Birth of a Mortal God

by Armand Viljoen

  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.

  Birth of a Mortal God

  by

  Armand Viljoen

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Map

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  Anthology of Gods and Prominent Races

  One – The Rising

  Two – Lone Traveller

  Three – Preparations

  Four – Unlikely Pair

  Five – Unity

  Six – Contracts

  Seven – Secrets

  Eight – Shadow Games

  Nine – The Summoning

  Ten – New Life

  About the Author

  To you the reader, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

  Acknowledgements

  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.

  Anthology of Gods and Prominent Races

  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.

  Chapter One

  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 som
ewhat 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.”

  Asteroth felt a knot in his throat and swallowed hard.

  “I know you both have been longing to take the Rite of Blood, and must have often thought me a vindictive old hur’thlu. But I assure you, I had my reasons for withholding you from the Rite. Our present situation has changed things.”

  He held up his hand as he saw their faces light up. “Traditionally, you two are still seen as children. And as such, would not be allowed to be sent into combat with the other men. But you are only considered thus due to my interference. Therefore, I will exempt you two from said rule and allow you to go. We are going to show these humans that we are not to be taken lightly. They will run back to their homes and tell their children and kings of the nightmarish creatures known as Tribe Ur’ak!”

  The brothers as well as the Chieftain’s personal guard roared at his declaration.

  Their father smiled, and years fell from his wrinkled face. “My sons, here is what I’ll have you do.”

  FIVE HUNDRED AND forty yog’murgarr determinedly marched their way across the plane of grass. Each armed with an axe and all clothed in pelts, all but two.

  “I’m telling you, they will flee. You show me a human that will stand and fight after they’ve stared Arack dead in the eye, and I’ll show you a hur’thlu that inspires awe,” insisted Asteroth.

  G’nar laughed. “You named it?”

  “Of course, it is a magnificent example of manhood,” he replied with genuine pride.

  “By the gods, I think you’re serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You—nevermind.” He was quiet for a moment. “I envy you, you know,” G’nar said, his tone now serious.

  “Don’t feel bad, any man would,” he replied as he placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  G’nar slapped away his hand. “Not because of that, you dolt! I envy you because you are going to experience the glory of battle, while all I’m going to do is watch you experience it.”

  “Can’t be helped, the shang’gomagarr can’t move at our pace, and Father needs to know if they should employ the Art to hasten themselves.”

  “I know, but why me?” he asked dissatisfied.

  “Perhaps Father wants a detailed report? But I’m sure no one would blame you if you killed a few humans on your way back to him.”

  “Which is exactly why Father didn’t give me an axe,” answered G’nar dryly.

  “Oh, dear brother, don’t you know? Humans are tiny things. You’ll be able to kill them barehanded. Which is why I don’t mind this little thing they gave me,” said Asteroth, waving his axe around like a toy.

  “They gave you the largest one our smiths had! It’s those claws of yours that seem to dwarf anything in them.”

  Asteroth held the weapon near G’nar as if to measure it. “Well, what do you know? You’re right.”

  G’nar searched for landmarks then said, “We should be reaching the border soon.”

  “I just hope our border brothers left some humans for us,” said Asteroth as they began climbing their last hill.

  They were still laughing when they crested it and beheld the battlefield below. It struck Asteroth like a physical blow, and he clenched his jaw as he watched the final moments of the battle. Over a thousand infantry men stood in columns at the base of a gigantic wooden structure, housing hundreds of archers. The infantrymen were all well equipped and carried large rectangular shields that protected all but their heads.

  G’nar placed a restraining hand o
n his brother’s shoulder, as they watched their border brothers struggle to penetrate the virtual wall of shields. The human warriors did not even attempt to fight honourably; they just hid behind their shields while their archers bore down death from above.

  “You should report to Father,” said Asteroth as the last of their border defence fell.

  “Don’t be rash. Wait for us,” said G’nar before running back down the hill with impressive agility.

  Asteroth studied the wooden structure; it was a platform raised by four poles, which were in turn attached to flat timbers connected to wooden wheels. “A war machine of basic design, but effective,” he said to himself before turning his gaze back to the columns of infantry. After a moment, he found the man he was looking for and smiled maliciously. “Now, let’s show these cowards how the Ur’akgarr wage war.”

  “Wait for shang’gomagarr,” said N’rak as he pushed his way toward the youngster.

  Asteroth turned and knew he should handle the matter carefully, for N’rak held a lot of sway over the warriors present. “You’ve been warleader before, yes?”

  N’rak nodded, and it almost seemed that the loose black bear head nodded with him.

  “And all field decisions are the warleader’s to make, correct?”

  Again he only nodded.

  “And who did the Chief appoint warleader?”

  “Asteroth.”

  “Then it is my decision if we should wait, is it not?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Good, because I need you all to follow my instructions exactly, can you do that?”

  The warriors looked to N’rak as the yog’mur studied his warleader’s face. “We’ll follow.”

  “Excellent, here is what I want you to do,” he said before explaining his strategy.

  N’rak listened patiently for him to finish, then said, “Good plan.”

  “I know,” smirked Asteroth before ripping a nearby boulder from the ground. “Remember, wait for my signal.”

  “Kar’ta,” said the group as one.