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TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Dennis
The Dragon of Time series Copyright 2014 by
Aaron Dennis
Published by Storiesbydennis.com November 11th
of 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form,
including digital and electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without
the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for
brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names,
places and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue – 4
Chapter 1 – Zmaj, the All God – 6
Chapter 2 – The Perseverants – 19
Chapter 3 – A Dragon’s resolve – 28
Chapter 4 – A hopeful premonition – 37
Chapter 5 – Preserving bridges – 54
Chapter 6 – Scorned again – 67
Chapter 7 – Reunion – 77
Chapter 8 – Planning for peace – 89
Chapter 9 – Gods and cows – 99
Chapter 10 – Bound to a promise – 109
Chapter 11 – A fool’s honor – 121
Chapter 12 – Finding Edin – 132
Chapter 13 – What prayer may come – 147
Chapter 14 – A soul is earned – 161
Chapter 15 – Orange eyes – 172
Chapter 16 – An old surprise – 185
Chapter 17 – Seadogs – 193
Chapter 18 – The brooding prince – 206
Chapter 19 – Gift of death – 217
Chapter 20 – The long haul – 233
Chapter 21 – The Emperor of Closicus – 247
Chapter 22 – The best of friends – 269
Chapter 23 – The King Killer – 281
Chapter 24 – A smiling face – 289
Chapter 25 – Artimis and the amazing Plume – 300
Chapter 26 – Voyagers – 310
Chapter 27 – The wrath of jealousy – 324
Chapter 28 – A heart of stone – 337
Chapter 29 – The voice of sobriety – 353
Chapter 30 – A thing greater than ourselves – 361
Chapter 31 – The secret ravelings – 375
Chapter 32 – In desperate times – 388
Chapter 33 – Sacrifice – 399
Prologue
An amnesiac mercenary called Scar
appeared in the middle of the territorial disputes of
Tiamhaal. He brought a whirlwind of change, the
kind of change no one expected. That man was in
actuality the avatar of Eternus, the Dragon of Time,
a being outside the realm of human comprehension.
Eternus was the universe, it was the ineffable
creator of all that was, but having taken a liking to a
particular world, it sent a portion of itself to the
world of men.
Crafted from the clay at the edge of the
world and fashioned from the eight, guiding
principles of man, Scar, the mercenary, was sent to
slay the Dragons, and so he was named Sarkany, the
Dragon Slayer, yet his fashioning was not without
flaws, and he lost his memories. Finding himself
traveling aimlessly, seeking only to learn of his
origins, Scar was beset by Dracos, the followers of
Drac, Dragon of Fire, and then he was manipulated
by Zoltek, Negus of the Zmajans, followers of the
Dragon of Destruction, and finally, the warrior was
sent by King Gilgamesh of Satrone, a worshipper of
Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, to the ruined kingdom
of Alduheim where a forgotten memory lay buried
in darkness.
It was there that he and his men found a
paladin, a warrior named Ylithia, who fought in the
name of Mekosh, a true God, the God of Severity,
and even though paladins had always maintained
that Dragons were posing as Gods, most people of
Tiamhaal had never taken them seriously, yet what
was witnessed beneath the rubble of Alduheim
united them in their efforts to reveal the truth to
their kings and queens. The leaders of every tribe
had established their own countries under the name
of their Dragon Lord posing as God; constantly,
they fought for territory, supremacy, religious
beliefs, and even peace. Things changed when
warriors of Kulshedra, Scultone, Fafnir, and Tiamat
joined forces with Scar and Ylithia, but their plan to
bring to light the lies of Dragons was short-lived;
Scar and Ylithia fell in love and left kings and
pawns to squabble amongst themselves.
The two abandoned Gods and Dragons for a
life of peace, but the spurned King Gilgamesh had
other plans, and he sent his men to kill Scar, yet he
was away, and it was Ylithia, who was cut down
without mercy, and for that act of betrayal, Scar
took his sword, joined his old friend, Labolas,
invaded the impregnable palace, Inneshkigal, and
killed Gilgamesh before all the Kulshedrans of
Tironis. Upon the king’s death, Scar was
transported to Drangue, where he battled the mighty
Kulshedra, a misty whorl of a Dragon, and the
Dragon Slayer took the beast’s soul.
Since then, the Kulshedrans have lost their
powers—the ability to augment their armor through
Dragon’s magic—and they struggle to maintain
their borders, their culture, their lives, but Scar is far
from finished; he owes someone a debt of blood,
and so he has journeyed back to Usaj, the land of
destruction ruled by the mighty Zoltek. In
Meshoptam, capitol of Usaj, Scar, the pale skinned,
seven foot giant, in black, leather armor, has slain
the Zmajan, royal guards and come face to face with
an old foe….
Chapter One- Zmaj, the All God
The Dragon Slayer smiled. A pile of bloody
corpses were strewn about the deer pelts covering
the stone floor of Zoltek’s palace. Since the guards
were dead, and Zoltek had yet to show his face,
Scar plunked down on the blackened, wood throne;
the seat of power within the walls of Urr. He
watched shadows cast by burning braziers dance
along the gray stone. An eerie quietude was all that
remained of the opposition. Dead men told no tales,
but dead Dragons were a different story. A gust of
chilly, night air brought forth sparks and crackles
from the fires. Scar clicked his tongue.
“Zoltek,” he taunted.
The warrior frowned, crossed his legs, and
strained to listen. Only embers chirped when more
gusts circulated through the throne room. None of
the guards had dared chase the Dragon Slayer into
the palace, and inside Urr, Scar had already hacked
to bits anyone who wasn’t fleeing for their life.
Zmajans were nothing if not fearsome, but the
Dragon Slayer was practically invulnerable; such
was the blessing of Eternus, the Dragon of Time.
“Think of your son, Zoltek,” Scar yelled. “I
killed the little brat when he tried to backstab me.
What was his name? Oh, yes, Urdu.”
The fight inside the palace had lasted less
than an hour. After charging in, Scar easily mowed
down the dark skinned fighters. Their leather armor
proved ineffective against the brute’s great sword, a
blade forged by Eternus for the specific purpose of
slaying Dragons. They tried to fight back with their
magic weapons—swords and axes that changed into
spinning blades; they were self-propelled saws.
Some of the Zmajans, ones with crossbows, turned
their weapons into machines that fired bolts at an
unprecedented rate, yet the projectiles did little
damage. Scar’s newest wounds had already healed
over.
“Don’t make me hunt you down like a dog,
Zoltek. You’re Zmajan. You are brave, and you are
angry. You should come find me and accept my
challenge rather than cower in some darkened
corner!” Scar goaded. “Come prove to me that
Zmaj, the All God, holds you worthy.”
A clanking of metal bled through the vaulted
ceiling. Scar looked up. There were still people in
there somewhere, but he wanted only to gut Zoltek,
take his Dragon gem, and show Zmaj his blade.
Capturing all of the Dragons’ souls was his quest,
the single reason for his creation, and though Scar
detested being ordered around, and by a Dragon, no
less, he was still upset over the death of his lover,
Ylithia. Such was his wrath, an insatiable thirst for
blood.
Killing her attackers in Othnatus had not
been enough. Cutting down King Gilgamesh, who
commanded them, had not been sufficient, and
slaying the Dragon, Kulshedra, had only whet his
appetite for Dragon’s blood.
“Zoltek,” Scar called; a constricted tone
revealed his intolerance. “It was less than a year ago
that you promised me answers. Remember? You
hired me to fight for you, to kill Kulshedrans, and in
return, you were going to tell me who I was. You
were going to ask Zmaj…tell me, have you asked
him? Has he told you?”
After having slain Kulshedra, the
mercenary’s memories flooded his mind, and so as
he sat upon the negus’s throne, taunting him, he
knew all too well Zoltek feared the truth. The sound
of bare feet coming down stone steps drew Scar
from self-reflection. He looked to his right, where a
set of stairs led up to private chambers. A thin
figure wearing shiny, purple and gold robes
descended. Zoltek held a metal staff in his left hand.
Its top was a purple gem in the shape of a diamond.
Zmaj’s gem, Scar thought. At the base of the stairs,
his face shrouded in shadow, the Negus of Usaj
glared at the Dragon Slayer.
“I do not fear you, ghost,” Zoltek breathed.
His voice was unearthly, something reminiscent of
rustling leaves caught in the wind. “You are no one,
nothing. Zmaj does not claim you. None of the
Gods do.”
“None of the Dragons do,” Scar corrected.
“You are a fool.”
“I owe you for your betrayal,” Scar said and
came to his feet.
“I did not betray you. You failed your
mission. You killed my son.”
“You lied to me,” Scar growled.
“Never,” Zoltek breathed. “It is not my fault
the Gods shun you.”
“Dragons.”
Zoltek struck the ground with the bottom of
his staff. It made a strange sound like that of a bell.
Scar smiled.
“Tell me, what manner of God speaks only
to one man. What manner of God requires a gem for
commune?” the Dragon Slayer demanded.
“Why do you even argue? Did you not come
here to fight?”
“I need you to know just how foolish you
are before you die.”
Zoltek snorted in derision, “You are the
fool. You think you killed a Dragon, and now you
come into my country and lay my people to waste.
Tell me, ghost, you think yourself a hero?”
“No,” Scar heaved. “I think myself the
Dragon Slayer.”
With that, he leapt across the room to strike
at Zoltek. The Negus of Usaj stepped forwards and
lunged with his staff. An arc of purple lightning
exploded from the gem and sent the warrior reeling
into corpses.
“All that hatred,” Zoltek breathed. “You aim
it in the wrong direction, yet I hold Cabazalus, and
with it, I will destroy you.”
Scar quickly recovered and attempted a
slightly different tactic. First, he snatched a spear
from a dead guard. He chucked it then quickly leapt
at Zoltek again. Before the spear connected, a web
of purple electricity arced off the staff and
disintegrated the weapon. By the time Scar closed
the distance, the web expanded and remained a
barrier between him and his opponent. Steel and
magic clashed as muscles tensed.
“Your Dragon magic won’t last,” Scar
growled as he struck the barrier with his blade.
“Gilgamesh thought Kulshedra would save him,
too, but I made quick work of him.”
“Then, Kulshedra is weak,” Zoltek howled
in a booming voice that reverberated throughout the
keep. “The God of Truth is nothing compared to my
God, Zmaj! The All God will reduce you to ashes!”
The web of lightning curled inwards and
then wrapped around the Dragon Slayer. It was a
sparking sphere of pure energy that blistered his
skin and busted the antlers off his helmet. Growling
and thrashing, the brute continued to hack at the
magic. Realizing that such an approach was useless,
he tried to run, and although the energy was bound
to his form, he was able to charge his opponent.
When they collided, the lightning shot off in various
directions. Chunks of stone were knocked from the
palace’s walls. Both men were sent to the ground.
Scar came to his feet first. Zoltek was in a
crouching position, his face still hidden by his cowl.
