Birth of a Mortal God
A Celestial Council.
A mistake brought on by envy.
An opportunistic evil.
Cortast, a land of great diversity where a multitude of races coexist, and deities are almost as concrete as stone. The fragile peace is about to be broken and it is up to Asteroth, a boy of an unknown species, to protect his adopted yogmurgarr tribe and family in their mountainous home to the far west.
Meanwhile the Eranian Empire seeks out Killmar. Hoping the mercenary of legend can keep the approaching war from spilling over their borders. Not knowing that there is a hidden player on the board, and all they want is to set the world on fire.
by
Armand Viljoen
Anthology of Gods and Prominent Races
To you the reader, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
I would like to express my gratitude to those who have given me their support over the years. It has been a long road, and most of it not easy, and even though I might not have expressed it often, I did appreciate you all.
I would especially like to thank my parents Anene and Fanie, who encouraged me to pursue my writing when I wasn’t even sure I should. And my brother Roux, who might be the only man on the planet who has read my work as many times as I have.
I’d like to thank Shelley Holloway for wading with me through a sea of foreign terms to reach a shore of mutual understanding. And lastly, thanks to Filip Lazurowicz and Damon Za, whose illustrative skills made this book shine.
Birth of a Mortal God
by
Armand Viljoen
Copyright © 2014 by Armand Viljoen
Kindle Edition
All Rights Reserved
Cover illustration by
Damon Za
Map illustration by
Filip Lazurowicz
Reader Advisory: This book may not be suitable for readers of young adult fiction.
Annak/Ann’ak:
god of time, a.k.a. the Old Man of Time.
Genoss/Ge’noss:
god of knowledge and secrets, a.k.a. the Book Beast.
Henensu/He’nensu:
god of death.
Inkanak/In’kanak:
god of judgement, a.k.a. Passer of Judgement.
Jion:
god of the hunt
Nekt:
goddess of fortune and mishap.
Octriva:
goddess of water
Supai:
god of lust
Univarus/Un’ivarus:
god of equalization and overseer of all things.
Vendrious/Ve’ndrious:
god of war.
Xenusê:
goddess of mercy, a.k.a. Matron of Mercy.
Yog’mur/yog’murgarr:
Homeland – The Viper Mountains.
Language – Yog’mur.
Human/humans:
Homelands – The Kingdom of Zinox, the Coalition of Lords (Bolide, Evershade, Ghostplanes, Glitterlands, Halcyon, Lucar and Ullien.)
Languages – Zinoxian, Franca.
Ewien/ewiens:
Homeland – The Eranian Empire.
Languages – Zhēnli, Franca.
The Rising
A
flash of
thunder illuminated the odd mountain range. The Viper Mountains, as most called it, was one of the more well-known landmarks on the continent of Cortast. Its lush, coiled, serpent-shaped valley a constant topic in idle conversation among the neighbouring nations. As were its residents, the yog’murgarr. The mere sight of their glittering campfires at night had always served to dissuade the curious, but times were changing.
A creature with dark red leathery skin sat by a small isolated fire, his foster brother his only companion. In his seventeen years with the tribe, he had earned a general trust among the Ur’akgarr. But he felt true kinship with only one individual, G’nar; the only yog’mur in existence with fine features.
“Asteroth! Are you even listening to me? Gods, I wish I could find more of your kind. I’d love to know if absentmindedness is a racial trait,” said the olive and khaki-striped creature.
“And I would love to know why you look more like a delicate flower than a yog’mur. But alas, we all can’t get what we want,” his brother retorted.
G’nar threw a rock at him as a diversion as he scrabbled to his feet; however Asteroth avoided it with ease and gained his footing more quickly than one would think possible for his size.
“You shouldn’t throw stones like a child,” his brother warned.
“Hur’thlu!” cursed G’nar, referring to a tiny local lizard that would gnaw on the feet of any unaware sleeper until the multitude of tiny wounds woke its victim.
“Now, now, remember what happened last time? We should not risk injury in these troubled times.”
G’nar smiled at the contrast between his brother’s words and his actions, as he spread his wings, making his staggering height of twelve feet even more intimidating.
Yog’murgarr valued strength and size almost as much as they valued the Art; displaying these features was often meant as a challenge, one that would bring shame to any who declined it. It was better to lose to a stronger opponent, than to shy away from a challenge like a coward. An element of their culture most soundly found in their sport: Chak Ha, in which contestants lock hands and try to throw their opponent to the ground, without ever releasing their grip.
G’nar recalled bleakly that his brother became their Chak Ha champion at the age of ten. “I hope you are ready, brother. I won’t be holding back.”
Asteroth looked into his black eyes, their only mutual feature. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Just when they were about to begin their contest of strength, a voice came from the surrounding gloom, “Chief call you.”
They turned as one and saw N’rak standing in the shadow of a nearby tent. His body was that of a war veteran, full of marks of glory. He wore a black bear pelt over his shoulders with the head still intact. It dangled from side to side as he shifted his weight, waiting for their reply.
