Orphaned at birth and raised by an abusive aunt and uncle, Apo flees Thelbe, where he was born, to seek his fortune in the nearby town of Blandford. A kindly blacksmith and a helpful priest become his mentors, and he eventually finds himself called to be a priest, warrior, and prophet on the magical world of IR. His world is moving into dark times, and he must warn the “kind” of his world and offer them hope for a way out. While Apo struggles to understand his calling, the charismatic Lord Hevrel grows in strength and enacts diabolical schemes to consolidate all power to himself and to fool even the wise, no matter the lives destroyed. War, plague, and famine scar the land. Inspired by Apo’s messages, the Church will fight to reach and save some. Faced with persecution and death, all the “kind” of IR will be affected. As the end of times approaches, difficult decisions will be made, good people will be martyred, and lives will be forever changed.
Orphaned at birth and raised by an abusive aunt and uncle, Apo flees Thelbe, where he was born, to seek his fortune in the nearby town of Blandford. A kindly blacksmith and a helpful priest become his mentors, and he eventually finds himself called to be a priest, warrior, and prophet on the magical world of IR. His world is moving into dark times, and he must warn the “kind” of his world and offer them hope for a way out. While Apo struggles to understand his calling, the charismatic Lord Hevrel grows in strength and enacts diabolical schemes to consolidate all power to himself and to fool even the wise, no matter the lives destroyed. War, plague, and famine scar the land. Inspired by Apo’s messages, the Church will fight to reach and save some. Faced with persecution and death, all the “kind” of IR will be affected. As the end of times approaches, difficult decisions will be made, good people will be martyred, and lives will be forever changed.
Ataken’s Cavern, Western Aendola
874 A.P.(After the Prophet), Août
He had hoped the dragon would be sleeping, as they are generally thought to do. In practice, he had found that to be the exception. Dajus Farreach crouched low next to one of the multitude of light gray, granite outcroppings in Ataken’s Cavern, his knees buckled up in front of him, his back to the rock. His left arm held a full body shield off to his side. His right hand held the Sword of Sir Shaun Wheyon, which should have been a bane to this unholy creature. His breaths came heavy and quick. His heart pounded urgency beneath the elven chain on his breast. Thus far, he had only succeeded in scoring minor wounds on the great red-scaled beast, resulting in a wearying game of cat and mouse.
Dajus heard Ataken’s taloned paws crunching rocks here and there as she searched the cavern for him. Thankfully, she was not yet near. The ring of Onterra on his finger made it difficult for her to sense him by smell, heat, or sound…she would have to catch sight of him. Using the thumb of his sword hand, he took the opportunity to check his waterskin, jiggling it a bit. Only a few swallows left. Late Août already had made the cavern warm, and with the battle, and the fiery blasts Ataken was letting loose, the heat had become intolerable. The leather jerkin under his chain was soaked from his sweat, and his muscles were languishing. He would have to end this battle soon.
Dajus thought of those who had called him soft and chuckled. They nicknamed him “the Knight of Karea” after his port city of choice. Sure he knew how to have a good time, but he was not soft. No other paladin had slain more beasts during the Dragon Wars than he, and this would be his crowning achievement. Maybe this would silence the doubters.
More crunching sounds, off to his left. Dajus propped himself up slowly, still crouched but on his feet, then slowly stood and peaked around. Her head was turned. Dajus slow-stepped further right. First to one boulder, then when her head was turned again, to another. He would have to attack her again soon, and end this, but just a little more time to recoup.
Thus far Ataken had been his match. He knew many secrets to wearing a dragon down and provoking it into leaving an opening. Yet the foe he fought now was something new. She was myth made flesh and bone. Dajus guessed her length that of a sloop, her wingspan about fifty eagles. Her reddish-brown scales were as thick as a ship’s hull. And at her size, her teeth and claws would pierce tempered steel as if it was butter.
Dajus' chanced another look around the rock, but Ataken was not there. Sweat slid into his eyes; he blinked it out. He quickly crouched down and looked left and right, but saw nothing but rocks. He had paused too long; his muscles were trying to cramp. Dajus took the opportunity to drink. His waterskin was now empty.
