rone stood on the massive terrace of his apartment overlooking the Kingdom of Roanoke. He sighed miserably and placed his head in his hands. In little more than an hour there was going to be yet another function at the Citadel, a towering structure that rose several hundred feet into the air. The giant building was his home but it was also the heart of his kingdom. He groaned loudly at the prospect of another boring, drawn out royal function featuring more tedious fools from the Upper Tier. His mind’s eye showed him the endless train of people parading in front of his father’s throne. It usually took two or more hours for the whole process to finish, and that was just the parade. It didn’t include the conference, the dinner, or the party that concluded the whole thing.

He went back inside his suite and glanced at the holographic vid-screen covering the entire right wall of the living room.

“Come on down to Blue City for all the latest, and greatest, blueprints!” a man with outrageously blue hair shouted from the screen. His eyes popped out of his head and he had a big, overly-cheery smile plastered to his face.

Rone glanced at the display on his living room wall. It was broken up into several sections. The commercial with the blue-haired man (a very minor Duke named Astor Fonnan, he remembered) finished and an archaic Terraquois PSA took its place. He ignored the ludicrous commercial that showed the tribes people brutalizing Rooks and ended with instructions on what to do if one or more is seen. He turned instead to the weather section of the display. It showed a simple yellow ball with the current temperature at seventy-nine degrees. He stepped closer to the screen and placed a finger on an arrow in the bottom right corner of that section. The display expanded and showed an hour by hour weather prediction. He read over it carefully, noting that it said the skies were clear for the rest of the day.

“Perfect,” he murmured to himself. Then he raised his voice slightly and called out, “Bastion.”

“Your Highness,” a male voice answered. There was a low humming sound and the vents on the mechpaks embedded into both of Rone’s forearms opened, spewing a cloud of microscopic nanobots into the air. They eventually coalesced into the head of a young man that closely resembled Rone’s own face. There were subtle differences, however. Bastion had blonde hair so light, it was nearly white while Rone’s was a dark brown with a coppery tint. Bastion’s eyebrows were almost invisible and his eyes were so dark, it made them look like two black marbles. The avatar’s cheekbones were a bit higher than Rone’s own and it had also taken on a long, slightly hooked nose. Rone’s was shorter and rounded at the end.

“Open a direct channel to my father, King Rowan.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Bastion said before dissolving and flowing back into the mechpaks.

The screen in front of him suddenly went dark, the Terraquois PSA blinking off. When it came back on, his father was peering at him. His one remaining eye (a light blue nearly the same shade as Rone’s own eyes) glittered inquisitively at him. A circular patch made of dark metal covered the ruined hole where his other one used to be.

Rone stared intently at the thick scars that twisted from his father’s scalp and slid diagonally over his face and neck, ending a couple of inches beneath the King’s collar bone. There were four sets of scars, made from a vicious slash Tarvo, the Terraquois warrior chieftain, had delivered in his bear form. The fight between the two was the stuff of legend.

“Son,” his father nodded, a small smile on his face. “And what reason do you have today for trying, again, to renege on your duties as Prince in tonight’s gala?”

“I only wish to take a small flight. To clear my head.”

“A small flight?” his father asked, incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied. “To…clear my head. I won’t even ditch the lackeys you send to guard me.”

“That is not wise. The gala is only a few hours away. Maybe that time would be better spent preparing. There are several distinguished guests that would appreciate…diplomacy from you this time around.”

“Come on,” Rone said, throwing his hands up. “That was one time. It’s not like Lord Guilder’s nanos didn’t sense the firecracker and create that shield first.”

“I believe failure to achieve actual injury doesn’t quite defeat your intent to do him harm, either physical or by embarrassing him in front of the entire Upper Tier.”

“He was beating his wife. I’ve told you all this before. And what did you do? You gave him another parcel of land. You rewarded him!?”

“I did no such thing. After your antics, I was forced to try and appease him. He wanted your head on a platter, Rone! You know how our judicial system operates. You must have irrefutable proof of such things before I can act appropriately against a noble,” he responded.

Rone could tell his father was trying to keep his voice calm, but there was an undercurrent of anger and frustration there.

“Look, I’ve already apologized to you, to Lord Guilder, and to half the Upper Tier. There is nothing more I can do,” he said, his own tone exasperated. “Can I take the flight?”

“No.”

