King of the Bastards (8 page)

Rogan started to reply, but then he grew distracted. He studied
the restlessly milling natives, noticing their apparel.

“Why do they all wear necklaces of human fingers and ears?”

“Trophies, or totems as they call them, mementos of their
conquered foes.”

Akibeel was silent. He seemed to be waiting on Rogan’s answer.

Rogan kicked the sand with his boot heel. “So, I must be a
mercenary again, aye; a general for these Kennebeck? Perhaps I should’ve stayed
in my bed in Albion after all and perished from oral oblations of the maids.
That would have been a fine way to die; drained dry.”

“Akibeel warns that if we do not help, there will be no world to
go back to. Croatoan will move on to destroy more and more of the planet, until
it is all gone.”

“There isn’t one man amongst his kin who will rise to the
challenge?”

“He has some help, but not enough to attack Amazarak’s black
lodge.”

“Is that his help that I smell in the woods?”

Javan translated for the shaman. Akibeel’s smile faded and
confusion clouded his face.

“I can smell the musk of a woman a mile off, Kennebeck man!”
Rogan laughed. “Especially one in heat. Give me the wind and a stiff will and
they are mine. A woman has never been able to hide from me, so why hide some in
the forest?”

Akibeel understood Rogan’s inference, if not his words. He
muttered beneath his breath.  

Javan said, “The women in the forest are not of his tribe, but
aide his kin in their quest.”

“Ask him why we should help him kill this shaman if he has a
couple of women on his side? What do they need an old man and a boy for if he
has a few tough women to hold his sack for him? Can he spirit me back to Albion
if I do?”

“He promises to place enough men to man the boat at our disposal.
They will help us repair it, thus to return home, if we aide his tribe. A few
will also agree to serve as crew. And they will provide enough provisions to
see us on our journey back across the sea.”

“Or at least to our friends down south again. So they will fight
behind me, but not for themselves? In my old age, I am to serve as a mercenary
general to an army, plying my skills the way the whores in Sodom do? By Wodan,
what a damned joke! But if we wish to return home in time… Fine. I will accept
the terms. But tell him if he leaves out any information or double crosses me,
the next guts he reads will be his own.”

Akibeel smiled, his black eyes signaling understanding.

§

Akibeel and his people slowly settled in around the
campfire. Rogan eyed them uneasily, still not completely trusting their
intentions. Javan, ever the diplomat, offered the Kennebecks fat slabs of
cooked bear meat, which they gratefully accepted. They smacked their lips,
rumbling with pleasure. One of the red-skinned natives produced a leather skin
filled with liquor, and passed it around the circle. Rogan took a swig and
handed it to Javan. The youth drank greedily, and then it made another round.

After a few draughts, the aged barbarian warmed up to his new
employers.

“Tell Akibeel that his people make good wine.”

Javan translated for Rogan. “He thanks you, sire, and promises
there is more where that came from.”

“Bring out these women,” Rogan laughed. “I would see them. Why do
they hide? Let them come forth and drink. Are they deformed like the men?”

The moon vanished behind dark clouds, and the campfire seemed to
dim, as if swallowed by the darkness. Akibeel cried out in panic. He thrust a
bony finger toward the distant mountain range.

Rogan yanked his sword from its sheath, half falling back to his
ass. “What now, dammit?”

Javan said, “He fears that Amazarak is casting a spell from his
lodge on high. They regret not bringing along their two champions to meet us.”

“Champions?” Rogan grunted. “If they have these men, what need
have they of us?”

“These two champions, Takala and Eyota, want no part of the
fight. They wish to leave the area.”

Akibeel grew more animated.

“He says the spell gets stronger. Be wary, sire.”

Rogan eyed the shaman skeptically and then gazed at the dark
mountaintop. “Akibeel can tell that from here, can he?”

“Apparently, sire.”

The Kennebeck people quickly dispersed, fleeing towards the
safety of the forest.

Rogan scowled. “Why do they run away?”

“They fear Amazarak’s magic. Croatoan is hungry.”

“Does he eat people?”

“I am not certain.”

Akibeel gestured at the mountain. An emerald light now emanated
from it.

“Wodan’s sack,” Rogan breathed. “Look at that! Sorcery if I’ve
ever seen it.”

