The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

by Aaron Dennis

  They rode on quietly after the disconcerting news. Birds darted from tree to tree inspecting the limbs for insects. The horses carried on over the cobbled street, the cart clattering away as the wooden wheels spun. It was almost a two day ride to Genova. A few times, they chatted amicably about the predicted yield of crops, when and how cold it was going to get, and what raising Alduheim had to do with Gilgamesh and Longinus.

  Ylithia spearheaded the political conversations. Scar led Onger to believe she was his trusted advisor after relinquishing the worship of Mekosh to support Fafnir’s proliferation in Alduheim. She proposed that since the old kingdom was a Godless one, having neutral parties ally themselves with Kulshedrans in a new country that supported peace would leave only the Khmerans and Slibinish as possible opposing forces against Fafnirians. Conclusively, since the Slibinish and Khmerans weren’t at war with the Fafnirians and Closicus had the country of Sudai as a barrier between themselves and the Dracos with neither country being an enemy anyway, the entire eastern portion of the world would know some degree of peace.

  “That still leaves Gilgamesh problems with Zoltek and Sahni,” Onger pointed out.

  “But that’s nothing new,” Scar argued. “Besides, I would not have Khmerans and Kulshedrans killing each other in Alduheim. That will secure Satrone’s northern border…I guess you could say the entire goal of this mission is to finally mount an attack on Usaj.”

  “Good,” Onger cheered. “Those blasted Zmajans are the worst of all.”

  Once they gave Zmaj, the All God, some proper cursing and Onger traded in speaking for eating, Scar and Ylithia whispered about just how close to the truth of prospective futures they were.

  “It all depends on what N’Giwah and the others decide and how much influence they can rally,” Ylithia affirmed.

  “Well, it doesn’t seem like anyone knows anything about Dragons yet, so maybe they weren’t able to come to some form arrangement,” Scar proposed quietly.

  “That’s because they were counting on you.”

  Scar frowned and looked across the hilly countryside. He finally had a decent view of the spanning aqueduct. The land surrounding Genova had been clear cut ages ago. Sheep, goats, and a hog or two, bounded over the hills and in between the pillars supporting the immense structure, which appeared to span throughout the country. When the sun started to set, the longest, most amazing shadows snaked away from the water system. Onger eventually suggested they hunker down when complete darkness settled in. It had been over an hour since Ylithia’s remark, and Scar had remained stoic, but deep in thought.

  “Have we done the right thing?” he asked her.

  She held both his hands, kissed his knuckles, and asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think the world can fend for itself…what does it matter who worships what? There will always be discord, and I have found enough peace in Closicus, and in your arms.”

  Chapter Twenty-One- Burning bridges

  Onger took the travelers to Murcas for a quick stop. They practically rode straight through the northern edge of the town where the master tradesman met with a client who owed an installment on supplies he had purchased in order to sell under his own name rather than Onger’s. While the master trader accepted and counted the coin, he made ludicrous guarantees of copious amounts of money the man was losing by buying supplies from Onger instead of signing on with The Onger Tradesmen. The man’s reply, “just take the coin, Onger,” implied he had heard the sales pitch on several occasions.

  The speedy conclusion in Murcas led them out of town and back on the road to the northeast by sunset. Genova, was yet over half a day away. There was little to do besides plan life in Othnatus. Onger joked that if the king was really settling down, he should join The Onger Tradesmen.

  “It’s a temporary ruse,” Ylithia reminded him.

  Genova came into view during the bright morning of the following day. It was a partially walled city with more suspended walkways between the tall fortifications. Atop the walkways and fortifications were more arches, which supported the aqueduct that run right into the capitol. Scar tried to get a good look at the meandering streets, but his view was obstructed by trees, the partial walling, and all manner of citizens zipping along the cobbled roads.

  Finally, Onger pulled up to the main entry guarded by a long section of wall outlined by manned ramparts. Before he rode in to handle his business, Ylithia reiterated she had no intentions of going inside, so Onger let them out to roam the expansive meadows surrounding Genova.

