The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  “That he is,” Ylithia smiled. “You’re right. He’ll probably come barging in sometime before the sun rises, anyway. I should have some stew ready for him.”

  They wished each other good night, and Ylithia marched home. Inside her modest abode, she readjusted the pelts over the bed, fed the fire, and diced some rabbit, which she dropped into a pot along with celery, carrots, potatoes, and water. The pot’s handle slid over a prong sticking out from the fireplace. The scent quickly filled the one room house. Before laying down to catch a few hours’ rest, Ylithia looked over her old armor, Scar’s chest plate, and smiled sadly when she glanced at the swords mounted over the windows. Then the sound of snow bombarding the side of the house lulled her to sleep.

  She awoke to an infernal rapping on the door. Not thinking twice, she rolled out of bed to wrap herself with a thin blanket, figuring Scar had come home. The house was still lit, albeit dimly, by embers in the fireplace. Upon opening the door, she saw a group of men, Kulshedrans wearing half plate.

  “Where is he?” the man at the door demanded.

  Her eyes went wide when she noticed his sword was drawn. The man knew straight away she was going to be trouble and dashed inside, followed by his ilk. Ylithia managed to pull her sword from the window. Scar’s blade also crashed down in the commotion along with her blanket.

  Swords clanged, and as the fallen paladin battled the Kulshedran squad, she sliced the throat of the first attacker, parried the spear of another, and took a blow to her thigh. They scrambled around the cramped quarters; the men weren’t great fighters, but their Kulshedran magic allowed them to form heavy plates of armor around their vitals.

  Bleeding, and swinging, Ylithia dropped one more with an overhead swing that cut through a helmet, but when the man tumbled down, her blade was caught in his steel, and the long spearmen stabbed into her over and over again. She cried out for Scar, for Mekosh, but no one was there to hear her pain.

  Puffing and wheezing, the Kulshedrans looked about the home. One of them was groaning, and cursing about bleeding out. Another told him to shut up.

  “He wasn’t even here…now what?” a bloodied man with a broad axe asked.

  “No matter,” the bearded one said while wiping the blood from his spear with Ylithia’s blanket. “He’ll show.”

  “Do we wait here, Dantin?” another asked.

  “He’s got to be in town,” Dantin answered then dropped the bloody cloth to the ground. “Start looking in the other houses.”

  The squad started to fan out to terrorize Othnatus when a fist collided into the unprotected face of a soldier brandishing a long sword. He went down fast, and Scar bowled through the remaining five. Caught unawares, Dantin dropped his spear. The enraged mercenary gripped him by the throat while trying to find Ylithia, who was sprawled out in the corner dead, still reaching for her blade.

  “Nooo!” Scar cried out.

  He kept a firm hold on Dantin, taking him by the helmet and using him as weapon to knock over the oncoming swarm. In the process, the Kulshedran’s neck snapped. Scar dropped him to take his great sword from the ground and dashed into the opposition and back out on the snowy streets of Othnatus. Whirling about in a frenzy, he reduced the soldiers to bloodied limbs.

  “Ylithia,” he breathed, dropped his sword, and stumbled back into the house.

  She was covered in blood, and as much of it was splattered on the walls, the bed, the table, chairs, and the floor. His home was in shambles. Concerned gasps and cries of the citizenry resounded from just outside. One of the Fafnirians walked around the corpses while others heaved from the sight of dismembered Kulshedrans.

  “Scar,” someone called. The mercenary picked his dead lover from the ground and turned to see Dario adjusting a wool blanket over his form. “My God, what’s happened?”

  Scar strode past him. Most of the eighty odd inhabitants of Othnatus had gathered to witness the commotion. Gasps and sighs erupted loudly enough to stifle the sound of harsh winds. Jordana was among them. She eyed the mercenary carefully, but with a degree of sadness and concern.

  “They came for you, didn’t they?” she asked.

  The mercenary just stood there, utterly distraught. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he buried his face in Ylithia’s corpse. Then he fell to his knees.

  “Please, Scar,” Dario said as he knelt down beside the warrior.

  The carpenter splayed his blanket over the ground and helped Scar to position Ylithia’s body. They then wrapped her lifeless form.

  “Hurry, grab some shovels,” Milvena ordered. The people scurried about to secure what was required for a speedy burial. “I’m so sorry,” she added.

