King of the Bastards (7 page)

Another figure emerged, dressed in the skins of a gray wolf, the
snout and muzzle still intact over his wrinkled forehead. The wolf-man’s eyes
glistened in the darkness, and Rogan surmised that his difference in dress made
him a leader of some sort.

The odd individual held out his arms, showing the two strangers
what he held: The gray, ropy intestines of the dead bear. Flies buzzed around
them.

Javan’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the slaughterhouse stench
wafting off the guts. Slowly, he raised his bow, counting their numbers and
wondering about the strength and reach of their spears.

Rogan drew his broadsword, gripping the handle so tightly that
his sunburned knuckles turned white.

“Javan?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Speak to me again of fate, when we are done here.”

The moon rose higher, bathing them in its cold light. Another log
popped on the fire, sending more embers spiraling into the air. Nobody moved.
Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out.

When he was a child, Javan’s nursemaid had told him that when one
heard the song of a whippoorwill, it meant that someone was about to die.
Rogan’s words rang in his head.

When death comes, it comes. All that you can do is to meet it.

As the wolf-headed leader stepped closer, Javan shivered.

Rogan thought of home, and his children.

THE LEADER HELD
forth his grisly offering but
remained still, even when the halo of flies moved from the intestines to his
wolf’s head crown. He seemed to be awaiting a response from Rogan and Javan.
When it became clear that none was forthcoming, he finally spoke, chattering to
his companions.

Rogan frowned. “What in the name of Wodan is he saying?”

Javan, a master interpreter of most known languages because of
his studies in Albion’s famed university, concentrated on the speech patterns.

“They do not appear angry, but I cannot pick it up, sire. It is a
strange tongue. Give me time.”

“We don’t have time. I think they deceive us. The wolf-headed
fellow holds the guts of the bear the way a midwife holds a new babe. With my
luck, I probably killed his accursed god.”

“I don’t think so. Look at his body language, the way he holds
himself. He is not angry with us. Indeed, he seems to be trying to
communicate.”

“My eyes and my wits aren’t dull. Of course he’s trying to
communicate. The question is; what do they want? Be they friend or foe?”

Cautiously, Javan motioned to the leader. “By his vestments,
headdress, and voice inflection, I’d say he is their leader or perhaps their
priest.”

The old man babbled emphatically, as if he’d understood the
youth. Javan tried other dialects. After a few moments, he grew excited.

“It is amazing, Uncle Rogan. I believe they speak a bastardized
form of the language of those in northern Hyrcania. It’s almost like a lost
dialect I read of in class used only in Anthelia! I know it only because my
teachers made such jest of the lingo.”

Rogan remained silent but vigilant as Javan struggled to talk to
the natives in this tongue. The red-skinned men seemed to understand him, at
least partially. Several smiled, revealing jagged teeth. Then one of them
laughed. Javan grinned as well.

“Do you understand them, boy?”

“I do, sire.”

“Good. Now they can tell us for certain if we killed their god.”

Javan shook his head. “No, I was correct. The man wearing the
wolf’s head is their priest or wizard. He calls himself a—shaman.”

“Wizard. Shaman. It makes no difference.” Rogan’s blue eyes
appraised the leader. “A female dog is still a bitch, different breed or no.”

“The bear isn’t his god, and he respects us for besting it.”

“What else did he say?”

“That when one of their tribe has reached your age, they are
usually content to sit beside the fire all day. He wonders if that is your
normal position.”

Rogan was not amused. “Inform this shaman that I could toss him
into the fire and then warm myself in
that
glow.”

“I’d better not, sire.”

“Why does he hold the animal’s entrails in his hands?”

After some discourse, Javan replied, “He uses them in a ceremony
to divine the future.”

Rogan’s brow furrowed. “Wizardry no matter where I set my foot!
Are there no peoples that simply hunt, drink, and fornicate? Wizards reading
guts for fortune, even in unknown lands…”

The shaman’s eyebrows narrowed. Javan frowned at Rogan and then
spoke reassuringly to the shaman. Then he turned back to his uncle again.

