King of the Bastards (2 page)

As he did now.

The sensation of being pursued by something dire wasn’t an alien
emotion either. Just not one he’d recently experienced. Rogan wrote it off to
his own madness from the wine and pickled beef of the sailors he currently
abided with, and focused on the task at hand.

Or rather, the task at bleeding hand.

“Fight him, my Lord,” a sturdy youth exhorted. “His life is yours
to claim!”

Feet planted on the lip of the tubular, wooden bireme vessel,
Rogan yanked back on the fishing rod. The boat rolled beneath him. Bare-chested
sailors cheered his actions.

“By Wodan,” Rogan swore, “this fish fights like a Stygian whore,
Javan.” Ruddy calluses twisted the pole and Rogan’s rage increased. His thick
limbs still surged with power, even though he had just passed his sixtieth
summer. Muscles strained the ragged edges of his sleeveless deerskin tunic.
Gnarled fingers worked deftly, age not slowing their speed or prowess.

“Lay on,” the sailors on the craft shouted in hearty support.
“Fight him, Rogan!” A few of them elbowed each other in their exuberance,
leading to shoving and brawling as the big man battled the fish.

The scars of battle lined the former monarch’s sun-scorched face.
A shadow of hard living permanently creased his forehead and even more lines
now appeared around his gray beard as Rogan fought.

“Damn,” he grunted. His somber brow furrowed beneath windswept
locks of silver hair. A few strains of auburn still swam in his scalp. He
braced his heavy boots against the bireme’s retaining wall, leg muscles bulging
in his trousers. A few of the slaves rowing the vessel looked at him and then
smiled at each other, shaking their heads. He glared at them. For a moment, he
considered abandoning the fish and breaking their necks instead.

Done with their squabbles, the lean, ginger-skinned sailors from
Olmek-Tikal turned back to Rogan and smiled, enjoying the mighty foreigner’s
exhibition. They shouted wagers to one another, gambling on everything from the
size of the fish to how long it would take Rogan to land it. Descended from the
last remnants of sunken Atlantis, they gladly served Rogan, rewarded with
adventure, women, and the promise of gold, hidden in the depths of their own
shadowy continent. Their garments were frayed from exposure to the elements,
sustained during this long trip of coastline fishing.

Rogan’s bodyguards looked on as well. Both originally hailed from
the icy lands of Alatervae north of Albion. The immense, blonde warriors
sported bushy beards over squared, granite jaws. Their sinewy bodies, stout as
tree trunks, easily carried the heavy steel slung from their thick belts.

One of them elbowed Javan. “Lots of fight in the old man yet,
aye?”

Javan winked at the Alatervaeian, then gave him a stern look as
if to dissuade him from further comments. He spoke loud enough for Rogan to
hear him over the cheers of all aboard.

“Heed thy words, Wagnar. You and your brother Harkon may indeed
wear the regalia of the Royal Blue Aitvaras Guards, but make no mistake. You
will regret jeering the king.”

Turning, Rogan’s icy blue eyes pierced the guard. He cursed the
man in his native Keltos tongue, not caring that the guard couldn’t understand
him.

Wagnar grinned, oblivious to the curse. Rogan switched to
Albionese.

“I’ll have your sack for that, Wagnar,” he growled. “This fish
will break before I will. No spawn of the sea will best me.”

The bodyguard’s face turned red, either from suppression of
laughter, or wonder at the threats of the old man.  

Smiling thinly, Rogan turned to Javan. “Ready an arrow, boy. Your
father, General Thyssen, taught you to shoot. It’s time again to display those
skills.”

All eyes were fixed on Rogan, even the slaves, chained to the
oars, seemed engrossed in the display. Rogan worked the reel, a primitive
pulley system where he wound back the thin cord. More of his blood dripped from
his fingertips, splattering onto the deck. He took a deep breath, held it, and
pulled. A great fish jumped from the ocean. It was bottle-nosed, with an
immense, reptilian fin on its back and rows of flashing scales.

Javan gasped. “I’ve not seen anything like it!”

“Tis a denizen of Dagon’s realm,” Wagnar breathed. “This is a bad
omen.”

His brother, Harkon, nodded in agreement, mouthing silent
prayers, drawing the
T
sign over their hearts in reverence to their god,
Thunderer Donar Tanaris.