The Dragon Slayer looked over his wounds and
laughed as they healed.
“Your people do nothing but kill, Zoltek.
Your Dragon demands it and gives nothing in
return.”
“You call this nothing?” Zoltek howled and
blasted Scar again with a bolt of energy.
The arc tore through the warrior’s shoulder.
He yelled out in pain, but did not falter and charged
again. Zoltek stood at the same time Scar’s blade
came down. He parried the slash, but it sent the old
Zmajan to the ground. His hood slid back, and Scar
saw that his color streaked face had been ravaged
by fire, or perhaps lightning. The negus pulled the
cowl back down, and started to work himself to his
feet by rolling over onto hands and knees, but Scar
came up behind him and kicked him hard in the
backside. The blow made the Zmajan kiss the floor.
“Yes, I call it nothing,” Scar said. “You’ve
spent your entire life in servitude. You bend to the
wish of a Dragon, and not because you have to, and
not because you want to help people, but because
you wish only to kill everything around you!”
Zoltek scurried away and tried to stand once
more, but the warrior swept his feet out, and the old
man rolled onto his side. “Do you not see,” the
negus heaved. “Do you not see that if everyone
were united under the banner of one God, there
would be no more fighting? Why is it wrong to
pursue such a dream? Do the others not wish the
same? Who made you judge?”
“You wish to unite no one,” Scar spat. “That
is why you keep slaves, pillage, raze, and attack.
Had Gilgamesh and Donovan not kept you
cornered, you would have done worse to other
countries.”
“So, where is your allegiance,” Zoltek
barked.
From his back, he aimed Cabazalus at his
opponent and blasted him with another bolt of
lightning. It caught Scar’s sword, and the two
marveled at the display. The energy swarmed about
the blade like snakes. Little, violet sparks popped
off and vanished, leaving thin trails of smoke.
Zoltek focused his might and doubled the size of the
bolt, but Scar spun and whipped his sword over his
head, keeping the lightning from his skin. Once he
completed a circle, he stabbed into Zoltek’s belly.
The Zmajan cried out in pain, thrashed against the
ground, and let go his staff. It rang like a bell again
when it struck the hard floor. Wispy crackles of
energy sizzled away into nothing.
Scar knelt next to the dying, old man and
whispered, “You will not go to Pozoj, and be glad
of it. The Dragon uses men’s souls to increase its
power. They wish to walk Tiamhaal again and
wreak havoc across the land. I have been sent here
to stop them.”
“How? Why?” Zoltek coughed.
“Some questions do not have answers,” his
tone betrayed grief.
The Dragon Slayer stood upright. He looked
down at his foe, who was curling into fetal position.
No doubt, his grievous wound was painful. Scar
showed mercy and lopped his head off rather than
leaving him to suffer. He frowned and shook his
head in dismay. At least, that will quench my thirst
for vengeance. The rest was just business. He was
going to kill the Dragons because if he didn’t,
thousands were doomed; killing Kulshedra had been
an act of providence, but killing Zmaj was an act of
war.
Scar took a knife from his belt, pried the
gem out from the top of Cabazalus, and worked it
into the second hole in his blade, above the one with
Kulshedra’s Dragon gem. Vertigo immediately
overtook him. When the spinning subsided, he
found himself in Pozoj, the realm of destruction.
There was but a swirling chaos of colors.
Misty shapes whipped around. The warrior tried to
gain his bearings; the realm of destruction was even
more convoluted than the realm of truth.
Eyes darting about in an effort to catch a
glimpse of anything familiar, Scar saw a blue orb of
wavering light. It vanished after he noticed another
orb of pulsating, orange light. Then, he saw there
were orbs everywhere, dozens of them.
“Zmaj,” he called out. “Show yourself! I
have killed your brother, and now I will kill you,
too!”
A chorus of musical voices accosted the
warrior’s ears. Whatever language the Dragons
spoke was indescribable, yet the Dragon Slayer was
an extension of the Dragon of Time, and so he
comprehended the mysterious speech.
“Worthless humans are no match for the
immortal. We Dragons are the everlasting breath.
Zmaj has created everything!”
“You have created nothing!”
Scar held his sword over his head. Much to
his dismay, nothing happened. Well, it worked
against Kulshedra, he thought. He resorted to
swinging about blindly. Through crippling darkness
that took his breath away, and the brightest lights
that forced his eyes shut, the giant raged in an
impotent fury. Then, a blow from sights unseen
knocked him away. Since there was no ground, or
walls, or anything physical in the Dragon’s realm,
he simply kept moving until the energy of the
impact subsided. From his new position, he caught a
glimpse of the beast. Zmaj was comprised of
several, serpentine creatures. The orbs were pairs of
eyes that glimmered, glowed, shone, and wavered.
“You are the false hope of a weak people,
whelp. My son was weak, but in death, he has given
his siblings strength. Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth,
will be avenged here,” the melody of booming
thunder claimed.
Scar furrowed his brow, gripped his sword
in both hands, and held his gaze on the Dragon.
While misty shapes whizzed by his vision, he
propelled himself towards Zmaj.
“Kulshedra was not your son, you liar. I
know the truth of things.”
One of Zmaj’s heads—a purple creature
resembling a lizard’s maw—struck him from behind
and sent him sailing into another head, a shiny, blue
snake. Scar balled up in the air. Zmaj was ready to
swallow him, but he was prepared. Upon reaching
the beast’s, moist breath, the Dragon Slayer gripped
Zmaj’s nostril, pushed both feet into the opened,
bottom jaw, and worked his shoulder underneath the
top jaw. Zmaj laughed with another head, as yet
another came slithering through darkness from
behind. Before the speeding head made contact, and
the blue one chomped down, Scar thrust his blade
through Zmaj’s pallet.
That head shook with a force that knocked
the bladesman free. He turned, swiped at the
oncoming head, kept his spinning momentum
going, and slashed at the shiny, blue snake’s throat.
As it reeled back, a lifeless heap, the warrior waited
for blinding light to pass, and made his move before
the darkness thwarted his endeavor; he dashed into
the area where all the necks were connected. Like a
whirling dervish, he sliced, slashed, and hacked
through scaly mass.
“You cannot kill me, I am the Dragon of
Destruction, creator of all that there is.”
“I am killing you, Dragon. You are but a lie
created in the void,” Scar howled. “Eternus, the
Dragon of Time, has beckoned your end, and I am
the instrument of your death.”
With the fall of each head, Scar noticed the
scenery stabilized; there was less darkness, fewer
flashes of light. The new consistency made dodging
swipes an easy feat. Scar shoulder rolled over
orange scales, stabbed into a silvery throat, pulled
out, and hacked into a gray, eel-like snout. All that
remained was an abundance of lifeless serpents.
“Zmaj,” Scar breathed. “I’m taking your
soul back to your creator.”
Colored winds of varying degrees of light
and dark zipped around Zmaj’s Dragon gem. It
glowed brighter and brighter purple until the
entirety of the beast disintegrated.
“What are you?” The Dragon demanded
with its dying breath.
“Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer. I am the
embodiment of all principles, yet fashioned as a
man to deliver peace. I am Eternus—his avatar…the
age of Dragons has truly come to its end.”
At the culmination of Zmaj’s death rattle,
the colored winds subsided and an unbearable
pressure began crushing the warrior. He screamed
in agony and passed out only to awaken breathless
on a cold, stone floor. Inside Urr, he gave a forceful
exhale and worked himself upright. With one, final
glance at the throne room, Scar nodded and
marched out.
He walked through corridors decorated with
paintings of Zmajans felling members of other
tribes. The destructive people in the service of the
false All God weren’t going to wreak anymore
havoc. As with the Kulshedrans, Scar knew the
people were going to feel an overwhelming loss;
their magic was gone, the swirling marks of the
beast had already vanished, and when he exited to
the courtyard surrounding the palace, he witnessed
the people of Meshoptam gazing at their limbs by
the fires of torches.
“Zmajans,” Scar called out. They looked at
him, imploringly. “I have killed your Dragon Lord.
You are now free to live in peace. Let your slaves
go. Cast your hatred aside. It was never your burden
to bear.”
“What have you done to us?” a man cried.
“We will surely fall to the Dracos now,” a
woman claimed.
“Scar,” another growled. The warrior turned
to face the man who called his name. General
Dumar stood some twenty feet away. He slid the
ram’s horn helmet off his bald head; the swirling
marks of the beast had vanished. The stocky
Zmajan dropped his helmet onto gray, dusty soil,
and tightened his grip around the handle of his axe.
“You have cost us everything.”
“I have set you free.”
Clouds parted overhead. A bright, full moon
shone down, revealing worn faces. The aged
general growled and charged the brute. Scar did not
move, not even when cold steel sank into his flank.
The Zmajan bared his teeth, aiming all of his hatred
at his enemy’s, gray eyes, but his axe did not
change into a magnificent, killing machine as it had
done in the past.
“I was going to kill you, Dumar,” Scar
whispered, “but I think letting you live is a more
appropriate punishment. Look on as your people fall
to their knees.”
“How dare you, you impudent pup?” Dumar
yelled. “To arms, people. To arms! The ghost has
killed our God, and now he will kill us all. He is a
bloodthirsty devil!”
To Scar’s chagrin, the general’s, insane
ravings rallied the Zmajans. Civilians snatched the
weapons of deceased guards and swarmed. He eyed
them curiously.
I had not planned for this. Quickly, he
shoved Dumar away, thus freeing the axe from his
flank, parried the thrust of a spear, and kicked down
a lanky Zmajan. I can certainly kill them, but that
will make his claims true.
“I am not a beast,” Scar shouted. “Stay your
hands. Zoltek and the Dragon have lied to you,
twisted your minds and hearts. Be peaceful, and
help one another. Soon, all the Dragons will fall,
and you will see peace wash across Tiamhaal.”
Dumar raged and repeated that the ghost
was a God killer, a dangerous man that had to be
killed on the spot. Instead of cutting down the
opposition, Scar took off at a full run. He bowled
over men, women, and tried to avoid the children. A
goat crossed his path on the stone streets of the
capitol, and he booted it out of his way. Running
blindly from a frothing mob that grew in numbers
as Dumar shouted orders, Scar found himself in a
predicament. He bore no hatred for the citizens, yet
they were out for blood.
Grunting for breath and passing dark
skinned warriors in drab garments, he darted behind
a flat roofed building, dove into an alleyway, and
tried to reason out a course of action. He wanted to
get out of there before they left him no choice but to
defend himself, yet his thoughts were cut short
when he heard the unmistakable sound of galloping
hooves. Zmajans on horseback were bearing down
the darkened alley. Scar gripped the closest horse
by the muzzle and wrestled it to the ground, thus
forcing the rider off in the mix.
“Get away from me, you fools,” he yelled
and took off again.
