King of the Bastards (15 page)

“So say you.” Rogan stopped and withdrew the sword. He handed the
blade to Akibeel, who nearly dropped it. “You see the craftsmanship? You feel
the weight?”

“It is heavy,” the shaman agreed.

Rogan snatched it back from him and held the sword high, letting
the sun dance on its sharp edge. “It’s heavy indeed. I can rely that it will
not break in the heat of battle, and if it does, then I’m probably battling
something out of my league, and will never live to contemplate it anyway. A
smaller sword can break or perhaps not cut with the force I may put to it. It
will strike steel or rock and shatter. Not so with this blade. Plus, it was
blessed by a crazy assed wizard near my homeland. It isn’t enchanted, but it
makes me sleep better.”

Akibeel smiled. “And you cannot understand why I need your aid in
the fight against Amazarak? Harken to this, Rogan: I need an unbreakable
weapon, one accustomed to war, one used to fighting.”

Sheathing his broadsword again, Rogan threw back his mane of gray
hair. “You fancy me as your sword of power against Amazarak and his dark god of
the Thirteen? Then you are a fool. I have said before that I know no magic.”

“You will.”

They started to walk again. Emboldened, the Kennebecks followed
closely this time, watching their leader arguing with the barbarian king.

“That’s where you are wrong,” Rogan said. “There are no damned
wizards in my former kingdom of Albion. Do you want to know why?”

Akibeel nodded. “Why?”

“Tell him, Javan.”

Javan cleared his throat. “There are no wizards in Albion because
King Rogan had them all executed after he seized the throne. Those who escaped
the first round with the gallows fled the kingdom and never returned.”

Akibeel laughed. “None of their apprentices were angry or sought
revenge?”

“No,” Javan said. “We killed them, too.”

“Magic is not for man to trifle with,” Rogan muttered. “I have
seen great evil in my life. Evil men sowing evil deeds all in the name of evil
magic. I would that it was all gone from this world. Such things, demons
dancing with men, will bring about the end of our age. Mark my words. We shall
all drown in a flood when the gods decide to wash the evil stain from the
earth.”

Akibeel nodded. “You are wise for a barbarian.”

“And you are brave for a skinny wizard. Your mouth is a confident
one. Be careful it doesn’t overestimate my civility. And when this business is
done, if you accompany us to Albion, you will see firsthand what I do to
wizards. It will be a bloody day indeed.”

“You say you saw them perform a ritual,” Akibeel said. “In your
vision—one was concerning your grandson? Did you witness other acts?”

The hulking barbarian walked away from them and ducked behind a
boulder. Soon, they heard urine splashing off the rocks. Then Rogan broke wind.

Javan whispered, “I believe that is his way of saying he does not
wish to discuss it.”

“But,” Akibeel insisted, “perhaps I can understand it better if
he tells us.”

“He witnessed many dire things in these visions that plague him.
I beg you, Akibeel, do not press him, at your own peril.”

Akibeel nodded. “I understand. Thank you for the warning.”

Rogan rejoined them and they continued through the gulch. Coming
out on the other side, they started up another hill. Short, stubby trees grew
crooked on the hillside, their roots grasping desperately at the rocky soil. As
they passed by one, Javan stopped, spying something that made him frown in
concern.

Rogan breathed hard. “This is rugged country, eh, Javan?”

When his nephew didn’t respond, Rogan turned. Zenata and Javan
stood side by side just off the path, staring intently at a scraggly tree.
Javan ran his fingers over the rough, grey bark. Zenata clutched his arm. The
youth seemed oblivious to her presence.

Rogan shoved past the rest of the party. Akibeel and Asenka
followed him.

“Your nephew admires trees?” Asenka teased. “What kind of mate
will he make for Zenata?”

Ignoring her, Rogan shouted, “Javan! Are you losing your grip?”

“Not a bit, sire. See these marks high in the trunk of the tree?”

Rogan frowned. “Not really.”

