King of the Bastards

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  King of the Bastards © 2014 by Steven Shrewsbury & Brian Keene.

  Rogan and all related characters created by Steven Shrewsbury.

  The Thirteen and all related characters created by Brian Keene.

  This edition © 2015 by Apex Publications.

  Cover Art © 2015 by Daniel Kamarudin.

  Cover Design © 2015 by Justin Stewart.

  Typography © 2015 by Maggie Slater.

  ISBN 978-1-937009-32-8

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without written consent from the authors.

  Apex Publications

  PO Box 24323

  Lexington, KY 40524

  info@apexbookcompany.com

  For our sons…

  Acknowledgements

  Both authors would like to thank Jason Sizemore, Lesley Conner, Maggie Slater, Justin Stewart, Daniel Kamarudin, Paul Goblirsch, Leigh Haig, John Foley, Kyle Lybeck, M. Wayne Miller, Mark Sylva, Tod Clark, and Stephen McDornell.

  Steven Shrewsbury would like to thank Stephen Zimmer, John August Shrewsbury, and Aaron Shrewsbury.

  Brian Keene would like to thank Mary SanGiovanni and his sons.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  The Saga of Rogan

  Prologue Prelude to a Yarn

  1. On The Horizon

  2. Clash with the Corsairs

  3. Misty New World

  4. Totems, Visions, and the Dead Shall Rise

  5. The Village

  6. Prince of the Earth

  7. Size Matters

  8. The Ascent

  9. Amazarak, the Doorkeeper, and She

  10. At War With Meeble

  11. Departures

  Coda Epilogue to a Yarn

  About the Authors

  About the Artist

  From the Book of the Yidde-oni

  ROGAN WAS BORN in a savage age before the great flood. Cut from his mother’s belly by his father, Jarek, during a raid in Larak, Rogan was raised into barbarism among the fabled Keltos folk in the Caucaus Mountains, where violence was a way of life.

  Roaming the lands north of the Black Sea, Rogan grew strong and hard amongst his rugged kin. But he wearied of a life disrupting the obsidian trade from the East, and raiding the great cities of Chanoch, Urak, and Jericho. So Rogan journeyed west, crossing the land bridge at Bosporus. The accounts of his adventures during this time have been lost in the deluge.

  Eventually, he became a mercenary for King Akhensobek, ruler of ancient Kemet. Rogan lead the king’s armies, until a tryst with the royal daughter aroused Akhensobek’s ire. As punishment, Rogan was walled up alive inside the great idol of the reclining cat god, Bastet. After a miraculous escape, Rogan slew the King and returned to the primal kingdoms of the north.

  Cutting a bloody swath through the lesser realms of Lascaux, Agudea, and Gordes, Rogan became a leader in the revolutionary forces of General Thyssen. The two men became great friends and comrades at arms. Thyssen wished to oust Silex, the cruel ruler of the grand realm of Albion. The revolution ended when Rogan seized the crown from Silex’s decapitated head and placed it on his own.

  Rogan’s rule of Albion was stern but fair. Thyssen was given command of Albion’s military might. Border clashes with savage Prytens and their savage Queen Tancorix kept them busy for decades. Rogan wed Thyssen’s sister, Desna, and sired an heir, Rohain. Several more children followed and Rogan came to know contentment, however fleetingly. After the death of Queen Desna, however, Rogan grew weary of palace life and abdicated his throne to Rohain.

  Accompanied by his nephew Javan, the youngest son of General Thyssen, and his two Alatervaeian bodyguards, Rogan journeyed across the western ocean, discovering fabled lands and new cultures far to the south in the new world, beyond the edges of scholar’s maps. There, Rogan set about adventuring again with the aide of new friends from the mysterious realm of Olmek-Tikal.

  But, as our story continues, Rogan soon learns that no matter how far one travels, the past can still reach out to haunt the present…

  “COME, YOUNG ONES. You grow weary of our journey across this endless sea? Sit down and I will tell you a tale of your grandfather.”

  Sweeping back his long black hair, the tallest youth looked at his father and then at the waves beyond the edge of their craft. “You mean Grampa, who tends the animals down in the hold and cleans the shit from their stalls?”

