King of the Bastards Page 9

  “I do not understand,” Rogan muttered.

  “Nor do I,” Asenka agreed. “What is the meaning of all this?”

  “I believe the vision is moving forward in time,” Javan explained. “Look there.”

  They saw that none of the women had survived the childbirth process. They then saw an image of the monstrous offspring fully grown. Then the vision faded, and the shaman’s stomach was flesh again.

  Akibeel said, “This is the product of Amazarak’s wickedness.”

  Rogan and the others realized that Akibeel was speaking with his own voice, yet they could understand him as if he were still possessed. Whomever—whatever—the Doorkeeper had been, its presence had now departed, but it had left this gift of translation behind.

  “Wizardry,” Rogan said, spitting on the lodge’s floor.

  “Perhaps,” Javan said, “but it will make things easier, sire.”

  Akibeel sounded like he was in great pain as he continued. “This race of giants is seen whenever we try to ascend the mountains. My people cannot fight ones such as them.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Dozens. They are spread out and act as sentries. Our men fear them, so it is pointless to go. A man of steel could slay them.”

  “So in addition to his magic and his demonic cohort and his army of soulless Kennebeck men, Amazarak also has these half-human, half-ape offspring? And if I slay these beasts and defeat Croatoan and kill that blasted wizard and everything else that dwells upon the mountain, you will repair and man my boat and get Javan and I home?”

  Despite his agony, Akibeel smiled and nodded. His servants lowered him down and removed the barbs from his flesh. Then they coated the wounds with salve and bound them.

  Rogan scratched his head. “There’s one thing I still don’t understand. Why doesn’t this wizard or Croatoan just destroy you all and be done with it?”

  Akibeel sipped cold water from a clay mug. “It seems that we haven’t yet finished whatever dark purpose he has planned for us. I fear there is a worse evil than this brewing above.”

  “With the turmoil in my homeland,” Rogan said, “I think we have little time. Forging new weapons for your tribe would take too long, as would teaching you the ways of iron and steel. However, I can perhaps use the pieces we have to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  Rogan turned to his nephew. “Javan, gather all the swords and lances we rescued from the shipwreck. These natives seem keen on using arrows. By Wodan, I will give them arrowheads that will slay the Dark One himself.”

  “Right away, sire.”

  Akibeel ordered two of the braves to help the young man.

  Rogan stepped outside the lodge and took a breath. He then looked down at the ring of Kennebeck folk, sitting with small drums on their laps. No longer afraid of him, they smiled at the aging barbarian with snaggle-toothed grins. Javan, Asenka, Zenata, and the others exited the lodge behind him.

  “Why the drums?” Rogan asked Akibeel as he emerged, limping. “In the jungles, the natives use them to communicate or summon their gods. Is it the same here?”

  Akibeel steadied himself with the help of a servant. “These drums channel great medicine, King Rogan. Their covers are fashioned from the stomach skin of our enemies.”

  The old barbarian chuckled. “Do you know what I do with the stomachs of my enemies?”

  Akibeel shook his head. “No. What do you do with their stomachs?”

  “On the battlefield, I slice them open and crouch overtop them. Then I shit into the wound.”

  Asenka mumbled, “And he dares to call these people primitive.”

  If Rogan heard her, he gave no indication. Instead, his eyes turned upward once more, searching the sky through the high tree tops.

  Javan noticed and wondered what he was looking for.

  “Do we have time for sleep?” Rogan laughed. “I need some.” He kept giggling, saying low, “Like I have time to shit after a battle.”

  §

  Two days after they came to dwell amongst the Kennebeck folk, Rogan dreamt of more horrors. His frenzied cries awoke Javan. Javan rushed to his uncle’s side. Covered in sweat, Rogan’s eyes burned dangerous. His fists clenched his bedding.

  “What was the dream, my Lord?”

  Panting, Rogan waved a hand. “Get out of my sight, damn you. Leave me be!”

  Accustomed to his master’s rages, Javan opened the flap, glanced back at Rogan, and walked out into the night.

  Sighing, Rogan lay back on the straw mat. Though he regretted imparting his anger on the youngster, he did not want Javan to see how weak and scared he felt.

  “Hopeless and helpless,” he muttered. “It’s a wonder I’ve had any sleep at all this night.”

  There was a rustling sound from outside the tent. Rogan’s head jerked to the left. His nostrils flared, registering a scent. He grunted and coughed, and then breathed low and shallow, pretending to go back to sleep.

  Asenka leapt through the flap and charged him. She shrieked when she saw that Rogan’s eyes were open. Before she could react, he jumped up and grabbed her wrists. Flinging her down on her back, he pinned her to the mattress. Squealing, Asenka slithered under his grip, but could not throw him off her. To avoid her kicks, Rogan pinned her calves down with his.

  “You desire me so much, Asenka?”

  She twisted and bucked, pushing him upward.