In his declining years, Rogan’s body had lost plenty of mass, but
none of its strength. Over the next hour, his savage determination never
wavered as he fought to land the fish. Eventually, with the aid of three
well-placed arrows from Javan’s bow, it laid thrashing on the deck of the
vessel.

“There’s your goddamned omen,” Rogan taunted his guards. “Just a
fuckin’ fish, that’s all. No spawn of Dagon.” He took a deep breath. “Omens are
excuses the priests use to scare people. Still, I’ll admit that they do have
unusual animals in this land.”

Rogan waved a weary arm toward the horizon. He almost expected to
see the northern lip of Olmek-Tikal, but instead there were only a few large
birds in the clear, blue sky.

Javan nodded, eyeing the birds. “Strange things live near the
unknown continent, Rogan. We are close to the coastline this day and yet far
from these sailors’ homes in the lower Isles. According to Captain Huxira, we
are nearing the waters of a tribe called the Wando-Tallan. Most nights we have
put down on an island, but this night I fear we will go to the mainland.”

“Fear?” Chuckling, Rogan rubbed his left bicep, watching the
score of men row the long craft. “I saw but the edge of this here land and its
islands before. The insect infested glades and swamps of that realm are not for
me. That’s why on this journey we have ventured farther north—away from such
swampy mire.”

Javan scratched his forearms in memory of the insect attack.

Rogan continued. “Farther inland on this vast continent, there
are mist-covered mountains and a lost city with streets paved of gold.”

“So they say,” Javan muttered dryly.

“Our companions whisper of a race known as the Anastazi, as well
as a great serpentine mound, a gigantic waterfall to the north, and a canyon in
the far west that reaches into the very bowels of the earth. I would see these
sights and the other wonders of Olmek-Tikal before I breathe my last.”

“And I shall see them with you,” Javan agreed, cracking his
knuckles. “As my father did before me.”

“Your father is a good man for an old prick. I see his strength
in you, Javan.” Rogan rubbed his hands together and stared at a scar on the
back of his left hand. In a quiet voice, he asked, “Tell me, do you think of
him often?”

“After battle I do, or when we encounter something like this.”
Javan prodded the fish with his foot. “I am no bard or poet, Rogan. When I sit
again in my father’s house, I regret that I will lack the words to tell him of
the things we’ve seen.”

“Aye,” Rogan nodded, his thoughts turning to his son, Rohain, who
now sat in Rogan’s abdicated throne. “But your words are far prettier than
mine.”

While the sailors gutted the fish, Rogan strode to the edge of
the ship. His movements still fluid even if he moved slower than in years past.
His joints echoed the battle with the fish, but he didn’t let it show.

Javan looked again at the waves around the ship, took note of the
rougher waters and said, “So there will be new adventures here, sire? A tour,
perhaps? I know a hunt will be mandatory once we make landfall, at the very
least, if only to escape the tedium of life on this vessel.”

Rogan laughed, reading his nephew’s mind. “Between you, me, and
the sea, Javan, my mouth may have overloaded my arms.”

Javan spoke silently so the others did not hear. “Sire?”

“I found palace life a bore,” Rogan confessed. “That’s why I gave
the crown to Rohain and left Albion. My son is better for that life than I am,
even if the same storm flows in his veins. He has some of his mother—your
father’s sister—in his veins to add balance.”

“I know, sire. It was his time and thus, your soul drifted
elsewhere.” Javan’s eyes were drawn to the sky, and the enormous birds circling
there. One was much larger than the rest. “But many wonder if my cousin will
live up to your rule.”

“Rohain will make them eat those damned words. I cannot find
favor with all by abdicating a throne I fought so hard for, but I couldn’t sit
in my bed any longer. When I went back to Albion, I heard the whispers and
gossip. That was when I took you with me. I have not been back since. My only
regret is that perhaps we should have also brought along my other son, Teran.”

“I thank you for your favor in this adventure, sire.”

Again, Rogan waved as if the continent would appear any moment.
“Returning for a tour of North Olmek-Tikal in search of adventure is mayhap a
silly thing. I know what others say of me. ‘Old man trying to find his young
self.’ Bah. Wodan take them all to Hell. When I bedded the Pryten Queen
Tancorix to preserve the realm, no one doubted my ability.” His voice fell and
he added, “I spilled my blood across this entire world, Javan.”

“And you bear the scars to prove it, sire. The known lands—and
even some unknown—are marked with your footsteps.”

