The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (2 page)

“You agree?” Zoltek’s voiced rustled like dry
leaves in a breeze.

“I do, but I have to make one change to your
plan,” Scar replied unabashedly.

“You think it flawed?” the negus scoffed.

“No, I think it can be improved.”

“I’m listening.”

“Kulshedran supply carts, they come by about
once every week. We know they have at least two running at all
times between their guard posts, but the territory is large. This
is my proposition,” Scar explained. “After we storm the first
outpost, we wait for the supply wagon to come by. Because a portion
of your men will not join the first charge, they wait for us to
attack the carriage, and when we do, we signal them to rush from
the south.

“Successfully taking the carriage, we hide
the enemies’ corpses inside the outpost and continue making the
rounds as suppliers. This way we can easily ambush tower after
tower. With enough men, I can certainly take them all down within
the month.”

Zoltek nodded, his hood dangling about. “Yes.
It is a well thought addition to my plan. You are indeed smart,
Scar.”

“So, we are in agreement?”

“Of course. I’m already having men waste no
resource in finding your origin. If you succeed, I will personally
ask Zmaj. After all, he has created us all, and he must have a
special use for you.”

A special use for me,
Scar wondered.
He stood and walked out of the throne room to ready himself for the
upcoming journey.
A special use for me…could that be true? It
doesn’t matter…I just need to know who I am, from where I came, so
that I might know where it is that I must go.

****

Scar returned before the uneasy crowd of
Usajan warriors to speak a last few words before the attack.
“Zoltek has arranged Dumar’s force for two tasks. The first, and
more difficult task, is to storm one of Satrone’s many
outposts.”

“Aye,” Dumar agreed and stood next to Scar in
an effort to rally the group back to matters at hand. “The
Kulshedrans’ tall towers comprise the bulk of their efforts to
protect their borders. Made from the native brown stone, we cannot
burn them to the ground, and worse yet are their long range
weapons.”

Scar interrupted Dumar then. “Three men guard
the top of every tower. One man is a lookout. He will ring a gong
in the event of an attack. We must not let this happen or many
soldiers from neighboring towers will provide reinforcements.”

Usajan warriors chatted amongst each other
about the opposition’s fear and need for numbers to supplement a
lack of fighting prowess.

“Don’t be foolish,” Dumar chastised. “You
must listen to Scar. Your negus has demanded it.”

Scar nodded to Dumar and continued. “Two more
Kulshedrans work the ballista from the top of their towers. It is a
large weapon designed to pivot and rotate. Though one man is
sufficient, Kulshedrans are intelligent. You must not overlook
that. They utilized a second man, a loader, someone to load the
huge bolt while the other works the aiming lever and release.

“As you know, ballistae, or at least
Kulshedran ballistae, are designed to allow aiming a large bolt
over nearly the whole of the zenith. Getting our forces past this
threat is of key importance if we are to succeed, and we will
succeed or Zoltek will have all our hides plastered to his castle
walls as a reminder to all those who fail him.”

“Attacking an outpost directly is suicide,
something Urdu didn’t seem to grasp,” Dumar breathed. “Though we
Zmajans are strong, it is a senseless, brutal death we risk if we
are not stealthy in our approach, not to mention we must avoid
alarming the remaining Kulshedrans due to our smaller force.”

“Your general is wise,” Scar said. “Come, let
us begin our march away from this encampment.”

Scar’s portion of the Zmajan warriors
followed their leader pro tem in a steady cadence. They were aware
of the many towers rounding the perimeter of the Kulshedran
territory. Zmajans and Kulshedrans had fought for years and had
only ever reached a stalemate. On occasion, a platoon of Zmajans
reached the inner cities of Satrone to face off against some of
Tiamhaal’s finest.

Secretly relishing the death of their mad
prince, the platoon steeled themselves for the upcoming skirmish.
After marching beyond the thinly wooded environment, Scar and his
men came to witness the hilly horizon. Nightfall had settled by the
time they gathered behind small hills.