Sprinting by more riders with long spears
and javelins, the warrior bolted down the streets as
chickens cackled and fluttered by. Finally, he set his
eyes on Meshoptam’s western entrance. All he had
to do was make it through the arched opening in the
wall surrounding the city, and he was home free in
the freezing desert, but someone shouted orders to
stop him, and two guards blocked the exit while
another sent a javelin over his head. Scar impaled
the left guard, picked him off the ground, and slung
him into the other guard before fleeing beyond the
gates. Riders gave chase, but the horses didn’t fare
well in the dusty dunes of Meshoptam. Certainly,
the mounts were quick, but they easily lost their
footing, and the soldiers were unable to strike the
warrior.
Scar gutted two horses that managed to
close the distance, lopped the head off a third, and
amputated the foreleg of the fourth. More were
enroute, but he took off again. Barreling through the
chaparral, Scar fled into the night, leaving the
people of Usaj to find a new purpose in life.
Chapter Two- The Perseverants
Under a clear, night sky, Scar gazed at the
rolling dunes and valleys. It was an endless sea of
bleak gray pitted against a backdrop of twinkling
blackness. The thin chaparral was rife with
intermittent buzzing. All manner of insects flew
rampantly, searching for moisture. Swatting gnats
from his eyes, the warrior pondered his newest
obstacle.
“Well…roaming out here will do me no
good. I need to get to Alduheim and meet up with
Labolas.”
General Dumar had effectively galvanized
his people. Since the Zmajans had not taken the loss
of their God or blessing lightly, and they had no
intention of allowing Scar ease of travel through
Usaj, he needed to stay off the roads while treading
north.
“Will that be enough,” he questioned,
marching between cacti with budding flowers of
red. “Beyond Usaj is Satrone, and I am no more
welcome there than here….” Scar then wondered
about the possibility of moving east into Eltanrof.
“That’s still a long haul without a horse.” He started
moving aimlessly in the direction he faced. “Maybe,
I can steal a horse in the night…of course, I’m not
too far from the ocean. I wonder if I can manage to
sail around Satrone and into Zetsuru….”
The chilly winds of the desert night nipped
at his nose. He felt the cold, but it was not an
unpleasant sensation. Taking a deep breath as he
came to stop near a squat boulder, he sat and
removed his helmet to rub a hand over his smooth
head.
“Damn, I probably won’t be able to make it
into any town around here or the coast before word
gets out,” he mumbled. “I should’ve killed Dumar.
Then, maybe, these people wouldn’t be after me….”
The story of the pale skinned giant who
killed Kulshedra had already spread throughout the
whole of Tiamhaal. The welcoming committee in
Meshoptam had proven that, and with the Zmajans
now powerless, Scar didn’t feel right cutting them
down just to serve his own goal, even if that goal
was world peace. As he stood and meandered again
through the desert, his immense footprints quickly
vanished beneath waves of sand. The Golgor desert
blew powerful gusts on a daily basis. Tiny grains of
gray peppered the warrior as gales grew potent.
“Of course!”
He decided to maintain his heading,
knowing that somewhere amidst the expansive
desert there was a road marked by stones. Unlike
Satrone, the roads of Usaj weren’t hard packed soil,
but the roughly hewn posts guided travelers when
desert winds covered tracks every single night.
Once I get on the road, I’ll come across someone on
horseback…or camelback, or something eventually.
He picked up his pace and jogged along; his
goal was to find some riders, simply knock them
unconscious, and steal their mount. Usaj’s southern
region was mostly arid, but there were many traders
moving to and from the capitol; someone was sure
to pass by. Recent tribulations left him irritable,
though, and he cursed the sands of Usaj.
Scar plodded through the desert for hours.
The ability to move for great distances without
tiring was indeed a blessing. He dashed by tall, thin
cacti, short, round ones, and some reddish shrubs
with very thick leaves. Before the predawn twilight,
fluffy, gray clouds rolled in overhead. The insects
stopped buzzing then, and Scar ran in relative
silence; the only sound was the soft crushing of
sand underfoot. Another hour passed in that
manner, and then the eastern sun blasted the cloud
cover to bits. Morning light erupted over a huge,
sandy hill, and that was enough to reveal a stone
post in the distance. Scar heaved a sigh, veered off
to his right, and ran straight for the road.
The stones were visible in the daytime.
Each, craggy marker was placed about one hundred
yards from the next. They wormed all over the
desert; over hills, through dunes, around the scant,
few, large boulders. Since the winds had died down
overnight, he clearly saw a row of markers like
inanimate, stone soldiers in single file, disappearing
into a valley.
Slowing to a walk, he kept a steady pace for
hours. The sun worked its way overhead. Warmth
prickled the skin. Winters in Usaj were dreadfully
cold, not that it affected Scar much, but the midday
warmth was relaxing. He closed his eyes, still
walking, and the image of Ylithia flooded his mind;
traipsing through meadows in Closicus under the
brightness of a clear sky. Her emerald eyes were so
full of bittersweet longing. He wanted nothing more
than to make her feel safe, loved, happy, but that
had been taken from him, and revenge had left only
cold fury. He stopped abruptly, glared at the
endless, gray desert, and spat in the wind.
“Even killing these Dragons won’t bring her
back…I wonder if anything can,” he murmured.
Emotions invaded him. “Silwen! You made me look
at her! That’s how I fell in love, and you knew,
didn’t you, that she would die, and that that would
make me kill Dragons!” His seething mounted to an
inordinate level, and he howled at the sky. “Why
couldn’t you leave us in peace?” Scar remained
still, his fists clenched, hoping for an answer. “You
came to me of your own accord when you needed
something, now that I need you, you won’t show!
Why?!”
No one answered. The hours of plodding in
silence had his blood boiling, his mind racing, his
emotions bubbling. He stared in a quiet rage over
the stretch of land. The winds of the Golgor
whipped sheets of sands far off into the distance.
Little, gray wisps trailed the gales over tiny, sandy
peaks. He grunted and moved on; the fury had
passed as mysteriously as it had arrived, and after
fury was only longing, emptiness, and
determination.
By the time the sun was setting, he was so
far removed from vegetation that there were no
insects, only more wind. Then, he saw another row
of markers that spanned at an angle in conjunction
with the row by which he was traveling. He jogged
over to find a sign at the juncture.
Etched in a rectangular tablet, Scar read that
the southern row of stones were markers for
Meshoptam, which made sense. Continuing north
led to the town of Shuul. To the southeast, the
markers guided travelers to an oasis town called
Parapay, and to the northwest, the markers ran all
the way to the only town near a river, a place called
Inloth.
“That isn’t too far from the Usaj-Satrone
border, and certainly the river Inliil spills out into
the sea,” he huffed. “It’ll still take me forever to get
there on foot, though…of course, standing around
won’t get me anywhere.”
He opted to move northwest, and ran off in
the new direction. As the evening progressed,
visibility in the Golgor rapidly diminished. Scar
grumbled. Another hour into his journey, and it had
become impossible to see any of the markers. A
haboob whirled the sand all over. The flurry stung
his exposed skin, embedded itself in the folds of his
leather armor, and though his ears were protected
by his black galea, the sound of the raging winds
stifled out everything else.
With no logical alternative, the warrior
plunked down on the ground. Sand amassed over
his legs within minutes. He hoped the storm was
soon to pass, but it did not let up.
Damn it! He cursed his luck. Trying to take
little peeks resulted in eyefuls of grit. Groaning, he
sprawled onto his side and protected his head with
folded arms. At least, once a layer of sand
envelopes me, I’ll be alright. Such valuable time
wasted…. The lull in progress allowed exorbitant
time to ponder a plan of action.
After escaping Satrone with Labolas and
Artimis, they had traveled by air to Alduheim. The
Draco dropped off Labolas, giving him ample time
to travel to Ch’Nako. The idea was for the former
Kulshedran to track down N’Giwah under the guise
of a man seeking refuge in a neutral country while
Artimis flew Scar to Meshoptam. Upon their
arrival, the Draco flew back home to refill his
dirigible with artred gas and ponder what killing
Drac might bring. He had said nothing on the
matter, but his overly cheery demeanor had grown
somewhat sullen, and Scar knew the pilot was
conflicted. That matter was of little concern,
though; all he wanted to do at that moment was kill
Zoltek and Zmaj. Something, which I’ve
accomplished with little effort.
An object struck Scar’s hip. The impact was
immediately followed by falling mass and an angry
swear. He sat up in blinding darkness and grabbed
his sword.
“Who are you?” the Dragon Slayer yelled
over the winds.
“Damn it, man, who are you?” a harsh, male
voice replied.
Both men tried to spit sand when a
commotion ensued nearby; there were multiple
people on the road. “I’m S– a traveler inhibited by
this damned storm!”
“Scar?” the voice gasped.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Are you alright,” someone else asked.
“What have you found,” yet someone else
pried.
“It’s me, Scar, Shrikal,” the voice answered.
“I found him!”
The Dragon Slayer recognized the name.
Shrikal was a former Zmajan, and now, a Paladin of
Perseverance. He put his sword away on his back
and reached out for the young man, but accidentally
touched his butt. Shrikal batted his hand away while
the other travelers started crowding around. Their
bodies helped to block some of the sand, but so
much was falling from directly above, conversation
was challenging.
Shrikal felt around in the darkness, and
when he grabbed Scar’s shoulder, he leaned in and
said, “I can’t believe I literally tripped right over
you. We’ve been searching for days. You killed
Zmaj, didn’t you?”
“What? Looking for me? Who?”
“We’re the Perseverants,” Shrikal replied.
That certainly explains their traveling in the
middle of a storm like this. Scar smirked.
“Scar,” one of the others called. “Stay calm
a moment. We’re going to unpack a tent and try to
set it in place, so that we can converse in peace.”
“Fine,” he shouted and tried to spit out more
sand. “Hurry it up!”
It took some effort, but meanwhile, Shrikal
kept talking. “Is Ylithia with you?”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead?” the young man was taken aback.
“What happened?”
“I,” Scar started, but was overwhelmed by
the storm. “This sand!”
“I’m sorry,” Shrikal interrupted. “Give us a
second.”
Scar felt the young man’s weight move
around. A moment later, some hands took him and
helped him to his feet. Then, they led him inside a
tent. One of the Perseverants held a small, oil lamp
up to the warrior’s face.
“It’s really you,” the old woman said in a
gritty tone. She was Scultonian; there was no
mistaking the ashy skin, yet her lips weren’t black,
or they didn’t look black in the dim lighting. She
took off a sand mask, a fringed, cloth covering for
the eyes that kept the sand out; her eyes weren’t
purple either. He then considered he had made a
mistake. “My name is Munah,” she added and
pushed long, gray braids from her creased face.
Whipping winds ravaged the canvas tent.
Sand peppered the fabric, drowning out all other
sounds. A group of five had crowded around the
Dragon Slayer; all of them removed their masks.
Shrikal’s familiar face and tattooed body brought a
sense of comfort, familiarity.
