King of the Bastards (12 page)

Javan knew that it wasn’t the shaman who spoke. It was something
else, using his voice. He addressed Akibeel’s suspended form. “Who are you?”

Akibeel glanced over his shoulder. His face was drenched in
sweat. His eyes were pure white. The pupils had rolled back in his skull. A
glow rippled over his body.

“I speak through this man to encourage you to ascend to the top
of the mountain.”

“And who are you that I should be so honored?” Rogan sneered,
hand still on his sword. “You’re not Akibeel. That much is certain. Am I a dog
that I should go piss when you say so? What is your name?”

“Names have power, barbarian, and I have many of them. I am one
of those who observes the Earth and guards it. You may call me the Doorkeeper.”

“Yes,” Rogan grumbled. “And I bear the mark of Cain on my ass!”

“Do not mock me.”

Rogan persisted. “You say that you guard the Earth. If that is
so, then why have you let this evil thing loose on the world? You do a piss
poor duty, I must say.”

Blood dripped from Akibeel’s wounds. The straps pulled taut.

“My kind let nothing free. Your kind called on the murky depths
and they answered with eldritch force. We are not God nor can we be everywhere
in the cosmos at once. Look here at what is happening.”

The flesh of the shaman’s stomach glowed orange and then became
transparent. They could see the twisted guts inside. Then, his intestines and
other organs vanished. A swirl of images appeared. Everyone in the lodge grew
dizzy as they watched, yet they could not tear their gaze away. The vision was
like a moving picture, showing many primitive, subhuman ape-like men with
reddish fur covering their bodies. They flowed from the mouth of a cavern in a
glacial mountainside.

“I’ve heard of such creatures in the ancient of days,” Rogan
murmured. “This is madness for us to be seeing such a thing.”

“Look,” cried Zenata, squeezing Javan’s arm. “There is Amazarak’s
lodge.”

The scene now showed a pyramidal shaped building. It looked much
like the one they currently stood in, but it was larger and solid black. Dimly,
they saw a group of Kennebeck slaves behind the lodge. Each man’s skin was
covered in horrid blisters and they were hideously deformed—much worse than the
folk in the village. Then the image blurred.

Javan shivered. “Listen. Do the rest of you hear it?”

From Akibeel’s belly came the sound of supplication. Another
scene appeared. Amazarak stood at the mouth of another series of caves. He
looked enough like Akibeel to be his brother, Javan thought. He even wore a
wolfish headdress. Out of the caves bounded more of the red-furred creatures.
They ravaged female captives staked out spread eagle for them. Javan wondered
how any of the women survived such copulations. To be impregnated in such an
unspeakable manner was too horrifying to think about. The image then changed
again.

“I do not understand,” Rogan muttered.

“Nor do I,” Asenka agreed. “What is the meaning of all this?”

“I believe the vision is moving forward in time,” Javan
explained. “Look there.”

They saw that none of the women had survived the childbirth
process. They then saw an image of the monstrous offspring fully grown. Then
the vision faded, and the shaman’s stomach was flesh again.

Akibeel said, “This is the product of Amazarak’s wickedness.”

Rogan and the others realized that Akibeel was speaking with his
own voice, yet they could understand him as if he were still possessed.
Whomever—whatever—the Doorkeeper had been, its presence had now departed, but
it had left this gift of translation behind.

“Wizardry,” Rogan said, spitting on the lodge’s floor.

“Perhaps,” Javan said, “but it will make things easier, sire.”

Akibeel sounded like he was in great pain as he continued. “This
race of giants is seen whenever we try to ascend the mountains. My people
cannot fight ones such as them.”

“How many are there?”

“Dozens. They are spread out and act as sentries. Our men fear
them, so it is pointless to go. A man of steel could slay them.”

“So in addition to his magic and his demonic cohort and his army
of soulless Kennebeck men, Amazarak also has these half-human, half-ape
offspring? And if I slay these beasts and defeat Croatoan and kill that blasted
wizard and everything else that dwells upon the mountain, you will repair and
man my boat and get Javan and I home?”

Despite his agony, Akibeel smiled and nodded. His servants
lowered him down and removed the barbs from his flesh. Then they coated the
wounds with salve and bound them.

