The Wrath of Time

“Weathered by storm, withered by spell,

The enemies of Gzarilen

Down through the ages all have fell.

Mighty empires and gilded thrones,

The dragon brought them to their end;

Now shattered stone and broken bones.”

Irjid the Venerable, Song of Eights

The children huddled together as the sounds of violence rang around the poorly lit stone shelter. Quiet sobs gave way to the shouting of men and the clanking of armor. Every few minutes, white flashes of unnatural lightning banished the dull yellow glow of sunset and brought forth the screaming of soldiers and the scent of burning flesh. Shadows played along the ground where dirty windows let in enough light to mock the fighting forms outside.

As the commotion died down, the oldest of the children turned to face the locked door, positioning themselves between the youngest and the armed men searching for them. Some mumbled brave words, others smeared the tears from their eyes and looked to their peers for assurance. All of them startled when the first thump of a steel-clad shoulder crashed into the door. Two more collisions forced the wood from its old hinges, swinging into the room and bringing an armored knight along with it.

One of the oldest boys wasted no time, shouting at the intruder and charging him to push him back outside, but the knight stood his ground, greeting the lad with the back of his gauntlet. The child crumpled to the floor as the man cursed him.

“Stay down, boy. We’re here to save you by order of King Nuark.” He turned his eyes to the others pressed together on the earthen floor. “You hear? We’ve come to your rescue!”

While the boy crawled back to the ranks of children, another of the eldest spread his arms wide to draw a line between the soldier and the others. His blue eyes shown with resolve. “The lady says you’re here to take us to war. To trade our lives for your own. She promised to keep us safe. Safe from the likes of you!”

The man looked outside before cursing again. “We’ve got no time, children. It’s that woman who stole you! You’re her prisoners and I’m to get you home to your parents. Now come out before—” He turned his head and his eyes grew wide. Two more soldiers burst through the doorway with swords in hand.

“She’s finished us, Edrin. I don’t know how many dead but it’s just us three fighting!”

The other looked at the gathered children and shouted “If they won’t come, leave them! We’ve got to run now!” In that moment, a shadow seemed to reach into the doorway and wrap itself around the man’s breastplate. His body lurched backwards out the door, his sword ringing against the wooden post before falling to the ground.

Silence filled the room for a single long second. Edrin and the other knight looked at one another, searching for a plan. They turned around to face the door and backed toward the children, when their comrade screamed. The loud clank of metal on stone announced the impact of his body against the shelter’s outer wall. The term rang out a second time but with no scream. Finally, they heard the cracking of branches and a dull thud on the ground.

Soft footsteps approached. Not the sound of heavy boots or ringed mail but the pat of bare feet on trod earth. When the lady ducked into the room, the two men gestured with swords to ward her away. She was a human woman, but tall as an elf. Her bare feet tracked wet blood into the shelter with her. Blood also covered her filthy tunic and leather breeches, some slowly leaking from gashes in her clothes. Her black hair was so long it dragged the ground, trailing its own blood and muck in from the battlefield. Bright green eyes blazed against the backdrop of pale dirty skin.

Edrin thought she might be beautiful if she weren’t a monster. He pointed his sword at her and assumed a fighting stance.

“No more, witch. You’ve had your blood today. Let these children go in peace, then we’ll see how much magic you have left.”

The woman rolled her eyes as if to gesture outside. Thunder rolled in the skies above the shack. When she spoke, the thunder rumbled again as if to accent her words.

“You want to take them back to the city, knight? You think they’ll be safe there when the time comes? Do you not yet understand why I took them?”

Edrin stared at her, gripping his pommel tight to keep his swordpoint level. Rain began to fall outside. How can I fight a witch who controls the rain? He thought. His eyes darted in silent signal to his fellow soldier, who grimaced before moving to flank.

Edrin turned his head to the side, drawing the witch’s green eyes to hold her attention. “What times are coming, fiend? What doom are you bringing to the innocent folk of Irravne? How have we wronged you?” He stepped away from the witch but held her gaze. A few seconds longer and they would both charge her. Let her death be quick before she hexes us both.

The girl’s long hair floated up around her, as if she were submerged. Edrin’s ally watched in wonder for a second as the hair grew in length and twisted into a thick knot. They were expecting some sort of spell, some gestures and words of old magic, so the force of the blow surprised them when the knot in her hair slammed Edrin directly in the face. Tendrils coiled around his neck and shoulders, lifting him off his feet and holding him aloft. As his friend lunged, she swung about and caught him by the neck, lifting the knight in the air with a single thin arm. He dropped his sword and struggled against her grip as her fingers tightened.

