The Third God: Chapter 3 - Trust

Armor stacked in a bag on his back, identity hidden and without a symbol of the Order of Light — thus began the adventures and misfortunes. Orion, Ingram, and Darien were hiding in plain sight in Ghallistryx, the capital of Sckharshantallas. It was impossible not to be seen in the city; the streets were wide enough to contain an army. There were no dark alleys or labyrinths of shacks. The entire city was tall, ambitious, and awe-inspiring, built for a dragon. Everything reinforced the impression of being smaller. The doors were elongated mouths, opening with the solemn slowness of a king's yawn. Towers poked the sky, displaying architecture that twisted and formed arabesques. The ground was paved with smooth stones, imposing pride and preventing mud. People walked with their heads held high, even more so now, because it was a festival.

"Nice period crap," Darien said.

Orion gave him a discreet punch in the ribs.

Shiny guards marched in a continuous stream. They were tall, brutish men dressed in reddish steel armor, decorated with scales and draconic wings. Helmets that showed their mouths but hid their eyes gave them a non-human appearance, and their boots made rhythmic noises on the cobblestones. The people respected them but did not flatter; standing out among equals, the guards were as confident as the others.

The initial behavior of the three strangers, trying to appear innocuous under hoods and rough cloth cloaks, had immediately marked them. In Ghallistryx, people didn't hide; even the most humble were not humble. Dark faces and dark eyes looked at each other horizontally, in a collective superiority. The foreigners sweated profusely, roasted by the sun and the oven air that hovered in the kingdom, but the natives did not seem to suffer that indignity.

"I bet they eat coal and fart sparks," Ingram said.

And, on top of everything, there was the festival.

At first, upon entering the city, the three could not discern the unrest. Soon, they saw the first long line of hidden people and a gigantic wicker frame in the shape of a dragon. The thing danced and writhed, followed by an entourage singing at the top of their lungs. Soldiers marched alongside, patriotic cheers cutting through the sounds of celebration. There were clusters of hubbub, something like fear. The three remembered the ice in their stomachs when they saw the dragons, even from afar. Wouldn't those people be more used to it?

"There's something wrong here," Ingram said. "The party is one thing, but something is bothering these people."

Orion pressed his mouth behind his beard. "The dragons," he said at last. "There shouldn't be other dragons."

Sckharshantallas was Sckhar's domain. Any dragon that entered would be challenging and would be killed. But even that didn't dampen the celebrations. The Dragon Festival was already reaching its peak. After several days of music, parades, theater, and banquets, the main events broke out: the greatest allegories, the most elaborate fireworks, and the most striking performances. During the Festival, events from the history of Arton were represented throughout the city—the Great Battle on the southern continent, the destruction of the Paladin, the humans' journey to Valkaria. Suddenly short of breath, Orion saw that a troupe was reenacting the Fall of Norm.

"Come on, old man," Ingram pulled him. "You don't have to stay to see this nonsense."

Walking among a group of masked dancers, they arrived at a square where the Revolt of the Three was being staged. An ancient story that was largely unknown, with a hundred versions based on the little that was known. Valkaria, Tillian, and the forgotten god called "the Third" had committed a crime. The Pantheon, led by Khalmyr, had decided to punish them, and the three gods had rebelled, trying to take control of their brothers. There was a war, which the Three lost. Valkaria, the Goddess of Humanity, was turned to stone, and much later freed by her faithful. A human actress with flamboyant forms played the role, twirling in a dance that simulated the fight of the gods. Tillian had been punished by being turned mortal. No one knew what the god had ruled, but the actor who played him was a tall half-elf with effeminate gestures, and the troupe's hypothesis suggested that he was the God of Beauty. The Third had been punished with oblivion. No one knew his name; no one remembered his power. In the play, the Third was someone wrapped in a black shroud who whispered in a mournful voice. No one knew, either, what the crime of the Three was. The play speculated a love between Tillian and Valkaria, jealousy from Khalmyr, and intrigue on the part of the Third.

Which any priest of the God of Justice would decree is absurd.

The public was thrilled with the performance, colorful costumes and scenery enhanced by subtle magic, but Orion and the two soon left the square.