Rogan scratched his head. “There’s one thing I still don’t
understand. Why doesn’t this wizard or Croatoan just destroy you all and be
done with it?”

Akibeel sipped cold water from a clay mug. “It seems that we
haven’t yet finished whatever dark purpose he has planned for us. I fear there
is a worse evil than this brewing above.”

“With the turmoil in my homeland,” Rogan said, “I think we have
little time. Forging new weapons for your tribe would take too long, as would
teaching you the ways of iron and steel. However, I can perhaps use the pieces
we have to our advantage.”

“How?”

Rogan turned to his nephew. “Javan, gather all the swords and
lances we rescued from the shipwreck. These natives seem keen on using arrows.
By Wodan, I will give them arrowheads that will slay the Dark One himself.”

“Right away, sire.”

Akibeel ordered two of the braves to help the young man.

Rogan stepped outside the lodge and took a breath. He then looked
down at the ring of Kennebeck folk, sitting with small drums on their laps. No
longer afraid of him, they smiled at the aging barbarian with snaggle-toothed
grins. Javan, Asenka, Zenata, and the others exited the lodge behind him.

“Why the drums?” Rogan asked Akibeel as he emerged, limping. “In
the jungles, the natives use them to communicate or summon their gods. Is it
the same here?”

Akibeel steadied himself with the help of a servant. “These drums
channel great medicine, King Rogan. Their covers are fashioned from the stomach
skin of our enemies.”

The old barbarian chuckled. “Do you know what I do with the
stomachs of my enemies?”

Akibeel shook his head. “No. What do you do with their stomachs?”

“On the battlefield, I slice them open and crouch overtop them.
Then I shit into the wound.”

Asenka mumbled, “And he dares to call these people primitive.”

If Rogan heard her, he gave no indication. Instead, his eyes
turned upward once more, searching the sky through the high tree tops.

Javan noticed and wondered what he was looking for.

“Do we have time for sleep?” Rogan laughed. “I need some.” He
kept giggling, saying low, “Like I have time to shit after a battle.”

§

Two days after they came to dwell amongst the Kennebeck
folk, Rogan dreamt of more horrors. His frenzied cries awoke Javan. Javan
rushed to his uncle’s side. Covered in sweat, Rogan’s eyes burned dangerous.
His fists clenched his bedding.

“What was the dream, my Lord?”

Panting, Rogan waved a hand. “Get out of my sight, damn you.
Leave me be!”

Accustomed to his master’s rages, Javan opened the flap, glanced
back at Rogan, and walked out into the night.

Sighing, Rogan lay back on the straw mat. Though he regretted
imparting his anger on the youngster, he did not want Javan to see how weak and
scared he felt.

“Hopeless and helpless,” he muttered. “It’s a wonder I’ve had any
sleep at all this night.”

There was a rustling sound from outside the tent. Rogan’s head
jerked to the left. His nostrils flared, registering a scent. He grunted and
coughed, and then breathed low and shallow, pretending to go back to sleep.

Asenka leapt through the flap and charged him. She shrieked when
she saw that Rogan’s eyes were open. Before she could react, he jumped up and
grabbed her wrists. Flinging her down on her back, he pinned her to the
mattress. Squealing, Asenka slithered under his grip, but could not throw him
off her. To avoid her kicks, Rogan pinned her calves down with his.

“You desire me so much, Asenka?”

She twisted and bucked, pushing him upward.

Releasing her, Rogan stood up. He grinned in the darkness.

“You think you bested me?” Asenka asked. “If I’d come to kill,
you would already be dead.”

“If you came to kill me, you would have worn clothes.”

Asenka hooked her foot through Rogan’s leg. With a quick
maneuver, she knocked him off his balance. Rogan landed on his back, the air
rushing from his lungs. Asenka jumped up and straddled him. She slapped his
face, and then reached down to grab his manhood.

“I take what I want, old man.” Her hand made a fist and pulled on
his member. “Indeed, are you still a man after all these years?”

“I am,” he said, as his manhood stirred, “when need be.”

Rogan stiffened in her hand, and Asenka’s eyes widened. When he
started to sit up, she struck him across the face again with her other hand.
Grinning, the old king lay back.

Asenka brought the head of his organ to her clitoris. Repeatedly,
she ground him against her in small, circular motions.

