The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (13 page)

“Scultonians?”

“Followers of Scultone, God of Death.”

“This gets more and more convoluted,” Scar
complained.

“Welcome to war my friend.”

There was little more to be said on the
matter. It was indeed convoluted as all war efforts are; the hopes
and wishes of fallible men, who understand little outside their own
world view. The sun was starting to set. Having left the bridge
miles behind, the land gave way to a slight decline. Shrubs grew
more sparsely, and the climate was yet dried. The flat buildings of
Eresh were visible on the horizon, and the nearly invisible trail
Labolas had followed was leading them straight into town.

“How come no one knows if Sahni is a man or
woman?” Scar asked once curiosity got the best of him.

“Khmerans appear androgynous.”

“What?”

Labolas rolled his eyes in mock desperation,
“Their men and women look alike. It’s always hard to tell which
gender they are.”

“Oh, well, then never mind,” he laughed.
“What do we do in Eresh?”

“Well,” Labolas said and paused to take a
deep breath in deliberation. “I think it best to try to send
Relthys some help, but we will acquire another mode of
transportation to Tironis. I’m guessing you’ll want to know all
about Scultonians, Gyosh, and Khmerans anyway, am I right?”

“You know me so well,” Scar joked.

Chapter Ten- The rebellious son

A frown worked across Scar’s face. Eresh
guards riding on backs of strange animals approached. They held
spears and their brown, leather helmets kept their eyes hidden.
Late in the evening as it was, the riders gave an ominous
impression; shadowed, emotionless faces.

“Captain Sulas, is that you, you old hound?”
one of the guards asked from atop his humped mount.

The man raised his head a bit. The archer
recognized him and smiled. Labolas then took a few steps forward
and stroked the fuzzy snout of the sandy, brown creature upon which
the guard patrolled. It made a croaking growl of a sound then spat
at the ground. Scar was revolted by the smelly beast.

“It’s me, alright,” Labolas answered.

“You mosey into Eresh with the Ghost of
Zmaj?” the guard asked.

While the archer smiled, the other guard
walked his mount into Scar’s personal space. The two creatures—Scar
and the mount—looked into each other’s eyes.

“What the Hell is this thing?” Scar finally
asked.

“That, Brandt, is a camel,” Labolas replied.
He then corrected the previous comment, saying, “This is not the
Ghost of Zmaj. He is Brandt of Alduheim.”

“Balderdash!” the man laughed.

“I assure you. I have a writ from Gilgamesh
himself, so if you’ll kindly let us on base, we need to procure a
ride to Tironis as well as request assistance for a damaged cart.
Our former mode of transportation was compromised on our way to the
capital.”

“Bandits?” the other guard asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. No one was harmed, well
the bandits were harmed, but none of us. If I can get to the
requisitions department, I would like to send assistance. They are
not too far from here on the main road between the Iles and Lake
Aims,” Labolas explained.

The guard pondered while scratching at the
scruff growing on his throat. “Well,” he deliberated. “I guess you
can take that up with Chief Master Sergeant Olan, but he needs to
be registered as a Kulshedran guest in order to be on base.”

“Of course,” Labolas happily acquiesced.
“This way.”

He half turned to Scar and motioned with his
head to follow. Scar maintained his gaze on the camels until he
could no longer afford to keep his head turned. He followed Labolas
beyond a tall cactus and into Eresh. While walking along the dusty
path and then onto a packed trail that was perfectly leveled
throughout the whole of the town, Scar started asking
questions.

“Why all the commotion? What is this
registering business? How come–” his barrage was cut short when the
guard rode up noisily behind them.

“Whoa, now. Hold, girl,” he said to his
mount. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“I forgot to tell you. Before you leave, make
certain to stop in at the mess hall. There is someone who would
certainly like to see you.”

“Who is it?” he asked in earnest.

“The Master General of Strategies,” the guard
answered, laughed, and rode away still laughing.

Labolas was left standing with a scowl on his
face. Scar raised an eyebrow in wonder.

“Who–” was all Scar managed to say before his
friend threw a hand up to disregard the question and made off in a
huff.

