The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  “You’d offer me a drink after I attacked your outposts?” Scar asked in amazement.

  It was evident that they all were quite drunk. The longhouse was really more of a mead hall than a resting place; troubadours played flutes, men and women danced, the scent of meats filled the air.

  “You here to fight?” the Kulshedran asked. Scar did not have time to say anything. The man continued, “I don’t care who’s doing what and where, you got no weapon, and you were brought in by one of us.”

  “Shut up, Bern,” Brandine said and shoved the Kulshedran. “Now, you, you, big, tall, hunk of white man meat, you can out drink me, you can stay. You can’t, I personally rough and tumble ya’.”

  The longhouse grew quite again. Scar frowned and looked around for a clue. All avoided eye contact. Brandine wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled to reveal yellowed teeth.

  “Rough and tumble me?” Scar asked.

  Labolas leaned over and whispered, “She’s going to rape you.”

  Scar’s face contorted in horror, but Brandine howled out in laughter, sat at a table, and slapped it. Scar looked at Labolas for help.

  “Go drink,” the archer said and shoved the mercenary off.

  It took only a moment of contemplation. There was no war inside those walls. Whatever oddity was unfolding was so utterly different from Zmajan culture that the mercenary decided to indulge the woman if only to witness the culmination. He stood, rolled his shoulders, popped his fingers, and sat down across from Brandine. The clapping, whooping, and hollering began, and then drinks were served. A row of twelve, small, stone cups were placed before each competitor.

  “Is this really happening?” Scar asked.

  Labolas stood behind him and said, “Dracos are notoriously…how shall I put it?”

  “They’re all dang blasted crazy!” Bern added.

  “Stop carryin’ on!” Brandine interrupted, raised her cup so the bar tender served her a fine brown alcohol, and threw the drink back before finally slamming the cup down upside down on the table. “Now, you.”

  The bar tender looked to Brandine, who motioned to hurry it along. The portly fellow shrugged and filled one of Scar’s cups. Scar drank. It was a bit warm going down, but hardly a feat.

  So the process was repeated, and the crowds cheered, and the music grew louder. It was after three more drinks that Brandine’s orange eyes grew glassy. Her mouth relaxed to the point that her droopy bottom lip glossed over with drool, which she quickly sucked back. Scar felt quite himself and very much enjoyed the beverage.

  “Is this drink from Eltanrof?” he asked.

  “What, why, of course it is,” Brandine shouted.

  They both drank one more round. Brandine’s young men, and a great many Dracos, stood by the man hungry woman shouting all manners of things.

  “You’ll get in those pants,” one said.

  “Put it where the sun don’t shine, Brandine,” another cheered.

  Scar only looked to Labolas, who was of little help. The Kulshedran had joined others of his kind, but did not appear to be drinking. With a crooked smile, Scar looked at Brandine.

  “You don’t look too well,” he said.

  “Hush up,” Brandine fired back and drank.

  The next four rounds went quickly and in silence, or at least Brandine was silent. Everyone else continued hollering obscenities. As the drink settled into the fiery woman, she started to lean on the table. Then running chunky fingers through copper curls, she stammered nonsensically.

  “I, that, yooou,” she managed before bursting out into laughter. Scar chuckled to himself. They made it through two more rounds before Brandine leapt up from the table. “Nope,” she said and bowled men out of her way.

  She made it just outside to hurl. Everyone enjoyed a great roar of laughter. Labolas came over to Scar, and standing behind the white man, he addressed the crowd.

  “Today you’ve witnessed the constitution of the one man whose sole concern it is to end these dreadful times. Yes, he was coerced by the evil Zoltek, but he stands, or rather sits, here now as one of us. Raise a cup, mug, or whole pitcher to Brandt, future King of Alduheim, and friend of Kulshedrans and Dracos alike.”

  The crowd cheered, “Brandt, Brandt, Brandt.”

  “Well said,” Scar whispered, looking to Labolas. The archer did not comment, but consented with a quick shrug and frown. “What now?”

  “Off to bed,” Labolas replied.

