Birth of a Mortal God (3 page)

“If more come, we’ll kill them and keep killing them until their need for survival triumphs their curiosity,” said Asteroth, placing his foot on a nearby corpse for emphasis.

The Chieftain sighed. “Very well, do as you please. We will start gathering the human corpses for the feast tonight. It seems we won’t soon have a shortage of meat.”

Asteroth turned to the last surviving member of the Black Griffins. “Go, human, and tell all those of your kind that any who come here will meet the same fate as your comrades.”

“I—I can leave?” asked James, his eyes darting to the dispersing beastmen.

“Yes, leave our land.”

James didn’t need more incentive than that and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Several beastmen laughed and indulged in a few insults as they witnessed the disgraced human flee the battlefield.

Asteroth turned to his brother. “He called me the Leader of the Living, do you know what he meant?”

“No, sorry. I’m just as confused as you.”

“I have so many questions,” he said frustrated.

“And you’ll have the answers,” said G’nar, giving him a light punch to the chest. “But first, there is the feast to look forward to. When was the last time we had human?”

“I think it was that group of poachers that was caught in the forest. What was that? Ten years ago?”

“Yes, now I remember, you made the comment that they tasted like pork,” laughed G’nar.

“Well they did. Let’s start gathering all the human weapons for the smiths. With all this metal, I might be able to convince them to make me a proper axe,” said Asteroth as he showed his foster brother the chipped and cracked weapon in his right hand.

“That axe should be commended for surviving your abuse,” said his brother with a smile before staring out over the field of corpses. “It was a glorious battle.”

“Yes, it was.”

Drums and bonfires
filled the night as the feast reached its peak. Children laughed and played as the women shared stories among themselves while the men enjoyed a Chak Ha tournament.

G’nar passed his brother a mug of radoes. A drink made from the roots of a local herb with anaesthetic properties. “To the fallen.”

“To the fallen,” echoed Asteroth before draining the mug.

“They died well, Asteroth. And you avenged their deaths.”

“Yes, I know. But that doesn’t make the loss their families feel any less painful.”

“Father is right, you are sometimes kind to a fault.”

He smiled ruefully. “Perhaps.”

“Come. Father said he’ll speak with you now.”

The two brothers slipped away to the Strong Tent, the celebrating crowd non-the-wiser.

A congregation of shang’gomagarr greeted them as they entered and took their seats by the fire.

The Chieftain took a long pull on his pipe, blowing out a big cloud of smoke. “Asteroth, there is much to tell you. Some of it will be hard to believe, but I ask you listen to me patiently.”

He only nodded as he felt his heart starting to race.

“When we first found your egg, we were unsure as to what it was. Many thought it may be a wywern egg, but I had seen a nest in my youth and knew it was something different. And when you hatched, we knew we had stumbled upon something unique. Now for you to understand the significance of your name, I have to first tell you of an ancient prophecy, so ancient in fact that we believed it a myth.”

Asteroth raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

“However, to understand the prophecy, you first need to understand what happened that led to it. There was once a war between the higher and lower gods and the dark gods. Now as you know, a god’s power increases as his or her worshippers increase, hence they are dependent on their worshippers to grow more powerful. But there was one exception: the Black god. He was called thus because, like an empty black void, he had no name, no function, and consequently no basis of strength. He just was. He was the only one among them all who had no worshippers, which meant he had no reason for being.

“Ages went by as the Black god sought a place amongst his celestial kin but found none. Then one day, Junakina, the old dark god of insult and deceit, sent him into a mad frenzy by mocking his unneeded existence. The Black god lunged at Junakina in pure rage and, to her surprise, easily defeated her. Now a god cannot be killed, only severely weakened. It was then that the Black god did something that not even Un’ivarus himself can do, he killed Junakina by consuming her very essence.

“This not only greatly increased his power, but also sent him into even further despair. You see, even though he absorbed her power, he did not gain her function. Instead, Junakina’s function went to one of the other dark gods, leaving him still without a purpose. Outraged by this, the Black god decided he would pave himself a road to a purpose with his celestial kins’ corpses. One after another, the dark gods fell to his overwhelming might, until they ultimately decided to serve him, for he could provide that which no one else could, more functions.