Then, with no warning, Ataken’s long neck curved with speed around the boulder he was against. He had been found. She didn’t wait but brought her right foreclaw around to pin him there. Dajus threw himself horizontal to the ground and rolled. The beast’s claw smacked at the rock.
Only a smattering of pebbles flew into the air for her effort, but then she lifted her claw to swat him to the ground. The Champion of Aendola was too seasoned to freeze as others might. He sprung up and made to lift his sword into the webbed claw. Ataken's blow fell hard toward the sword, scaled claw swiping down, but she angled her blow. The holy sword only nicked the hide of her claw, but its sharpness sliced through her leathered joints before the claw glanced off the chain on Dajus’ shoulder. The dragon screeched out some awful note as Dajus fell to one knee, the magic of the sword absorbing most of the blow.
Without pause he rose and burst into another run, leaving his tower shield where it had fallen on the ground. He flew past the dragon, making towards her tail. He couldn’t let Ataken lock his position. Sweat clouded his vision. Every second seemed to be an eternity. The dragon was yet so strong, Dajus’ handful of scores on its scaled side seeming of little effect. In the past, dragons had feared even the sight of his sword, he complained inwardly. But he had never faced a beast of this size. As Dajus ran to the rear of the dragon, he could hear Ataken turning and watched her tail swinging around like a tidal wave rolling in its movement.
His legs pumped uninhibited by the magical chain he wore – some ancient elfin creation. He slipped behind another large boulder before Ataken could bring herself fully around. Dajus was instantly up on one knee, crouched behind the rock, still as a mouse. He waited.
“You foolish man!” came a rumbling, hissing bass sound as her crunching steps brought her closer. As always, the inhuman tones prickled Dajus’ spine.
“You wonder why I don’t cower from your sword, don’t you?” Ataken paused a moment before continuing. “It only responds to a man of faith…and yours,” the beast crooned, mocking, “is almost gone, it seems.” More silence, then she continued in a lilting, mocking tone, “The blade has so little power while you touch it. Show yourself like the hero you think you are. Let’s have this out, shall we?”
The dragon was trying to goad him. Dajus knew better than to respond. He tried to become one with the rock he hugged. With his old Paladin abilities, he could have melted into the stone, he thought begrudgingly. Every second seemed an Age.
Then, the ground began to shake in a macabre rhythm, increasing in intensity. Ataken approached. Perhaps she had spotted him. Dajus muscles seemed cramped solid and stiff, but he knew they would react.
An intaking of breath sounded like a sudden wind, and then he heard the roar he knew so well, the continuous crackling roar of the dragon’s inferno breath, but to his shock, it came not upon him. It was to his left. Incredulous. A glance around showed he was hiding just next to the dragon's breast!
Dajus called up every strength he knew, not waiting a second, allowing every fiery emotion to spur him on, and charged straight for the dragon's light gray breast scales. It took only three rushing strides. Then, sword outstretched, a rising primeval yell erupting from his throat, he charged in. Time seemed stretched out, legs moving, arms straight out, shoulders tensing and rocking with his charge. The dragon’s barrel neck curled around as Ataken in-took more air to flame the little man at her feet. But too late.
The sword, glowing, magicked and blessed to destroy evil, pushed upward beneath the few thick bony scales here and found purchase in the soft underbelly. Ataken pulled back hard. The sword ripped from Dajus’ hand, throwing Dajus off-balance, but staying firmly embedded in Ataken’s belly.
Her head swung back and forth with wild movements, shrieking in pain. Before Dajus could recover his balance, Ataken’s massive forepaw lashed to the side, catching him in the abdomen and sending him airborne. Dajus flew up and over the boulders on the ground to crack against the rock wall of the cavern some fifty feet away. He stuck there just for a moment like a fly, then dropped with a heavy thump to the gray floor. Bright red fluid dripped from Dajus’ mouth; his eyes were closed.
