I Shall Slay the Dragon! Read online

  I SHALL SLAY THE DRAGON!

  Igor Ljubuncic

  Copyright © 2018 Igor Ljubuncic

  To the dragon; the most vilified and exalted

  creature in the history of mankind.

  Except for the gingers.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  No book is an island. The archipelago of creativity for this novel includes: Anton Kokarev (kanartist.ru) for another kickass cover; Charlotte Ashley (once-and-future.com) for proof reading services; Andrew Leon Hudson (andrewleonhudson.wordpress.com) for interior and cover formatting; my wife (localhost), who made sure this book of mine that you’re about to read is safe for public use.

  ALSO BY IGOR LJUBUNCIC

  The Lost Words series

  The Betrayed

  The Broken

  The Forgotten

  The Humbled

  Woes and Hose series

  The Amazing Adventures of Dashing Prince Dietrich

  The Glorious Adventures of Glamorous Prince Dietrich (coming soon)

  Humanz series

  Decay

  Darkness (coming soon)

  And more!

  Visit dedoimedo.com and thelostwordsbooks.com for a wealth of short stories, anthologies, and other cool writing.

  WHAT READERS HAVE TO SAY…

  Praise for The Betrayed (The Lost Words, Volume 1):

  It is hard to match the fervor of fanaticism. The Betrayed is the first entry of Igor Ljubuncic’s fantasy series set in the Realms, as the sect of Feor enters the realm of the old Gods and the people of the Safe Territories must band together to stop their impressive force, if they can avoid breaking down themselves. The Betrayed is an enticing fantasy that should prove very hard to put down, much recommended.

  —“Reviewer’s Bookwatch,” Midwest Book Review

  The characters in The Betrayed are fascinating people who are placed in extraordinary circumstances…This is a lightning-fast novel in which subtle political and religious messages abound.

  —Reviewed by Karen Pirnot for Readers’ Favorite

  The Betrayed is a grimdark fantasy that impresses in its scope, themes, and ambitious narrative.

  —Bookwraiths.com

  Praise for The Amazing Adventures of Dashing Prince Dietrich (Woes and Hose, Volume 1):

  Ljubuncic keeps the reader walking a tightrope between wanting the “dashing prince” to succeed and wanting him to get his comeuppance. The author’s ability to keep the reader turning the pages despite so few not-despicable characters is truly a feat to behold.

  —Lynne Hinkey, undergroundbookreviews.org

  Despite all the completely unsympathetic characters, I couldn’t stop reading. It was like watching a train wreck. Truly gut-wrenching and dreadful, but you can’t look away.

  —N. E. White, sffworld.com

  Ljubuncic’s odious novel takes the idea of the fantasy quest to a new low: Prince Dick is crude, self-involved, greedy, lazy, and completely dishonorable. He has no redeeming qualities and never gains any through his ridiculous attempts to dodge his royal duties.

  —BookLife

  Filled with gray characters, political machinations, amoral actions, and nonstop twists and turns, it will satisfy most every grimdark lover’s craving.

  —Bookwraiths.com

  FOREWORD

  Normally, works of fiction do not require forewords, but in this case, I felt I ought to provide a short introduction, as this book has a few unusual twists.

  One, the geographical locations mentioned in this novel are real; or, to be more accurate, as real as history books and the religious texts allow. However, with almost 3,000 years between the action in the novel and today, some of the places and names may appear obscure or unfamiliar. For instance, I have used ‘City of David’ for ‘Jerusalem.’ In general, the plot takes place in the region of ancient Israel and Babylon (known as Bavel in this novel.)

  Two, I have tried to be true to the spirit of the languages spoken in the ancient period, and I chose Aramaeic and Hebrew pronunciation over the contemporary English (and Greek) usages. Notably, there’s no letter J in the Hebrew language (except in loan words), and so Judea becomes Yehuda becomes Iehuda. Binjamin becomes Biniamin. Likewise, names of foods, spices, and monies are also written in the English transliteration of their Aramaeic and Hebrew forms.

