The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (26 page)

“I am Ylithia, as you said.”

“Silwen has spoken to you as well.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then why didn’t you cut me down?”

“Why did you kneel?”

Scar shook his head, but was unable to
provide an answer. “Are you going to kill me as Mekosh
demands?”

“Mekosh?” Ylithia asked. “Until this moment I
was a Paladin of Mekosh, the Severe. He ordered your death, but
when I saw you and you spoke of Silwen, I knew I had lost the
fight. Mekosh grew silent, and now I hear nothing.”

Scar took her shoulders and looked into her
eyes before speaking. “I tire of these Gods and Dragons toying with
the will of men and women. Whatever Mekosh or Silwen have in mind,
whatever the Dragons desire, let them all bicker amongst each
other. I see now there’s a whole life out there to be lived. We
should choose only to experience it.”

“What are you babbling about?” she asked in
disbelief, letting her gaze fall back to the ground.

He chuckled. Whatever had overcome him was
sheer stupidity, but he didn’t care. Silwen, the Lover, had touched
him, and now he felt something for this woman. An actual reason to
live had been presented to him.

“What is a paladin without a deity?” he
asked.

She sighed and two more tears fell from her
eyes. Scar brought her face forward to wipe her cheeks.

“I’ve fought to save men from themselves for
ten years, and for ten years I’ve been guided by the ever present
voice of Mekosh. Do you know what it’s like to suddenly feel
empty?” she asked. “Your mere presence has left me without a
patron.”

“I’ve known emptiness from my first memory on
the road to Usaj.”

“I am pleased you have solved this without
bloodshed,” N’Giwah finally interrupted. “But we must hurry this
along. There is certainly something back there and the Khmerans
will not be long behind to find it.”

“He’s right,” Scar said. “Many of our people
have fallen.”

“And some of them to her blade,” Hija
interrupted.

“What were you guarding?” Scar asked as he
remembered what they were doing there in the first place.

“The only proof of Dragons you’ll ever need,”
Ylithia replied.

“By Kulshedra, don’t make me knock you out,
Brandt!” Lortho growled.

“This is madness,” Jayna warned.

“You can’t trust these paladins,” Borta
claimed.

The Kulshedrans obviously wanted blood.
Though their opinion of Scar had changed, it hadn’t changed enough
to try to kill him, or the paladin, and furthermore, they knew
Marlayne, N’Giwah, and Shamara would try to intervene, so they
settled for cursing and swearing.

Shamara approached Ylithia and asked her,
“Are you an enemy?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Ylithia replied. “I
was always an enemy to those unable to understand that the real
Gods are out there and need our help, but you know I speak the
truth of the heathen Dragons…don’t you?”

“I am certain of nothing these days,” Shamara
admitted, removing the pipe from her teeth for second.

The oldest woman walked away with a sad shake
of her head. Her braids danced, and she patted N’Giwah’s shoulder
upon joining the group.

“I have seen the tapestries,” N’Giwah
revealed. “There are Gods and Dragons, and that one has seen
Silwen, but he is no Paladin of Love, is he?”

Scar shook his head. He had no intention of
serving any Goddess or Dragon, and definitely heard no voice in his
head other than his own, and it was growing restless with the sight
of the beauty, Ylithia.

“So what of these tapestries?” Lortho
snarled. “Everyone knows their history. The Dragons did exist, and
God helped to exterminate them. Kulshedra bless us.”

“Let us see this evidence then we will make
our minds,” N’Giwah suggested as he stared down the shieldman.

“I for one would be glad to see something
notable,” Marlayne breathed.

“You have suddenly abandoned Fafnir?” Borta
asked her.

“I believe in whatever logic dictates,”
Marlayne rebutted. “And that has served Fafnirians well for a long
time.”

A hush washed over them. Flickering, orange
torchlight bathed them. Fear and anticipation pushed them. It was
time to see what Alduheim was really hiding, and whether they liked
it or not, Ylithia was leading the way.

Chapter Eighteen- Gods and Dragons

“If this doesn’t turn out the way I want it,
there’s going to be some real trouble,” Lortho announced.

“I’ll have your back,” Delton added.

“People,” Marlayne cautioned.

Borta suddenly realized he was going to have
to pick sides in the event a calamity occurred. During their trip
down the hallway, he kept his black lips shut, letting the other’s
words help sway his mind.