Now was the time for spells. The dark-haired witch spoke words that tainted the very air in the room. Shadows grew and her speech compelled his life’s essence to leave his body. His skin paled and cracked; her own wounds closing and healing as she stole his life. When she released him, his weakened bones broke when he struck the ground. The armored soldier lay still, gasping for his last few breaths.

Only Edrin remained, his face twisted in the same look of terror the children behind him offered. The thick rope of black hair held him firm in place as its owner stepped toward him. Her green eyes blazed with otherworldly power. This time her words were in the common tongue, though they echoed as if an unseen daemon joined her in chorus.

“The lives of humans are short. You squabble over thrones and war against neighbors while the Old World laughs at your petty thirst for power. When I was one of you, I was stolen on the night of my parents’ murder. Abandoned in the woods to serve mere mortal ambition. I took these children so they can inherit your kingdom after I bring down its walls with thunder and flood its towers with rain. Twenty years I have waited, and by the twentieth hour tomorrow Irravne will be no more. Moss will cover stone. Weeds will grow over your corpses. Time will forget you as you have all forgotten me.”

Edrin’s eyes dulled and his lips turned blue as she spoke. His death rattle barely sounded over her words and then he slumped in the grip of that magic hair. Slowly, rhythmically, his jaw began to move. His corpse began to repeat her speech word for word, then again. Satisfied she had left her desired message behind, her hair fell back behind her until it was only six feet long. Edrin crumpled to the blood-soaked ground, his dead eyes open and his throat rasping the witch’s dire oath.

The dark-haired woman turned to the children, waiting for the magic in her eyes to die down.

“Be brave, little ones. My friend Gzarilen, Merrhalli’en Thrau, the Wrath of Time has a soft spot for the world’s orphans. Now then, who wants to meet a dragon?”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Twenty Years Before…

Maurette slipped her fingers into the pocket of her calfskin coat, digging out a pair of engraved silver coins. She narrowed her eyes in a warning as she placed the coins in the hands of her carriage driver. “As we agreed, you were never here, nor will you return to the city in this life.” With her other hand she tossed a plump bag into the driver’s lap. It jingled with the promise of more coins. The noblewoman took the driver’s nod as understanding and looked over her high collar toward the back of the carriage. “You have it?”

The light grunt from her husband signaled he had acquired the large sack from the rear boot. “I have it,” he breathed as he bore the weight. “Let’s get this over with.”

The driver wasted no time turning his horses back in the soft earth of the forest floor. The wheels cut deep marks as the carriage abandoned the couple in search of firmer road. The pair looked on for a moment, finally startled into action by the baying of distant wolves.

“We can make it by dusk, and be home before dawn, love.” Rastin confided to his wife. “Once home, the business is done and we never speak of it again.” He shifted his weight under the plain sack and turned to trudge deeper into the old wood. She followed a few paces back, as if to distance herself from the darkness of her husband’s deed. As if the crime were not her idea.

Three hours passed and the couple felt the ache of tired legs. They passed over virgin brooks and lost the sun in the old trees overhead. Maurette made Rastin stop a few times to check their package was secure, but otherwise kept her thoughts to herself. One more grave sin and life would be forever sweet, she told herself. Just the one more sin.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt end when a cold, damp wind swept from the darkness. The branches overhead creaked and whispered as if plucked from a bad dream. Autumn leaves gave up their ghost and whipped around the pair in haunted eddies. The rising hair on her neck told her the pair were not alone. The voice from the darkness confirmed it.

“The Darkling Hour is upon you, fools. You risk much by walking in these woods at night.” The voice was cracked and ancient, as if the words themselves had wrinkles. Its owner stepped from behind a tree, a woman; old and weathered, leaning on a moss-covered staff carved with black runes. “City-folk like you come offering tribute or they come to die.” The woman smiled at the end of her threat, revealing damaged teeth separated by wide gaps.

Rastin instinctively lowered his hand to the scabbard holding his family sword but checked himself. He eyed the woman for a moment and then looked to his wife. Maurette was visibly frightened but nodded to him. He leaned over to let the rough cloth bag roll down his arm and onto the cold ground. Raising slowly, he made his offer to the woman. He couldn’t help but grip the sword’s pommel to reassure him as he spoke.

