King of the Bastards (11 page)

Javan spoke somberly. “I do indeed. Most cultures believe the
eyes are the windows to the soul, as do these people, if I’ve correctly
understood everything Akibeel has told me. The first things the ravens will eat
are Eyota’s eyes, so I covered them, giving his soul a fighting chance to leave
first, should it choose to tarry in the confusion following his sudden death.”

Zenata was speechless.

“Come.” Rogan wiped his sword in Zenata’s hair, causing her to
scream and run. “I have asked Wodan for his blessing on this venture with the
blood of these fools. If he chooses not to recognize it, piss on him. We have
more pressing matters, and I would sample more of the Kennebeck’s liquor, and
perhaps one or both of these one-breasted women.”

Asenka bristled. She opened her mouth to retort, but Rogan cut
her off with a grin. Arm outstretched, he motioned with his hand.

“If that is a yes, then shall we retire into the lodge?”

In his years of travel and adventure, Rogan had heard women curse
in many languages.

None of them compared to Asenka’s.

AKIBEEL’S LODGE, WHILE
similarly pyramidal, towered
much larger than the other dwellings in the village. He ushered Rogan, Javan,
Asenka, and Zenata inside. Accompanying them were two more of Asenka’s warrior
women. Both of them eyed Rogan suspiciously. Also on hand were two of Akibeel’s
mutant tribe mates; both male, one with a cleft palate and the other with an
oversized singular eye in the middle of his face. Female attendants bustled in,
carrying bowls and platters heaped with food. Each of the women also had
noticeable birth defects.

The interior of the lodge was warm and dry. Sweet smelling smoke
drifted from incense-filled earthen bowls; their sides painted with mystic
symbols. Animal skins, sprigs of plants, and various totems lay scattered
about, all for use by the shaman in his pagan ceremonies.

Rogan took a drink of cold, clear spring water and swilled it
about in his mouth. He noticed that Zenata watched Javan closely.

“Careful, Javan,” he whispered in their own tongue, so that the
others would not hear. “The young one eyes you like you were sweet candy.”

Javan gnawed a chicken leg. “Only an ignorant man wouldn’t note
the desire of a lass.”

“What fool philosopher are you quoting now?”

“You, sire.”

“Nonsense,” Rogan grunted. “If that’s true, then I must have been
drunk when I said it.”

“Quite probable, sire. Still, I knew the possibilities of
paradise as well as the pitfalls of failure when I set out on this journey with
you.”

Rogan chuckled. “You talk too much, boy.”

Though the Kennebeck folk had fallen on hard times, they managed
to present a meal befitting the two newcomers. There was fire-roasted chicken
stuffed with herbs; venison and rabbit; a thick, savory fish stew; flat
cornbread, still warm from the hearth and slathered with rich, creamy butter;
and nuts, fruits, and vegetables aplenty. They washed it down with water and
wine, both of which flowed freely.

Rogan grunted in appreciation, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand. “Tell Akibeel I have not had venison this good since my time in
Shynar.”

Javan passed the message along. The old shaman smiled and bowed
graciously. Then his face grew grave again. He chewed half-heartedly at a crust
of bread. Rogan noticed that Akibeel’s eyes lingered on his deformed
attendants.

Rogan studied the servant with the cleft palate and his cyclopean
companion. “So these hideous defects, they are caused by Amazarak’s magic?”

Javan nodded. “They are infected with Croatoan’s green light.
Apparently, the green light springs forth from some sort of otherworldly
device. And Akibeel says that an even worse price can be exacted.”

“This price seems grave. What price could be worse?”

“The loss of their souls, sire. They say Amazarak is a soul
collector for Croatoan. Once his work with their bodies is through, he steals
their souls. His black lodge on the mountain is the abode of these souls.”

“Does he take their kin regularly?” Rogan accepted a bunch of
green grapes from an attendant, and popped some into his mouth.