“She’s Scultonian,” Shrikal said. “I can tell
you’re wondering…remember, I told you when we
forsake the Dragons, we lose their mark…their
blessing.”
Scar tried to gauge the situation. It seemed
more than mere happenstance that a group of
Perseverants plainly stumbled upon him. Apart
from Shrikal and Munah, there was another woman
of something that resembled Bakunawan descent;
she had flat features, pale skin, and light hair pulled
back in a loose ponytail. There were also two men
with very dark skin, but they weren’t Tiamatish or
Zmajan. Scar didn’t know what they were. All of
them were inked with strange patterns or runes and
wore customary, beige togas. He looked at Shrikal
for a clue.
“I’m sure you think this strange, friend, but
Ihnogupta perseveres,” the young man breathed.
“We needed to find you, and we have.”
“Why are you all looking for me?” Scar
snipped in disbelief.
“Because you are the Dragon Slayer, and
that makes you indispensable to our cause,” the
older, dark man said with a staccato tone.
Both he and the younger man had short hair.
It looked auburn in the lamplight, but it may have
been any, lighter color. Scar glanced at each of
them in turn. They looked related. The oddest thing
about the speaker, though, was the way he had
elongated the vowels of every word.
“What the Hell is going on, here?” the
warrior demanded. “I’m not about to be used by
another God.”
“Forgive us,” Shrikal said and sat cross-
legged next to the warrior. The paladin glanced at
Munah and smiled. Scar then noticed that only
Shrikal had sharpened teeth. The others had normal
smiles. “I don’t quite know how to begin…I, that is,
we were instructed to roam the Golgor for an
answer.”
“To what?” Scar interrupted.
“To what has been happening in the world,”
the younger, dark man answered also with a
staccato tone that appeared to be native to his
former tribe.
“Who are you people?” Scar demanded.
“Munah is the Minister of Resolution, an
esteemed position among the ranks of the
Perseverants,” Shrikal explained. “And that is Mei,
a former Bakunawan. Irgesh and Folgar are former
Bollans.” Each person nodded when their name was
spoken. “When you vanquished Kulshedra,
something happened…we thought that the other
tribes grew more powerful, but it was difficult to
discern. Now that Zmaj is dead, we are certain of it;
the death of the Dragons is somehow making the
remaining tribes more powerful.”
“How do you know that,” Scar asked.
“We barely escaped a group of Dracos,”
Irgesh, the older Bollan, said.
“They chased us from the road and forced us
south,” Mei added. “We had been fighting with
them for two days when suddenly, their fury grew.”
“And their fires with it,” Shrikal interjected.
“They propelled gouts of flames from their very
palms, and others threw balls of fire at us!”
Scar shook his head, frowned, and rolled his
shoulders before demanding they start from the
beginning.
Chapter Three- A Dragon’s resolve
The group of traveling Perseverants
recounted their tale. Munah explained that
Ihnogupta had always pressed his followers to
discern a method for rallying people away from
Dragons. They adamantly believed that showing the
peoples of Tiamhaal how their markings
diminished, or vanished altogether, after leaving the
worship of their false Gods was eventually going to
sway more and more towards understanding. It
really hadn’t, but when Kulshedra fell, Ihnogupta
spoke to all his Perseverants in a dream.
The twisted yogi told them that something
had happened; a man who wasn’t quite a man had
entered the realm of truth and killed the Dragon,
stole his essence, and was on a quest to deliver men
from the beasts once and for all. He then sent
various groups all over to find the man called Scar,
the same man that Silwen had found, the same man
that Mekosh wanted dead.
“It was, in part, divine providence that we
met back in Closicus,” Shrikal said, “and divine
providence that I traveled with Munah rather than
another of the groups.”
The young paladin was pleased and eager to
serve his God; that was apparent. Scar didn’t care
for providence, though. A wince worked over his
visage, making the others uncomfortable.
“You haven’t told me why you’re looking
for me. I can kill the Dragons on my own…in fact,
I’m the only one who can do it. No living person
can enter their realms physically.”
They passed uneasy glances among each
other. “What are you saying,” Irgesh demanded.
“He’s saying he’s not human,” Munah
replied in disbelief.
“I’m not human…not exactly,” he agreed.
“You’re wasting your time. Go rest in peace
somewhere. I’ll handle the Dragons.”
Four of them started grumbling then
bickering with each other. The warrior frowned and
looked at Shrikal, who had remained quiet. He
leaned in and touched Scar’s knee.
“They don’t seem to understand,” the
paladin said.
Scar shook his head and thanked him for the
help. “I’ll be on my way as soon as the storm
passes.”
Munah heard him and motioned for
everyone to calm down. “Let me tell you why we’re
looking for you.”
The Dragon Slayer remained stoic, and she
accepted that as an act of compliance. The former
Scultonian went on to explain that Ihnogupta, unlike
Silwen and Mekosh, did not have his own agenda;
he did not want to wield or exterminate the Dragon
Slayer, as he was already resolved in the proper
quest. Instead, Ihnogupta wanted to offer his
support, and the groups were sent out in all
directions to find him.
“The world is growing extremely dangerous
for us…for all those who don’t worship the false
Gods…and now, those who can’t worship them,”
she sighed.
“Since the other tribes are gaining more
power, the followers are doubly determined to
defend their false Gods,” Shrikal added. “We just
want to help you.”
“I appreciate your good will, truly,” Scar
heaved. “You have no idea the life I’ve led…and in
such a short time, but you will only get hurt if you
follow me. Keep preaching. That is enough, but stay
far from me, lest the weight of the world falls onto
you and breaks your bones.”
He chuckled at his remark. The others didn’t
think he was funny. Shrikal shook his head. Mei
clenched her jaw.
“We are not a group of weaklings, and
although we cannot enter the Dragons’ worlds, we
can still help. We endure, we pursue, we, we,” Mei
stammered. Munah touched her wrist, and she
relaxed. That bought a moment of quietude. Scar
noticed the winds had died down, and it was slightly
brighter inside the tent. Mei’s voice jolted him. “Let
us travel with you. The world is out to kill you,
Scar…we can help.”
He arched a hairless brow and asked, “You
can help me get to Alduheim? I need to meet with a
friend.”
“Of course, we will help you,” Munah
smiled. “Ihnogupta wants you to persevere. We are
all behind you.”
“Alright,” Scar replied, reluctantly, “but I
won’t tolerate dissonance.”
“What are your plans now,” Shrikal asked.
“I was wanting to procure a ship to Zetsuru
in order to approach Alduheim from the west.
Treading through Usaj and Satrone, I fear, will
leave me little choice but to kill innocent people;
they don’t understand I killed a Dragon,” Scar
sighed.
“I’m not certain Zetsuru is the safest
option,” Irgesh remarked. They all gave him their
attention, and he continued. “With Sahni’s
increased power, there is much strife in the western
countries. The rana claims to be allied with them,
but I hear she’s planning something with Vamvos.”
“Sahni’s a woman?” Scar interrupted.
“You did not know,” Folgar asked.
“I did not, and those Khmerans could be
male or female.”
“Yes,” Irgesh agreed. “Nevertheless, the
Nagish and Mireuans are up in arms over whatever
is happening in Nabalhi, and I don’t think a group
of Perseverants will be well received in any of those
countries.”
“I was planning on going alone,” Scar
reiterated, “but if you do wish to help me get to
Alduheim, I’ll accept your proposal…so long as it
is a sound one.”
They passed glances again. Munah
whispered something to Mei. She nodded once.
Then, she gave her attention to Scar.
“Either direction will be fraught with
danger,” Mei started. “You’ll want to avoid the
Dracos, so we’re not going through Eltanrof, and
sailing to Zetsuru and moving through that country
will be equally perilous. It would be best to
continue north and move through Usaj and then
Satrone.”
“But they are willing to fight me even
without their Dragon’s blessing,” Scar argued.
“There is no need to cut them down, and they will
leave me no other choice.”
“The Zmajans, yes,” Shrikal said. “They are
always ready to come to blows. The Kulshedrans
won’t be up in arms…our only problem will be the
Dracos and Khmerans now occupying Satrone, but
you won’t mind fighting them, will you?”
“I suppose not,” Scar thought out loud.
“Still…I’d like to avoid as much bloodshed as
possible. I see now that none of the people are our
enemies, my enemies, it is the Dragons that need to
die, and preferably no one else.”
“Your slaughtering of the Zmajans suggests
otherwise,” Folgar stated.
Scar shook his head, replying, “I had an old
score to settle; Dumar tried to have me assassinated
when I was working for Zoltek. The same went for
Gilgamesh. I killed him because he sent his
assassins to do me in, and instead killed my
beloved.” Scar grew grim at that point. Mei
fidgeted, and the former Bollans eyed one another.
“No one else has wronged me personally, so….”
“You are much more honorable that we had
hoped,” Munah smiled. “Ihnogupta has truly set us
on a gallant quest.”
“Yes,” Scar heaved. “That’s all fine and
well, but how do you propose to travel through Usaj
and Satrone without fighting?”
“We can mask ourselves as Friars of
Tolerance,” Shrikal suggested.
That started a commotion. Munah argued
that that was sacrilege. Mei bickered with Irgesh
that Paladins of Severity had killed her family, and
he countered that followers of severity had nothing
to do with practitioners of tolerance. Still, Folgar
added that it was blasphemy. Shrikal tried to keep
the peace by reminding them that such a ruse was
not sacrilege since they had no intention of
preaching those principles and only wished to
remain hidden.
“Those friars have never been actively
persecuted,” Shrikal shouted. “And the fact that
they always wear those robes is a boon for us as
well. No one will think us a threat. We will
persevere, if through deception.”
“The Dracos are out for blood,” Munah
yelled back. “They nearly broiled us on the way
here.”
“Because we are obviously Perseverants,”
Irgesh maintained. “None of that matters, though.
All we have to do is wear robes and no one will
look at us twice.” That scored a point in favor of
masquerading as Tolerants. “It is but a means to an
end…we must persevere.”
“Not at the cost of betraying our patron,”
Munah retorted.
That scored a point against playing the
Tolerant, and again they erupted into an argument.
Scar shook his head. Between their shouting and
momentary pauses for breath, he noticed the
sandstorm had died away, and the early morning
sun illuminated the tent’s interior.
“People, people,” Shrikal said with calming
motions of the hands. “We don’t have to pretend to
be Tolerants, but we must travel ensconced, and
traveling solely by night through the Golgor is a
waste of time, besides, there’s no way to procure
speedy transport as Perseverants—at least not
around here—and Scar is a wanted man in this
country. Let us find robes, move north, and pray
that Ihnogupta recognizes our ruse.”
“Where do you propose we find robes
anyway,” Mei asked.
“Parapay,” Shrikal answered.
“Parapay?” Munah was surprised. “That is
the wrong direction.”
