Free Birth of a Mortal God by Armand Viljoen Page B

wise chieftain someday, my son. How does the armour fit? I told them to spare no expense.” said D’rac as he studied the black armour his son wore.
    His son ran his hands over the embossed gold and silver trimming. “It is truly a work of art. It is almost a shame I will only wear it this once.”
    U’nark sat among the masses to observe the Rite of Blood. Fourteen boys, each armed to the teeth, pitted against a starved wolf. It was a disgrace. Their tribe has sunk so deep into the bog of their own arrogance that they have forgotten what it means to be yog’murgarr. Unfortunately, all the positions of power were filled with those who would see them completely stripped of their heritage. It saddened him that they were once revered by the other tribes as warriors of unparalleled skill, but now fourteen of them can hardly kill a single wolf. He watched in disgust as the children chased the wolf around the arena like a pup would a butterfly.
    The crowd laughed and cheered at the spectacle, and he once again understood why none of the others attended the Rites anymore. It was a mockery of a hallowed time in a boy’s life, when he could prove himself more than a child. He still remembered when his father had sneaked him out of the city to kill an animal for his Cloth of Honour. It had been a mountain lion, and when he finally slew it, his father told him tales of how their ancestors used to do their Rites completely naked and unarmed. It was in that moment when he really understood how much they had lost over the past centuries.
    The boys finally managed to surround the wolf when its desperate growl turned into a whimper. Before any of the boys could deal a killing blow, a red object fell from the sky and crashed into the sand in a blur of movement.
    The crowd was in an uproar when a voice bellowed, “I am Asteroth. I am here to call on Tribe U’nor to form a nation with its brothers and sisters. Is there any who would deny this call?”
    Asteroth squinted to distinguish his surroundings. He had wanted to display as much of his godly majesty as possible with his landing, but he never took into account that landing with such force would create quite a significant dust cloud. From the armed silhouettes, he could tell that the warriors had not fled. Not that any yog’mur would. There was an ocean of voices, but no distinct answer to his question.
    A juvenile wolf darted past him, and he suddenly stood with axe in hand. He had found that with each passing battle, his instincts and reflexes became more acute; the shang’gomagarr claim it’s because war and battle are Ve’ndrious’s domain and by extension his own.
    His eye caught a flicker of movement to his right, and as he turned, he found a black-armoured warrior upon him. His opponent had clearly used the wolf to distract him, in the hope of catching him off guard. A good tactic, however the warrior had sacrificed too much defensibility in his haste, an error he will now find to be quite fatal.
    The man realised his mistake and tried to skid to a halt, but it was too late. The axe bit into his breastplate with a screech, and he slumped to the ground as blood gushed from the wound.
    Metal shrieked as Asteroth pulled his axe free from the corpse. He looked at his weapon with surprise. He didn’t know what the black armour was made from, but it had completely marred the steel of his axe. In fact, the armour would have probably negated the blow if not for his supernatural strength. If this was the kind of equipment the U’norgarr possessed, it would make subjugating or destroying them a task that could take years. Something he could not allow. He had to end it here, make an example out of these warriors. Destroy them so utterly that the thought of opposing him would seem like madness.
    He threw aside the ruined axe and acquired his first quarry.
    A sudden gale dispersed the dust cloud as the shang’gomagarr finally remembered they could use the Art for something other