Rogan did not object. He lay there in contentment, watching.

The woman worked up a slight sweat, grunting deep in her throat.
Throwing back her dark hair, she stifled a moan. Her one lone nipple grew hard
and Rogan reached for it, but she batted his hand away. Asenka began to
tremble. Her breathing quickened. Unable to maintain her silence, she cried out
and fell atop Rogan.

“As you can see,” Rogan whispered, “I am still capable of
pleasing a woman.”

Her nails dug into his collarbones. “Don’t flatter yourself,
barbarian.”

“Really? Then how about…”

Asenka’s eyes widened as she felt his turgid member slap her
buttocks. He clutched her hips with his strong hands. Biting her bottom lip,
she pushed her pelvis back, slowly letting him enter her. Gritting her teeth,
Asenka worked her hips back, slowly taking him in.

With a scream, she slammed herself down on him. She did not care
who heard them. Tearing into his chest, she slapped and beat on him as they
moved together. Rogan took the punishment and stayed on his back.

After a long time, Asenka trembled and howled again. She coasted
to a stop and then leapt off him. She turned, meaning to run out of the tent,
but Rogan swiped his feet together, tripping her. She fell half out of the
tent. Rogan grabbed her ankles and dragged her back in. Again, he pinned her
down, this time on her belly.

“Enough of me being the bitch,” Rogan muttered in Asenka’s ear,
entering her from behind.

He thrust against her and soon joined her in her howls. Sated, he
then lay back down and sighed. Asenka stood up, staggered, and then knelt
beside him. She lay on his left side, her one breast lying on his chest. Rogan
did not hold her or speak. He merely stared at the top of the tent.

“I am curious,” she said, breaking the silence.

Rogan groaned. “Asenka, please don’t ask me how I feel or demand
that I make promises.”

Again, her nails dug into his chest. “I was going to ask about
your vision.”

Rogan frowned. “I’d rather talk about your antics on the mat. I
was impressed. I’m sure the others heard our passion.”

“I don’t care if they did. Your vision…”

“What of it?”

“What did you see?”

“I saw great peril in my former kingdom. This was bound to happen
sooner or later. I overthrew the sitting king long ago and the world is a bad
place. It’s not a wonder such a thing came to pass. But I thought that my son and
his advisors—men I’ve fought and bled with—would be able to meet any such
action. I was wrong. Bloody days never seemed to end in the vision. The people
I freed from the yoke of an evil king are now subjugated to greater horrors.
Their daughters are forced to copulate with the invaders to create a new
generation while their fathers and brothers are methodically slain.”

“Such savagery,” she replied.

Rogan looked down at her leg nestled over his body. “Surely, in
your homeland there were wars and kingdoms overthrown?”

“Certainly; most tribal leaders fight their entire lives.
Civilized kingdoms often fall from within. I have heard of some societies that
collapsed and their remnants forgot everything learned in a generation.”

“Perhaps,” Rogan snorted. “But mankind will always find a way. If
the world was burned to a cinder or flooded to the highest mountaintop, as the
soothsayers believe it will be one day, and there were but a dozen people left
alive, the wheel and the craft of steel would be found again. Life is a circle,
girl.”

“Do not refer to me as girl, barbarian. I am a woman.”

Rogan took a breath. “I’d say so. My apologies.”

Asenka smiled, hand tussling his long hair. “So you feel for your
countrymen, especially the womenfolk?”

“No. They only have themselves to blame.”

“What?”

Rogan nodded. “They could always die, couldn’t they? Commit
suicide rather than copulate unwillingly? Or kill themselves while their
oppressors’ seed grows inside them.”

“But…” Asenka struggled for words. “You mean you’d see them
willingly die just so they can’t give birth to more of their subjugators?”

He stroked her hair. “Let that be a lesson to you. I’d kill
myself to see this Karac dead.”

“That is terrible, thinking so little of your subjects.”

“They are good folks indeed, woman. However, my anger, my…feeling
is harder for my own blood kin. That’s how it should be. Growing up, I never
had family save for my father. That’s how it ought to be. You are unencumbered
by sentiment that way. Then again, if my father hadn’t desired to raise me as a
warrior, he wouldn’t have cut me from my mother’s belly and stole me from her
people.”