Ataken still shrieked. She tromped and thrashed about the cavern, mad with rage and pain, head swinging, reddish-yellow eyes looking at the sword for a moment as she tried to bat it out, then head swinging again. The sword’s glow grew brighter and brighter until its shimmer lit the whole of the cavern.
The dragon pulled up, head raised in a shriek, fore-claws out-stretched, and gave a final death cry. She rose and towered, god-like, for a last, silent pause, her horns almost reaching the ceiling, then toppled from her full standing height to crash a mass upon the ground. For a few moments the boom of her fall reverberated through the cavern, but then all was silent except for the soft sounds of rock dust settling to the ground.
Several minutes later, Dajus’ gray eyes began to flicker. Once aware, he attempted to spring up, but found slow movements were needed now. He had to lean for support on the cavern wall, taking long, deep breaths. Dajus looked through the still-settling dust to where the dragon lay motionless on her side, the once devilish yellow eyes now lidded shut. The protruding sword had stopped glowing, giving credence to the dragon’s expired state. He called out one of the sword’s words, and it began to glow softly, lighting the cavern akin to twilight.
Dajus turned to look ahead. One-eighth mile further stood the pile. The dim sword light reflected from it, and Dajus began to smile; a low guttural laugh built within him until it rolled from him like tumbling rapids. After having a few rounds with his mirth, he quieted, still smiling. He hobbled to the dragon's scaled breast. His face was now solemn. He placed a boot on the dragon's lower chest and with both hands and as much strength as he could muster with the pain, he attempted to withdraw the sword. His muscles bulged, and inch by grueling inch he reclaimed it. All the while, Dajus watched the dragon's eyelids for any sign of movement…one could never be too sure.
Sword in hand, Dajus backed up two slow steps, then turned and half-jogged, half-limped to the entryway of the famed cavern of Ataken. He held his pattering side as he tried to stabilize his ribs, likely fractured. His faltering footsteps hitting the cold stone floor produced odd, unnatural echoes and spewing dust. Stopping in front of the entrance, he looked beyond at the large labyrinth of caves from which he had come.
Holding the sword in front of him, point toward the ground, he uttered the sword’s words of warding. It slid into the stone floor to a foot down as if the stone was water, which was fortunate, as Dajus had no strength to force it. Then, a glimmering, translucent plane of red, blue, and purple threads appeared, weaving fluidly, blocking the entrance. A low hum could be heard. Dajus gave a short tight-lipped smile and turned back to the dragon. Other treasure seekers were unlikely, but the labyrinth that fronted the entrance to the caverns was the home to dark creatures, and he wanted privacy with the dragon hoard.
He half-jogged to and then past the dragon, giving it a wary if fleeting glance. He limped on to the whale-sized hill of gold and silver coins, gems and jewelry, and various other treasures that Ataken had amassed. He stood in awe at what was enough wealth and magic to purchase a kingdom.
Dajus threw up his head in a shout of joy, arms outstretched as he jigged in a circle, forgetting his intense pain for a moment. He could not ignore it long. He felt the head gash gently, touched the matted black hair and blood, internally felt his cracked ribs, and looked at the bloody stripes and lacerated chain on his thigh. Now his adventuring skill came back, and he circled the pile with patience, looking carefully for a potion from one of the Pools. They were rare, as the Pools were lost or no more, but he often found one or two in precious hoards such as this. Once he would have been able to use the paladin’s prayer for healing, but those days were gone. He had tried to be patient waiting for God’s kingdom, but he would wait no more.
There were several vials which he checked, but in none had he found the taste of healing when he came to behold the suit of plate armor that was a match to his sword. He recognized the insignia. The dove on cross, which graced his sword as well, was known well through legend. This was the armor of Sir Shaun Wheyon. Dajus' mind passed over some of the stories he remembered. It had been forged by the Kuldex dwarves, magicked by the Branen, a holy order of elves, and blessed by 12 human priests as well.