"Okay, what's the plan?" Darien asked. "Or are we just going to wander around until we cook?" Ingram also gave the knight a questioning look.

"Black Skull will have to show himself if what you said is true, Darien," Orion replied.

"By Lena's armpits, I already said that's what I heard. Black Skull didn't come to me to tell me his plans."

"Are you sure?"

No humor or pity.

"Anyway," Darien continued, "what do you intend to do? Save the poor defenseless dragon?"

"We didn't come here to save anyone. We came to kill Black Skull. If the opportunity arises before he does anything, great. Otherwise, patience. Killing him is the most important thing." Among so many hatreds, among better revenges, Black Skull was the only one about whom there was a clue. A good target for obsession.

"If that's so, we have to wait until the dragon shows itself," Ingram said.

"Perhaps. Either way, I'm going to smell that black armor." Ingram and Darien looked at each other. The dwarf turned his face away, embarrassed by the moment of involuntary complicity.

The conversation was low, but it became impossible to be discreet. The most hidden corners were quite open, the sun hit directly on their heads, and the large passage areas created open-air lounges, where everyone was exposed. The processions of acrobats, allegorical dragons, and trick magicians disguised the matter, and the three remained under the camouflage of the party.

"That's not a good plan, Orion," Ingram said. "Indeed, it is a plan worthy of a goblin. If we are seen close to the attack, assuming the attack happens, we will be implicated. Either way, we die."

Orion gave him a narrow look. "Like I said, the important thing is to kill Black Skull, my friend. I didn't say anything about getting out alive."

Ice amidst the heat.

"Orion, what a big load of nonsense—"

"Go away. You've already accompanied me here, saved me against the gnolls on the road. Go back to Bielefeld, or wherever."

"Thanks, sir Orion," Darien said, already turning around. "It was a pleasure, great to travel in your company. Take care of yourself and have a good death."

Orion grabbed him by his clothes. "I was talking to Ingram."

"I'm not going anywhere, you insufferable human. You know that."

"Whatever. But you, Darien—" he clenched his teeth. "You stay with me, whatever happens. What happens to me happens to you. Pray that I have a long and happy life."

❖

"Well, do it right here," Darien said.

Miltham's eyes widened, and he even opened his mouth for a speech that, after the indignant expression on his face, was completely unnecessary.

"Okay, okay, forget what—"

"Would you suggest urinating in the street, Darien? Do you suggest urinating on the floor of Roschfallen? Urinating in the capital of Bielefeld? Urinate on the kingdom, on all our traditions?" Miltham was prouder than ever after his broken nose. His face had not yet completely de-puffed, and there was still a faint aftertaste in his voice. "Do you want me to urinate on the Order of Light? On chivalry, consecrated by Khalmyr? Do you want me to urinate on the teachings of the God of Justice? Do you want me to urinate on Khalmyr, Darien?"

There was a beautiful mental image. But Darien remained silent.

"A militiaman's bladder must be as strong as his arms. There will certainly be some latrine available to us, in some tavern."

The dawn chirped with crickets, distant conversations, stray cats, and winds. Darien and Miltham were out on their usual patrol, looking for some tiny emergency. More and more, the nights in Roschfallen turned cold, transforming work from a stroll into a march.

"And the heart of a militiaman, shouldn't it be strong?" Darien said, before controlling himself.

Miltham glanced at him sideways. "Yes."

"So, we can say that the bladder, the arms, and the heart have equal strength among us militiamen. A great combination of muscles, soul, and beer from two hours ago. What role would the intestines play in this justice machine?"

Nothing. Miltham's seriousness was only undermined by the subtle dance he performed against his liquid distress.

"You know you don't need to be in the militia, don't you, Darien?"

An honesty that is difficult to retaliate against.

"If you despise all this so much, why don't you leave?"

Darien looked at the boots.

"Let's find you a latrine," he ended up grumbling.

Not far away, a tavern still dotted with late-night drunks offered Miltham the hole that served as a latrine. Darien preferred to stay outside, looking at the dark contours of the rooftops, hugging himself against the creeping cold.