  “Did you tell them where to find me?” he asked without looking at her.

  “No, of course not,” she exclaimed.

  “They must have snuck in,” Jordana claimed. “None of us even knew there was any trouble until we heard your screams.”

  “Then you’ve nothing to apologize for…this is Gilgamesh’s work,” Scar asserted.

  As the sky grew brighter from the morning sun, the winds softened, and the clouds separated into large, gray puffs, the citizenry returned to the brutal sight of Ylithia’s death with horses, tools, and a cart.

  “Come, come,” Dario whispered.

  “Can we bury her in the hartgrove?” Scar asked. “She had a wonderful time there as a child.”

  “Well, of course, man,” Dario replied.

  In the brightness of a new morning, most of the town of Othnatus journeyed for six hours in silent mourning for one of their own. Those who remained behind burned the carcasses of the attackers. Overnight, tragedy had turned the humble town into a scorned people. They spat upon the name of Gilgamesh.

  Amidst the tallest, thickest hartgroves, hardy men slammed shovels and picks into the frozen ground. Scar took a shovel as well, and made quick work of digging a large enough hole. Crying, and cursing the names of Gilgamesh and Kulshedra, the mercenary lowered his beloved into the earth. Before covering her, he removed a black, leather case from his travel satchel. From the case, he took her violin.

  Placing the instrument and its bow over the wool blanket he whispered, “Happy birthday, Ylithia. I loved you more than life itself….”

  He knew her soul then belonged to Kulshedra, and saw the true reason for his meeting with Silwen. The horrid Goddess of Love had made him look upon sheer beauty just to smash her own principle to bits. And for what? To force me into killing Kulshedra? You knew, didn’t you? This was your plan; to replace my love with hate…alright, Silwen, I’ll kill your Dragons, but the Gods are next.

  The warrior ground his teeth. Cormaire started singing a verse called Blessings of the Valkyrie. It was a beautiful song of a lady warrior, who fought hordes of monsters to secure peace for a small town. During the verse, people’s apologies, reassurances, and words of praise for the fine Fafnirian, someone called out.

  “Excuse me.” No one had paid much attention to the unknown traveler forcing his way towards the mercenary. Scar was too busy hauling dirt over his deceased lover. A few questions about the mysterious traveler arose, but the man only called out. “Brandt.”

  That was enough to freeze Scar. He looked up to see everyone glancing at a figure in a gray robe with white trim. The cowl was pulled over his face, but there was a bow with pulleys and steel cords slung over his torso. Scar threw the shovel down, darted over to the man, took him by the throat and pinned him to a tree. The man’s feet dangled helplessly as he choked.

  “Please,” he gurgled. “Talk. Private…Brandt.”

  “This is your doing, isn’t it?” Scar howled. The townsfolk didn’t what to make of the display. Some of them stood by. Others tried to calm the brute. “Answer me!”

  “I-I didn’t,” the man managed.

  “I was gone for one day after living here for two months. A squad of soldiers shows up in the dead of night, and then you show up, a dead man calling out the name Brandt…that is not my name. I am
Scar!”

  “Scar, please,” he choked. “I-I’m your friend.”

  “These are my friends, the town of Othnatus.”

  “I can, can explain, but,” Scar’s grip tightened around the man’s throat and he couldn’t breathe or speak.

  “People,” Scar announced. “Please leave me with this man. If you can, go to my home and recover Ylithia’s sword…I should like to see it mark her grave.”

  They hesitated, but when Scar begged, his tears streaming anew, they spread out and left him to resume conversations with the robed figure. Once they were gone, Scar dropped Labolas to the ground. Exhausted by the proceeding, Scar sat down against a tree across from him.

  The melting snow soaked their clothes while beams of sunlight cut through the hartgrove canopy. The Kulshedran drew back his cowl. There was a scar cut across his face from the bottom corner of his mouth across to the left cheek.

  “Speak,” Scar growled.

  Labolas swallowed hard and made to clear his throat before saying, “I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Why are you here, and now of all times?”

  “Because I was trying to stop them.”

  “You’d better start from the beginning, or I’ll bury you too.”

  The Kulshedran nodded and started his tale. “Of course. I guess it all began when I left you in Tironis, but even that isn’t truly accurate…it really started when the Dragons pretended to be Gods, didn’t it?”

