The Third God: Chapter 5 - Duel at Sunset

The elf was secured on all sides, held immobile by sword points. Gauntlets stripped him of his cloak, binding his arms. He lifted his chin against the discomfort of a spear and smiled, like someone who knew what they were doing.

As the sun began to lengthen the shadows of the palace and the gathered crowd, the people of Ghallistryx watched with eager anticipation, while the king's own immobility simmered with tension. The elf opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced with a punch. It was not permitted to address His Majesty except under direct orders.

"There are simpler forms of suicide," Sckhar finally said.

Edauros began to speak, only to be struck again.

"You'll know when I want an answer," Sckhar smiled. "Now tell me why I should stain the pavement with blood as vulgar as yours." He paused, expecting silence.

"Well trained. You can respond," Sckhar taunted.

Edauros, the elf, pursed his lips, his expression one of restrained intent. "I'm an intruder."

"Elves are not intruders in my house," the king replied, his voice softer. "On the contrary, your sadness can be decorative."

"Who's sad?" Edauros laughed. "And you are mistaken. I'm a dragon." The crowd stirred, dozens of guards standing ready, all the law of the capital at the service of an appropriate spectacle. Behind them, two silver dragons bled slowly, being attended to by servants like sick dogs.

Sckhar approached the stranger, gripping his face tightly with his slender hand. Pink marks formed on the elf's white cheek as he met Sckhar's mocking gaze.

"You," the king said between pauses. "Yeah. Nothing." He released Edauros. "An ordinary mortal."

Turning away, Sckhar declared, "Kill him away from here."

"Ordinary?" Edauros raised his voice defiantly. "Are you sure, Your Majesty?"

As they dragged him away from the ceremonial area, he continued, "Why, then, am I not trembling like all the cattle around me? Why can I look him in the eye? Sorry," he laughed. "In the eye."

The air grew hot, and the king's long red hair blew in a ghostly breeze.

"I may not be a pure dragon, Your Majesty," the elf almost shouted as he was taken away, "but I know I'm not like bipeds. I have dragon blood, and I'm not pathetic like those two who let themselves get caught. I'm more of a dragon than them. I'm here to compare myself to the only one worth it, Your Majesty. The greatest of all."

Blades were raised outside the square, ready to kill him. He continued to speak, and Sckhar listened, but made no attempt to spare his skin.

"Well, I thought that would work," Edauros smiled.

The swords came down—

"No," said the king.

The men stopped, as if the guards were extensions of the dragon's will, obeying without hesitation.

"You have courage," Sckhar muttered. "Consider yourself honored." The honor was a black bag over Edauros's head. He was dragged back, stripped naked in the square, dressed in coarse cloth, and tied to a post. They gathered wood to burn him, and the people prepared to stone another victim. Instead of butcher's work, his death would be a spectacle. Beneath the hood, he whistled.

---

Sckhar crossed the void with slow steps, pacing from one side to the other, delivering a serene and deliberate speech that delighted the crowd. He had a soft, musical voice, laced with a rough aftertaste. He spoke of Sckharshantallas, the strength of its inhabitants, and the resilience of the land.

"Mine," he declared. "From you, from the ground, from the air. Of everything that is mine." The people screamed, trembling with a desire to be possessed.

The guards, clad in full armor, paid close attention to the bound prisoners. One examined them closely, checking each knot as if trying to smell them, one by one. The keepers soothed the silver dragons with sweet nothings, treating them like the most trivial of pets. The air crackled with tension as Sckhar raised his voice gradually. Orion stood rigid, unable to bend his elbows or neck. Darien was uncertain of what to prepare for, and Ingram was nowhere to be seen.

"We don't drink the blood of the weak," Sckhar said, opening his mouth wide, reaching his crescendo. "We spit that one out." The crowd erupted in joy and screams. "Few are our enemies, for we trample most of them." Cheers erupted as fists raised to the sky. "Enemies are few and worthy. We eat your flesh, we suck your marrow. Today, our city will drink the blood of enemies. And not from worms."