Asteroth was often struck by how different G’nar really was from other yog’murgarr. Although he had the build of a warrior, he possessed the intelligence of a shang’goma. Which would have only been slightly odd had he been talented in the Art. But an Untouched yog’mur with the intellect of a shang’goma was unheard of.
The pelt-wearing yog’mur grunted, and the brothers, realising their mistake, replied as one, “Kar’ta!” A phrase meant to acknowledge that an order has been received.
G’nar looked down at his naked body as the yog’mur left. “Do you realise how powerful he must be?”
“Who?” asked Asteroth absently.
“N’rak, you dolt!” he said before pointing at his brother’s groin. “He was wearing a black bear pelt as his Cloth of Honour, and as you know, since you’re standing here unclothed with me, you only wear what you kill on the Rite of Blood.”
“I suppose killing a black bear, barehanded, at the age of twelve is quite an accomplishment. Do you know whether we’ll be allowed to participate in the Rite this year? We are somewhat overdue,” he said as he placed his hand on G’nar’s bald head.
“I don’t know. I think Father hasn’t completely given up on me using the Art, and you are somewhat of a special case.”
He sighed. “We are the oldest damn
children
in this tribe.”
“Wait three more years, and then you’ll know how I feel,” replied G’nar as he removed his brother’s hand.
“Well, we’d best be going, otherwise we might not live to see next year,” said Asteroth with a wink before dashing off in the direction of the Strong Tent.
“Shuk! Your damned absentmindedness must be rubbing off on me,” he said as he ran after his foster brother.
The Strong Tent
smelled of sweet tobacco. Asteroth had only been allowed inside twice, and each time he was struck by its luxury. Unlike the other tents in the village, the Strong Tent was made from wyvern scales; a distant cousin of the more powerful and intelligent dragon species. They were winged nightmares, with guile enough to attack when they were least expected, and strength enough to carry off cattle. Their scales resisted arrow and spear, an attribute which gave the Strong Tent a very sturdy feel.
The floor was completely laid out with oak, while a pile of luxurious furs rested in the northwest corner. Everywhere the eye could see, trophies hung and stood, and in the middle of it all, sat the Chieftain on his throne. A masterpiece of dark linwon wood, arguably the most valuable object in the valley.
The Chieftain spared a quick glance at his two sons as they sat in front of the fire, before returning to his scroll.
Both brothers knew it was a test to see if they’d break custom and address him. It was a test they failed more often than they’d like to admit.
“I’m told you once more helped some of the women in their duties. I thought I made myself clear that the crafts are the dominion of women not men,” said the Chieftain as he rolled up the parchment.
“But, Father, I am not a man, I’m a child,” replied Asteroth.
G’nar sighed as their father’s hand tightened around the scroll; the only sign of his displeasure before he continued, “Disturbing news has reached me. The Tar’gagarr have fallen.”
“Their women and children?” asked G’nar concerned.
“Butchered.”
“Have these humans no honour?” he said in disbelief.
“They’re marching on us?” asked Asteroth.
The small idols braided into his hair and beard rattled as the Chieftain nodded. “They should be near our borders in a few days. It seems they intend to march all the way to the top of the valley.”
Although Asteroth would never share it with anyone, there had always been one yog’mur custom he found foolish: their geographical positioning of their villages. The Viper Mountains were named so because they create an upward spiralling valley. The logical thing would be to build a wall across its mouth, but instead, the twelve yog’mur tribes had warred for generations in order to create a hierarchy.
After the strength of each tribe had been determined, it was deemed that the strongest tribe should inhabit the top of the valley, while the weakest should be located at the mouth. Hence, an invading force would have to wade through the weaker tribes in order to reach the stronger ones. Asteroth did not know if this was an attempt to improve the weaker tribes by exposing them to danger, or if it was just due to pure arrogance. Either way, he found it a short-sighted strategy.
“What should we do?” asked G’nar.
The Chieftain took out his pipe and lit it, puffing on it a moment before answering, “G’nar, my son, although I am proud of you, your inability to learn the Art is troubling. Since the number of shang’gomagarr within our tribe is dwindling, I had hoped it would surface in you with time. But perhaps it is time to discard foolish fatherly pride and accept that you are Untouched.”
G’nar felt conflicting emotions of joy and sorrow at the statement, but kept his face expressionless.
“Although you will not be a shang’goma, you will be no ordinary warrior, either. Your intellect will make you an excellent scout and warleader, but we will discuss this later.”
“As you wish, Father,” said G’nar as he stared at the pillar of smoke escaping through the hole in the roof.
The Chieftain took a long draw from his pipe as he shifted his gaze to his foster son. “Asteroth, when we first found your egg, many were against keeping it. And when you hatched from it, many were against taking you into the tribe. However, as the years passed, you proved yourself both strong and kind, sometimes to a fault. I, Chieftain of Tribe Ur’ak, am proud to have you as part of our tribe and even more so to call you son.”
