The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons (25 page)

Scar looked to N’Giwah and said, “Let my men
handle those fools. You and Hija protect the scholars, and I’ll get
that idiot.”

When N’Giwah nodded, Scar ran off to get
Borta who was coming to his feet after removing his hand from the
deceased Kulshedran on the ground. The dead warrior stirred,
groaned, got up, found the Khmerans, and let out the most gut
wrenching gurgle anyone had ever heard. Borta looked at Scar and
smiled while his departed friend ran off to meet Khmeran steel.

“I told you you’d need me,” Borta hissed and
followed Scar back to those hunkered down beside N’Giwah and
Hija.

Khmeran swords glittered like crystals in the
torchlight, but their ferocity was snuffed about by shield parries.
Bosen slammed his bronze shield into two and when they fell back,
Ezlo ran his blade into the chest of one. Crimson quickly spread
out onto the blue robe of the wounded Khmeran, turning the cloth a
dark purple, but he was soon to rise from the ground and continue
slashing as though nothing had happened.

Jayna and Pater worked in unison; they bashed
with shields, hacked with blades, and soon a Khmeran sword
skittered across the ground, a hand still gripping it. Screams and
shouts bounced off the darkened walls. The forces were equally
matched due to the Khmeran’s inability to stay down and wounded. As
the clanging of metal in battle continued, Scar looked to N’Giwah,
who acknowledged the mercenary’s ire then tilted his head to
indicate the other ten Khmerans at the rear hadn’t made any moves.
They were just protecting their priests, who were keeping their
friends in better than poor health.

“Shieldmen,” Scar yelled. “Send them to the
ground!”

Lortho and Delton complied with another heavy
blast that sent more swords from hands, more Khmerans to the filthy
floor, and allowed Scar to leap over them all. With his blade
pointed forward, he dashed across the earthen surface to meet the
priests’ defenders. Within seconds, the first group of four guards
were reduced to limbless masses heaped upon one another, their
blood wetting the sewer floor. That provided Scar the opportunity
to part one of the priests from his head, and he focused his
attention on the next group.

While Scar handled the priest, Borta ran off
to another aged corpse, checked to make certain it was Kulshedran,
and reanimated it. With two undead fighters joining the fray, and
Scar’s shock troops hacking into bodies, it was only another moment
before Khmerans lost more limbs, and priests or not, there was no
way to reattach severed bone. Once it seemed the fight was going
well, N’Giwah and Hija joined in with their primitive weapons. By
then, Scar had felled the second priest, and no one was recovering
from wounds except him.

The Khmerans had lost. All that remained of
the battle was dead enemies. No Kulshedrans were wounded. Marlayne,
Borta, and the Tiamatish- everyone was in fine shape except the
rotted warriors. With the threat subverted, they meandered about
groaning and creaking. Then they fell to the ground as a mound of
rotted flesh oozing out of their armor, their weapons resting on
top of sludge.

“What the Hell just happened?” Scar
gaped.

“The dead returned to their resting place,”
Borta replied.

“You mutilated them,” Lortho sniped.

“They were just husks. Their souls are still
with your God,” Borta clarified.

“Mmm,” Lortho breathed. “Not sure I like what
you did, but the help is appreciated…if unnecessary.”

Borta shrugged indifferently; he was just
doing his part.

“Well never mind that,” Scar barked.
“Everyone is unharmed?”

They checked themselves over by rotating
shoulders, looking at their limbs, and spitting phlegm from mouths.
Once the battle high wore off, and overly tensed muscled relaxed,
they regrouped.

“I do not like this,” N’Giwah said. “Those
Khmerans knew we were here and where to find us. Where there are
some, there are more, and they will come.”

“From where do you think they came?” Marlayne
asked.

N’Giwah shook his head slowly before
answering, “I do not know, but it is just as likely they came from
other areas throughout the ruins as it is likely they came from our
camp.”

“You think the others are in danger, then?”
Jayna asked.

“They may be,” Shamara answered.

“We should go back to be certain,” Hija
chimed in.

“No,” Scar said.

“He’s right,” Lortho added. “The others are
just fine. Between our men and yours, I doubt a handful of Khmerans
could best them.”