The king's name echoed rhythmically through the crowd.

"Today, our cemetery will feast on the flesh of enemies. And not weak ones. They are the powerful, the brave, the proud. Worthy of our attention."

The guards ripped the black hoods off the bound prisoners, revealing a diverse array of men and women. Some were clearly locals, straight and dark like the executioners, while others were fierce outsiders—a tattooed half-orc, an aristocratic human with blond hair. At one end was Edauros, laughing, his reddish teeth on display. At the other was a delicate and serious elf, stretching as far as her bonds allowed to look at him. With brown hair and very blue eyes, she bore a striking resemblance to Edauros.

"I don't know the weak," Sckhar continued. "How many insects do we step on in a single day? Do we remember their faces? Did we learn their names?"

The crowd continued to chant the dragon's name, growing more intense.

"So, take a good look at these faces. We give them our time."

"Scar. Scar. Scar."

"There are also intruders," the king indicated the dragons. "Take a good look at us. They are great entertainment, as few dragons will my people see. Why? Because there are no dragons in Sckharshantallas."

"Sckhar! Sckhar!"

"Orion," Ingram hissed, appearing out of nowhere.

Veins bulging, eyes wide, the knight barely responded.

"Orion, I found two corpses hidden in the street. Two corpses of guards. It's about to—"

"I exist! And my property. Everything here is mine!"

"Sckhar!"

"Eat the meat! Drink the blood!" 

The people gathered stones, and the guards lit torches. They advanced toward the sacrifices. One guard turned around, breaking protocol, and his helmet flew off, hitting the pavement far away.

---

The soldiers, statues forged of metal, blinked in surprise at the unexpected behavior. A small fire smoldered in a corner as the Dragon King looked on with astonishment. The helmet's flight revealed the rebel guard, a man with open features and long straight hair that cascaded free when his helmet was removed. His beautiful face bore the marks of violence but retained an inspiring pride. He sported a well-trimmed brown beard, and a huge cut across his neck was sewn together with a black line.

Gregor Vahn tore a chunk from the seams, splattering flesh onto the ground. Reaching into the hole, he slid his fingers down his throat and began to pull something out. From the gruesome butcher's shop emerged a red, pulsating sword, crafted from carapace, veins, spines, and tendons.

The astonishment was short-lived. The guards surged at him, swords drawn. Gregor managed a smile as he awkwardly backed away, gurgling something unintelligible. Another blow fell as a sword pierced the temple of one soldier.

Because another soldier had thrown it. Covered in airtight armor, he moved like a dancer. He leaped over the corpse that had not yet touched the ground, caught the falling sword, and struck another guard. He ducked, spun around, and thrust into the groin of a third. "Ellisa!" shouted Gregor, his voice emerging from the chaos.

In an instant, war erupted. The soldiers reacted first, but all of Ghallistryx ignited with the desire to fight. The square erupted into a frenzy of bodies pushing and sweating. The remaining soldiers struggled to get through the mob to reach the two.

A roar paralyzed everyone, shaking the city and cracking the pavement.

The king clenched his fists, grinding his teeth, and began to transform. The air shimmered around him, growing hot as the elf form convulsed, giving way to something far larger and infinitely more powerful. The dragon revealed itself.

Darien felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat at the sight of the metamorphosis. It was sheer terror, an urgency too close for comfort. He turned to flee, but something grabbed him, tripping him to the ground as bodies surged around him. The people of Ghallistryx, passionate as they were, could not bear to look upon their king. Most fled—not running away, just moving, desperately trying to rid themselves of the passion and terror that overwhelmed them. The elderly felt their hearts stop, gripped by delicious agony. Others laughed, sang hymns, or cried in pure devotion. Some hurt themselves, closed their eyes, and fainted. Two pregnant women gave birth. And that was only the beginning.

