by Aaron Dennis
“Doesn’t look like much of a king to me,” he said while scrutinizing Scar.
The old man did not have a harsh voice, but his firm yet patient tone was that of a man who has experienced every facet of the field of battle. There was no hurry in his assertions, yet there was little room for dispute.
“Neither here nor there, Sir. Gilgamesh believes he is the one,” Labolas interjected.
“Sir,” Scar started. “If it were not for the promise of a revelation regarding who I am, I would not even be entertaining this premise, so I can understand why you might think I’m not much of a king, but with all due respect, I don’t care.”
The general nodded a bit then let curls of smoke out of his mouth adding a gesture of disregard by flicking his wrist. A flash of recognition then hit the mercenary; the old man and Labolas shared certain features; high cheek bones, broad chin, the angle of the nose. He squinted at Labolas. The archer was involved in devouring a chicken leg. Once the general plopped down, he gave all his attention to the Captain.
“How’s your mother?”
“Fine.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
“When I left Tironis, Sir,” Labolas huffed. “It always amazes that you can find a way to finagle information about all the comings and goings of everyone in Tiamhaal, and yet you don’t realize that the last time I saw Mom was when you gave me the orders to go get Brandt.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” the general admonished. “You’re not too old to bend over my knee.”
“I knew it!” Scar exclaimed jubilantly. “He’s your dad!”
Scar almost laughed himself out of his chair.
“You shut your mouth, ghost,” Labolas retorted. “One day you might come face to face with your dad. Then what?”
General Sulas chuckled before returning to questions. “So, your mother is doing well?”
“She’s fine, Sir. You should visit more often.”
“I can’t,” he sighed and looked off into the streets. “Have you two had any difficulty besides Lovenhaad and the bandits?”
“Not really. Everything was actually progressing quite smoothly. While Brandt has absolutely no idea who he is, he is more than willing to comply. Zoltek did not poison his mind, but had only cajoled him with false promises. Brandt understands that Gilgamesh is the only one with access to truth.”
“Yes,” the General agreed. “Indeed, it is only our fair ruler who can speak to Kulshedra.”
Scar smiled. He was not about to get involved in more useless questions about why only one man could speak to God. Instead, he simply remained amicable while thoughts of paladins all speaking to their God made more sense than some random individual being the sole bridge between the creator of life and the citizenry.
“I do hope Gilgamesh can shed some light on my history,” the mercenary whispered.
“I promise, boy, you will know soon enough,” General Sulas consoled. “Now,” he redirected his attention to Labolas who was devouring a carrot like a starved horse. “We must talk about the Zmajan operators in Malababwe.”
“What is Zoltek up to now?” Labolas asked as he leaned into the table on his elbows.
“Did you know that N’Giwah found a secret path into Alduheim?” the General asked in a low whisper.
Scar maintained his gaze between both men. If I keep my mouth shut, I might learn something here, he thought. Hushed tones and looks of concern passed between father and son as they continued their conversation.
“What does that mean for us?” Labolas asked.
“Well,” the General started and eased back with a frown. He puffed on his pipe. “I’ve never seen Malababwe make any kind of advancement on any tribe. Jagongo and her predecessors have always been neutral, to a fault in fact, and my information on current events coincides with this, but I don’t know enough about her agent, N’Giwah, to be certain of anything yet. They may just be exploring. Alduheim is said to hold many secrets, and since it has been occupied by Khmeran forces for so long, there is no way for us to know with certainty what any of those secrets are. Besides, our only access to Alduheim has ever been by way of Malababwe, discounting skirmishes with Khmeran forces on the border.”
“You said there were Zmajan operators, though.”
“Yes, and that is what troubles me. I believe they are relaying information back to Zoltek. You’ve no doubt noticed how often the name of Alduheim is on the tongues of rulers these days. There is something large in the works, and that castle,” he trailed off and looked at Scar. “And this man are certainly of prime importance. Zoltek had already tried to use him. Unfortunately, or fortunately for us that is, Zoltek is a madman willing to slay anyone who shows the slightest bit of an open mind, a free will.”
