by Brian Keene
“But what happened to the mountain? What happened to Amazarak?”
“Wodan shrugged.” He coughed and lay back again. “Amazarak was cast into a hole ripped in the air, fell into eternity. But I faced a member of the Thirteen, Javan.”
Javan gave him a questioning look. “Really, sire?”
Forearm over his eyes, Rogan replied, “I’m not crazy. I battled Meeble himself.”
“And how did that go?”
“I won. He’s in pieces in there under the mountain, inasmuch as anything like him can die. I think I sent his form away from here, but who knows if he can manifest again, given enough flesh and souls?”
“Asenka…” Javan said, but stopped speaking.
Rogan didn’t look over again. “I see. Perhaps she’s the luckiest one on this mountain.”
§
With workman-like purpose and with not many words involved, the tribesmen tore down the poles of the red lodge of Amazarak. While they performed this task, uttering curses on the pieces, like they themselves contained evil, they took note of Rogan and Javan, working elsewhere in the clearing.
Gathering up a mound of branches, they created a thick bed to which Rogan carried the body of Asenka. Rogan put her on the mound with great care, like he handled a child that still breathed. He stood back and none drew near him, not even Javan, until he turned to face them. Rogan picked up her bow and placed the weapon across her body, chin to pelvis. His blue eyes looked at her as his tired face remained expressionless.
Javan broke the silence. “Sire?”
Rogan looked to the sky and then turned away from him. He said to Zenata, “Say a prayer to her gods, girl. We must go down the mountain.”
Looking slightly hurt, Javan patted her back and pushed her forward to say her prayers. The girl still stood stunned and Javan whispered, “He is as he is. Please do as he asks.”
“Bastard,” she muttered as she began to pray.
Wearing the word like a crown, Rogan walked from them and stared into the sky. For a moment Rogan thought he saw an object, like a gigantic bird far off. He blinked and it was gone.
The braves grew near to the mound, struck flints, and in time, Asenka was afire. The embers rose up and flew off into the air.
“Her gods will carry her spirit home,” Rogan said quietly. “I have a meeting with my gods coming soon. The road of the gods will be well traveled before that day, however.”
Tears exploding from her eyes, hands clenched to fists, Zenata raged at Rogan, “Is that all you can say for her?”
Rogan looked at the body afire and then to the girl. “She made me happy for a little while. I’m sure she felt the same, but please don’t make my ass heavy with romantic thoughts. Save them for my nephew, who still has heart enough to give more than a fuck about tomorrow.”
“But…” she choked.
He raged, “There is no tomorrow!”
“Enough,” Javan yelled back as Zenata buried her face in his chest. He gave Rogan a stern look, one of distaste, and the old one yanked his gaze from that of his nephew.
“Let’s go. I’m so tired I could die.”
Still holding the girl, Javan wondered, “Then why don’t you?”
“Patience, Javan.” Rogan’s eyes again set on him, but this time the weary sarcasm had vanished, replaced by a wolfish bloodlust. “I’ve got a few more things to do yet before I leave.”
§
Rogan and his band of rough savages came down the mountain, looking back up to the misty wreath capped flat. So much information flooded his mind, but Rogan dealt with it as always. Even when they stopped to sleep, Rogan’s primal fury for the enemies far off boiled paramount in his self. All mysteries or evils were naught compared with the desire to survive. Yes, he’d take the look, smell, and taste of Meeble to eternity, but that had passed. No longer did he seek after a glorious demise. That notion vanished in his aging mind to be replaced by the bloodthirsty revenge for those destroying Albion. Though he told himself that land would’ve been better with his son in charge, no man should slay his kindred and live. Rogan would return and die in a realm near to where he was born, he reasoned. Then, he’d rest. However, he didn’t care if he kept the survivors up with his snoring.
In the night, his mind ran full of plans to sail south in the injured ship and return to Olmek-Tikal. Rogan figured that with these men in tow he could persuade his friends in Olmek-Tikal to return to the lands from hence he came. They wouldn’t dare deny him this, he wagered, and Rogan knew he had to get back. If any of the visions were true, he must return home.
The next morning, Javan exclaimed, “Sire, look!” He pointed amongst the trees toward the sky.
Though shrouded in branches, Rogan could perceive a circled creature with long leathery wings. It flew lower than usual and Rogan sighed in disgust. “Wish that we could shoot that bastard thing down.” He grabbed his groin. “Yeah, you prick, I’m comin’ for you all.”
Akibeel favored his walking stick a great deal and shook his head from side to side. “No, Rogan. I feel this time it is different.”
“What say you?” Rogan asked, taking his eyes from the sky.
“That thing is not here for seeing of sights,” the shaman said and gestured up. “Look!”
The winged creature grew larger in their eyes and came at them fast.
