The Dragon of Time: Gods and Dragons

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

Smashwords Edition

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

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

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 over the unarmored 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. 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, and pointed it firmly at Scar. Stand.

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.

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 was of little concern 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 forwards. Closing the distance, a dark fist reached Scar, but before connecting, he 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 onto 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. 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 towards 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 Zmajans.

****

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 Zmajan warriors to speak a 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.

Warriors chatted among 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 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 employ 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 will 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 surrounding 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.

One warrior produced a telescope. Looking through glass for a moment, he was silent. Then, he turned to the mercenary.

The three lookouts on the roof have not seen us, and I did not see anyone looking to the south through their windows, the soldier answered.

Excellent, Scar sighed. "Taking this tower by surprise allows the Kulshedrans to continue running their supply wagons. Their horse drawn carts stop at each outpost along the Satronian border, carrying goods. Therein lays the second portion of Zoltek’s strategy.

With the supply wagon compromised, storming the adjacent outposts is a much easier task, especially after my suggestion of utilizing the wagons for an ambush.

Some of the warriors glanced at each other. Their frowns and furrowed brows were indications of disbelief. Zmajans considered themselves masters of the art of war, but then they had yet to dethrone King Gilgamesh and take Satrone for themselves.

Scar slowly climbed the sandy hill. At the top, amidst stunted shrubberies, he lied on his stomach. A beaten path through the thin chaparral rounded the tower. Two more paths curved to the east and the west. It was evident by twin tracks that supply wagons came around on a regular basis. Scar maintained his observation. No wagon was in sight, and it was too dusty to see any other tower on the black horizon. The silence was his only concern. They may yet hear our approach.

He climbed back down and addressed his group, saying, Men, we must move slowly, lest our heavy feet draw unwanted attention.

They nodded in understanding. Scar rounded the hill and skulked the remaining distance to the outpost. His eyes were wide, ready for any movement. The soldiers behind him grit their teeth while doing their best to remain quiet. Before long, they reached the beaten path. With backs pressed to the brown stone of the tower, they waited for Scar to mount the attack.

He approached the enormous entryway at the base and peeked inside. The structure of the tower, as was similar to those of Zmajan architecture, was a four-entry crossway at the base with a staircase leading to the top. The size of the entrances also allowed the supply wagons to pull directly into the tower. From his position, Scar saw two men with bronzed skin clad in brown leather armor.

The guards sat at a table, chatting; they had no clue bloodthirsty Zmajans had arrived with slaughter on the mind. Scar turned back to his men and pointed to round the other side. He counted ten seconds after they moved. Then, he rushed inside with his great sword at the ready.

The Kulshedrans had not even the time to comprehend the situation. Scar slashed, and one’s head fell from his body. The other just came to his feet, but Scar had kept the momentum of his swing going by carrying the sword overhead. With a vertical slash, he killed the second man. In less than five seconds, the base of the outpost was secured.

Scar held his left fist up. In silence, the men waited a moment. When no clamor from above resounded, Scar took the lead again. He rushed past a long table lined with lanterns, plates of dried fruit, and Kulshedran corpses, to the steps at the far end. Battle lusty Zmajans followed behind Scar. Aware of the plan of attack, four grumbling soldiers remained at the base in the event of Kulshedran support from whatever sights unseen.

Twenty steps up from the base of the outpost was another large room similar in design only with windows in place of doorways. Coming off the steps, the Zmajans fanned out, and slew three Kulshedrans. Drunk from too much wine, the enemy gave no resistance.

Once more, Scar waited. There was no sound indicating their presence was known, and he proceeded up more steps, only with four less men to remain on the second floor. Twenty steps up, he spilled into the third room; it was lined with rows of beds.

Caught unawares, a Kulshedran guard gasped and made to grab his spear. A Zmajan warrior chucked his javelin. It struck the guard high in the back, and he crashed to the floor with a great deal of noise. Roused by the attack, the slow waking guards tried to resist, but Scar and the soldiers made easy of work the enemy. Sleeping lions make easy prey, Scar laughed to himself.

I’ll take the roof, the mercenary whispered.

He walked slowly. Time was of little importance. The tower had been secured, leaving as his only concern the Kulshedrans’ gong. Aid was likely too far to pose the Zmajans any immediate threat, but negligence was outside of Scar’s approach. Coming close to the last steps, his bald, white head poked through the floor.

Hey, a dozing Kulshedran asked in shock.

One made for the gong while the other swung an axe at Scar. He parried by simply pointing his blade forwards. Following up with a lunge to the top step, he stabbed the guard in the midsection, leapt up to the floor, and spun with a slash across the back of the man about to ring the gong. The blow killed the enemy, but Scar left his flank open.

The remaining Kulshedran slashed at exposed skin. With a groan, Scar twisted his sword hand. The action brought his pommel against the guard’s head. Staggered from the blow, the Kulshedran was susceptible to a kick in the gut. The mercenary’s immense foot sent the man into the tower’s guardrail and over it. The enemy plummeted close to a hundred feet.

The four Zmajans at the base saw the guard hit the ground. A large puff of dust rose, but was quickly carried away by the subtle winds.

Guess he’s done it, one soldier chuckled.