  Three, I have also used Old Testament spellings for the names of the protagonists. While Samson and Delilah ring a familiar bell in Western literature, the correct (original) forms of their names are Shimshon and Dlila.

  Lastly, the chapters are numbered using the Gematric alphanumeric code. As in Latin, letters double as numbers. Aleph is 1, Dalet is 4, Yod is 10, and so on. I have used the same notation as the Old Testament, including omitting the combinations of Yod-Hei (15) and Yod-Vav (16), as they were considered blasphemous, spelling out the name of God. Instead, I have used the Tet-Vav (9+6=15) and Tet-Zain (9+7=16) ciphers, which result in the same numerical values.

  Hopefully, these innocent language games will not detract from your enjoyment of this book.

  Happy reading.

  Igor

  I SHALL SLAY THE DRAGON!

  Igor Ljubuncic

  PROLOGUE

  “Here?” the builder asked.

  “Here,” Prince Zabul said.

  The builder did not seem convinced, but he nodded and reached for his pickax. He liked the silver the prince was paying him well enough.

  Zabul walked down the mound, back to his chariot. His retinue was waiting. His guards looked anxious to be this far from their homeland. By way of the Middle Sea coast, they had traveled north all the way to Sidon, crossing the territory of the Israelite tribes. For a change, Zabul had not been worried about his enemies. He had a much bigger issue on his mind.

  His Mizrit concubine Osnath, a daughter of the Sinai monarch, watched him carefully, her raven-black hair hanging straight as an arrow.

  “You are troubled,” she said. Her hands were clasped over her belly, the big symbol of Ishtar adorning her blue dress.

  Zabul nodded. He had not told her why they had come here—not yet, anyway. He had told no one. Now, he was afraid that his grand plan might collapse. The Tsurs and the Sidonians might discover his plot and send their troops to banish him. He would have to hope that his small force could withstand attacks and harrying until reinforcements arrived.

  The Prince of Gomer had agreed to Zabul's proposal.

  He extended his arm, and Osnath laid her tattooed hand on his wrist. She walked with him, dirt crunching under their feet. The guards followed at a respectable distance, out of earshot.

  “What troubles you, my lord?”

  Zabul glanced at the thick forest of firs growing all the way toward the distant shadow of the sea. “There comes a time when a prince must make a choice.”

  She followed his gaze. “And the answer to your troubles rests here, under these rocks?”

  He liked her acumen. “Yes.”

  “I have never doubted you, my lord.”

  Zabul led her some distance from his retinue, then circled back. “This will be a trying time for Pleshet. I have made pacts with foreign kings. They will come to our land from far away.”

  Osnath snuggled closer to him, her skin cool despite the heat. “Are you worried?”

  “Somewhat. I fear they might not appreciate my vision. That they might falter at the last moment.”

  “I am sure you will lead them to glory,” she said with great confidence, the kind he did not possess right then.

  His father Maoch had fought the sons of Israel many times, with great success. He had even managed to steal their Aron and take it to Gat. But misfortune had laid waste to the city and cut short his reign, leaving Zabu
l to rebuild a devastated land.

  Zabul sought revenge against Iehuda and Biniamin. In fact, he had started his campaign with one clear goal: to defeat the tribes to the east and to extend his rule from the coast all the way to Arava.

  Until he had discovered the scrolls buried in the plains of the Salt Sea.

  Now, his priorities have changed. The Israelites would be his first foe; but all the others would follow.

  Perhaps it was divine intervention from Baal that had made him cross enemy territory disguised as a common merchant of Cush, selling myrrh. Perhaps it was chance. But he had come upon the buried city and its ancient temple, and among the ruins, he had found scrolls, preserved from ruin by the dry desert air.