  “No, not him, Gomer! While a fine man, your grandfather down below was not an adventurer. I speak of your other grandfather, the man from whose seed your mother sprang.”

  A second boy settled in on the deck. Unlike Gomer, his hair was blonde. Despite the contrast, they were clearly brothers.

  “Is it true he was a savage warrior?”

  “Yes, Magog, that is so. Your grandfather was a man of great power. He made himself into one of the most feared men of the olden realm. He was a fighter and a king, a man who laughed at the birthplace of thunder and lightning.”

  Gomer did not look up from the rolling sea. “Was grandfather king of the entire old world?”

  “No, he ruled but a small part of it. But he was known, feared, and lusted after throughout the entire old world. Kings, women, brigands, and bards—all knew his name. It is whispered that he was known even in the depths of Hell itself. Indeed, some say he was known throughout the Labyrinth.”

  Many of the children blinked at this assertion, but Gomer continued to watch the sea. Below their feet, deep within the bowels of the ship, a horse neighed. The sky seemed to grow darker.

  “It is too bad he isn’t here with us,” Magog lamented. He followed his brother’s gaze, eyeing the waters surrounding the boat, hoping that the others would not notice he was trembling. He feared the huge reptilian shapes that reared up, watching them from afar with cold, obsidian eyes, before vanishing into the depths again.

  “It was not his destiny to live on this way,” their father continued. “But listen now, and I will tell you of a tale late in his life, when he too was on a long journey over the sea. Perhaps his courage will take your mind from our plight. He too was nearing unexplored lands and mysterious places—far, far beyond the edges of the maps of that time. He faced an uncertain future, just as we do.”

  The boys’ expressions grew troubled.

  “Look out at those waves,” their father said. “Your grandfather sailed and fought over this very same sea. Beneath us, the Earth twists on its foundation, re-shaping, changing its face. In your grandfather’s day, it was not such a cataclysmic time. Yet even then, things were never simple.

  “Come, my sons, and I will tell you the beginning of the tale of the bastards of King Rogan!”

  THERE’S BLOOD ON my hands and something is coming for me…

  Rogan, the former King of Albion, was used to both.

  Having his hands sticky and slick with blood had never stopped him from either holding a baby or taking a life. More blood ran down his palms now as he squeezed his hands tighter. Memories, ghosts, and a nagging sense of dread filled his skull. His fingers—fingers that had put out eyes, ripped open jowls, and cleared the snot from children’s faces—burned. The sight of his own blood reminded him of something deep, coarse, and primal in his nature. Be it from the Magus whose head he caved in at age eleven (while using the stone penis of the god Marduk as a club) or the King of Kemet who he slew ten years later (after he hung Akhensobek’s one hundred and fifty children on the Avenue of Obelisks), Rogan was used to bleeding himself to accomplish a goal.

  As he did now.

  The sensation of being pursued by something dire wasn’t an alie
n emotion either. Just not one he’d recently experienced. Rogan wrote it off to his own madness from the wine and pickled beef of the sailors he currently abided with, and focused on the task at hand.

  Or rather, the task at bleeding hand.

  “Fight him, my Lord,” a sturdy youth exhorted. “His life is yours to claim!”

  Feet planted on the lip of the tubular, wooden bireme vessel, Rogan yanked back on the fishing rod. The boat rolled beneath him. Bare-chested sailors cheered his actions.

  “By Wodan,” Rogan swore, “this fish fights like a Stygian whore, Javan.” Ruddy calluses twisted the pole and Rogan’s rage increased. His thick limbs still surged with power, even though he had just passed his sixtieth summer. Muscles strained the ragged edges of his sleeveless deerskin tunic. Gnarled fingers worked deftly, age not slowing their speed or prowess.

  “Lay on,” the sailors on the craft shouted in hearty support. “Fight him, Rogan!” A few of them elbowed each other in their exuberance, leading to shoving and brawling as the big man battled the fish.

  The scars of battle lined the former monarch’s sun-scorched face. A shadow of hard living permanently creased his forehead and even more lines now appeared around his gray beard as Rogan fought.

