King of the Bastards

by Brian Keene

  Panting, Rogan glared at his nephew.

  “Silver?” he asked.

  “Indeed, sire.” Grinning, Javan retrieved his arrow. “Silver; the bane of creatures such as that. I retrieved it from the weapons that washed ashore after our encounter with the corsairs.”

  Scowling, Rogan sheathed his sword.

  “Do not be angry with your nephew,” Asenka teased. “You cannot slay them all.”

  Ignoring her, Rogan turned and started towards the gulch.

  “We go this way. Akibeel, round up these worthless dogs and bid them to follow, or I will slay you all—and I won’t need silver to do it.”

  He stalked up the trail, disappearing into the gulch. After a moment’s hesitation, the others followed. They continued on their way, with Rogan now on point. Asenka, Zenata, Akibeel, and Javan followed closely behind him. The others lagged, as afraid of the barbaric foreigner as they were of the pass.

  “Why do you favor such a large sword?” Akibeel asked Rogan. “I watched you wield it, during your fight with the snake spirit. A smaller sword might be better for a man of your years.”

  Rogan patted the giant broadsword’s hilt and shrugged. “It cuts what I like and I cannot fail to slay what I hit.”

  Akibeel glanced at the weapon. “Admittedly, I do not know much of your swordplay, but surely, a lighter blade would be as effective?”

  “For a man my age, wizard? The day I cannot lift my sword will be the day I take up a knife and place it in my own heart.”

  “Granted,” Akibeel said, hiding a grin amongst the withered crevasses of his face. “But such a massive weapon must surely have disadvantages.”

  “So say you.” Rogan stopped and withdrew the sword. He handed the blade to Akibeel, who nearly dropped it. “You see the craftsmanship? You feel the weight?”

  “It is heavy,” the shaman agreed.

  Rogan snatched it back from him and held the sword high, letting the sun dance on its sharp edge. “It’s heavy indeed. I can rely that it will not break in the heat of battle, and if it does, then I’m probably battling something out of my league, and will never live to contemplate it anyway. A smaller sword can break or perhaps not cut with the force I may put to it. It will strike steel or rock and shatter. Not so with this blade. Plus, it was blessed by a crazy assed wizard near my homeland. It isn’t enchanted, but it makes me sleep better.”

  Akibeel smiled. “And you cannot understand why I need your aid in the fight against Amazarak? Harken to this, Rogan: I need an unbreakable weapon, one accustomed to war, one used to fighting.”

  Sheathing his broadsword again, Rogan threw back his mane of gray hair. “You fancy me as your sword of power against Amazarak and his dark god of the Thirteen? Then you are a fool. I have said before that I know no magic.”

  “You will.”

  They started to walk again. Emboldened, the Kennebecks followed closely this time, watching their leader arguing with the barbarian king.

  “That’s where you are wrong,” Rogan said. “There are no damned wizards in my former kingdom of Albion. Do you want to know why?”

  Akibeel nodded. “Why?”

  “Tell him, Javan.”

  Javan cleared his throat. “There are no wizards in Albion because King Rogan had them all executed after he seized the throne. Those who escaped the first round with the gallows fled the kingdom and never returned.”

  Akibeel laughed. “None of their apprentices were angry or sought revenge?”

  “No,” Javan said. “We killed them, too.”

  “Magic is not for man to trifle with,” Rogan muttered. “I have seen great evil in my life. Evil men sowing evil deeds all in the name of evil magic. I would that it was all gone from this world. Such things, demons dancing with men, will bring about the end of our age. Mark my words. We shall all drown in a flood when the gods decide to wash the evil stain from the earth.”

  Akibeel nodded. “You are wise for a barbarian.”

  “And you are brave for a skinny wizard. Your mouth is a confident one. Be careful it doesn’t overestimate my civility. And when this business is done, if you accompany us to Albion, you will see firsthand what I do to wizards. It will be a bloody day indeed.”

  “You say you saw them perform a ritual,” Akibeel said. “In your vision—one was concerning your grandson? Did you witness other acts?”