  Scrolls that mentioned a battle one thousand years old between ancient, powerful forces. A battle that had seen the Israelite god emerge as the victor. Hundreds of gods had been slain and without their power to protect them, the people who worshiped them had vanished: killed and dispersed to the four corners of the world.

  The Israelite god was a strong one, and he would defeat all the other gods unless stopped.

  He had to be stopped.

  Just before the great war, the followers of the snake had almost succeeded in summoning the power of their lord to their assistance. Alas, they had acted too late and were destroyed, but not before writing down the secret of their faith.

  Zabul intended to finish what they had started.

  Baal would approve, he knew. It was the only way to prevent His destruction by Elohim.

  Once Zabul destroyed the twelve tribes of Israel, the whole world would be his. And nothing could stop him.

  On the mound, the craftsmen kept on striking rock and dirt, digging. If the scrolls were to be trusted, deep under the hill, there was a dragon locked in a prison. Zabul intended to set it free.

  CHAPTER ALEPH

  DO NOT GO TO IABESH

  Shimshon closed his eyes and spilled his seed. Right then, the whore giggled.

  He slumped and rolled over, panting, sweat covering his face and chest. He contemplated striking her. “Get out,” he rasped.

  The whore's mirth fled. She knew not to anger him. Everyone knew that.

  She quickly collected her things—her payment—and rushed toward the bright sliver of daylight between the tent flaps. One of her sandals slipped off, sliding into a corner. Gingerly, bravely, she crawled back, grabbed the missing shoe, and dashed out.

  Shimshon let his breath settle. He wrapped and tied his loose warrior robe over his powerful, muscular figure, and stepped outside.

  The army camp was almost fully packed, a fine blanket of dust hovering above the busy soldiers. Familiar noises of combat preparations washed over him. The idle talk and boasting before fighting, the sound of grinding stones sharpening blades, the neighing of mules and horses. Within the hour, they would be ready to march. Shimshon intended to reach Iabesh before dusk. King Tobiah had given him a task: quell the uprising in the town. Shimshon would get it done, brutally fast.

  It promised to be a hot Sivan day. The olive grove just across the valley was already obscured by a heat haze. Somewhat reluctantly, Shimshon covered his head in a red linen veil, closely matching the color of his hair.

  He walked past little knots of troops, who nodded their salutes. Many of them had campaigned with him for several years, and they respected him. As a minister of war for the King of Ammon, he was the hero of the nation, even if he wasn't really one of the nation.

  His mother was an Israelite.

  But Shimshon tried not to concern himself with things he couldn't change. His father's urges, or his mother's blood. What he could do was try twice as hard as anyone else, and defeat the king's enemies.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the whore walking back to her own tent, at the outskirts of the army camp. Her little group, a band of women, fortune tellers and beggars, had followed his host since they had left Iazer the previous month. Their banner, made of goat bones and beads and scraps, flapped lazily in the sweltering breeze.

  Just beyond their den of depravity, a handful of asses were browsing on the thistle and scorched grass, tethers hanging idly. Some stupid boy must have tied loose knots. His sandals flapping on the gravel, Shimshon went to retrieve the animals. A lesser leader would have ordered one of the soldiers to do the task, but Shimshon found no task beneath his honor.

  The donkeys did not resist as he pulled them back into the shade of a tree and secured their ropes to the high branches. He tugged on each one to make sure they were fastened securely. Satisfied, he walked back toward the campground. His footsteps took him close to the whores. Shimshon could smell them. Sweet oils and herbs, designed to entice the men and hide the stench of their work.

  His lust flared again. He was always restless before bloodshed.

  “A zuz for your future, soldier,” one of the beggars muttered, sitting apart from the rest.

  “Do not bother me,” Shimshon warned them, not looking.

  “You are going the wrong way,” the pauper insisted, “Shimshon.”

  Something in the way the beggar said the words made Shimshon stop walking. Slowly, he turned. “What are you talking about, wastrel?”

