King of the Bastards (14 page)

“Croatoan?” Javan whispered.

“Nay,” Rogan said. “That was the work of the others—Karac and his
ilk.”

“The ones who usurped your former kingdom,” Asenka said,
surprised. “Then indeed, their reach is strong.”

“Aye, least that is my feeling,” Rogan agreed. “Enemies in front
of us. Enemies to the rear. All we can do is to carve our way from the middle.”

They continued on their way. The sky remained vacant, save for
the blistering sun.

§

At a resting point, Rogan sagged wearily, collapsing atop a
broad, flat rock. He stared into the sun and blinked. Javan noted his uncle’s
weakness, but knew better than to ask what ailed him. Asenka, however, knew no
such tact.

“Do your eyes start to fail you, old one?”

“I need no eyes to make you scream, woman,” Rogan muttered. “But
my sight is fine. Thank you for asking. It’s these visions I can’t abide.
They’ve started again, as we trekked, flooding my mind. I see things like they
are remembered in a dream. I see old, black skinned people, working magic.”

Javan stretched his arms high. “Perhaps these are the ones
guiding the evil Karac.”

“He probably doesn’t think himself evil but that doesn’t matter.
But I was never given to visions before,” Rogan said. “I don’t understand why
they occur. What’s their source? Mine is the way of steel and blood, not
soothsaying and reading fortunes. Why am I afflicted with these visions now?”

Akibeel sipped water from a flask and sighed. “Your enemies taunt
you. Perhaps they cannot reach you this far and wish to draw you back to your
kingdom? So they send you these visions as a means of doing just that.”

“I concur,” Javan said. “All the more reason to see this business
atop yonder mountain finished.”

“A righteous god might warn me, not taunt me.” Rogan closed his
eyes. “I see great peril, boy. These dire folk have made Albion murky to my
mind. Algeniz…” His voice trailed off. Rogan arose and walked away.

Zenata and Asenka turned to Javan.

“Who is Algeniz?” Asenka asked.

“His youngest daughter,” Javan said.

He stood up and motioned for them to stay. Then he approached
Rogan and casually offered him a skin of wine. Rogan muttered no thanks, but
accepted it just the same. He drained the small skin in one long swallow and
tossed it aside, then stood silently. Javan cleared his throat.

Rogan glared at him. “Are you awaiting a tip?”

“You mentioned Algeniz, sire. Have you seen some new evil
regarding her?”

“I have seen what Karac has in store for her.”

“But she is just a child.”

“That doesn’t matter to him. All of them, all of your cousins,
are in peril.”

“All of them?”

“Erin has escaped his touch. I saw her escape in the horror that
was the sacrifice of my grandchild. It was at the place of the gods on the
river Severin.”

“Where the giant stone blocks are erected?” Javan asked.

Rogan nodded. “I saw the wizard and his mate, dressed in dusty
clothes, with Rohain’s wife, Darva. She was tied down to the main sacrifice
slab. Her belly was great with child, my grandchild. Erin, my daughter, was
tied nearby. As the sun rose, the incantations to Damballah began. It was so
real, Javan. I could see Erin’s strawberry blonde hair blowing in the breeze. I
could smell her scent—a scent I have known since the day she was born.”

“Perhaps it was not so, sire. Perhaps this is just your
imagination. Waking nightmares; I have heard tell of such a thing during my
time at the university.”

Rogan exploded. “Why would I dream of that bastard priest cutting
the baby from my daughter-in-law’s belly? Why would I envision Damballah
himself descending from the sky and feasting on the life of my grandson, placed
in a burning censure?”

The rest of the party glanced over at them and muttered nervously
amongst themselves. Zenata took a step forward but Asenka pulled her back.
Rogan towered over Javan, his muscles taut and coiled. He shook with rage. But
Javan held his ground, his voice calm and assured.

“They say that sometimes things of this nature are your inner
self trying to tell you something.”

“Bah! I am a barbarian, boy. I know not of such silliness. I know
what I see and feel what I can touch. These visions are real. Just as real as
those corsairs we fought. I saw that bastard Karac, disrobing, planning to bed
Erin amidst the grisly bits on the altar!”

“But sire, you said Erin escaped?”

Rogan nodded. “Escape she did, but that still doesn’t make the
offense any slighter. She fought him, by Wodan! She truly was my daughter. A
great son she would have made.”