“We have made a bargain with the witches of these woods; this offering in exchange for good crops and fair weather. We would—”

“Ahhhhh,” the old witch interrupted. “And a crown. You seek profit and prosperity but you are the brother of King Arald, yes? Did you think we would not know of his passing this night? You would inherit the crown in his stead,” she pointed at the sack laying at his feet. “Were it not for his heir.”

As if on cue the bag shifted and stretched. Something within it moaned in its sleep.

The witch continued. “A bargain is struck this night. I will offer this child to the forest and you will think on this one no more. My coven will allow rain and good earth and the sun will shine on your fields and your house. Twenty years of profitable harvest you will have. But you will never,” she stretched her arm toward the sack again “never return here. Your sacrifice is forfeit.”

Maurette stepped close to her husband and took his arm. “You swear it then, we will have our plenty and our son will wear the crown after his father?”

The witch sneered at her. “Stupid woman. The forest cares nothing for crowns and rulers. The mountain casts its shadow over one empire after another. We will bless your soil and weather and you will wear your crown or not. We have no part in it. Now flee this place before I accept an offering of three lives instead of one tonight.”

Rastin stood his ground. “Your sister-witch, the young one. She said you’d give us safe passage home. Promise me that and we’ll leave this place behind.”

The old woman spat on the ground in irritation. “I promise you no such thing, boy. Your life means nothing outside your stone walls. If you fall by stump or dire wolf your bones will rot the same as anyone else.” The crone paused, as if hearing a secret whispered in her ear. The couple looked at each other in fright as Maurette mouthed the words they were both thinking. Who else could be here?

Nodding slowly, the witch twirled a lock of her gray hair around a long bony finger, then pulled. The couple could hear the tearing sound even over the wind as she pulled the hair free. She muttered strange words over the hair, which straightened and entwined. She then opened her mouth wide and wound the hair around a lone cracked tooth. With an eerie shriek she pulled violently at the hair until she ripped the tooth from her jaw. Blood, colored black in the dim light, sprayed from her mouth as the intoned more words of magic. The hair tightened around the rotten tooth and tied itself off to form a grotesque amulet. The witch held the charm out for Rastin to take, before stepping back into the darkness of the dense canopy. “Leave this place, Rastin Nuark. Them that hold this token may pass safely out of the forest, but only this night. Leave this child and these old woods and never return.”

Rastin pushed the charm into Maurette’s hands as he dug through his pack. The form in the cloth sack stirred, distracting him for a moment before he produced an oil lamp. As he muttered his own minor words of magic, his wife donned the witch-tooth necklace. A few seconds later Rastin snapped his fingers to produce a yellow flame. Once the lamp glowed brightly, he shook the fire from his hands and led his wife on the long journey home.

The cloth bag continued to move on the ground until a child’s arm pushed through the bag’s opening. A lone raven-haired girl crawled half from the bag, shivering in the night wind and scared of the dark. She froze as she heard the approach of massive footsteps hammer at the forest floor.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ten Years Hence…

The young woman stood amid the runecarved stones. Clothed only in the light of moon and stars and covered only by thick braided tresses. A cairn of mismatched stones and bones stood at the center of the ring of monoliths. Each piece an offering from the coven of Sisters. Each offering an ancient souvenir from another part of the world. Diamonds, obsidian daggers, golden crowns, and runecarved skulls piled together in veneration.

The girl admired the gift in her hands. She’d resolved her initiation as a True Sister would require a unique offering. She had nearly died to retrieve it, but that made it all the more precious.

One of the crones thumped her runic staff. “Move, Shalewigg. You have done well in the eyes of your benefactor. Fear not his ire, for you are the instrument of his wrath. You are a True Sister of the coven. We await your anointing.” Six more older witches nodded their approval. Each whispered words of encouragement in a different forgotten tongue.

The woman stepped forward, standing at the circle’s center with bare feet. Her hair trailed behind her like a wedding train. She reached out with her gift and balanced it carefully on top of the cairn. The claw of another dragon, with bronze scales and six fingers.

Wind rushed into the circle and clouds thickened overhead. The moonlight faded and the ground trembled beneath the witch’s bare feet. The witches behind her muttered in their lost languages. When Shalewigg’s vision adjusted, she held the gaze of two shining black eyes.

The dragon’s head was immense, with a crown of gnarled horns circling its scaled brow. Its great snout flared as it spoke. The movement of powerful legs and a thick tail told her the dragon was curled around the formation of stones. She looked down at her offering and waited with a smile.