  Chapter Six- World’s edge

  Scar stood before a precipice. Whooshing winds whipped around, scraping away dust from distant plateaus. Overhead, there was no sky proper. Instead there were degrees of darkness. All manners of dark clouds melded into one another- a ceaseless vortex of black. Utterly bewildered, Scar looked around.

  There was an endless array of dusty plateaus, all varying in degrees of brown. No manner of a path led either to or from the one on which he stood. The masses of land were scattered pock marks in the complete blackness. To add to the confusion, he was nude and in a world of no light. How he saw anything was as much a mystery as what he saw. All at once, and without actual comprehension, it was as though his body or essence perceived the area and not his eyes, and yet he was clearly seeing.

  “What? What is this? Where am I?” his voice echoed and reverberated.

  He looked up, over, and spun around. There was nothing, and aside from the few dozen paces available on the brownish-gray stone ground, there was nowhere to go.

  “Sarkany,” a deep voice muttered.

  The sound was so utterly familiar to Scar. He was on the verge of knowing everything, on the very precipice of self-actualization. His eyes were wide. His body vibrated. His skin itched and a tingle went up his spine.

  “Where,” Scar whispered.

  “Sarkany, you have returned.”

  The feeling was lost and replaced with dread.

  “Show yourself,” Scar gasped.

  The mercenary had not known fear since his battle with the Dracos, but this presence was different. It was everything he was unable to recollect.

  “Peace,” the guttural voice breathed as though coming from everywhere. “You must recover your blade. Without it, you cannot bring their souls back.”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Scar panicked for only a second longer. Then he remembered drinking with Brandine. “I must have passed out…I must be dreaming.”

  “Dreaming? Yes, but you must do as I command. Slay the others. Retrieve their souls. Bring peace to Tiamhaal.”

  ****

  “Brandt.”

  Scar woke up with an inhalation. Labolas’s bronze face was inches from his. A loose lock of black hair dangled towards his own face. Scar pushed himself to a sitting position. He blinked a few times as Labolas backed away.

  “Everything alright?” Labolas asked while standing with his fists on his hips.

  Scar wiped his face before replying, “Yes.”

  “Bad dream?”

  Scar nodded slowly. He was in a room at the longhouse. The cot covered with straw and pelts had made a very comfortable bed, and as with the act of dreaming, Scar did not recall having slept before.

  “What did you dream of?” Labolas asked.

  Scar shook his head saying, “It is gone, but whatever it was has left me unnerved.”

  “Well then I have good news. A contingent of Kulshedrans cleaned out the wrecked tower. They’ve recovered your sword and it will be waiting for you in Tironis.”

  Scar was taken aback. He rolled out of the bed before coming to his feet. “Really? I, I think I dreamt of my sword. How, how do you know it has been retrieved?”

  Labolas smiled, answering, “We traveled slowly and spent quite some time here. Some of the soldiers came to rest after cleaning up your mess, so I questioned them.”

  “What did you learn?”

  As Labolas gave his information, he packed his belongings. Scar stretched to loosen his muscles and fully waken. Sunlight b
rightened the modest room. The rich woods from which it was comprised gave it a pleasant sepia tone in the light of mid-morning.

  “Zmajan forces have fled to the south. The Kulshedran who ran from battle was the same who informed the contingent from the west. Due to his information, they made their way to the outpost. There they found your sword and sent it along with a detail to ensure its safety to Tironis. Your sword was to be a gift to Gilgamesh.”

  “I must retrieve it!” Scar shouted in alarm.

  “Calm yourself, mate,” Labolas chuckled. “We’re making our way there by carriage ride.”

  “When?”

  “In just a few hours. The cart master arrived to drop off supplies. We’re hitching a ride back to Tironis with him,” Labolas explained.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Oh, two days. We’ll likely have to make some stops along the way.”

  Scar inhaled deeply and nodded his head in approval. Labolas scrutinized the prospective king. After a short moment of silence, the Kulshedran spoke.

  “You look ruffled.”

  “Perhaps I am…something about that dream,” Scar muttered. “You know, I don’t recall having slept since that first fight.”

  “Well, no sense in worrying over dreams,” Labolas comforted. “C’mon, Brandt, let’s get some food in our bellies.”