“But if these Khmerans were part of a larger
group, they could be in danger,” Hija argued.

N’Giwah and Scar traded looks again. Both
were wondering how to proceed.

“What are you thinking?” Scar asked.

“We have made it this far, and I know the
paladin is nearby,” N’Giwah said. “We might not get another chance
to fight him.”

“I can send a few my men to check,” Scar
offered.

Some of the Kulshedrans were practically
dancing on their toes ready to make their way back and meet
Khmerans with steel.

“Peace,” Shamara interceded. “Splitting our
forces is unwise. Whomever runs to the surface might find an
ambush, and those that remain might not be enough to face another
assault.”

“I can take them all on my own,” Scar
shouted. “I will go check the camp.”

“You will not,” N’Giwah countered. “You are
the only one who can face the paladin.”

“Then you should all return, and I will fight
alone.”

“All this squabbling is a waste of time,”
Shamara chastised. “Let us progress. We were all prepared to die,
and as it stands, we have no reason to believe anyone has.”

“Except them,” Pater said and spat at a
Khmeran corpse.

Shamara frowned, adding, “Let those who are
above be, for better or worse.”

Marlayne nodded, eager to see what lay ahead.
Having come to an agreement, they followed N’Giwah deeper into the
sewer, a heap of Khmerans in their wake. At a rectangular opening
in the wall, N’Giwah made his way into the darkness, followed by
the rest. The earthen floor was instead precisely carved of stone
there, and the hallway was similar in design as the ones above the
sewers. Less than a dozen yards in, they found the figure of a
knight in black plate mail guarding a juncture. The Paladin of
Mekosh, the Severe, stood with hands grasping the guard of a great
sword, its point firmly embedded in the stone under foot.

Breaths were held. Scar worked his way to the
front of the group.

N’Giwah took his elbow, saying, “Be
careful.”

Scar nodded and winced before covering enough
ground to reach a polite distance; the distance required for his
arm and blade to make a connection. It was so quiet that Ezlo’s
torch was heard crackling.

“Who are you?” Scar demanded, but the black
armored figure did not stir. “I have killed your kind before.
Lovenhaad is dead.”

The mercenary felt the steely gaze of the
knight shooting through his or her helmet. There was no way to tell
if it was a man or woman. The paladin stood at six feet and was as
wide as many man, but the black steel covered in smoky filigree
revealed no feminine curves, it just reflected the orange light
with a supernatural glare.

“Why are you here?” Scar called out.

“Mekosh demands it,” the breathy whisper
replied.

“Are you a man or a woman?”

“What does it matter?”

“The Goddess, Silwen, told me not to kill a
woman named Ylithia…a rarity for me to consider such an order, but
it came from a Goddess…so….”

Hushed whispers passed between the rear
guard.

“Mekosh demanded I fight the unknown man, and
I will follow my orders,” the paladin claimed.

“We don’t have to fight. The Tiamatish with
me are humble explorers. They just wish to learn what they can from
this castle.”

“No doubt to bring such knowledge back to
their Dragon Lord!”

“Perhaps…but I believe in the Gods.”

Nothing else was said for about two minutes.
Scar’s and N’Giwah’s team just stood passing worried glances at one
another. They were none aware that their leader was a holy man.
Finally Scar shook his head in dismay.

“Please, Silwen told me to see your face and
that the sight would provide my reason for killing the Dragons,” he
announced.

“This bastard’s crazy!” Lortho, no longer
able to control himself, howled.

Hija gave N’Giwah a shove and also yelled,
“You have made ties with this man? He is a paladin in
disguise!”

“Peace, people,” Shamara begged.

The oldest woman was just as surprised, but
age had taught her patience, acumen. While the others continued
murmuring among each other and trying to decide what would be in
their best interest, Scar took a step toward the paladin.

“I will fight you, but not to the death. When
I best you, you will remove your helmet, and I will have my
look.”

“You will not win,” the paladin breathed and
raised the sword.

