Free Birth of a Mortal God by Armand Viljoen Page A

is out there somewhere gathering his forces. We can’t lose too many of our men.”
    “I don’t like it. If we lose you, the tribes will scatter, or worse, there’ll be a second Time of Proving. Asteroth, the tribes have not been united for hundreds of years,” he said, indicating those around for emphasis.
    “I know. I sat next to you during Father’s lectures,” Asteroth answered dryly.
    “Then you know what this means, for us as a people. We can’t lose you.”
    “I’ll be cautious. If things seem to go wrong, I’ll be in the air before they even realise I have wings.”
    “When will you leave?”
    “We first need to wait for the women and children, then consolidate ourselves. We need to make Tribe Mu’lor feel welcome.”
    “Feast?” he asked absently scratching his right tusk.
    Asteroth smiled. “Feast.”
    The dark silhouette continued to grow as the wind currents carried him forward. He was still a fair distance off, but it was already enormous. It astonished him that yog’murgarr built such a structure and reminded him of the tales the shang’gomagarr would tell the children of dor’gungarr during feasts. A frail people who once constructed structures and mechanisms that could rival even the most powerful shang’gomagarr. Asteroth had often wondered why his people possessed so much knowledge of a long dead people and made a mental note to ask his father just that when all this was done.
    He quickly increased his altitude as he neared the wall to avoid detection, hoping he would be disregarded as a roaming wyvern by any lookout who suddenly felt the urge to look up. Beyond the black wall, he saw houses, roads, fountains, and many other wonders. All were exactly as they had been described to him as a child. It was as if he had blundered right into one of his father’s stories. All that was needed was a lithe frail people. But the fabled dor’gungarr were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the streets were crowded by large olive figures wearing human-like clothes.
    Asteroth wondered if theses were really the feared U’norgarr; the yog’murgarr warriors who stood above all others. He scoured the city for an appropriate place to make his appearance and found a structure much larger than the others. It was circular, and thousands of U’norgarr were in attendance within it. There was a large, open area in the middle, which he assumed was wherefrom the chieftain addressed his tribe.
    D’rac watched as his subjects filled the arena, and looked at his son nervously. He was a handsome boy with tusks that would make any girl swoon. “You don’t have to do this.”
    “And how will you explain it to the tribe?”
    “I am the Chieftain. I need not explain myself,” he said irritated.
    “I am twelve, Father,” said the boy absently as he continued to don the black armour.
    “This whole affair is ridiculous.”
    “It is the Rite of Blood, Father. Every boy has to pass to become a man.”
    “It is an idiotic practice that belongs outside our walls with those other things ,” he said with clear disgust.
    “It is important to the Old Bloods. They feel that it keeps us in touch with our roots or some such garbage. I’ll be back soon,” said his son indifferently as he began getting ready to leave the loggia.
    “The Old Bloods,” said D’rac. His right eye twitching slightly as he spat the words. “Those fanatics would see us striped of both clothing and reason.”
    “They’ve been gaining more support ever since their change in leadership.”
    “Ah yes, the moulder’s son. It is good to know they chose a man of true intellect! He’s little better than those beyond the wall. I should have disbanded their little sect years ago.”
    “An illusion of importance is better than the enforcement of servitude. Isn’t that what you’ve been teaching me? Give the plebeians their little ritual; it distracts them from how powerless they truly are,” said the boy with a smirk.
    “You are going to make a