The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  “But how do you fly it?”

  “Well…that was my original problem and why Scultonians don’t use these things,” Artimis answered. By the time they had all boarded, and Artimis unhooked the ropes, the vessel rocked and the hide balloon bumped the walls.

  “You’re already crashing! You’re already crashing!” the mercenary cried out, bracing himself for impact.

  The other two were laughing so hard at his antics they had lost all of their composure. Labolas coughed and choked. Artimis was tearing up.

  “Dammit, man, listen,” Artimis demanded between laughs. “I’m not crashing. Soon as I unhook this rope, we’ll lift up, and again, before you ask, I can control it like this….”

  The Draco trailed off for a second. He unhooked the last clamp, and the thing lifted off gently. Then Artimis pulled a rope that hung off the front of the dirigible’s balloon and some hides unfurled. The new pocket took on a portion of the displaced gas and filled out to look like a bird’s head. Next, he ran to the back of the keel and pulled another rope to unfurl something that ended up looking like a tail, and finally he undid the ropes on either side, which unfurled a set of wings.

  “By maneuvering these ropes about, I can catch the wind like a bird in flight,” Artimis said.

  “Ah,” Labolas smiled. “I have to admit, I, too, was wondering how you solved that problem…I’m glad to see you finally figured it out.”

  “Well,” Artimis trailed off. “Figured it out is premature.” By then, they were a good fifty feet off the ground and rising above the cypresses. Scar looked down then leaned back shutting his eyes. “This is technically the Plume’s maiden voyage.”

  Labolas’s face lost all signs of glee, and he said, “You, you’ve never actually flown this thing?”

  “Again, flown is a strong word,” Artimis chuckled. Scar shook his head and cursed under his breath. “Anyway, what I was saying was that I should be able to lift, bank, and lower us when needed by way of controlling the tail, head, and wings.”

  “What’s to keep the artred gas from escaping in flight?” Labolas pried.

  “Bee’s wax,” Artimis said. “The reason Scultonians don’t build dirigibles is that for one, they have a shortage of hides. Two, they definitely have a shortage of bees, and three…only I, Artimis O’Clannigan, have mastered the concept of bird’s flight.”

  “Is mastered one of those strong words?” Labolas jeered.

  “Guess we’ll find out, eh pal?” he asked Scar, who was cowering next to some crates holding their supplies.

  “I can’t believe you’re so scared,” Labolas laughed.

  “You know,” Scar accused. “It wasn’t too long ago that you were practically in tears over boarding a sloop!”

  “That was different!”

  “How?”

  “I can’t swim,” Labolas answered unforthcomingly.

  “What?” Artimis and Scar laughed together.

  “I can’t swim, alright?” Labolas snapped back.

  Scar chuckled and added, “Well, I can’t fly.”

  “But I can,” Artimis beamed.

  The pilot’s eyes darted back and forth between the rigging in his hands and the horizon. A huge grin played over his boisterous countenance. Labolas sniffed at the cool air. The wind whipped about them, and he placed his hands on the edge of the keel, marveling at the beauty of flight. It was yet a few minutes later that Scar decided to try to stand. The dirigible didn’t rock much, and he found it easy enough to look around. Peeking carefully over the edge, his feet wide and firmly planted, he saw they were soaring over cypress trees, extensive meadows, rolling rocky hills, farmsteads, rivers, and all manner of terrain.

  “Alright,” he chuckled. “Alright…this isn’t too bad. It works.”

  “Thank Drac it does,” Artimis scoffed. “Last time I didn’t have the wings, tail, and head, and the wind changed direction once I got too high. Darned thing nearly crashed me into the mountains.”

  “How did you survive?” Scar asked without looking away from the breathtaking morning view.

  Labolas chuckled as though it was a secret joke. Artimis fumbled with his words saying something nonsensical.

  “What?” Scar asked.

  “Umm,” Artimis stalled.

  Scar arched a brow and looked at Labolas, who quickly turned his head to avoid his friend’s glance.