The screen went blank before Rone could even say anything back. He roared with impotent fury. He focused his mind, picturing what he wanted his nanos to create. It was an extremely difficult exercise without a blueprint, but he was one of the rare people that could create machines without one.

His nanos flew out again and encased his hand in a protective shell that resembled a giant silver fist. He slammed it into the wall with all his strength, yelling out his rage again. There was a hollow thump and a big dent appeared there. The nanos dissolved and returned to his mechpaks. He yelled again, his face flushed. He was breathing hard and he had to force himself to calm down. He took several deep breaths until his rage quieted down. Then he walked away as the tech in the wall repaired the dent.

He went over to his sea green sofa in the middle of his living room and sat down. He stared intently at the fire in his fireplace and let himself get lost in watching it flicker back and forth.

He knew it was stupid to get so worked up, but he couldn’t help it. He hated being controlled. He hated being manipulated. He hated having every second of his life laid out for him.

He let out another breath and shook his arm absentmindedly. It tingled slightly from the impact with the wall.

“Your Highness,” Bastion said, sometime later. “Your garb for this evening’s gala is ready.”

Rone let out another miserable sigh and watched as a section of wall slid open to reveal a pin-striped, three piece suit of charcoal grey. A sea green, button-up shirt showed beneath the suit’s jacket and vest. Added as an accent was a dark purple tie. On the left breast of the pin-striped suit was the Varlamagne crest. He looked at it intently for a moment.

It was comprised of a shield made up of four quadrants. Two of them were black, one was sea green and the other was purple. Two identical towers were placed in the middle of the green and purple quadrants. A lion rising on its haunches dominated the left side of the crest, while a sleek hawk with outstretched wings dominated the right. A scroll bearing the Varlamagne name in fancy script rolled underneath it.

The crest was a symbol to him. A symbol that gave him strength. He looked at it and saw everything that the Varlamagne line had struggled and fought for over the centuries.

His eyes went back to the entire suit again. He thought about his conversation with his father for a long time, especially where it concerned Lord Guilder. Rone hated that man. He was an insufferable, arrogant, egomaniac that enjoyed inflicting pain. Something had to be done about him.

And Rone wanted to be the one to do it.

He got up, walked over to the suit, and began putting it on. He told Bastion to create a mirrored surface on the wall closest to him. Then he examined his reflection, making sure everything was in order. He gave his tie one final tug to straighten it and then headed to his door.

He pictured in his mind the last time he’d seen Lady Guilder. It was just after he’d walked in on the conclusion of an argument between her and her husband. Or rather, an argument Lord Guilder had been having with her. He could still see her bruised and swollen face and her split, bleeding lip. There’d been no question that he’d beaten her, but he hadn’t been able to prove it. The act had already been done and over with by the time he’d walked in and the slimy bottom feeder would’ve had a plausible excuse to explain what happened. He couldn’t give testimony to abuse he hadn’t technically seen. But Lord Guilder had done it. That was what Rone knew and if he wouldn’t be punished for it by Roanoke’s justice system, he’d take matters into his own hands. Hence, the firecracker. The man, as far as he was concerned, was nothing but a cowardly tyrant and he would’ve deserved every bit of pain the firecracker would’ve inflicted. But the nano-shield went up first and Lord Guilder escaped punishment. Much to Rone’s displeasure.

He was disappointed that he wasn’t allowed to take his flight, but it quickly faded. What he had in mind instead seemed like a much brighter prospect for fun. And justice.

He came to his door. It slid open and he nearly crashed headlong into Darvian Tims, his lifelong best friend.

“Darv?” Rone asked. “What are you doing here?”

Darvian rubbed his neck, obviously nervous.

“The King sent you, didn’t he?” Rone interrogated, not really waiting to hear the truth. It was clearly written on his friend’s face.

“The King didn’t exactly tr-” Darvian’s voice trailed off.

“Trust me?”

“Something like that,” he replied.

Rone threw an arm around Darvian’s shoulders, a wide smile on his face to show that he wasn’t angry.

“My father is cautious,” he said. “And smart. But don’t worry. If this goes according to plan, then the only one to be hurt is Lord Guilder.”

“Why do I not like the sound of that?”

Rone’s smile only widened.

****

The parade of Upper Tier was as bad as he feared. He dozed off several times, his head jerking up, his eyes snapping open, only for them to fall heavily back down again and again. He saw Lord Guilder eye him at one point with something akin to murderous fury as he walked past. Rone’s upper lip peeled away from his teeth but Lord Guilder merely smiled cruelly and continued on, nearly dragging his wife behind him.