  The hulking barbarian walked away from them and ducked behind a boulder. Soon, they heard urine splashing off the rocks. Then Rogan broke wind.

  Javan whispered, “I believe that is his way of saying he does not wish to discuss it.”

  “But,” Akibeel insisted, “perhaps I can understand it better if he tells us.”

  “He witnessed many dire things in these visions that plague him. I beg you, Akibeel, do not press him, at your own peril.”

  Akibeel nodded. “I understand. Thank you for the warning.”

  Rogan rejoined them and they continued through the gulch. Coming out on the other side, they started up another hill. Short, stubby trees grew crooked on the hillside, their roots grasping desperately at the rocky soil. As they passed by one, Javan stopped, spying something that made him frown in concern.

  Rogan breathed hard. “This is rugged country, eh, Javan?”

  When his nephew didn’t respond, Rogan turned. Zenata and Javan stood side by side just off the path, staring intently at a scraggly tree. Javan ran his fingers over the rough, grey bark. Zenata clutched his arm. The youth seemed oblivious to her presence.

  Rogan shoved past the rest of the party. Akibeel and Asenka followed him.

  “Your nephew admires trees?” Asenka teased. “What kind of mate will he make for Zenata?”

  Ignoring her, Rogan shouted, “Javan! Are you losing your grip?”

  “Not a bit, sire. See these marks high in the trunk of the tree?”

  Rogan frowned. “Not really.”

  “Look,” Zenata pointed. “There are deep slices in the bark.”

  Rogan studied them. “Awfully high for an axe, no?”

  “These marks never made a break inward in the bark,” Javan said. “These cuts are perfect. Meticulous. They form a word in the Kennebeck tongue.”

  “And what does it say?” Rogan asked.

  Javan did not answer. Akibeel responded for him.

  “Croatoan,” the old man whispered, shuddering. “It says Croatoan.”

  THE DAY GREW shorter as they made their way through the foothills and arrived at the base of the mountain. The shadows lengthened and the sun began its descent. A few of the braves scouted ahead, cautiously searching for a safe spot to bed down for the night. The rest of the party moved slowly upward along a narrow footpath that wound through crevices and around boulders. They had traveled far and were growing weary. The mountain itself was oppressive. The air felt heavy. Sullen.

  As darkness descended, Rogan stared up at the mountain’s peak, still a long distance away. “I’d eat a centaur’s arse for a gelding mount right now.”

  “The ride would do you no good,” Akibeel said. “Animals—especially beasts of burden and other tamed creatures—do not like being in the shadow of this place. They would flee, and you would end up on foot anyway.”

  The scouts returned, reporting a small canyon with a narrow but swift-moving stream half a mile ahead. The group made haste to the site, and as the first stars came out, they made camp. Rogan cautioned them against making a fire. Instead, they huddled close together, ate hardtack and dried fruit, washing the rations down with water from the stream. One of the women killed two small hares. The rabbits were cut up and divided amongst the group. They ate the morsels uncooked, relishing the burst of energy the raw meat gave them. There was little conversation; no stories or songs or merrymaking. Weary from the march, the group turned in early. Rogan ordered four guards posted, one at each end of the camp, and selected four other men to replace them halfway through the night.

  Several warrior women bedded down beside the Kennebeck brav
es. Zenata joined Javan and Asenka lay with Rogan, but none of them felt amorous. Instead, they merely slept—comforted by the presence of another. This close to the mountain, Amazarak’s presence weighed over them all like a shroud, as dark and pressing as the night itself.

  Despite the oppressive atmosphere, Asenka squirmed next to Rogan, pushing against him.

  “It is cold here in the shadow of the mountain,” she purred. “Make me feel warm, old man.”

  “Enough,” Rogan growled, not even bothering to roll over and face her. “We need our strength for the task ahead. When we’re finished, I’ll rut with you in the battlefield’s gore, if you like, before I leave.”

  “Do you flatter all your lovers this way?”

  “Only the ones I like.”

  They fell silent for a while. Asenka shivered in the cold. Her eyes were drawn to the dark mountain, its peak hidden beneath ugly gray clouds. When she spoke again, her voice was soft.

