The Dragons of Time by Margaret Weis

Author:Margaret Weis [Weis, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7869-4295-4
Publisher: Fanversion Publishing
Published: 2015-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Damian…

Damian awakened in darkness. His hands were bound and a sack covered his head. He sat propped against cold stone. He could hear the nervous whispers of the monks outside the jail that was a converted crypt located deep within the graveyard. The cell was dusty with age. A key turned in the rusty iron door, and it squeaked open. A monk removed the sack on Damian’s head. Two other monks grabbed him and pushed him into the cool night. They nervously prodded Damian through the cemetery, careful to steer clear of the skeletal dragon. Mist floated between its massive bones.

Once through the cemetery, the monks shoved Damian into a cart. He sat between two monks with his head bowed, the crunch of the wheels grinding against the gravel path that led to the monastery the only sound. After a few moments, the cart stopped and Damian was taken from it. He was prodded through the crumbled monastery walls and into the courtyard.

A blazing fire burned in the center of the courtyard. Many of the brotherhood stood around the fire, chanting. Damian was led to the center of the circle. The Great Mother lay wedged in an open casket beside the blazing fire. A gigantic wooden bowl had been placed in front of the fire. Inside the bowl was a chair. A circular wooden clasp with small holes around its perimeter was attached to the chair’s back. A table with long, needle-thin blades resting on it stood beside the chair. The monks forced Damian into the chair and bound his hands and feet. One of the monks stepped over the rim of the bowl and stood by the table, while the other closed the wooden clasp around Damian’s throat, then stood by the Great Mother’s casket. The monks surrounding Damian chanted louder, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods.

Mist crept into the courtyard and hovered at the ankles of the monks. The emerald in Damian’s wrist was cold. No light glowed. His knees rubbed against the rim of the bowl.

“I have faith in you, Chemosh,” he whispered. “I am ready to accept my destiny.”

The circle opened, and Kabos came forth. He wore a horned bone mask with menacing fangs. A vest of bones was draped over his dark robes. He walked over to Damian and stood behind the chair, his breathing heavy under the weight of the mask. Kabos raised his hand, and the chanting stopped.

“A tragedy has befallen us, my brethren,” he said. “Tonight’s sacrifice not only represents justice for the murder of our Mother, but also it symbolizes change. For you see, my faithful, dark times can offer new beginnings.”

The crowd murmured, unsure what to make of Kabos’s statement. He walked over to the table and picked up one of the blades. He slid it into one of the holes on the clasp around Damian’s neck, making sure that the point of the blade poked the skin but did not draw blood. He repeated the procedure with the other blades, so it appeared that Damian wore a spiked collar.

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