Angmar crouched in the grass of one of the castle’s lawns, his front legs folded up beneath him. Blood dripped from his snout and teeth as he withdrew his nose from inside a bull’s carcass, one of the many stacked in the pile before him. He could have swallowed it whole, but the dragon’s focus was not upon eating. He liked to make a mess. Pieces of blood-soaked flesh littered the floor, accompanied by shards of bone that he let slip free of his mouth, between his teeth. Mordred ignored his dragon. He lay on his chest upon the creature’s vast back, propped up on his elbows, and his blue eyes sped back and forth across the pages of the book balance in his hands. He did not look up until he turned the page at the precise moment that the still air around him was interrupted by the sickening crunch of a skull being crushed. Mordred had broken enough of his own to know the sound. His gaze travelled to the grass, to the blood-stains and the discarded flakes of skin. His expression, relaxed and mild, remained in place, but his voice spoke instead with the sting of calm authority. “Clean it up,” he ordered the beast as his eyes returned to the page. He felt himself travel upwards upon the dragon’s back as Angmar sighed his reluctance, but he did, as ever, comply.
Dred closed the book with a snap. It was only small, fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand. The edges of the paper had been gilded in gold, bright against the dark green leather of the cover. He slipped neatly off the dragon’s back, slowing his descent towards the ground with a cushion of air, which he deflated slowly until the soles of his boots sunk into the grass. He strode around to the Angmar’s head and was gratified to discover that his instructions had been followed. There was no trace of any cows left upon the lawn. As a reward, Mordred rested his hand upon the dragon’s cheek, his fingers splayed. Angmar closed his blue eyes and emitted a long, low growl of satisfaction. “Stay,” the boy instructed finally, brushing his fringe out of his eyes as he removed his hand, pulling it back towards his body in a fluid motion. He felt, through their connection, his familiar’s disappointment, but, as ever, he paid it little heed. He passed beneath the archway that admitted him to his mother’s herb garden before passing through the gate into the yard beyond. It was, quite unusually, empty. The only figure anywhere in sight was the old straw dummy, mounted on his frame in the centre of the arena, a bird perched on one of his spindly stick-like arms.
“Dred!” A familiar voice called him from one of the upstairs windows. He turned around and raised his chin, focusing his attention in upon his nephew who was hanging rather precariously from the ledge of one of the tower rooms. The boy was a source of interest for the young baron. His actions often defied both logic and reason but Mordred was slowly beginning to pinpoint an underpinning philosophy. It would come in useful, he was sure, in the future. “What?” he shouted back in the voice he reserved for those around his own age, the voice that made him their peer in an instant. “I dropped something” the prince replied, leaning a little further out of the window in order to point a little way to Mordred’s right, “a bracelet. It’s not mine and urm...well...its owner will probably want it back...nowish.” Dred smiled. The place the Prince had indicated was a fair distance from the foot of the wall, which meant... “looks more like you threw it to me,” he called. Tristan rolled a shrug, “semantics,” he grinned before looking back over his shoulder in alarm, “the tutor’s coming!” he shouted, “if you find it, can you leave it on the windowsill?” Chuckling, Dred nodded before the prince vanished and the window snapped closed. The things he did, he reflected with an inward sniff of disdain, to keep his family happy.
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