“You speak of her in past tense.”

“She kicked the usurper and jumped into the raging waters of the
Severin. Then the vision faded.”

Javan looked thoughtful. “Many have swam the river and survived,
Rogan.”

“True enough. Not many, but some. The vision didn’t show me her
fate; if she is dead, then good for her. She died with honor.”

Javan did not reply.

Akibeel called to them. “We have a long journey, friends. We must
be moving on.”

Rogan did something Javan seldom saw him do. He trembled. It
lasted but a few seconds, but the sight filled Javan with dread. He’d seen his
uncle slay families; slaughter entire villages. He knew Rogan’s capacity for
violence and destruction. But never had he seen the former king express the
emotions so clearly displayed on his face at that moment.

Rogan ground his teeth and stalked across the plain. After a
moment, Javan followed him. They took their places in the rest of the
procession, and neither man spoke.

§

Hours passed as they left the plains and hiked through the
foothills at the base of the mountain. Well trod paths gave way to feral,
tangled wilds. Only a single footpath cut through the greenery, wide enough
only for a single person at a time. The party walked in silence. Rogan kept his
hand near his sword hilt; his keen eyes observed all. The air hung silent and
still. The only sound was the gnats buzzing in their faces and ears. There were
no birds or squirrels or other creatures, but dozens of black butterflies
fluttered through the weeds and clung to the vines. Their numbers increased as
the group rounded a curve between two hills.

“They are beautiful,” Zenata breathed. “I loved butterflies when
I was a little girl, but we never had black ones in our country.”

“I would like to see your homeland,” Javan told her, watching the
insects.

Zenata smiled. “Perhaps you will, one day.”

Meanwhile, Akibeel had halted in the middle of the slim trail.
Ahead of them were two bluffs. The path disappeared into a small gap between
them.

Rogan grew impatient. “Why have we stopped, old man?”

Akibeel’s expression was grave. “We must depart this way and go
through the forest now.”

“But the path circles to the right and goes up into the higher
ground. Why do we trek off of it?”

“We cannot go that way,” the shaman said.

“Donkey dung!” Rogan shoved past him and continued down the
trail. This caused a stir of excitement among the Kennebeck. Several of the braves
nudged each other and muttered among themselves. They repeated a single word,
“Itzpapaloti!”

Javan hurried to catch up to his uncle. “Sire, the word means…”

Rogan spun around. “I’ve spent enough time in the lands of the
south, boy. I’m not a complete fool.”

Asenka stepped forward. “Well, would you care to translate for
those of us who didn’t spend time in Olmek-Tikal?”

Rogan peered into the vegetation. It was full of the fluttering
insects.

“Itzpapaloti means ‘obsidian butterfly’. Correct, Javan?”

“Good show, sire,” Javan said.

Rogan frowned. “Two things trouble me about this.”

“And they are?” Asenka asked with a wry smile.

“One, that the Kennebeck know a word from a distant tribe and
culture. And two, that they seem afraid to tread on the black butterflies. Have
you noticed?”

“I would guess,” Javan said, “that most of these primitive
cultures have had some interaction, sire.”

“Akibeel,” Rogan grunted, “let us continue.”

Shaking his head, Akibeel stood his ground. His tribesmen
followed his example.

“I told you, we cannot go this way. The itzpapaloti are harmless,
but sacred.”

Rogan’s voice dripped with scorn. “Your people worship
butterflies?”

“No,” Akibeel said, “but neither do we harm them. They are
gatekeepers. They show the way to the Witches Gulch.”

“Gatekeepers, huh?” Rogan mumbled. “Maybe that is who fucks with
my head from afar. Rat bastard.”

A large butterfly hovered in front of Rogan’s face. He swatted it
with his hand, causing an outburst from the Kennebeck warriors. The insect fell
to the ground. Rogan raised his boot heel.

“Caution, sire,” Javan warned.

Rogan ignored him. “What is this Gulch?”

“It is haunted by a spirit,” Akibeel said. “We do not go there.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us of this earlier, before we set
off on this expedition?”

“There was no need,” Akibeel explained, “for as I said, we do not
go there.”

“Need? We
need
to reach the top of yonder mountain. The
path goes upward. To pass through the forest adds time—time that Javan and I do
not have. Tell me, what sort of ghost haunts this gulch?”