  “Damn,” he grunted. His somber brow furrowed beneath windswept locks of silver hair. A few strains of auburn still swam in his scalp. He braced his heavy boots against the bireme’s retaining wall, leg muscles bulging in his trousers. A few of the slaves rowing the vessel looked at him and then smiled at each other, shaking their heads. He glared at them. For a moment, he considered abandoning the fish and breaking their necks instead.

  Done with their squabbles, the lean, ginger-skinned sailors from Olmek-Tikal turned back to Rogan and smiled, enjoying the mighty foreigner’s exhibition. They shouted wagers to one another, gambling on everything from the size of the fish to how long it would take Rogan to land it. Descended from the last remnants of sunken Atlantis, they gladly served Rogan, rewarded with adventure, women, and the promise of gold, hidden in the depths of their own shadowy continent. Their garments were frayed from exposure to the elements, sustained during this long trip of coastline fishing.

  Rogan’s bodyguards looked on as well. Both originally hailed from the icy lands of Alatervae north of Albion. The immense, blonde warriors sported bushy beards over squared, granite jaws. Their sinewy bodies, stout as tree trunks, easily carried the heavy steel slung from their thick belts.

  One of them elbowed Javan. “Lots of fight in the old man yet, aye?”

  Javan winked at the Alatervaeian, then gave him a stern look as if to dissuade him from further comments. He spoke loud enough for Rogan to hear him over the cheers of all aboard.

  “Heed thy words, Wagnar. You and your brother Harkon may indeed wear the regalia of the Royal Blue Aitvaras Guards, but make no mistake. You will regret jeering the king.”

  Turning, Rogan’s icy blue eyes pierced the guard. He cursed the man in his native Keltos tongue, not caring that the guard couldn’t understand him.

  Wagnar grinned, oblivious to the curse. Rogan switched to Albionese.

  “I’ll have your sack for that, Wagnar,” he growled. “This fish will break before I will. No spawn of the sea will best me.”

  The bodyguard’s face turned red, either from suppression of laughter, or wonder at the threats of the old man.

  Smiling thinly, Rogan turned to Javan. “Ready an arrow, boy. Your father, General Thyssen, taught you to shoot. It’s time again to display those skills.”

  All eyes were fixed on Rogan, even the slaves, chained to the oars, seemed engrossed in the display. Rogan worked the reel, a primitive pulley system where he wound back the thin cord. More of his blood dripped from his fingertips, splattering onto the deck. He took a deep breath, held it, and pulled. A great fish jumped from the ocean. It was bottle-nosed, with an immense, reptilian fin on its back and rows of flashing scales.

  Javan gasped. “I’ve not seen anything like it!”

  “Tis a denizen of Dagon’s realm,” Wagnar breathed. “This is a bad omen.”

  His brother, Harkon, nodded in agreement, mouthing silent prayers, drawing the T sign over their hearts in reverence to their god, Thunderer Donar Tanaris.

  In his declining years, Rogan’s body had lost plenty of mass, but none of its strength. Over the next hour, his savage determination never wavered as he fought to land the fish. Eventually, with the aid of three well-placed arrows from Javan’s bow, it laid thrashing on the deck of the vessel.

  “There’s your goddamned omen,” Rogan taunted his guards. “Just a fuckin’ fish, that’s all. No spawn of Dagon.” He took a deep breath. “Omens are excuses the priests use to scare people. Still, I’ll admit that they do have unusual animals in this land.”

  Rogan waved a weary arm toward the horizon. He almost expected to see the northern lip of Olmek-Tikal, but instead there were only a few large birds in the clear, blue sky.

  Javan nodded, eyeing the birds. “Strange things live near the unknown continent, Rogan. We are close to the coastline this day and yet far from these sailors’ homes in the lower Isles. According to Captain Huxira, we are nearing the waters of a tribe called the Wando-Tallan. Most nights we have put down on an island, but this night I fear we will go to the mainland.”

  “Fear?” Chuckling, Rogan rubbed his left bicep, watching the score of men row the long craft. “I saw but the edge of this here land and its islands before. The insect infested glades and swamps of that realm are not for me. That’s why on this journey we have ventured farther north—away from such swampy mire.”

