The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  “Kulshedrans,” one Khmeran yelped. “He was right!”

  Scar’s party was confused about the implication of someone having been right, but they fanned out with the shieldmen stepping up to block the rest from the brunt of an attack. Scar reached out to snatch Marlayne’s sleeve and keep her against the wall. She hunkered down with the old woman. When Scar turned to grab Borta, he saw the man had wandered off to a corpse.

  “Get back here,” Scar called out as the Khmerans took formation.

  The enemy broke off into three groups: an advancing force of high-pitched screamers with freely flowing long, dark hair, and brandishing steel, and two other groups of five each that were comprised of four warriors guarding the two—men or women as it was hard to tell with Khmerans—in the buff colored robes.

  While the screaming fighters drowned out the sound of monotonous chanting from the two under protection, Delton and Lortho vibrated and wavered under torchlight before their shield magic erupted. The rippling blasts knocked over the advancing Khmerans. A few on either side weren’t affected by the radius of impact, and the Kulshedran sword fighters went out to greet them.

  Scar looked to N’Giwah and said, “Let my men handle those fools. You and Hija protect the scholars, and I’ll get that idiot.”

  When N’Giwah nodded, Scar ran off to get Borta who was coming to his feet after removing his hand from the deceased Kulshedran on the ground. The dead warrior stirred, groaned, got up, found the Khmerans, and let out the most gut wrenching gurgle anyone had ever heard. Borta looked at Scar and smiled while his departed friend ran off to meet Khmeran steel.

  “I told you you’d need me,” Borta hissed and followed Scar back to those hunkered down beside N’Giwah and Hija.

  Khmeran swords glittered like crystals in the torchlight, but their ferocity was snuffed about by shield parries. Bosen slammed his bronze shield into two and when they fell back, Ezlo ran his blade into the chest of one. Crimson quickly spread out onto the blue robe of the wounded Khmeran, turning the cloth a dark purple, but he was soon to rise from the ground and continue slashing as though nothing had happened.

  Jayna and Pater worked in unison; they bashed with shields, hacked with blades, and soon a Khmeran sword skittered across the ground, a hand still gripping it. Screams and shouts bounced off the darkened walls. The forces were equally matched due to the Khmeran’s inability to stay down and wounded. As the clanging of metal in battle continued, Scar looked to N’Giwah, who acknowledged the mercenary’s ire then tilted his head to indicate the other ten Khmerans at the rear hadn’t made any moves. They were just protecting their priests, who were keeping their friends in better than poor health.

  “Shieldmen,” Scar yelled. “Send them to the ground!”

  Lortho and Delton complied with another heavy blast that sent more swords from hands, more Khmerans to the filthy floor, and allowed Scar to leap over them all. With his blade pointed forward, he dashed across the earthen surface to meet the priests’ defenders. Within seconds, the first group of four guards were reduced to limbless masses heaped upon one another, their blood wetting the sewer floor. That provided Scar the opportunity to part one of the priests from his head, and he focused his attention on the next group.

  While Scar handled the priest, Borta ran off to another aged corpse, checked to make certain it was Kulshedran, and reanimated it. With two undead fighters joining the fray, and Scar’s shock troops hacking into bodies, it was only another moment before Khmerans lost more limbs, and priests or not, there was no way to reattach severed bone. Once it seemed the fight was going well, N’Giwah and Hija joined in with their primitive weapons. By then, Scar had felled the second priest, and no one was recovering from wounds except him.

  The Khmerans had lost. All that remained of the battle was dead enemies. No Kulshedrans were wounded. Marlayne, Borta, and the Tiamatish- everyone was in fine shape except the rotted warriors. With the threat subverted, they meandered about groaning and creaking. Then they fell to the ground as a mound of rotted flesh oozing out of their armor, their weapons resting on top of sludge.

  “What the Hell just happened?” Scar gaped.

  “The dead returned to their resting place,” Borta replied.

  “You mutilated them,” Lortho sniped.

  “They were just husks. Their souls are still with your God,” Borta clarified.