“The ghost of a great snake. Their kind used to roam free over
these lands. A tribe far to the west built a great mound in its likeness, so
that none would ever forget. But they do not exist anymore. This shade is the
last; a cursed reminder of what once stalked this land.”

Rogan stared at Akibeel, his expression one of disbelief. “The
ghost…of a snake?”

The shaman nodded.

Rogan threw his head back and laughed. Then he strode forward.

“Come,” he shouted without looking back. “I shall lead us through
the pa—”

His voice trailed off.

Black smoke poured from the gap between the bluffs. It swirled
and coiled, forming into a shape. Gasping in terror, the Kennebeck warriors
fell back, fleeing down the path. Akibeel thrust out his arms and beseeched
them to stand their ground. They ignored his commands. Some of them dropped
their weapons as they fled. Asenka’s archers shoved past them and stepped
forward, following Javan, Asenka, and Zenata as they ran to aid Rogan.

The smoke coalesced, becoming solid. It took the form of a giant
serpent, twenty feet long and as thick as four stout men. The phantasm
slithered not on the ground, but through the air.

Silent, Rogan drew his sword.

Javan reached back and fixed an arrow. Asenka and Zenata did the
same. The scrambling Kennebeck tribesmen stopped and turned, unsure whether to
flee or wait for the outcome.

Rogan stayed where he was, watching the snake in amazement. “It’s
as big as the pythons found near Luxor. Longer and thicker, too, I reckon.”

Akibeel and his warriors shrank away as the snake floated closer.
The beast did not strike. A long, forked tongue flickered from its mouth.
Sunlight glinted off its black scales. The creature moved in silence.

Rogan strode forward, his sword at the ready.

“Sire,” Javan shouted. “You might not want to attack that thing
as such.”

“What have I to fear,” Rogan seethed, staring down the hovering
serpent. “It moves and breathes. Therefore it can be killed.”

Howling, he ran forward. The snake twisted in mid-air. Its head
reared back to strike, but Rogan was quicker. His broadsword whistled as he
swung it.

“Wodan!”

Javan, Zenata, and Asenka all gasped.

The blade passed through the snake as if it were air. Rogan
stumbled forward. The snake’s head darted for him, fangs bared. Rogan
side-stepped the strike, and Asenka’s bow-women let loose a volley of arrows.
The missiles also passed through the snake without harming it.

Javan reached into his quiver and selected a silver-tipped arrow.
Even as Rogan prepared to swing again, Javan’s bow sang out. His aim was true.
The silver arrowhead flashed through the air, and as it struck the serpent’s
form, the creature turned to smoke again. Slowly, the gas-like form dispersed
until there was nothing left.

Panting, Rogan glared at his nephew.

“Silver?” he asked.

“Indeed, sire.” Grinning, Javan retrieved his arrow. “Silver; the
bane of creatures such as that. I retrieved it from the weapons that washed
ashore after our encounter with the corsairs.”

Scowling, Rogan sheathed his sword.

“Do not be angry with your nephew,” Asenka teased. “You cannot
slay them all.”

Ignoring her, Rogan turned and started towards the gulch.

“We go this way. Akibeel, round up these worthless dogs and bid
them to follow, or I will slay you all—and I won’t need silver to do it.”

He stalked up the trail, disappearing into the gulch. After a
moment’s hesitation, the others followed. They continued on their way, with
Rogan now on point. Asenka, Zenata, Akibeel, and Javan followed closely behind
him. The others lagged, as afraid of the barbaric foreigner as they were of the
pass.

“Why do you favor such a large sword?” Akibeel asked Rogan. “I
watched you wield it, during your fight with the snake spirit. A smaller sword
might be better for a man of your years.”

Rogan patted the giant broadsword’s hilt and shrugged. “It cuts
what I like and I cannot fail to slay what I hit.”

Akibeel glanced at the weapon. “Admittedly, I do not know much of
your swordplay, but surely, a lighter blade would be as effective?”

“For a man my age, wizard? The day I cannot lift my sword will be
the day I take up a knife and place it in my own heart.”

“Granted,” Akibeel said, hiding a grin amongst the withered
crevasses of his face. “But such a massive weapon must surely have
disadvantages.”