“Sire,” he said calmly, as if speaking to a child, “we are in
their land. We should respect their ways.”

Rogan eyed the group. “I could kill them all with no help from an
archer. Why should I show them grace?”

“Uncle…”

Rogan shook his head in frustration. “So what has he seen, this
shaman?”

Again, Javan translated, “He says that there is a great sadness
where we come from.”

“Bah! He’s a huckster. How would he know where we come from, let
alone the mood of its citizenry?”

Javan put both of his hands on his temples as he listened to the
shaman talk.

“He claims the spirits told him through the entrails that the
land where we come from is in chaos.”

Rogan’s patience vanished. His fingers played across the hilt of
his broadsword. The natives stirred uneasily.

“Tell him to listen harder to those guts, root his snout among
them like a swine, and tell me the name of our land—or he will hear what
secrets his own guts have to tell with my blade buried in them.”

“Sire,” Javan exclaimed, his eyes wide. “Please?”

The two old men stepped to within inches of each other. The grim
smile on the shaman’s face matched Rogan’s own. They stared into each other’s
eyes, and neither flinched or gave ground. A conversation seemed to be going on
in their faces.

Rogan’s softened first.

Javan gaped. He had seen Rogan break traitors to the kingdom and
deserters from the army with a single stare. But now his uncle’s will seemed to
give under the unknown powers of this native, a man who had seen more winters
than Rogan himself.

“What does he see, Javan? A cataclysm? A flood? I’ve heard the
crazy prophets beyond the land of Shynar preach such an end is due the world;
that we will all drown when Dagon’s watery kingdom engulfs our lands, and the
fledgling cult of the One true god near Ur floods us all. That eventually, we
will all end up as floating bait for Leviathan and his ilk.”

Javan considered admonishing his uncle for speaking aloud of one
of the Thirteen, but then thought better of it.

“No, sire,” he said. “He does not speak of a worldwide disaster.
It is more personal. Albion is in tumult. The shaman says that dark men have
overthrown the kingdom, and placed the sitting king in chains deep within the
dungeons.”

“Rohain?” Rogan asked, half-believing. “If that is so, then it is
as the pirates testified.”

“It appears so, sire,” Javan said. “I fear for my cousins. And
I—”

His voice trailed away.

“What is it, lad?”

“My father, sire.”

“Thyssen? What of him?”

“The shaman has no news of him. Indeed, he cannot see him at
all.”

Rogan silently appraised the old man. Then he turned, placing one
big hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“Javan, it is like my dream. I saw the evil of the world
encroaching on Albion, like the wings of a bat. Rohain in chains—this was a
fear of mine as well, but the vision was unclear.”

Beyond the tree line, a great cat howled in the darkness. Rogan
looked toward the forest, and the hairs on the back of his neck twitched. A
feeling of uneasiness crept over him.

“By Wodan, Javan—they bring me such good news, these savages. Ask
them if they are skilled at rowing a boat. Perhaps they can replace the
Olmek-Tikalize.”

The shaman spoke quickly. Javan hesitated.

Rogan raged at his inability to understand the conversation and
barked, “What is he saying now?”

“They are aware of our plight, sire, and would like to help. But…”

“But what? What is it they seek? Gold? They suck at dry tits
there.”

“They are oppressed by an evil shaman named Amazarak, who dwells
high up yonder mountain. This Amazarak serves a traveler—a strange being from
afar. This traveler has enslaved many of their tribe, and is also the reason
for the deformities that mar many of these folk.”

