King of the Bastards (9 page)

“We are all that remains of an ancient tribe that trekked across
this land centuries ago. You have seen our skill with bows. That is why—”

“That’s why your right tit is cut off,” Rogan interrupted. “So
you can shoot better. I’ve been around what there is of this world, and have
seen the practice before, when I was a teen. Singed at birth or puberty, are
you not?”

Asenka nodded in surprise.

“Well, at least you’re on our side.”

Asenka smiled. Her purple eyes nearly looked like coal.

Speaking in hurried whispers, Akibeel pawed at Javan’s elbow.

Rogan frowned. “What is the old monkey chattering about now?”

“He says we should leave the beach now, before Amazarak sends
more foes to test our strength.”

Javan and Rogan agreed to let the thin red men of the forest
gather up the weapons scavenged from the bireme, since they could not carry the
load themselves. In quick order, they collected up the weapons, pieces of
armor, and other useful items. The Kennebeck shaman summoned two-wheel wagons
pulled by other tribesmen.

“First they call forth women warriors,” Rogan said. “Now wagons.
What else do they have hidden in yonder woods? Catapults? Perhaps a hundred
fine horses?”

“Akibeel says that is all, sire.”

Rogan stroked his graying beard. “Tell them to return and watch a
few days after high tide. There are apt to be more weapons and armor drifting
in on the bodies of the dead. Scavenge what they can. We will have need of it.”

Javan and the women warriors followed the old shaman into the
forest. Rogan looked back to the waves, caught his breath, and thought of his
eldest son. Even now, Rohain, his flesh and blood whom he’d taught to hunt,
fish, and kill, was probably in chains. And his survival, and the survival of
their kingdom, depended on Rogan helping these strange folk slay their wizard
and his evil pagan deity—one of the Thirteen themselves. Rogan felt something
he had not experienced in many years.

Fear. Just a twinge, but there all the same.

Javan stopped at the tree line and looked back at his brooding
uncle.

“Sire? We must be off. Is everything all right?”

Rogan frowned and looked to the sky.

“Just thinking, boy. Just thinking.”

DAWN ALMOST BROKE
upon them by the time they drew
near the village. The forest was lit with the gray-blue hues that exist just
before the sunrise. The leaves swayed in the slight, cooling breeze. Birds sang
out to one another from the treetops, squirrels ran along the branches, and a
deer leaped across the trail in front of them, its antlers still covered with
velvet. As they walked, the Kennebeck picked berries from bushes along the
trail. Neither Rogan nor Javan had ever seen the fruit in their native lands
and each eagerly tried one. Javan relished the flavor on his tongue. Rogan
pronounced them not worth the effort, and instead, drained the last Kennebeck
wineskin of its contents.

They walked single file along an old, rutted footpath. Akibeel
took the lead and Rogan brought up the rear. A Kennebeck warrior lagged far
behind, to guard their flank, while Zenata took point, running along ahead of
the procession. The group moved silently, and even Javan remained quiet, his
eyes drooping from weariness. Asenka walked between him and Rogan.

“How came you here, Rogan the bloody bastard with a stiff cock?”
she asked.

“I was joking about the name.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the bloody bastard part.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“How did you come to be here?”

Rogan yawned. “We took a wrong turn while heading to a famed
Assyrian whorehouse and the gods dropped us here instead.”

Asenka frowned. “You jest.”

“Yes,” Rogan nodded. “In truth, we were too weary from the
whorehouse and could no longer pilot our vessel. So we made camp on yonder
beach. Those whores will wear a man out.”

Rogan’s laughter boomed through the forest, sending a flock of
birds screeching from their perches. A squirrel chattered angrily at him from
the branches overhead. A barrage of nuts fell from the tree.

Asenka’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You still desire such
action at your age?”

“I’m not dead yet.” Rogan smirked, halting at the crest of a
ridge that overlooked a lush valley. “Javan, tell this lass the story of
Rogan’s desire.”

“Sire, you know it better than I.”

