The Dragon of Time

Book Two

Dragon Slayer

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.