From the other side of the door, the familiar aromas of an establishment of the worst kind escaped: drink, sweat, traces of old vomit, smoke, all mixing into a sourness that, to Darien, smelled of innocence. Before, that would have been his environment. Back to the wall, ordinary wooden table, hum of nascent drunkenness, and friends all around. It was a fragrant stench, with an unexpected charge of nostalgia. In other times, those red and ugly faces would have been companions for the duration of a drunk, fighting partners, or opponents in the game. Now, they were citizens to be protected. Or simpletons, happy in their ignorance. If he had the right to just one wish, Darien would like to think again that the world was made up of assaults, laughter, hunger, friendship, and violence.

"With your permission, militiaman?" repeated the voice.

Darien was snapped out of his ramblings when he realized he was the militiaman. In a moment he looked around until he noticed the dwarf, just below his sight. An unlikely figure. With the stony appearance that all dwarves had, he seemed even heavier, weighed down by hair, eyebrows, a full beard, cloaks, chain mail, and bags. Mostly a bundle, fabric and metal wrapping fur, bearing Khalmyr's scales and sword everywhere.

"Excuse me?" repeated the dwarf, with an indecipherable accent. "The tavern is open, I take it?"

Darien saw that he was blocking the entrance and took a quick step to the side.

"Thank you, militiaman. Forgive my rudeness, but I've been traveling for a long time, and I just want a bed to rest in."

Darien was beginning to respond when, in his eagerness to push the door, the dwarf dropped his bags. There were several, made of thick and resistant cloth, with dust embedded in it that suggested a long journey. From one of them, when it hit the ground, gems of all colors splashed out. "Khalmyr's Axe! Help me here, will you?"

Darien knelt down to pick up the countless precious stones, his mouth hanging open and gaping. He tried to estimate the value of it all, but the sparkles danced in front of him, shuffling the numbers, and he gave up. Having collected the treasure, the dwarf stood up and selected some.

"Thank you, militiaman. Isn't it a lot to talk about? Commendable, in a human. May Khalmyr give you fair rewards."

"Of course. Rewards." He shook his head. "You're welcome?"

"It actually seems like the right answer. Give me one last helping hand, please." Darien nodded.

"Do you think this—" he showed the jewelry he had separated—"is enough to pay for a room at this inn?"

The gems sparkled as if winking. Darien slapped himself in the face, forcing himself to emerge from the stupidity. "Sir," he began, "Dwarf master—"

"'Father' is fine, young man. Spill it out."

"Father," he examined the man again, his clothes and treasures, which threatened to slip through his fingers—"this is not an inn. It's a tavern."

"Inn, tavern, what's the difference? Manias of humans, may Khalmyr protect them. Anyway, do you think I can afford a room with that?"

"They don't have rooms here, Father." He looked around, as if waiting for the rest of the circus to arrive. "Why don't you go to a temple of Khalmyr?"

"Ah, but that's exactly why I came, my boy. You see, there are two factions within Khalmyr's clergy. One claims that the god's ax is a representation of his righteous might, while the other says that the ax is his righteous power made material. There was a great schism—" the dwarf was already opening the door, gems in hand.

"No!" Darien closed it and blocked the way. "Understand, if you go in there with this, with these, with so much treasure, you will be robbed. Or dead."

Silence, and the arching of prodigious eyebrows.

"I am a cleric of Khalmyr."

"This will not guarantee your safety, Father. Let me guide you to an inn. And save those gems, please."

The stones continued to dance in Darien's mind, transforming into half-naked women, barrels of wine, and especially long, long roads.

"Well," said the dwarf, annoyed, "my feet are asking for mercy. I don't know if I can stand looking for an inn, my good militiaman."

Crickets chirped, a cat meowed in the distance.

"Let's do this," finally the dwarf said. "I'll give you my bags, and you look for a good inn, yes? Somewhere with a soft bed, where I can enjoy the sleep of the righteous and rest my feet." Without ceremony, the man began to place his burdens on Darien. A couple of gems even fell out of a bag and were soon collected and replaced.

A ball of ice—excitement, disbelief, and opportunity—sat in the pit of Darien's stomach. Suddenly, the roads appeared very clearly in his imagination, the weight and clatter of the stones adding chance, confirmation, and freedom.

"I'll wait right here, okay? I don't think they will rob and kill a cleric just for his cloaks, even in a tavern like this." Once again, he started to open the door. "I'll try not to fall asleep."

