“It is perfect, brother, thank you,” said Asteroth before moving for the door.
“The yethlo?” asked G’nar as he fell into step.
“Thirty have decided to lend us their power. They wait at the mouth of the valley.”
G’nar whistled. “Ve’ndrious’s blood, if I wasn’t assured of victory before, I am now.”
The horde roared at their approach, and Asteroth howled, “Time to teach the humans a lesson in fear!”
“WHERE ARE YOU going?” asked Jessica exhausted as she saw Killmar dressed.
He bent down and lightly kissed her. “I have something I want to discuss with Ryuuhan. Go back to sleep.”
She smiled and closed her eyes as he left, the thud of the front door echoing in her ears as she drifted back into her dream world of the family that she would soon have.
Killmar was striding through the outside garden when he suddenly stopped. Slowly, he turned back towards their temporary home, then he heard it again. An unfamiliar emotion squeezed his heart as he rushed back into the building. He ripped the door from its hinges as he dashed past the fountain. The shadows projected on the white paper screen of their bedroom confirmed his suspicions. He tossed aside the sliding door just in time to see a masked figure in black disappear with Jessica through a portal of dark purple energy. Three others turned as one at the disturbance.
“It’s Ki—” was all the first masked figure could utter before drowning in his own blood.
Killmar smashed the torn-out larynx along with his hand through the second man’s chest. The third frantically tried to rush through the disappearing portal when angry fingers dug into his right shoulder, hurling him against the opposite wall.
He turned back to the portal, but it was gone. The third man was trying to push himself up when he reached him. After breaking both his legs, Killmar lifted him up by his throat and tore off his mask, exposing a human face.
“Where have you taken her?!” he asked, his eyes and hair alight with a supernatural glow.
“I do not know. We were not told where the return portal would take us,” answered the man, enthralled by his power.
“Who are you?”
“I have no name; I am but a tool to be used for My Lord’s sake.”
“Who is your lord?”
“Ashaat, Lord of Lords, Master of the Ninth Hell.”
“The Harbingers of Obscurity,” spat Killmar before continuing, “Did Ashaat order this?!”
“I am but a tool; I do not know the plans of the masters.”
“You may be a tool, but unfortunately for you, you still feel pain,” he said before plunging his hand into the man’s stomach. Light exploded from the wound and agony surged through the captive. He finally broke the man’s neck when his voice became too hoarse to let anymore screams escape.
“That was a bit redundant,” said a masculine voice as the corpse crashed to the floor.
He turned and saw a man in a black robe. “Who are you?”
“I am the man who is going to tell you what you should do in order to regain your wife.”
The words barely passed the man’s lips when enraged hands tightened around his throat. “Where is she? Tell me!”
“I do not know,” replied the stranger as celestial power overwhelmed him.
Killmar roared at the answer and felt bone crumble beneath his fingers.
“Now that was redundant. Are you trying to break all of our tools?” asked Joneras from the corner of the room. Quickly, he held up his only available hand with palm out. “Before you butcher me in rage, too, know that if you come within ten feet of me, Jessica dies.”
Killmar glanced at the bony extremity dangling from his right shoulder as he forced his own temper under control. “I knew I recognised that quenru surrounding you. But I had thought you merely a foolish mortal striking deals with a being you cannot begin to comprehend. I never took you for a mindless little slave, dancing to whatever tune Ashaat whistles.”
Joneras smirked. “Goad me all you want. I am not foolish enough to attack you so you can peak into my mind. You, most of all, should understand what we are trying to accomplish. Why do you oppose us? We are only trying—”
“Enough, little puppet! Tell me what you want!”
“We want you on the battlefield. Slaughter both armies when the battle is joined, and we will return your wife unharmed.”
Killmar pondered the request, and then comprehension struck him and he laughed. “You fanatics will never learn. How long will it take you to realise that what you seek cannot be done? Yes, Ashaat is unique in his ability to directly affect other realms by means of his pacts, but it is not a matter of sacrifice. It can not be done! You mortals. Is it so inconceivable that those beings you so devotedly worship use you as nothing more than entertainment? How many more limbs must be taken from you, before you realise this?” he said motioning to the mage’s right arm.
Joneras flushed under his grey skin. “You are not all knowing! You do not understand! You will do as I command or I shall personally slit Jessica’s pretty throat!”
“Command? You dare command me! I am going to rend your very soul!” he roared as he advanced upon the little magician.
“Jessica will die!” shrilled the grey man.
The words drained him of rage as if by magic. “Where is this battle to take place?” he asked finally.
“Just north of the Bridge of Sorrows.”
“Be sure to have Jessica there the moment I am done,” said Killmar as he started to leave.
“Remember, spare no one.”
THE LAND GROANED under the feet of a hundred thousand men. Every man within the Kingdom, whether fourteen or sixty-four, came to a halt before the Bridge of Sorrows. It was getting dark, and the men were tired as their King had set an impossible pace for the footmen ever since they left the capital.
“Your Grace, we should make camp here for the night and cross the bridge in the morning,” suggested the newly appointed general of the Kingdom of Zinox. A burly man who seemed to have been born with a scowl.