Rone sat up quickly.

“Bastion,” he whispered. “You know what to do.”

There was a very quiet affirmative from the area of his right mechpak and then a low humming. Rone casually leaned that arm on his chair so that the mechpak would be facing the retreating Guilders, who were talking animatedly. It grew louder for a moment, but not loud enough to draw attention from anyone, and then abruptly shut off.

“Is it done?” Rone asked, after Lady Guilder had disappeared into the conference room.

Again, a very quiet affirmative from his right mechpak.

Rone smiled again, but it slid off his face a second later when he saw the line of Upper Tier left. He frowned and let out a hissing breath. There looked like a hundred or so of them still waiting. He forced himself to sit motionless and be patient. It was an extremely difficult exercise for him.

He nodded and smiled when prompted. He waved. He chatted. He did what a Prince was supposed to do (except for the instances where he dozed off). Finally, when there were only ten or so Upper Tier left in line, he called for Darvian.

His friend appeared next to Rone’s throne, a slightly worried expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, glancing nervously at King Rowan. The King was eyeing them both with something like cautious amusement.

Darvian’s face drained a little more of color and Rone had to force himself not to smile. He’d been known to fake an illness or two in his time, just to get away from these functions.

“Don’t worry,” Rone replied. He kept his voice to a low whisper. “I just want you to give this to Lady Guilder, requesting a private conference with her at the office listed. Tell no one it was at my request. Do you understand? That last part is important.”

“I…uh…understand,” he whispered back, taking the folded note with a curious look and hurrying away.

Rone turned back to the last of the citizens and smiled charmingly as the daughters of an Earl strolled past. They giggled and blushed as they bowed to him.

At least being a Prince has some perks, he thought. He gave the girls one last wink before they disappeared from view.

When it was finally over, he excused himself, claiming that he needed the bathroom. King Rowan waved him away and turned back to an insignificant Count a little too eager to meet the famous King.

Rone slipped away.

He headed to the conference room and glanced around from the doorway until he found Darvian slipping the note to Lady Guilder near the front row of seats. He watched her eyebrows furrow together in confusion and then she quietly got up. Lord Guilder did not look pleased, but he let her go. Rone felt a growing wave of satisfaction hit him and he disappeared, heading to a seldom used bathroom on the fourth floor. After he was sure he was alone, he locked the door and glanced at the mirror.

“Bastion?” he called. The mechpak on his left arm whirred and hummed, spewing out a cloud of nanos. It formed into Bastion’s features and turned to face him.

“Do you have what I need?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” was the reply and Rone got to work.

****

Lord Guilder watched his wife, his Anabelle, come back. She walked with a slight slump, as if she carried a great weight and her eyes were cast downward. The deep blue gown she wore shimmered as she moved.

Lord Guilder smiled. It was a petty, cruel thing full of satisfaction and contentment. He enjoyed beating her down. He enjoyed tearing at the foundations of her spirit again and again and making her truly his. His to command. His to possess.

“What was all that nonsense about?” he snarled at her. He felt good when he saw her flinch in fear.

But that fear he liked so much only lasted a moment. Then something strange happened.

She smiled.

It was not Annabelle’s smile, though. Her usual smile was a nervous thing that was full of fear. This one was cocky. It was full of calm, calculated purpose.

He stared hard at her as she plopped down in the seat next to him. Then he watched in shock as she lifted her dainty little feet and put them on his robust thighs.

“I’ve been thinking, husband dear,” she said, managing to sound bored. “I’m not feeling the love in this relationship anymore.”

“Y-you,” he sputtered. “How dare you?” His jowls were practically flopping with his rage.

“How dare I?” she responded, derisive laughter ripping from her mouth. Her body seemed to ripple with it until she finally got her breath back. When she did, her own smile turned cruel. “You pathetic moron. Did you think I would tolerate you laying your fists on me forever?” She laughed again. “Such an old fool.”

She watched his face turn bright red. She saw his eyes boil over with anger. She pulled her feet off his thighs but not quick enough.

In a split second, Lord Guilder activated one of his blueprints and his nanos came out, forming a huge silver hand that he used to grab her feet. It gleamed in the lights coming from the ceiling high overhead. He rose slowly, carrying her with him.

She let out a tiny squeak of protest.

“You have the nerve to talk to me like that?” he asked her. “You have the nerve to put your feet on me, as if I were a common stool?”