"Ellisa!"

Gregor hurled the monstrous sword, and Ellisa Thorn leaped to catch it midair. It resembled a fencing blade, thin, long, and pointed. Without a doubt, it was a living creature—a storm invader, a lefeu. The sword ended in a narrow mouth that blinked, eager for delicacies. "Black Skull," Orion muttered, almost in disbelief. And louder, he shouted, "Black Skull!"

Without seeing the dragon or noticing the mob in his way, Orion charged, leaping toward his enemy.

"Black Skull!"

Ellisa had her sword aimed at the prisoners when the knight appeared, unarmed and unprotected, lunging at her from above. Orion bore no weapons, no armor—only tunic and rags, fueled by fury.

His massive shoulder collided with her armored chest, sending them both crashing to the pavement. Orion seized Black Skull's head with both hands, slamming it against the smooth stone, again and again. The enemy raised his left hand, driving a dagger into the knight's side. Distracted, Orion pulled his hand to the wound, and Black Skull took the opportunity to throw him back with a vertical punch to the chin. In one leap, he regained his footing.

"I can't believe you're here," the voice from within the armor said. "That doesn't concern you. Why do you always do this? Why are you after me?"

In response, a roar erupted. Orion ripped out the dagger and used it to attack.

"Go away," Black Skull replied, his voice indistinct behind the helmet and the chaos. "I don't need to kill him. Stop chasing me."

"Never."

Ellisa dodged the dagger strikes, keeping the Lefeu sword hidden behind her body as she threw kicks to keep her opponent at bay.

Ingram swam against the crowd, struggling to maintain his footing. He looked in amazement from side to side, observing the panicked masses, the enemy hidden in guard armor, and the unknown figure who had seized the weapon from him. Sckhar loomed larger, glowing ominously.

"It doesn't make sense," he muttered to himself. "He should attack now. What is he waiting for?"

And there were the rest of Ghallistryx's soldiers, metal-clad battalions. They engaged Black Skull's ally but surged toward Orion in waves.

"To hell with it," Ingram grumbled. "Let's take care of the simple things." For him, that meant taking a shot.

Biting his mustache, Ingram drew his pistols, carefully unearthing them from the depths of his clothing. He crouched, sprinting against the frantic bodies to find a higher vantage point. He extended both arms, aimed as best he could, and unleashed gunpowder. Two guards felt the impact as fountains of blood erupted from holes in their armor.

"Here, you bastards!" he shouted. "Your king is an iguana, and your kingdom licks the Kingdom's boots!"

As entertaining as the insults were, it was the bullets that drew attention. Orion found himself free of soldiers as most turned towards the new attacker. Ingram leaped from his perch, running but always ensuring he was seen, luring the battalions toward his traps.

"Come on, you idiots. Come after me, and hope your people haven't decided to wander in that direction."

Feeling his breath burning in his throat, he glanced back and saw his pursuers—twenty or thirty, easily—and gaining ground. He turned one last corner, spotting the markers he had laid for himself. It was a wide street, as were all in the city, perfect for a battalion to spread out efficiently. There were marks on the pavement, and following them, he jumped at the right moments, avoiding his own traps.

Because hidden on both sides, leaning against walls or camouflaged by urban debris, lay small metal boxes—Ingram's recent creations, never before tested. On each face, he had scribbled a reminder to himself: Facing the enemy.

As they approached, the guards tripped over the wires stretched between the boxes, pulling the triggers, and two massive explosions tore through them on both sides. A cruel rain of shrapnel and flames shredded armor, flesh, and bone. Some soldiers retreated, calling for reinforcements—as expected and desired. Ingram sprinted onward, luring the battalions towards his bombs, transforming them into shreds of flesh with his inventions.

"Approved," he growled to himself.

---

Orion felt a new steel bite into his back.

