The Dragon of Time Three, Dragon Pact

By Aaron Dennis

Dragons have posed as Gods, but the Dragon Slayer has come to Tiamhaal bearing retribution. Sarkany, avatar of Eternus, the Dragon of Time, known to his friends and enemies as Scar, has slain four Dragons; Kulshedra, the Dragon of Truth, Zmaj, the Dragon of Destruction, Gyo, the Dragon of the Sun, and Drac, the Dragon of fire, but there are yet many beasts left. Scheming and concocting, the capricious beasts grow in power as their brethren fall. Their goal; to once again walk Tiamhaal in the flesh. Scar must gather his friends to rebuild an old kingdom, thus alighting the Dragon Wars anew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron Dennis
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463693216

Aaron Dennis

Drop by www.storiesbydennis.com

Book preview

It has been said that power corrupts, and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. In the realms of Dragons, such a statement is beyond contestation, yet there are other realms, other creatures, which wield great power absent malversation. The Gods have come into power through their worshipers, the humans, yet the Gods are not covetous beings. Humans, on the other hand, may have as much in common with the beasts as they do the Gods.

Somewhere in the midst of Gods and Dragons there is a man born of nothing, fashioned as a human from the clay at the edge of the world. Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, was given life, awareness, and perception by Eternus, the Dragon of Time; the creator of all that was, is, and will be. This man has been tested like no other. His anger was forged by truth. His mettle was forged by destruction. His resolve was forged by the sun. His soul was forged by fire. His guiding principles, however, were those of men; hate, love, sloth, perseverance, severity, tolerance, madness, and sobriety. Sarkany, known to his friends and enemies alike as Scar, is on a quest of peace, a peace, which can only be achieved through strife, tact, and patience.

Having defeated four of thirteen Dragons, beasts who have befouled the minds and hearts of men, he continues his quest unabashedly. Ill and good tidings have spread. Men, Gods, and Dragons all know that this man has but one simple goal—to devour the souls of Dragons—yet the rapacious obstruct his path; the brave assist him in his daunting task.

Now, after having aided his friend, N’Giwah of Malababwe, he makes a slow return to a barn outside of River Rock, a small settlement in the country of Eltanrof, a nation formerly ruled by fire. Many events have come to pass; the death of his lover at the hands of King Gilgamesh; the liberation of the Satronians, the Usajans, the Sudaians, and the Eltans; the death of M’Biti in Malababwe. Every experience has weighed upon his heart, yet there have been bestowals of life, love, and happiness. Scar has wonderful friends, a little girl he saved from a raging inferno, and a hope that supersedes his own desires.

In a slow and weary trudge, he passes the peat, marches beyond the cypresses, and as a cooling rain patters over his enormous form, he comes to a halt. During the early hours of dawn, as swaying shadows of foliage grace the moist earth, Scar looks over the remnants of Artimis’s wooden, two-story home. No dogs bark to announce his arrival. No irate Eltan wanders out to greet him. No green-eyed, little girl totters out to take his hand….

Chapter One- Welcoming sorrow

Blackened wood lined the door of Artimis’s home. The door itself was smashed, heaped upon the floor. The sound of accumulating water was audible from beyond the entrance. Scar’s once great stride, then hindered by fear and debris, became an ambivalent shuffle. From the gaping hole in the roof, where clearly a fire had only recently quelled, rain gathered over cinders, soaked into old furniture, brought on the chill of death.

Gray eyes darting about, and with the thumping of a frightened and angry heart, Scar swallowed hard. Mindy? There was no answer. Labolas? Artimis? Anyone?! Only the rain, growing more severe, acknowledged his presence.

He kicked over a wooden stand from his path, rolled the great sword off his back, and gripping his blade tightly, he stormed through the living room, and into the kitchen. There, atop a broken table, and surrounded by vermin, old food, and pots and pans, lied the corpse of Labolas. A spear had run him through; his lifeless body stuck to both the table and the hard wood beneath.

Nooo! Scar raged in impotent wrath. He dropped his sword to the ground, snapped off a portion of the spear’s shaft, and by placing a boot on the edge of the table, he hoisted his friend from the instrument of death. Who has done this to you?

Cradling his most cherished compatriot, the warrior slowly strode back to the living room and gently placed Labolas on the damp couch. Rain pounded. The storm had rolled in. Flashes of light rendered the scene phantasmagorical. Thunder echoed. Scar, crying tears of grief, anguish, hatred, and love, placed his head against the archer’s chest—moldy scent wafted off ragged, quilted armor.