To the north—only hundreds of yards away—the
first outpost stood prominently. Wavering, orange light cast by
torches within fluttered throughout the windows. It was a clear
night, and no moon shone. Scar set his jaw. With a nod, he dashed
over small rocks. The dry soil of the southern territories kicked
up in his wake. Thirty men followed close behind. Booted feet
resounded like a small stampede. Scar made for a larger hill with
sparse vegetation. Hunkered down against the mound, the men took a
breath. Since the Usaj-Satrone border held few trees, and none in
the immediate area, they had a clear line of sight.

“What do you see?” Scar asked.

One warrior produced a telescope. Looking
through glass for a moment, he was silent. Then, he turned to the
mercenary.

“The three lookouts on the roof have not seen
us, and I did not see anyone looking to the south through their
windows,” the soldier answered.

“Excellent,” Scar sighed. “Taking this tower
by surprise allows the Kulshedrans to continue running their supply
wagons. Their horse drawn carts stop at each outpost along the
Satronian border carrying goods. Therein lays the second portion of
Zoltek’s attack strategy.

“With the supply wagon compromised, storming
the adjacent outposts is a much easier task, especially after my
suggestion of utilizing the wagons for an ambush.”

Some of the warriors glanced at each other.
Their frowns and furrowed brows were indications of disbelief.
Zmajanss considered themselves masters of the art of war, but then
they had yet to dethrone King Gilgamesh and take Satrone for
themselves.

Scar slowly climbed the sandy hill. At the
top, amidst stunted shrubberies, he laid on his stomach. A beaten
path through the thin chaparral rounded the tower. Two more paths
curved to the east and the west. It was evident by twin tracks that
supply wagons came about on a regular basis. Scar maintained his
observation. No wagon was in sight, and it was too dusty to see any
other tower on the black horizon. The silence was his only concern.
They may yet hear our approach,
he thought.

He climbed back down and addressed his group,
saying, “Men, we must move slowly, lest our heavy feet draw
unwanted attention.”

They nodded in understanding. Scar rounded
the hill and skulked the remaining distance to the outpost. His
eyes were wide, ready for any movement. The soldiers behind him
grit their teeth while doing their best to remain quiet. Before
long, they reached the beaten path. With backs pressed to the brown
stone of the tower, they waited for Scar to mount the attack.

He approached the massive entryway at the
base and peeked inside. The structure of the tower, as was similar
with those of Zmajan architecture, was a four-entry crossway at the
base with a staircase leading to the top. The size of the entrances
also allowed the supply wagon to pull into the tower proper. From
his position, Scar saw two men with bronzed skin clad in brown,
leather armor.

The guards sat at a table chatting. They had
no clue bloodthirsty Zmajans had arrived with slaughter on the
mind. Scar turned back to his men and pointed to round the other
side. He counted ten seconds after they moved. Then, he rushed
inside with his great sword at the ready.

The Kulshedrans had not even the time to
comprehend the situation. Scar slashed his blade, and one’s head
fell from his body. The other just came to his feet, but Scar had
kept the momentum of his swing going by carrying the sword
overhead. With a vertical slash, he killed the second man. In less
than five seconds, the base of the outpost was secured.

Scar held his left fist up. In silence, the
men waited a moment. When no clamor from above resounded, Scar took
the lead again. He rushed past a long table lined with lanterns,
plates of dried fruit, and Kulshedran corpses, to the steps at the
far end. Battle lusty Zmajanss followed behind Scar. Aware of the
plan of attack, four grumbling soldiers remained at the base in the
event of Kulshedran support from whatever sights unseen.

Twenty steps up from the base of the outpost
was another large room similar in design only with windows in place
of doorways. Coming off the steps, the Zmajans fanned out, and slew
three Kulshedrans. Drunk from too much wine, the enemy gave no
resistance.

Once more, Scar waited. There was no sound
indicating their presence was known, and he proceeded up more
steps, only with four less men to remain on the second floor.
Twenty more steps up, he spilled into the third room; it was lined
with rows of beds.