“But I like to hear you tell it,” Rogan insisted, cracking his
knuckles.

Javan yawned and cleared his throat. “The bards sing a tune of
how Rogan’s father cut him from his mother’s womb. The theory is that since
Rogan never passed naturally from a female opening, he will go down to his
death trying to replicate the experience in reverse.”

“How droll.” Asenka rolled her eyes.

Rogan shrugged. “It was a good line in the taverns of Luxor.”

Some time passed before Asenka spoke again. She looked Rogan up
and down, and her tone was tart. “So you are the legendary savage who made
himself king? You are the man who carved his way to the throne of Albion and
took the crown from Silex’s head?”

“What if I am?”

“Are you not stunned that I know of you?”

Rogan’s head began to throb, fatigue finally betraying him.

“I don’t stun easily…” His voice faded.

“Sire?” Javan stepped closer.

Though his eyes were open, Rogan no longer beheld the forest. He
reached out and grasped a tree branch for support. His breath came in short
gasps, and his muscles trembled. His ears rang, and the strength vanished from
his limbs.

Zenata had returned from her position at point, replaced by a
Kennebeck warrior, and she joined her sister and Javan as they clustered around
Rogan in concern.

“What ails the old one?” the young girl asked.

“We do not know,” Asenka whispered. “He suddenly became as weak
as a newborn foal.”

Javan held on to Rogan’s arm, so that he would not fall. “Lean on
me, sire.” Abruptly, Rogan stabilized. Pushing the youth aside, he stomped his
feet and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, boy. But—Volstag is dead.”

“What?”

“I can’t explain it, Javan, but I saw it as if I were there. I
beheld it as clearly as I’m seeing you. Volstag is gone.”

“Who is this Volstag?” Asenka asked.

“General Volstag is Rogan’s great uncle,” Javan explained. “He
advised Rogan’s son, King Rohain, on matters of state.”

“If he is this old one’s great uncle,” Asenka whispered in her
sister’s ear, “then he must be ancient.”

Javan ignored them. “Sire, did you see a vision?”

“Pour the piss out of your ears, boy. Of course I had a vision. I
saw this bastard son of mine, Karac, enter the war room of the palace, clear as
if I was standing there. He was accompanied by dozens of black warriors. Rohain
fought them mightily, as did your father Thyssen, but they were overcome. Karac
slew Volstag. Impaled him on his sword and then opened him up from belly to
neck. The bald bruiser is dead.”

Rogan paused, letting the rage drain from him. When his emotions
were under control once more, he continued. “That old prick taught me to fight
with a dagger, and how to bring down a stag with my bare hands. And now he is
dead. They cut his head off after his guts spilled out. His blood was all over
the maps on the table.”

Asenka folded her arms. “Are you touched in the head, old one?”

“Not so much that I can’t cut your other tit off if you don’t
curb your damned tongue, woman.”

Asenka bristled but Zenata held her back.

“Are you certain Volstag is dead, sire?” Javan asked.

“I saw it, Javan, just as clearly as I see you. They tossed his
head amongst them like children at play. And Rohain is in chains. A prisoner of
these swine!”

“What of my father?”

Rogan shook his mane. “I saw not his fate, boy. Thyssen slew
many, but he was outnumbered. He jumped from the window of the tower when they
surrounded him, but I saw naught after that. I fear the worst. How could he
survive?”

Javan fell silent, his fists clenched at his sides. His mouth was
a thin, tight line.

“Damn it all,” Rogan grunted, “what afflicted me—more sorcery?”

The rest of the Kennebeck tribe had halted when they realized
that Rogan and the others weren’t with them. Now Akibeel stepped forward as the
dawn’s first light filtered down through the leafy canopy overhead. He spoke at
length, making many hand gestures.

Sighing, Rogan moved away into the shadows of a broad oak tree.
He pointedly ignored the shaman.

Javan translated, “Akibeel feels that you were sent a vision of
your homeland.”

“Akibeel feels his own limp manhood,” Rogan murmured.