“I know, but when I was on pilgrimage, I
moved through Parapay and they didn’t seem to
have a problem with me,” Shrikal stated.
“Hmm,” Munah pondered. “The Zmajans
there aren’t violent?”
“Well, I should say they are never pleased
with paladins,” the young man admitted, “but aside
from dirty looks and venomous slurs, they didn’t
raise a weapon.”
“I can’t go in there, though, can I?” Scar
reminded him.
“No, however, that is an irrelevant matter.
One of us can go in and buy robes.”
“Then, what about transport?”
“After one of us buys robes, and it should be
me since they’ll recognize me as a former Zmajan,
we can wait a while, and then go back, and procure
horses later on,” Shrikal posed.
“Why later,” Irgesh asked. “You could do
both while you’re there.”
“Hell! Forget the robes,” Mei shrieked. “Just
go in there and get the horses.”
Shrikal winced and reminded her that they
still had to travel through two countries before
arriving at their destination.
“Besides, the robes are mainly for Scar’s
sake,” Munah added.
Mei bit her lower lip then nodded. “Let her
buy the robes,” Scar pointed his eyes at her when
they quieted down to ponder the plan.
“Why,” Shirkal pried.
“Because seeing you as a former Zmajan,
who abandoned their false God before his death,
will anger them.”
The young paladin ground his sharpened
teeth, but consented with a nod. “So, Mei will go
and buy the robes then I’ll go in and get the horses a
few hours later. If Mei leaves and returns later for
horses, it’ll raise suspicions, and we can afford no
more troubles.”
“Agreed,” Scar said “Where will we wait?”
“We’ll make camp on the outskirts far
enough off the roads that no one will notice us,”
Munah stated.
“And in the event that something goes
wrong,” Scar posed.
“We will persevere; Ihnogupta has not led
us this far to fall flat on our faces.”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in your
Gods…. They may be real, but they are still
manipulative.”
Egos and hurt feelings were apparent. Some
of them furrowed brows. Others clenched their jaws
or opened their mouths to say something. Shrikal
raised his hand to keep them calm.
“I understand your reticence,” he said.
“I am not reticent,” Scar corrected. “I am
speaking as someone, who has had to kill an agent
of Mekosh, and someone wronged by Silwen, who
cared only about killing Dragons and not helping
the people she swore she loved.”
His claim left them silent. They didn’t even
make eye contact for a little while. Finally, Scar
huffed and crawled out from the tent. Upon his exit,
the handle of his sword got caught in the tent’s flap,
and he nearly tore the whole thing down. He
wrested the canvas free, poked his head back in, and
apologized.
“It’s fine,” Munah chuckled. “Let us get a
move on.”
With that, they took down their tent,
gathered themselves, started trotting southeast, and
commented on the warmth of the Usajan sun in
winter. Its brightness forced them all to squint.
Cries of desert hawks echoed across the land.
It was a convoluted plan to be sure—playing
dress-up and stealing horses—and hiking to Parapay
was going to take at least a day. Then, they had to
hope Mei was able to find a shop open at night. If
not, they were going to have to wait until morning,
and then wait until noon to procure mounts in order
to keep suspicions down. Still, Scar was glad for the
prospect of traveling by horse, and without
bloodshed, otherwise he had a two or three week
march ahead of himself. This way, he hoped to
reach Satrone by the week’s end, and then find
more appropriate transport to Alduheim. All of that
was better than stealing a ship and sailing to
Zetsuru, especially with the proposed level of strife
currently assailing that country. By late evening,
Munah advised they set up camp and sent Mei on to
Parapay.
Chapter Four- A hopeful premonition
It took Mei little effort to wander into town
and purchase robes for everyone. She returned with
simple garments designed to keep the skin free of
the blistering sun in the summer months. To Scar’s
dismay, his was a little tight and too short, but it
served its purpose; the gray fabric covered his face
when the cowl was pulled down.
Hours later, and after a quick meal of
smoked fish and fruit, Shrikal moseyed into town
and came back by midmorning with lanky horses
for the whole party. He also gave Scar a blanket
with which to cover his sword as he reminded them
that everyone across Tiamhaal knew of the blade
that felled King Gilgamesh. Their business
culminated with Munah’s approval; she stated it
was time to pack up and ride northwest towards
Shuul.
For the most part, conversations revolved
around Scar’s actions. He recounted his mercenary
work for Zoltek, fighting the Paladin of Severity,
meeting Labolas, and being tricked into believing
he was the King of Alduheim. They all shared
negative remarks regarding Gilgamesh’s ploy. For
the longest time, everyone had thought the King of
Satrone a rather noble being, if confused about his
deity, yet his recent actions were an affront to
peace. Fortunately, he was defeated before uniting
several countries to mount an attack on Usaj, and
since Scar had killed both Kulshedra and Zmaj,
there was hope for a new reign of harmony. Sadly,
the other tribes were up in arms, and with their
increased powers from the unbalance created by the
death of two Dragons, wars yet raged. After
denouncing Gilgamesh, Scar told them about what
he found underneath Alduheim—memories of
humans fighting Dragons.
“If only there was a way to reveal those
memories,” Munah commented. “Oh, how the
world must know such things.”
“I believe Labolas and N’Giwah are
working to that end,” Scar stated. “I need to get
back there and meet with them to see if Jagongo has
become willing to see what Alduheim offers.”
“She sounds like an ideal candidate for
spreading the truth,” Mei acknowledged.
“Her or Longinus,” Scar agreed.
Two days passed without so much as
crossing paths with another living creature. That
was mostly due to them keeping off the main roads.
Their horses moved slowly across the desert, but
they were tireless animals. Traveling in a
northwesterly direction, gray sands spanned
monotonously all the way beyond the Golgor. By
the time the horses were nearly ready to give in to
exhaustion, Folgar opted to take a break and set up
camp. He and Irgesh, who turned out to be his
brother, worked quickly to erect the canvas tent.
Cloudy skies were an indication of bad weather.
There was no rain to speak of, even on the
periphery of the desert, but sandstorms were still a
possibility if the winds came from the south. Scar
looked up at the clouds. They shot across the sky,
morphing into undefined blobs of fluffy gray. The
lack of color in the spanning environment left him a
bit gloomy.
“Cheer up,” Shrikal said.
“There is nothing cheery about any of this.”
“You’re wrong. There is much to be cheery
about.”
“Like?”
“Like traveling with friends,” Shrikal
smiled.
“Friends,” Scar sighed. “I have abandoned
my friends.”
“You will see them at Alduheim…and I am
your friend. We are all your friends.”
The giant pondered that. He feigned a smile
and looked Shrikal in the eye. The paladin was
genuine. It was true that Labolas was still his friend
as well, but Scar wondered about N’Giwah; they
had not spoken since he snuck off for a quiet life in
Othnatus. He also thought about Artimis, Borta, and
Marlayne. All three of them had either helped him
or counted on him to deliver them from Dragons. At
least I am doing that now. After a pause, and an
exhalation, he shut his eyes in reverie.
“I miss her,” the warrior remarked and sat
down in the dirt next to the tent.
“You mean Ylithia, don’t you?”
“Yes…she was the love of my life…a life I
was not created to enjoy. What do you think about
that?”
“I think you have persevered,” Shrikal said
without missing a beat. “And that is enough…it is a
shame such a wonderful person has died, but…and
far be it from me to tell you how to feel or what to
do, but I can only suggest you live whatever life
you have been given. It is all any of us can do, but
only you can choose to enjoy that life. That is our
gift as humans.”
“I was created to kill Dragons, not enjoy
human trivialities.”
“Created by whom, the Gods?”
“No…I,” he trailed off and removed his
helmet to wipe his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He
cleared his throat. “I am here to kill Dragons, so that
men may enjoy a life of peace…or at least a life out
from under scaly claws.”
“Well, that is certainly something for us to
be thankful for.”
“I am in a mood, friend. I would like to be
alone for a time.”
Shrikal smiled sadly and left Scar to his
brooding. The young paladin assisted the others in
tending the horses, cleaning the sand from their
gear, and eventually vanished inside the tent. Hard
winds started blowing from the west. The expanse
was much less sandy and the dunes and valleys long
left behind them had been replaced by a flat
horizon. At its end, Scar saw only the flatland meld
with puffy clouds.
Night came, and the warrior crept inside the
tent with the others. The Perseverants led an austere
life; they had no luxuries and slept curled up on thin
blankets. Their smell was horrendous even in cold
weather, but they still smelled better than a dozen,
sweaty, Zmajan warriors. For the first time in
weeks, Scar fell asleep and dreamed of Eternus.
****
“Sarkany, Dragon Slayer, welcome home,”
Eternus rumbled.
Scar took a long inhalation. The plateau on
which he stood was a lifeless, gray rock. Around
him were more of the flat pillars growing from the
degrees of darkness from which the void of Eternus
extended. The warrior closed his eyes then turned
his face upwards. Upon opening his eyes, he
witnessed vortices of blackness swirling, melding.
“Dragon,” Scar breathed.
“Ihnogupta has worked tirelessly to find
you. It will do you well to have such help against
the Dragons.”
“I can handle them on my own.”
“Clarity, Sarkany, is knowing when to rush
and when to delay.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is no need to rush off, and kill the
beasts.”
“I thought you wanted me to bring you their
souls.”
“Certainly, but time is a ceaseless flux, and
it matters little if you venture on your own to battle,
or march steadily with friends in tow.”
“Then, why dally?” Scar argued. “More and
more people kill each other as time passes.”
“That is true, yet they need time to adjust.
Once the Dragons are defeated, men will be left on
their own.”
“They have their Gods,” Scar interrupted.
“Indeed, but even the Gods cannot provide a
reason for living, for enjoying their lives; they are
little more than guides, concepts of ideologies.
Have you not listened to your friends?”
“None of that concerns me.”
“What does?”
“You care?”
“But of course, Sarkany. You are me after
all,” Eternus consoled.
“Then, let me live when this is over.”
“You wish to remain on Tiamhaal?”
“What other option do I have?” the warrior
moaned.
There was a pause like emptied lungs. Scar
felt Eternus’s contemplation in his chest; a void
pulling away from inside.
“I had planned on returning you to me. Such
a wealth of experience satiates my existence,” the
Dragon explained in its guttural drone. Scar slowly
tilted his head and clicked his tongue in a sense of
despair, disgust. “No…I see it. You have become so
different. I had not anticipated such a thorough
embodiment of the eight principles, but tell me,
what will you do if given the opportunity to remain
yourself?”
“I do not know…I am not meant to live
among them, an eternal creature; you have seen to
that. It would pain me to make friends, to see them
grow old and die, witness their agony and strife,”
Scar grieved. “I, I was happy once, though…you
must know that.”
“There is more to existence than happiness.”
“You created everything…you gave
everything else a chance to live for itself, to
experience whatever there is out there, and some
have squandered that gift, others have striven for so
much more than they can bear, and yet they still
have that gift…am I not due the same?”