"Come on, friend," Gregor said. "Stop interrupting our work." Black Skull used the distraction to perform a swift somersault, landing away from Orion. Gregor charged, sword in hand, slashing the air from top to bottom, aiming for the knight's left and right.

"Your leader couldn't kill me," Orion growled. "And neither will you."

"I no longer have a leader. And I've also stopped killing."

Gregor sliced across the back of Orion's hand, forcing him to drop the dagger. Black Skull was free.

The prisoners struggled against their bonds, but the ropes remained stubborn. The half-orc howled, forcing his muscles against the restraints that dug into his skin. The aristocrat shouted orders and offers to anyone who would free him. Edauros kept his eyes closed, muttering something intermittently. Occasionally, he would curse and resume his litany.

"You won't make it, trapped like that," the elf said from the other end of the posts. "Why did you have to do it this way?"

"When else will we have the chance to speak to the king in person?" Edauros laughed, still with his eyes shut.

"You spoke to him. You wanted it."

"Exactly. So far, everything is as planned, with one or two unforeseen events." The elf opened her mouth to respond, but Black Skull plunged his sword into her stomach. Orion caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, his eyes widening in horror. The information he had pursued until then collapsed into an undone puzzle around them. Black Skull buried the tip of the weapon deep, which began to pulse and move with a voracious force. The sword drank, its tiny mouth inside the elf's body, sucking her blood in long gulps, swelling armored bags that enveloped the hunter's hand.

The woman rolled her eyes, experiencing more than agony, as Black Skull trembled with anticipation. He felt the solid form of his castle of promises, wishing the weapon would drink faster.

"Yadallina!" a scream ripped through the air.

Accompanied by a crack of lightning, Edauros expelled a white electrical discharge toward the elf's executioner. Black Skull was thrown back, spinning on the ground, disoriented. He jumped up and thrust his sword into the prisoner once more. The weapon opened and closed its mouth, greedy and thirsty.

Gregor opened a long, shallow wound across Orion's chest. The knight's mind drifted from the fight, fixating on Black Skull's bizarre actions. Ingram dashed back, evading the guards in the chaos, now followed by several shaken townsfolk. Darien was nowhere to be found. Everyone felt the air burn against their faces, and every fiber trembled.

A volcanic roar emerged, an even greater terror gripping their throats, dismantling their knees. Sckhar was there.

Whole and imposing—red scales and hellish heat. Three scars marred one of his eyes; his fangs could shatter a tower. His presence alone threatened to kill, just from sheer astonishment.

"It just is."

A blinding jet of white fire, so hot it transformed the air, erupted from his mouth. Black Skull jumped away. The stones, struck squarely, vaporized in an instant. Miraculously, the elf named Yadallina was unharmed.

What had begun as a battle spiraled into panic. The dragon was no longer an enemy but a colossal fatality—a cyclone or tidal wave. Suddenly, everyone felt ridiculous for even trying to fight. Except Darien. Because Darien wasn't fighting.

"Everyone talks about killing," he murmured. "How about saving someone?" With that, he released the last pin, and the two silver dragons were free. Wounded and on the edge of death, they launched themselves at Sckhar with a fury fueled by desperation.

They were imposing creatures, even in their dying state. Yet, they were mere dolls compared to the king. Sckhar towered like a small mountain; each tooth was larger than a man. Each scale as hard as a wall, and his claws resembled temple columns. The silver dragons unleashed their magical breaths upon him, but Sckhar remained unscathed. The single, gigantic eye narrowed, while the criss-cross scar pulsed on the other side. Sckhar roared, demolishing a neighboring building, and swallowed a silver dragon whole, leaving its neck free, spewing rivers of blood.

"Enjoy, you lunatics!" Darien shouted. "Run away!"

Running and waving his arms, he attempted to lure Orion and Ingram to a place where they could steal a few more moments of life. Black Skull, recovering from the brush with death, glared at his sword, its bags bursting with blood. He removed his helmet and licked a trickle that oozed out.

