The Dragon God (Book 2) (10 page)

The tribe leader became more outraged and his voice intensified.

As the sun’s last rays disappeared over the looming mountains, the Chieftain ended his chanting and stood. He waved off the guttural moaning and then silence fell on the village.

He slowly approached, and whispered to the dak, “Your god will not answer you, of this I am sure. I look forward to your death.”

“I have a request,” Bridazak said in a dry, cracked voice.

“Go on, what is it?”

“I would like some water.”

The chieftain nodded to a warrior, “Bring him water.”

“No, not for me.”

“What, then?” the Chieftain snapped.

“I want a ditch dug around my altar, and I want you to pour four jars of water over the wood.”

There was a long pause as the face painted leader stared into Bridazak’s sincere eyes. He scoffed and backed away.

“Do as he says!”

The tribesmen ran and dug an arm’s length ditch all the way around the wooden tribute. Others gathered four huge jar pots and filled them at the lake, pairs of women lifting the heavy load. Once the trench was in place, they began to pour. The water ran down the wood and slowly leaked into the freshly dug dirt gulley.

Dulgin called, “What are ya doing, ya blundering fool?”

Spilf added, “You’re soaking the wood!”

Bridazak smiled at his friends and turned back to the chief, “What is precious to the Yavakai tribe?”

He sneered back, “The elkhorns are prized amongst our people. The horns symbolize our god’s favor and strength.” He pointed at the tribal tent that was encompassed by the aged and cracked bone of the animals that once roamed freely through the woods.

“Where have they gone? You have not seen any for years and your people starve.”

“Our god wants to see our faith. We will not waver.” The chief turned toward his people, smirking, and raising his hands in victory. “You see this man-child has no power to summon food that only our god can provide us with.”

Just then a low whimper of an animal echoed from the hut the heroes had occupied. A hush fell over the gathered. The leader squinted at the wicker doorway, and then his eyes flared wide when the antlers of an elk-horn suddenly materialized and pushed open the entrance and pranced out into the sunlight. The gasps of the tribe rose as a single chorus. They watched this crucial resource that they had longed for years to see, as it slowly approached the altars, seemingly oblivious to the people surrounding it.

The chief yelled, “This is a sign from Thahaal. He has answered us!”

The animal moved to Bridazak’s wood pyre and laid down at the base. The ordakian turned to watch the villagers’ response.

The chief spat, with spite in his voice, “One elkhorn will not feed our tribe, half-man. This is a fire challenge and your altar still drips with water.”

“You look worried, chief. Perhaps we should douse it with more water to make sure.”

“Are you done delaying the inevitable, ordakian?” the Chieftain mocked.

“More water, please.”

He stared at Bridazak and then nodded to his warriors standing at the ready.

Within minutes, water now trickled in all directions out of the muddy trench. The wood was soaked and continued to drip, all the while the elk-horn remained peaceful at its base.

When the moat was full, Bridazak began his prayer, “God, let these people know that you are the true Lord of Ruauck-El and I am your servant. Let them know that I have done these things because you told me to do them. Let them see your Truth so these people will know you, and they will serve you and no other.”

No one moved. Every breath was held, waiting in suspense. The chieftain turned to Bridazak with a wicked smile of victory—but stopped suddenly as the brightest of lights filled the sky. Everyone tried to look but it was so brilliant they had to bring their hands up to cover their eyes. A low rumble was heard, and it began to intensify, as did the light. Fire came down from the air. It burned up the wood and the water instantly evaporated. The roar of the beam of fire sounded louder than the rushing of a raging waterfall.

The tribe’s leader turned toward Bridazak, fully enraged. He withdrew his ivory horned dagger and screamed through gritted teeth as he approached, “No! You will die for this!” He raised his weapon to strike the halfling.

A tentacle arm of a scorching ray still surrounding the altar shot out from the pillar of fire, engulfing the tribe’s chieftain. He instantly melted like candle wax. Then as quickly as it came, the flame vanished. The crack of a lightning bolt rattled the village and then left them all in silence.

Bridazak’s altar was annihilated, and the village leader was a pile of ash at the ordakian’s feet. From the smoke, the single elkhorn that was summoned pranced out and bounded through the crowd unscathed. Then another bolted forth from the smoke, and soon an entire herd poured out and ran into the forest. The heroes spotted the wobble of the energy field as it broke down; the colors of the sunset became more alive and vibrant. The mist on top of the lake dissipated and everyone witnessed hundreds of elkhorn come to the water’s edge and drink before darting into the treeline one by one.

The tribe dropped to the ground in fear and cried out, “The Lord who Bridazak follows, He is our God forever!”

Bridazak’s friends rushed to surround him. They quickly untied his ropes from the wooden post, and then embraced him. No words were exchanged. They stood silently together, aware that the power of the true God had been shown this day in this tiny village of Ruauck-El. The entire tribe worshipped the new deity, some even bowing toward Bridazak.

Spilf sidled up to Bridazak and whispered, “How did you know?”

“They told me.”

“They?”

Bridazak swept his arm from left to right, across where his altar had once stood. “Yes, don’t you see them?”

Suddenly, four glowing orbs of silver light appeared and the heroes’ mouths opened in awe. Each orb of brilliance expanded and then dissolved to reveal an angel. The villagers continued their praise, unaware of the beings. A soothing aura surrounded the angels of light and prevented the adventurers from seeing any detail of their faces or clothing; shimmering eight-foot tall shapes were all they could make out.