“He led them against the higher and lower gods in the first known Celestial War. Many gods perished at the hands of the Black god and even more were severely weakened. But not even the Black god could stand against the collective power of the higher and lower gods. When defeat seemed inevitable, the dark gods abandoned him, leaving him to face the angry celestial host alone.

“But the Black god was no fool. He knew he could not best them on his own, so he sought sanctuary from the most unexpected of places: the Ninth Hell. The gods did not dare follow, for Ashaat, Lord of all Evil, is a being of terrible power. And so, they were forced to give up the chase. Though, the Black god’s plotting was far from over. He had somehow gotten wind that one of the higher gods had fallen in love with a mortal woman, and made yet another unexpected move. When the gods finally did manage to capture him, it was obvious that something was horribly wrong.

“He was weak, far removed from the terror he had once been. After rigorous investigation, the gods discovered that he had impregnated a mortal woman and sealed almost all of his essence inside of the growing infant. So much so in fact, that he was dissipating into nothingness. The Celestial Council decided that they would kill the woman and thus the child. But she was no ordinary mortal, she was Ve’ndrious’s lover. Our beloved god of war begged the Council to spare her, revealing that the woman carried twins: one the Spawn of the Black god, the other his own son. The Council however had to be fair in all things. Sparing the woman and allowing the birth of her children would mean giving both infants equal chances at life.

“Un’ivarus, the equalizer and overseer of all things, decided that he would seal each newborn in a protective shell and hide them upon our world. In these shells, they would stay, unaffected by time, until the day the Black god faded from existence. Then they would be released upon the world.”

“How did matters of the gods find our ears?” asked Asteroth dubiously.

The Chieftain smiled at his scepticism, for he was but one among many. “Un’ivarus had sent a revelation to all the faithful, revealing what had happened.”

“I don’t see how any of this affects me.”

“Perhaps telling you what happened next will shed some light. Ann’ak, god of time, feared what the Black god’s spawn would do to the mortal realm when he was finally released, so he sent out a prophecy of his own in which he revealed that Ve’ndrious’s offspring would possess the ability to speak and understand any mortal tongue. He stated that Ve’ndrious’s son will be called Asteroth, and that he will lead an army unlike any the world has every known; one that will fight for all living creatures against the Spawn of the Black god with the fate of the world in the balance.”

Asteroth looked at his hands as if for the first time. “I am the son of Ve’ndrious, the son of a god?”

“When I had named you, it was but the foolish hope of an old man. But now, there is no doubt. You understood that human even though you should not have been able to. You do not know this, but since your birth, we have been searching for any evidence of there ever being a race matching your description, but there has been none. Because you are unique, because you are of the divine.”

“I—I’m not sure how I should react. What must I do?” he asked, lost.

Everyone kneeled as his foster father said, “First, you will unite our tribes, like in ages past. Then bring others under your banner, for we must prepare, if you walk among us, so does the Spawn of the Black god.”

Lone Traveller

T
wo moons lit
the night sky. On any other night, the black-robed figure would not have even been visible, but during Lunarium when both the red and white moon are full, darkness tends to be less concealing. Not that anyone in the border town of Willow Way took notice. All were inside trying to get the night’s chill from their bones. Originally founded to house a large garrison, Willow Way had fallen into disrepair due to generations of peace with the Eranian Empire. It was deemed unnecessary and skeletonized, leaving only a few unlucky soldiers and those who refused to pull up roots.

But even in this forsaken town, word has reached them of Asteroth’s appearance and of how he had crushed the Black Griffins, sparing a single man to warn all other humans of the fate awaiting any who would venture too close to the mountains the yog’murgarr called home.

“Fool,” muttered the robed figure as he stopped in front of the poorly built, two-storey, moss-covered structure. Its sign held a faded picture of a naked man running with his clothes in his hands.

He entered the Running Bastard Inn and saw that it was just as poor on the inside as it was on the out.