Pulling away, Scar ran a hand over his head. In the recent days, black hair had begun to grow over his scalp, and he flung the water from his fingers. How could this have happened? What am I to do? Where do I even begin?

His calm tone, constricted by the tightness of his throat, belied his fractured mind. Too recently, he and Labolas had concocted a plan to discover the treachery enacted by mysterious forces. Due to their reception of forged letters, Labolas had sent Scar on to Malababwe to recover N’Giwah in the hopes of questioning Jagongo, Queen Chief of the earth country, yet it was discovered that Jagongo had been murdered, and that a man called M’Biti had usurped the throne. Scar had resolved that matter by following N’Giwah’s admonitions; they had killed M’Biti, and before the bladesman was granted the opportunity to kill Tiamat, a new ruler required the Dragon gem for ascension.

Following those events, Scar began his return trip amidst clouded judgment and reservations. He had believed that Labolas, who was scouring the country of Eltanrof, was going to provide their next plan of attack, yet there was a need to inform the Captain of the Legion of Archers that M’Biti had implied that Sirokai, the King of Balroa, was behind traitorous plots—a necromage named Kiechiv had been killed by Tiamatish. The Slibinish were to mount attacks on their neighbors, and purportedly, Hashnora of Qing Sho was the protected manipulator. At that very moment, Scar felt the loss of his friend more deeply than the loss of his own lover. Not only was there no one to turn to in the hopes of unraveling the plots of unseen forces, there was no one to turn to in the hopes of discovering Labolas’s killer, to where Artimis had gone, if he was still alive, and then Scar had an insight.

Before leaving with Artimis, who dropped him off in Malababwe, Scar had sent Shrikal, the Paladin of Perseverance, along with Mindy and Gertrude to her house. He had neglected to stop there on his way to the barn; he figured Labolas was to guide him in due time. Gazing over the form of his friend as lightning yet flashed, and thunder yet raged, he considered carefully the situation.

Labolas would surely search this house first. He would believe that someone might be watching, waiting for my return. They may yet ambush me, or follow me to Gert’s house….

His foremost desire, after wiping more tears from his face, was laying his friend to rest, yet he wondered if perhaps Artimis lay dead somewhere inside. He checked every room and halted on the second floor where the damage done to the ceiling by a snuffed out fire was too great to continue. He had seen nothing indicating that anyone else was present.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen his neck, he strained to fight back an on rush of tears. He snorted before allowing them to come freely; Labolas deserved that much. Outside, as the rain soaked into the warrior’s trousers and dampened the shirt beneath his plated armor, he trudged over muddy soil for the barn, which was also in ruins, burned to the ground.

There is only one dirigible here…. Blinking as he took in the scope of the damage—the ravaged flying contraption, remnants of tools, dismembered dogs, charred wood and ropes, moldy hides—he knew that the destroyed dirigible was the new one Artimis had constructed with everyone’s help. Perhaps, Artimis is alive and safe somewhere unknown.

Just a tinge of hope permeated his despair. Quickly, he located a shovel, which though intact was blackened by soot. Breathing deeply and grinding his teeth, he frowned, stepped around wreckage, found a flat space on the ground free of cypress knees, and as he began to dig, he thought back to digging Ylithia’s grave, to playing with Mindy and the dogs, to sharing meals with Gertrude, and the town’s boys, Sol and Draig. Every crash of lightning, every boom of thunder, the consistent sound of pouring rain, and its accompanying sensation of pleasurable cooling brought unto the Dragon Slayer more confused feelings, emotions, thoughts.

These Gods desire our obedience and worship, but they are nowhere to be seen when the Dragons, or worse yet, our brethren, run wild with malevolence on the mind, he cursed through clenched teeth. More and more is taken from me, and every time I step onto the righteous path, I am greeted by death and loss. No…perhaps, I have not been so righteous, he claimed as he considered killing M’Biti after having promised mercy.

Soon, the wet grave was deep enough. He tossed the shovel aside, walked back to the home, and picked his comrade up to carry him to his final resting place. Where is your bow, friend?

Scar did not want to bury the man as a simple corpse, but as a warrior, as the Captain of the Legion of Archers. He found the bow a moment later in the kitchen, beneath what was left of the table, and wet with blood. He took it and his sword. It was then that he noticed there were no other corpses. Surely, Labolas must have felled a few before his death. Have these people retrieved their companions in order to hide their shame? It mattered little.