  Scar and Ylithia commiserated outside the walled city. He had wanted to enter and catch an eyeful of the Closic capital, but Ylithia was worried about being recognized.

  “So what if they do recognize you?” he asked as they traipsed through the meadows of browning grasses.

  She looked off towards the pines in the distance atop a squat hill for a time. Opting for silence rather than replying, Ylithia came to a stop next to some colorful wild flowers.

  “There was a big scene when I left,” she eventually explained. “Everyone who knew me or my family had come to dissuade me. I just can’t face them yet.”

  “You’ll do so when you’re ready.”

  Scar kissed her forehead. Exploring the surrounding land for a bit longer, the travelers saw some roaming dogs with long, shaggy, brown and white fur. When the sound of Onger’s horn resonated from his cart, which he had indicated would be the signal of the conclusion of his business and the melodious sign that they were to travel again, they started back. The entirety of business in Genova had taken only a few hours.

  When the two strolled from the meadows and back to the cobbled street to board the cart, they found a new passenger, a Paladin of Ihnogupta, the Perseverant. The young man was dark skinned like the Tiamatish or even Zmajans, but in place of the normal streaked skin were a plethora of shapes, shades, and lines; they were all the work of an expert artist, who had embedded inks in the paladin’s skin.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Onger announced. “He’s paid up.”

  The young man eyed Scar and Ylithia with curiosity as they stepped into the back of the cart across from him. Once they were settled, and Onger took off down the cobbled street, the young man smiled, revealing sharpened teeth. Scar liked them and smiled back, but Ylithia cringed then quickly tried to look away to avoid hurting the paladin’s feelings, if he had any.

  “I am called Shrikal,” the man said with the same accent the Zmajans had.

  “Scar, and this is Ylithia,” the mercenary said and shook his hand. “Who is your patron? I mean, I know you follow Ihnogupta. I, that is….”

  “I am Zmajan, if that’s what you are trying to ask,” Shrikal laughed.

  “What happened to your patterns? I’ve never seen a Zmajan without his natural colors.”

  “You really don’t know?” Shrikal asked with a tilt of the head in awe.

  Scar glanced at Ylithia, who whispered, “They have left his skin much as he has left the worship of Zmaj.”

  Scar turned back to the paladin then motioned with his hand for the young man to come nearer. When he did, the mercenary checked quickly to see if Onger could overhear.

  “The marks of Zmaj left your body when you started on the path to perseverance?” the mercenary pried.

  They both leaned back in their respective seats, and Shrikal replied, “Yes…more proof that Dragons are posing as Gods.”

  “Ah,” Onger interrupted in warning. “You promised no talk of that kind while on my wagon. Will I have to make you hike?”

  “Apologies, tradesman,” Shrikal said. “I was merely answering a question. It won’t happen again.”

  “So…where are you going?” Scar asked.

  “I am on pilgrimage,” the young man said, and started to look distraught. He fumbled for a moment trying to find the proper words. “I have been given a special task. Now is not the time to talk about it.” His smile flickered. There was more he wanted to say on the topic, instead he aske
d. “You? Word in Genova is that something happened in Alduheim.”

  “What did you hear?” Ylithia asked.

  “That the king fell in love with a Paladin of Severity and that they have run away to shirk their responsibilities.”

  “My, you certainly are well informed,” Ylithia scoffed.

  Shrikal blinked in excess for a moment. Confused over the sarcasm, he suddenly questioned his information. When Scar chuckled, Shrikal shrugged and looked at the wooden floor of the carriage.

  “Have I been mistaken?” he asked after a long silence.

  “It’s of little importance,” Ylithia reassured. “It won’t affect your pilgrimage, will it?”

  “Of course not. I will persevere in the name of Ihnogupta,” he said and pounded his bare chest.

  The following two days passed on with everybody in high spirits. The eastern edge of Closicus was a heavily wooded environment. They oft saw deer and boar or plenty of game birds scurrying through high grasses, grasses that were turning brown from lack of rains and the chilled nights. The days had grown incredibly short, the nights colder, and the winds harsher. Shrikal covered himself with a light toga. When asked if he was comfortable, he stated that he was able to persevere through the cold because of his deity, but wondered after Scar’s attire.