  “Do you fear what lays ahead, old one?”

  Rogan did not answer her. When Asenka poked him, he snored.

  §

  Shortly after the second guard shift took their posts, the sentries were attacked. The entire camp roused from its troubled sleep as inhuman growls filled the air around them. Dozens of warriors scrambled to light torches or take up arms. Javan sprang up, bow in hand. He glanced at Rogan, who was already on his feet, naked, sword in hand. He shoved past Javan to the place where the sentry on duty lay still.

  The moon spilled some light on the scene, but a few meager torches added to the view. A brave’s head had been crushed on the crown as if a huge rock had smashed his cranium.

  Javan knelt by the body, trying to determine what had happened, when out of the brush an enormous shadow divided the dim light and struck the warrior next to Rogan. The victim’s skull cap pulped like a stomped melon and he bit his tongue off before toppling over in the grass. Instinct took over and Rogan swiped twice into the darkness with his sword. Something resisted his blow, but he felt the weapon sink into the obstruction, then fall through. Rogan quickly parried, kicking blindly, and then stabbed forward. A great howl rang out and a thunder of movement trampled around them all. Asenka and Zenata fired arrows blindly in to the trees. Soon, there was silence again.

  “Get the torch over here, damn you,” Rogan barked as a short man with a clubbed foot shined light over the dead warrior. “That man is already dead. It will do him little good!”

  The brave, dumbfounded, looked at Rogan and said, “That could have just as easily have been you.”

  “And yet, it wasn’t,” Rogan sneered.

  On the ground lay a long arm, covered in hair, oozing blood from the top joint. Rogan knelt, examining the severed appendage as the natives gibbered amongst themselves. Akibeel stood beside him, frowning.

  Rogan looked up and said, “What manner of beasts are these ape-men? The arm is long, like a man’s, only hairy and look here! It sports six fingers.”

  Javan audibly counted the digits and then shook his head. “Six it is, sire.”

  Asenka folded her arms under her one breast and sighed. “Truly a brilliant boy, Rogan.”

  The barbarian quipped, “Why is it you are here, again?”

  The natives motioned further into the brush and the torches led them to their discovery. Eerie shadows were cast as the light washed heavy over the gigantic body of a wounded humanoid beast, missing an arm. It crawled and shuddered, clearly dying of blood loss. When it turned to face them, they saw many wounds in its belly and chest.

  Rogan looked the dying creature in the eyes and then snatched a spear from the grip of a Kennebeck brave. With no fear, the old man leapt onto the calves of the beast and drove the spear into the area near its heart. With a roar that sent birds and braves to flight, the beast died. The old man stepped off the beast and took a few heavy breaths.

  Zenata whispered, “Rogan struck home well with his blows. The spear was overkill.”

  “It is dead,” Rogan said amid getting his breath back. “The dying is all that counts.”

  Indeed, the king’s blind blows had sliced the belly open. Loops of intestines protruded from the beast’s midsection. The blood smeared the trees thereabouts, painting a gory scene for them to see. The remaining braves and two women watched Rogan as he gestured toward Javan. The youth threw him a blanket and the old man wiped blood from his legs.

  “Does he intend to eat this beast’s heart, as well?” Asenka asked.

  Akibeel nudged past them and looked at the dead creature. He seized the guts in his hands and drew them to his face. A few of the Kennebeck natives vomited at this action and even Rogan grimaced.

  Javan said, “Perhaps these folk are privy to this man telling of his reading, not always seeing his methods up close?”

  Rogan sighed. “Let us hope they hold their guts, son.”

  “It is as we feared,” the shaman said. “These are the children of the mountain.”

  “Children?” Rogan laughed. “By Wodan and Rhiannon! If these are the children…”

  Akibeel chanted, “These are what Croatoan has bred with our women and his own evil over the years. This is but one reason why Amazarak kidnaps our women.”

  Rogan frowned. “And you needed to burrow your nose into their innards to discover this?”

  “I needed to be sure it wasn’t some trick.”