“What do you know about the operators?”
“They are but a group of five. Two men and three women. They have been moving circles around Alduheim through Satrone, Zetsuru, Nabalhi, and now Malababwe. I have reason to believe that they will mount an attack on N’Giwah’s forces.”
“Unbelievable that the Zmajan operators made it as far as they did, and stranger yet that they did not move either through Eltanrof or Jinshuke.”
“Why would they do so?” Scar interrupted.
“Because Usaj is a peninsula,” Labolas replied. “To move on foot through Satrone is a dangerous maneuver for them…or rather it should have been.”
“This group of Zmajans went unnoticed then? For how long?” Scar asked.
“Oh no, Brandt,” the General answered. “They were certainly noticed. I made certain that my own men kept an eye on them, at least while they were in Satrone. I needed to know who they were and where they were going.”
“What did you find?” Scar asked.
“That’s immaterial at the moment. What you are going to concern yourself with, Labolas, is learning what you can about N’Giwah.”
Labolas interrupted his father, saying, “But I have orders to bring Brandt to Gilgamesh.”
“That’s your primary objective, of course,” the general barked. “Once he is in Tironis, there will be no problem, but you will not be staying. You will venture into Jagongo’s territory without delay and see what N’Giwah has found in Alduheim. You will also make an effort to stop Zoltek’s men if you have the opportunity.”
The captain sighed in exasperation. He rubbed his eyes and took a sip of water; fatigue was setting in, and the old man was making him irritable.
“I don’t care for these clandestine operations, Sir. I have work to do for Gilgamesh.”
“You leave Gilgamesh to me,” the general ordered. “You’ll do as I say so long as I live and breathe. Now, the Nagish have been hitting the Khmerans through Dosvetyulia, and the Dracos and Gyosh are still squabbling over borders, but Donovan has agreed to assist in mounting an attack against Khmeran forces in Alduheim.”
“So the Dracos have enough men to aid us?” Labolas asked.
“Yes, but don’t expect to see aid from Balroa.”
“I never do…our alliance is weak at best, and I’ve always suspected that Sirokai is helping Sahni.”
Scar interjected again, saying, “You will have to educate me on who all these people are at some point.”
“Certainly,” Labolas smiled. “Though I may have to do so less thoroughly than I had planned if I am to be called away from duties…again.”
“Yes, well,” General Sulas started. “You won’t be alone. Maranjo. Hachi. Come out.”
Two men suddenly emerged from the shadows in such an overt manner that it made Scar’s stomach churn. How those two had been so perfectly concealed the entire time was a mystery to him.
“These are two of my finest,” the general said. “Maranjo of Malababwe and Hachi of Qing-Sho. They are at your disposal.” He then addressed the two mystery men. “You two will guard my son as though he were myself. Understood?”
“Yes, General,” they said in unison.
Under scrutiny, the me
n were dressed for stealth. They wore dark clothing, held no weapons to be seen, and they only carried a few pouches cinched to belts about their wastes. Both of them even wore black gloves and soft black boots. The Malababwen’s skin was the color of chocolate and beautiful green patterns adorned what little of his skin was revealed- his neck, collarbone, and concentric triangles around his left eye. The Bakunawan was silvery with light eyebrows and light eyes. His eyes almost shined; there was a bit of a glow about them, but as soon as Scar focused on that detail, they paled. Both men wore cloths on their heads, which hid their hair.
“We are all to ride to Tironis then?” Labolas asked.
“That is correct. Rest for the night, but set out before the morning sun,” his father answered.
“That only gives me about four hours,” the archer complained.
“Then that is four hours you should spend asleep.”
“A pleasure as always, Father.”
The general smiled and remained quiet for a moment. An air mischief played on his countenance. After an awkwardly long moment during which Scar observed everyone, General Sulas dismissed them. The four men, with Scar trailing behind, left the elder to his devices in order to find lodging for the night.