“For what?” demanded Lindred, almost as uncomfortable as the white stallion carrying him.
“The men are tired, and it will be night soon.”
“But the bridge is right there!” said Lindred, pointing to it as if it wasn’t in clear sight. “Let’s just cross the blasted thing and get it over with.”
“Sire, only a hundred men can cross at a time. It will leave us-”
“All the more reason to cross it now!” stated the King. “The sooner we start, the sooner my army will be across. Speaking of which, why didn’t we just use ships?”
“We do not have enough ships, Sire.”
Lindred laughed. “Ha, that’s because my army is the largest in history!”
“Yes, Your Grace. But I strongly advice we make camp here. Should we be attacked while crossing-”
“Attacked? Who would attack us? We are still miles away from the Viper Mountains, who would be mad enough to attack the largest army in the known world?” he asked as he stroked his golden armour.
“Sire, none of our scouts have returned. It is ill advised-”
“Enough! You worry too much. You are starting to sound like that traitorous brother of mine. You are not a sympathiser, are you?”
“Of course not, Your Grace! I only wish to advise you to the best of my abilities,” answered the man, fear not entirely concealed by his deep voice.
“I am told it will be Lunarium tonight, so it will provide plenty of light.” he scratched his jowls. “We will march through the night.”
“But, Sire, the men are exhausted,” started the general.
“Well, I am not. I am their King. They do as I command. Now get my army over that bridge!”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
THE YOG’MURGARR HOST came to a halt, and each man made himself as comfortable as the situation allowed as they ate their night’s rations of latar. Orders had been given when they left
the Black City that none were allowed to make fire or indulge in prolonged conversation. After a month of cold marches, there had yet to be a single case of disobedience. Regardless of intellect, all understood their purpose and what was at stake.
The warleaders quickly gathered around their Tsa’rog. “The scouts report that around a quarter of the human army has crossed the bridge. It does not appear they are attempting to make camp,” said Ra’lak without being asked.
“Probably because it is a Two-Moon-Sky tonight. Their king must feel that it provides adequate light to continue their march. It would appear this King Lindred is as tactical as a sla’gat,” said Asteroth with a smirk.
G’nar chuckled at the comparison to the excrement-eating pest. “Should we strike now?”
“No. We wait until half of their army has crossed. That should help S’gha and his strike force south of the Great River to destroy their war machines.”
“How are we to attack them, Tsa’rog?” asked one of the warleaders.
Asteroth drew two parallel lines in the dirt with his talons. “This is the Great River.” He quickly added two lines within the river. “That’s the bridge. Once half of their army has crossed, we crest the hill and charge. “Ga’nir, you and C’lek will take half of the host, save for the vanguard, and attack their left flank,” he said drawing a curved line to the circle he had drawn to represent the human army.
“Kar’ta,” answered the two warleaders obviously pleased by their role.
“Br’gug and E’rar, you’ll take the other half and assault their right flank in a pincer attack,” he continued as he drew another curved line. “My brother and I will charge with the vanguard directly into their army and take the bridge before they can establish a coordinated defence.”
“Kar’ta,” said the proud warleaders as one.
Asteroth moved to the back of the straight line he had just drawn. “Father, you will bring up the rear with the yethlo and shang’gomagarr, supporting the host with the Art. I’ll leave the when and how up to your discretion.”
“Kar’ta,” answered his foster father, his concern for his sons barely hidden.
“Ra’lak, you might have the most important task of all. You are to observe the battle, and when you deem the attention of their forces south of the Great River to be sufficiently diverted, you are to signal S’gha to burn their war machines.”
“Kar’ta, I will not fail you, Tsa’rog.”
Asteroth smiled. “Well then, let us show these humans the power of our united people.”
LINDRED STUFFED A big piece of grilled pork in his mouth when the sound of war horns exploded from outside. “What in the nine hells was that?”
As if he had been heard, a pale-faced page burst into the quickly erected tent just as the halve-chewed piece of meat hit the table. “Your Grace, we are under attack!”
“What?! Don’t be absurd, boy! Who would attack us?”
“The beastmen, Your Grace.”
“Where is-”
“The general is trying to rally the men south of the Bridge of Sorrows. He sent me to apprise Your Highness of the situation.”
Lindred hesitated. He loathed leaving his dinner table unsatisfied, however, he did not want the men to think him a coward. “Help me back into my armour.”
The two pages on duty to attend his needs seemed rooted in terror, but their elder workfellow seemed less affected as he rushed forward.
“Help me, dammit!” he screamed as he struggled to get the large golden armour off its rack.
His anger seemed to snap the two younger boys out of their paralysis, and with their help, they had the King in his armour within ten minutes.
Lindred pointed to the older boy. “Take me to the general.”
The page made a quick but low bow before almost bolting out of the tent.
“Gods, boy!” said Lindred before rushing after him, finding the page waiting with his horse.
The air was filled with the screams of men and the clanking of arms. He mounted his horse and was quickly led to the bridge. “How can there be so many of them? gasped Lindred.
Almost fifty thousand men were being decimated by the green scourge. Not only were they being attacked on three sides, they were also being steadily pushed back, causing men to stumble into each other or fall into the river as a simple place to stand became a valued commodity.