Heart thudding in his throat, Darien still had a shred of caution: "How do you know you can trust me?"

The dwarf looked at him as if he had uttered the greatest nonsense.

"He's a militiaman, isn't he?"

"You should be more careful," Darien said, now feeling the satisfaction of a well-told lie.

"It is clear. It is clear." He scratched his beard. "Give me your whistle and your mace. All militiamen use them, right? That way, I'll know you'll come back."

They agreed. The dwarf entered the tavern, carrying the equipment designated by the Roschfallen militia. Darien turned into a black corner, quickening his pace, controlling himself not to run, feeling the small polished shapes of his new life.

❖

Sir Bernard Branalon, the Earl of Muncy, was already gone. But that didn't stop the nobles from invading Orion's castle, a horde armed with decorations. "I know," said Orion, two rooms and a corridor away from the festive enemy. "I'm going to trap everyone in a tower, become a black knight, and fight the kingdom's forces." His smile was a grimace, his beard showed thin patches, and the wrinkles seemed to have multiplied in the corners of his eyes. The joke, said in a shocked voice, was another drop in the already almost full bowl inside Ingram's mind.

"Let's just say it was funny the first five times," said the dwarf. "He arrives. Stop making cheating jokes."

Orion gained the seriousness of an insulted child.

The count's arrival, as everyone had predicted, had triggered a party. But his departure had not prevented the event from taking place, no matter how hard the lord had tried. Orion had tried hard to cancel it, but baronesses and viscounts already on the road wouldn't turn around for so little. The castellan had taken charge of the event, but Orion had taken charge of ruining it. There had been musicians hired (and already paid), but the lord had expelled them all. The food would be the same as the servants, and the austerity of the castle had been maintained down to the last detail.

"You know," said Ingram, "that there is a difference between character and stubbornness, don't you?"

Orion grunted lightly.

"And between stubbornness and tantrums?"

Once again, the knight stopped. A few meters from the hall, it seemed like an endless journey.

"This is all ridiculous, Ingram. Waste of time. Loss of gold."

"And what else do you do with your time?"

A wall of silence.

"And what gold are you missing? Orion, you are a lord, not a virginal bride. You say you don't want this damn party, but you don't think about anything else. Spend two hours talking to these no-brainers and be done with it."

The other closed his hands, took a deep breath, and started walking.

"Orion—" he didn't accompany him.

Orion turned and looked at his friend. "I'm leaving. I can't bear to give advice anymore; I can't bear to see all this anymore. I'll be in Norm. Call if you need anything." All in one rush, almost stuttering.

Orion was silent.

"Ah, who am I trying to fool?" said Ingram. "You won't call me if you need something. Okay, I'll keep coming here from time to time." Orion opened his mouth, but—

"And no one say anything dramatic now. Did you understand?"

He didn't say anything then.

❖

Still holding the purple acorn forming in his jaw, Darien returned to the tavern. The fireplace was off, and it was dark inside. In the hour or so it took, all the drunks had been chased away. The tavern keeper had gone to sleep for the marginally righteous; the door was locked. And the cleric, as was true, had disappeared without a trace.

He also searched, without hope and with absolutely no results, for his whistle and his mace. He would have beautiful explanations to give to the captain within—he estimated the beginning of the sun shining—half an hour. An undisguised punch to the jaw (apart from the bruises hidden by the clothes) could be explained. Staying away from Miltham for so long, without a sign, could be explained, with the help of all the tramp-protecting gods and a little quick tongue. All this together, plus the loss of the mace and whistle (and accompanied by the rumors that would spread among the city's petty bandits), constituted a pachydermic quantity of excrement, in which Darien was beginning to drown.

The only jeweler who had accepted a customer in the middle of the night was a fencer. Darien was received with weapons in hand, as he was a militia member. Even if it was stolen, there was enough jewelry in the dwarf's bags to satisfy everyone and to put the finishing touches on the long roads out of Bielefeld.

But fences didn't like glass jewelry.

They were such gross forgeries that even Darien noticed, in the light of the lamps, that they were nothing more than colored shards. While he was being beaten, he tried to think of the means by which the dwarf had exchanged real gems (or at least good fake gems) for shiny beads and children's toys.

