Birth of a Mortal God Page 21

  “You are late,” said one of the eight council members, his voice a deep gurgling sound.

  Joneras strode over to the spot left open for him. “That is because I am not looking forward to this report. Where are the sacrifices?”

  Another council member pointed upward with his finger-like tentacles. Joneras tilted his head back and saw seven-hundred and twenty-nine unconscious humans hanging over the crystal bowl, iron shackles biting into their flesh. “Hmmm, efficient. Let us begin.”

  The room broke into a sea of murmurs as each council member chanted his verses for the ritual. As the runes gained in intensity, a dark purple smoke started seething from them. Slowly, it slithered upwards towards the unconscious bodies until it finally enveloped its first victim. More smoke was spawned from the runes for each sacrifice enveloped, and as the chanting continued, so did the smoke’s hunger until it finally covered all of the suspended bodies. The council members simultaneously slapped their palms together in front of their chests, and their chants seemed to fade away, as if they, too, were being consumed by the smoke.

  The dark purple cloud drew back to the crystal bowl, filling it up, leaving behind nothing but empty chains before transmuting into a liquid.

  “Why do you bother me?” asked a handsome masculine voice from the bowl as the council ceased their chants.

  Joneras swallowed. “Oh Lord of Lords, Master of the Ninth Hell, I beg for forgiveness.”

  “Joneras, you seem to be confused. If you seek forgiveness, then pray to the gods, for you’ll find none from me. I have told you of Killmar, and what is to be done. Why do you implore me for forgiveness?” asked the voice calmly.

  “Killmar took the Eye of Heaven and—”

  “Why did you hand over the Eye? I thought you to be intelligent. I assume he drained the object and now will not go do as we asked?” interrupted the composed voice.

  “Yes, My Lord. He stated that he’ll prevent any invasion on the Empire, but will not go join the battle. If the Emperor didn’t order—”

  “Stop. I do not care for excuses. I assume you have an alternate plan to have him follow the strategy I have devised?”

  “Yes, My Lord. Killmar seems to have taken a wife. We will use her,” said Joneras, sweat burning his eyes.

  The voice chuckled. “Him? A wife? Oh my, he never ceases to surprise and entertain. Oh, how I miss him. Do as you please. Be warned though, even with the blessings I have bestowed upon you, you are no match for him. He is so much more than any of you can comprehend.”

  Drops of perspiration wet the floor as Joneras bowed. “I will not fail you, My Lord.”

  “Oh and, Joneras, I do not forgive, I punish,” said the voice as Joneras howled in pain. Blood and flesh seemed to dissolve and disappear from his right arm leaving only bone and skin. “Next time, I will be more creative with your punishment,” said the voice before the liquid reverted back to smoke and dissipated.

  SEBASTIAN AWOKE AT an all too familiar pain. With his right foot caked in blood and dirt, he kicked the rat off his left. He had gotten used to the rank mixture of excrement, intestines, and other bodily fluids that seemed to choke the air in the dungeon; even the screams of agony and despair no longer bothered him. Though it was the rats that seemed hell-bent on devouring him alive whenever he attempted sleep. It presented a somewhat difficult circumstance to become accustomed to.

  Slowly, he pushed himself upright, resting his back against the slick, cold stones of his cell. Only a single torch against a far-off wall staved off utter darkness. Though it helped his sanity, it did not provide much in the way of illumination. Absently, he wondered how much time had passed since he’d been stripped and tossed in this cell to rot. Was his fool of a brother already waging his mad war, or was there still time to stop him?

  “Stop him? You can barely defend yourself against rodents. How do you propose to stop a mad king?” he said to himself bitterly.

  Echoing footsteps heralded the approach of a guard. He wondered what kind of hellish concoction would be presented as food today. He wished they would just always serve the mouldy stale bread he got on occasion, instead of these mystery dishes the resident torturer brewed. He assumed it was indeed the torturer’s handy work, for no man who calls himself a cook would concoct such foul-tasting swill.

  The guard stopped in front of his cell. There was a moment of silence as if he was unsure what to do, then he whispered, “My Prince, is that you?”

  His body had suffered during his incarceration, but his mind had not. “James? How did you get down here?”

  The young man unlocked the gate, closing it softly behind him. “The King conscripted every able-bodied man within the Kingdom and only left a handful of men behind to keep the peace, before marching off with his army. Since then, those poor sods have had their hands full stopping looters from burning down the capital. Yesterday, I got word that they pulled most of the guards from this lovely establishment, and by most, I mean all but one. And that unfortunate soul had a run-in with a cudgel. Now forgive my impudence, My Prince, but I think you’d best go on an extended visit to the East.”