“We might make a stand here and now,” Jayna
sniped.

“Jayna,” Bosen sighed.

“Shut it,” she barked. “You’re
Kulshedran!”

“People,” Marlayne cautioned again, the
strain in her tone rising.

“You people are too quick to judge,” N’Giwah
argued. “Have patience, and if you feel a need to fight when we
have seen this evidence, make it so, but without our aid.”

“I don’t even know what to make of you
anymore,” Hija barked at him.

“Peace, everyone, we are none of us in danger
at the moment,” Shamara advised. “Lest we fall prey to our own
hatred,” she added with a sad intonation.

Ylithia started to turn to address the
bickering group, but Scar whispered into her ear it would be unwise
to stoke the fire.

“Conspiring?” Pater accosted.

“No,” Scar said. “Keeping the peace,
boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” he spewed.

Bosen shook his head and scrutinized Marlayne
and Borta. The Fafnirian was nervous, but Borta didn’t show any
sign of distress. He just kept his eyes to the ground.

“Ezlo?” Bosen asked.

“I don’t wish to see any more death for the
day, but I am Kulshedran and will not turn on my brethren,” he
replied.

Ylithia came to a halt at the end of the
corridor where a room lay beyond statues. Ezlo’s illumination
revealed an entrance guarded by twin stone warriors, long haired
barbarians in skirts brandishing double-headed axes.

“What you see inside will change your life,”
Ylithia whispered.

“Pray it does not end yours,” Lortho
retorted.

A smile flickered across her countenance.
Then she vanished behind the pool of darkness beyond the statues.
Ezlo spat at the ground, pushed past everyone, and shined his dying
torch inside. Scar followed in.

The stadium was an inordinately large
expanse. A perfect dome ceiling reflected torchlight like an
overabundance of twinkling, orange stars. Spaced evenly in a circle
were eight statues- each a representation of a God. Mekosh, the
Severe stood at one end, a knight in plate mail. Next to him, and
about fifty feet away, stood Silwen, the Hater, an aged, ugly hag
with a hooked nose. Opposite her was Mekosh, the Tolerant, a friar
in a robe with the cowl pulled up, and next to him, another fifty
feet away, was Silwen, the Lover, a voluptuous nude beauty.

N’Giwah and Scar glanced at each other then
glossed over each statue. With tight lips, and fast beating hearts,
it seemed both men felt what the other was thinking; those statues
represented the real Gods, but stone by itself was easily
disputable. They needed something more to galvanize their crew, and
furthermore, rally the people of Tiamhaal.

“Look at these,” N’Giwah whispered. “And of
all places, they are in Alduheim where the Dragons were
destroyed.”

“This doesn’t mean a thing,” Jayna grumbled.
“They, they could just be statues.”

Across from the likenesses of Silwen and
Mekosh were, Ihnogupta, the Perseverant, who stood with his arms
bent behind his neck. It was a lean, bald figure in a toga- the
skin etched with patterns covering its stone form; patterns some of
the tribesmen such as the Dracos bore. Next to him stood Garnabus,
the Mad, bearing a lunatic’s eyes and grin. Across from Garnabus,
the Mad, was Ihnogupta, the Sloth, a fat, sweaty heathen with a
stump for a right leg. The Last figure gazed upon was Garnabus, the
Sober, a man with a steely face and long braids trailing his
muscular back and shoulders.

Ylithia had come to stand at the epicenter of
the statues, the room’s true center where the all the figures’ eyes
converged. Scar and Ezlo followed together, a glance passed between
them. Marlayne, Shamara, N’Giwah and Bosen joined them, followed by
Borta. The rest of the Kulshedrans stood away in disbelief.

“Let us just see what this is,” Scar
suggested.

“See what what is?” Lortho demanded. “Magic
and trickery?”

“Please, be quick,” Ylithia pleaded. “You
will see it regardless of where you stand, but this is by far the
best spot for unbiased observations.”

Her tone betrayed a bit of mirth. She looked
at Scar and smiled. He returned her smile with his own and took a
deep breath. By the time the others finished grumbling and joined
in at the center, the show had already started.

