The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  “Severity,” Lovenhaad started, “is the only guiding principle. You must be killed. Mekosh demands it.”

  Scar remained undaunted by the senseless blathering and threw his knee into the attacker’s midsection. It did little damage, but allowed the mercenary to step in, twist the mace down and towards Lovenhaad to force him off balance, and then Scar finally slung the weapon up with all his might. The mace’s shaft struck Lovenhaad in the bottom portion of the helmet.

  “Dammit!” Scar grumbled.

  He followed the attack by striking both palms into the paladin’s hips. The force sent Lovenhaad back to the ground. Scar took a knee to rain fists into the enemy, but the protective plating was simply too thick. The mercenary’s knuckles were to bleed and even quicker to heal.

  Lovenhaad bucked his hips away from Scar and aimed the pommel of his mace at his target’s chin; it was a near miss and again they stood to scuffle. Grunts, curses, and groans ensued coupled with dust kicking up around them. Then while the two wrenched about, both gripping the mace, Lovenhaad cried out and slumped to his knees.

  Scar was uncertain about what happened, but felt the paladin’s strength wane. He ripped the mace away, swung out an arc to gain momentum then struck the paladin perfectly across the side of his helmet. Lovenhaad smashed against the ground with a metallic clamor. He hissed while slowly trying to come away from the soil. Scar’s head tilted in amazement; an arrow was protruding from his opponent’s back. Wasting no more time, he bashed the paladin’s head in with three quick strikes. The helmet made an awful, wet smacking sound upon rupturing with brains.

  Letting the head of the bloodied mace rest against the soil, Scar peered over the hills and dunes. The eastern sky was starting to glow. He did not see anyone. Confused, angry, and absolutely distraught by all that had come to pass in mere weeks, he growled.

  “Where are you? Show yourself!”

  “Easy,” a voice to his right replied.

  Scar looked in that direction to see a man rise up from the chaparral ground. His attire was comprised of thick cloths the same color as the surroundings; dusty browns and grays. It was difficult to tell, but he looked Kulshedran. A strange bow was slung over his shoulder; there were several metal strings comprised of fine filaments, which ran over pulleys in place of the usual feline, viscera string. Scar raised the mace onto his shoulder.

  “Now, now,” the archer warned in a mock dramatic tone. “You won’t need that.”

  “Convince me.”

  The archer walked over to Lovenhaad’s corpse. He made a face of disgust by cocking his lips and crinkling his nose.

  “Do I really need to?” the archer asked. Scar remained silent. “Fine,” the archer assented with a slight bow of the head and shoulders. “My name is Labolas. Gilgamesh sent me to find you.”

  Scar was skeptical and kept his eyes on the man, who came a few steps closer. He was short, and though the bulk of his clothes hid his stock, he looked wiry. Thick, long curls were braided and held back with a leather strap. As more of the morning light radiated through thinning clouds, it was evident by the bronze tone of Labolas’s face that he was Kulshedran. His eyes were green and peaceful.

  “Why?” Scar asked.

  “He knows who you are.”

  “Preposterous,” Scar said with a smirk. “You’ve got about two seconds before I crush you.”

  Labolas chuckled and shook his head. Looking up to the sky, he spoke. “You think me daft, or a liar, but I assure you, as certain as I stand here a friend, Gilgamesh knows who you are, Brandt.”

  The name was unfamiliar. Labolas gauged Scar’s reaction; nothing, so he reached into a small satchel hanging from his hip and produced a rolled up document. Labolas tapped it against his hand.

  “I have the orders right here,” he said and handed the document over. “You can read, right?”

  Scar raised a questioning but hairless eyebrow; a sign of having being slightly insulted. After a second, he snatched the paper.

  “You can put down the weapon, but you’d best be quick. Our forces will soon arrive to investigate that fire back there,” Labolas said with finger pointed at the flaming outpost.

  Scar obliged the man, put down the mace, and looked over the document. He read it out loud.

  “By the order of Gilgamesh, Sovereign of Satrone, territory of Kulshedra, Labolas Sulas, Captain of the Legion of Archers, is tasked with tracking down the white man hereby known as Brandt. This is a mission of utmost importance. What is this?”