  “What an abomination,” Asenka declared and placed her hand on Rogan’s left bicep. “That is the fate of any woman caught by this creature. That is why I must slay Amazarak!”

  Rogan grunted, staring at the oversized visage, matted with hair. “The face is almost human. This is what came of the ravaging we saw from the damned red apes in the caves?”

  Akibeel frowned and nodded weakly. Rogan sensed he was lying, but this was a learned lie. Akibeel’s lie was to his own folk. He arose from his knees, dropped the guts, and walked with Rogan and Javan a few feet before whispering, “Amazarak may be breeding these women with the red apes from an age before our time, but I dare not acknowledge more than this. My folk are a feared lot and would tremble at a great evil.”

  Rogan chuckled, still full of grimness. “Wodan! Greater evil than breeding with beasts?”

  Akibeel sighed, a tremble in his tone. “There are worst things than to breed with beasts, King Rogan.”

  Rogan shook his head in disbelief, but didn’t press the matter. “I wonder why these red apes serve Croatoan.”

  “Perhaps they have no choice.”

  Rogan looked at the top of the mountain, wreathed in an emerald glow at regular intervals and nodded. “You are right, dammit. It is as if he captures the sun and uses it at night.”

  §

  It took another full day and a few more attacks by the hirsute creatures before they reached the highest point of the mountain. Rogan could see the cresting off point and in the distance in the daybreak, a circular lodge made of red material.

  Pointing back, Rogan noted, “I see the word Croatoan marked in these trees as well.”

  Javan nodded but kept his eyes forward. “Yes, sire.”

  “Always from this direction,” Rogan said. “As if it were coming from this way.”

  Javan sighed and then frowned. “This is true.”

  “Why have we met no greater resistance?” Rogan snorted as Javan made sure the braves took up defensive poses. “A few of those six fingered, hairy big footed beasts, but that’s all.”

  Akibeel shook his head as they journeyed farther into the area full of tiny tents. There was no sign of life. When they stood at the edge of the community, they could see the mouth of a cave behind the red lodge and bodies strewn all over.

  “Dozens of them,” Javan said, but no one went forward.

  A gravelly, high pitched roar echoed from the edges of the clearing and everyone took up defensive positions. Javan saw Rogan grip the spear the old king used as a cane, thinking another of the hairy giants was about to attack. Out of the bushes leapt two large feline creatur
es, striped and bearing enormous fangs.

  Rogan and Javan dived to one side as one of the beasts was on one of the Kennebeck savages, ripping into the belly of the man in an instant with his saber-like teeth. Before even Javan could draw an arrow, the savages themselves brandished their new weapons with steel tips and filled this tiger full of arrows. Rogan tried to get at the other one who was ravishing another small native, but the spears forged by he and Javan filled this giant cat as well.

  “Damn, Javan, these savages fight well after all. Our training had some effect. I half expected them to run away. Perhaps their real colors come out when personally threatened, eh?”

  The shaman took a few shaky steps, knelt by the body of the first big cat and took the knife Javan made for him to the beast’s mouth. “The Kennebeck will fight, Rogan. They are simple folks, but this is their world and their land.”

  Akibeel worked hard and Rogan could see what he was after. The barbarian knelt and helped the thin shaman extract the sabers from the mouth of the fallen tiger. Akibeel gouged with a knife and Rogan gripped the long sabers. His great arms flexed large and he ripped the teeth loose.

  Javan stared at the mountain top, pulsing green every so often, and then turned his attention back to the distant cave opening. Akibeel and Rogan removed the other set of sabers from the second dead tiger, never taking their eyes off the red lodge.

  “This other wizard, this shaman, Amazarak?” Rogan questioned. “He’s within the lodge?”

  Akibeel sighed, looked at a large tree that faced the red lodge and dropped his buckskin tunic. He offered Rogan the four long sabers taken from the tigers and said, “Crucify me, King.”

  “What say you? Are you mad?” Rogan snapped.

  Akibeel lay flat on the tree facing the lodge and put out his arms. “Hurry, my Lord. The game is almost ready in the dawning light. Look! My nemesis is at his power already! Hurry!”