The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons Read online

  The Dragon of Time

  Book One

  Gods and Dragons

  Written by Aaron Dennis

  Copyright 2014 by Aaron Dennis

  Published by www.storiesbydennis.com August 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of contents

  Prologue - page 4

  Chapter 1 - Waging the war - page 5

  Chapter 2 - The second assault - page 20

  Chapter 3 - Complications - page 32

  Chapter 4 - Assassin - page 39

  Chapter 5 - False Gods - page 50

  Chapter 6 - World's edge - page 68

  Chapter 7 - A prelude to war - page 84

  Chapter 8 - Blessings revealed - page 94

  Chapter 9 - A biased education - page 106

  Chapter 10 - The rebellious son - page 116

  Chapter 11 - Dreams of mystery - page 134

  Chapter 12 - The King of Truth - page 145

  Chapter 13 - Enroute to Alduheim - page 166

  Chapter 14 - Beseeched - page 180

  Chapter 15 - The Malababwen border - page 189

  Chapter 16 - Tribal tensions - page 197

  Chapter 17 - The paladin - page 213

  Chapter 18 - Gods and Dragons - page 240

  Chapter 19 - Life in the bosom of love - page 269

  Chapter 20 - A Closic way of life - page 291

  Chapter 21 - Burning bridges - page 314

  Chapter 22 - The long haul - page 350

  Chapter 23 - Guests of honor - page 371

  Chapter 24 - Drangue - page 382

  Prologue-

  Most people worship the Gods, if haphazardly, but there are some who claim that the Gods are liars, that they are not Gods at all. It is strange to conceive of an ephemeral voice, which grants magical powers, as anything but a God and there is no proof otherwise. A great many men have gone to war over such a premise, yet the worst of war combines the arrogance of kings with the ignorance of pawns.

  The nonbelievers are easily cast aside by dutiful worshipers of their respective deity, but all too often a man who worships Gyo, God of the Sun, finds himself staring down the blade of a woman who worships Drac, God of Fire. These contests have flared into a war that engulfs the entire world of Tiamhaal. There are many who wish for peace, yet there are many more who desire only destruction. Zoltek, Negus of Usaj, a country on the southern edge of Tiamhaal under the worship of Zmaj, the All God, threatens all those around him with his magic, his men, and his cunning.

  Most recently, Zoltek has hired a pale mercenary to assist in waging war against King Gilgamesh of Satrone, a worshiper of Kulshedra, God of Truth. This mercenary calling himself Scar has no memory of his origins and seeks only to understand the world around him. In exchange for his unique talents with a sword and his sharp mind, Zoltek has promised Scar he will discern the truth from behind that hazy memory. Zoltek claims to speak to Zmaj on behalf of Scar, but only if the country of Satrone is felled in a bath of blood.

  Chapter One- Waging the war

  Zoltek, tribal leader of the worshipers of Zmaj, the All God, ordered a small portion of his army to amass on the outskirts of the Kulshedran territory called Satrone. Small trees grew sparsely around a clearing. A tributary from the river Inliil sloshed over small stones. Urdu, son of Zoltek, stood before the tributary. The setting sun cast shadows over his form.

  As with all the tribesmen in the worship of Zmaj, his was a swirling skin. The dark brown hue was enveloped in patterns of purple and blue melting into one another over his body. With his helmet off, the skin of his head and face held eloquent patterns, too, like colored water pouring over his visage. Urdu’s widely spaced eyes were fierce.

  “I should lead this charge,” he grumbled.

  Warriors clad in black leather, and gripping their menacing steel weapons, chatted among themselves. One older Zmajan acknowledged the brash, young man’s words.

  “Don’t be foolish, Urdu. Your father put Scar at the forefront of the vanguard for a reason,” the older man said in a raspy tone.

  Portions of his color adorned skin showed through the uncovered areas of his body. His helmet, also black leather and with rams’ horns mounted on the sides, hid the patterns on his aged face. Urdu stormed over to the man with a scowl.

  “You dare talk down to me?” he howled.

  “Show the General some respect,” another man chastised.

  Urdu glared at his fellow tribesmen then returned his attention to General Dumar.

  “I’m the better fighter, not Scar,” Urdu judged the strange man sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  The massive one called Scar did not so much as stir. Eyes turned to the only light skinned man there; he was pale as a ghost. Sunlight glinted off Scar’s muscle creased stature. A great many healed over wounds were his namesake.

  “This one does not even know who he is,” Urdu yelled to his kinsmen. “Look at him. What tribe is he? No hair on his body whatsoever. No marks. Those gray, lifeless eyes give nothing.” Turning to the scarred warrior, he barked. “Who are you?”

  The hairless man still did not stir. Though he wore little armor; brown leather leggings adorned his thighs, worn boots covered his feet, and a chunk of steel protected his left shoulder across to his sternum, he was a frightening sight to behold. An odd blade stood—tip buried in the soil—before him.

  “Answer me!” Urdu was practically frothing at the mouth.

  “Hey, stop it,” Dumar growled. “The sun will set soon, and we march against the tribe of Kulshedra. There is no time for squabbling.”