“Indeed.” He spoke with pride, but again, his voice fell. “So I
journey to this place, this new land, out of boredom and perhaps…well…” Rogan’s
voice trailed off.

“Palace politics are not your strong suit,” Javan said gently.
“Prince Rohain is maturing into a role made for him. We all know that.”

His uncle didn’t reply. Javan looked to Captain Huxira to see if
he noted the rough waters. The old Olmek-Tikalize man frowned, doing his best
to steer the vessel from the rear.

Nodding, Rogan finally responded, gripping the handle of the
broadsword attached to his heavy leather belt. “Rohain feels the wanderlust in
his blood, too, but he seems more apt to deal with generals and politicians
than I.”

His attention returned to the sky.

“Your daughter Erin is a striking damsel and will make someone a
fine bride,” Javan said. “Young Teran is a powerful, if impetuous youth.
Algeniz is a wonderful girl. All my cousins are blessed. There is much to be
happy with in your life, sire.”

“Happiness isn’t all there is in life,” Rogan brooded, squinting.
The flock of birds was gone, leaving a single circling shadow, much larger than
the others. “It’s only a portion of it. Once one has done all and achieved so
much, what is there when the blood still calls? What is there to yet be done?
To be seen, tasted, and felt?”

“It is hard for you to handle contentment, sire?”

The seas grew choppier. Captain Huxira cursed, and several of the
sailors mumbled in agreement.

“No matter how gentle your words, Javan,” Rogan said, “yes, that
is so.”

“But you regret this adventure now?”

Rogan shrugged his bronzed shoulders and watched the giant bird
as it drew closer.

“What a wingspan on that beast, it cuts an odd image, no? It
reminds me of fetishes made to Damballah, a god of the dark continent across
the sea to the south.”

“Sire?”

Rogan shook his head as if to shake a memory loose. “Nothing—it’s
nothing, boy. Just an old adversary. What was I saying? Oh, yes. I seek not
just an escapade, but something else. Something indefinable. After one grows to
an age, one can feel the ebbing away of power and lusts. My mind is willing,
but the body, well, it thinks about disgracing me.”

Javan nodded, unsure of what to say.

Rogan glowered. “Don’t think that of me, boy! I can still knock
down a woman and claim her. I still awake each morning with timber beneath my
loincloth. I just don’t want to die in my bed, Javan. To die in bed, surrounded
by weeping maidens? That’s not the way for one such as me.”

The waves grew stronger, lapping at the bireme. Several of the
sailors had to grab on to the sides to keep from being thrown to the deck. They
shouted in despair.

“Steady,” Captain Huxira called. “The sea grows angry.”

Rogan and Javan glanced at him, and then finished their
conversation.

“You are a man born in Caucausia,” Javan said. “None of your kin
would want that either. But we don’t know what the future holds. Perhaps seeing
these grand sites will—”

Every breath on the bireme suddenly stopped as two reddish
serpentine tentacles exploded from the choppy waves, thrusting up from the
right and left sides. A half-dozen more tendrils quickly joined the scarlet
appendages.

“Sea monster,” Harkon shouted, drawing his steel. “To arms!
Quickly!”

Wagnar stepped to his brother’s side, sword at the ready. “I told
you that fish was a bad omen. Now, Dagon sends another of his spawn!”

The slaves, still chained to their rowing posts, screamed in
horror as the waters churned. Oars snapped like twigs in the creature’s
tentacles. The long red arms angrily slapped the craft, rocking it back and
forth. Many of those standing were thrown to the deck. Arms flailing, Javan
slammed into Rogan. They tumbled backward, collapsing in a tangled heap on the
nose of the bireme. Rogan pushed the boy aside and stood. The waters foamed and
then the main body of the creature surfaced off the right front side.

All of the men, young and old, Alatervaeian and Olmek-Tikalize,
screamed.

All of them…except for Rogan.

Grinning, he spat into the wind. The monster would provide far
more sport than the fish had.

“Come on, then,” he challenged the beast.

Javan sprang to his feet, but the tentacles slammed into the
bireme again. The youth nearly flipped over the edge, but Rogan grabbed the
nape of his tunic and pulled him back.

“Fill your bow, Javan,” Rogan snarled. He leapt into a crouch and
barked at the crew. “Get your pikes and spears up here, Wodan damn you all!”