“You show great prowess, adopted child. And great arrogance. To imply that your gift to a dragon is the slaying of another dragon is to risk much. Another dragon might think us holy. Sacrosanct. Immune from the predations of even their peers.” The dragon’s breath was warm and moist. Shalewigg knew it could also wrack her body and crush her bones.

“Another dragon might, great Gzarilen. In fact, I have no doubt your rival Mennoarkisand thought as much when I found him in his seaside lair. I called to him as I strode upon the surface of his ocean. I swore to him I would slay him with curse and spell as my gift to you. And as a True Sister, I will slay for you yet more.” The women behind her nodded in appreciation.

The dragon growled his assent. The clouds obeyed, clearing away from the moon until a shaft of light shone down on Shalewigg’s nude form. “I accept this great gift, child. It is a wonder you did not bring me my ancient foe’s head!”

The woman turned her head over her shoulder and her green eyes shown with magic. The long braids trailing behind her grew, snaking into the shadows between two of the stone columns. They grappled with something in the dark before dragging a heavy dragon skull into the light. The braids tugged at the grotesque gift until it sagged against the cairn, dislodging a few of the older trinkets.

Gzarilen roared his approval, the closest thing to laughter the Sisters had witnessed. “When you were abandoned in the Feralwood, young princess, I knew at once I would teach you the Old Ways and wield you as a weapon against those who sought to outlive their place in the world. I was right to bring you into my care and counsel. You are wise and strong. Take your place among your Sisters and let me tell you of your next great enemy.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Now…

Shalewigg knelt near the ground, drawing a crude map of the fallen city with a scorched stick. Charred pieces fell away, adding piles of black ash to her rendering of the town. She looked up at the small group of assembled children. Behind her the massive form of the green dragon studied the conquered city’s outer wall.

The witch pointed her stick at one of the children, a small girl with matted blonde hair. She then pointed to a location on the dirt map. “This is yours, Senya, for as long as you defend it. The Sisters will keep you safe until you learn their magic, then you may only have what nature lets you keep.” The little girl shrank from the idea but nodded.

One of the children—the brave boy with piercing blue eyes—raised his trembling hand. “What about our homes?” His eyes widened as the great wyrm scratched a rune deep into the worked stone. He fought to turn his gaze back to his captor as she answered.

“The passage of time erodes all things, young ones. Dry your eyes and fix your gaze on this once-great city. By the time you are my age, every structure will be a ruin. Every stone will be cracked and unfit to build on. In place of this city, the Old World, full of violence and ancient magic, will stake its rightful claim.”

She stood up from her crouch, her long hair billowing in the damp wind. With an exaggerated sweep of her arm, she pointed to her terrifying mentor. Gzarilen inhaled, his great wings stretching out as he filled his lungs with air. The children screamed and covered their ears when the wyrm roared out his corrupting breath against the rune inscribed on the wall. The sound was loud and long, shaking the thick stone that once protected Irravne. A few seconds later, the stones began to crumble under their own weight, suddenly old and dry and unfit for such a structure. Clouds of dust billowed to herald the tumbling of fractured stones. In a few minutes, every part of the wall had collapsed near the place where Gzarilen had carved the rune. Large stones littered the ground on both sides. The dragon turned his long neck and nodded to his prodigy.

“This is the wrath of time, children. All things wither before the might of dragons, who watch us come and go like the seasons. The elves and giants go to their tombs. Great kingdoms sink into the earth; their high walls and towers unnoticed by the eons. But time moves on, watched by the dragons of the world and the daemons below, and few others.

“Gzarilen, Eye of the Forest, ancient beyond reckoning, gives you the bones of Irravne. Reclaim your home. Carve out a swath for yourself. But remember always: there is only one game; that of predator and prey. And there is only one empire, and that is Death. The Sisters will come tomorrow to show you how to keep what is yours.”

The children rose slowly, first one or two by themselves, then in groups. Two dozen in number, and of all ages. Each passed nervously by the green serpent, who eyed them in appraisal. When the last child climbed over the stones and into the shattered city, Gzarilen listened for the sounds they made. For over an hour he observed. Some sat in the streets and cried. Some began to shoo the others away from the wards they staked out for their own. A few played in the streets and a few more fought to settle old grudges. If only they could see, the dragon thought to himself as he turned and launched into the air. His wings pushed down, lifting him higher until he saw over the tallest tress of the Feralwood. Their short lives tell the same tale over and over. They rise and fall, build and unmake, live and die. And only the Truth remains. Nothing lasts forever.

But me.