Gritting his teeth, Rogan drew his short sword and Javan slotted in two arrows in the heavy bow. The company of men traveling down the raw trail that morning were frozen as the creature extended his wings and revealed the true horror of its appearance. Slender and lithe, yet covered in raised spikes like a crocodile, the short mouth of the semi-human winged beast opened and roared. Javan released his arrows, yet only one pierced the beast’s left wing. The monster came right at Rogan, who dropped to the grass, anticipating the creature’s flight path. Rogan ducked low enough, but the claws of the creature’s feet gripped his shoulders. Before the nails could sink in, Rogan’s timing proved perfect…for he stabbed up between the flailing legs. Near to a foot of Rogan’s short sword entered the creature’s crotch and it howled…but not as much as when Rogan forced his sword forward, not sliding it back the way it came. The beast kept aloft, yet Rogan ripped loose the beast’s bowels.
Akibeel shouted to his red warriors, breaking their astonishment. Soon, these men fixed arrows and fired.
Dozens of arrows filled the beast and it faltered in the sky. Rogan drew back his short sword and roared, throwing it end over end. The blade impaled the monster in the chest and pinned it to a tree trunk. Javan and Rogan each grabbed a clawed foot and yanked, tearing the creature off the sword and practically ripping it in half.
“Wodan, what sort of beast is this?” Javan asked.
Akibeel declared, “A creation of high wizardry. This beast is part human and part homunculus. It is fed by bile from afar.”
Rogan retrieved his sword and spat on the face of the dead beast. “I saw it in the vision, a child of the wizard woman in Albion. If that bitch wants a piece of me, then let her bastards come for me in droves if they must. I’m coming for her now.”
At the beach when he saw the giant ocean fairing ship in the distance and the small landing boats at the sand, Rogan’s heart surged. These were men from Olmek-Tikal obviously searching for his fishing party days overdue! Javan was far ahead of him, shouting for them. These tribal men were distant cousins to these red skinned savages. Their skin tone a bronze color and their hair an even brown, not completely black in places. A far more educated folk, these peoples practically worshiped Rogan and his friends from afar. Even if he made them stop their human sacrifices, they were intelligent enough to see the modern way of a barbarian life.
The other strange thing was the bireme was righted in the water. At first, Rogan thought this the work of the Olmek-Tikal folk, but soon saw that the women of the Kennebeck tribe had done this act.
Rogan looked at Akibeel and the shaman grinned. “I knew we would win and return, so I ordere
d them to repair your ship.”
With a huge hand, Rogan motioned to the large galley vessel in the ocean and said, “It may be unnecessary. Wodan!”
Rogan made no fast run to these people from Olmek-Tikal. He let Javan relay what happened to those from the south. Rogan recognized the Olmek-Tikal leader, Xuxan, nodding to Javan’s words. The slender Olmek-Tikalize fighter grinned at the sight of Rogan and gestured at the large galley beyond.
He said to Rogan, “So, Rogan, I see war follows you wherever you travel.”
Rogan snorted. “Aye, damn them all. I’m actually glad to see your skinny ass, Xuxan.”
“Javan tells me of the hazard in your homeland,” Xuxan said calmly, then directed his eyes up at the misty mountain. “He tells me of the perils had here, as well.”
“Javan can talk too much. Do you have any wine?”
Xuxan laughed. “We have a great crew and some supplies on the ship, but not an army to aide you, if you truly seek to return at this time.”
“I do seek to do so,” Rogan said roughly, staring across the ocean as if he could see the threat waiting him there. He glanced at the savages behind him and said, “Fear not, Xuxan. I have a force of fighters willing to fight for me here if your sailors haven’t the balls for the trip.”
Xuxan gave the Kennebeck a doubtful look but shrugged. “I see. You will return with these?”
“Yes, blast you. Now isn’t the time to argue who is smarter amongst you all. They will fight and have faced a great demon today. Getting them to my homeland will be vile work on the sea, perhaps. I know not what has happened in Albion for certain. It’s all words from wizards and dreams in the mind.”
Xuxan sighed, well aware of the old man’s thoughts on wizards. “Since there is no talking to you, bull-headed man, I shall see you there too.”
“Saves me the time of taking your ship, then, by Wodan!”
Xuxan smiled and gave Rogan a mock slap on the shoulder. “We best go now and not wait. The journey will take some time.”
Rogan nodded, again staring at the waves, then at the ship akin to a fine woman. “I fear time is not on our side, my friend.”
The craft was a good sized three-masted vessel with a distinctive hull sporting a pronounced overhanging bow and stern. Rogan thought that a corsair would kill for the speed and space of this vessel. They were built with a narrow floor to achieve a higher speed than their victims, but with a considerable beam in order to enable them to carry an extensive sail plan. This one could hold a crew of 300 to 400 men. A lugsail rig was added to the design as well, when a mizzen was stepped right aft. This provided a better balance of sail power and avoided to a great extent the disability of the lateen sail, the immense length of the yard on which the sail was set and the need when tacking and to lower the sail in order to bring the yard to the other side of the mast.