It began with a windy whorl like a contained
blizzard. Then a shimmering light from beneath their feet
intensified into a soft blue before erupting in nearly blinding,
white brilliance. The contrast proved too much for some, and groans
escaped their lips. As the fear mounted, and eyes adjusted, an
unearthly rumble growled at them from every which way, a rumble
that quickly turned into the sounds of shouting men and women.

Some of the Kulshedrans looked on in
incredulity. Scar skimmed their faces. They were in awe of the
magical room, but then he was awestricken as well when fleeting,
ghostly figures passed before his eyes. The figures coalesced into
men and women clad in gleaming armor. The figures spoke to each
other and pointed. Everyone in the room was baffled by their
unfamiliar language except Scar. He understood they were speaking
of the approaching Dragons. He wracked his brain trying to place
the language, but more bright lights flashed, and when Scar and the
warriors recovered from the radiance, they witnessed the entire
stadium had morphed into Alduheim’s exterior.

Everyone, the ephemeral soldiers included,
was standing on what used to be the roof above the castle’s donjon,
a work of white bricks trimmed by a tall railing where dozens of
archers in leathers let loose volleys of arrows. Other soldiers
with swords, spears, and axes ran by screaming and pointing at the
sky. A shadow washed over Scar’s group, momentarily blocking out
the sun. Some of them gasped or reached out to touch the phantoms
of Alduheim, others raised their weapons or shields ready for a
fight, but it was all just a memory of that ancient keep.

Scar gaped at the cloudy, blue sky above his
head, a fire breathing beast with enormous bat like wings beat a
gale down around them. Orange scales burning with unbridled flames
covered the creature, and its pointed tail whipped in the wind as
it cut circles in the sky, dodging arrows and boulders from
catapults. After an arc that covered nearly a mile, the fire
breather aimed its beaked maw and twin curled horns at the soldiers
of Alduheim, let out a terrifying burst of fire that forced shrieks
from Scar’s crew and cries of pain from the phantoms, and then
landed on the stone work just in front of Ylithia’s face. The
Dragon was at least ten men tall while standing on all four
legs.

One of the soldiers yelled in his foreign
tongue and though only the name Drac resonated with the living,
Scar understood what the phantom had shouted:
The Gods have
taught us how to bring you down, Drac!

As that man produced a red diamond shaped gem
the size of a fist, a dozen more soldiers ran to beat weapons
against fiery scales. Their attacks did little; the dragon stepped
on them, ate them whole, and knocked archers over the edge with a
swipe of his tail, but by then, the man had worked the stone into a
diamond hole in his lance, and he charged Drac, sinking a then
fiery weapon deep between two scales at the base of the Dragon’s
throat. The mighty Drac cried out in pain and fury, yelling
something unfathomable with a voice like a hundred choirs caught
singing in a lightning storm. Scar understood him, too. Drac had
said:
Damn you and your Gods. Men can never kill
Dragons!

The beast writhed and fell back. A gout of
flames erupted from the dying Dragon, and as it clawed at the air,
Drac became all he ever was, sputtering fires. The man with the
lance pointed to his soldiers, shouting some orders:
Steel
yourselves, this is far from over. Mireu and Naga have been spotted
to the north!

Scar was in disbelief, they all were, but
Scar more so due to his comprehension. He was experiencing
irrefutable evidence that Dragons were real, and that they were
manipulating men to this very day. Before anyone had time to gather
their wits—the phantom soldiers or the real ones—two more figures
appeared on the horizon; Naga and Mireu, the Dragons of water and
wind had arrived. Naga was a serpentine dragon with no appendages.
Her blue scales reflected the placid waters of Tiamhaal as she
coiled onto herself and lashed out at the ground forces. Her eyes
reflected the raging oceans, and she turned those eyes on the
soldiers of Alduheim before unhinging her jaw to spew a horizontal
pillar of water that reduced catapults and ballistae to
splinters.

Above her, in the blue sky, Mireu made his
approach. Naga’s brother was a feathery dragon with iridescent
blue, and purple, amidst silvery plumage. His great beak drew such
an inordinate gust of air into his body that the clouds fluffed out
of shape. He fanned a very long tail comprised of flamboyant
feathers and dove into the phantoms on the roof top. There, while
the men tried to pierce his invulnerable plumage, he blew out that
same gale in the form of a tornado. It cleared the battlefield, and
the raging war died down to a dark room lighted by a nearly
extinguished torch.