  “Mmm,” Lortho breathed. “Not sure I like what you did, but the help is appreciated…if unnecessary.”

  Borta shrugged indifferently; he was just doing his part.

  “Well never mind that,” Scar barked. “Everyone is unharmed?”

  They checked themselves over by rotating shoulders, looking at their limbs, and spitting phlegm from mouths. Once the battle high wore off, and overly tensed muscled relaxed, they regrouped.

  “I do not like this,” N’Giwah said. “Those Khmerans knew we were here and where to find us. Where there are some, there are more, and they will come.”

  “From where do you think they came?” Marlayne asked.

  N’Giwah shook his head slowly before answering, “I do not know, but it is just as likely they came from other areas throughout the ruins as it is likely they came from our camp.”

  “You think the others are in danger, then?” Jayna asked.

  “They may be,” Shamara answered.

  “We should go back to be certain,” Hija chimed in.

  “No,” Scar said.

  “He’s right,” Lortho added. “The others are just fine. Between our men and yours, I doubt a handful of Khmerans could best them.”

  “But if these Khmerans were part of a larger group, they could be in danger,” Hija argued.

  N’Giwah and Scar traded looks again. Both were wondering how to proceed.

  “What are you thinking?” Scar asked.

  “We have made it this far, and I know the paladin is nearby,” N’Giwah said. “We might not get another chance to fight him.”

  “I can send a few my men to check,” Scar offered.

  Some of the Kulshedrans were practically dancing on their toes ready to make their way back and meet Khmerans with steel.

  “Peace,” Shamara interceded. “Splitting our forces is unwise. Whomever runs to the surface might find an ambush, and those that remain might not be enough to face another assault.”

  “I can take them all on my own,” Scar shouted. “I will go check the camp.”

  “You will not,” N’Giwah countered. “You are the only one who can face the paladin.”

  “Then you should all return, and I will fight alone.”

  “All this squabbling is a waste of time,” Shamara chastised. “Let us progress. We were all prepared to die, and as it stands, we have no reason to believe anyone has.”

  “Except them,” Pater said and spat at a Khmeran corpse.

  Shamara frowned, adding, “Let those who are above be, for better or worse.”

  Marlayne nodded, eager to see what lay ahead. Having come to an agreement, they followed N’Giwah deeper into the sewer, a heap of Khmerans in their wake. At a rectangular opening in the wall, N’Giwah made his way into the darkness, followed by the rest. The earthen floor was instead precisely carved of stone there, and the hallway was similar in design as the ones above the sewers. Less than a dozen yards in, they found the figure of a knight in black plate mail guarding a juncture. The Paladin of Mekosh, the Severe, stood with hands grasping the guard of a great sword, its point firmly embedded in the stone under foot.

  Breaths were held. Scar worked his way to the front of the group.

  N’Giwah took his elbow, saying, “Be careful.”

  Scar nodded and winced before covering enough ground to reach a polite distance; the distance required for his arm and blade to make a connection. It was so quiet that Ezlo’s torch was heard crackling.

  “Who are you?” Scar demanded, but the black armored figure did not stir. “I have killed your kind before. Lovenhaad is dead.”

&nbs
p; The mercenary felt the steely gaze of the knight shooting through his or her helmet. There was no way to tell if it was a man or woman. The paladin stood at six feet and was as wide as many man, but the black steel covered in smoky filigree revealed no feminine curves, it just reflected the orange light with a supernatural glare.

  “Why are you here?” Scar called out.

  “Mekosh demands it,” the breathy whisper replied.

  “Are you a man or a woman?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “The Goddess, Silwen, told me not to kill a woman named Ylithia…a rarity for me to consider such an order, but it came from a Goddess…so….”

  Hushed whispers passed between the rear guard.

  “Mekosh demanded I fight the unknown man, and I will follow my orders,” the paladin claimed.

  “We don’t have to fight. The Tiamatish with me are humble explorers. They just wish to learn what they can from this castle.”

  “No doubt to bring such knowledge back to their Dragon Lord!”

