The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (7 page)

“Wait, I thought Zmaj was one of many Gods,”
Scar interjected.

Labolas halted. A scowl worked over his face.
Scar was unhindered, but waited a moment for an answer.

“There is only one God. I don’t know who Zmaj
is supposed to be, but he is not God,” the archer corrected before
returning to his history lesson. While he spoke, he resumed
marching. “Perhaps there are lesser Gods. I care little about them,
yet it is those in the worship of these…
deities
, who have
created many problems for us. Your ancestors were killed and exiled
by the traitors we believe now worship Khmer.”

“Who is Khmer?”

“Another false God like Zmaj or Drac,”
Labolas replied. “I’m afraid it is quite complicated, and though
the Kulshedran territories are allied with some of the others, who
also worship false Gods, it is but a means to end…an end that will
hopefully come sooner rather than later now that we have you,
Brandt, rightful ruler of Alduheim- a kingdom which sadly no longer
exists.”

“This is just absurd,” Scar said while wiping
sweat from his forehead. “The Zmajans have never said anything of
this sort. They simply claimed that the worshipers of Kulshedra
were a threat to Tiamhaal, and that the Dracos were no better.”

Sunlight glistened off his pale skin. A
moment of quietude prevailed. Then a hawk shrieked in the distance.
A few lizards did push-ups on rocks. The wind was already too hot
for comfort.

Labolas hesitantly elucidated upon the
subject. “Far be it from me to teach history, Brandt, but listen.
The point is simple; Gilgamesh sent me to recover you in order to
unite all the territories under the worship of Kulshedra, God of
Truth. With any luck, and the completion of many subsequent tasks,
we may yet see the restoration of Alduheim with its rightful ruler
sitting as the supreme Sovereign of Tiamhaal.”

“This is nothing if not conflicting. If all
this is true, why are the Kulshedrans trying to kill me? Why did
the Dracos attack me? Did Zoltek know any of this? Besides, I
thought–” Scar was cut short.

“One question at a time!” Labolas laughed.
“Only Gilgamesh has all the answers, and I report directly to him.
He said to find you, and told me where you would be. We knew about
Dumar’s plans to take out the towers. We knew you had been hired.
We also knew Zoltek was only using you for your prowess.”

“Why let the attacks commence?”

“Gilgamesh wanted to be sure you could handle
yourself. What good is a supreme ruler who can’t fight?” Labolas
retorted.

“So many of your men fell to my sword.”

“Unfortunate, but did you not notice the
outposts were undermanned?” Scar did not reply. “Besides, now the
dead rest in Drangue with the great Kulshedra, God of Truth. It is
no loss for them, I assure you. We all go gladly when our time
comes,” Labolas asserted.

“Mmm, you accept death rather lightly,” the
mercenary commented.

“Men who fight for what they believe in die
for those beliefs. Times are bad, certainly…this is war, you know?”
Labolas said solemnly.

“I suppose,” Scar acquiesced. “How much
longer till we reach this town?”

“It’s actually a boardinghouse. We’ll be
there by nightfall,” Labolas answered and took a bronze canteen
from his belt to drink. “Thirsty?”

Scar accepted, gulped cool water, then handed
it back. “Tell me more, like, why do I heal so quickly?”

“Well, now, that’s news to me, but I suppose
Kulshedra has his reasons.”

“I remain skeptical that I am this
Brandt
or what have you.”

“I don’t care. I’m just taking you to
Gilgamesh,” Labolas reiterated. “Did you have something better to
do?”

“No. For the moment, I’m at the mercy of
circumstance. Besides, you are the first person I have ever met—or
met recently enough to have memories—who has shed any light on who
I am and without asking me to kill in return,” Scar answered. After
a short pause for silence, he continued. “Tell me about that
paladin now. Did he know me?”

“Ah, Lovenhaad, oof, he was a force to be
reckoned with. By Kulshedra, all those paladins are daft,” Labolas
remarked.

“There are more?”

“Far as I can tell, there are eight sects,
but that isn’t entirely accurate. Lovenhaad was a Paladin of
Mekosh, the Severe. He maintained that Mekosh was a real God, and
get this, that Kulshedra is really one of the Dragons.” Labolas had
to stop while he laughed. “Oh, my, but no. I have seen other
Paladins of Mekosh. The Severe wear that black armor you saw, but
there are others. They call themselves Paladins of Mekosh, the
Tolerant, and are completely different. Paladins of Tolerance, or
sometimes called Friars of Tolerance, generally travel in hooded,
brown robes and are scarcely if ever in a fight.”

Scar narrowed his eyes in wonder. “You say
these paladins claim that Kulshedra is a Dragon?”

“Aye,” Labolas chuckled.