On the roof, beneath a thin, whipping cloth for daytime shade, Scar took the rotating ballista. A bolt was already loaded. By pushing against a horizontal beam built into the framework, he pointed the giant weapon to the south where the remaining Zmajans along with General Dumar waited for the signal that the supply wagon was on its way. Then, Scar went down a floor.

Someone, gather oil and cloths, he ordered.

While they did so, he went back to the roof and took a seat in a wicker chair. Frowning, he checked his flank. The blood was already dried, and the wound no longer ached. He scratched it. Crimson dust crumbled away, revealing a new scar. Why does it heal so quickly? A moment later, a young woman handed him the supplies.

Gratitude, he said.

She bowed her smooth head in welcoming, but did not leave. He looked at her. The black leather was laced over her firm body in aesthetically pleasing ways. Her bosom was small, but her shapely bottom caught Scar’s eye. He smiled. Zmajans were nearly as hairless as he, but the chocolate hue of their skin was breathtaking.

Will there be anything else, the young woman asked.

What is your name?

Kaviri.

Her eyes were very dark green, and the swirling patterns of gray and purple graced her skin like veins on a leaf.

Have a drink with me, Scar suggested.

There were clay jugs of wine sitting on the long table by the guardrail. The fine, clay craftsmanship—a product of Kulshedran creativity—was sublime. The jugs were triangular in design, but tall and elegant with animals etched into the sides. Kaviri took one and boldly sat in Scar’s lap. After a few sips, they munched on the dried fruits and nuts laid out on the table.

How long before the wagon comes, she asked.

We probably won’t see it until tomorrow.

Then, we have plenty of time to rest before the next fight?

I believe so.

They looked at each other. He was practically forbidden fruit to her. Romping with those under the blessing of different Gods was not usually frowned upon, unless they were enemies, but Scar was a very strange individual. His appearance was confusing to all who saw him. He did not look as though blessed by any God, and so some wondered if perhaps that was exactly the case. A man rejected by all the Gods was something to fear, but Kaviri was not easily frightened.

She stood and took a couple of paces over to the table. Scar looked the area over. The relief of a successful mission put him in the mood for fun.

Maybe, I should rid us of this corpse, he chuckled.

Kaviri gave a nod of mock resignation. They smiled then hurled the dead over the tower. The impact startled the Zmajans at the base, but they quickly resumed their own devices.

Now, you wanted to know if I needed anything else….

Mmm, what does one such as you want, she asked with graceful movements of her butt and belly.

That and more.

After a moment of dancing, she climbed his form. They gave into each other while cool winds caressed their skin.

Chapter Two- The second assault

Scar gazed over every inch of dark horizon. The sun was soon to rise, and though he had not slept yet, he was not tired. Even after pleasing sweet Kaviri, I am restless. With his hands on the railing, he shifted his balance to relax his legs then rrubbed his head in wonder.

A warm wind circulated beneath the whipping canopy. With clenching jaw, he took in the expansive scenery. It was little more than dissipating clouds over dusty hills; squat plants of little color grew sparsely. A subtle setting, yet it was beautiful if contradictory to the war at hand. After the moment of reverie, Scar inspected his body.

An overabundance of scars were his only means of self-identification. All he knew about himself was that a few months prior, he was set upon by a squadron of Dracos.

Scar, a sweet voice called. He turned to see Kaviri coming up the steps. How does the morning fare you?

A smile flickered over his face before he returned to gazing at the landscape. I, I was just recollecting.

Yes, she asked and embraced him from behind. Her fingers gently scratched his abdominals. Tell Kaviri all about it.

I was thinking about my first memory, he heaved. Worshipers of Drac, the so called God of Fire; they were certainly fierce warriors. I’ll never forget those bright, orange eyes.

Argh, I dislike the Dracos more than the Kulshedrans!

Heh, yes…well, it was then I learned I was a magnificent bladesman.

Echoes of shouts erupted into his mind. He allowed the full scenario of that strange event, his first memory, to coalesce.

****

Scar simply realized he was in existence. The first thoughts came to his mind as a jumbled mess. Then, the sound of chatter came on the wind. Whooping and hollering resounded. Frightened, he came to his feet, and whipping his head around to scan the bewildering environment, he spotted the large, burly men in kilts. They held big, heavy weapons. Behind the approaching masses were sandy expanses of brown. Mountains graced the horizon. Hills and dunes peppered the landscape.

What’s this then, a towering man with freckled skin asked, pointing at Scar with his hammer.

The motley crew of barbarians scrutinized him as curiously as he did them. They were a menacing force of about fifty, and all of them had reddish hair, and burning, orange eyes.

Where, where am I? Scar blurted out.

This fool doesn’t know where he is? another chuckled. Oi, fool, who are you?

Scar shook his head, unable to give an answer. His eyes darted from bearded faces to axes, hammers, swords; he knew he was in trouble.

I like that sword he’s got right there, a tall man with brands from heated irons said. Scar looked over to it; the enormous blade with holes throughout stood flagrantly from the soil. I’m takin’ it, the branded man grinned, maliciously.

The others joined in laughter, but when the man reached for Scar’s blade, the pale individual found he’d latched his enormous, white hand around the assailant’s wrist, and pulled down to the ground while taking a knee. The action immediately broke the barbarian’s wrist, and his compatriots howled before attacking.

The first order of defense was picking up the wounded man and throwing him at the oncoming warriors. When the forefront fell over,