The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

Book One

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
tribesmen, 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.