  Scar nodded. They both left the coziness of the sleeping quarter for the longhouse main room. It was desolate compared to the formerly lively night. A young man and woman, both Dracos, were busy cleaning up. Slits of sunlight gleamed over the floor. Chairs were stacked on tables. Stools were upside down. A different bar tender stood behind the counter; the man was a tall Draco. While he organized the beverages, Labolas approached.

  “Got breakfast?”

  “Aye,” the Draco replied without turning around. “Check the spit.”

  Labolas turned to the fire at the center of the room. It was mostly embers. Over the coals was a large cooking pot. The sound of bowls being placed on the counter drew the Kulshedran’s attention. He smiled to the bar tender, took the bowls, and helped himself to the stew while the man dusted his hands on the white apron he wore over his buff tunic.

  “Here,” Labolas said, offering a bowl to Scar.

  When Scar took the bowl, the main doors came open. Three Kulshedrans walked inside, two older men and a woman. They all wore studded leathers. Each carried a weapon. The two men wore maces on their hips. The woman had a long sword. Their faces immediately contorted in rage. Muscles tightened beneath bronze skin.

  “What’s he doing here?” one of the men howled and pointed at Scar.

  The mercenary said nothing but sipped his stew.

  “Hold on,” Labolas intervened.

  “Shut it!” the other Kulshedran man countered.

  Weapons were drawn and the soldiers strode over to the center of the room.

  “Take it outside,” the bar tender admonished. “I’ll have no bloodshed in here.”

  The soldiers ignored the warning and kept stride.

  “I said hold it,” Labolas yelled.

  By then, the Dracos who were cleaning stopped their work to watch the proceedings. The oldest soldier, one with scraggly gray hair, scrutinized Labolas.

  “You’re a captain. What’s he doing here?” the old soldier barked.

  Scar raised an eyebrow, but did no more than continue eating. Tension forced such a silence in the room that Scar’s slurps sounded like an army marching through mud.

  “Relax,” Labolas advised. “We’re going to Tironis. Gilgamesh seeks an audience with–”

  “Stop it!” the Kulshedran woman interjected with a piercing voice. Pointing her weapon with a hand trembling in anger she continued shouting. “The ghost responsible for slaughtering our people is right before us, and you break bread with him?”

  “I follow our king’s orders. I suggest you do the same,” Labolas advised maintaining an even keel.

  “Listen,” Scar started.

  “No,” the other Kulshedran man interrupted. “You, listen. I’ll not stand here in the same room as my enemy, the enemy of all of Kulshedra. Let’s take this outside.”

  Scar dropped his bowl letting the contents splash over the floor.

  “Ugh, I just cleaned over there,” the young Draco complained with a roll of his orange eyes.

  The mercenary started his way to the door, but Labolas placed the back of his forearm against Scar’s ribs. The look on the archer’s face was stern. Scar watched as Labolas stared down his countrymen.

  “I’m trying to reason with you. I understand your sentiments, but this man is not our enemy. He was only hired and misled by our true enemy, Zoltek,” Labolas explained.

  “This doesn’t sit well with me,” the woman said with flaring eyes.

  “We’ll be leaving for Tironis in just a little while,” Labolas added. “Let me buy you food and drink.”

  “Food and drink don’t bring back our friends,” the old Kulshedran argued.

  Again the boardinghouse grew quiet. Rapid breaths were the only audible sounds. Scar’s eyes mellowed as did Labolas’s. The old Kulshedran’s words were a point that rang quite true, yet there was no need for anyone to draw blood that day. Only a moment of deliberation passed before the soldiers conceded to their superior and staid their weapons.

  “Thank you,” Labolas said. “Apologies, bar keep. We’ll go wait for the cart outside.”

  “I think that’d be best,” the bar tender replied.

  The archer left a few coins in the opened palms of his kin then he motioned to Scar to move out. He winced and followed Labolas, who took the bowl he had been holding outdoors. The Kulshedrans did not take their eyes off the mercenary, but their anger did cool after ingesting a free meal.

  “Such hostility,” Scar remarked.