  “Keep reading.”

  Scar winced, but continued to read. “Brandt, the only living descendant of a once royal lineage, must be presented to the Sovereign of Satrone, territory of Kulshedra, to enact a prolonged process the result of which will bring to light the illegitimate rulers of Tiamhaal. And there’s a cute, little seal at the bottom. What is that, a serpent?”

  “It is the symbol of Tironis, our capital,” Labolas said. “Now,” he added with a wiggling motion of the fingers implying he needed the document returned. When Scar gave it, he continued. “I’ve come a long way to find you and ask you to return with me to Tironis.”

  “I don’t believe any of this.”

  “Well, no, of course you don’t. You’re no fool, Brandt,” Labolas conceded. “Consider this; you suddenly find yourself in Kulshedran territory. You don’t know how you got there, where you came from, what you were doing, or who you are.

  “Unfortunately, you find yourself under poor circumstance, and fend off an entire platoon of Dracos. Clearly, you were in Satrone for some reason, and likely knowing full well of your background; the prospective ruler of a forgotten kingdom. Anyway, it did not bode well for us when you ran off and joined Zoltek’s ranks. Unfortunate, but resolved. Now, I–”

  “Hold on,” Scar interrupted. He narrowed his eyes in skepticism. “How do you know all this?”

  “Ah, look,” Labolas pointed towards the outpost.

  The sun had fully risen and Kulshedran soldiers were visible on the western horizon. Though still far away, they were in fact moving towards the outpost.

  “We haven’t much time. They don’t know my orders and may well seek retribution against you. I see Dracos in their ranks, too, the ones in the kilts. The last thing we need is another fight. Let us make haste to a settlement not far from here. I’ll explain more on the way,” Labolas offered.

  “My sword.”

  Labolas frowned, asking, “Is it that important?”

  Scar looked at the tower. The flames had almost completely died out leaving a billowing plume of black smoke.

  “I don’t know,” Scar whispered.

  I believe it is, but it’s just a blade. He returned his scrutiny to the archer, who was already moving northeast.

  “Want to know about the crazy paladin?” Labolas asked while maintaining his pace.

  Scar trotted to catch up. They moved in cadence while conversing.

  “First tell me what you know about me,” Scar demanded. “I don’t just follow prospective enemies.”

  “Certainly,” Labolas obliged. “First and foremost, I must tell you of the Dragon Wars, the time before the worship of God. In that time, there were no nations, only men enslaved by thirteen Dragons. They were cruel rulers and did not allow for the proliferation of mankind. We were but workers to them, catering to every diabolical need.

  “Men turned then to the skies and begged for help, for mercy, and in secret they began to pray to those mystical forces out there in the great unknown. Do you know any of this, or is it all gone in that great, big head of yours?”

  “It is all news,” Scar chuckled.

  “Right, so, anyway, the story goes; God started taking notice of the ceaseless cries of man and granted them the powers to slay the Dragons. You know; technology, magic, strategy, and whatnot, so the men united. They fought, and did in fact kill the great beasts, and when peace came, they built a palatial kingdom spanning all of Tiamhaal.

  “It is this kingdom, Alduheim,
from which you hail. You see, the region now known as Satrone was formerly the battlefield of the Dragon Wars, and Alduheim Castle was built to the north, but after many years of peace came dissention. My knowledge here is a bit murky, but Gilgamesh’s forefathers were instrumental in both winning the Dragon Wars and erecting Alduheim. Whosoever caused the dissention in Alduheim forced Gilgamesh’s ancestors out, so with the help of God they formed their own nation named after God, the territory of Kulshedra.”

  “Wait, I thought Zmaj was one of many Gods,” Scar interjected.

  Labolas halted. A scowl worked over his face. Scar was unhindered, but waited a moment for an answer.

  “There is only one God. I don’t know who Zmaj is supposed to be, but he is not God,” the archer corrected before returning to his history lesson. While he spoke, he resumed marching. “Perhaps there are lesser Gods. I care little about them, yet it is those in the worship of these…deities, who have created many problems for us. Your ancestors were killed and exiled by the traitors we believe now worship Khmer.”

  “Who is Khmer?”