Once more, under scudding clouds of deep gray, he looked at his resting friend. Is there peace in death? Perhaps, Borta could answer that. Scar laid the bow onto Labolas’s chest, crossed his hands over the weapon, and began to fill the grave. Labolas Sulas, Captain of the Legion of Archers, son of General Sulas, Satronian…my friend, rest assured, your death will bring peace. I will see to that.

Grief stricken, the giant exhaled. Moments passed as he hauled dirt over his friend. Scar raised his face into the rain. Fearing for the safety of Mindy, Gertrude, and Shrikal, he wondered if marching into River Rock was the best idea.

Since Artimis had sent Sol and Draig back home in an effort to keep them free from evil plots, there was little doubt they were in fact waiting idly in their homes. But will news of the attack on Artimis’s home have spread? Will anyone be able to shed light on this matter?

There was no way to know without probing townsfolk. He glanced at the darkened soil, turned from the grave, and started his trek back to the main road. During the passing hour, the rain lightened, as did the lightning and thunder, but the winds kicked up, swirling the moldy-sweet scent of peat. An hour later, Scar saw farmsteads, heard the bleating of ship, the cackling of chickens, and the swears of men working too hard amidst heavy winds.

Beyond the farms were wet, wooden buildings. The sun had yet to break through thinning clouds. The citizens—red haired people of light skin—didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Some bore freckles. Others had darker hair and with eyes of all colors. They roamed around in the customary garbs of Eltanrof; colorful kilts, full, plaid dresses. Some wore breeches and tunics, but there were no soldiers in River Rock. It was believed a safe place.

Having located a quaint pub, and since no one had batted an eyelash at him, Scar opted to question the barkeep regarding recent events. Beyond swinging, double doors, he was witness to only a handful of patrons jawing away, eating, or swigging mugs of ale. A young waitress offered him a table, but he waved her off to have a seat at the bar. A fat woman sauntered over to him.

Mornin’, Scar, she smiled.

He looked her over. He didn’t think he knew her, but figured everyone knew him, either by stature or word of mouth. A seven-foot giant who had killed the Dragons posing as Gods was hardly a surreptitious man.

Pint of lager, he said. She nodded and poured him a mug, asking after his sour demeanor. I have just returned from Malababwe, he began, cautiously. She looked interested enough, but remained quiet. Before coming here, I stopped by Artimis’s barn.

Oh, I’m sorry, she said, wiping her hands on a white apron.

You have heard that it was attacked?

Attacked? She was aghast. My word, no. I had simply heard that it burned down. Lots o’ storms this time o’ the year. Some folks made passin’ remarks ‘bout lightnin’ havin’ struck the ole’ place.

Then, no one has investigated?

Investigated?

Yes, he sighed and looked around. No one else was paying any attention. I roamed throughout and found a friend of mine dead, a spear through his chest; hardly the work of nature….

The woman placed a hand over her mouth as she cringed. Patrons caught sight of her display and asked her what was the matter, but she said nothing. Scar motioned for her to come closer.

Was it…was it Artimis, she asked.

No…a Satronian.

Sa…tronian?

A Kulshedran.

Oh…my…well, I’m sorry to hear you’ve lost someone, but there’s no one here knows anythin’ of an attack.

I’m sure, he grunted. Have you seen Artimis, or Gertrude, or perhaps a Paladin of Perseverance? When he asked, she shook her head. Then, perhaps, they are yet safe, but I must admit, I am in the dark and in need of some information. There are boys who live here, boys hired by Artimis to build a new dirigible. Have you seen them, or heard from them, or has anyone else come around asking for them?

Do you mean Sol and Draig? He nodded to her question. Seen ‘em ‘round here an’ there, but I can’t have you ropin’ them two into your troubles. Know what I mean?

He nodded again, eying her demeanor; she had shifted from worried to angry. Clearly, she was a woman concerned with her community, and Scar understood her reservations all too well. Not long ago, darkness had settled over Othnatus, a small settlement in Closicus; that was where Scar had gone to live with Ylithia, the former paladin of Mekosh. Gilgamesh’s men had found her and killed her during Scar’s absence. He wanted to bring no such event to River Rock and grumbled.

Thank you, he finally said.