  “Not to mention your outburst will give our position away,” another tribesman advised. “If we want to break their perimeter, we require stealth.”

  “I care not about such trivialities. We are strong, and we are many. We will wet our blades with Kulshedran blood. Zmaj has blessed us,” Urdu argued. Then he approached Scar. “Tell me, mercenary, you don’t really believe you’re fit to lead this charge; a timid, godless, ghost.”

  Scar finally looked up to Urdu, but said nothing. His calloused, unblinking stare further enraged the young man.

  “That’s it,” Urdu growled through clenched teeth. “I challenge you here and now. We fight, and he who lives leads. I will make my father proud.”

  “Your father will feel no pride for a corpse,” Scar said and looked back to the hard packed soil of the edge of the Usajan border.

  Urdu spat at the ground, drew a jagged, steel blade made to look like a bolt of lightning from a sheath on his hip, and pointed it firmly at Scar.

  “Stand,” he ordered.

  “Put your toy away.”

  “Fight me! You’re nothing but a demented, twisted ghost.”

  Scar gave the wiry young man a look of indifference. The Zmajan’s tight lips were drawn back to reveal pristine teeth. An uncontrollable twitching of the eyebrows revealed his volatility.

  There may be truth in those words. I have no recollection of who I was, nor from where I came, the mercenary thought. “Listen, boy. Zoltek has his reasons, and if you were half the man he is, you would stay your hand.”

  Urdu clenched his jaw in fury. The other trib
esmen, all wet with sweat from the blistering heat, looked on with held breath. None of them liked the cocky prince of Usaj, but everyone feared his father.

  “Fight me, coward,” Urdu challenged and beat his chest with his fist.

  This fool won’t stop unless I do something. Worse yet, to let him lead may get us all killed or captured. I can’t have that, not with everything that is at stake, the mercenary thought.

  “First blood…no weapons,” Scar said, slowly coming to his feet. “I don’t want to kill you. Your father’s reprisal is not something I care to witness.”

  Upon composing himself, the white man with large jaw, prominent brow, and no hair anywhere—face, armpits, or belly—stood seven feet in height. Urdu’s swirled head barely reached Scar’s shoulder. Size didn’t matter to the prince though; he was a crazed beast.

  “You’re the one who is scared to die. I gladly go to Pozoj, the realm of Zmaj, but you, you nobody, you have no God, and when you die, you will rot away into dust,” Urdu claimed.

  “Put your weapon away,” Scar said, cracking his knuckles.

  Again, Urdu spat at the ground. He nodded and stabbed his sword into the rocky soil. A puff of brown dust whipped away in the wind.

  “Gentlemen,” Dumar called.

  “Shut up, you old fool. We settle this,” Urdu said, never taking his eyes off the mercenary.

  Dismayed by Urdu’s display, the tribesmen shook their heads. Worrying about the passage of time and the clamor from fighting, they winced or lightly gripped one another, yet they were unable to control their prince, so they looked on.

  The young man’s face contorted in wrath. He began circling Scar. A placid expression remained upon the tall man’s countenance. Urdu spread his feet then lunged a foot forward. Closing the distance, a dark fist reached Scar, but before connecting, Scar threw the ridge of his open hand into Urdu’s shoulder; the block both stopped the attack and caused the smaller man to stagger back. In reply, Urdu leapt at Scar, who stepped left foot over right, spun, and brought his forearm across the young man’s face.

  When Urdu fell to the ground, Scar touched his forearm and revealed his opponent’s blood to the surrounding soldiers. Urdu rubbed his face. His nose was broken.

  “Good, it is done,” Dumar announced.

  Scar shook his head. His gaze, piercing Urdu’s very soul, brought a sense of utter self-hatred to the young man. Unconcerned, Scar sat down and purposefully disrespected his opponent by showing his back. Urdu was not finished.

  The prince had blood on the mind, vengeance in his heart, and discomfiture in his soul. He snatched his blade from the ground and swung at Scar. Before steel broke skin, Scar drew his sword from the ground; a very large weapon with diamond shaped holes throughout. He swung the great sword behind himself, and easily parried the attack. Then, with unrelenting retaliation, the mercenary stood again. One swipe of steel neatly severed Urdu’s head from his body. The prince hit the ground before his head bounced. It rolled to his feet.

  Gasps washed over the tribe. All were in disbelief. Scar remained placid. Dumar approached Urdu’s corpse, and kneeling, he shook his head in consternation. He turned to look at the mercenary with an imploring gaze.

  “Did you have to?”

  Scar did not reply. Instead, he produced a cloth from the small pack hanging off the back of his belt. Running the rag through the holes, he cleaned his blade of blood. Many of the warriors turned their weapons—swords, axes, or spears—at Scar. He simply looked off toward the setting sun. The sound of nocked arrows being drawn followed curses.

  “You won’t win,” Scar said.

  The men passed glances among each other then looked at Dumar.

  “We will not attack you. It was self defense,” the old man declared. “There is little time for this as it is. Soon, the sun will set, and we will march. Scar, you will lead, as was the order of Zoltek.”