Rogan studied the freakish appearance of a few of the red-skinned
men. Now that they were illuminated fully by both the fire and moonlight, he
could make out even more. Some had two noses or three eyes. Others were covered
in boils or oozing sores. Many were completely hairless. One of them possessed
a left eye that looked like a figure eight as it split into two orbs. And still
another seemed to possess genitalia of extraordinary length and girth, if the
bulge in his loincloth were any indication. Rogan had known concubines that
would consider that last one a blessing rather than a curse.

Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped. Again, the forest
seemed to be alive, watching him, yet he could not see a thing.

“Oppressed by a wizard? Hah. Who isn’t, these days? Why should we
care?”

“Because he understood your words, sire, and sees that your son
is in dire peril from his half-brother. The shaman calls his folk
Kennebeck
.
He comprehends our plight that we are castaways here in the Kennebeck lands,
and that we wish to leave.”

“Then he’s a powerful shaman.” Rogan snorted, and looked at the
foaming sea. “And he talks fast, too. He chatters like a monkey.”

The old man kept talking and Javan interpreted. “There is a great
tribal disagreement over what to do about this Amazarak. The Kennebeck have
tried to fight him, yet they are powerless to defeat him. They hate to leave
their sacred grounds of their kindred but are about to abandon them anyway.”

“They flee?”

“They must escape, sire. To stay means enslavement or death. They
have no choice but to leave. Yet they are loathe to abandon their imprisoned
brothers.”

“What does Amazarak want with slaves?”

“He does not. They are used by the one he serves, the one from
afar. But the shaman knows not for what purpose. His visions do not show him,
and no sentry has ever returned from the mountain.”

“From hence does this foreign man come, this traveler? Near our
home?”

Javan asked the shaman, and the old man pointed to the sky.

“The sky? So we fight more gods?” Rogan sheathed his weapon.
“Does this dark traveler from the stars who is not a man have a name?”

Javan’s eyes grew wide when he learned the answer. He was afraid
to say the name out loud and refused to translate.

“Well?” Rogan shifted with impatience. “Whom do we fight?”

Javan whispered so quietly that Rogan had to strain to hear him.

“Croatoan.”

The word hung in the still night air. Several of the Kennebeck
tribe shivered.

“Never heard of him,” Rogan frowned. “He must be from some paltry
pantheon.”

“Sire,” Javan whispered, swallowing loudly. “Croatoan is another
name for Meeble, who is one of the Thirteen, those who are not angel or demon,
god or devil. Those who come from elsewhere.”

After a deep breath, Rogan squeezed his eyes shut for a few
moments. “I know who the Thirteen are, dammit. I saw you flinch when I
mentioned Leviathan earlier. I know them well, and I don’t fear them enough to
memorize their names and sigils and houses.” Rogan paused and muttered,
“Meeble? Shit fire and save the flints.” He cleared his throat and spoke
louder. “What is our wolf-headed host’s name?”

“This is Akibeel, sire.”

Rogan shrugged and thrust out his hand. The shaman let the
dripping intestines slip from his fingers and clasped it. The old man’s slick,
gnarled hands were warm and strong.

“Akibeel wishes for Amazarak to be destroyed and Croatoan to be
sealed away from this world, before the tribe is all dead, and this great evil
is loosed upon the rest of the land. Something terrible is brewing in the caves
beneath the mountain’s peak. Akibeel asks our help, for he sees experience with
such matters in you, sire.”

Rogan laughed. “Tell him that, as he has pointed out, I’m no
longer a young man, and that I’m certainly no wizard. What can I do against
this Croatoan, or Meeble, or whatever they wish to call him? The Thirteen may
not be gods or devils, but they aren’t mortal either. You know the legends as well
as I do, Javan. I don’t have the means to banish Croatoan from this level. I
work with swords, axes, and pikes, and with my own two hands—not sigils,
potions, and spells. Can the bastard bleed? If so, then perhaps we can talk.”

“Akibeel does not know for sure, sire, but he believes that he
may be able to provide a means if we can aid him. If Meeble gets loose in this
world, he will go from community to community and destroy all.”