“Look,” Zenata pointed. “There are deep slices in the bark.”

Rogan studied them. “Awfully high for an axe, no?”

“These marks never made a break inward in the bark,” Javan said.
“These cuts are perfect. Meticulous. They form a word in the Kennebeck tongue.”

“And what does it say?” Rogan asked.

Javan did not answer. Akibeel responded for him.

“Croatoan,” the old man whispered, shuddering. “It says
Croatoan.”

THE DAY GREW
shorter as they made their way through
the foothills and arrived at the base of the mountain. The shadows lengthened and
the sun began its descent. A few of the braves scouted ahead, cautiously
searching for a safe spot to bed down for the night. The rest of the party
moved slowly upward along a narrow footpath that wound through crevices and
around boulders. They had traveled far and were growing weary. The mountain
itself was oppressive. The air felt heavy. Sullen.

As darkness descended, Rogan stared up at the mountain’s peak,
still a long distance away. “I’d eat a centaur’s arse for a gelding mount right
now.”

“The ride would do you no good,” Akibeel said.
“Animals—especially beasts of burden and other tamed creatures—do not like
being in the shadow of this place. They would flee, and you would end up on
foot anyway.”

The scouts returned, reporting a small canyon with a narrow but
swift-moving stream half a mile ahead. The group made haste to the site, and as
the first stars came out, they made camp. Rogan cautioned them against making a
fire. Instead, they huddled close together, ate hardtack and dried fruit,
washing the rations down with water from the stream. One of the women killed
two small hares. The rabbits were cut up and divided amongst the group. They
ate the morsels uncooked, relishing the burst of energy the raw meat gave them.
There was little conversation; no stories or songs or merrymaking. Weary from
the march, the group turned in early. Rogan ordered four guards posted, one at
each end of the camp, and selected four other men to replace them halfway
through the night.

Several warrior women bedded down beside the Kennebeck braves.
Zenata joined Javan and Asenka lay with Rogan, but none of them felt amorous.
Instead, they merely slept—comforted by the presence of another. This close to
the mountain, Amazarak’s presence weighed over them all like a shroud, as dark
and pressing as the night itself.

Despite the oppressive atmosphere, Asenka squirmed next to Rogan,
pushing against him.

“It is cold here in the shadow of the mountain,” she purred.
“Make me feel warm, old man.”

“Enough,” Rogan growled, not even bothering to roll over and face
her. “We need our strength for the task ahead. When we’re finished, I’ll rut
with you in the battlefield’s gore, if you like, before I leave.”

“Do you flatter all your lovers this way?”

“Only the ones I like.”

They fell silent for a while. Asenka shivered in the cold. Her
eyes were drawn to the dark mountain, its peak hidden beneath ugly gray clouds.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft.

“Do you fear what lays ahead, old one?”

Rogan did not answer her. When Asenka poked him, he snored.

§

Shortly after the second guard shift took their posts, the
sentries were attacked. The entire camp roused from its troubled sleep as
inhuman growls filled the air around them. Dozens of warriors scrambled to
light torches or take up arms. Javan sprang up, bow in hand. He glanced at
Rogan, who was already on his feet, naked, sword in hand. He shoved past Javan
to the place where the sentry on duty lay still.

The moon spilled some light on the scene, but a few meager
torches added to the view. A brave’s head had been crushed on the crown as if a
huge rock had smashed his cranium.

Javan knelt by the body, trying to determine what had happened,
when out of the brush an enormous shadow divided the dim light and struck the
warrior next to Rogan. The victim’s skull cap pulped like a stomped melon and
he bit his tongue off before toppling over in the grass. Instinct took over and
Rogan swiped twice into the darkness with his sword. Something resisted his
blow, but he felt the weapon sink into the obstruction, then fall through.
Rogan quickly parried, kicking blindly, and then stabbed forward. A great howl
rang out and a thunder of movement trampled around them all. Asenka and Zenata
fired arrows blindly in to the trees. Soon, there was silence again.

