The three dragons rode into the center of the village. They dismounted and spoke to one another in a strange, hissing speech. Two carried long spears tipped with metal. The third dragon, the apparent leader, had a scabbard hanging from his belt from which the bejeweled hilt of a sword jutted. From the windows of their houses the villagers watched but none approached, leaving Bant alone with the visitors.
The sword dragon finished conferring with his associates. He faced Bant and said, “I am Mekalov. You are this town’s leader?”
Bant found Mekalov’s speech difficult to follow. The creature’s hard, beak-like mouth didn’t move as it spoke; the noise seemed to emanate from deep within his throat. It didn’t help that the dragon’s breath distracted him. Perhaps the heat played tricks with his eyes, but foul, fishy garlic fumes spilled from Mekalov’s mouth in visible waves.
“Well?” Mekalov demanded. “Answer me!”
“We are led by no one but the Lord,” Bant said.
“Bring this lord to me,” Mekalov said.
“He is already here,” Bant said.
“If you are the lord, then gather your subjects. There is work to be done.”
Bant smiled politely. He knew that Mekalov didn’t understand him. He wondered what Hezekiah would have to say about attempting to tell a dragon about God. Would it be a waste of time? Then, setting aside the theological musings, Bant asked what slowly dawned on him as the important question: “What work?”
“A week from now Albekizan’s tax collectors will arrive. By then you will gather in this square half of this year’s harvest along with half of all livestock in the village.”
“Half?” Bant said. “But… but the agreement is for no more than a quarter.”
“Perhaps, in this backwater, you have not heard the good news,” said Mekalov. “Albekizan commemorates the miraculous birth of a new son, Bodiel. This is a celebration tax in his honor.”
“But-”
“Need I remind you that the very ground you stand upon belongs to Albekizan? Anything that grows here belongs to him, and him alone. You live merely as a parasite, feasting upon food that is not your own. We are not taking half your harvest. Instead, Albekizan is allowing you to keep half of his harvest. Be grateful for his generosity.”
“The Good Book tells me give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” Bant said, “but I won’t starve my friends and family. When the collectors arrive we will give them what we can spare.”
“We’re not here to bargain, human. We merely inform you of what will be. You will comply or you will die.”
Bant searched his mind for the proper scripture for guidance. He wanted to follow the will of the Lord, but what was it in this matter? That he yield to authority, obey the dragons, and have faith that all would be well? Or that he oppose the dragons and stand against injustice?
Bant knew that the Lord was on his side no matter what. He drew his shoulders back and said, “We do not fear death. We will not submit to evil.”
“What a curious attitude,” Mekalov said. The earth-dragon drew his sword from his scabbard, the blade singing like the fading peals of a bell. Before Bant could react the blade tip was thrust beneath his chin, stopping just short of his throat.
Mekalov narrowed his eyes. “How about now? Now do you fear death?”
Bant swallowed hard. He whispered, “Yea’, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.”
“Humans have never been known for brains,” Mekalov said. “But you’re something else, boy. Too stupid to be scared, eh? Think there’s something to be gained by this little display? Continue with this foolishness and this village will burn. Its people will be enslaved, if they’re lucky. You can save them if the next words from your lips are, ‘We will obey. We live to serve Albekizan.’ Go on. Say it.”
Bant’s mouth was suddenly too dry to allow speech. Was this mere vanity that caused him to resist? Pride that goeth before the fall? As his mind whirred another voice shouted, “TOUCH NOT MINE ANOINTED, AND DO MY PROPHETS NO HARM!”
Bant stopped staring down the length of the sword, shifting his gaze toward the church. Hezekiah emerged from the dark, windowless interior. He stood on the steps like a tall pillar. His black robes wrapped about him like shadows.
“Hmmph,” said Mekalov to his fellow dragons. “Another idiot. Let him serve as an example to the lord, here. Kill him!”
A spear-wielding dragon charged toward the church. Hezekiah stood, unflinching. With a grunt the dragon guided his weapon to its target, planting the spearhead in the center of the prophet’s belly, driving it deeply into him until the point lifted Hezekiah’s robes from his back. Hezekiah remained standing, looking stern.
“He who lives by the sword,” Hezekiah said, without a trace of weakness in his voice, “SHALL DIE BY THE SWORD!”
Hezekiah placed his hands upon the shaft that pierced him and began to push it deeper until it reached the midpoint. Then he reached behind him and grabbed the spear and pulled it free. He held the spear before him, examining its gleaming point. Not a drop of blood stained its surface. The dragon before him staggered backward, his beak dropping open in shock.
“An eye for an eye!” Hezekiah shouted as he hurled the spear at his attacker. The spear struck the dragon with a crack like thunder. The dragon’s body toppled backward, as his head, eyes wide with surprise, fell to the ground between his twitching legs.
Bant shifted his gaze back to the sword at his throat. It hovered unsupported in the air a brief second before falling to his feet. Mekalov tripped twice in his haste to reach his scaly steed but at last reached the saddle and dug his claws into the beast’s sides. He pulled the lizard’s reigns to turn it back in the direction they had come and set off in pursuit of the other spear-dragon whose steed already thundered down the road in a trail of dust. The third lizard steed-its reptilian brain oblivious to its master’s death-stood contentedly by the village well munching on clover.
“Hezekiah!” Bant shouted, running to the preacher’s side. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” the prophet said, smoothing his robes.
“But-but-but how?”
“The Lord provides.”
Bant nodded as the land around him began to blur.
“Why do you weep, Bant Bitterwood?”
“I… I didn’t know what to do,” he sobbed. “They could have killed Recanna, Adam, everyone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.”
“Did you do as the Lord guided?”
Bant wondered. Had the Lord guided him? Or had his pride? Hezekiah might be able to endure such a serious wound through faith alone, but Bant knew his faith did not equal the preacher’s. For when he had stood in the valley of the shadow of death, when the sword had been at his throat, he had feared evil. He dared not reveal this to Hezekiah.
“Yes,” he said, wiping away his tears. “I did as the Lord guided.”
“Good. For the Lord provides guidance for me as well. Before the winter comes I must leave this place. The seed of the Lord has brought forth a plentiful harvest in this town. Now we are needed elsewhere to sow other fields.”
“We?” Bant sniffled.
“Yes,” Hezekiah said. “You are ready for the next phase of your training. You will travel for a time as a missionary, Bant Bitterwood.”
“But,” said Bant, “Recanna… the harvest…”
“Recanna will stay to care for your children. The harvest will be complete before we are ready to leave. For all else, we will trust to the Lord. Return to your labors, Bant Bitterwood.”
“Yes,” Bant said, as Hezekiah walked back up the church steps and disappeared into the shadows beyond the open door.
But Bant didn’t return to his labors, not for a long time. Instead he looked at the dead dragon before him. The head gazed up at his, the eyes still wide with surprise. Flies already gathered around the red pool that grew around the dragon’s corpse.