Obvious answer: run away. He approached the city gates, but the watchmen were alert. He would be seen by fellow militiamen, and there would be questions. His Tibares would quickly end on the road. And then? More escape? Robberies? Life as a bandit?

Now, in front of the tavern and just before morning, without gems, without whistle, and without mace, Darien thought about being a bandit again. For some reason, it didn't feel right anymore. He heard a short hiss, and then another, coming from an alley.

"Militiaman."

He turned around and saw — the dwarf. But he was wrong; it was a human. Short, certainly, but without a doubt a human. Bearded, but without the ostentatious hair that the dwarf had. And, looking closer, the features were very different.

It came close.

"Did you lose your toys?" said the guy, showing the whistle.

Darien started to take it, but the man jumped back. "Calm down, boy. You don't want to do something stupid. As far as I know, he's unarmed." He laughed. "And I can call the militia."

Darien closed his eyes with a sigh. "How much do you want?"

"Why, the dwarf sold it to me for a hundred coins. Let's say... two thousand Tibares?" Darien coughed in genuine surprise.

"You're crazy. I don't have that money."

"The sun hasn't risen yet," the man smiled. "Lenders are still open. I'm sure you can find a friendly loan shark."

"How about five hundred—"

"How about nothing? How about explaining everything to your superiors?"

Break.

And then, no more words. Racing against the early morning, Darien found a loan shark. And he owed a nauseating debt but came back with two thousand Tibares. He even tried to escape — a lot of money, enough to buy long months of running around. The idea of being hunted by henchmen (and, even more so, by the militia or the knights) grabbed his throat in nervous nausea.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you," said the bearded man, exchanging the money for the objects.

In silence, Darien swam in a feeling of helplessness. No retaliation. He would even have to hide the blow he had suffered. He couldn't turn to the militia, to anyone. He would have to cover for the two crooks. Or just one?

"Until next time, Darien," said the man, already in the distance.

Darien followed. Sumira. But in one last glance, she thought he was walking like a dwarf.

❖

The guests had not yet retired, and Orion had already forgotten everything that had happened at the party. The previous hours were an indistinct blur. In the dim hall, he walked like a ghost, seeing everything as if submerged through a stained glass window of indifference. He was almost certain he had said all the necessary kindnesses, and he knew he hadn't been embarrassed. But he didn't remember a face, an event. The next thing he knew, he was lying in bed stoically.

He had done what was necessary. And, because it was necessary, he slept. What Bernard and Ingram had said was pounding inside his skull. He decided not to regret it, just to do what he had to: eat, decide, be kind, walk, talk, sleep.

He emerged in a tenuous environment, and he noticed out of the corner of his eye that he was dreaming. He pushed away the perception, so as not to wake up, trying to float more in the vagueness. He had already forgotten when everything became clearer. All around, things that didn't matter. He himself had disappeared, a mere spectator of the dream. In the center, solid and meticulous, three figures.

"Do you need me to hold your hand even after fourteen years?" said the young blond warrior. "That's right, Nichaela." He smiled with evident affection. "Let's pretend there's something left of me."

The girl — no, woman — hid a slender body in elaborate, exotic Tamu-ra clothes. Robes on top of robes, layered in a complex sculptural arrangement. She was as beautiful as china, with straight hair, also arranged in a festive and elaborate pattern. One eye ruined by injury, and in the other, an air of calm, muffling pain. A half-elf, judging by her ears.

"If he's just an image, he shouldn't say those kinds of things," said the half-elf, always stubborn—smiling.

He had spoken to the third one, behind. But he then seemed to remember his condition. The man could not respond, and it was uncertain whether he would hear. It was difficult to notice anything about him, entangled in endless chains. His eyes, mouth, most of his face wrapped in oxidized metal links, with wide coils on his arms, legs, torso, and groin. The chains disappeared into the neglected edges of the dream, and beneath everything was an exotic costume, also Tamuranian. Two curved swords sheathed at his waist, where he couldn't touch.

After hesitating for a moment, the half-elf continued to speak to the chained man. Like someone talking to a half-dead patient, without knowing how to be heard. "Or maybe a part of it still exists, doesn't it?" Gloomy silence. "I think they actually named the child, Masato. It might mean something after all."