  “You knew?” Scar asked as his face contorted in anger.

  “Not until I returned to Alduheim, but that was after Hachi tried to kill me.”

  “Start making sense, Labolas,” Scar demanded.

  “I’m trying, but it really doesn’t make sense,” he answered then paused a moment. The archer tried to sympathize with Scar. “First of all, I’m very sorry your woman is dead.” He paused again, looking up into the falling leaves that spiraled on their way to the snowy ground. He rubbed his throat gingerly before continuing. “When I left you in Tironis, I was supposed to meet with N’Giwah. Maranjo was there to ease the tension. N’Giwah doesn’t like Kulshedrans, but you already know that…so did my father. At any rate, Hachi led us to the explorers’ camp, or so he said, but we were met by a group of Khmerans instead. It was an ambush planned by the Bakunawan.

  “Before anybody made a move, or uttered a word, he leapt onto a boulder and blew darts at me and Maranjo. The Tiamatish died on the spot, but the poison didn’t affect me. Turns out it was one of the more recent Dosvetyulian concoctions to which I’ve acclimated over years of self-administration. I knew there was no way for me to fell two dozen Khmerans and an assassin, so I fled, but not before taking a sword to the face.

  “After fleeing for hours, I stopped to rest and ponder the situation. I had no clues as to what had happened, for whom Hachi was working, if he really was one of my father’s men…now I think that he is, and that my father wants me dead. I couldn’t have guessed why, but I figured it had to do with something inside Alduheim, and I surmised that if he wanted me dead, he wanted you dead, too.

  “Once I believed I was safe, I returned to the old castle. Scouring for clues, I came across N’Giwah’s real camp. There, I found your crew and N’Giwah’s men dead by Hachi’s hand…he was there, too. Certainly you’re the one who killed him.” Scar nodded and Labolas continued. “There was nothing else for me to do, so I snuck inside Alduheim, followed your tracks, and found the room of memories…you were right…the paladins are right. Our Gods are but Dragons.”

  Labolas’s clenched teeth and twitching brow was proof of his sincerity. “That was enough for me to go after Gilgamesh on my own, but I’m no fool. I can’t take him down by myself, besides I wasn’t sure if he knew of the lies. It doesn’t matter. My father had turned me into a pawn, and I had reason to believe it was due, at least in part, to the will of Gilgamesh.

  “Hiding my face from my kinsmen, I moved from town to town all over Satrone collecting information. When I learned that some of you had lived, I tried to track you down, but was waylaid when I heard of the executions of Lortho and Delton; Gilgamesh had them publicly executed for heresy and treason. They had been preaching of the memories of Alduheim. With them dead, I had to track the others. N’Giwah had returned to Ch’Nako, but I didn’t think he’d receive me too well if I showed up without anyone else, so I looked for Bosen, Ezlo, Jayna, and Pater. Two of them had been killed after they fled Satrone. I found Pater dead in Salhalam. Jayna’s death had been made to look as though bandits killed her on the way to Malababwe. That left only Borta, who’s vanished, and Marlayne.

  “I tracked her to Genova. She’s taken up with Longinus’s court, and they seem to be trying to discern what really happened in Alduheim. Although, from what I can tell, she has not told them of the memories, and instead only presented relics from the buried keep. I think the Fafnirians have moved into Alduheim now to investigate.”

  “How did you find me?” Scar interrupted.

  “I had to look for you, of course. I knew you were still alive, and I wanted your help before approaching N’Giwah. I didn’t know you were in Closicus until some of the populace revealed that the King of Alduheim and a bare faced paladin were seen traveling with Onger. Then I learned that I wasn’t the first Kulshedran searching for you. I picked up Dantin’s scent, but got sidelined by the storm. The legionnaire beat me here.”

  “He beat me here, too…I was in Oralia buying Ylithia a gift for her birthday,” Scar said, and teared up again. Labolas approached him to pat his shoulder. “It’s my fault. She begged me to wait a few days…if only I had listened.”

  “It is not your fault, my friend. It is Kulshedra’s. We must kill him. We must kill all the Dragons. I believe you can do it. I don’t know who sent you, but you are surely among us to kill to the Dragons.”

  “Oh, I’ll kill the Dragons,” Scar spat. “I’ll start with Kulshedra then kill Zmaj. One by one, I’ll drop them all, and then I’ll go after the Gods.”

