King of the Bastards

by Brian Keene

  “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!”

  Amazed that the ship still ran level, Javan fought to gain his balance. He swallowed down the fear in his throat, unslung his bow, fixed two arrows and drew back, setting his eyes on the beast. All sound had ceased, save his pulse, throbbing in his ears. His heart beat like a rabbit. He hesitated, staring at the slender, tube-shaped head protruding from the beast’s bulbous red torso. Two obsidian circles stared back.

  “It looks like a banana,” he sputtered, “or a gourd with eyes…”

  Teeth clenched, Rogan grabbed a spear from a stunned sailor, reared back and threw it at the creature.

  “Even a gourd with eyes still has eyes, boy! Let your aim find them.”

  Clearing his head, Javan drew in a breath and released. The steel tipped arrows sailed toward the main body of the beast, striking just as Rogan’s spear deflected off an area between its eyes. A high-pitched screech ripped the air, not in pain, but rage. The creature’s maw opened, side to side, like a split beak.

  One elongated arm coiled around a young sailor and dragged the flailing victim below the surface. When the limb emerged from the water, the sailor’s struggles had ceased and the body hung limp.

  Lurching forward on the swaying deck, Harkon and Wagnar hurled spears at the monster. In response, one of its tendrils twisted around the handrails on the edge of the boat, snapping them like sticks. Wagnar buried his broadsword in the rubbery flesh. The steel sank deep into the tentacle, lodging in the middle. Pulpy fluid burst from the wound. Ichor ran across the deck and Harkon slipped on the boards, striking his head on the butt of an oar as he went down.

  Rogan watched the beast try to reposition itself to the east side of the ship. Head swiveling, he assessed the situation, reverting to his days as a battlefield commander.

  “You men, help me with the grapnels!”

  The sailors obeyed Rogan’s edict as the bireme went up on its left side, nearly capsizing. More appendages thudded from beneath the hull. Javan fired twice more at the eyes of the beast, missing again. He cursed his faulty aim.

  “My father would hang his head in shame were he to see this display.”

  “Tis not your skills, young master,” the toothless Captain Huxira advised him, stabbing a seeking tendril with his curved dagger. “Tis the pitching of this craft. Surely, the beast means to sink us.”

  Harkon and Wagnar’s swords flashed up and down, glinting in the sunlight. The brothers fought as one. Gore and fluids covered them but they didn’t seem to notice.

  “Javan,” Rogan called out, “to me.”

  Javan ran to his uncle’s side, half sliding past him. “What have you in mind, sire?”

  Rogan grabbed the long, heavy grapnels. “If that sea monster wants to hug us, by Wodan, he’ll feel my embrace first. AWAY!”

  They released the grapnels. The long cords took hold of several of the creature’s squirming tentacles.

  “Pull,” Rogan implored all who could hear him.

  A dozen men heaved on the lines.

  Wagnar yelled, “Sire, we will flip over or be dragged down with it!”

  “Nay!” Rogan bellowed as the bireme leveled out, using the force of the giant beast against it.

  A few of the grapnels bit into the monster’s appendages, severing them. The creature roared again, and several of the sailors clasped their ears. Enraged tentacles slapped at the men, crushing and twisting. One appendage coiled around a young sailor’s midsection, squeezing him in half, letting his crushed upper half sag over, leaving legs to stand for a moment, not realizing they were dead. Another snaked over Huxira, but the old man stabbed it with his dagger and the tendril recoiled. The screams of a slave grew muffled as a tentacle wrapped around his head and flexed, crushing his skull like an overripe melon. His brains dripped from the arm as it sought out more prey. Still, he held his oar and stayed at his post.

  The bireme lurched again and knocked Rogan to the deck. He slid across the ship and flipped over, almost going into the churning sea.

  “Rogan!” Javan reached out for his uncle’s hand as if he could breach the great distance for him.

  “Stop crying, dammit,” Rogan snapped as he got to his feet. A tentacle whipped by his head. He withdrew his broadsword and ordered, “Release the grapnels again.”

  The sailors released the grapnels and the beast’s embrace slacked. It surged toward them again, long arms flailing, wrapping around the ship�
�s hull.

  As the bireme slanted, Rogan leapt past the cringing sailors. Sword held high up like a spear, he dropped onto the creature’s head, right above its maw. The monster bellowed, infuriated at this intrusion.

