by Brian Keene
“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.
Several women weaved between the returning party, carrying freshly baked bread cakes, armfuls of bedding, pitchers of water, and other containers. Their eyes widened when they beheld the two pale-skinned warriors. Rogan winked at them and then grabbed his crotch. The women looked away, giggling.
“What else did Akibeel tell you during our journey?” Rogan asked.
“Amazarak was a good man years ago, but was seduced into the dark ways by Croatoan. At one time, Amazarak was the elder shaman and Akibeel’s teacher. But he grew restless in his old age and wanted more from life.”
“Product of aging,” Rogan grumbled. His nostrils flared. The scent of cooking food teased his senses. Without realizing it, he began to drool. “One thinks the eyes will be satisfied, but once they are, the heart aches for more. Once the heart is quelled, the body demands reassurance that it’s still worthy of life. Once that is sated, the loins demand proof of life. Once that happens, the process repeats. After a long time, one asks, is there anything more?”
Javan blinked, taken aback by his king’s confession of life. Rogan had never admitted to such things.
“Or so I read,” Rogan snapped. “To Hades with all of that. Tell on, Javan.”
Javan fought to hide his smile. “Well, Amazarak consulted with Croatoan and put himself in terrible agonies for power. Sire, you wouldn’t believe what this man did to get close to his deity.”
A red-skinned woman offered Rogan a tiny bowl full of ground meal. He took it and said, “I’ve traveled the world. The words like Shaman are only used for those who go through great sufferings for their gods. I wonder what this food is?”
Javan accepted a drink of water from another woman. “But Amazarak was not content with the powers bestowed upon him. He still seeks more.”
“Is that why this tribe hasn’t destroyed him?” Rogan asked, sniffing the bowl’s contents. “Akibeel spoke of their tribe’s champions; Takala and Eyote. Do they not have two balls enough between them to fight or organize a force?”
“Amazarak is high on the mountain and surrounds himself with warriors sporting weapons these folk cannot fight against.”
Akibeel motioned for Rogan and Javan to sit. Asenka and Zenata joined them. Rogan sank onto a flattened stump and stretched his aching back. He dipped two fingers into the bowl and sampled the meal. Grunting his approval, Rogan ate. Javan was offered a bowl and did the same.
Two tall men of the Kennebeck tribe appeared from the forest. Unlike their fellow tribesmen, they were sturdily built. The deformities that plagued so many of the Kennebeck were absent from their own bodies. Unlike their pathetic brothers, these men looked battle-scarred, hearty, and well fed.
Immediately, Akibeel began admonishing with the two newcomers. Smug smiles appeared on their faces. They stared at Rogan and Javan.
“Javan,” Rogan sighed wearily. “I grow tired of Akibeel’s chatter. If you must tell me everything they say, perhaps we should just slay them all now and be done with it.”
Zenata and Asenka glanced at each other, unsure if Rogan joked or not.
The two newcomers continued staring. One of them muttered something which caused gasps from the rest of the tribe. Their demeanor ran clearly disdainful of the new arrivals.
“Do those two wish to propose marriage to us?” Rogan asked. “If so, please explain to them that I was married once and have no plans to do so again.”
“I do believe these are the champions, Takala and Eyota,” Javan said. “They appear unimpressed with you and me, sire. Akibeel is angry because they refuse to treat us as welcomed guests. Takala just made a rude comment about your parentage.”
Rogan’s expression darkened. “What was it?”
“I do not know, sire,” Javan lied. “My understanding of their language has failed me.”
“I told you before, lad; don’t lie to an old liar. Now, what did that ox say about my lineage?”
“I-I believe it may have involved a g-goat and perhaps a sheep herder.”
Rogan stared at the two men as they argued with Akibeel, studying their voice tones and body language. The larger of the two champions shed his quiver of arrows, his belt, knife, and bow and stepped into the open of the clearing. Grinning, he pointed at Rogan.
“Apparently,” Javan translated, “Takala intends to—”
“I know a challenge when I see one, Javan.”
Javan eyed Eyota, only slightly shorter than Takala. Akibeel turned to Javan and spoke quickly.
“He says,” Javan translated, “that I must fight the other after Takala kills you, sire.”
“So be it.” Rogan set his feet. He did not disarm, but neither did he draw steel. “This is a stupid waste of time, but I shall meet his challenge. This doesn’t aid these people or get us home any faster. After I have slain him, I say we be done with this entire tribe and just kill them all.”
Takala was almost as tall as Rogan, but the aged king outweighed him in mass and muscle. The two circled each other. Takala spat something in his dialect. Rogan remained silent. Takala said something else and several in the crowd laughed. Glowering, Rogan reached down, pulled his tunic aside, grasped his manhood, and waved it at the red-skinned warrior. The onlookers cheered.
Furious, Takala charged, fast and low, striking at Rogan’s face with a curled fist. Rogan slapped the blow away. Both men circled each other like panthers. Takala jabbed at Rogan a few times, but the older man easily sidestepped each blow. His opponent was young, brash, and angry, and Rogan stepped light, content to wait. Takala scrambled forward, trying to grapple with Rogan. Gripping him around the waist, Rogan squeezed his kidneys. Grunting with pain, Takala slithered up, boxed Rogan’s ears and slipped around behind the barbarian, never breaking the hold.
Asenka whispered to Javan, “It is silly that they fight. What a waste of life.”
