Monday, July 9, 2012

Epic War Fantasy Ebook-Birth of Mulgy

the next chapter as promised, announcements will be made when the full book is available.

The Birth of Mulgy
The frigid winds of the north blow eerily. Snow is blown in piles like dust. Yet the pure white snow is stained by the blood of warriors. Only one lone warrior remains standing in the field of blood. He’s soaked with it himself. It stains an otherwiseblond beard. A grim but stoic look rests on the hardnosed face of a massive, muscled warrior. Stern blue eyes stare out at the horizon, which is mostly white but growing grayer with clouds. He is a member of the Tribe of The Bears.
He shows no mercy.

His heart pounds and his breaths are deep and rapid. An axe, soaked in blood rests at his feet. Feet covered in large fur boots crunch through the early morning snow. The stern look on the warriors face does not shift even slightly, not once. His eyes remain fixed ahead and reveal no fear. Even as he passes bodies, many mounted on spears, heads rolling, and fields of blood, he is feels nothing. He knows no emotion for he is a Bear. What little remorse he may feel is overshadowed by pride. He is the last warrior standing; the final survivor. It is a glorious day, and a sign of favor from the gods, especially the god Ranu’k the god of war and king of the bears. This means he is chosen and destined to be a great warrior, and to bear a mighty son. Standing the sole survivor of any battle was a great sign indeed, but in a battle this immense, must be an omen of epic proportions.

He returns to the camp silently and stoically. Many tents made from the thick and skins furs of the beast greet him as he approaches. He passes through nodding solemnly in greeting at a few
warriors who pass him. They see the blood on his axe and beat their chests to show their respect. He raises his axe to them in return as if it is a traditional toast. He sees a few campfires on his passing, and a bonfire in the very heart of the encampment. The winds pick up, blowing clouds of snow with them, but surprisingly they fail to extinguish the resilient flames.

In the center a great tent stands marked with a proud flag on the top, and bearing a round shape to encircle its spot on the ground. The tent is larger and more elaborate than the others, which merely serve as homes. This tent serves as a home to the tribes greatest leaders. Mulgy sets his axe to the side at his feet and kneels.

“I serve cause Ranu’k. I bathe in the blood of our enemies. I offer my axe to the king of the bears.”
Then he stands up with a low grunt of roar. The other tribes may find their traditions strange, but none may enter the tent without reciting the prayer and the battlecry at the end. The tent is a sacred center of spirituality, government, and military leadership. There the chieftain resides where he leads the tribe and lays the plan for war. The council of elders take care of most of
the day to day business of running the settlement, and settle disputes between the Bears. The High Shaman, however, is the true leader of the tribe. To defy him is to defy the gods and even Ranu’k himself.

The man kneels in tattered brown robes, covered in dirt and dampness. His white scraggly hair flows down to the bottom of his neck as he moves his stick-like arms to stir the wooden ladle in the black cauldron.

“I smell the stench of blood and sweat. I hear the heavy breathing of a warrior.” A trembling and hoarse voice greets the warrior without even standing at first. Slowly he stands after muttering some indecipherable prayer. He turns a white and scruffy bearded face to greet the warriors. His eyebrows are thick like caterpillars, and the bags under the weary blue eyes distinguish him as an aged and seasoned priest who often spends endless nights without sleep, and sometimes weeks without fasting. The red in his eyes only compliments his rugged features.
“Rorlick, right? How did the battle fair? Are those miserable wolves still howling in the night?”
“They are slaughtered. Their entire army has been vanquished.”
Two wrinkled and trembling hands come together in applause as the old sage produces a grinning of rotting and missing teeth. “Excellent! You have led the men well, in time you may succeed the chieftain.”
“Only if you outlive me.” An even larger man than Rorlick appears massive clubs for arms crossed. His head shines in the dim light of torches, and many scars are visible on his scalp, a
proud battlewound he has born from capture by the wolves in his younger years.
He no longer flinches in agony recalling how they ripped his hair violently from his head. Instead he smiles proudly now, and his smirk grows to hear the news of their impending demise.
“That is not all I am afraid. We have sustained equal devestation. I was the last man standing!”
The aging shaman’s eyes widen in and he gasps in awe. “You…you were the sole survivor then?”
“Yes!” Rorlick answered.
“In a battle so immense? Yet I should not be surprised. This is a prophecy of our tribe. That one man shall wipe out our greatest foe, the wolves, and after…”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The gruff voiced chieftain asks, narrowing his eyes
“You will slaughter the rest of them Rorlick, their settlement. You will do so alone. If you succeed…”
“I will succeed shaman, and I will not fail my people, and all that remains of the wolves are women and children, maybe a few elderly leaders and unskilled laborers, but not warriors.
As for you Chieftain, no matter what the prophecy says I am your warrior. I shall serve you as I always have, as long as there is breath in your body.”
“Fear not Rorlick, I would not be ashamed to serve you, and if the prophecies declare it, I would be a fool to defy the will of Ranu’k. If it comes to that perhaps I could serve as an advisor of sorts. You will need guidance.”
“I would at that.”
“But Rorlic,” the chieftain tells him. “You have more pressing affairs. Your son was born while you were away. Your wife awaits you in your tend. Do not allow us to retain you.”
“As you wish!” Rorlick falls to one knee and hunches over slightly, beating his chest with a mighty grunt and a roar. “For the glory of the bears!” he cries.
The Chieftain beats his chest in return and the shaman lifts both hands and pushes out his chest.
“For glory of the bears!” says the Chieftain
“For the glory of Ranu’k!” cries the shaman.