  The beggar was an old man, skin creased like tree bark, each line filled with dark dirt so well rubbed in, it was almost like paint. His grubby hand was extended, awaiting a silver coin. “You, Shimshon, Minister of War, are leading your army down the wrong path.” The voice was confident, clear.

  Shimshon looked left and right. No one was paying him or the beggar any attention.

  An omen.

  He didn't like omens. He prayed to Melek every sunrise and sunset, and his faith was strong. If his god wanted him to know things, he would have told him in his prayers.

  He considered striking the beggar, but the look in those eyes stayed him. They were bright, shiny, unafraid. Shimshon posed quite a figure, and most men were easily cowed by his presence. Not this old thing. Not even kneeling before him, staring up at him.

  “Speak,” he said at length.

  The grubby hand flexed once.

  Shimshon reached into his tunic and laid a single zuz in the man's palm. “Tell me, or I will get angry.”

  The man was unfazed by the threat. “If you go to Iabesh today, you will win a great battle. But you will have lost a greater war.”

  Shimshon frowned. There hadn't been any great fighting in Ammon since the previous year. “There is no war.”

  “There is one coming. A great war,” the beggar said.

  Shimshon regarded the old man with suspicion. “Are you a servant of Melek?”

  A smile touched the man's face. “I am a servant of many gods. And then, of one.”

  Shimshon lowered himself until he was facing the old man eye to eye. “Is Melek testing me?”

  “Gods are always testing men. Ask yourself, are you resolute in your faith?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear.”

  Shimshon realized he was holding the man by his robe, wringing the tattered, greasy cloth. “Speak plainly, or you will bleed in the dust.”

  “It is very simple, Shimshon. Do not go to Iabesh.”

  “Why?”

  “You will learn.”

  “So, where should I go?”

  “Not to Iabesh. Elsewhere.”

  Shimshon tightened his grip. The old man shook like a leaf. There was something in his hand. Carefully, Shimshon pried the little piece of cloth from the wrinkled hand. It was a sturdy brown canvas, and a name was picked in black thread on it. Triv.

  Shimshon frowned. What was that? Who was that? He wasn't familiar with the name.

  He released the old man, rose, and kicked dust at the squatting figure. “Curse your nonsense.” Infuriated and annoyed, Shimshon walked back up the trail toward his host. Three quarters of the troops were already saddled and armed, and the cavalry was waiting nervously.

  Shimshon turned and paid the beggar one last
glance. Only, the man was gone.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” Mattan asked, holding the reins to Shimshon's hob.

  “I do not know.”

  Mattan adjusted his wristguards. “Sir.”

  “What's the state of my troops?”

  “Ready and eager. We will easily crush the uprising.”

  Shimshon wanted to disregard the old man's words. Just a crazy fool. Nothing more. He should simply forget about it, get into his gilded Ashurian saddle, and ride to crush the revolt of the small Apharsim tribe that had defied King Tobiah.

  Do not go to Iabesh.

  Melek was testing him, for sure.

  I need a sign, he thought, looking about. A snake, a bird, anything. But the gray-brown landscape was still. Then, there was the scrap of cloth in his right hand, the black stitching coarse against his calluses.

  “Belay that. We will not be attacking today.”

  Mattan frowned. “Sir? Why?”

  Shimshon balled his fist, crumpling the cloth. “I do not know why, but I feel it is important.”

  CHAPTER BET

  WE WILL GO TOGETHER

  The day after his chance meeting with the old man, Shimshon left the army camp. The soldiers had no part in this. These were his doubts, and his doubts alone, and he was responsible for his actions. But he had sent a personal messenger to his lord. King Tobiah would just have to trust his judgment, like he had many times before.

  Armed with uncertainty, a handful of silvers, and his stout bronze sword, he left the troubled city of Iabesh to its own devices and led his sturdy horse to Mahanaim, a dappled donkey in tow. The old beggar had told him to go anywhere. After he had woken up and prayed, he looked about and felt he should ride into the rising sun.

  To Mahanaim.