“You vex me, Sarkany,” Eternus grumbled.
“You complain that you do not wish to live among
men, and yet you wish that I let you be.”
“That is not what I am saying!”
“Tell me what you wish then? I may grant it
in kind for obedience.”
“I want Ylithia.”
“She is gone….”
“Garbage, Dragon!” Scar spat. “You created
her once, create her again.”
Once more, the Dragon’s ruminations stole
the warrior’s breath. He plunked down on the rock.
An eternity of silence passed. Scar adjusted his
position to sit cross-legged, and gazed off into the
infinitude.
“Travel with the Perseverants,” Eternus
suddenly said. “Lead them to Alduheim, so they
may meet with Labolas and N’Giwah. Their
combined efforts will bring them an appropriate
path.”
“Are there others like me,” Scar asked after
dismissing the Dragon’s statements.
“No…. I have only ever once walked
Tiamhaal.” The answer left the warrior in a state of
turmoil. He was not man or eternal being, not truly.
He was something caught in between. “Finish your
quest, and I will absolve you of your troubles. Once
reunited, we can leave the known for things
indescribable.”
“You words mean nothing to me,” Scar
sneered.
“Irrelevant. Kill the Dragons, return their
souls, and together we will travel from these planes
of existence. Once you are part of me again, you
will have no pain, no worry, no aspiration, no joy,
and yet you will have everything.”
“Except for my singularity…. I will kill your
Dragons and be done with it because that is my
reason for existing.”
“Compared to infinity, everything’s life is
little more than a blink of an eye. All life is
eventually relinquished back to me, and you are no
different, so do not despair, Sarkany, enjoy your gift
of awareness for so long as you possess it.”
The dream world shattered.
****
Scar awoke sprawled out on the blanket
inside the tent. Morning had arrived, and everyone
rose at about the same time. They didn’t so much as
grumble. Instead, they stood, stretched, packed,
tended the horses, and ate breakfast as they rode
northwest, yet the brute remained in a morose
mood.
“You seem worried,” Munah said and
pushed a gray braid from her aged face.
“No,” Scar replied. “I am but anxious to see
this matter to its end.”
“Perseverance is a principle, which cannot
be taken hurriedly. I understand that you are not one
of us, but in this particular matter, perseverance is
the only principle before you.”
“I disagree. We need severity to smash the
Dragons from this reality. We need tolerance to
accept those, who are not like us, to accept
conditions outside of our control. We need love to
keep us fighting when he have exhausted ourselves.
We need hate to remain fixed on our goal. Without
madness, we certainly would not be going against
Dragons. Without sobriety, we lack a level head in
the face of misperception, and sloth allows us a
moment’s respite to enjoy the trivialities of this
wonderful world…I understand what he was trying
to tell me, but…my grief is still too near.”
Scar had looked down at his horse during his
ostentatious speech. The animal’s buff coat was
lustrous and warm. He ran his palm over its neck
and patted it amicably. Everyone there had been
scrutinizing him, but he was oblivious.
The warrior’s claims unnerved the travelers,
yet none of them mustered a cogent argument. Scar
had aptly nailed down the human condition, and
they knew it, yet they had chosen to persevere.
“I suppose you speak truthfully, Scar,”
Munah agreed after a long silence. Bouncing
slightly up and down from trotting horses, the group
of riders started considering their stake in defeating
Dragons. A thought occurred to the old woman.
“You said you understand what he said. Do you
mean Ihnogupta?”
“No,” Scar answered her with a brief glance.
“Then, who, man?” Irgesh accosted.
“I cannot say, because, because he, or it, is
something outside the realm of understanding,”
Scar murmured.
“I think you’re just sulking,” Mei snipped.
“I can guess why. Shrikal told us your lover is dead.
I am sorry for that, but you should fight for her. I’m
certain she does not want to see you like this.”
Scar looked at her and narrowed his eyes.
How can I possibly explain that another Dragon, a
true Dragon, the only real Dragon, created
everything, and that I am him? These hardened
people need not know…nor would they believe me.
“You’re right,” he told Mei. “I am sulking.
What of it?”
The former Bakunawan pursed her lips and
shook her head in a sign of resignation. “You miss
this woman,” Munah asked after a moment of
politeness.
“Of course!”
The old woman took a long breath. She
seemed to be searching for the right words.
“Khmer is a Dragon….”
“Obviously,” Scar eyed her, dubiously.
“Whenever you march into Budai to face
Sahni, you should ask her about life,” Munah
advised. Scar arched a questioning brow, so the
former Scultonian explicated. “Although the
Dragon certainly did not create anyone, Sahni holds
strange powers…an exchange might be made…a
life for a life.”
“What do you mean,” Scar pried. “Ask
Sahni to give me back Ylithia in exchange for
letting her live? It’ll be hard enough to convince her
to give up her Dragon gem for her life. Gilgamesh
and Zoltek were certainly unwilling to listen to
reason, not that I really asked Zoltek, and if
everyone’s powers have increased from the deaths
of the Dragons, Sahni will surely be doubly
resolved, no?”
“You will not know until you have asked.”
“It can’t hurt,” Shrikal remarked.
“No, it can’t,” Scar conceded.
To ask Sahni to help bring back my loved
one…can such a thing be done? Her soul belonged
to Kulshedra, and now that Dragon is
dead…although…I do hold his soul. Scar
unwrapped his sword to glance at the amber gem. It
no longer glowed, neither did Zmaj’s. Scar
wondered why Eternus made no mention of such a
possibility. The Dragon Slayer then looked back to
Munah, who was adjusting her robe.
“Silwen says that when people are killed,
their souls go to the Dragon guiding the victor.
Kulshedrans killed Ylithia, and her soul went to
Drangue. I destroyed the realm of truth when I
killed the Dragon. Ylithia’s soul is gone, isn’t it?
How can Sahni help,” Scar finally asked.
“That, I do not know,” Munah replied,
indifferently. “I was merely trying to ease your
burden.”
Scar looked away and quietly thanked her.
Little else was said that day. When the sun started
to set, the Minister of Resolution preached a short
sermon about an old man, who had been made to
endure years of torture.
The old man in the story had been captured
by the Gyosh. They locked him in a cage and beat
him daily before questioning him about a supposed,
subterranean path located between two towns. Apart
from accepting beatings and starvation, the old man
had to bear the burden of worry as without him to
herd the family’s sheep, they were likely to starve,
but he remained faithful; he told himself every day
that although that day might be his last, if it wasn’t,
he certainly did not have the luxury of cracking and
giving away the secret of the path, since the Gyosh
wanted access to it in order to mount surprise
attacks.
After years and years of torture, the leader
of that particular regiment of Gyosh died from an
illness. His successor was a very different man, and
had no intention of razing villages. The old man’s
knowledge was no longer needed, and they let him
go. He walked back to his home, and was glad to
find that his family had also persevered; the oldest
son had learned enough from watching his father
tend sheep that he managed to triple the size of the
herd.
“It is because of the scars that old man
carried that we ink our skins today,” Munah said.
“We are not all as fortunate as he, to be caged and
tried by our peers, so we provide our own trials of
pain.”
“It was Ihnogupta, who tested that man,”
Irgesh said.
“He could have easily delivered that man in
one form or another,” Mei added, “instead,
Ihnogupta allowed him to suffer, so that he might
appreciate the act of persevering through a terrible
ordeal; it gives a true appreciation for life, for
experience, for single-mindedly focusing on one
goal.”
“Is it just a story,” Scar pried.
“No one knows,” Munah said, dismissively.
“It doesn’t matter. You see, the point is only that
everyone must endure; the Gyosh leader was unable
to endure under his trial of not knowing the secret
passageway, or the trial of his illness, but the old
man endured everything given unto him, and at the
end, he found his way back home, and without
compromising his people.”
Scar arched an eyebrow. He understood
perseverance well enough. He had endured
throughout his short existence, but something rang
true in Munah’s words. It took the Dragon Slayer
some time to unfurl that knowledge. Everything,
every living creature…even those things that do not
have life must endure. We endure love, peace, war,
time, boredom, and if we do not…? Then, our life,
our actions, and our experiences aren’t worth
much. That’s it, isn’t it? His morose mood lightened
a bit. He gave himself a half-hearted smile.
Days and nights of traveling by horse
eventually led the group over the Inliil and to the
newly annexed portion of Usaj. Zmajans willing to
work for a future rather than kill wantonly had
started erecting a small establishment around a
Kulshedran, lookout tower near the Eltanrof border.
The battlement stood prominently over tents,
shanties built from sturdy bushes and other
demolished furniture from within the tower, and a
single, stone home, yet under construction.
The riders came upon the scene from the
south. Sweaty, dark skinned men and women turned
their attention to the mounted travelers. Quick
glances left them the impression of a group of
Tolerants, and one Zmajan made a joke about the
stupidity of paladins, but another reminded him
that, like the paladins’ claims, they had indeed lost
the blessing of their God, the colors of their skin.
That sparked an argument between many more
Zmajans, and Scar and crew veered off to the east,
onto the hard packed road that encircled Satrone.
“See,” Shrikal whispered and grinned. “By
covering our inked skin, we have certainly avoided
conflict.”
Munah raised a brow beneath her hood and
replied, “We cannot know that for certain. They
may just as well have acted the same.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Irgesh claimed. “It’s him
they would have noticed.”
He had motioned with his head to indicate
Scar, and the consensus became that with or without
a robe to cover their skin, Scar stood out like a
giant, sore thumb; that was the reason they all
needed to be disguised. The warrior agreed that his
stature seemed to draw everyone’s attention, and
wondered if there was no one as tall as he. No one
knew.
They grew silent again, lulled by the trotting
of their horses. A moment later, cool winds blew
from the east. The sky was clear and sunny, but had
yet to grow warm. Munah tugged at her robe’s
sleeves.
“Which town do we head towards,” Folgar
asked.
“Any town along these roads has
transportation for hire,” Irgesh said.
“If we head east, we can make it Oros,” Scar
chimed in. “I have been there before…although that
might be a problem now.”
“I think with the death of Zmaj, the
Kulshedrans are probably placated…at least
somewhat,” Munah remarked. “I propose that we
shed these disguises soon and head into Oros.
There, we can trade these horses, or sell them, and
use the money to purchase a carriage ride to
Tironis.”
“I’d rather avoid the capitol,” Scar frowned.
The group began individually assessing the
initial plan. While their horses clomped along in
cadence, Shrikal pulled back his hood and breathed
in the crisp air of Satrone. The Shumite Mountains
to the east, with their wispy pines, brought a woody
scent not present in the drier air of Usaj.
“We can ride into Ralais,” he advised.
“In Sudai?” Mei sneered. “That will take us
days out of our way.”
Munah and the Bollans agreed, but Shrikal
argued otherwise, “Ralais is on the Malababwen
border. It’ll be a simple matter to travel by ferry up
the Undalayan and into Ch’Nako. From there—it’s
what—a two day march to Alduheim?”