The young blond laughed heartily, appearing completely satisfied with his place in the world. In his expression, an absolute trust in himself, in others, and that everything would be arranged, overcome, overturned, or built. Suddenly, surprising the half-elf, he turned to the spectator Orion, as if looking him in the eye: "I don't exist anymore, understand? Much worse than dying. Then, somebody is going to have to sort out this whole mess, sir knight."

Orion woke up cold.

He opened his eyes, and he was cold. Suddenly, he needed to do something else: eat, decide, be kind, walk, talk, sleep. And fight.

❖

The march of the soldiers became more enthusiastic as the hours passed. The feet hit the pavement with an almost aggressive force, in a patriotic eagerness that seemed to cry out for an enemy. The festivities were reaching their peak, as there were great preparations for the greatest honoree — Sckhar.

The dragon king would receive gifts: enchanted or just unique objects. He would hear the odes of the most talented bards and see the works carried out to exalt his image. The people of Ghallistryx converged in front of the gigantic palace. No sovereign could, no matter how much terror he imposed, force dedication like that. There was an endless amount of love and pride in the city's works, gestures, and buildings. People wanted to exalt the dragon.

"That's not right," Ingram grumbled, masking his voice in the hum of contentment. "Those dragons. It's been too long."

"What matters is Black Skull," said Orion, almost to himself. And then, even lower: "Black Skull." A repetition that touched on the disease.

They half walked, half were carried by the movement of the crowd. A low fence had been placed to demarcate the space of the king and the closest flatterers. There were soldiers, but the limits were made more of respect than of physical barriers. As they approached, they felt chills in their spines, the invisible fear that announced the presence of a dragon.

The square, when seen, appeared almost empty. The palace, two hundred meters away, looked majestic. Captains and clerics were finishing preparations of some kind; artists nervously awaited the king's appearance. The armored brutes were different here: their helmets covered their entire faces, giving them a hermetic, mute impression. There were tall black iron posts, where, of course, prisoners were held. Six victims soon stopped, tied up, hooded in black, motionless. Their place was in a corner, being watched by soldiers, like an accompaniment to a banquet. Bonfire preparations lay at their feet — firewood which would soon burn during execution. Adults and children, in the surrounding human anthill, were already carrying stones. Fires would be lit, and prisoners would be stoned. Whoever survived would receive the Forgiveness of Fire, but this never happened. In rough burlap clothes, faceless and shapeless, the prisoners were not of one race or another, neither men nor women, for now. Dominating the area were some black metal structures, meters high, equipped with gigantic locks, lined up in three rows, being handled by men in uniform. It was difficult to know their function, but they were certainly part of it.

"Now, what is the height of any festival organized by a tyrant?" Darien said, without looking at the others. "The execution, of course."

As if in response, their throats tightened. The instinct of fear, the desire to flee without knowing the direction, suddenly grew in everyone in the square. A gasp shared by hundreds, and many feet that tried to move. The citizens of Ghallistryx controlled themselves, but the restlessness grew, their backs (always their backs) tingling more and more, a foreshadowing, until their eyes noticed too. The source, the two sources of that fear — fleeing in a rocketing flight through the city skies.

"Well, that's one less mystery," Ingram said.

The two dragons seen before crossed the strong blue sky, splattering blood on the rooftops. One of them was losing altitude, flapping its leather wings (now with holes) in despair and, when it got very close, terror could be seen in its beast-like eyes. The other was not as injured but described a wide arc to return to the first, spreading a semicircle of red drops.

All around, the hunters.

Riding on small scaly, winged lizards — similar to dragons only in that way — they attacked with spears full of burrs, flails with very long chains. They fired arrows, which appeared in dozens on the thick hide of the two dragons. There were seven in total, and they coordinated under the orders of one, who gave them signals in a kind of predetermined choreography.

With three colossal beats of its wings, the most injured dragon scattered dust and people to the ground, and took to the sky again. Its grimace could be a growl or a cry. With each beat, it climbed into the air a little, seeming to become lighter, the trajectory easier. All reared up, he was already darting upwards, just above the square, when the hunters acted.