  “For Wodan!” he shouted, driving the blade deep into the beast’s left eye, seeking a death stroke. The thing’s screams increased as Rogan shoved the sword deeper, twisting as if he were planting fence posts. The hilt jutted from the head, and the creature shuddered. Using the wound as a foothold on the slippery hide, Rogan inserted a boot into the bloody gash and yanked his sword free. Stabbing down again, he probed for the brain. Finding none, he dodged the frenzied tendrils, still clinging to the monster’s head.

  A great cheer went up from the sailors. Javan shook his head from side to side.

  Rogan used the beak of the monster as a stepping-stone, and crossed over; thrusting the blade into the beast’s other eye. The creature heaved backwards with a tumultuous splash. One massive tentacle gripped Rogan’s waist, dragging him beneath the waves. The creature submerged and all that was left was a mass of red foam.

  The bireme rocked as the sailors ran to the side, desperate for a glimpse of their barbarian leader.

  The red water’s surface grew still.

  “Oh goddess, no,” Javan whispered.

  Then, from the crow’s nest high above their heads, a sailor shouted, “I see him!”

  Rogan surfaced, spitting water and shaking his mane.

  Captain Huxira laughed, shoving his men into action. “Throw him a line. The sharks will be out for a meal soon. The blood in the water calls to them. Hurry now.”

  Javan shuddered as Rogan was hauled back onboard. Sleek, angular shark fins already jutted from the water, racing towards them.

  “That took a lot of stones,” Harkon muttered.

  “Or no brains,” Wagnar whispered.

  Tired, but defiant, Rogan chuckled. “Harkon. Wagnar. You boys are hardly alive. You haven’t even seen your twenty-first summer yet. I have seen sixty of them. Never have I been more ready to die, yet felt more alive.”

  Javan found a dry cloak in the back of the ship and slipped it around Rogan’s shoulders.

  “Sire,” Wagnar exclaimed, “never have I seen such a beast. Surely Dagon sent it to impede us?”

  Saving his breath, Rogan shrugged.

  “Or perhaps Leviathan,” Harkon muttered.

  The others blanched at the name, making the various signs of their own preferred deities. Rogan eschewed such religious nonsense, but even he turned grim at Leviathan’s mention.

  “Speak not of the Thirteen,” Javan warned Harkon. “Lest you draw their attention. They have many doors into this world. To speak of them is to invite them entry.”

  Rogan spat over the side. “The Thirteen need no invitation, Javan. None of their kind does. If they want to come, let them come. I’ll face them while the rest of you cower.”

  The crew fell silent.

  Huxira grimaced. “This creature that attacked us was just that—a creature, rather than some demonic beastie. I have seen its like from afar, but they never come this close to shore. Methinks this attack wasn’t chance. It was guided. We are lucky to have our lives.”

  “A guided beast?” Rogan laughed, but his response held no humor. “Oh, bullcrap.”

  Frowning, Javan looked up. Even after the battle, the huge lone bird still circled in the empty sky.

  And now there was something else in the distance.

  “Sire,” he said. “Look.”

  Rogan squinted at the stern of the ship, shielding his eyes with his gore-streaked hands. “Ho! Crow’s nest! What is that on the horizon?”

  The sailor perched high above directed his viewing glass to where Rogan pointed. “Eyes of an eagle on you, my Lord. It’s a ship!”

  “I deduced that, you donkey’s ass.” Rogan spat, still getting his breath back. “Of what kind? Whose markings?”

  The sailor concentrated and then looked down from his viewer. “Hard to say sir, but it is moving very fast. A large galley. There are no markings, no flag. I—” He raised his glass and looked in another direction. “Sire! Off port! Another ship, but much smaller.”

  “Get me a looking glass,” Rogan ordered one of the sailors, who still appeared stunned from the fight with the sea monster. The young man swiftly vanished and then returned with a long viewer.

  Rogan looked skyward and again saw the large bird. “What is that cursed thing up there, Javan?”

  “At first I thought it an eagle, sire, but the tips of the wings point at strange angles like those of a bat.”

  “A bat? That size? Don’t jerk me around.”

  Wagnar, Harkon, Javan, and Captain Huxira gathered around Rogan, watching the horizon with apprehension. The larger ship produced tiny ships off its sides as it sailed toward them.

  Javan gasped. “It’s a mother ship.”

  Huxira leaned forward, his breath reeking of chewing leaf.

  “They are not of Olmek-Tikal. What are they, King Rogan?”