Javan nodded. “Amazarak’s loyalists steal away the children and
full grown females and use them for sacrifice. He has a great force of former
Kennebeck tribesmen at his disposal. They obey Amazarak’s orders because he
controls their souls. Akibeel says that many suspected Takala and Eyota of
being in league with Amazarak.”

“Not any longer.”

“True, Uncle.”

“Why don’t Akibeel’s people rise up and fight?”

“They try to, sire. But Amazarak’s raiders are armed with steel,
and as you noted earlier, these people are not.”

“So they want us to kill this Amazarak. If he has warriors with
steel, we are but two men.”

Asenka frowned. “What of us, old man? I can stop the life of
anyone, wizard or warrior.”

“I stand corrected,” Rogan said. “We are but two men and a couple
of female distractions. Once we destroy Amazarak’s forces, what then? How can I
fight him or Croatoan? I am no wizard. I care little to dance with a devil at
this stage in my life, or any other. I have done enough of that in the past.”

Akibeel patted Rogan on both shoulders and spoke to Javan.

“He says leave Amazarak to him,” Javan translated. “He will fight
inside you.”

Rogan frowned. “That is the second time he’s said that. I like
not the sound of it.”

Akibeel spoke quickly. His spirits seemed to be lifting now that
Rogan was expressing an interest.

Javan continued. “He says that your body and spirit are what he
needs. Both are strong enough to best his rival. Akibeel thinks that his gods
have sent you to destroy the devil on the mountain, as well. He sees it in his
prophecies. A stranger not of this land is the only one to upset the balance of
evil.”

“I love the sound of that.” Rogan’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Javan, I don’t trust these men, but what can we do?”

“We could just start a long journey overland, sire, and hope we
go far enough south to find our friends in Olmek-Tikal.”

“That crossed my thoughts, but it would take ages and I think our
time is at a limit. We are needed across the ocean. Every day we remain here
could cost them their lives.”

“Yes, sire, my thoughts truly.”

“Go back to your fallen kingdom,” Asenka said. “They do not need
your sword. We will stay and aid them. The Kennebeck have fed us, made us
welcome in their home. We shall stand by them.”

“You?” Rogan laughed. “That is a fine jest—a band of one-breasted
women against this steel-wielding army.”

Asenka glared at him, her purple eyes unblinking. “We are not
afraid, old man. Can you say the same?”

Rogan sprang to his feet, knocking aside a platter of nuts. “By
Wodan, no woman speaks to me such. Arise, bitch, so that I may knock you down.
It occurs to me that your mouth needs something to keep it busy.”

All four of the warrior women immediately jumped to their feet
and drew their weapons. Akibeel let out a startled squawk, and the attendants
shrank away, dropping platters and pitchers. Javan quickly moved between Rogan
and Asenka, his arms outstretched, palms up.

“Please,” he said. “Need I remind you all that we are guests in
this lodge?”

“Still your tongue, boy,” Rogan growled. “Or I’ll deal with you
next.”

“While you’re doling out punishment,” Asenka spat, “you could
instead focus your rage on these people’s oppressors.”

“Oh? Tell me, woman, how are we to fight all of Amazarak’s
hordes? There will be far more than the dozen dead men who assailed us on the
beach.”

“The Kennebeck don’t know how to forge steel, old man, but you
do. You can teach them.”

Rogan raised an eyebrow, and turned to Javan. “Have you not
wondered how this Amazarak knows the secret of steel, but these people do not?
Aren’t they both originally from the same tribe?”

Javan translated for Akibeel. “Amazarak tapped an entity from
beyond to work in steel even before the arrival of Croatoan, a creature called
Azazyel. He gave the wizard the secret of steel in exchange for—”

Rogan sat again, his anger at the women forgotten, and waved a
huge hand. “Yes, yes, all of these gods and devils want blood and children.
I’ve heard that song before and never had understood the tune. Wodan be praised
for his disregard of this world. At least he isn’t a vampire screaming for the
blood of infants.”

“There is another obstacle as well, sire, but I’m not sure that I
can translate it properly. I believe he’s saying ‘giants’, but I’m not sure.”