Two crossed, in front and behind him, on the speedy drakes. They threw huge nets, which unfolded in mid-air, entangling the beast. The dragon struggled, but one of its wings was stuck. It started to plummet; in an instant, it would be on the ground. Two other hunters found him before that, their long-shanked spears piercing hide and flesh. A sickening ripping sound, and the hunters released the rattling rods from the dragon.

The ground shook with the fall.

Arrows stuck, endless wounds, and two spears that lacerated more with each movement. Trapped by nets, the dragon was defenseless. The men waiting in the square got to work: they secured its neck, shoulders, chest, abdomen, and tail to the metal rings, closed the locks. A pair forced a muzzle on him, and soon the creature was nothing more than a trophy.

The people burst into cheers. From the other dragon, a roar. No longer concerned for his own safety, the monster attacked with indignant fury — not against the hunters, but against what he could kill by the dozens: the people.

To the astonishment of the three strangers, the citizens retreated, laughing and dancing, in little jumps. The dragon opened its mouth, and a yellow glow began in its throat, foreshadowing a lethal breath. But, as if on cue, a hunter appeared in a blur, thrusting the shaft of his spear into its neck. The beast coughed electricity, fumbled with its wings, and two enemies swooped in for the kill. The immense flails rotated, iron balls full of thorns, held by chains several meters long. Slow weapons, but endowed with extraordinary strength due to the long arc they made. The two metallic balls hit the dragon's skull, first making a red rain, then sinking into the bone. The creature still flew, uncertain whether it would die or not, and was soon trapped in another net. Soft as a doll, the dragon was also fixed to the metal rings, locked and safe.

The crowd screamed with joy.

"Two silver ones," muttered Orion. "Khalmyr, there are two silvers." Ingram held his friend's arm, unsure of what to think. Silver dragons were rare, even among dragons. They were also endowed with instinctive purity and honor. Creatures of true goodness, as could only exist in magical beasts. On the one hand, the dwarf thought, it would be suicidal folly to interfere now. On the other hand, it was good to see Orion react. Dwarf and knight exchanged furtive glances and a silent signal. Events were bubbling up in Ghallistryx, and Ingram escaped to the streets behind to begin preparations. The crowd settled down again after the scare. He waved effusively to the hunters, who performed acrobatics on their dragonets. A hardened people.

Even trapped, the two dragons exuded intimidation. The first to be captured had eyes of infinite sadness, watching the humans in his horde, as if he didn't understand why. The second seemed oblivious; the blows to the head had plunged him into a kind of merciful stupidity.

Then, the palace doors opened.

The restlessness suddenly increased. An even greater fear. Not just death, but a feeling of indifference, insignificance. Something huge could break through those doors. But what emerged was a man.

An elf, slender, tall and handsome. Red hair, scar over one eye, erect and calm posture, a monarchist superiority. A mortal. This was the way that Sckhar, king of Sckharshantallas, used to show himself to the people.

His presence was too strong, too disturbing. If before the people of Ghallistryx had known how to control themselves, now they were weakening. They didn't run away — the weakest, on the contrary, tried to go against them and were detained. Some fainted, from emotion or ecstasy. Many knelt, crying. Sckhar was not just a beloved king; he was adored. And not just a king but worshipped as a god. What the foreigners witnessed was a religious epiphany, a sublime moment for those people. And no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't — no could — look him in the eyes.

"My people," said the king.

Total silence. Not even a hiccup. The voice of the dragon-turned-man spread clearly over their heads, as if it were right next to each one.

He raised his hands in a superior and paternal gesture. "Let's bless our party with blood." Turning to the dragons, he said, "We have two intruders."

"Three," said someone.

It was a clear and melodious voice, coming from an indiscernible, and almost heretical, corner in the midst of the solemnity. Sckhar's eye glowed orange, the air became hot, but the figure appeared, which did not leak fear: an elf. Tall and frank, wild, spiky brown hair, straight and smooth face. Bottomless blue eyes, purple cape, shiny mesh tunic. Rips in the pants, frayed black boots, old arrow holes everywhere. From among the crowd, he made his way, managing not to lower his chin, taking firm and deliberate steps. His mouth was very red, and there was a smile of humor and anger.

"My name is Edauros," he nodded, as if greeting a villager. "And the third is me."