“And the others, like Zmaj?”

“All paladins claim that all those currently
considered as Gods are in actuality the old Dragons,” Labolas
clarified. Scar stopped walking. The sun had moved towards the west
and long shadows of tall rock formations painted the ground.
Labolas also came to a halt, next to a squat bush with thick
leaves. “What is it?”

“How many Gods are there?”

“I told you, only one.”

“But how many claim to be Gods?” Scar
clarified.

“Zmaj, Drac, Khmer, Gyo, Slibinas, Tiamat,
Scultone, Fafnir, Mireu, Naga, Bakunawa, Bolla,” Labolas replied
holding up one finger for each.

As Labolas spoke, Scar counted the names
before adding, “And Kulshedra makes thirteen.”

Labolas spat at the ground, and they passed
an uneasy glance. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“I hope you don’t go sounding like an idiot
when you meet Gilgamesh. Now c’mon, there’s much ground to
cover.”

They marched in silence for another hour. By
the time they came upon a steady incline over a rock bed, the
chilly air settled. Labolas led them over boulders, through rocky
paths, and ever higher. The archer was in fine shape; they only
stopped to rest once.

“Will there be many Dracos?” Scar asked. “At
this boardinghouse, I mean.”

“Plenty, yes. They are our allies, and the
Draco territory, Eltanrof, borders the east.”

“I do not like them.”

“Because they attacked you? Kulshedrans
attacked you,” Labolas trailed off hiding his smile with a fake
scratch of his cheek.

“I’m not sure I like you either,” Scar
joked.

“Well you can go to Hell.”

They started towards the northeast after the
quick rest. Both men chuckled while maintaining pace. Uphill in the
cold, and with the night soon to loom overhead, the two marched on,
joking of battles with Zamajans, discussing the virility of Draco
women versus Kulshedran, and other silly matters. For a time, mist
seemed to amass on the horizon, but it quickly dissipated; the arid
climate even so far east in Satrone held too little moisture for
foggy nights.

Hours later, with stars glittering in the
darkened sky, they arrived at a wooden building. It was long with a
curved roof, not unlike an overturned boat. The craftsmanship was
sublime; white walls of painted wood were adorned with colorful
tapestries lining the exterior. Lanterns glowed on either side of
thick, wooden doors. The doors displayed expertly crafted etchings
of men warring.

“This does not look like the buildings in
Usaj, or Satrone, if the outposts are any indication,” Scar
remarked.

“Draco architecture,” Labolas replied. “Let
us rest inside.”

The sound of laughter and cheer spilled
through the closed shutters of windows. Labolas pulled open a door.
A bright, orange glow from the interior fires shone onto the
travelers. The scene inside was quite jovial considering there was
a war going on.

The main room of the longhouse was centered
around an immense bonfire. Naturally, the roof was created with a
hole to let smoke out. Encircling the warm flames were tables,
chairs, a bar, and closed doors leading to sleeping rooms, as well
as many men and women crowding for warmth.

Though Scar took in the sights with awe, the
longhouse grew quite; they were taking him in with awe. Whispers
followed a momentary silence. Labolas ignored the on goings and
made his way to the bar. Scar followed.

“That’s him, innit?” the bar tender
asked.

Labolas addressed the tall, portly Draco,
asking, “Who?”

The bar tender’s orange eyes never looked
away from the enormous, white mercenary. “He’s that one hired by
Zoltek to take down Satrone, the Ghost of Zmaj.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you,”
Labolas replied.

“I ain’t serving him!” the bar tender
grumbled and walked away.

Labolas turned to Scar who sat down next to
him. “A good start, no?”

Scar grinned. A hand grabbed his upper arm.
When he turned, he saw three young Dracos. Two were branded with
triangular patterns along their arms, legs, and faces. The other
one was a stout woman. Her arms and legs were branded with linear
patterns, and she wore studded leather armor. All of them had those
strange fiery eyes and hair. Freckles splotched their skin.

“What do you think you’re doin’ in ‘ere?” the
woman shrieked.

Her voice was mean and shrill. Scar opened
his mouth to answer, but before he did one of the men spoke.

“Best be on yer way.”

The other added, “Scotch ain’t made fer
you.”

Scar raised a brow, and unable to hide his
jubilation, laughed openly at them.

“I’ll knock that shite eatin’ grin right off
you!” the woman said.

“Easy, Brandine,” a Kulshedran patron said.
“He doesn’t even have a weapon. Look at him. Need a drink?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Rough and tumble me?” Scar asked.

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

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

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

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

“Is this really happening?” Scar asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this drink from Eltanrof?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t look too well,” he said.

“Hush up,” Brandine fired back and drank.

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

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

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

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