Well, he began to think. That leaves Labolas’s death unresolved, and I must find the boys. There was a stone fountain at the center of town where children played, and the old squabbled or gossiped. Since River Rock was a peaceful place, it seemed the best locale to rest and wait. Plunking down a few coins for the drink, the warrior stood from the bar and made his way back onto the streets.

The winds hadn’t settled in the least, but the rain had passed completely. The faint echo of thunder rumbled a distance away. At the center of town, there were kids chasing each other around the fountain. Some old spinsters—they looked to be sisters—haphazardly eyed the tots. Scar took a seat on the stone framework opposite the women. Some of the kids slowed down to eye the warrior. He gave a tightlipped smile.

Waiting patiently in the hopes of spotting the teens, and drowning in a pit of emotions, the Dragon Slayer tried his best to rally his mind. Ultimately, he figured there were only a handful of choices, but they all depended on whether or not Sol and Draig knew anything. If they know nothing, I may have to travel back to Alduheim, and meet with N’Giwah. Whatever the case, I don’t want to search Gert’s home until I know it’s safe to do so.

He pulled a woven doll from his travel pack. It was a toy he had purchased in Ch’Nako after having met with Dhera, N’Giwah’s sister. He prodded at the tiny knots over the toy. Brown twine resembled the braided hair of Malababwen women. Letting out a sigh of disgust, he yet ached to see Mindy and give her the toy he’d promised. Looking up from the toy, he saw a thin, young man with scraggly, dark hair.

Hey, he called out.

Sol looked over. His bottom jaw nearly hit the muddy ground. Quickly shaking cobwebs from his mind, the boy gave a motion of the head to follow. Scar worked himself upright, and by keeping a slow pace and a polite distance, he followed Sol behind a large, wooden shop that sold house wares.

Have ya’ been to Arty’s, Sol asked in a frightened tone. Scar nodded. The people here think it was lightnin’ what burned the place down, but….

But what, son, Scar demanded.

Look…I don’t mind tellin’ ya; I’m sacred outta’ my wits. I was in there after the fire quelled, and I saw Labolas dead…sorry ‘bout that, but he had told me that people were comin’ and to keep my mouth shut until I saw you or heard back from him. Since there ain’t no hearin’ from the dead, I guess it’s time to deliver his message.

Message? Scar was both terrified and expectant. Obviously, Labolas had known something was afoot. Out with it, man!

"He told me to tell ya’: Keep your eyes on your road. Your, he stressed that, your road, and then he said: I’m tellin’ Draig the rest."

After the boy finished, Scar unwittingly shrugged in confusion. What the Hell does any of that mean?

I figure it meant not to worry about other people’s roads, and that Draig can fill you in on whatever else. Labolas was a good man, Sol shook his head and sighed. I made sure to steer away from Draig lest someone figures we know somethin’, but do me a favor.

What’s that?

I…I’m not a fighter, and I’ve no wish to be one, but you…you can kill these blokes tryin’ to wreck the world.

What blokes are these, Scar growled, grabbing the boy by his shoulders and veritably spooking the pants off him.

I don’t know, but weren’t no Dragons killed Labolas, hey?

Scar nodded and looked away, releasing the boy. Where is he?

Who?

Draig, Sol! Where’s Draig?

Third house left from the cobbler, he replied, pointing.

Thank you.

Gritting his teeth, and wondering if he was going to learn anything at all, he hurried back to the streets and located the dilapidated home easily enough. He knocked on the graying, wood door, and a moment later an old man pulled it open. He looked Scar up and down, frowned, and wiped his white beard.

Draig, the old man turned to shout. He’ll be right out. You’ll understand if’n I don’t invite ya’ in.

With that, the old man shut the door in Scar’s face. When the door came open a second time, Draig, a young man with a wispy, red mustache stepped out.

Hey, Scar, he said, quietly. Wearing a wince, and with little patience for pleasantries, the warrior glared at the fidgety lad. So’s, I guess I’m supposed ta’ pass on a message fer’ ya’?

Please do.

"O’course. Labolas, Gods rest his soul, told me ta’ tell ya’ that yer’, an’ he stressed that, yer’ road leads ta’ Balroa. That’s it. That’s all I know. Ya’ spoke ta’ Sol?"

Yes, and thank you. It seems Labolas wants to keep me from worrying about the others. I presume they are safe, somewhere, and I should think I must make this trip to Balroa sooner rather than later.