Orion finally saw the enemy's face—wavy brown hair, fierce determination, and an acidic scar that did not diminish the wolf-like beauty.

"It's ready, Gregor," said Ellisa. "Let's go."

Gregor Vahn pierced Orion's shoulder with his sword, leaving it embedded in his flesh. He shoved Orion away and ran towards Ellisa, turning back to the knight as he called out, "There's always a second chance. Remember. Always a second chance!"

"A second chance for you to burn in hell," Orion thought bitterly.

The second silver dragon fell, its intestines spilling out in a gruesome display. Bathed in blood and covered in shiny scales, Sckhar turned toward the bipeds. Darien crouched quickly, untying the prisoners, as if that could make up for a life of sin. The king opened his mouth, and white heat illuminated his throat. Orion scanned the area, spotting a discarded shield from a fallen warrior. They would all die. But, in an act of supreme incongruity, Darien freed the last prisoner, the injured elf. If he could buy them a moment, perhaps it would be enough.

He picked up the shield, pulled the sword from his shoulder, and stood absurdly small against the flaming mountain before him.

"Is it so, then?" he growled. "Very well. Death is only one."

And he positioned himself between the dragon and the others. He raised his shield and charged forward. Edauros took Yadallina's hand.

"You got yourself into trouble this time," the elf said, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm glad I was here."

"Let's go," he replied, his voice weak.

Hand in hand, the two ascended into the sky, as if carried by an invisible wind. Yadallina was bleeding, dripping onto the ground, but she surveyed her surroundings without faltering. At the same moment, they outstretched their free hands, raining death upon the armored guards. Incendiary rocks soared from the heavens, crushing and immolating.

Sckhar turned his gaze toward them, opened his mouth, and began to pour out infernal heat.

Just as Orion thrust an ordinary sword between his scales.

"By the Order of Light! Khalmyr! Khalmyr!"

The insult irresistibly caught the king's attention. Sckhar unleashed fire upon Orion, drenching him in incandescence. The knight tried to leap away, but it was futile. He saw the world dissolve into white, smelled the burning of his own beard.

---

And then, fresh air filled his lungs.

Silence enveloped him in a different place, far from the city. Of the hundreds, only a handful remained: Ingram, Darien, and the two elves.

The air was warm, but after experiencing the king's wrath, it felt almost freezing. Orion lay half on the stone floor, still within sight of the capital and the volcanoes. He grasped the shield straps, which had completely melted. His left arm felt nothing; the least injured areas had melted instead of charred. A slight burning sensation lingered across his body—he looked down and saw burns. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, and it was him.

Around him were Ingram and Darien. The dwarf stared wide-eyed, mouth agape beneath his mustache. The boy remained quiet, seemingly trying to comprehend the chaos. And then there were the two elves—the prisoners. The man knelt, panting heavily, while the woman lay cradled on his lap, very pale, dotted with purple veins, bleeding from two deep wounds, one hand outstretched in a frozen gesture.

"You idiot," Edauros said, his voice trembling. "You idiot." He kissed her hair with infinite tenderness.

"Why?" Orion began.

"Edauros. Great pleasure." He glanced at the knight, half-shrugging. "It was her. Because you needed it."

Orion looked at himself and then at the others. A sense of pain began to settle in.

"You're burned," Edauros pointed out.

"And the truth."

"Orion, we need it," Ingram urged, but was interrupted.

"You...?" Orion asked, glancing at the elf.

"Yadallina." She attempted to rise, but Edauros held her back, offering comfort and gentle words. "Why do you...?"

"Because you needed it," the knight replied, feeling the pain intensify. "We're not doing well at all," Yadallina said, her voice weak.

Orion tested his right hand; it still worked. No such luck for the left. "This is my sister," said Edauros, kissing her hair once more. "Wherever I take her, she gets into trouble."