The sturdy warrior exits the tent and returns the chill of the camp. A bitter wind picks up, and flurries of snow descend from the sky. The warrior quickly shelters himself from the storm by entering his own proud tent. There he beholds the face of his beautiful, though weary wife. She lies down on a bed fashioned from a pile of furs and pelts. She holds the infant in her arms.

“Rorlick, my mighty warrior!” she greets him warmly. Her smile lights up the tent and the sound of her voice warms his heart. Rorlick falls to one knee to kneel by his wife. His eyebrows raise as the eyes behold a beautiful baby boy. He retrieves the tiny child into his
massive arms. He rocks him back and forth. The baby begins to whine and whimper slightly. Rorlick’s smile turns to a scowl. His eyebrows drop and his eyes narrow. He returns the baby to his mother with a huff, and stands to his feet. Crossing his arms, he turns his back to the woman and his son. He groans softly with his head turned downward and his face distraught.
“Has he not pleased you my husband?” she asks.
“He is weak.” The man answers flatly. “As his father you know it is my right to choose for him a name.”
“Yes my husband, you have a name for him?”
“His name shall be Mulgy.” He uses the word from an old form of the barbarian language. It is mostly used as a curse word, particularly when one stumbles. The word means, “Mistake”.
“You cannot mean that!” the woman gasps, almost sobbing. Her eyes water all the more as she waits for him to answer, but only receives cold silence in return.
After a drawn out moment he finally speaks. “Tomorrow he will be taken to the ancient burial ground, given back to the ancestors in accordance to our traditions.”
“We will…sacrifice him?” her voice is cracked with tears. “You would endorse such cruelty to your own son?”
“He is weak. To allow the child to live in this world be a cruelty of its own.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The winter winds are harsh and bitter as they beat against the tent. The sudden roar of the blizzard awakens the woman from her restless slumber. She lies beside her muscled husband. Slowly and cautiously she lifts his large, sinewy arm from where it rests around, and slips away from his warmth. She stands to dress herself in a cloak and winter robes. She falls slowly to her knees to retrieve the infant. She cradles him, and then holds him close. She wraps him in a thick blanket and quietly exits the tent.

The camp still seems somewhat lively. A small group of warriors sits around the fire. She flinches at the sight of them. They roar deep laughter, slapping their backs and turning their smiling faces to the clear and starry black skies. Drunk on mead, and shouting slurred speech, they hardly seem to notice her as she strolls past the campfire.

The stars are surprisingly visible for such a snowy nights, as are the four moons. It feels surreal. The red moon of the south, the silver moon of the north, the green moon of the east, and the gold
moon of the west command the reverence of the stars that dot the skies landscape. She gasps in awe at the beauty, scarcely having stopped to admire it before. She looks to skies wondering what lies beyond her world of blood and tears. She can find no answers, for it’s all she’s ever known.

She continues her cold and unpleasant journey as the winds whistle and beat against a chapped and paling face. She shivers from the cold, holding her child tightly and hoping he is warmer than
she is. After some time she reaches an entrance to a large patch of woods, and a trail that seems to cut through it.

She stops and collapses to her knees, weeping. Where will she go? What will she do? This hostile and frigid land has no place in the wild where she can survive the harshest winters, and from whom will she receive help. The lands of the north are inhabited by many barbarian tribes, all sworn enemies of the bears, who have earned few friends through their warmongering and bullyboy tactics. She is hopeless. She and her child will die out here if she stays, but he will die if they return. She suddenly begins to sob inconsolably. She is helpless and desperate. Why? She wondered why. Was she cursed to have a love so deep for such a beautiful child to grace this world, only to lose him to the breaking of her heart? What a cold existence this was indeed.

She then seems to lose control and begins to pray. She prays not Ranu’k or to any of the other gods of the Pagan Tribes, but to a god she knows not; a god greater than all the rest. She feels him somehow. She looks up to the sound of mighty flapping wings, and gasps in wonder. A great white dragon flies above, only passing by.
“God of all,” she prays, bowing her head again. “Please forgive my Mulgy. Ignore him not, but use my Mulgy for your glory.”

A blinding beam of light suddenly ascends from heaven, illuminating the area, and landing at the entrance to the forest. A mighty and muscled shirtless man approaches, his chest and back hairier than any she has ever seen. Yet only the top half is a man. Her jaw falls, and she covers her gaping mouth with one hand in wonder. He approaches her slowly with the mighty legs and lower half of a horse. The coat is brown and shiny, shimmering the light. The curly-haired man with tiny horns smiles bright as day. “You are a centaur!” she exclaims. “I never thought the tales to be true, but…” she stammers in spite of herself. “But why have you come from the Misty Planes beyond the Mountains of Veil?”
“Your prayer is heard.” He speaks with a voice smoother than any man’s she’s ever heard. His tone is soft and soothing to the ears. “I shall take your child. He shall be used for the
glory of the Most High.”
“You…you will take him from me?” she asks suspiciously.
“I will raise him as my own. I will teach him strength, but also cunning and compassions. I will teach him things your kind has yet to learn. I will make him great. He shall be my ward.”
“I have no choice but to entrust you with his care. Please see that no harm befalls him.” She says.
“He is far too important for me to do otherwise. I promise you this, though you may not live to hear it, the world will one day praise his name.”

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