“He says again to be cautious,” Javan warned.

“For what?”

As if he’d understood the warrior king, Akibeel raised one
trembling, gnarled finger and pointed at the ocean. Rogan and Javan turned,
staring at the surf as something dark emerged from the water.

“Be wary of the dead.” Javan gulped.

The clouds parted, and the moonlight revealed the true state of
their enemy. A line of black corpses rose up from the waves. Saltwater dripped
from their bloated flesh as they padded onto the sand. One of them still wore a
necklace of tiger’s teeth; the chain embedded in its swollen flesh. Another
clutched a curved blade in its leathery fingers, yet in the top of his head
gaped a hole. Seaweed and saltwater filled the space where his brain should
have been. The creatures shambled toward them, their faint, soulless cries
drifting across the beach.

Rogan recognized them immediately, despite their putrescence.
These were the bodies of the corsairs they’d slain, Karza’s warriors, animated
and seeking revenge, even beyond death.

“Zombies,” Rogan muttered. “Wodan’s balls, I hate zombies.”

One’s bloated stomach hung horribly swollen, as if it were
pregnant with child. Another missed a leg below the knee. It hopped on one
foot, collapsing every few yards. All of the corpses were in bad shape with
shark-frayed ribbons of flesh hung from their frames. Broken bones poked
through their mottled, parchment-thin skin, and shredded lips pulled back
against shattered teeth. Their stench was horrific.

With a cry, a seagull darted down out of the night sky and pecked
at one of the creature’s ears, hoping to dislodge the morsel. The zombie
reached up, grasped the bird in its fist, and squeezed. Then it flung the
lifeless gull to the sand and continued approaching.

The sixth zombie to clamber across the beach was absent much of
his skin, exposing muscles and veins. A sea-worm tunneled through its neck and
another burrowed through its shoulder. One of the creature’s eyes was missing,
and a small hermit crab scuttled in the empty cavity. Seawater ran from the
ghoul’s gaping mouth. One of its arms was also gone. The hand on the other arm
clutched a curved sword. The creature raised the weapon and pointed it at Rogan
in recognition.

Sighing, Rogan turned his head, listening to his joints pop. “Is
there no end to this madness? I have killed them once. Must I kill them a
second time?”

Without waiting for a reply, he charged forward to meet his
opponents, counting seven of the creatures on the beach, plus seven more
heaving themselves from the water. He exploded into their midst, broadsword
whistling through the air, cleaving rancid flesh, slicing through decaying
muscle and tissue.

One of the zombies parried his follow-up attack, and their swords
clanged together. Rogan turned his head away. The stench wafting off the corpse
made him gag. Blocking the curved blade’s descent, Rogan grasped the undead
warrior’s arm and tried to pull him forward onto the point of his broadsword.
Instead, the creature’s skin slipped off, revealing bone. Rogan stared in
horror as the thing
smiled
. Its face had been half-eaten by fish, and
the fleshless cheek swarmed with larvae. A seashell jutted from the raw wound
where its nose had been.

“Wodan take you, dead man,” Rogan whispered.

The old king leaped into the air and lashed out with his leg,
kicking the zombie in the head. His boot sank into the soft flesh. Rogan
laughed as bits of brain matter and skull fragments splattered onto the wet
sand. His landing, while graceful, was not nearly as nimble as it would have
been ten years before. His agility, like the hair in his salt and pepper mane,
lessened with the passing of each winter. Rogan spun on his heels, wheeling to
face his next shuffling opponent.

Before he could renew his attack, several arrows sprouted from
the chests and throats of the living dead. The shafts were not of the type
Javan had been using. Rogan ducked, warned by some primal, battle-honed
instinct, as more missiles flew from the forest. The arrows found homes in the
monsters, but had no effect.

Several women stepped out of the shadowed woods, and silently
reloaded their bows. Each sported flowing, shiny black hair; but none was of
the Kennebeck tribe, nor of the ginger skinned Olmek-Tikalize from the southern
continents. These tan women stood much taller, and their eyes were drawn up at
the sides, almost like those from the distant Eastern lands that Rogan had
raided as a teen.