Then he threw her.

She let out a high-pitched scream before she hit the wall. The wood cracked and splintered and she fell to the floor. Every one of the Upper Tier rose at once, yelling and calling for the Imperial Guards. They got to Lord Guilder as he was pounding that giant silver fist into his wife’s face, over and over again. They pulled him off and restrained him. He was breathing heavy, his face strained and nearly purple. A vein on his temple pulsed and beat in time to his rapid heartbeat.

Everyone was watching.

Lady Guilder stood up. There wasn’t a scratch on her. Her pale face was flawless, even in the rather dim lighting. She smiled and waved her fingers at her husband. Then she started laughing.

“W-what?” Lord Guilder stammered again. His beady eyes suddenly bulged grotesquely, making him look like the insect he was. “How?”

Lady Guilder continued laughing. Then she abruptly turned hazy. Her form blurred and flickered. The next instant, she burst apart. Twin streams of nanos that had been Lady Guilder seconds before were sucked back into a pair of mechpaks that belonged to none other than Prince Rone. He stopped laughing suddenly and his face turned deadly serious.

He strode up to Lord Guilder, whose bulging eyes were now on the verge of bursting out of his ignorant head.

“Lord Guilder,” he said, his voice strong and completely confident. “Do you realize the severity of assaulting the Prince?”

“No. No.” Lord Guilder was shaking his head violently from side to side. “It was my wife. It was Anabelle. I wouldn’t….wouldn’t assault…y-you.”

“I’m afraid my son is correct, Lord Guilder,” King Rowan said, from directly behind the guards holding the Lord in place. “Send for Lady Guilder. The real Lady Guilder. I would like her to be here for this.” King Rowan turned so that he could look at Rone directly. He smiled slightly.

Someone went running. A few minutes later, they came back with a flustered Lady Guilder.

“Reg?” she asked, seeing her husband bound by the Guards. “What has happened?” She looked around, at the people witnessing the events, at the Prince, and finally the King.

“My Lord. Your Highness.” She bowed to both King Rowan and Prince Rone and then turned inquisitive, frightful eyes back on her husband.

“Leave me be, cursed woman,” he snarled back.

“Lady Guilder,” King Rowan said, the force of his voice startling her. “By order of the crown, the holdings of your former husband are now entrusted into your care. You will fulfill his responsibilities and the responsibilities to the citizens of Guildion. Do you understand?”

She looked from Lord Guilder to the King again, her mouth open in a silent expression of shocked horror. After a few seconds, she had the presence of mind to nod her head.

King Rowan smiled charmingly at her and then turned to Lord Guilder. The King’s expression was rigid and his anger flashed in his remaining eye like a bright, simmering flame.

“Lord Guilder, by order of the crown, you are hereby sentenced to imprisonment for the remainder of your life for the crime of assault against the Crown Prince of Roanoke and the attempted assault of Lady Annabelle Saricia Kem Guilder. You are to be stripped of your nanos. You are to be stripped of your title and all the status that came with it. From this day forth, you are less than nothing in the eyes of Roanoke and her citizens.”

Lord Guilder started to protest but a loud, droning hum cut him off. A cloud of nanos flowed out of King Rowan’s outstretched right arm. As they flew toward the fat Lord huddled on the floor, they expanded into a rectangular shape of solid metal. It hit the Lord with a loud smack, whipping his head back viciously. There was a muffled grunt of pain and when Lord Guilder’s face came back into view, the rectangle of metal covered his mouth. His eyes were narrowed with his indignation and humiliation.

“Take him to Detention Sector 1,” King Rowan demanded.

The guards immediately dragged him away.

Lord Guilder tried to protest again, but it came out as garbled mush. In a few moments, he was gone.

There was a heavy silence in the air and the Upper Tier just stood around, frozen.

King Rowan looked at them all.

“Please,” he called, jovially. “Let us continue on to the ballroom and commence the festivities. I think we can hold the conference at another date.”

Nobody moved. They were all staring at the retreating ex-Lord.

“Come, come. There will be music and food.”

Everyone tore their gazes away from where Lord Guilder had been dragged out. Then people started shuffling out of the conference room, heading for the gigantic ballroom. Pretty soon, the entire incident was left behind as everyone ate, danced and laughed.

****

High up in the dark, shadowed section of the big auditorium, a silent figure calmly watched the proceedings. A dark hood covered his features, but there was a glint of a hideous, misshapen smile.