  “Another false God like Zmaj or Drac,” Labolas replied. “I’m afraid it is quite complicated, and though the Kulshedran territories are allied with some of the others, who also worship false Gods, it is but a means to end…an end that will hopefully come sooner rather than later now that we have you, Brandt, rightful ruler of Alduheim- a kingdom which sadly no longer exists.”

  “This is just absurd,” Scar said while wiping sweat from his forehead. “The Zmajans have never said anything of this sort. They simply claimed that the worshipers of Kulshedra were a threat to Tiamhaal, and that the Dracos were no better.”

  Sunlight glistened off his pale skin. A moment of quietude prevailed. Then a hawk shrieked in the distance. A few lizards did push-ups on rocks. The wind was already too hot for comfort.

  Labolas hesitantly elucidated upon the subject. “Far be it from me to teach history, Brandt, but listen. The point is simple; Gilgamesh sent me to recover you in order to unite all the territories under the worship of Kulshedra, God of Truth. With any luck, and the completion of many subsequent tasks, we may yet see the restoration of Alduheim with its rightful ruler sitting as the supreme Sovereign of Tiamhaal.”

  “This is nothing if not conflicting. If all this is true, why are the Kulshedrans trying to kill me? Why did the Dracos attack me? Did Zoltek know any of this? Besides, I thought–” Scar was cut short.

  “One question at a time!” Labolas laughed. “Only Gilgamesh has all the answers, and I report directly to him. He said to find you, and told me where you would be. We knew about Dumar’s plans to take out the towers. We knew you had been hired. We also knew Zoltek was only using you for your prowess.”

  “Why let the attacks commence?”

  “Gilgamesh wanted to be sure you could handle yourself. What good is a supreme ruler who can’t fight?” Labolas retorted.

  “So many of your men fell to my sword.”

  “Unfortunate, but did you not notice the outposts were undermanned?” Scar did not reply. “Besides, now the dead rest in Drangue with the great Kulshedra, God of Truth. It is no loss for them, I assure you. We all go gladly when our time comes,” Labolas asserted.

  “Mmm, you accept death rather lightly,” the mercenary commented.

  “Men who fight for what they believe in die for those beliefs. Times are bad, certainly…this is war, you know?” Labolas said solemnly.

  “I suppose,” Scar acquiesced. “How much longer till we reach this town?”

  “It’s actually a boardinghouse. We’ll be there by nightfall,” Labolas answered and took a bronze canteen from his belt to drink. “Thirsty?”

  Scar accepted, gulped cool water, then handed it back. “Tell me more, like, why do I heal so quickly?”

  “Well, now, that’s news to me, but I suppose Kulshedra has his reasons.”

  “I remain skeptical that I am this Brandt or what have you.”

  “I don’t care. I’m just taking you to Gilgamesh,” Labolas reiterated. “Did you have something better to do?”

  “No. For the moment, I’m at the mercy of circumstance. Besides, you are the first person I have ever met—or met recently enough to have memories—who has shed any light on who I am and without asking me to kill in return,” Scar answered. After a short pause for silence, he continued. “Tell me about that paladin now. Did he know me?”

  “Ah, Lovenhaad, oof, he was a force to be reckoned with. By Kulshedra, all those paladins are daft,” Labolas remarked.

  “There are more?”

  “Far as I can tell, there are eight sects, but that isn’t entirely accurate. Lovenhaad was a Paladin of Mekosh, the Severe. He maintained that Mekosh was a real God, and get this, that Kulshedra is really one of the Dragons.” Labolas had to stop while he laughed. “Oh, my, but no. I have seen other Paladins of Mekosh. The Severe wear that black armor you saw, but there are others. They call themselves Paladins of Mekosh, the Tolerant, and are completely different. Paladins of Tolerance, or sometimes called Friars of Tolerance, generally travel in hooded, brown robes and are scarcely if ever in a fight.”

  Scar narrowed his eyes in wonder. “You say these paladins claim that Kulshedra is a Dragon?”

  “Aye,” Labolas chuckled.

  “And the others, like Zmaj?”

  “All paladins claim that all those currently considered as Gods are in actuality the old Dragons,” Labolas clarified. Scar stopped walking. The sun had moved towards the west and long shadows of tall rock formations painted the ground. Labolas also came to a halt, next to a squat bush with thick leaves. “What is it?”

