Draconis' Bane (3 page)

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
sandals running away down the hall.

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 “1
^st
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 well.

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.

Day dreaming had
become something of a habit of his lately. Between his punishments
at home, the constant fear that he would anger his father into
another belting session or get another ruler broken over some newly
healed body part from his mother, his slow torture on the school
bus ride to and from school and finally the pain of having no
friends at school….day dreaming had become an escape; an escape
from the never-ending loneliness, solitude and pain.

Living in a suburb
renowned for its large houses and yards had conspired to set him
apart from his classmates. Even though their houses were the same
size as his, and their parents made the same living as his, he
still lived in a “rich” suburb. He certainly didn’t dress like it,
hand-me-down clothing from Greg, shoes a size too small, and jeans
tattered from their previous owners use and worn further by
Tristans use.

He was small, even
for eight he was small. He was the smallest student in his class,
and often was bullied by the larger boys. The girls always seemed
to like him though, no matter how many black eyes he sported or how
many times three of the larger boys would gang up on him the girls
would stick up for him. Their defense only served to give the
bullies more ammunition. This year Tristan had taken to playing
football with the boys in his class over recess. Being the smallest
the first few weeks were made memorable and painful as no matter
how many people were covering him the quarter-back would always
toss him the ball on the first down so that all the boys could
tackle him, often the tackle ended in a pile-on where fifteen boys
would pile on top of him, including members of his own team.

No matter how hard he
got hit, he would get right back up and get ready for the next
play. After a month of this repeated beating one of the boys
started being almost nice to him, after one particularly large
pile-on a hand reached down and pulled Tristan out from under the
rubble. Tristan was helped to his feet and he looked to see who had
rescued him, assuming it would be a teacher or a girl. Much to his
surprise Paul smiled back at him;

“You alright,
Tristan?” he asked.

“Er….ya Paul. I’m
fine.”

“Great. Ready?”

For weeks the two of
them would run plays together at recess, sit next to each other in
class and conspire to have each other over for sleepover’s and
camping in each other’s back yards. Paul become one of Tristans few
friends. Until of course his father met Paul. After almost a month
of planning and two sleepovers at Paul’s house, Tristan’s mother
finally relented and agreed to let Paul sleep over.

At the end of school
that day Paul caught the bus home with Tristan. They joked around
on the ride home and then dropped their bags off and Tristan
introduced Paul to his three friends. The five of them started a
game of football in the back yard and played until the sun went
down. Tristan and Paul were called into the house for supper and
they all agreed to play football again tomorrow.

Tristan was happier
than he had ever been before. He sat down for supper, his sister
making a rude comment that completely escaped Tristan. Paul spoke
up and she was silenced, he then turned to Tristan and said in a
hushed voice;

“Just call her
meatball when she attacks you, it’s what I do to my sister and it
works every time.”