  Releasing her, Rogan stood up. He grinned in the darkness.

  “You think you bested me?” Asenka asked. “If I’d come to kill, you would already be dead.”

  “If you came to kill me, you would have worn clothes.”

  Asenka hooked her foot through Rogan’s leg. With a quick maneuver, she knocked him off his balance. Rogan landed on his back, the air rushing from his lungs. Asenka jumped up and straddled him. She slapped his face, and then reached down to grab his manhood.

  “I take what I want, old man.” Her hand made a fist and pulled on his member. “Indeed, are you still a man after all these years?”

  “I am,” he said, as his manhood stirred, “when need be.”

  Rogan stiffened in her hand, and Asenka’s eyes widened. When he started to sit up, she struck him across the face again with her other hand. Grinning, the old king lay back.

  Asenka brought the head of his organ to her clitoris. Repeatedly, she ground him against her in small, circular motions.

  Rogan did not object. He lay there in contentment, watching.

  The woman worked up a slight sweat, grunting deep in her throat. Throwing back her dark hair, she stifled a moan. Her one lone nipple grew hard and Rogan reached for it, but she batted his hand away. Asenka began to tremble. Her breathing quickened. Unable to maintain her silence, she cried out and fell atop Rogan.

  “As you can see,” Rogan whispered, “I am still capable of pleasing a woman.”

  Her nails dug into his collarbones. “Don’t flatter yourself, barbarian.”

  “Really? Then how about…”

  Asenka’s eyes widened as she felt his turgid member slap her buttocks. He clutched her hips with his strong hands. Biting her bottom lip, she pushed her pelvis back, slowly letting him enter her. Gritting her teeth, Asenka worked her hips back, slowly taking him in.

  With a scream, she slammed herself down on him. She did not care who heard them. Tearing into his chest, she slapped and beat on him as they moved together. Rogan took the punishment and stayed on his back.

  After a long time, Asenka trembled and howled again. She coasted to a stop and then leapt off him. She turned, meaning to run out of the tent, but Rogan swiped his feet together, tripping her. She fell half out of the tent. Rogan grabbed her ankles and dragged her back in. Again, he pinned her down, this time on her belly.

  “Enough of me being the bitch,” Rogan muttered in Asenka’s ear, entering her from behind.

  He thrust against her and soon joined her in her howls. Sated, he then lay back down and sighed. Asenka stood up, stagge
red, and then knelt beside him. She lay on his left side, her one breast lying on his chest. Rogan did not hold her or speak. He merely stared at the top of the tent.

  “I am curious,” she said, breaking the silence.

  Rogan groaned. “Asenka, please don’t ask me how I feel or demand that I make promises.”

  Again, her nails dug into his chest. “I was going to ask about your vision.”

  Rogan frowned. “I’d rather talk about your antics on the mat. I was impressed. I’m sure the others heard our passion.”

  “I don’t care if they did. Your vision…”

  “What of it?”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw great peril in my former kingdom. This was bound to happen sooner or later. I overthrew the sitting king long ago and the world is a bad place. It’s not a wonder such a thing came to pass. But I thought that my son and his advisors—men I’ve fought and bled with—would be able to meet any such action. I was wrong. Bloody days never seemed to end in the vision. The people I freed from the yoke of an evil king are now subjugated to greater horrors. Their daughters are forced to copulate with the invaders to create a new generation while their fathers and brothers are methodically slain.”

  “Such savagery,” she replied.

  Rogan looked down at her leg nestled over his body. “Surely, in your homeland there were wars and kingdoms overthrown?”

  “Certainly; most tribal leaders fight their entire lives. Civilized kingdoms often fall from within. I have heard of some societies that collapsed and their remnants forgot everything learned in a generation.”

  “Perhaps,” Rogan snorted. “But mankind will always find a way. If the world was burned to a cinder or flooded to the highest mountaintop, as the soothsayers believe it will be one day, and there were but a dozen people left alive, the wheel and the craft of steel would be found again. Life is a circle, girl.”

  “Do not refer to me as girl, barbarian. I am a woman.”

  Rogan took a breath. “I’d say so. My apologies.”

  Asenka smiled, hand tussling his long hair. “So you feel for your countrymen, especially the womenfolk?”

  “No. They only have themselves to blame.”

  “What?”

  Rogan nodded. “They could always die, couldn’t they? Commit suicide rather than copulate unwillingly? Or kill themselves while their oppressors’ seed grows inside them.”

  “But…” Asenka struggled for words. “You mean you’d see them willingly die just so they can’t give birth to more of their subjugators?”

  He stroked her hair. “Let that be a lesson to you. I’d kill myself to see this Karac dead.”

  “That is terrible, thinking so little of your subjects.”