Scar trotted behind. The late evening wind
was chilly and the military town was an oppressive sight. Unlike
Oros, there were no gas lamps, just the occasional torch in a
sconce mounted on squared wooden posts, or high up next to the
doors on the flat roofed buildings. They walked for another minute
or so before Labolas gave any kind of a reply.

“Firstly, Eresh is a military base, really.
It functions as a town, but there are strict rules, regulations,
and procedures; standards of operation, you see? This is especially
true if you’re not Kulshedran or part of the military. If you’ll
take note, the guards patrolling are all looking at you.”

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?”

“Secondly,” the archer added after a pause.
“Registration will only take a minute, and you can do that in the
building adjacent the requisitions office, and finally, who is the
Master General of Strategies? Right? He’s…well…someone with utterly
too much concern for my wellbeing.”

A smile played on Scar’s lips. He raised his
eyes to the horizon. Two spots of widely spaced, faint orange light
glowed in the distance. They were not far from two battlements on
the Satrone-Sudai border. Labolas came to a halt before a very long
building with several doors all down the front of the
stonework.

“That door. In there is the registration
office. Just walk in and tell them who you are. I’ll be in to find
you in a moment. This shouldn’t take long.”

Labolas walked down the path along the
building and entered another door. Scar shrugged to himself. A
mahogany frame outlined the mahogany door. Numbers were carved into
each of the doors. The one before him was labeled as 17.

“Well, he appears a bit ruffled, doesn’t,
he?” Scar asked aloud while looking at the door labeled 18.

Upon entering the door prescribed by his
friend, Scar found himself in a barren office of sorts. There were
no tables or chairs on his end of the room. The large, rectangular
office was separated by a row of counters instead, and at the
opposite side was a woman who did not look Kulshedran. She was dark
and thin with black hair, which was pulled tight behind her head.
Bags hung below her dark eyes. She was obviously a woman
overworked. As Scar approached, covering the stone tiles of the
floor, he noted her odd attire; a light robe that draped loosely
over her thin physique. No one else had worn anything like that. It
was buff colored with an ornate pattern of bright flowers rich in
blues and reds.

“What do we have here?” she spoke with a
strange inflection.

It was as though she stopped suddenly between
each word.

“Uh, yes. My name is Brandt…Captain Sulas
brought me into town. I’m supposed to register,” Scar answered upon
arriving at the mahogany counter.

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir,” she said and
fumbled around a desk with drawers before pulling out parchment and
a quill.

“Your name,” she said impatiently.

“Brandt.”

“Your full name, Sir.”

“Just, just Brandt,” he stammered and looked
around conspicuously.

“No, no, Sir,” she argued. “I need your full
name.”

“I don’t, I…Brandt of Alduheim?”

She looked up from the paper to meet his gray
eyes. The arching of her thin black eyebrows and furrow between
them indicated she was skeptical.

“Well, it’s either that or the Ghost of Zmaj,
and I don’t like the latter!”

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Brandt of
Alduheim,” she accepted begrudgingly. “And what is your tribe?”

“No tribe, just Brandt of Alduheim,” he said.
That forced a huff of exasperation from the woman. Scar could not
hold back a chuckle. “I’ve no intention of being difficult, but if
you’re going to doubt every word I say, this isn’t going to work,”
he affirmed.

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. No full name, no
tribe, and to which outfit do you belong?”

“I don’t follow,” he replied in
exhaustion.

She raised her voice, asking, “Which military
outfit? What unit?”

“No unit. I’m just here with Captain Sulas.
He’s getting us a ride to Tironis. Look, I’m just passing
through!”

“Very well, Sir. What is your business here?”
she asked and returned to her paper.

“You’ve got to be kidding! I just told you
what my business is! Nothing!”

“Please calm down, Sir.”

“Oh, I’m calm. I’m calm,” he replied and
leaned onto the counter with his hands.

His imposing chest, and less than pleasant
smell, forced her to push her chair back with her feet. The wood
creaked against the stone floor.

“Where is this Captain Sulas?”