Zenata erupted with laughter at the jest. Asenka elbowed her in
the ribs, still clearly offended with Rogan’s barbaric reprimand.

“It is possible,” Javan continued, “that some unknown power
allows you to see these terrible things. Perhaps he is right.”

“Why would some evil force grant me such a sight; to taunt me?
No. The truth is more mundane. We cannot deny it. No need to make excuses for
me, boy. Don’t lie to an old liar. If I’m growing soft in the head, then so be
it. It’s not the death I would have chosen, but we have seen the effects of
senility and it is useless to put up a fight.”

“I do not think your wits are failing, sire. Perhaps it is the
will of Wodan that you saw what is happening in Albion. He grants you a
boon—strengthens your will to fight on. He grants me one, as well, if the
vision of my own father’s fate is correct.”

Rogan dismissed the suggestion. “Horseshit. Wodan grants no boons.
He sits on his mountain and shits out light upon the world. He gives us power
at birth, and that’s fucking all. What we make of life is just that. Wodan
doesn’t meddle in the affairs of humans, unlike other deities.”

Asenka said, “He hardly seems like much of a god then.”

“At least he doesn’t require daily blood,” Rogan replied, “or for
his females to be mutilated at birth.”

The warrior woman’s hand unconsciously went to her missing
breast. She opened her mouth to reply, but Rogan cut her off.

“Who would want to worship a god that constantly intervenes? I
can wipe my own ass. I need no god to do it for me. Why do the dire demons of
the Thirteen fuck with us all? They are acting like gods.”

“I swear this,” Javan said, squinting at the mention of the Thirteen,
“if my father was truly slain, then I shall have revenge on Karac.”

“We both will,” Rogan grunted. “Keep that hate alive in your
heart, lad. It’ll warm you when nothing else will.”

They continued on through the dense forest. Javan moved forward
to speak more with Akibeel. Rogan scanned the lush foliage. Through the breaks
in the trees, he caught an occasional glimpse of the distant mountain that
towered over them. The mist around its peak hung tinged with a greenish hue.

“Javan,” he called. “Attend me.”

The youth trotted back to him. “Yes, sire?”

“That green mist that surrounds the mountain. What is it?”

Javan shrugged. “I assume this color is an effect of the sun and
the mist, but I am not certain. Akibeel has not mentioned it.”

Rogan drew him close and whispered, “You grow too complacent with
that old shaman. Be on your guard.”

“You do not trust him, Uncle? He reminds me of—”

“You alone do I trust, boy. I’ll not hesitate to kill every
damned one of them. Neither should you. Remember that. There’s no room for
sentiment in our task. Our only concern is doing what we must to get home.”

Javan bowed slightly. “But of course, sire.”

“I don’t want to see you hesitate to kill these women, either.
Only a weak man will be stopped from the death blow by emotion or deference to
another gender.”

“By your command.”

Rogan sniffed the air. “I smell cook-fires. We must be nearing
their village.”

Sure enough, they rounded a curve and the Kennebeck village laid
spread out before them; a series of well-made lodges nestled deep in the forest
near the base of the mountain. The pyramid shaped dwellings were constructed
from long branches wrapped in long canvasses and skins. Smoke trailed out of a
few. A great cry went up amongst them as the rest of the tribe came out to greet
them. Rogan studied the men. The tallest was six feet, but they were all slight
of build.

“Quite a few of them,” Rogan remarked. “I would think the members
of the tribe were nearly all dead, judging by the tales Akibeel spun. But I see
that it isn’t so. They seem almost overpopulated.”

“This village,” Javan explained, “is but one in a chain of
Kennebeck communities set about the base of these mountains. Akibeel says they
stretch on and on in many rings. I doubt all of these folk are from this
particular settlement.”

“Look at them. They scurry like ants. I see brickwork, so they
know masonry. Farming and agriculture are on display, as well. But they know
not steel.” He gestured toward a group of women working straight wooden staffs
into spears or grafting flat stones onto axe handles.