  Javan scratched his forearms in memory of the insect attack.

  Rogan continued. “Farther inland on this vast continent, there are mist-covered mountains and a lost city with streets paved of gold.”

  “So they say,” Javan muttered dryly.

  “Our companions whisper of a race known as the Anastazi, as well as a great serpentine mound, a gigantic waterfall to the north, and a canyon in the far west that reaches into the very bowels of the earth. I would see these sights and the other wonders of Olmek-Tikal before I breathe my last.”

  “And I shall see them with you,” Javan agreed, cracking his knuckles. “As my father did before me.”

  “Your father is a good man for an old prick. I see his strength in you, Javan.” Rogan rubbed his hands together and stared at a scar on the back of his left hand. In a quiet voice, he asked, “Tell me, do you think of him often?”

  “After battle I do, or when we encounter something like this.” Javan prodded the fish with his foot. “I am no bard or poet, Rogan. When I sit again in my father’s house, I regret that I will lack the words to tell him of the things we’ve seen.”

  “Aye,” Rogan nodded, his thoughts turning to his son, Rohain, who now sat in Rogan’s abdicated throne. “But your words are far prettier than mine.”

  While the sailors gutted the fish, Rogan strode to the edge of the ship. His movements still fluid even if he moved slower than in years past. His joints echoed the battle with the fish, but he didn’t let it show.

  Javan looked again at the waves around the ship, took note of the rougher waters and said, “So there will be new adventures here, sire? A tour, perhaps? I know a hunt will be mandatory once we make landfall, at the very least, if only to escape the tedium of life on this vessel.”

  Rogan laughed, reading his nephew’s mind. “Between you, me, and the sea, Javan, my mouth may have overloaded my arms.”

  Javan spoke silently so the others did not hear. “Sire?”

  “I found palace life a bore,” Rogan confessed. “That’s why I gave the crown to Rohain and left Albion. My son is better for that life than I am, even if the same storm flows in his veins. He has some of his mother—your father’s sister—in his veins to add balance.”

  “I know, sire. It was his time and thus, your soul drifted elsewhere.” Javan’s eyes were drawn to the sky, and the enormous birds circling
there. One was much larger than the rest. “But many wonder if my cousin will live up to your rule.”

  “Rohain will make them eat those damned words. I cannot find favor with all by abdicating a throne I fought so hard for, but I couldn’t sit in my bed any longer. When I went back to Albion, I heard the whispers and gossip. That was when I took you with me. I have not been back since. My only regret is that perhaps we should have also brought along my other son, Teran.”

  “I thank you for your favor in this adventure, sire.”

  Again, Rogan waved as if the continent would appear any moment. “Returning for a tour of North Olmek-Tikal in search of adventure is mayhap a silly thing. I know what others say of me. ‘Old man trying to find his young self.’ Bah. Wodan take them all to Hell. When I bedded the Pryten Queen Tancorix to preserve the realm, no one doubted my ability.” His voice fell and he added, “I spilled my blood across this entire world, Javan.”

  “And you bear the scars to prove it, sire. The known lands—and even some unknown—are marked with your footsteps.”

  “Indeed.” He spoke with pride, but again, his voice fell. “So I journey to this place, this new land, out of boredom and perhaps…well…” Rogan’s voice trailed off.

  “Palace politics are not your strong suit,” Javan said gently. “Prince Rohain is maturing into a role made for him. We all know that.”

  His uncle didn’t reply. Javan looked to Captain Huxira to see if he noted the rough waters. The old Olmek-Tikalize man frowned, doing his best to steer the vessel from the rear.

  Nodding, Rogan finally responded, gripping the handle of the broadsword attached to his heavy leather belt. “Rohain feels the wanderlust in his blood, too, but he seems more apt to deal with generals and politicians than I.”

  His attention returned to the sky.

  “Your daughter Erin is a striking damsel and will make someone a fine bride,” Javan said. “Young Teran is a powerful, if impetuous youth. Algeniz is a wonderful girl. All my cousins are blessed. There is much to be happy with in your life, sire.”