  “How many Gods are there?”

  “I told you, only one.”

  “But how many claim to be Gods?” Scar clarified.

  “Zmaj, Drac, Khmer, Gyo, Slibinas, Tiamat, Scultone, Fafnir, Mireu, Naga, Bakunawa, Bolla,” Labolas replied holding up one finger for each.

  As Labolas spoke, Scar counted the names before adding, “And Kulshedra makes thirteen.”

  Labolas spat at the ground, and they passed an uneasy glance. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “I hope you don’t go sounding like an idiot when you meet Gilgamesh. Now c’mon, there’s much ground to cover.”

  They marched in silence for another hour. By the time they came upon a steady incline over a rock bed, the chilly air settled. Labolas led them over boulders, through rocky paths, and ever higher. The archer was in fine shape; they only stopped to rest once.

  “Will there be many Dracos?” Scar asked. “At this boardinghouse, I mean.”

  “Plenty, yes. They are our allies, and the Draco territory, Eltanrof, borders the east.”

  “I do not like them.”

  “Because they attacked you? Kulshedrans attacked you,” Labolas trailed off hiding his smile with a fake scratch of his cheek.

  “I’m not sure I like you either,” Scar joked.

  “Well you can go to Hell.”

  They started towards the northeast after the quick rest. Both men chuckled while maintaining pace. Uphill in the cold, and with the night soon to loom overhead, the two marched on, joking of battles with Zamajans, discussing the virility of Draco women versus Kulshedran, and other silly matters. For a time, mist seemed to amass on the horizon, but it quickly dissipated; the arid climate even so far east in Satrone held too little moisture for foggy nights.

  Hours later, with stars glittering in the darkened sky, they arrived at a wooden building. It was long with a curved roof, not unlike an overturned boat. The craftsmanship was sublime; white walls of painted wood were adorned with colorful tapestries lining the exterior. Lanterns glowed on either side of thick, wooden doors. The doors displayed expertly crafted etchings of men warring.

  “This does not look like the buildings in Usaj, or Satrone, if the outposts are any indication,” Scar remarked.

  “Draco architecture,” Labolas replied. “Let us
rest inside.”

  The sound of laughter and cheer spilled through the closed shutters of windows. Labolas pulled open a door. A bright, orange glow from the interior fires shone onto the travelers. The scene inside was quite jovial considering there was a war going on.

  The main room of the longhouse was centered around an immense bonfire. Naturally, the roof was created with a hole to let smoke out. Encircling the warm flames were tables, chairs, a bar, and closed doors leading to sleeping rooms, as well as many men and women crowding for warmth.

  Though Scar took in the sights with awe, the longhouse grew quite; they were taking him in with awe. Whispers followed a momentary silence. Labolas ignored the on goings and made his way to the bar. Scar followed.

  “That’s him, innit?” the bar tender asked.

  Labolas addressed the tall, portly Draco, asking, “Who?”

  The bar tender’s orange eyes never looked away from the enormous, white mercenary. “He’s that one hired by Zoltek to take down Satrone, the Ghost of Zmaj.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you,” Labolas replied.

  “I ain’t serving him!” the bar tender grumbled and walked away.

  Labolas turned to Scar who sat down next to him. “A good start, no?”

  Scar grinned. A hand grabbed his upper arm. When he turned, he saw three young Dracos. Two were branded with triangular patterns along their arms, legs, and faces. The other one was a stout woman. Her arms and legs were branded with linear patterns, and she wore studded leather armor. All of them had those strange fiery eyes and hair. Freckles splotched their skin.

  “What do you think you’re doin’ in ‘ere?” the woman shrieked.

  Her voice was mean and shrill. Scar opened his mouth to answer, but before he did one of the men spoke.

  “Best be on yer way.”

  The other added, “Scotch ain’t made fer you.”

  Scar raised a brow, and unable to hide his jubilation, laughed openly at them.

  “I’ll knock that shite eatin’ grin right off you!” the woman said.

  “Easy, Brandine,” a Kulshedran patron said. “He doesn’t even have a weapon. Look at him. Need a drink?”