Ten tables adorned the common room in an unorganized fashion, likely in an attempt to accommodate as many of them as possible. A bar faced the entrance, dominating most of the northern wall, with stairs leading up to rooms on its right. A few men sat at tables closest to the hearth, while two others sat near the bar, harassing the barmaid.

The innkeeper seemed to watch the scene with perverted interest. For unlike the surroundings, the barmaid was a beautiful girl with black hair, blue eyes, and striking features. She wore a dress which might have been white once, but now only resembled a dirty cleaning rag. Where flesh was exposed, bruises showed, and her eyes had the lifeless look commonly found among those who have lost hope along with their freedom. Which made it all the more surprising when she snatched a handful of his robe’s right sleeve when he passed by her.

“Please, help me!”

He stopped and examined her tormentors, taking care to keep his features hidden underneath his cowl.

One man was overweight to the point of nearly bursting from his leather armour. His puffy face almost as oily as his matted brown hair. Swollen fingers dug hungrily into the girl’s flesh, as he pulled her towards him. His companion, a thinner man with a bald head, hooknose, and bushy eyebrows; bore a striking resemblance to a vulture as he, too, groped at his portion of soft flesh. Both wore the crest of the King’s own army and were armed with long swords.

The fat guard exposed yellow teeth as he said, “Move along, stranger, unless you want to spend the night in a cell.”

The girl only tightened her grip on the outsider’s sleeve at the declaration, even though he did not so much as stir at the threat.

The fat guard’s face knotted in frustration. “Edward, it looks like our esteemed guest doesn’t know when to heed good advice.”

The man named Edward moved to face his companion. “That it does, Rorick. Perhaps we should educate him!” he said before swinging a right fist at the stranger.

Who caught it in midair with ease. “That was foolish,” he said before pulling his right hand free from the girl’s grip and striking the guard’s elbow with his palm. There was a delightful snap as bone protruded through skin.

Edward howled in pain and awkwardly tried to draw the sword dangling at his left side with his remaining hand; fumbling and dropping it instead.

At this, his friend Rorick threw the girl aside and surged forward with sword drawn. He moved quickly for a man of his size and intended to impale the stranger from behind.

He waited for the thrust of Rorick’s sword and then quickly stepped to the right and turned, pushing the oaf from behind. The added momentum sent Rorick crashing into his friend, and the blade accidentally slipped into his comrade’s chest, seemingly by design. The stranger rushed up behind Rorick as the ball of blubber tried to regain his footing, and snapped his neck. He considered ripping the disrespectful louse’s head from his body but thought better of it.

The men near the hearth, who had observed the exchange in silence, now stood and drew their weapons. Their leader levelling his sword at him. “Quite a display of skill, stranger. But an act of aggression against the King’s own is an act of aggression against the King himself. I am afraid you will have to come with us.”

He shook his head as he thought about how many souls he had sent to Henensu because of kings and their ilk. Slowly he removed his hood. He could see their surprise as candlelight struck his light blue hair and yellow eyes. Or maybe it was just his features in general; he knew they perceived him as young and that he wore his hair in a manner that is considered strange in every land: short cut and combed backwards, with a single long lock of hair hanging down the side of his face.

The colour drained from one guard’s face as he recognised him. “Nine hells! Captain, this is—”

He interrupted the man. “It is too late for all that, I’m afraid,” he said as he held out his closed fists in front of him.

Most of the guards took it as a sign of surrender and began approaching him, when their pale comrade stopped them. “Wait! He should not—”

Then he opened his hands.

Killmar silently studied
the young barmaid. Her jet-black hair was dirty and tangled, but she still somehow seemed majestic. She had a full mouth, light pink lips, a small nose, and elegant ears. Despite her rough occupation, her skin was silky smooth, and although her body was covered in bruises, it was apparent that her skin had a natural milky white tone to it. She had full breasts, despite her young appearance, and her body was petite. She was, by all accounts, remarkably beautiful, which made him wonder why she had not been sold to some noble or successful merchant, instead of a coarse innkeeper, whose annoying begging had ultimately caused him to die very painfully.