A booming voice filled the air, “Heroes of Ruauck-El, your Father has answered your prayer and this community has been saved. Blessings upon you, who are highly favored.”

Then, the angels’ light became bright, casting a silver halo, and as quickly as they arrived, they disappeared before their eyes.

The mysterious woman tracking Abawken watched from the shadow of the woods, witnessing this unspeakable force.
“Who is this ordakian that can summon the power of gods?”
she thought to herself. She had risked much entering the mysterious memory loss field, uncertain of the true ramifications of what would happen when she left, but her need to fulfill her contract and capture her prey was more pressing. It mattered little now, since the power had somehow been dispelled.

A group of elkhorn suddenly leapt over her and the bush she hid behind. The forest was overrun with the animals. She said under her breath, “Abawken, you have surrounded yourself with powerful friends, but eventually you will be alone, with or without my help, and then I will
bring you back to my fold.” She half-smiled and continued, “Another visitation in your dreams is warranted, my friend.” Abawken would submit to her wishes, but first she needed to rest in order to summon the power necessary for the supernatural feat.

There was a huge celebration in their honor that night. The heroes sat on wicker mats while the people of the tribe danced around the large fire pit in the exact spot God had struck earlier. Drum beats and well-timed grunting gave the rhythm needed as men and women stomped around. Joy and smiles were seen on everyone’s faces. The adventurers were admired and throughout the evening, women and their children, of all ages, brought them hand-made gifts and food. When the meal was set before them, Dulgin wrinkled his nose and whispered, “It smells like dirt.”

“Quiet, be respectful and pretend you like it,” Bridazak responded while smiling at the next person delivering and nodding his head in thanks.

The ordakian agreed with Dulgin, it had the strong aroma of rich soil. They proudly served portions of a freshly slaughtered and charred elk-horn, alongside their traditional staple—a sticky brown rice flecked with herbs and served upon tree bark. Bridazak pinched off a small amount of rice with the meat, and stuck it inside his mouth, politely smiling as he chewed. The women watched him eat and were pleased by his response.

“By the looks, I’d say you hated it,” Dulgin whispered back with a slight smirk.

Bridazak replied, “It reminds me of Dwarven mead. You will like it.”

“Really? Why don’t I believe you?”

“It’s true Dulgin,” Spilf said as he swallowed his portion in discomfort. “Definitely Dwarven mead.”

“Abawken?” Dulgin looked for the human’s opinion, not trusting the Daks.

“Master Dulgin, I think this will certainly put hair on your chest. I’m not familiar with the taste of this mead you speak of.”

“Well that is good enough for me.” Dulgin dove into the pungent smelling meal. He turned his head slightly sideways as he contemplated
the taste, crunching on the still-firm rice. Bridazak and Spilf winked at one another. Then Dulgin glared at Bridazak. Anticipating the dwarf ’s anger, the ordakian was ready to scurry away, but a smile broke through the red, bushy beard instead.

“Smells like dirt, but it tastes great! Now this is what I call comfort food.”

Bridazak, Spilf, and Abawken shrugged and shook their heads in disbelief.

“Are we sure this tribe doesn’t have dwarven blood in them?” he mused as he scooped another helping and bobbed his shoulders up and down to the drum beats.

As the celebration continued, the children approached the heroes in single file and placed white petaled flowers on the ground before them. Mothers, watching the little ones perform the ritual, smiled or wept with joy, knowing their children were safe and now had a future. During their presentation, the rhythmic drum beat diminished to light taps of a wooden mallet on a hollowed tree trunk and the dancing suddenly ceased.

An old woman, ushered carefully by two tribesmen, approached. Bridazak watched with his friends standing beside him. The dak tried to ignore the stares of the people and remained focused on the elder approaching him. She looked into his compassionate, teal eyes, her one milky white eye contrasting sharply against her spotted dark one. The wrinkles on her face spoke of her experience, and the hardship she had endured as the eldest amongst the community over the years. There was pain buried within her, but at the same time Bridazak saw hope returning; she seemed to walk taller than she had when they first arrived.

She shakily extended her hand and grabbed hold of Bridazak’s. He gently gripped her leathery hand and smiled. She turned toward the gathered, while at the same time lifting his arm up with hers, a triumphant symbol that caused the tribe to engage in a high pitched hooting.

Her raspy voice escalated into a sharp shrill, hushing the crowd instantly. She spoke, “Our prophets of old spoke of the season of change to come in the silent days. We have seen, on this day, their words come to pass.” More hooting resounded and then died back down. She continued after lowering Bridazak’s hand, releasing her grasp, and then stepping forward. “It is time to cast our former beliefs of our fallen god and take hold of the new and true God we have seen this day. No longer will our
children suffer.” The women nearby clutched their babies tighter upon her words, remembering the horror of their past. She continued her speech, “It will take us time to adjust to this change and it will require us all, not just me, to answer to the truth of what we have seen today. In repentance of our past, we will celebrate each sacrificed child, one a day, until all have been recognized, in order to repent, and honor the true God. You have heard my words, now let it be so.” The hooting deafened the heroes and the woman turned and motioned for another to join her.

A mother with baby in arm, the same child the heroes rescued, came forward. She sheepishly smiled as she approached. A hush fell as they considered her toddler to be special; the first boy saved from the old, evil tradition.