The crew passed a handful of smaller buildings towards the outer edge of town and eventually moved off the carved path. Lodging came in the way of a small shack on the outskirts of Eresh where the general’s men had stored their supplies. It was modest but clean, had only one window facing the south, and was one of only a handful of wooden structures.
The interior was also tidy. Two cots and two hammocks were set up as though the general’s men had known that Scar and Labolas were to join them.
“I’m so tired,” the archer said.
“Take a cot,” Hachi advised. “It is more comfortable than the hammock.”
“This one will have no choice. I think the hammock would break,” Maranjo added. Labolas and Scar chuckled, but the others didn’t. “It is not a joke,” the Malababwen added.
His deep voice turned th sounds into d sounds and he rolled his r’s. Yet his thick accent was unlike the Dracos or the Gyosh, but perhaps a mixture of Zmajan and Gyosh, a hard, stilted way of speaking.
“Sounded like a joke to me,” Labolas fired back, crashed onto the cot, and went out like a light.
Scar was unconcerned and also fell asleep as soon as his head hit the soft pelts.
Chapter Eleven- Dreams of mystery
Lost in thought, Scar’s mind played over recent events. Flashes of memories moved through his being as if they were the events themselves relived. First, he saw clearly the Dracos advancing on him over the hard packed road in Satrone. Before the Dracos closed the distance, he was staring at Zoltek, the robed figure with a voice like rustling leaves. Hate washed over the mercenary, and he made a supreme effort to tackle the Zmajan leader, but before his muscles responded, he was slicing through Kulshedrans in the outpost. He wanted to stop himself. His exertions were in vein, his body already in motion. As his inner dialogue screamed orders to cease, he then saw himself in the black world, the one without light. He waited for a moment in anticipation. Scar expected something to happen or for that world to vanish and become another memory, but it did not.
“Sarkany, you have returned,” the rumbling voice stated.
It was then that Scar realized he was no longer recalling. His eyes grew wide and darted around. The vortices of blackness swirled above him. Winds whooshed over rocky plateaus. He grit his teeth trying to comprehend.
“Where am I?” he yelled.
“The edge of the world, Sarkany,” the disembodied voiced reverberated through the entire scape like thunder.
“Stop toying with me. Are you a God? A Dragon? Who are you? Show yourself!”
Only the whispers of wind replied. His anger and fear mounted with a remarkable speed. Scar was on the verge of getting ill. His body vibrated and something outside himself, yet intimately attached, felt the pressure of that odd place. “Answer me!”
“Peace,” the voice said. “I am not a God. We are Eternus.”
That statement was too cryptic. Scar laughed like an idiot. The preposterousness of the situation made him realize he was only dreaming.
“Wake up, Brandt,” he said to himself. “Wake up.”
“Yes,” the voice interrupted. “You are dreaming, but this is no dream.”
“What are you saying?” he asked skeptically.
“You forget yourself, Sarkany. It is understandable. The pressure of the world forces you into an alignment of awareness, one which leaves nothing but the awareness of daily affairs. You must struggle to recall your purpose, but I will reiterate,” the voice explained in its terrible, guttural drone. “I have fashioned you from the clay of the edge of the world and breathed life into you so that you may deliver men from their own chains.”
Scar was in total disbelief. Alignment? Awareness? I’m made from clay? This is ludicrous. He then noticed that if he grew introspective, the world around him nearly vanished leaving only darkness, but if he made an effort to scrutinize his environment, and was successful, his thoughts diminished.
“Do you see it?” the voice asked. “This is eternity. Singularity is cancelled out here. You are not yourself the way you have convinced yourself you are.”
“Enough riddles, beast,” he growled. “Explain!”
There was an interminable pause of silence. Scar stomped the flat rock on which he stood. He perceived the immense expanse of blackness all around him and the other flat tops of gray-brown stone.