  The sun shone brightly outside. The day was already hot. Sipping his stew beneath the awning, the archer turned to Scar.

  “You’d best get used to a rough reception until you speak with Gilgamesh,” Labolas said.

  “Right,” he answered and then gave a pause in deliberation. “What, exactly, am I to expect? Will most Dracos and Kulshedrans be ready to draw steel?”

  Labolas vacillated, placed his empty bowl on a wooden bench against the longhouse exterior wall, and folded his arms. He remained silent for a moment while Scar observed him. The man was in obvious thought. Finally, Labolas spoke slowly as though extra careful to enunciate his words, to clarify his meaning.

  “I believe that some will crave vengeance, but most others wish only for peace. In the cities, the places furthest from war, you’ll see just how agreeable the Kulshedrans are. These wars have gone on long enough. We are all tired of fighting, but like it or not, you are a key player, a catalyst of sorts.

  “That being said, only the few who wish to avenge their kinsmen will be quick to seek a skirmish, although I think guards and patrolmen might raise some issues.” Labolas chuckled after finishing his thoughts. Scar didn’t find any humor in his predicament. The archer then stared fiercely into Scar’s gray eyes. “Tell me, Brandt, what is it you wish for, peace or war?”

  While Scar considered the question, a gust of wind ruffled the wiry grasses surrounding the area and kicked up tiny dust clouds. He stepped away from the longhouse, placed his hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sunlight, and scanned his surroundings. There were tannish mountains far to the east. The immediate terrain was slightly hilly.

  Labolas broke the silence, saying, “It is not a simple question, admittedly. To secure peace, to secure Alduheim as Gilgamesh seeks, is an act of war, and even after driving back the Khmeran forces, we will still have to fight the Zmajans. Our alliance with the Dracos is not total, so there will always be some issue. Of course, this is the whole point, isn’t it, to end as many of these issues as possible.”

  Before Scar answered, the sound of the longhouse doors dispelled their thoughts. Two warriors of Drac came out. Labolas recognized t
hem from the night before. They had apparently spent the night. A crunching sound from their boots over soil held Scar’s attention. They nodded and smiled to the mercenary and Kulshedran.

  “Heard a travelin’ merchant is comin’ by cart soon,” the Draco man said.

  Scar nodded to him replying, “I think he is already here, somewhere.”

  They all looked to Labolas as though he had a clue. He replied with a shrug of indifference. The Draco man smiled politely. He was not too tall, perhaps six feet, pale and freckly with locks of auburn hair and a fiery, but neatly trimmed beard. Both he and the woman warrior bore brands from heated irons on only their right arm and shoulder.

  “This is Eileen, and I’m called Alistair. We heard a bit about you not bein’ an enemy,” Alistair said.

  Eileen, who was a rather squat and powerful looking woman, adjusted her leather armor and shook auburn hair from her face. Scar saw similar features on their round faces.

  “Since it seems we’ll be travelin’ together for a bit…,” Eileen said and trailed off before continuing. Her brother gave her a nod and she resumed her thought. “We might as well start off as allies rather than foes.”

  “Excellent,” Labolas cheered. “You see, Brandt, there are as many of us wishing for a resolution to this endless combat.”

  Scar smiled and shook both hands with both Alistair and Eileen, asking, “Are you two traveling to Tironis?”

  “Nay,” Alistair replied. “We’ve pelts to trade in Osor, Talion, and Faroos.”

  “Towns along the river Iles,” Labolas interjected.

  “Pelts?” Scar asked and looked at his compatriot with wonder.

  “There’s always a war going on, but not everyone is at war, you see? People still need pelts,” Labolas explained.

  Scar contemplated. It made sense, yet he was unable to shake the feeling that it was meaningless. The look on his face conveyed his bewilderment.

  “Did you really not know that people trade goods?” Eileen asked.

  “This world is unknown to me,” Scar sighed.

  They remained quiet for a time. Huddled beneath the boardinghouse’s awning for shade, they heard muffled voices from inside bleed through the shutters. The mercenary looked around. There wasn’t much to see other than the rocky ground and a few small, puffy clouds in an otherwise blue sky.