With this, Rogan knew, they would get home fast.
He faced Javan and then Zenata, who held his nephew’s hand. “Coming along, girl?”
“Yes.” She looked at Javan. “He is all I have now.”
Rogan smirked, but walked past them both. “Me, too.”
When he walked up to the water, he heard Zenata say to Javan, “What does Rogan really mean?”
“What?”
“Power does come in naming, Javan, and we name our children well. I wonder after his meaning.”
“Rogan can mean different things, but I’ve always heard it postulated that it means what is most fitting.”
“And that is?’
“King of the bastards.”
THE STORYTELLER FINISHED his yarn and leaned back on the ship to rest.
Looking out at the blue, almost translucent waves, Magog then gawked at his brother Gomer before saying, “Father, are you saying King Rogan the Great was our grandfather?”
“Yes, boys. He was a mighty warrior that went on to even more adventure.”
Gomer spoke up and said, “Then Mother, Algeniz, she really was almost sacrificed?”
“Yes, boys.”
Gomer asked with glee, “Tell us more! Did Grandfather encounter more of the Thirteen? He and Javan must’ve returned to Albion!”
Magog elbowed his brother aside. “I heard the story that he visited the Land of Nodd!”
“That’s a tale for another day, my boys, as is the one of how they returned to Albion and what they found there. We must help my father tend the animals.”
A female voice called from below the massive deck. “Come along, all of you, and stop telling such yarns, Jasper Thal!”
Magog blinked. “What did Mother say?’
“Never mind.”
“But, Father,” Magog persisted. “Your name isn’t Jasper Thal!”
“Ah yes, but that’s how they said my name when I took the tale concerning the end of the world to the corners of the Earth. No one listened and that’s why only we are spared the great cataclysm. Jasper Thal is the way the Albions said my name, Japheth.”
“And those of the demonic horde laughed at the words of the Wiseman in the seventh heaven. And yet, he spoke to us with great scorn. Woe to those who build up kingdoms of iniquity and oppression; and who lay their foundations in fraud. For suddenly, they will be subverted, never to obtain peace. Woe to you who build up houses on crime; for they will have foundations that break and by their swords they themselves shall fall. You have committed great blasphemy and iniquity and are destined to the day of effusion of blood, unto the day of darkness, and to the day of great judgment. This I declare and point out to you, that he who created you will destroy you.”
From Fragment XXVI of the Third Yee-wa
BRIAN KEENE writes novels, comic books, short fiction, and occasional journalism for money. He is the author of over forty books, mostly in the horror, crime, and dark fantasy genres. Keene’s novels have been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French, Taiwanese, and many more. In addition to his own original work, Keene has written for media properties such as Doctor Who, Hellboy, Masters of the Universe, and The X-Files.
Several of Keene’s novels have been developed for film, including Ghoul, The Ties That Bind, and Fast Zombies Suck. Several more are in-development or under option. Keene also serves as Executive Producer for the independent film studio Drunken Tentacle Productions. Keene also oversees Maelstrom, his own small press publishing imprint specializing in collectible limited editions, via Thunderstorm Books.
Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Media Bistro, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. He has won numerous awards and honors, including the World Horror Grandmaster Award, and a recognition from Whiteman A.F.B. (home of the B-2 Stealth Bomber) for his outreach to U.S. troops serving both overseas and abroad. A prolific public speaker, Keene has delivered talks at conventions, college campuses, theaters, and inside Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, VA.
The father of two sons, Keene lives in rural Pennsylvania.
STEVEN L. SHREWSBURY lives, works and writes one day at a time. Over 365 of his short stories have been published in print or digital media since the late 80s along with over 100 of his poems. He writes in the realms of horror and sword & sorcery. His novels include Within, Philistine, Overkill, Hell Billy, Blood & Steel, Thrall, Stronger Than Death, Hawg, Thoroughbred, Tormentor, Godforsaken and the just released Born of Swords.
He has collaborated with other writers, like Peter Welmerink in Bedlam Unleashed, Nate Southard in Bad Magick, and Maurice Broaddus in the forthcoming Black Son Rising.
After 26 years working in printing, Shrewsbury now works in the field of AgriScience.
He is the father of two sons. Shrewsbury lives in rural Central Illinois.
He continues to search for brightness in this world, no matter where it chooses to hide.
DANIEL KAMARUDIN is a freelance Concept Artist/ Illustrator based in Brunei who specializes in fantas
y art and character design. He started delving into art in high school where he designed armors and environments inspired by video games like World of Warcraft and Dragon Age.
His works can be seen on various novel covers such as The Starfall Knight, Forging Divinity, and the Whill of Agora series.
You can view more of Daniel’s works at:
theDURRRRIAN.Deviantart.com
or
theDURRRRIAN.tumblr.com.
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