The young man nodded. Weighing his options, Scar looked out towards the east where more clouds were amassing over tall trees. Their swaying foliage of green contrasted neatly with the darkening sky. There was a sense of urgency and despair on the wind, yet Scar wondered if perhaps the urgency and despair emanated from himself.

Alright, he barked, making the boy jump. I’ll have to make a trip to Aldurstun, and sail straight to Balroa. Listen, if anyone asks you anything about me, just tell them the truth. Don’t be a hero, but do try to remain safe.

Right, Draig answered, patted Scar’s shoulder, and stepped back into his home.

Scar looked down to the doll he still clutched. Rubbing his thumb over the course material, he took a deep inhalation, and finally resolved to postpone a reunion with the others. It was time to seek an audience with the rulers of Magnum Mortis.

Chapter Two- Anticipation

It had taken nearly three weeks to travel to Aldurstun, find a ketch on which to barter work for passage, and finally dock at Acrypha. It was a dustier place than Scar recalled—built from the bones of unknown creatures and gray stone blackened to create a dreary, frightening place. Gray people streaked with blue lived their mysterious lives in the shadows of the death wind.

Scultonians had purple eyes and black lips. Their hair was black, gray, or white, and all wore garbs customary of the land of death; dark robes, trousers, and tunics. Outsiders were easily recognized if tolerated. Like Scar, they secured a black cloth over their faces to protect from the dusty winds. Swirling grime stung the warrior’s eyes.

It was a tortuous hike from the bony slips to Castle Way, where Magnum Mortis stood like an ossuary rising from a dead land. Beyond a raised portcullis, and between rows of soldiers clad in grim armor, which gave them the appearance of the walking dead, was the enormous, opened maw of an unknown skull. The entrance to the keep resembled a goat lacking horns. Following the bustling hall laden with flames alight in sconces fashioned as human skulls, Scar reached the doors to the throne room. A beautiful lass greeted him, yet her eyes belied her surprise.

I must speak to Sirokai, he growled.

A flicker of doubt flashed over her face. He is not here.

He wasn’t here last time, either. Where is he? Where is Borta?!

My Lord, I must apologize, but you cannot simply barge in here.

Stand aside, woman, he howled. His sudden outburst had her shivering. Disgusted by his boorish behavior, he sighed, rubbed his face, and softened. Apologies, but I am stressed.

I understand, but–

You do not! he interrupted, his voice reverberating throughout the hall. Servants stopped in their tracks to gawk, but he paid them no heed. I fear I can reveal nothing of my mission, yet I must have an audience with Sirokai, and if he is not here then I must speak with Borta. You must understand there is trouble afoot.

She looked away and brushed long strands of gray hair from her smooth face. When she returned a piercing glance of purple eyes, Scar knew she was to acquiesce if reluctantly.

I can leave word of your arrival, she spoke, slowly.

His lips curled from a frown to a wince, and then to a sly smile. That is acceptable, and again, I am sorry for my poor attitude.

Think nothing of it. I am sure Borta will find you soon enough, she replied and added, tentatively, There is a road on the west side of the city, however. If you must…if things are such that you cannot wait, you may follow it to the dunes. There, you are likely to intercept him.

He nodded, turned on his heels, and made his way out of Magnum Mortis. It was difficult to tell the time of day. The sun never really penetrated the thick layers of the death wind. Flames throughout the stacked homes provided enough illumination.

For hours, as his blood boiled, and his mind raced, he trudged over dirty stones and bones. Scant glances were cast his way, yet he was preoccupied with what he was going to say, how Borta was going to reply. There were so many questions begging for answers. While one for thought, Scar’s eyes continued glossing over windswept dunes and valleys on the horizon.

I wonder if Marlayne is yet present—I should have asked that woman—and what of Sirokai? Why is he never present? What could Borta possibly be doing out of the castle? Princes don’t usually run amok, yet he has never been one to bow to ceremony. I wonder what he could know of events in Malababwe, and yet I wonder if my letter had ever reached him. What is going on here?

By the time he had left Acrypha in the dust, it was shades darker. He turned around, but was unable to see the city or the towering castle. The land had sloped on a steep decline. It was a rocky extent brimming with the tips of enormous bones, which looked to reach out from a cemetery like the fingers of fallen soldiers.

Cursing, and wiping his eyes, he found refuge against a large bone, the rib of a long forgotten monstrosity. With the wind behind the bone, the warrior managed to plunk down on the gravelly ground, lower his chin to his chest, and rest for just a moment. Suddenly roused by some unceasing noise drawing nearer, he forced himself to his feet.