  Sebastian laughed and instantly regretted doing so as pain shot through his chest. “I take it you have a plan on how to achieve this?”

  James flashed a wolfish grin as he retrieved a clerical robe of Henensu out of his rucksack. “Well, for the most part. You might have to weigh in once we reach the Coalition.”

  Sebastian inspected the black robe and looked at the young man enquiringly.

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t easy to come by, but I’d like to see a watchman brave enough to stop and question a cleric of Henensu.”

  Sebastian smiled and a tear ran down his cheek. “Gods, I have never been so happy to have a squire.”

  JESSICA ROLLED OFF her lover, her heart drumming in her chest. “I thought you had much to tell me. When is that going to happen?”

  “How can I when you keep distracting me?” answered Killmar as he traced a finger along the valley between her breasts.

  “You seem happy.”

  “Well, considering what we have been doing, I think a little happiness is in order,” he said with a light kiss.

  Her rosy cheeks darkened ever so slightly at the remark. “That is not what I meant. Ever since you drained the Eye of Heaven, you seem, I don’t know . . . different, but in a good way.”

  He interlocked his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “That would be because I have much cause to be happy. Not only have I strengthened my vessel’s integrity enough so that it is no longer being devoured by my power, I-”

  “You mean to say you’re no longer dying?” she interrupted with welled up tears.

  He spied a few runaways streaking down her cheeks and smiled. “I did not expect you to be this heartbroken at the news of my improved health. I might have to go and get myself mortally wounded now.”

  She laughed and snuggled against him. “They’re not those kinds of tears. I knew the Eye of Heaven was powerful, but . . .”

  “No one is more surprised than I. In all my time spent in this realm, I have never encountered an artefact that came remotely close to the power wielded by even the weakest of spiritual beings. But this was different; it was like the Eye was a physical crystallised piece of refined quenru. Something I did not even think possible. I suspect it might have been a by-product from the mass-scale mortal magic that was involved with the creation of my prison; somewhat ironic that it ended up being my salvation.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed.

  “But that is not why I seem so blissful.”

  “Really?” she said, surprised. “What could possibly be of more importance to you?”

  “You,” he said as he stared into her bright blue eyes. “You are with child, Jessica.”

  “I am with what?” she exclaimed as she sat up.

  “With child. You do realise what we have been doing is well known to be the cause?” he said mockingly.

  “It is
impossible,” she declared.

  “I assure you, it is-”

  “No! You don’t understand. When I was sold to the Duke . . . I was made to drink a potion . . . I am barren, Killmar,” she said as painful memories clawed their way to the surface.

  There was a slight expression of shock on his face before he turned reflective. After a long while, he finally said, “The spring! It must have happened at the spring!”

  “What?” she asked confused.

  “Remember when I healed your injuries in that hot spring near Larin months past? I must have unintentionally mended whatever harm that potion wrought. That must be it,” he insisted.

  Jessica moved her hands to her flat belly. “A child? I never thought . . . a child. Yours and mine.”

  He wrapped his arms around her petite form, putting his hands over hers. “This child is truly blessed to have you as a mother, as am I to call you wife.”

  She kissed his arms. “What of you? Is the mighty god Killmar prepared to be called Father?”

  He hugged her tightly, burying his face in her soft black hair. “I have witnessed so many incredible things, Jessica. But none has ever quite made me feel so jovial and uneasy at the same time. I find it most intriguing.”

  “I take that as a yes then,” she declared before the both of them burst into laughter.

  JONERAS STOOD WITH his eight peers and watched as 6,561 tools poured the transparent liquid from their jugs onto the ground in careful formation so as to draw a colossal glyph of the Lord of Lords. “Make sure there are no mistakes.”

  “Yes, Master Joneras,” came the reply from the thralls.

  He turned to one of his fellow council members. “You are certain no one can detect that this area has been glamoured?”

  “Joneras, I need no oversight. I’ve been weaving illusions since before you were born,” answered the council member in a high-pitched voice. “Only a few archmages within the Guild possess the skill to detect what I’ve done here, and even then, they’d have a hard time dispelling it. As for the shang’gomagarr spread out in the nearby woods, they generally use joint effort to manipulate the destructive forces of nature to impressive results granted. However, they possess nearly no skill in the purely arcane disciplines needed for detecting and weaving illusions.”

  “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 a
ppearance. 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.