“Giants? I have slain several in my time.”

Akibeel chattered with irritation. Javan suppressed a laugh.

“What is he saying?” Rogan asked.

“It seems that Akibeel grows as frustrated with the pace of my
translations as you do, sire. He wishes to consult with forces beyond so that
he can speak to you directly. He asks that we give him a few moments to
prepare, and invites us all to continue with our meals.”

They all sat again. The warrior women moved away from Rogan and
Javan, shooting them wary glances as they ate.

“Sire,” Javan whispered, “tell me again of your vision.”

Rogan took a bite of corn. “There was something wrong, Javan.
Truly, the palace was deceived. We must have been betrayed from within.”

“Why do you think that, sire?”

“The slaves, surely servants of this Karac, were allowed in
close. So there was treachery from within. But this Karac, the one that is to
have been my son, he sported long locks of shaggy hair.”

Javan gnawed at a rabbit leg. “And why does that trouble you?”

Rogan frowned. “Because they shear down slaves so that lice
cannot spread. No matter if they work in the field or as teamsters. The other
blacks in the palace were bald, but Karac had hair.”

“Fascinating.”

“I can see the damned teamsters arguing with Volstag, wanting
more pay and inserting a newcomer like that to make him angry. But never mind
that. We were betrayed, plain and simple. And perhaps not just by our slaves.
There were maps on the table, Javan. Maps of other lands—as if they were
preparing for war.”

“Surely the neighboring lands are your allies, friends of yours!”

Rogan nodded. “But they may fear me and not Rohain. They want to
test his sack and how effectively he can use it. The fact that he may have an
heir in his wife’s belly is no sign of achievement. Dogs have workable cocks,
Javan.”

“True enough, sire.” Javan saw Zenata suppress a grin.

Akibeel returned with a small clay bowl, filled with dry sage. He
placed the bowl on the floor and produced a flint. Soon, thin lines of grey
smoke drifted from the burning sage. Akibeel left again.

Rogan patted the ground next to him and nodded at Zenata and
Asenka. “No sense sitting over there. If you intend to join forces with this
old man and his nephew, then join us. Bring your warriors, too. It will not be
the first time I have lain with more than one woman at the same time.”

Asenka said, “Never dream of trying to lay down with me, old
fool.”

Rogan chuckled. “I’d sooner lay down with a demon. It would be
hotter, no?”

Javan offered Zenata a spot beside him. “Certainly not the first
time that event would have happened, aye sire?”

Akibeel returned again and stripped off his garments, standing
naked before his guests. The lodge filled with smoke. The servants lowered
rawhide straps from the ceiling. The straps had sharp bones on the end of them.
Rogan and Javan watched in silence as servants inserted these bony spikes under
the muscle and tendons in Akibeel’s pectoral area. Another servant used a stone
knife to make several small cuts on the shaman’s back. More of the thongs were
then inserted into the wounds. Akibeel did not make a sound through the entire
process.

“He can take pain, at least,” Rogan said with admiration. “I am
impressed.”

Slowly, Akibeel was raised from the ground. He moaned as the
thongs pulled tight, and screamed in agony as his chest pointed up to the
ceiling. Drumming began outside the lodge, surrounding them. Rogan panicked,
believing the drums to be a signal of attack, but the servants made no move
towards him. They simply held the straps taut, chanting with a low and
monotonous rhythm. Akibeel screamed again. Then, the mutant with the single eye
drew near to Rogan and Javan. Asenka and Zenata jumped up, their hands on their
weapons. The one-eyed apprentice came closer. Rogan could smell his sour
breath. The deformed servant grinned; a long thread of drool hung from his
bottom lip.

Cursing, Rogan drew his sword.

“Put it away, barbarian.”

The deep voice belonged to Akibeel. Rogan was shocked to learn
that he could now understand him. But his voice—his tone—had changed. It was
guttural. Unnatural. Booming. The silver hairs on Rogan’s arms stood up.