  “Perhaps…but I believe in the Gods.”

  Nothing else was said for about two minutes. Scar’s and N’Giwah’s team just stood passing worried glances at one another. They were none aware that their leader was a holy man. Finally Scar shook his head in dismay.

  “Please, Silwen told me to see your face and that the sight would provide my reason for killing the Dragons,” he announced.

  “This bastard’s crazy!” Lortho, no longer able to control himself, howled.

  Hija gave N’Giwah a shove and also yelled, “You have made ties with this man? He is a paladin in disguise!”

  “Peace, people,” Shamara begged.

  The oldest woman was just as surprised, but age had taught her patience, acumen. While the others continued murmuring among each other and trying to decide what would be in their best interest, Scar took a step toward the paladin.

  “I will fight you, but not to the death. When I best you, you will remove your helmet, and I will have my look.”

  “You will not win,” the paladin breathed and raised the sword.

  There was no time for the rest to finish their argument. Ezlo’s light revealed the two fighters clashing steel. Swords met just above the hilt. Scar gave a little, and when the paladin pushed, he spun away and batted his great sword across its helmet then snatched the plate guarding its back and smashed the paladin into the wall. The knight replied in kind by raising its pommel into Scar’s chin, stomping his toes with heavy boots, and finally delivering a left fist to the jaw so hard Scar saw stars.

  Again swords clashed while blackened shadows danced along the gray stone corridor. Tensing his thighs, the mercenary ran full bore into the opposing wall, padding himself with the paladin. The deafening sound of steel against stone reverberated throughout the sewers, or whatever section of the ruins they now inhabited.

  Scar pressed the attack with a pommel strike across the right side of the paladin’s helmet and followed it with a downward slash into its collarbone, or rather the armor protecting it. The blow did little damage, but forced the knight to its knees. It tried to recover by hacking Scar’s shin, which drew copious amounts of blood for the two seconds the wound remained opened. Having forced Scar back a few paces gave the paladin an opening, and it cross slashed while rising. The blade impacted upon the steel plate over Scar’s chest.

  The mercenary stumbled back again from the blow, leapt back from the following slash, and when it missed, he struck his blade across both the knight’s forearms with might enough to cleave a horse in half. The blade penetrated armor, but not bone, however, the blow was sufficient to force the enemy’s sword to the ground. Standing on the blade, Scar took the knight by the helmet and tried to wrest it off with his left hand. The paladin dove headlong into the ground, which knocked Scar over, but before the knight recovered its sword, Scar shouldered the fighter away and then tussled without the aid of weapons.

  Rolling around, sliding arms and hands out of each other’s face, and smashing from wall to wall, the two grunted, groaned, and puffed, until Scar mounted the knight. He rained one fist followed by another into the helmet and then tried prying it off again. Unfortunately, his chin met black steel as a gauntleted fist drew blood. Scar then grabbed his enemy’s head in both hands and slammed it into the ground a few times.

  When the body went limp, he tried the helmet again, but the enemy recovered to deliver a chop into the mercenary’s eye hard enough to create a new scar over the left eyebrow and cheek bone. Finally, Scar howled like a frothing madman, tugged on the helmet as he came to his feet, and spun until it came off. A flurry of light auburn hair whipped in the wind.

  The woman smashed her back into the wall and dropped to a knee, supporting herself with the opposite hand on the ground. When she looked up and brushed the hair from her pale bronze face, two piercing eyes of glorious green like dewy leaves stared holes into him. The helmet dropped from his fists with a deafening clank, and the mercenary felt the wind escape his body. His heart stopped for a moment, and his knees buckled. This was definitely Ylithia, and Scar had not witnessed such beauty since Silwen, the Lover, herself.

  “I-I,” he blubbered.

  Ylithia’s chin trembled, but she did not look away. Her eyes glittered with something that wasn’t hatred, it wasn’t even severity; it was some kind of longing, an ephemeral and haunting sadness. She snarled it away and rolled to recover her sword. Scar never blinked.