It had all come out of a prophecy given only a hundred years after The Visitation, Enoch’s appearance with the Sanctuary Bible. The prophet Shamarin had prophesied the coming of one who would take up the holy armor and defend the faithful. The writings of Shamarin were hard to translate – his hand was poor. Some say he gave the name of the great warrior in some ancient tongue – something which had come to be translated Sir Shaun Wheyon. Some said the words were just a name for the armor. The Kuldex dwarves and the Branen had taken the translation literally, however, and with the help of some other contemporary holy men of their day, had created the armor, and a powerful sword to match it.
The armor and sword were protected for many years. Many a man tried to claim the armor was rightfully his, and more than one war had arisen because of it, but the priests were not convinced and had hidden them away. Some warriors had even taken to calling themselves Sir Shaun Wheyon. But then it had been lost during the Dragon Wars. Dajus had found the sword hidden in one of the Shalom temples, but not the armor. He believed that perhaps, before now, none had been worthy to claim the armor. Here he was, though. And the legendary armor before him. The armor no man had worn. He, Dajus Farreach, most legendary paladin and warrior to rise during the Dragon Wars, he, yes, he, had killed the great Ataken. There was no one to dispute Dajus’ claim to the armor. And here it was.
Dajus' wide eyes gazed upon it, his hands held halfway out in awe. His mouth hung open. Dajus’ seasoned eyes saw the quality in every mold, every joint. The breast plate jeweled, the pieces so well-fitting, the magicked and blessed metal shining as if polished after all these years. Dajus began stripping to his briefs. To think he would be the first to wear it. He slowed briefly as he passed armor over wounds, but soon was down to his blood and sweat-soaked leggings and shirt. He knelt and gently reached out for the concentration was so great that he did not hear the slight crawlingbreast plate. His of the four small but deadly baby drakes as they approached their last meal.
Over the next several minutes of struggle, Dajus’ haunting screams of terror and pain joined the crunching sounds of his own bones. As he died, he fought valiantly, even slaying one with his bare hands before giving his last. The echoes of his screams in the cavern sounded cold and lifeless, and then all was silence but for the lustful munching of the last three drakes, who would die of starvation in the years to come. The commoners soon guessed the outcome as Dajus never returned, but the flow of baby dragons leaving the labyrinth every couple months came to an end. Many a man entered the Labyrinth, but none returned, or if they did, they wandered out as old men, whispering rumors of evil spirits. In time, it was said that the spirit of Dajus still lingered and haunted the Labyrinth, the Labyrinth of Time, slaying those that would take his treasure. Within a decade, its moss-covered entrance became all but forgotten.
The four prologues drew me in well and set the scene very comprehensively, starting threads that were indeed picked up later. The preface also explained the incipient idea of the God and Gospel we know on earth being taken to another world, and its message is conveyed in quite a few places in the text, but without being overly longwinded or preachy. The biblical tribulation of Revelation is coming to this world, and an antichrist figure rises up in opposition – complete with mark of allegiance.
Unfortunately, the story moves very slowly, sometimes the reader is pulled out of the story by poor word choices, and often I struggled with paragraphs/pages of dialogue in apostrophe-filled dialect, including the hero’s and his family’s. Surprising (irritatingly), the months and seasons are based on French, even though this is a different world, receiving its first visitor from ours.
The hero is given a mission and gifts from God, while the other Houses or Churches have fake gods supported by a system of surrounding magic, which is exploited by his opponent.
The characters are quite well drawn but have little depth and I didn’t really engage with any of them. So without caring about the characters, and with only a faint course to the plot, it was difficult to push on to the end.
In summary, the idea was good, the plot was there, but the execution was poor.
The book was not to my taste, and I struggled to finish it – but some may appreciate this style of writing.
The main story finishes abruptly, but then there are three epilogues to follow – yet they really don’t tie up many threads. Maybe there’s to be a sequel…
This is in someways similar to another Christian-view end-times series, the Left Behind series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, but I enjoyed Left Behind much more. I don’t really think “An hour you do not expect” meets its goals.
Warning. There are some very dark, cruel and violent scenes/events.