  Scar finished cleaning his sword. There was time still to walk over to the tributary. He gazed at the rippling water flow for a second. It reflected a golden hue from the sun low on the horizon. While cleaning the bloody cloth in the cooling water, he pondered over his recent meeting with Zoltek, Negus of the Usajans.

  ****

  In the nation of Usaj, Scar knelt on the brown strip of carpeting before Zoltek’s throne. The soft fur of deer pelts complemented the gray stones comprising the palace. Zoltek, a figure clad in purple and gold robes, stood from his sculpted throne. Lithely, he made his approach towards the stoic mercenary. The negus’s hood was pulled low, and word was, no one had ever seen his face.

  Scar looked up, seeing only the shadow cast over Zoltek’s visage. Braziers burned dimly behind the throne, casting wicked shadows. Many guards in black, leather armor stood resting against their spears.

  “You agree?” Zoltek’s voiced rustled like dry leaves in a breeze.

  “I do, but I have to make one change to your plan,” Scar replied unabashedly.

  “You think it flawed?” the negus scoffed.

  “No, I think it can be improved.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Kulshedran supply carts, they come by about once every week. We know they have at least two running at all times between their guard posts, but the territory is large. This is my proposition,” Scar explained. “After we storm the first outpost, we wait for the supply wagon to come by. Because a portion of your men will not join the first charge, they wait for us to attack the carriage, and when we do, we signal them to rush from the south.

  “Successfully taking the carriage, we hide the enemies’ corpses inside the outpost and continue making the rounds as suppliers. This way we can easily ambush tower after tower. With enough men, I can certainly take them all down within the month.”

  Zoltek nodded, his hood dangling about. “Yes. It is a well thought addition to my plan. You are indeed smart, Scar.”

  “So, we are in agreement?”

  “Of course. I’m already having men waste no resource in finding your origin. If you succeed, I will personally ask Zmaj. After all, he has created us all, and he must have a special use for you.”

  A special use for me, Scar wondered. He stood and walked out of the throne room to ready himself for the upcoming journey. A special use for me…could that be true? It doesn’t matter…I just need to know who I am, from where I came, so that I might know where it is that I must go.

  ****

  Scar returned before the uneasy crowd of Usajan warriors to speak a last few words before the attack. “Zoltek has arranged Dumar’s force for two tasks. The first, and more difficult task, is to storm one of Satrone’s many outposts.”

  “Aye,” Dumar agreed and stood next to Scar in an effort to rally the group back to matters at hand. “The Kulshedrans’ tall towers comprise the bulk of their efforts to protect their borders. Made from the native brown stone, we cannot burn them to the ground, and worse yet are their long range weapons.”

  Scar interrupted Dumar then. “Three men guard the top of every tower. One man is a lookout. He will ring a gong in the event of an attack. We must not let this happen or many soldiers from neighboring towers will provide reinforcements.”

  Usajan warriors chatted amongst each other about the opposition’s fear and need for numbers to supplement a lack of fighting prowess.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Dumar chastised. “You must listen to Scar. Your negus has demanded it.”

  Scar nodded to Dumar and continued. “Two more Kulshedrans work the ballista from the top of their towers. It is a large weapon designed to pivot and rotate. Though one man is sufficient, Kulshedrans are intelligent. You must not overlook that. They utilized a second man, a loader, someone to load the huge bolt while the other works the aiming lever and release.

  “As you know, ballistae, or at least Kulshedran ballistae, are designed to allow aiming a large bolt over nearly the whole of the zenith. Getting our forces past this threat is of key importance if we are to succeed, and we will succeed or Zoltek wi
ll have all our hides plastered to his castle walls as a reminder to all those who fail him.”

  “Attacking an outpost directly is suicide, something Urdu didn’t seem to grasp,” Dumar breathed. “Though we Zmajans are strong, it is a senseless, brutal death we risk if we are not stealthy in our approach, not to mention we must avoid alarming the remaining Kulshedrans due to our smaller force.”

  “Your general is wise,” Scar said. “Come, let us begin our march away from this encampment.”

  Scar’s portion of the Zmajan warriors followed their leader pro tem in a steady cadence. They were aware of the many towers rounding the perimeter of the Kulshedran territory. Zmajans and Kulshedrans had fought for years and had only ever reached a stalemate. On occasion, a platoon of Zmajans reached the inner cities of Satrone to face off against some of Tiamhaal’s finest.

  Secretly relishing the death of their mad prince, the platoon steeled themselves for the upcoming skirmish. After marching beyond the thinly wooded environment, Scar and his men came to witness the hilly horizon. Nightfall had settled by the time they gathered behind small hills.

  To the north—only hundreds of yards away—the first outpost stood prominently. Wavering, orange light cast by torches within fluttered throughout the windows. It was a clear night, and no moon shone. Scar set his jaw. With a nod, he dashed over small rocks. The dry soil of the southern territories kicked up in his wake. Thirty men followed close behind. Booted feet resounded like a small stampede. Scar made for a larger hill with sparse vegetation. Hunkered down against the mound, the men took a breath. Since the Usaj-Satrone border held few trees, and none in the immediate area, they had a clear line of sight.

  “What do you see?” Scar asked.