  The knight lifted her blade high overhead and brought it down within a millimeter of the warrior’s scalp. Then a tear fell from her eye. Time had stopped. For a second, they looked into one another’s souls and Scar rose to his feet, shouldering her blade away gently. She let the tip rest against the ground then dropped it altogether with more clamor.

  “Damn you, Scar,” she cried. “I’m supposed to kill you!”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Their penetrating eyes stared into each other’s essences in a timeless search for answers. The paladin’s lips separated, but she said nothing. Curses shot from the mouths of the others, but both Scar and the knight were unaware of such trivialities.

  “You want to kill the Dragons?” the knight finally asked.

  “I’m not sure what I want,” he whispered. “Silwen told me, she told me to look at you…and now that I have you before me….”

  The others grew restless and shouted orders to kill her. Shamara and Marlayne tried to placate to no avail. N’Giwah finally hushed them by pleading to wait and see the outcome.

  “Who are you, really?” Scar asked. “I must know.”

  The paladin was reticent to answer. She looked down to her sword.

  “I am Ylithia, as you said.”

  “Silwen has spoken to you as well.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Then why didn’t you cut me down?”

  “Why did you kneel?”

  Scar shook his head, but was unable to provide an answer. “Are you going to kill me as Mekosh demands?”

  “Mekosh?” Ylithia asked. “Until this moment I was a Paladin of Mekosh, the Severe. He ordered your death, but when I saw you and you spoke of Silwen, I knew I had lost the fight. Mekosh grew silent, and now I hear nothing.”

  Scar took her shoulders and looked into her eyes before speaking. “I tire of these Gods and Dragons toying with the will of men and women. Whatever Mekosh or Silwen have in mind, whatever the Dragons desire, let them all bicker amongst each other. I see now there’s a whole life out there to be lived. We should choose only to experience it.”

  “What are you babbling about?” she asked in disbelief, letting her gaze fall back to the ground.

  He chuckled. Whatever had overcome him was sheer stupidity, but he didn’t care. Silwen, the Lover, had touched him, and now he felt something for this woman. An actual reason to live had been presented to him.

  “What is a paladin without a deity?” he asked.

  She sighed and two more tears fell from h
er eyes. Scar brought her face forward to wipe her cheeks.

  “I’ve fought to save men from themselves for ten years, and for ten years I’ve been guided by the ever present voice of Mekosh. Do you know what it’s like to suddenly feel empty?” she asked. “Your mere presence has left me without a patron.”

  “I’ve known emptiness from my first memory on the road to Usaj.”

  “I am pleased you have solved this without bloodshed,” N’Giwah finally interrupted. “But we must hurry this along. There is certainly something back there and the Khmerans will not be long behind to find it.”

  “He’s right,” Scar said. “Many of our people have fallen.”

  “And some of them to her blade,” Hija interrupted.

  “What were you guarding?” Scar asked as he remembered what they were doing there in the first place.

  “The only proof of Dragons you’ll ever need,” Ylithia replied.

  “By Kulshedra, don’t make me knock you out, Brandt!” Lortho growled.

  “This is madness,” Jayna warned.

  “You can’t trust these paladins,” Borta claimed.

  The Kulshedrans obviously wanted blood. Though their opinion of Scar had changed, it hadn’t changed enough to try to kill him, or the paladin, and furthermore, they knew Marlayne, N’Giwah, and Shamara would try to intervene, so they settled for cursing and swearing.

  Shamara approached Ylithia and asked her, “Are you an enemy?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” Ylithia replied. “I was always an enemy to those unable to understand that the real Gods are out there and need our help, but you know I speak the truth of the heathen Dragons…don’t you?”

  “I am certain of nothing these days,” Shamara admitted, removing the pipe from her teeth for second.

  The oldest woman walked away with a sad shake of her head. Her braids danced, and she patted N’Giwah’s shoulder upon joining the group.

  “I have seen the tapestries,” N’Giwah revealed. “There are Gods and Dragons, and that one has seen Silwen, but he is no Paladin of Love, is he?”