Some grumbling occurred. The Perseverants
were certainly working towards a common goal, but
Scar noted they didn’t get along very well; they
were all opinionated, and none of them minded
letting the others know how they felt. The Dragon
Slayer casually leaned onto his mount and laid the
side of his face against the horse’s neck.
“The Gyosh haven’t made too much trouble
for you, have they,” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Munah said. “I have not
personally dealt with them since the death of
Kulshedra.”
“We wouldn’t be there for long,” Shrikal
started.
“We don’t need to be there at all,” Mei
interrupted. “We can travel north, away from the
eastern border, and cross into Alduheim.”
“You don’t have to be so obtuse,” Shrikal
fired back. “It’s logical to stay away from conflict.”
“You’re preaching sloth!”
“I am not preaching sloth!”
“Stop it, both of you,” Munah shushed them.
“Listen, perseverance comes in many forms;
persevering over conflict and persevering by
avoiding conflict are both viable options.”
The brothers stated their minds, too. They
were in favor of the quickest route, but Shrikal
maintained that the quickest route and the shortest
route were two different things. Mei was obviously
happy to throw fists with whoever stood between
them and their destination, but Munah and Shrikal
saw no reason to look for a fight.
“In our case, there should be no need to go
in search of fighting,” Scar agreed. “Traveling
unrobed through Satrone will slow us down, but
traveling through Sudai will add days to our
journey. Let us remain disguised until we reach
Alduheim. All we really have to do is go towards
Tironis, and leave the carriage on the outskirts of
the city.”
“He’s right,” Folgar agreed with a rub at his
chin.
“Maybe, we should just keep these horses
and forget stopping in Oros to secure a cart
altogether,” Irgesh suggested. “I mean, how much
time do we save anyway?”
“Negligible, to be certain,” Mei assented.
“See? We’ll just camp again. We have the
supplies,” Irgesh snipped.
Scar shook his head and readjusted his
posture. Sitting in a cart was much more
comfortable, but the truth was evident; they did not
need one.
“What we should do,” he started, “is follow
the road east until the first, northern crossroad. We
can take it towards Jurr; a tributary from the Aims
ends just south of the town. We’ll camp there, rest
our horses then move at a brisk pace all the
following day. Since that places us west of Oros,
we’ll certainly make it to Tectitlan by the next
morning, and then, we can relax our pace all the
way into Alduheim.”
They mulled it over. It was a sound enough
suggestion. After giving it some thought, Munah
reminded them that Khmerans had occupied the
area of Satrone south of Alduheim. Folgar amended
the plan, suggesting they ride northeast from
Tectitlan towards Malababwe, since they were
looking to meet up at the exploration camp the
Tiamatish had established outside of Alduheim
anyway.
“The ride will become cumbersome,” Scar
commented. “The terrain in that area is swampy,
and bug ridden, but,” he took a pause and
considered cutting down Khmerans, “but if we want
any kind of peaceful meeting with Sahni, we might
do well to avoid the Khmerans altogether.”
So it was settled; they rode to the tributary
of the Aims south of Jurr. Found a place devoid of
human life, rested their horses and camped. The
Perseverants passed out from exhaustion, but Scar
was unable to sleep. Images of Ylithia’s sweet face
washed over his memory.
Chapter Five- Preserving bridges
The travelers had set up their tent a hundred
yards from the riverbed, where the scent of willow
was heavy on the air. On the outskirts of Jurr as the
horses sipped from the stream, and the travelers
swatted at bugs, the Kulshedran inhabitants, who
rose early in the mornings to haul pails of water,
eyed Scar’s group with fear and curiosity. Though
the travelers’ camp was a mile out of town,
Kulshedrans in times of war were leery of
unfamiliar faces, especially since they had been left
without a blessing, yet friars of tolerance were
known for peace, and since no one from either
group exchanged words, they simply steered clear
of one another.
Shrikal watched the peasants. They quietly
conversed among themselves and cast glances at the
campers. The paladin decided it best to inform his
group that time was of the essence. He gathered
everyone into the tent.
“We should go,” Shrikal started.
“I agree,” Munah nodded. “We’re rested. No
sense in drawing unwanted attention.”
Scar poked his head out of the tent. The sun
had not yet risen, but the glow of early morning
revealed the comings and goings of thin, bronzed
people wearing drab clothing. They were agitated,
and one of the men was moving his arms erratically
in conversation. Twice, the man pointed at the tent.
Retreating inside, Scar spoke. “They’re
getting antsy out there, Kulshedrans. The horses
have had their rest. Let us ride a bit and then feed
them after we’re away from this place.”
“I thought Jurr was a peaceful town,” Irgesh
snipped.
“It is,” Scar grunted. “They have not
attacked us or set our tent aflame, and that is
enough; no need to overstay our welcome.”
“Agreed, agreed,” Munah accepted. “Let us
hurry.”
They scrambled to dismantle camp. By then,
the peasants had left, but Scar’s crew yet worried
they might return with soldiers, so they hastily
packed what few supplies they had, mounted the
horses, veered away from the tributary, and took
northern trails towards Malababwe. Bugs chirped,
and birds began singing during the trek.
Morning dew refracted the errant beams of
an early sun. The humidity of Satrone’s northern
lands allowed lush growth all along the hilly terrain.
Feeling refreshed, and breathing in the scents of
wilting wildflowers, the travelers moved at a steady
pace.
Flaps of wings and coos of pigeons
composed a spur-of-the-moment aria, but the
monotony of riding got the best of the Bollan
brothers, and speculations regarding the affairs of
leaders like Sahni, Sirokai, Hashnora, Shinjuru,
Jagongo, Donovan, and Takashi culminated in wild
assumptions. Apart from claims that Munir and
Donovan had bad blood for years, and Takashi’s
and Shinjuru’s attacks on the Khmerans’ borders,
they didn’t really know who was plotting what.
Nevertheless, Munah reiterated they needed to keep
their eyes peeled for Dracos, Mireuans, and Nagish,
since the defeated Kulshedrans were no longer
equipped to keep their borders safe.
Scar furrowed his brow and drew his lips
inwards. He listened to his friends’ allegations, but
wondered how much was truth and how much was
conjecture; so far as he knew, the Khmerans were
the Kulshedrans’ biggest threat, and now possibly
the Dracos and Gyosh if they weren’t overly busy
killing each other. He knew very little of the
Mireuans and Nagish.
“Satrone is protected by the Vaspian Sea on
its western border,” Mei argued.
“I doubt their navy can protect them from
attacks by boats if the Nagish and Mireuans decide
to attack via the sea,” Munah disputed.
Scar shook his head in dismay. There was so
much strife in the world. He thought back to the
words of General Sulas; Kulshedra’s death will
cause the people of Tiamhaal to slaughter one
another without mercy. The old man had been
correct. Eternus says I have time, but do I? The
longer this takes, the more people die, but then
killing all the Dragons won’t stop people from
fighting, not really; they’ll squabble over territory,
resources, and who knows what else….
“Are they attacking,” he pried.
“Who,” Munah asked.
“The people from Zetsuru and Jinshuke.”
“Oh,” she fumbled with her thoughts a
moment; the conversation had drifted from that
topic, but she replied. “I don’t know, but there has
been talk that they will. Those two countries are
practically one and the same; the wind and water
Dragons are allies, so their countries can unite and
mount sea based raids. Furthermore, Satrone
borders Zetsuru to the north, so an attack by
infantry is a possibility.”
The Dragon Slayer took a breath and rolled
his neck and shoulders. “I feel like it is my
responsibility to rush and kill the Dragons; if I
hesitate, people will butcher one another…the
Kulshedrans don’t deserve that.”
His solemn tone affected the riders. They
abandoned conversations for a time, simply
scrutinizing the surrounding area. Swaying, brown
foliage from a close-knit group of hearty oaks
against the horizon contrasted markedly with the
hazy, blue sky. Meandering ever closer to the
woods, daylight diminished, and cool winds blew.
Winter was nearing its end, and all of the stalwart
companions weathered the chill with ease.
The sun had set completely and clouds
covered the dark skies before they arrived at the
fringe of the oak forest. There, they rested amidst
the hardwoods for the night. By the campfire, Scar
recounted his traveling in a similar fashion with
Poland and some of the other warriors Gilgamesh
had handpicked when he sent them all to Alduheim.
“Do you think that Gilgamesh was plotting
back then?” Mei wondered.
Scar glanced at her. She, being formerly a
Bakunawan, a worshipper of the Dragon of Light,
had him wondering what she knew about
Hashnora’s stake in everything. After all, Hachi, an
assassin hired by General Sulas under the orders of
Gilgamesh, was Bakunawan. He had claimed that
Hashnora had foreseen the future.
“No,” he finally answered.
She frowned and blinked in surprise, asking,
“Then, you think he was really trying to fight for
peace?”
He remained quiet a moment. The firelight
rendered everything outside their immediate
vicinity black, and the smoky scent surrounded
them; it kept the bugs at bay. There wasn’t any
noise other than sizzling twigs crackling from the
campfire until the Dragon Slayer broke the silence.
“Well, I think Kulshedra lied to him, and he
bought into truth a little too deeply. He obviously
thought Alduheim had some secrets for him to
wield to that effect; fighting for some kind of peace,
but he certainly wanted to defeat the Khmerans and
take Alduheim for himself…only thing was, he
wanted me to rule Alduheim in his stead, or at least
he said so, and that didn’t work out. We learned
about the Dragons there, and I decided I had had
enough of fighting…I wanted only peace with
Ylithia, and so I left, and so he learned of the
Dragons from the others. I really can’t tell you what
he was thinking, but…perhaps…he wanted peace, if
in his own image.”
“The kind of peace you get when one man
rules the world isn’t real peace,” Shrikal mumbled.
Everyone was in accord; they nodded their
heads solemnly. Another moment of silence eased
by then an owl hooted in the distance. Something
about the sound brought unto Scar a gnawing
feeling, a consuming emotion that wasn’t quite
grief; it was closer to loneliness, longing. He looked
into the darkness.
“You mentioned there were others when you
traveled,” Folgar said. “Who were they?”
“Apart from the Kulshedrans, we had
Marlayne from Closicus, and Borta from Balroa,
but we met up with N’Giwah and his men outside
the cave they had found. There were quite a few of
us. We split into a smaller group to worm our way
towards Ylithia, who was cutting people down in
the name of Mekosh at the time.”
An orange glint shone over his face. The
firelight glimmered over his eyes when they grew
glassy. He lowered his head, causing shadow to
obscure his countenance.
“Ylithia was a Paladin of Severity,” Folgar
pried.
Scar took a long breath before replying,
“She was, yes, an obstacle standing in the way of
further exploration. Mekosh had her guard the
stadium wherein the memories of Alduheim laid.