Caught unawares, a Kulshedran guard gasped
and made to grab his spear. A Zmajan warrior chucked his javelin.
It struck the guard high in the back, and he crashed to the floor
with a great deal of noise. Roused by the attack, the slow waking
guards tried to resist, but Scar and the soldiers made easy of work
the enemy.
Sleeping lions make easy prey
, Scar laughed to
himself.

“I’ll take the roof,” the mercenary
whispered.

He walked slowly. Time was of little
importance. The tower had been secured, leaving as his only concern
the Kulshedrans’ gong. Aid was likely too far to pose the Zmajans
any threat, but negligence was outside of Scar’s approach. Coming
close to the last steps, his bald, white head poked through the
floor.

“Hey?” a dozing Kulshedran asked in
shock.

One made for the gong while the other swung
an axe at Scar. He parried by simply pointing his blade forward.
Following up with a lunge to the top step, he stabbed the guard in
the midsection, leapt up to the floor, and spun with a slash across
the back of the man about to ring the gong. The blow killed the
enemy, but Scar left his flank open.

The remaining Kulshedran slashed at exposed
skin. With a groan, Scar twisted his sword hand. The action brought
his pommel against the guard’s head. Staggered from the blow, the
Kulshedran was susceptible to a kick in the gut. The mercenary’s
immense foot sent the man into the tower’s guardrail and over it.
The enemy plummeted close to a hundred feet.

The four Zmajans at the base saw the guard
hit the ground. A large puff of dust came up, but was quickly
carried away by the subtle winds.

“Guess he’s done it,” one soldier
chuckled.

On the roof, beneath a thin, whipping cloth
for daytime shade, Scar took the rotating ballista. A bolt was
already loaded. By pushing against a horizontal beam built into the
framework, he pointed the giant weapon to the south where the
remaining Zmajans along with General Dumar waited for the signal
that the supply wagon was on its way. Then, Scar went down a
floor.

“Someone gather oil and cloths,” he
ordered.

While they did so, he went back to the roof
and took a seat in a wicker chair. Frowning, he checked his flank.
The blood was already dried, and the wound no longer ached. He
scratched it. Crimson dust crumbled away revealing a new scar.
Why does it heal so quickly?
A moment later, a young woman
handed him the supplies.

“Gratitude,” he said.

She bowed her smooth head in welcoming, but
did not leave. He looked at her. The black leather was laced about
her firm body in aesthetically pleasing ways. Her bosom was small,
but her shapely bottom caught Scar’s eye. He smiled. Zmajans were
nearly as hairless as he, but the chocolate hue of their skin was
breathtaking.

“Will there be anything else?” the young
woman asked.

“What is your name?”

“Kaviri.”

Her eyes were very dark green, and the
swirling patterns of gray and purple graced her skin like veins on
a leaf.

“Have a drink with me,” Scar suggested.

There were clay jugs of wine sitting on the
long table by the guardrail. The fine clay craftsmanship—a product
of Kulshedran creativity—was sublime. The jugs were triangular in
design, but tall and elegant with animals etched into the sides.
Kaviri took one and boldly sat in Scar’s lap. After a few sips,
they munched on the dried fruits and nuts laid out on the
table.

“How long before the wagon comes?” Kaviri
asked.

“We probably won’t see it until
tomorrow.”

“Then, we have plenty of time to rest before
the next fight,” she asked.

“I believe so.”

They looked at each other. He was practically
forbidden fruit to her. Romping with those under the blessing of
different Gods was not usually frowned upon, unless they were
enemies, but Scar was a very strange individual. His appearance was
confusing to all who saw him. He did not look as though blessed by
any God, and so some wondered if perhaps that was exactly the case.
A man rejected by all the Gods was something to fear, but Kaviri
was not easily frightened.

She stood and took a couple of paces over to
the table. Scar looked the area over. The relief of a successful
mission objective put him in the mood for fun.

“Maybe I should rid us of this corpse,” he
chuckled.

Kaviri gave a nod of mock resignation. They
smiled then hurled the dead over the tower. The impact startled the
Zmajans at the base, but they quickly resumed their own
devices.

“Now, you wanted to know if I needed anything
else,” Scar asked.

“Mmm, what does one such as you want?” she
asked with graceful movements of her butt and belly.