There was no time for the rest to finish
their argument. Ezlo’s light revealed the two fighters clashing
steel. Swords met just above the hilt. Scar gave a little, and when
the paladin pushed, he spun away and batted his great sword across
its helmet then snatched the plate guarding its back and smashed
the paladin into the wall. The knight replied in kind by raising
its pommel into Scar’s chin, stomping his toes with heavy boots,
and finally delivering a left fist to the jaw so hard Scar saw
stars.

Again swords clashed while blackened shadows
danced along the gray stone corridor. Tensing his thighs, the
mercenary ran full bore into the opposing wall, padding himself
with the paladin. The deafening sound of steel against stone
reverberated throughout the sewers, or whatever section of the
ruins they now inhabited.

Scar pressed the attack with a pommel strike
across the right side of the paladin’s helmet and followed it with
a downward slash into its collarbone, or rather the armor
protecting it. The blow did little damage, but forced the knight to
its knees. It tried to recover by hacking Scar’s shin, which drew
copious amounts of blood for the two seconds the wound remained
opened. Having forced Scar back a few paces gave the paladin an
opening, and it cross slashed while rising. The blade impacted upon
the steel plate over Scar’s chest.

The mercenary stumbled back again from the
blow, leapt back from the following slash, and when it missed, he
struck his blade across both the knight’s forearms with might
enough to cleave a horse in half. The blade penetrated armor, but
not bone, however, the blow was sufficient to force the enemy’s
sword to the ground. Standing on the blade, Scar took the knight by
the helmet and tried to wrest it off with his left hand. The
paladin dove headlong into the ground, which knocked Scar over, but
before the knight recovered its sword, Scar shouldered the fighter
away and then tussled without the aid of weapons.

Rolling around, sliding arms and hands out of
each other’s face, and smashing from wall to wall, the two grunted,
groaned, and puffed, until Scar mounted the knight. He rained one
fist followed by another into the helmet and then tried prying it
off again. Unfortunately, his chin met black steel as a gauntleted
fist drew blood. Scar then grabbed his enemy’s head in both hands
and slammed it into the ground a few times.

When the body went limp, he tried the helmet
again, but the enemy recovered to deliver a chop into the
mercenary’s eye hard enough to create a new scar over the left
eyebrow and cheek bone. Finally, Scar howled like a frothing
madman, tugged on the helmet as he came to his feet, and spun until
it came off. A flurry of light auburn hair whipped in the wind.

The woman smashed her back into the wall and
dropped to a knee, supporting herself with the opposite hand on the
ground. When she looked up and brushed the hair from her pale
bronze face, two piercing eyes of glorious green like dewy leaves
stared holes into him. The helmet dropped from his fists with a
deafening
clank
, and the mercenary felt the wind escape his
body. His heart stopped for a moment, and his knees buckled. This
was definitely Ylithia, and Scar had not witnessed such beauty
since Silwen, the Lover, herself.

“I-I,” he blubbered.

Ylithia’s chin trembled, but she did not look
away. Her eyes glittered with something that wasn’t hatred, it
wasn’t even severity; it was some kind of longing, an ephemeral and
haunting sadness. She snarled it away and rolled to recover her
sword. Scar never blinked.

The knight lifted her blade high overhead and
brought it down within a millimeter of the warrior’s scalp. Then a
tear fell from her eye. Time had stopped. For a second, they looked
into one another’s souls and Scar rose to his feet, shouldering her
blade away gently. She let the tip rest against the ground then
dropped it altogether with more clamor.

“Damn you, Scar,” she cried. “I’m supposed to
kill you!”

“Why didn’t you?”

Their penetrating eyes stared into each
other’s essences in a timeless search for answers. The paladin’s
lips separated, but she said nothing. Curses shot from the mouths
of the others, but both Scar and the knight were unaware of such
trivialities.

“You want to kill the Dragons?” the knight
finally asked.

“I’m not sure what I want,” he whispered.
“Silwen told me, she told me to look at you…and now that I have you
before me….”

The others grew restless and shouted orders
to kill her. Shamara and Marlayne tried to placate to no avail.
N’Giwah finally hushed them by pleading to wait and see the
outcome.

“Who are you, really?” Scar asked. “I must
know.”

The paladin was reticent to answer. She
looked down to her sword.