Birth of a Mortal God (27 page)

“Are
you
sure that Asteroth will meet Lindred’s army here? There will be no second chances,” said another member as she turned towards the enormous river whose watery roar reached even the hill upon which they stood.

“I spent a fair amount of time with the beastmen’s king. Enough to know he has a sound military mind. I taught him enough about Kingdom warfare that he will realise simply waiting would only lead to needless loss of life for them. Given that they possess effectively no ranged weapons or siege engines, he’ll opt for catching Lindred off guard as his army crosses the Line of Life,” he said, pointing to the large bridge in the distance for emphasis. “Why else do you think there are so many beastmen scattered in the surrounding woods? It is to prevent any scouts from reporting back to Lindred. I’d say he’ll probably march his main host upon the Bridge of Sorrows within a week.”

A tool approached the group of council members. “Masters, we are done. How can we be of use next?”

“Gather everyone in the centre of the glyph,” said Joneras.

“As you command,” said the thrall before leaving.

“The time for discussion has passed. Everyone go to your positions,” said a council member in a gurgling voice before disappearing in a puff of dark purple smoke.

The others followed, teleporting into a circular pattern around the glyph. Joneras made sure everyone was in position before teleporting to his own. “Let us begin.”

They began their chants, and the first tool toppled over dead. The transparent liquid soaking the grass started to burn a light purple, and more thralls collapsed. With each death, the purple glow darkened and grew more intense.

When the ground was finally littered with 6,561 corpses, Joneras shouted, “We offer the flesh, blood, and souls of nine beings to each of the blessed realms.”

“May they prepare the gate,” said the council as one, before striking the ground simultaneously. Instantly, all the corpses within the glyph were ripped into the ground.

Joneras stood up as the glyph disappeared. “Now for the key.”

Asteroth stood upon
the Black Wall and stared down at the marshalled yog’murgarr host. Thirty-five thousand warriors from different tribes stood ready to fight and die together.

“It is quite the sight, isn’t it?” said a feminine voice.

He smiled and replied in Zinoxian. “You have no idea, Elizabeth. Not so long ago, these men would have gladly butchered one another rather than stand together. Today, they stand as a single, disciplined horde; something not seen since ancient times if that tome you discovered is to be believed. I am not a prideful man, but today, I revel in my accomplishment.”

She stood by him and stared at a column of black-clad warriors. “I see the Moulders have done a remarkable job.”

“Indeed. Thanks to them, we have two thousand of our best warriors in cre’per’um armour. The human king will soon realise what a mistake he has made.”

“I heard the strike force left weeks ago. I was so busy . . . there were some men I wanted to say goodbye to,” she said sadly.

“Elizabeth, do you mind if I ask you a question?” he asked, turning to the blonde woman.

“Who am I to deny the request of the Tsa’rog?” she replied with a smile switching back to Yog’mur.

“Don’t you feel troubled that we march with the intention of slaughtering thousands of your former kin? You were once part of this Kingdom of Zinox after all,” he said, staring at her with his pitch-black eyes.

She smiled ruefully. “As the daughter of a prominent noble, I travelled to many different nations throughout my life, and one thing quickly became apparent: the Kingdom is a cesspool. It is a place that readily offers the worst of what humankind has to offer. Slavery, corruption, and depravity run rampant; it is a nation where wealth equals insusceptibility.

“Thousands of commoners starve each year, while nobles stuff their faces. It is no suprise the King is known as the Fat King. The happiest day of my life was when my father told me that he had pledged me to the Mages’ Guild. The Kingdom is a boil that needs to be lanced, and that looks to be a particularly sharp blade,” she said, pointing to the assembled horde.

“I did not know you held your former homeland in such contempt,” he said finally after a moment of silence.

She sighed. “I suppose I have gotten a bit jaded about it since . . . moving here.”

“In any case, I am glad I didn’t kill you that day, E’lir,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“As am I,” she said with a smile, doing her best to ignore his dangling member. “Now, before you go flying off, G’nar asked me to tell you to meet him at his home.”

“For what reason?”

She shrugged. “I better go check on my experiments. Be safe.”

He watched her climb down the stairs in mute admiration, before leaping off the wall. Carefully, he glided down to his brother’s quarters, a two-story structure said to have belonged to a Pure Blood merchant who’d had a hold over several of the most skilled moulders, selling the fruits of their labours as his own for the metal tokens the U’norgarr seemed to love so much. Asteroth found himself wondering again how they had gotten so lost.

G’nar turned to him with a smile as he entered the house’s antechamber. U’nark stepped aside, revealing an armour rack barely supporting a massive piece of equipment.

“What in the Nine is this?” asked he as he inspected the black suit of armour.

It had none of the gold and silver trimmings that so many of the U’norgarr armours usually sported. Instead, it was made like those for the vanguard, more focused on functionality than looking pretty. It was, however, more angular, giving it a menacing appearance. The breastplate was engraved with the names of each of the now-disbanded tribes.

“So we never forget what you have done for us,” supplied U’nark.

“How many armours could have been forged with the cre’per’um it took to fashion this?” he asked stoically.

“Our Tsa’rog cannot be allowed to lead the horde into battle naked,” stated G’nar, preventing any reprimands.

Asteroth sighed. “Oh, all right. Help me put this thing on.”

“Kar’ta,” they answered, before U’nark showed them how it broke apart.

“I designed it specifically to avoid impairing your ability to fly, Tsa’rog,” said U’nark proudly as he lashed together three different plates on Asteroth’s back.

After half an hour, the Tsa’rog of the yog’murgarr stood fully armoured, his head and wings the only uncovered parts of his body.

Asteroth threw his black silky hair over the back of the armour. “Are we done?”

“Not quite yet,” said G’nar with a sheepish grin as he removed a bear pelt to unveil a cre’per’um battleaxe. “I had no time for ornamentation; I’ll make it pretty after you’ve used it to slay a few thousand humans.”

He took the weapon from his brother, unable to mask his boyish glee. It was the first time since his meeting with the yethlo Talvirnia that he truly experienced joy. He had kept what he learned from his people, judging them not yet ready to learn the truth of his origins. But keeping it from G’nar had been harder than he expected, and at times, it weighed heavily on him.

“So what do you think?” asked his brother in the worrisome tone all craftsmen adopted when someone silently appraised their work.

The battleaxe was gigantic, each of its serpentine blades was almost the size of G’nar’s chest and concluded in four human sword-like points, making it ideal for piercing even the toughest armour. Its haft was as thick as a young bole late in the growing season and stretched on for nearly eight feet. A sphere the size of a melon waited at the end, enabling its wielder to crush bone with little effort. It was a work of art. A work of art that weighed nearly four hundred pounds.

“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-”