“Your Grace, we need to have our forces north of the bridge retreat and regroup,” said the general as he noticed the King’s presence. “If they press the attack, we can use the bridge to funnel them into tight groups where our archers can pick them off. If we hold the bridge long enough to allow the engineers to assemble the ballistae, they’ll be forced to retreat or risk annihilation.”
“Absolutely not! What if they fall back the moment we pull our men back? We would then have lost hundreds if not thousands of men without inflicting any real injury. What’s more, we simply cannot allow these beasts to see us retreat. They must never think themselves our betters.”
“But, Your Grace—”
“Enough! Have the archers take up position and send for the ballistae to be assembled. Look how tightly clustered they are. We should strike now.”
“Your Grace, if we fire into the melee, we will hit our men, as well.”
“I know that! I am not an idiot! But for every man we hit, two or more beasts will fall. It is what we tacticians call a calculated sacrifice. As my general, I would have thought you would know that,” said the King, disappointed.
The general’s jaw clenched slightly; the only tell of his immense frustration. “I’m afraid I have not mastered advanced strategy as Your Grace has.”
Lindred only nodded. “Have the archers nock their arrows as soon as they are ready.”
Thousands of bowmen took up their positions, and he called for them to draw. Quickly, each battalion’s flag bearer lifted up the appropriate banner.
“Release!” shouted the King. And a moment later, the sky was blotted by blood-thirsty wooden shafts.
A beastmen horn blew in response, and a group of two-headed auburn giants in the rearguard lifted their hands into the air. There was a loud crackle, as if a hundred thousand twigs were being stepped on at once, before a silver veil of light appeared over the beastmen host.
Lindred watched dumbfounded as the arrows seem to bounce, slide, and glance off a magical barrier.
“Your Grace, we have to retreat!” urged the general. Panicked screams erupted from far behind them. “The camp followers?” he wondered. But before he could send a page to investigate, large black clouds of smoke rose from where the baggage trains where kept. “Supai’s six thousand cocks! What in the nine hells is going on?!”
ASTEROTH TORE THROUGH a horse and three more men with a single swing of his battleaxe. “Gods, this thing handles well,” he said with a smile to no one in particular.
G’nar grabbed a soldier by his head, almost crushing the man’s helmet, and hurled him at one of the few surviving cavalrymen; unseating the man before shouting, “We almost have the bridge. These men are no warriors; most are barely capable of wielding their weapons!”
“Agreed, I feel insulted that their king believed himself capable of annihilating us with such . . . weakness,” replied Asteroth as he caved in a man’s chest with the sphere-end of the axe’s haft.
A war horn was blown four times in quick succession, signalling an imminent attack from behind.
“How did they get behind us?” Asteroth wondered as he split a man in two.
“Brother, look!” shouted G’nar as he pointed into the distance.
Asteroth turned around, his height granting him an unobstructed view of what was approaching.
A man-sized object was crossing an impossible distance with such speed that all distinctive features were rendered to an unrecognizable blur. The object plunged into the yog’murgarr horde like a stone into water, hurling dark green bodies into the air as if they were drops of water. Despite the tremend
ous force of the initial impact, it didn’t even slow down its momentum as it cut through the yog’murgarr ranks like a hot blade through lard.
“Shuk! I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you think it is here by human design?” asked G’nar. But before any speculation could be made, the object sliced through their ranks and pierced into the human army.
The screams of men, animals, and yog’murgarr choked the air as the new unknown enemy darted back and forth between their lines, leaving nothing but thorn limbs and torsos in its wake.
A fear-crazed madness started infecting combatants on both sides when Asteroth blew his war horn, warning all to pull back. Unlike the human army, however, the yog’murgarr host was disciplined and no stranger to the mental strains of combat; all obeyed as one. “Whatever it is, we need to stop it before it kills us all.”
The silver veil disappeared as the horde managed a fifty-foot divide between themselves and the object. Asteroth looked back and saw the yethlo lowering their hands towards the object, their right heads mouthing the needed incantations.
The unknown menace was about to dart towards them again when a pillar of orange flame exploded from the sky, crashing down precisely on top of it and half of the human army north of the bridge. Heat washed over them when the first thunderclap was heard. From around the pillar, thunderbolts streaked out of the dark clouds, ruthlessly stabbing the ground. It was an awe-inspiring display of power, almost beautiful in its godlike destructiveness. Men and horses alike were turned to ash, while the few fortunate enough to survive the onslaught were cut down by the yog’murgarr lines as they fled into it in mindless terror.
“Gods, I don’t even think I could have survived that,” muttered Asteroth as the orange flame and thunder dissipated.
“Brother, look!” cried G’nar, his voice tainted with fear for the first time in his life.
The smoke settled, and a single figure stood amongst the carnage; a nude man with glowing blue hair and yellow eyes whose intensity seemed to invalidate one’s very existence.
Asteroth stared at the unscathed being and felt a cold chill run down his spine. He was about to order the host to retreat when suddenly a robed ewien holding a young woman appeared by the man in a puff of purple smoke.
Birth of a Mortal God Page 22