“We are Eternus, the Dragon of Time.”
“I knew it! You are a Dragon! They are real, and they have tricked men!”
“Yes, and no, Sarkany. The ones of which you speak are not the same as I. They were created very long ago in worlds upon worlds.”
Utterly exhausted by puzzles, Scar was on the verge of raging. He took note of his own mood. It was not something of him proper, but like an external reaction. He knew then beyond doubt that he was not truly upset, but rather felt an oppressing tinge of impotence. Instead of arguing, or even believing, he simply took a deep breath and waited for elucidation.
“Excellent. You do understand whether or not you recall,” the voice stated. “Now, you must recollect that you were fashioned in order to slay the Dragons.”
“I recollect no such thing. I am Brandt of Alduheim,” he breathed.
“You are Sarkany fashioned from the clay at the edge of the world. I created you because one of the worlds needs intervention. I like humans. I like Dragons, too, but in one of my worlds there is great discord and I have chosen to intercede.”
Following another long pause from the omnipresent voice came a verbose, if tortuous, account. Scar impatiently listened.
“In many of the other worlds I have allowed the course of events to unfold in a particular fashion or another. In one world, the Dragons were never defeated. There are no Gods there, and men are but slaves. In another world, there are no men, and the Dragons have only themselves and their creations to pit against one another. In yet another world, men exterminated the Dragons and live happily praying to the Gods, but in none of my worlds am I present. I am the onlooker, the perceiver, the forgotten.
“It pains me, and yet I know that there is no way for my presence to be understood. Such is the way of the world.”
Scar shook his head involuntarily. Those enigmatic words were utterly incomprehensible. He bit his lower lip and tried to formulate a question. It was to no avail, he was not sure of what he wanted to know. He did recall that in his last meeting, the beast had claimed that Scar retrieve souls.
“Sarkany,” the voice started.
Scar interrupted, “Why? I just want to know why.”
“There is no way of knowing that. I create awareness and I devour awareness. It is all I can do. Awareness is experience, and experience goes back into the void from which it reemerges only to renew itself, but that is not a matter f
or your existence, not yet.
“For now, you must recall that you have been fashioned to assist men in driving back the Dragons. You are a new element, and your experience will serve the world.”
“Dammit, beast,” Scar called out. “I am not your plaything!”
“I am not playing. This is existence,” the voice replied. “Understand, everything has been created from me, because that is all I can do. After millennia of a lone existence, I fashioned the thirteen ideologies from which the Dragons were born, but they are not principles that men may comprehend. I created the light and the darkness, life and death, ice, water, wind, fire, the sun, truth, destruction, speech, and finally a realm where one can exist in physicality.
“That bore the age of Dragons, and they were formed in a fashion, which was to govern itself. For an eternity, and as is still the case in other realms of awareness, it is a proper form. The Dragons, too, have the influence to create, and each has created beings associated with their guiding ideology, but the Dragons are bitter creatures because of their permanence.”
“If they are permanent how can they have ever been killed?” Scar interjected.
“Time dissolves everything, and yet it renews everything. They have died and been reborn countless times.”
“What does this mean to me?”
“Peace, Sarkany, in time, it will be clear,” the voice sighed. “After allowing the Dragons to create their own realms, and providing them a place for a neutral meeting, I founded eight other principles, and from those I fashioned men. Love and hate. Madness and sobriety. Tolerance and severity. Sloth and perseverance.”
“Why not create another world for men, one separate from Dragons?”
“But I have, and there are many such worlds. They do not pertain to you,” the voice explained. “In one particular world, men and Dragons coexisted. The Dragons, with their immense knowledge could have guided men, and in some instances it had, but in one, the Dragons were domineering, and the humans were weak. The Dragons enslaved them. In some worlds, that was sufficient. In your world the humans eventually rebelled. They prayed to the incommensurable eternity, and their own guiding principles replied; they replied in personification. Men created their own Gods.