  “Damn it, what aren’t you telling me now?” the mercenary demanded.

  Before anyone replied, a murder of crows caught up to the airship and cawed. They were so close Scar swatted at them.

  “The ship crashed into the mountains,” Artimis revealed.

  “So you were injured,” Scar surmised.

  “No, God no,” Artimis said emphatically. “I wasn’t aboard by the time it smashed into the cliffs.”

  “How did you get off?”

  “The same way you’re going to get off when we reach Tironis,” Artimis chuckled.

  Scar opened his mouth to demand more information, but the Kulshedran cut him off saying, “You’ll see.”

  “I hate you,” Scar replied. “I hate both of you.”

  They all had a good laugh at his histrionics, but eventually the sheer bliss of soaring through the sky like birds soothed them. When the sun fully rose, and Artimis determined the winds were safe, he anchored the ropes to wooden beams to maintain their trajectory.

  The other two busied themselves with food, drink, and idle chit chat regarding the states of affair in Eltanrof, but Scar watched the quickly receding ground below. More than once, they passed over established towns or small cities. The people craned their necks to the skies, held their hands over their eyes to block the sun, and gazed at the immense, brown bird above them. The shadow of the beast swooped over them all.

  “What if they fire arrows or catapults at us?” Scar asked.

  “Hm?” Labolas mumbled.

  “Bah,” Artimis said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “We move too quickly for them to hit us.”

  “We’ll have to slow down in order to land in Tironis,” Scar said carefully as an attempt to determine how they were going to exit the airship.

  “No worries there, mate. Only you and ole’ Labby are hopping out. I’ll keep the Plume in flight,” the Draco chirped.

  The mercenary grumbled again. Soon the sun was right over them, casting a strange shadow in the keel. Scar started thinking about fighting Gilgamesh. He didn’t know much about his enemy other than he was a Kulshedran, but Kulshedrans had strange magic over armor, and Gilgamesh was supposedly an amazing fighter. It didn’t really matter. When he thought about Ylithia, he knew one thing for certain, the only thing that did matter; victory was the only acceptable outcome. After that, he had to find Kulshedra.

  Time elapsed as a blur. It seemed only an instant had passed. The ground below turned from hills to jagged peaks. They had reached the southern end of the Shumite mountains; a natural border between Eltanrof and Satrone. For a quick moment, it looked to Scar as if the ship was too low and he braced himself for a scrape against a rocky cliff, but the ship soared right over the mountain, leaving only a fleeting shadow.

  Beyond the mountains was a Kulshedran outpost. They heard the cries of soldiers howling below them. Another moment later, and they were soaring above the dusty brown soils of Satrone; a familiar sight. There were squat shrubs, cacti, dunes and valleys, and then they passed over a hard packed road.

  “So, what exactly is the plan?” Scar asked. “We land in Tironis and fight through masses of guards into Inneshkigal?”

  “That would be unwise, and a waste of valuable time,” Labolas answered. “We need the element of surprise.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’ll drop directly into the courtyard inside Innsehkigal.”

  Scar figured landing there was a safer bet than landing on the outskirts of the town and running in, but it left the Plume open for attack. He cocked a hairless eyebrow and looked at Labolas. He was checking the str
ings of his bow. Neither he nor Artimis appeared overly worried by the proposed proceedings. Scar wasn’t worried either. He just wondered about the way back out.

  “So…after Gilgamesh, we race back out to the Plume and lift off?” the mercenary asked. “Artimis, how will you secure the Plume?”

  “I’m not securing anything,” he retorted. “I told you, only you two are going in. I’ll be safely gliding about until you’re all done.”

  “I don’t understand,” Scar argued and made an imperative gesture of distress by booting a crate.

  Labolas took charge and answered for the Draco, saying, “Just take a breath. All we need to worry about is killing Gilgamesh. After that, we’ll race down into the sewers before anyone even realizes what we’ve done. From there, I’ll lead us back to Arty.”

  “You don’t need to worry about Gilgamesh,” Scar asserted. “I’m just trying to understand how we hop out of a flying craft and then back in.”