  Rogan frowned at the title given him by the descendent of Atlantis. “The small vessels look like Pryten reavers. Notice the great speed they exhibit and the way they harness the wind with their short sails.”

  “Prytens?” Wagnar laughed. “Pirates? Those savages could in no way be here. Their lands lie halfway around the world.”

  Rogan’s countenance grew grim. “Those fools would have the sack, but you’re right. It wouldn’t be possible for them to sail all this way.”

  With diplomacy, Javan said, “A Pryten reaver could survive the journey through these hostile waters if lashed to a larger ship.”

  Frowning, Rogan considered this. He raised his glass to the sky, seeking the bird again.

  The man in the crow’s nest called out, “They are coming right at us!”

  Captain Huxira spat a wad of brown juice over the side of the damaged craft. “A few pirate bastards? They will be sorry to tangle with us. Fix bows!”

  Harkon wiped the monster’s sticky blood from his blade. “A few dozen Pryten savages will meet a harsh fate trying to board us. I’ll send their balls back in memory of their dead Queen Tancorix to her daughter, Andraste.”

  Despite the losses incurred during the sea beast’s attack, the bireme sported seventy men rowing, two-dozen sailors, the two Alatervaeian bodyguards, Javan, and Rogan.

  As the ship took to battle stations and the sailors re-armed themselves with bows, the man in the crow’s nest sang out, “They aren’t Prytens!”

  Again, Rogan raised his glass, muttering, “You wouldn’t know a Pryten if you shat on one. Shut your fool mouth and abide by me.” He focused on the men in the small vessels and his mind spun. “Donar’s balls, he’s right. They are blacks from the dark kingdoms.”

  Javan gripped his bow. “Those savages couldn’t pilot such vessels so far away from home any better than a Pryten. It isn’t possible.”

  “Unless they were hired, supplied, and helped. I was a pirate amongst men such as these on the Ebony Coast in my youth. Don’t discount their abilities based solely on the color of their skin and the gods they worship. They are damned fierce warriors.”

  “I will take your word for it, sire.”

  “Then take my word for something else, as well. The captain was right. That assault by the sea monster wasn’t random. Neither is this. We are under attack and it’s anything but random.”

  “But who could orchestrate such a thing?”

  “Who indeed? But the more important question is why.”

  “This is a transport ship we ride on,” Javan insisted, “not a war vessel. Aside from the ram on the front, what defense do we have? They cannot think we have booty.”

  “Get it through your skull, boy. By Wodan, Javan, you may have General Thyssen’s strength, but you think like a damned politician! Always believing the best in folk—bah—that doesn’t even work on brats. The real world is a different place. Those men aren’t after the ship or plun
der. Thousands of miles from home, they are here on a purpose. I told you that flying creature above reminded me of Damballah?”

  Javan nodded.

  “These men are seeking a target. That’s why that creature is circling us like a hungry buzzard. By magic or by stealth, they want me and that bird has led them to us.”

  THE DAMAGED BIREME listed to the port side as its inhabitants went to battle stations. Javan watched the sailors make quick work of the sails, while others brought up more weapons from the cabins below. Captain Huxira’s men were no strangers to warfare on the open seas. They moved decisively and with astonishing speed, especially given the fact that several of them still bled from wounds suffered under the sea creature’s recent attack. Bows, short swords, maces, pikes, and small forearm shields filtered amongst the men. Confusion and panic flashed on the sweaty faces of the rowing slaves, toiling under the taskmaster’s persistent lash. Javan felt an unexpected flash of pity for them. His uncle would have chided him for the emotion, but this danger threatened the slaves, as well. Finally, his gaze came to rest on Rogan, still tall, sturdy, and imposing in his advanced years, seething under his wrinkled skin at the rapidly advancing smaller ships. His smile, wolflike, terrible to behold.

  “How do they move so fast, Javan?” Wagnar asked, knuckles white on his pommel.

  Javan affirmed, “Light sails. They maneuver well with little effort.”

  “Who sent them on to us, bound up to such a vessel?” Harkon asked.

  Javan glanced to the circling bird and offered, “Who knows? It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  Rogan nodded, clutching the handle of his broadsword, letting the heavy weight of it rest on side of the ship. “Aye, true enough. They’ll be on us soon.”

  Captain Huxira barked orders in Olmek-Tikalize as the vessels sped towards them. The sailors all took a knee, partially concealing themselves behind the undamaged ridge of the boat and raised their large bows. The taskmaster cracked his whip and the slaves doubled their efforts on the oars.