  “This is all I’ve got,” the mercenary laughed.

  “I suppose kings of dead countries don’t have much,” Shrikal consented.

  If nothing else, the trip had revealed to Shrikal that his information about Scar and Ylithia had been correct, and he told them he was leaving them in Oralia, though he did not let on what his special task was.

  “You’ll come visit us then?” Scar asked him.

  “I will see what happens at the end of my journey,” Shrikal stated.

  “In case you can’t tell, we don’t have many friends,” Ylithia joked.

  “Well, you’ve got Onger as a friend, now,” the trader shouted to them over his shoulder.

  “Make sure you come and see me when my kingdom rises from its ashes,” Scar jested.

  “I will, my liege, don’t you forget it,” Onger admonished.

  They all had a good laugh and remained happy of company until their arrival in Oralia. In the middle of the night, they rode into the small town, past the single guard on lookout, who was dozing peacefully, and hopped from the cart.

  “So this is it, eh?” Scar asked.

  Onger approached him first and gave a firm handshake, saying, “You be careful in Othnatus. I have heard some strange information whilst gathering my payments.”

  “Such as?”

  Onger scrutinized Scar and Ylithia before replying, “I heard something happened to the party that went into Alduheim…heard they’ve been executed.”

  Scar narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. I wonder if he means the men killed by Hachi. Either way, he didn’t really want to know if N’Giwah and the others had been killed. They hadn’t been on his mind for days, and he wanted to believe they were fine, if disappointed. A pat on his shoulder drew him back to matters at hand; Onger said his last goodbyes and rode into town to conduct his business.

  Shrikal smiled at them and said, “It was a pleasant ride…I believe we will meet again…after all, you know about the Dragons.”

  He turned and jogged off into the night, leaving Scar and Ylithia with their mouths open. They shrugged and looked each other over.

  “He was a strange one, even for a perseverant,” she claimed.

  “He certainly seemed to know something about us…I wonder what kind of tales have spread during our long travels,” Scar mused.

  “Do you want to stay here tonight or march on to Othnatus?”

  “I have had my fill of sitting idly. Let us move now and warm our muscles. These chilly nights under the stars are quite breathtaking.”

  “I do agree,” she smiled and took his arm.

  It was a day’s hike, but they made it to the small settlement of Othnatus just after sunset. A few farmsteads were built near the town’s border. Dogs barking and sheep bleating announced their arrival. Small stone and wooden buildings with thatched rooves peppered the bleak landscape like small, grayish headstones. Off the cobbled street and down the hard packed soil, Scar saw the moon’s reflection over Lake Grekka, an astonishing sight. Othnatus was built around the southern edge of the lake where the elevation was slightly higher.

  The travelers continued down the dusty road. No more dogs barked. No more sheep bleated. There was no sound, not even the chirping of crickets. The whole of the town was eerily quiet putting Scar on edge.

  “This is the place?” he asked in a nervous whisper.

  “Yes…it’s not as big as I remember it,” she answered also whispering. “Of course, I was a little girl…and mostly I remember it in the daytime. There should be a pub over there.”

  She pointed toward a wooden building. Firelight showed through cracks in the walls and the closed shutters.

  “It’s so quiet,” Scar said.

  “I know. I don’t even hear drunks laughing at the pub.”

  Beyond a handful of stone buildings was a long, two-story, wooden building. The double doors had words painted on them, the name of the pub, which was Catfish Curval’s.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Ylithia exclaimed gleefully. “I forgot all about Catfish Curval. The owner swears Lake Grekka has an enormous catfish that only he’s seen. It’s long as a ferry and twice as wide he used to say.”

  She pushed the doors in as she spoke. Scar followed her into a dimly lit tavern with stools at the bar at the far end, tables with chairs along the interior, and booths at the side walls. It was a nice place, clean, but empty. Their boots clomped over the wooden floor so loudly they didn’t have to ring the bell on the counter to announce their presence. A disheveled looking woman came from behind the wall and looked at her guests from the other side of the bar.