  “You won’t hop back in until you escape Tironis,” Artimis said.

  “You’re not going to be in the capitol?” Scar pried with a furrowed brow.

  “No,” Artimis smiled.

  Scar looked to Labolas for another clue, but he was unwilling to provide more information. By then, they had soared over a few smaller establishments to which Scar had paid little attention. At that point, Artimis started rooting through crates. He pulled out two packs that looked like travelers’ rucksacks. He motioned to Labolas, who allowed the Draco to place the pack on his shoulders. In the front of the pack, by the left strap, Scar noticed a thin rope dangling. Artimis then motioned for him to take the second pack.

  “Just slide it over your sword. When you land, you can just shrug it off and go to work,” Artimis advised.

  Scar turned and held his arms out for the Draco to put the pack on and asked, “When I land?”

  “Yep.”

  Scar blinked profusely trying to grasp the circumstances, but he could not think straight. There seemed to be no logical way of landing. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was too annoyed to ask anything else, and simply accepted his fate, whatever it might have been.

  “I’ll slow us down,” Artimis said and started messing with the ropes again. “If you look below, you’ll see the capital coming into view.”

  From their bird’s eye view, they clearly saw the sunset casting an orange glare over the sandy colored stonework of Inneshkigal. Soon, the Plume tilted downward at the forecastle. They slowed and started to lose altitude at a rather rapid pace. Scar and Labolas both fought to keep their footing. Artimis finally guided the airship to such a low height that heavy winds no longer pushed the vessel. They were practically at a standstill, inching forward to the courtyard while shocked Kulshedran citizens stared in awe.

  “After you jump,” Labolas said slowly, “pull that rope by the shoulder strap. The chute will open and let you land softly.”

  “What do you mean jump?” Scar yelled.

  “Do it for Ylithia, Scar. Jump and pull the cord,” Labolas said imperatively.

  The Kulshedran approached the edge of the keel, looked over the side, gave Artimis a nod implying they had reached optimal height and their destination, and Labolas hopped over the keel. Scar dashed over to see the archer’s pack had opened. A great, oval chute of sewn cloths caught the wind and Labolas descended clumsily, but at a safe speed, towards the courtyard at Inneshkigal. The mercenary then glanced with gaping mouth at Artimis, who winked and grinned. Scar nodded, took a breath, looked at the rope then ran before diving over the keel.

  “Please, let this work,” he begged while free falling.

  Scar yoked at the cord near the strap. Almost immediately he felt a tug from his armpits that forced the air out of his lungs. The chute had unfurled successfully, and he was no longer plummeting at a deathly rate. By the time he landed, Labolas had wriggled out of his chute, magically deployed his armor, and felled two guards. More were closing the distance, but Scar shrugged out of his pack, drew his sword, and met them with glinting steel. The entrance to Inneshkigal had been secured, except for the sound of barking dogs.

  “That was ridiculous,” Scar gasped.

  Labolas nodded. They bolted over the pinkish soil, ran past the serpent fountain, and into the formerly impregnable palace. Pushing past the servants and down decorated corridors was a simple maneuver. No Kulshedran had had time to comprehend that two men were storming the keep. Passing some statues and paintings, Scar and Labolas sprinted over the blue carpeting to the end of one smoothed hallway and took the adjoining corridor; the entrance of the throne room was protected by only two guards. Wide eyed and confused, they were unable to protect themselves from Labolas’s feathered castigation. An arrow struck each man directly in the heart. Their armor was no match for his mechanical bow.

  Beyond the threshold, and inside the throne room, were two more guards. They were the same shieldman Scar had seen on his previous visit. Those two, menacing men immediately slammed the bottom of their shields into the stone floor and emitted a force that sent the attackers to the ground. Scar scurried to his feet and dashed at the one to his right.

