The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (6 page)

“Do it! Do it!” she screamed.

“I will.”

Scar placed his knee into her abdomen to keep
her pinned to the ground. He wrapped his right hand about her
throat and when he drew his left back to punch her, she spat in his
face.

“NOW!” she howled.

His fist collided with her nose. The blow
left her limp. A loud crash from outside forced him to halt in a
crouched position. Then there was another from a different
direction followed by two more. The first floor went up in flames.
Scar’s eyes went wide with alarm.

“It was me! The plan was to trap me!”

Bright fires and thick smoke quickly clouded
his vision. Choking for air, he made to run upstairs, but fires
already blocked the way.

“Dammit! You set me up! You all set me up!
Dumaaar!”

Scar scurried around for a way out, but
barrels of oil had been lighted and thrown from above to cover
every escape route; to boot, Scar caught glimpses through flashing
flames of the assailants dropping from makeshift ropes.

The stifling smoke was disorienting. Scar
stumbled about blindly both trying to secure his sword and find a
way out. No longer able to breathe, or ward off the excruciating
heat of flame, he bolted up the stairs.

Pain accosted his lower body as his leggings
caught fire. Blistering heat rattled his feet. He grunted, made it
to a window, and flung himself out. Unfortunately, he fell into a
pile of flaming wood. Horrible burns ravaged his body, but he
rolled away onto cooling soil and fled into the cold night of the
Kulshedran desert cursing the name of Zoltek.

Chapter Five- False Gods

Scar sat on his rear, his knees pulled up to
his chest. Over a mile to the south stood a great, flaming beacon.
The Kulshedran outpost remained in flames.

“Zmaj be damned…and Dumar with him,” the
mercenary snarled while coming to his feet.

The previous ordeal left his boots and most
of his leggings in tatters. He prodded at the newly formed scars.
Considering what he had gone through, they were not severe. With a
deep inhalation through the nose, he turned his eyes to the dark
skies. Heavy clouds rolled overhead. Occasionally, the moon broke
through; a thin, shining crescent.

“What shall I do? Venture to the south and
kill Dumar? Perhaps,” he nodded to himself. “That certainly
provides immediate comfort, but no, that is not the proper course
of action. It is now evident Zoltek has no desire to assist me,” he
narrowed his eyes and set his jaw before continuing. “Zoltek…he’s
the one I need to kill.”

The mercenary was more than upset, more than
insulted, he was completely betrayed. He had wanted only to learn
of himself. Now that seemed impossible.
Ripping the spine from
Zoltek’s still breathing form won’t help me to learn
anything.

Scar took a few paces to loosen the tightness
from his thighs; still mired in contemplation he did not notice the
figure striding through the chaparral. With his fists on his hips,
he returned to voicing his thoughts.

“I need to wait for those fires to settle.
Hopefully my blade is intact…damn! I can’t just wait…fighting off
the oncoming hordes of Kulshedra, Drac, or whoever won’t be easy if
all I have is their modest weaponry. Then again…Dumar’s axe was
quite the strange–”

Extreme pain rattled his head. There was a
second of confusion, like the ground had come away from his feet.
Then he was rattled again upon hitting that very same ground.
Groaning and gripping his bleeding head, the stunned mercenary
turned onto to his back. A tall figure clad in full plate mail as
dark as the night itself loomed over him. The shining moon revealed
a knight armored like a bastion before the clouds ensconced him in
darkness again.

The assailant’s gear was unlike anything Scar
had witnessed so far; thick plates of unknown metal completely
covered the mysterious attacker. Smoky colored filigree graced
black steel creases. The two-handed mace in the man’s hands was
also unfamiliar. This man—whoever he was—was not a soldier of Zmaj
or Kulshedra. Scar sat up to scramble back, but the man smashed a
heavy boot onto the mercenary’s shin before following up with a
right-to-left bash of his mace. Blood flew from Scar’s mouth as the
blow knocked him back into the soil.

“Unholy creature, I will cleanse you from
Tiamhaal,” the black knight breathed.

When the knight went for the deathblow, Scar
kicked the attacker’s feet out and the knight went down so hard
that a cloud of dust nearly obscured him from sight. That time, it
was the enemy who sat up in time to see Scar’s massive fist smash
into his crowned helmet.

“Ouch!” Scar griped, but the blow was
sufficient to buy some time. The mercenary caught his bearings. In
quick observation, he noted the armor was definitely a problem.
“Who are you? Did Dumar send you? Gilgamesh?” Scar yelled.

The black knight swung the mace over his head
and at Scar’s knees, and although the blow was avoided by a jump,
the knight had time to come to his feet. Leaning forward a bit and
clutching the mace in both hands, he gave his reply.

“Lovenhaad, Paladin of Mekosh the Severe, and
I will kill you, ghost.”

The odd, breathy voice of Lovenhaad was
unnerving, but there was no time to contemplate; the paladin
charged. Scar stopped the coming blow by gripping Lovenhaad’s
gauntleted hands at the strike’s apex. For a second, they were
evenly matched in strength, though the paladin was a hair shorter
and narrower even in his armor.

“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.”