  Labolas furrowed his brow, asking, “What, why?”

  “Because Silwen came to me and made me fall in love with Ylithia to fuel my rage. Gilgamesh nor Kulshedra alone are to blame. The Gods are as much responsible for this. Now, the fires of revenge burn brightly, and I will lay the world to waste.”

  The archer took a step back. Scar was serious, and Labolas felt the fires of which the mercenary spoke. He pushed his hair back then prodded at his scar, wondering over his friend’s stability, he looked a barely contained volcano.

  “Whenever you feel ready, we can ride out to Tironis and confront Gilgamesh. I know we need some kind of gem to kill the Dragons, but I don’t know where the gems are, or where the Dragons are for that matter. We can force Gilgamesh’s tongue though, I should think,” Labolas stated.

  Scar slowly came to his feet, saying, “I am ready. I just need my sword.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” he said, and walked off to Ylithia’s grave.

  He stood over it for a moment of silence then said, “I’ll try to wrest your soul from Kulshedra…but if I can’t, I hope you find peace.”

  Labolas raised an eyebrow and asked, “You think Kulshedra has her soul?”

  “Silwen says the souls of the departed go to the Dragon Lord controlling the men who do the killing.”

  “For what purpose are Dragons taking souls of the opposition?”

  Scar looked at Labolas. “I don’t know, but we’re certainly going to find out.”

  With that, he started marching through the grove, and back into town. By then, the sun had started to set. Labolas had raised his cowl lest he be discovered a Kulshedran. He informed Scar that current events had made Gilgamesh an enemy to Jagongo, Longinus, and Sirokai.

  Scar spotted Johannys coming out of Curval’s. The blind man squinted and blinked a great deal before shuffling over.

  “Scar,” Johannys yelled. “We’re getting everything ready now. We’ve decided to erect a proper headstone for t
he lovely, young lass, but Rothbert and some of the others want to see you before you venture off to do whatever it is you’ve got planned.”

  “Thank you, Johannys,” Scar said. “I’ll see everyone for a quick moment before I leave.”

  The old man bobbed his head up and down. Scar left him to take his blade from the house. Inside, he found Curval’s daughters cleaning up. They apologized profusely once more. Scar reiterated none of them were to blame.

  “You should stay…forget about revenge,” Milvena beseeched.

  “No,” he answered and took his sword. “Staying here would be too painful. I must bring those responsible to justice. Besides, you don’t need someone like me bringing more trouble to this place.”

  They smiled meekly. He spotted his chest plate and nabbed it, too. The women glanced at Labolas, but said nothing and let them be on their way. From his house, he went to see Dario. Marcus and Renus were also present. They were trying to build a manikin for Ylithia’s armor.

  “Oh, Scar,” Dario heaved. “You poor, young man.”

  “No more apologies from anyone, please.”

  “Of course, of course…what do you think?” the Fafnirian asked with a wave of the hand towards the wooden manikin. “A proper headstone?” Scar smiled and nodded. “Make sure you see Rothbert…he, uh, he’s got something for you.”

  Again, Scar gave a nod and moved out to find the tanner. He walked in to see him polishing some blackened, leather armor. The Slibinish looked rather pale, even for an ice man.

  “Scar,” he coughed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Enough apologies,” he interrupted. “I’m off soon, but Dario sent me to see you.”

  Rothbert smiled weakly, saying, “Ylithia made this for you.” The Slibinish tanner laid out a set of blackened leather fitted for Scar. “I would like to see it on you…as I’m sure she would have, too. Your lady worked very hard to make this out of the hides you provided.”

  Scar looked over the fine craftsmanship. He handled the individual pieces. Fresh tears stung his eyes as he sighed, smiled, and started trying it all on. Rothbert helped him slide the cuirass on first. It was adjustable and had a great many straps and buckles for added comfort and protection. The leggings were next. They came in five parts; simple pants, thigh pads that buckled over the hamstrings, and shin guards that buckled over the calves. The shin guards extended up over the knees, but didn’t buckle in order to allow for extra mobility. Scar then slipped on a pair of black riding boots that strapped over the shin guards. Rothbert buckled a leather bracer over Scar’s right wrist before sliding a leather gauntlet with steel plating over his left hand.