“Takala is insulted and his honor is at stake,” Javan replied. “Eyota’s, too. They refuse to ally themselves with us, and since we cannot join forces, they have decreed that two of us must die.”
Asenka sniffed. “Men.”
Twisting from side to side, Rogan grunted, attempting to kick the Kennebeck champion’s groin. Takala dug his bare heels into the mud, trying to leverage himself enough to pull Rogan from his feet. The tendons on Rogan’s sunburned forearms flexed as he seized the wrists around his waist. With fingers of iron, the old man dug into Takala’s flesh and pressed down. Blood welled up around Rogan’s fingertips as his fingernails dug deeper.
Takala screamed, but never abandoned his attack. Rogan’s fingers were now slick with his blood. Takala dropped down, releasing Rogan, and threw his shoulder into the back of his opponent’s legs. Unbalanced, Rogan tumbled onto his back. The crowd cried out. Takala sprang to his feet and grabbed Rogan’s ankles. He aimed a kick at Rogan’s stomach, but then Rogan scissored his legs, tore them free of Takala’s grip, and kicked the lean champion in the nose. Bones crunched beneath Rogan’s boot heels and blood spurted from Takala’s face. Cradling his nose, he stumbled away from the fight, crying out in pain.
“Enough,” Rogan gasped, panting for breath. “It is time to end this. I’m still hungry and wish to continue with my meal.”
Rogan climbed to his feet. Takala rushed him again. Rogan took a knee and struck upwards, snapping the champion’s jaw with an uppercut. The crowd gasped at the sound. Again, Takala staggered away. Standing tall, Rogan swiftly stole across the grass and grappled with Takala, knocking him to the ground.
“You are no champion,” Rogan taunted. “And you were not spawned from a man’s seed. Instead, it’s obvious that your father shat into your mother’s womb.”
Though the younger man could not understand Rogan’s words, he understood their intent. Takala sprang from the ground and charged low. His shoulder slammed into the barbarian’s abdomen. Grunting, Rogan moved back a few steps. Takala reached for Rogan’s throat. Their hands met, all fingers interlocking. Knuckles popped. Rogan immediately brought all of his weight and force down on the smaller man. Even though he was pinned, Takala refused to yield. Takala’s ruined teeth sought Rogan’s ear, intent on ripping it off, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Abruptly, he withdrew his face from the old man’s mane. Rogan’s hair fell away from his face. The crowd murmured, spying the same thing Takala had just learned.
Rogan’s ear was missing already. In its place was only a mass of gnarled scar tissue.
“Someone beat you to it,” Rogan growled. “And now I’ll do to you what I did to them.”
Roaring, Rogan snapped all the fingers on Takala’s hands, and then went after his throat like a rabid hound. The Kennebeck warrior shrieked. Rogan’s teeth sank into the soft flesh of Takala’s neck. Twisting his head back and forth, Rogan yanked away, and spat a wad of bloody meat onto the ground. A fount of crimson spewed from the wound, spraying Rogan’s face.
Rogan stood over Takala triumphantly as the dying man pawed at his throat with pathetic, broken fingers. Blood bubbles burst in the wound. Takala’s legs twitched uncontrollably. Rogan prodded him with his foot and the man lay still. Takala’s blood dripped from Rogan’s chin and nose.
The old warrior licked his lips and grinned.
Watching from the side, Asenka turned away.
“Your turn,” Rogan said, slapping Javan on the back. “Make it quick. We are burning the day time.”
Enraged, Eyota stepped into the clearing. He bowed his head over his fallen partner, then reached down, dipped his fingers in the blood, and painted crimson stripes across his nose, cheeks, and forehead. He beckoned to Javan.
Rogan snatched a skin from a passing Kennebeck woman and quenched his thirst. Then, without thinking, he smoothed his hair back over his mutilated ear.
Javan took off his quiver and handed it to Zenata. “Keep this safe for me?”
She gripped his arm. “Surely, you are no man-killer. You have the eyes and voice of a poet. You cannot hope to beat one so much larger than you!”
Javan dropped his bow and shrugged her off. “Just keep it safe. I shall be back for it momentarily.”
“No more tarrying, Javan.” Rogan returned to his bowl of ground meal, digging into it with bloody fingers. “End this distraction. Then you can ply this lass with your silver tongue.”
Zenata blushed, and her sister frowned.
“You’re a pig,” Asenka said.
Rogan licked his fingers. “And do you ever lay with pigs? If so, come here and attend to me.”
Gasping with disgust, Asenka looked away again.
Smiling, Javan walked into the clearing and nodded at his opponent.
Eyota beat his chest and grinned, setting his feet.
Rogan tossed the empty bowl aside and reached for a platter of fruit.
Javan calmly approached Eyota, dodged the first jab, and planted a boot in Eyota’s groin. The brave doubled over, the air rushing from his lungs. Javan grabbed him by the hair and yanked him closer. Holding Eyota in a headlock, Javan snapped the warrior’s neck. Eyota sagged in Javan’s arms. The youth dropped him like a sack of grain. Straightening his tunic, Javan winked at his uncle, and then smiled at Zenata.
Several in the crowd grumbled and hissed. One woman sobbed. But the majority cheered, pleased at the prowess the two newcomers had displayed. Surely, they whispered, the gods had sent these two pale-skinned warriors to help them best the wizard on the mountain and his dark god.