“He’s in the requisitions office,” Scar
barked.

“Okay, Sir. Have him come in here and vouch
for you.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, Sir. Very much, Sir. Without the
approval of an officer, I cannot register you, Sir.”

Scar grumbled, turned about, and marched back
out onto the streets of Eresh. He looked up at the moon. Wispy
clouds obscured it from sight, but its glow made the clouds into a
gorgeous fog of light. He took a deep breath to regain his
composure, laughed at the registration fiasco, and headed to the
next door. Labolas popped out and they almost bumped into each
other.

“Done?” the Kulshedran asked.

“No,” Scar pouted.

“What’s the problem?” Labolas chuckled.

“Your whole ridiculous registration process.
She said you have to vouch for me.”

Labolas patted his friend’s arm, let a smile
flicker across his face, and shook his head, saying, “I’m having
difficulties in procuring rides as it is. Let’s handle your mess
first then we can straighten everything else out.”

They walked back into the registration
office. In the place of the strange woman was an old Kulshedran.
His grizzled hair yet held specks of black throughout. Upon entry
of the travelers, he produced parchment and quill. Before they so
much as approached his counter he asked for a name.

“Brandt,” he barked. “Where is the other
woman?”

“I don’t know, Brandt,” the Kulshedran
replied. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I need to register, so I can walk around
this blasted town. This is Captain Sulas. I–” he was saying when
the old man disappeared from view by quickly walking behind a
wall.

Scar threw his hands up in resignation and
turned to Labolas while a commotion of wooden drawers being opened
and closed ensued. He then shook his head and stormed over to the
counter to try and have a look at was happening in the back.

The old man hopped back to the counter
causing Scar to recoil, tossed a rolled up parchment with a red
ribbon around it on the counter and said, “Here ya’ go. Keep that
on ya’.”

“That’s it? No name? No tribe? No, no, no
outfit?”

“Nope,” the old man answered then reclined
with hands folded over the leather tunic covering his paunch.

Scar snatched the document and turned back to
Labolas who said, “Well, that wasn’t too difficult. What were you
moaning about before?”

“Never mind,” he retorted emphatically.
“Let’s just get the Hell out of here.”

The mercenary stormed out of the building
with Labolas right behind. The oddity of the town was starting to
ruffle Scar’s feathers. He and his friend met eyes for a moment
then Labolas shrugged implying resignation. They walked into the
requisitions office, which was a replica of the registration
office, right down to the old Kulshedran behind the counter.

“You work here, too, huh?” Scar chuckled.

The man at the counter raised a gray eyebrow
in wonder. The stern look on the man and the ensuing silence made
Scar feel uncomfortable. He turned to Labolas, who was gazing at
him with a look of bewilderment.

“Maybe you should have a seat, friend,” he
said. “I think you’re getting worse for wear.”

Scar looked around. There were no chairs.

“What, on the ground?”

Labolas paid him no heed and approached the
mahogany counter.

“Captain,” the man acknowledged. “What do you
need?”

“Transport arranged to Tironis,” he replied
with little patience.

“You’ve filled out form eleven?” the
Kulshedran asked.

“You know damn well I filled it out. I just
gave it to you five minutes ago!”

“No need ta’ shout,” the man grumbled and
vanished behind a row of wooden drawers.

“What the Hell is going in this place?” Scar
complained.

Labolas remained silent. Instead of
acknowledging his friend, he undid his hair, ran his fingers
through to break up some knots then tied it back in place. By the
time he finished, the Kulshedran toddled back over to the
counter.

“We haven’t got any carts travellin’ in or
out anytime soon,” he said.

“Horses?” Labolas asked.

“No horses.”

“Where are they all?” he shouted.

“Lemme check,” the man said and started to go
look, but Labolas gripped him by the sleeve of his leather
tunic.

“Not necessary,” he affirmed. “Listen, just
get us something we can ride to Tironis and as soon as possible.
Also, while you’re at it, arrange assistance for a compromised
merchant cart a few miles to the southwest between the Iles and
Lake Aims.”

“You’ve filled out form seventy two?”