“Get the torch over here, damn you,” Rogan barked as a short man
with a clubbed foot shined light over the dead warrior. “That man is already
dead. It will do him little good!”

The brave, dumbfounded, looked at Rogan and said, “That could
have just as easily have been you.”

“And yet, it wasn’t,” Rogan sneered.

On the ground lay a long arm, covered in hair, oozing blood from
the top joint. Rogan knelt, examining the severed appendage as the natives
gibbered amongst themselves. Akibeel stood beside him, frowning.

Rogan looked up and said, “What manner of beasts are these
ape-men? The arm is long, like a man’s, only hairy and look here! It sports six
fingers.”

Javan audibly counted the digits and then shook his head. “Six it
is, sire.”

Asenka folded her arms under her one breast and sighed. “Truly a
brilliant boy, Rogan.”

The barbarian quipped, “Why is it you are here, again?”

The natives motioned further into the brush and the torches led
them to their discovery. Eerie shadows were cast as the light washed heavy over
the gigantic body of a wounded humanoid beast, missing an arm. It crawled and
shuddered, clearly dying of blood loss. When it turned to face them, they saw
many wounds in its belly and chest.

Rogan looked the dying creature in the eyes and then snatched a
spear from the grip of a Kennebeck brave. With no fear, the old man leapt onto
the calves of the beast and drove the spear into the area near its heart. With
a roar that sent birds and braves to flight, the beast died. The old man
stepped off the beast and took a few heavy breaths.

Zenata whispered, “Rogan struck home well with his blows. The
spear was overkill.”

“It is dead,” Rogan said amid getting his breath back. “The dying
is all that counts.”

Indeed, the king’s blind blows had sliced the belly open. Loops
of intestines protruded from the beast’s midsection. The blood smeared the
trees thereabouts, painting a gory scene for them to see. The remaining braves
and two women watched Rogan as he gestured toward Javan. The youth threw him a
blanket and the old man wiped blood from his legs.

“Does he intend to eat this beast’s heart, as well?” Asenka
asked.

Akibeel nudged past them and looked at the dead creature. He
seized the guts in his hands and drew them to his face. A few of the Kennebeck
natives vomited at this action and even Rogan grimaced.

Javan said, “Perhaps these folk are privy to this man telling of
his reading, not always seeing his methods up close?”

Rogan sighed. “Let us hope they hold their guts, son.”

“It is as we feared,” the shaman said. “These are the children of
the mountain.”

“Children?” Rogan laughed. “By Wodan and Rhiannon! If these are
the children…”

Akibeel chanted, “These are what Croatoan has bred with our women
and his own evil over the years. This is but one reason why Amazarak kidnaps
our women.”

Rogan frowned. “And you needed to burrow your nose into their
innards to discover this?”

“I needed to be sure it wasn’t some trick.”

“What an abomination,” Asenka declared and placed her hand on
Rogan’s left bicep. “That is the fate of any woman caught by this creature.
That is why I must slay Amazarak!”

Rogan grunted, staring at the oversized visage, matted with hair.
“The face is almost human. This is what came of the ravaging we saw from the
damned red apes in the caves?”

Akibeel frowned and nodded weakly. Rogan sensed he was lying, but
this was a learned lie. Akibeel’s lie was to his own folk. He arose from his
knees, dropped the guts, and walked with Rogan and Javan a few feet before
whispering, “Amazarak may be breeding these women with the red apes from an age
before our time, but I dare not acknowledge more than this. My folk are a
feared lot and would tremble at a great evil.”

Rogan chuckled, still full of grimness. “Wodan! Greater evil than
breeding with beasts?”

Akibeel sighed, a tremble in his tone. “There are worst things
than to breed with beasts, King Rogan.”

Rogan shook his head in disbelief, but didn’t press the matter.
“I wonder why these red apes serve Croatoan.”

“Perhaps they have no choice.”