“I grow weary of this,” Rogan muttered, ducking the clumsy swing
of a zombie. “Tonight, I merely wished to sit, drink and eat, and warm my bones
beside the fire—and perhaps explore between the legs of one of these
red-skinned or tan-skinned women, deformed or no. Now, instead, I slay those
already dead.”

The zombie’s reply was a gurgled moan.

“To Hades with you all,” Rogan roared and hacked the legs out
from under it. “How many times must I kill your lot before you stay dead?”

The pathetic undead were not much of a fighting force. Still,
they swarmed him with their numbers. More of the foul creatures poured from the
sea. The female archers fell back, lest their hail of arrows strike Rogan.
Pulling his sword, Javan sprang forth.

Rogan sliced another zombie in two at the belly. Undaunted, the
corpse’s lower half walked on. Its upper portion flopped into the water, and
then pulled itself back across the sand. Rogan’s sword fell once, twice,
severing the arms. Then he cut the disembodied walking legs in half, dividing
the hips. Something grasped his boot. He glanced down, shuddering in revulsion
as the decaying hands trailed across his feet, dragging the severed arms behind
them.

Javan brought down another slow moving corpse. A severed hand
crawled up his back like a spider and clutched at his throat. Shuddering, he
yanked the thing off and flung it into the ocean.

“Uncle,” he shouted, “this is madness! There is no way to kill
them. Each limb we hack off becomes yet another opponent.”

“Tell that Kennebeck wizard that this is his kind of fight, not
ours.”

Javan confessed, “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Do as I say, boy.”

“Akibeel isn’t responding. He sits cross legged at the fire,
ignoring my pleas. That is why I joined the battle late.”

“What? The fool. He picks a poor time to rest!”

“I think he’s in some sort of trance, sire.”

Rogan spat onto the sand. “I hate wizards almost as much as I
hate zombies.”

The zombies encircled the two exhausted men. Javan and Rogan
stood back-to-back, swords held ready. The undead moved closer. Javan winced at
the stench. Rogan blinked sweat from his eyes. The corpses raised their
weapons.

“WODANNNNNN!” Rogan roared, preparing himself for the onslaught.

Then, as abruptly as they’d emerged, the creatures fell limp and
tottered into the surf.

Rogan prodded one of the corpses with his sword, but it did not
move.

“This time, let us hope they stay dead.”

“Indeed, sire.”

The bodies began washing back out to sea with the next crashing
wave.

Akibeel rose, opening his eyes and shouting into the heavens.
Rogan followed his gaze, and noticed that the strange emerald light on the
mountaintop had vanished as well.

Javan relayed, “Akibeel says that he placed himself in a spell
and entreated his gods for a blessing. The blessing came.”

“Well, Wodan bless my ass. How can I fight one such as that? No
wonder his champions, Takala and Eyota, want to leave and won’t even show up to
face me. Will Amazarak summon the dead to accost us with every step we take
towards his god? How do we know that this shaman didn’t pull that trick to gain
our compliance?”

Javan interpreted for Akibeel again and said, “He knows your
doubts, but begs you not to worry.”

Rogan eyed the strange women from the forest. “Why?”

“Because he will fight with you. He will stand by your
insides
.”

“He will what? You have not translated correctly, boy. You meant
to say that he will stand at my side.”

Javan shook his head. “No, sire. Begging your pardon, but Akibeel
distinctly said
insides
—I am sure of it.”

The women drew closer. The tallest faced Rogan and spoke to him
in a language he knew.

“We will fight beside you as well, if you will lead us. Do not
discount Akibeel’s powers, for they are great.”

“Who the hell are you women?”

It was then that Rogan noticed all of them had only one breast.
Their right breasts were missing. In their place stretched knotted scar tissue.

“I am Asenka,” the tall woman said. “That name means
grace
.
This is my sister, Zenata.” She touched the shoulder of a younger female
warrior. “Her name means
gift of God
.”

“I am Rogan. That means
bloody bastard with a hard on
.
This is Javan, which means
servant of a bloody bastard with a stiff cock
.”

Javan stifled a grin.

Asenka’s nostrils flared. “You will help us, oh man of Keltos?”

“First, how is it that you understand my speech, sister?” Rogan
asked, sword inserted in the sand like a cane.