She had killed everyone who tried to get there…she
said Mekosh was afraid they would destroy what
they did not understand. He might have been right,
but both myself and N’Giwah were already guided
by the idea that the Gods were in reality the old
Dragons, so unbeknownst to my crew, N’Giwah
and I were going in to fight Ylithia…the young
woman Silwen wanted me to look at, and you know
those paladins wear those black helmets, so…I had
to get it off her, which meant I couldn’t kill
her…everything changed when I saw that gorgeous
face; Silwen’s plan….”
The Dragon Slayer sniffed and rubbed his
nose. He wasn’t crying, but he was close. The
others tried not to stare at him.
“Anyway,” he continued, “N’Giwah and I
wanted to find some evidence supporting our
beliefs, and we did; we saw men fight Dragons and
those Dragons said their names. We saw Drac, a
flaming beast, Naga, a watery serpent, and Mireu, a
bird-like Dragon with invulnerable plumage. At that
point, all N’Giwah and the others wanted to do was
unite under my guidance. They wanted me to meet
with Jagongo and try to start influencing the
Tiamatish, since they were already neutral, but
when I found out that Gilgamesh had tricked me
with those false claims of being King of Alduheim,
I went mad and ran away to Closicus with Ylithia. I
mean, all we wanted was a normal life. We didn’t
care about Gods and Dragons anymore.”
They remained quiet. Shrikal sipped from a
water skin. Folgar and Irgesh traded dried meats
and fruits. Munah looked the worse for wear; she
was practically falling asleep on her side, her braids
splayed out. A moment later, they all agreed to get
some rest and slept inside the tent.
The following morning, they packed their
gear, tended their horses, and set about moving
through the forest. It was not long before they found
fruit trees interspersed among the oaks. Further in,
they heard the sound of rushing water and
eventually came unto the Undalayan, a mighty,
murky river swirling over exposed roots.
Mei was the first to complain about the
terrain, claiming the horses were unable to traverse
thick trees, low hanging vines, and muddy soil. As
Scar had predicted, following the river was an
ordeal.
He dismounted, unfurled the cloth that hid
his sword, and started hacking down some of the
thinner trees. “I know this is difficult,” he said,
sliced through wood, swatted at a mosquito, and
spoke again, “but we must push through this mess.
If we follow the river, we’ll come to Butu, a
peaceful village amidst the trees.”
“Butu is not in Satrone,” Irgesh argued.
He also dismounted in order to lead his
horse over roots. Frowning, Folgar did the same,
and then they all slid from saddles to march
onwards.
“No,” Scar heaved. “It is in Malababwe, but
it lies along the river.”
“And when we get there, we can take a ferry
to Ch’Nako,” Shrikal said.
“That’s right, and Ch’Nako is a short haul
from Alduheim. This will be the safest course; there
will be no one out here except for maybe the
Tiamatish, and they won’t start any fights.”
The vegetation was inordinately thick, even
during the cold of a waning winter. Perseverants or
not, they all grumbled. Forced to inch along by foot,
they pulled their horses and left Scar to hack away
at vines and smaller trees. He griped about their
lack of weapons. Shrikal replied that their martial
arts were sufficient for self-defense, and Scar
pointed out that they weren’t defending themselves
against trees.
Hours into their journey, they had little
choice but to wander west of the Undalayan; the
soppy ground was sloped, causing the mounts to
lose their footing. Risking an injury to their horses
was simply out of the question. Fortunately, they
found a clearing, an immense opening in the canopy
where a Kulshedran battlement stood prominently.
It appeared abandoned, but they all froze on the
spot, straining to look and listen.
“Did you hear that?” Munah whispered.
“I did,” Scar answered.
“Well, I didn’t,” Folgar huffed.
“Shouts from the jungle,” Scar said.
Holding their breaths, they waited another
moment. People were fighting somewhere beyond
their line of vision. On the other side of the tower—
hundreds of yards away—clashing of steel
resounded through thick vegetation.
“Stay put,” Scar warned and skulked into the
large opening at the base of the tower.
The structure was devoid of Kulshedrans,
though their food and equipment was strewn all
over the place. The warrior glanced back at his
friends. Munah was biting her lower lip. Shrikal
curled and uncurled his fingers. They were ready to
fight, so Scar motioned for them to join him. Once
they made it beneath the cover of the tower, a blood
curdling scream resonated from outside.
“Look,” Shrikal pointed.
Movement shook branches a hundred yards
away. Suddenly, men broke free from the
underbrush. Kulshedrans in brown leathers were
striking with long spears. The tanned warriors were
fighting Khmerans, faint featured people with long
hair, dark skin, colorful robes; they carried
scimitars.
As the Kulshedrans puffed and struggled to
fight off the screaming warriors, two, more men
clad in strange, scaled armor darted from the wood
line. They brandished slightly curved blades,
katanas. At first, Scar thought them Nagish; they
looked similar, but he noted their silvery eyes.
“Mireuans?” he whispered. Shrikal nodded.
“They are fighting the Kulshedrans…they have
allied with Khmerans.”
“It looks that way,” Munah added.
“We should fight,” Mei griped.
“Damn,” Scar grumbled. “Help the
Kulshedrans.”
Irgesh and Folgar frowned. They traded a
look of displeasure, but Scar had already charged
off, sword at the ready. He bowled over two,
Kulshedran warriors, parted a Khmeran from its
head, and delivered a boot into the armored flank of
a Mireuan. All the fighters were in the throes of
confusion; Shrikal capitalized by performing a
leaping kick. His attack sent a Khmeran into the
trunk of a tree, and while the fighters remained
dumbfounded, the other Perseverants came in to
disarm the Khmerans.
“Fight the Mireuans!” Scar howled. “I’ll kill
these bastards!”
It was known that Khmerans were blessed
with an ability to heal their own, and the only way
to kill them was to behead them, and since Scar was
the only one with a sword, he did just that. The
Kulshedrans cheered in reply, struck their spears at
the Mireuans, who unleashed gales of wind from
their palms, and turned tail to flee into the woods.
“Don’t let them go,” a Kulshedran woman
yelled.
She ran off, and her brethren gave chase.
Scar was ready to assist, but a second group of
Khmerans joined the fray, and among them was a
priest. It stood in prayer, trying to heal its fighters
by way of a glowing mist, but Scar threw a fist at
the closest enemy, kicked it into the priest, and as
they tumbled down, Shrikal stormed over. An
overhead chop was sufficient to render the priest
unconscious.
“Enough fighting,” Scar yelled. “I don’t
want to kill you.”
The Khmerans were unconvinced.
Screaming their ear piercing war cries, they
attacked. Folgar and Irgesh swept enemy feet out by
spinning low to the ground with their legs extended,
Mei kicked a scimitar from the ground into her
hand, blocked a blow, tilted the tip of her blade, and
stepped forwards to jam it into her attacker’s throat,
and when crimson spilled over vibrant robes, Scar
lopped off more heads. In a matter of moments, all
the Khmerans were reduced to beheaded corpses,
except the priest. Puffing, heaving, and panting, the
Perseverants looked at each other then their
surroundings.
A dozen Khmerans lay dead. Blood had
soaked the ground. A dead Kulshedran was slumped
against a tree. Before anyone had time to speak,
more noise erupted from the trees. The remaining
Kulshedrans stepped out from the foliage. Some of
them were bloody. Scar eyed them, and in turn, they
observed his scowl.
“You’re the one set us up to die,” a
Kulshedran spat. “You killed our God the way you
did Zmaj.”
“They are Dragons,” Munah shouted.
“Peace!” Scar barked. “We will not fight
you…the Mireuans, are they dead?”
“What’s it to you,” a woman asked.
Shaking his head, Scar elucidated. “We are
trying only to reach Alduheim. We mean to cross
into Malababwe, but I, I saw you were fighting, and
I know you no longer have Kulshedra’s blessing…I
just wanted to help.”
“Well, you did. Now, you can go,” a soldier
grunted, gripped his flank, and strained to remain
upright.
“We didn’t kill the priest…make him, or
her, or whatever heal you,” Scar said. “We’ll go.”
“Wait,” a younger soldier huffed. His peers
turned to him. “I…you shouldn’t,” he trailed off.
It was evident he wanted to say more. His
brethren shushed him. Scar observed him; he was
short, wiry, and had dark hair plastered all over his
face. His compatriots went so far as to slap him
across the shoulder, intending silence.
“C’mon,” he said, “he’s not…he’s not an
enemy.”
“He killed your king!”
“Yeah, well…I didn’t vote for him,” the
young soldier said.
“You don’t vote for king,” another smirked.
“Just,” the young one started up.
“Scar…listen.” Groans escaped the mouths of the
soldiers, but they walked off to clean up the mess,
bandage their wounds, and drag the Khmeran priest
beneath the cover of the tower. The Dragon Slayer
yet eyed the youth while the Perseverants went to
offer the Kulshedrans assistance. “Don’t go to
Alduheim.”
“Why?”
“The Khmerans have set up a camp
surrounding the old castle, and the Nagish and
Mireuans are assisting them. I don’t know what’s
going on out there, but…I think the Khmerans are
up to something.”
“That makes no difference to me. I must
reach Labolas and N’Giwah. They are waiting for
me to arrive.”
“Well,” the young man scratched his lip
with his thumbnail. “You’ve been warned.”
“Can you tell me if Takashi and Shinjuru
have allied with Sahni?”
“It’s not that simple…from what we’ve
heard, Shinjuru sent troops across our borders. I
think he and Takashi want to split Satrone with each
other.”
“But Sahni wants as much of Satrone’s
lands, doesn’t she?” Scar interrupted.
“Politics is beyond me. We’re just manning
this tower to try and keep them all from crossing
any further, but it’s become so hard…you saw what
those wind warriors did. It’s madness.”
“Well…I’ll kill Naga and Mireu soon
enough. Then, everyone can truly be equal, at least
in matters of magical prowess….”
Shaking his head and fighting back a smile,
the young man said, “You can’t be serious.”
“I killed Kulshedra and Zmaj, the Dragons.
I’ll kill them all.”
“I hope you do. Just, um, be careful out
there.”
Scar nodded. The young man dashed past
him to help his friends. The warrior glanced at the
wood line. Munah was right. We need to steer far
from these Mireuans and Nagish.
“Hey,” he yelled out. Shrikal looked at him.
“Get the horses.” A moment later, they met up on
the northern side of the tower. “We’ll head
northeast from here.”
“Agreed,” Munah nodded. “We must make
haste. If we run afoul more Khmerans, I doubt
Sahni will respond kindly to their defeat.”
“I know, but,” Scar trailed off a second.
“Freeing people of the Dragons’ rule is more
important than what I want,” he said, slowly and
with a tinge of doubt.
Again, Munah nodded. After leading their
horses into the woods, they veered back towards the
Undalayan. Keeping it within earshot was sufficient
to guide their way, and by nightfall, they found the
glow of torches among twisted branches.