  Prior to Scar thrusting his blade into the guard, the shieldman unleashed more Kulshedran magic; his armor grew plates and spread to cover his entire body in steel. It was insufficient protection. The mercenary bent his elbow in order to change the thrust into a slash, and hacked into his opponent’s right shoulder. Another magic blow from Scar’s left sent him slamming into the far wall. Labolas replied in kind. He quickly fired an arrow into each guard.

  The unpredictable attack felled one of the shieldman—the one who had neglected to engage his armor—but struck only the shield of the other. Labolas reached back behind his pauldron to draw another arrow, but there were none. He fidgeted about with a scowl to no avail.

  “King Gilgamesh,” the man hollered.

  “Shut up,” Scar shouted as he recovered.

  The side of the mercenary’s head had busted open from bouncing off the stone wall, but the wound had already healed over. He bounded over the floor, leapt into the guard, and they both tumbled over behind the throne. The man had not relinquished his shield in the ensuing scuffle, so Scar straddled the man before hacking at his shins, which parted the guard from one of his feet. While he cried out in crippling pain, the mercenary stood in order to dismember the shieldman with three quick hacks.

  “By Kulshedra!” a voice cried.

  The invaders turned to see Ehrloime and other servants gasping, covering their mouths, or simply pointing in horror.

  “Go back to your homes,” Labolas implored.

  “We seek only the king,” Scar added.

  The servants were too dumbstruck to do much anyway. Scar shook his head and glanced at Labolas while bolting to and then up the stairs. He’s got to be up there, Scar thought. It was from those stairs that Gilgamesh had descended during their meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Four- Drangue

  The invaders paused at the top of the stairs. They had spilled out into a wide foyer. Suede couches, fine vases, and many paintings adorned the room. It was brilliantly lit by gas lamps. There didn’t appear to be any opposition, so the two glanced at each other before turning to the double doors in the center of the golden wall opposite them.

  “Arrows?” Scar breathed.

  “A moment,” Labolas answered.

  He took a breath, which allowed his armor to retract into the bracer. Before he concentrated to redeploy his protection and weaponry, the doors opened, and General Sulas emerged. He had a stern visage aimed directly at his son.

  “You bastard,” Labolas growled.

  “If you’ve never before listened to me, Son, now is the time to set aside your pride and do as you’re told,” the old man ordered.

  Scar started to march toward the aged Kulshedran, but he held out his palm, which was quickly covered in steel from his bracer, creating a gauntlet, and floored the mercenary with a rippling wave of energy. Labolas bared h
is teeth and activated his own bracer.

  “Just listen!” the old general demanded.

  “Make it quick, old man,” Labolas said while choking up.

  General Sulas chortled and gave a quick shake of the head as he looked down. Then he looked at his son.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Sulas said.

  “I’m here to kill the man who murdered Ylithia,” Scar growled while working himself back to his feet. “You don’t have to die, but I’ll be glad to part your head from your shoulders as a warm up.”

  “And then what?” Sulas scoffed. “You fight Gilgamesh?”

  “Let him show his face, Father,” Labolas snarled. “We don’t have to fight each other. We are not enemies.”

  “Gilgamesh is not your enemy either,” Sulas rebutted as he lowered his hand.

  “He is mine,” Scar asserted. “And so is Kulshedra.”

  “The Dragon,” Sulas ridiculed.

  “You knew?” Labolas said and contorted his face with shock and revulsion.

  “Will you listen now?” Sulas asked.

  “You have precious few words left, General,” Scar said. “My sword arm itches.”

  The general nodded before saying, “The Dragons…yes, they have lied and manipulated, but they have also blessed. What do you think more bloodshed will bring? Peace? Solace? Comfort?”

  “I’ll not stand by and let Ylithia’s memory linger a foul thing, an unavenged death,” Scar said as tears stung his eyes.

  “You’ve already killed her attackers,” Sulas replied. “Your vengeance is complete.”

  “But your king sent them, and he was under orders of Kulshedra…and let us not forget he lied to me, like you did, and sent me to my death at Alduheim,” Scar spewed.

  The general nodded slowly. He looked to the ground. A moment of angry silence passed.

  “Father?” Labolas asked.

  “Yes?”