I must have dozed off for a second. It was pitch black. His stomach rumbled, and his throat was parched, so he fumbled for a canteen from his travel pack, and as he sipped the stale water, he stumbled from behind the bone.

A dozen yards away, or so, marched a group of men clad in grim armor. They carried torches; smoldering flames whipped in the wind. One of the men at the forefront, though covered by a helmet shaped as a skull, bore golden filigree over his armor; it glimmered like embers.

The warrior rubbed his eyes then dashed up a small hill to wave his arms overhead. Before their leader gave notice, others became animated. One of them, he looked to be speaking to the leader, tapped the man and pointed. All of them made for Scar’s position. Before drawing too near, their leader motioned them onwards.

Scar watched them wander off and hollered, Borta?!

It is I. The man’s gravelly tone was unmistakable. Why have you come, and here of all places?

Borta, Scar heaved as he ran for his old friend. Labolas has been murdered.

The prince remained still, silent. Out of respect, he raised his visor to reveal penetrating, purple eyes. The patterns of blue over his gaunt face outlined wrinkles, which appeared deeper under the light of his torch.

Borta maintained a severe countenance. Following a moment of silence, he said he was sorry to hear such a thing, but had not the time for conversation. They were in a rush to return to the castle.

I must speak to you! Where is your brother or Marlayne? Did you ever receive my letter?

Calm yourself, Borta hissed. As I said, I have no time for this. Tell me quickly as we march.

The Dragon Slayer agreed. They jogged for the platoon. Scar recounted his tribulations, explaining that he had sent a letter asking for Borta to use his powers of death in an effort to discover a clue regarding Kiechiv’s killers. He added that Labolas had sent letters to contact his father’s confidants, but those letters had clearly been intercepted, and responses had been forged by a stranger’s hand.

Such subterfuge resulted in a journey to Malababwe in order to speak to N’Giwah, yet upon his arrival, he had been accosted by a man working for the new ruler of the country of earth. M’Biti had slain Jagongo and taken the throne. The King Chief claimed to be working with Hashnora to protect the world from the Dragons and Scar; he had even claimed that Sirokai was behind the death of Kiechiv.

Borta remained silent on the matter. Scar took him by the shoulder in attempt to reestablish eye contact. The prince looked as grave as ever.

I do not know what I can tell you, he finally said.

Shrugging with incredulity, Scar looked up to a murky sky in exasperation. Surely, you must know something!

Borta pulled away, stating he had received no letter. You are mad if you believe my brother is behind the death of Kiechiv. You are madder still if you believe the word of this usurper, and you are beyond salvation if you believe Hashnora is protecting the world from anything.

I believe you are correct, friend, yet what would you have me do? Someone has now killed Labolas, and before he died he left word to come here, so here I am.

How can you be certain those words were his?

They were his. There is little doubt of that.

Their haul was exhausting. Apart from howling winds, and the crunch of gravel underfoot, it was eerily silent. Borta grew introspective, putting Scar on edge. Another moment of tension passed before the prince spoke up.

"There is little I can say now. Allow me to arrange a meeting with my brother. Perhaps, if he believes it best, and I will attempt to convince him of such, he will be able to shed light on your tribulations. I have been away, you see? There are matters here in Balroa, and too near Acrypha; I fear your movements have sparked a great many fires.

There are as many who wish you dead as there are those who wish you assistance. Both situations are cause for trouble in a land where Scultone is considered a God.

I understand, and you know I would not endanger you or your country, but, Scar trailed off.

What is it?

You recall that I require the gem of Scultone…Drac is dead.

It is not my place to hand it over.

We had a deal, Scar argued.

I know…deals change when circumstances change. As I have told you; you may meet with my brother, and if he bears your plea in mind, I am certain he will bestow upon you that which is necessary to put an end to these craven beasts.

Borta’s words did not inspire calm or closure. Scar believed his friend was behaving strangely, secretive. Frowning, he neglected to pursue the matter further for the time. He trusted Borta, yet he knew nothing of Sirokai.

What am I to do for now? Scar ventured.

Nothing. You must wait. You will be summoned when the time is right. Stay at a local inn, and do try to rest…you look the worse for wear, and I should think that the hair growing atop your head means you are growing weaker.

What? Scar was aghast.

Rather than divulging his meaning, the prince pointed out that they