  “Well, what do we have here?” she asked with a smile.

  “Where is everyone?” Ylithia asked as she sat down at a stool.

  Both she and Scar had some difficulty due to her armor and his stature, but they managed to scrunch their knees against the wooden frame of the bar.

  The woman looked at them funny, saying, “You look like you’re from around here…he doesn’t, but you do.”

  Ylithia frowned trying to figure out what she meant.

  “Why does it matter where we’re from? We’re hungry, were tired, and we have coin,” Scar announced.

  “That’s what I expect to hear from you,” the woman chuckled. “The Fafnirian ought to know why no one’s around, though.” The woman looked at Ylithia expecting her to get it, and Ylithia maintained her gaze on the barkeep expecting her to explain. Finally she said, “The Hartgrove festival?”

  Ylithia’s face brightened up as a flood of memories rushed free from the clutches of her mind. She laughed openly and even slapped the counter once. Scar was taken aback and chuckled, too.

  “Now you’ve got it,” the woman smiled. “I thought maybe all that worshiping Mekosh turned you into a dummy.”

  “No, but I remember now,” Ylithia said. “Oh, it’s too bad we got here tonight instead of yesterday.”

  “What’s this festival?” Scar asked.

  Both Ylithia and the barkeep, who then excused her rudeness and said her name was Milvena, explained that Fafnirians used to believe that certain trees held special powers, and the hartgrove tree specifically was thought to help or hinder the winter crops. Druids from ancient times before even the Dragon Wars used to go into the Hartgrove, a sacred grove of sacred trees, and cast spells or sing songs, or do whatever it was that druids did in order to assure a cold winter, if that was necessary, or a balmy winter, if they had experienced droughts or harsh winds early on.

  “Today it’s just a big party,” Milvena said. “We know now Fafnir helps us when we need it.”

  Her tone implied how much more evolved she thought they were. Then she touched Ylithia’s ga
untleted hand as though apologizing for her remark. Ylithia chuckled.

  “That’s alright, Milvena, I don’t worship Mekosh anymore,” Ylithia said.

  “How come you’re not out there…wherever they’re celebrating?” Scar interrupted them.

  “Because someone has to mind the bar in the event strangers show up too silly to know they missed out on the Hartgrove Festival. Lucky me,” Milvena teased with a wink.

  “It’s too far to reach tonight then?” Scar inquired.

  “Yes,” Milvena nodded. “You’ve got to trudge down a path we never keep cleared, and it’s about a six hour hike into the hartgroves. Then you have to find your way through the trees and into the center of a very special grove. It has to be done by daylight…if it was earlier, you might have been able to follow the sounds of drunk and disorderly conduct, but they’re probably sleeping in their barf by now.”

  They all shared a laugh.

  “Well, I guess we’ll just take a meal and a room if you have one,” Scar said after a moment of politeness.

  “Of course. It’s on the house tonight, but don’t make a habit of it,” Milvena warned in a half-joking tone.

  Scar nodded accordingly. The barkeep stepped out of sight, presumably to grab their meal. He arched his brows while looking at Ylithia’s beaming face.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re so cute when you’re happy.”

  She laughed then heaved a sigh remembering the one Hartgrove Festival she had experienced. “When I was a little girl,” she started. “We came here to this very pub and met old Curval, who told us about the festival. My father was a tanner and he came here to hunt the great harts, gorgeous deer with the most pliable hides. Curval explained to us that the great hart was a sacred animal, and only a true hunter could ever hope to slay one. As it turned out, the festival was to be held at the week’s end. We stayed until Dad bagged a hart, and that didn’t happen until after the festival.

  “Of course I know now that the hart is only a regular deer; anyone can shoot one just as easily as the next deer. Still, the look on my father’s face when he came back to Curval’s with a dead hart slung over the back of a horse was priceless. He was as happy then as the day he died.”