  “They are good folks indeed, woman. However, my anger, my…feeling is harder for my own blood kin. That’s how it should be. Growing up, I never had family save for my father. That’s how it ought to be. You are unencumbered by sentiment that way. Then again, if my father hadn’t desired to raise me as a warrior, he wouldn’t have cut me from my mother’s belly and stole me from her people.”

  Asenka shook her head in disbelief. “So it is weak to desire companionship? To want a partner to share life with? You think it is bad to desire love?”

  Rogan blinked. “You place words in my mouth, woman. I grew up a fighter, a rover, a soldier, seeing wealth and warmth and never having it. The eyes are keys to the gut, and my guts were often empty. The rich had food and jewels to buy all that they needed, including a new woman. Why would love enter into it?”

  “You are a savage.”

  Rogan was unapologetic. “And your point is? I wanted to be a ruler, a king, to have what I always desired—ultimate power. Once I took the crown of Albion, even more fighting went on. There was always a bastard around to try to take my crown. On a tower of skulls, I built my throne and knew peace at last.”

  “And yet, you are here.”

  Rogan was silent for a long time and then said, “I was bored, so I left.”

  “I disagree that you knew no love. Truly, love makes one strong.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Love makes you do stupid things. It makes you create images of yourself. It lets you hold a tiny hand in your own. It makes you feel and desire odd things like seeing grandchildren. It gives you a weakness.”

  “You miss your queen?”

  “I can buy another wife, but not another son or daughter. You see, that’s what love does to you. It makes you care. Since my son and my family are in peril, I’d do anything to stop those attacking them. Karac knew it. My enemies have used that weakness against me. They have exploited it. A strong man would sail off and pass wind in the direction of Albion. Me? I am weak, for I would bite the balls off Satan himself to get at the ones who harm my children. That’s what love brings—a chink in the armor.”

  “Did you love your queen?”

  Rogan slipped out from beneath her and stood up. Stretching, he looked out of the tent flap.

  “You make me talk too much, woman.”

  “How did she die?”

  “A child killed her,” Rogan said. “She had a baby and never recovered.”

  “I am sorry…”

  Rogan tensed. “Get out of here and leave me be. You got what you came for. More actually. Go.”

  §

  Donning her clothes, Asenka exited the tent and left Rogan to his brooding. A campfire glowed at the edge of the village. As she approached it, she saw Javan and Zenata sitting close together, the glowing embers flickering off their faces. They said nothing as she approached, but both of them smiled. Asenka sat down and looked into the fire.

  “Save your smiles,” Asenka snapped. “I do not love your master, Javan.”

  “I would never presume that you did, miss. In truth, it is just as well that you don’t love him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because eventually, everyone that loves Rogan dies…”

  “You have known him your entire life, no? You don’t love him?”

  Javan stoked the fire. “No, I don’t love him. He is not a man that easily allows that. I respect him, admire him, and would certainly give my life for him—and indeed, I probably will end up dying for him before we leave this land—but nay, there is no love there. I cannot allow myself that weakness.”

  “You are a strange pair.” Asenka noted how close Zenata sat to Javan and how she looked at him when he wasn’t aware. “Did Rogan love his queen?”

  Javan raised an eyebrow. “All this talk of love is unseemly and strange to my ears. I am not a bard. But since you asked about the queen, I was a young man when she passed, but I do recall her. She died after her last child, a daughter. Did my uncle love her? Well, their relationship was more like fencing, to be frank. I think she loved Rogan. Very much so.”

  Asenka persisted, “But did he love her?”

  “As often as he could, in his fashion. And she seemed satisfied with that. But Rogan does love his children unto death. That much is certain.”

  “How can he love his own children so much, but not feel the same for their mother?”

  “Because it is easier to love those of your own blood rather than just a partner. That is the way of the barbarian—and my uncle is a barbarian before anything else.”

  “What say you? Are your thoughts the same in regards to love?”

  “I am from Albion,” Javan said, smiling. “Though probably coarse in your eyes, we have a more advanced way of being. I have known the love of a partner, and hope to know it again.”

  Javan’s eyes went to Zenata and then looked quickly away. Both blushed.

  Asenka stood. “Rogan told me of his vision. He never shared that with you, his faithful servant. I know. I was outside the tent when you left.”

  Javan shrugged. “He is teaching me the ways of life, miss. I am not his slave. I am his nephew and loyal subject. Besides, he will tell me in time.”

  “Ha! Why do you think so?”

  Javan’s sm
ile faded and he stared into the fire. There was a deep sadness about him.

  “Tell me,” Asenka demanded. “Why will he share it with you if he is so incapable of love?

  “Because,” Javan whispered, his eyes not leaving the flickering flames. “I am all he has left, and we are a long way from home.”

  DURING THE NEXT few days, Rogan and Javan took the longer steel weapons salvaged from the wreckage of the ship and worked them into smaller implements—daggers, arrowheads, spearheads, and axe heads, since the tribe was skilled at using those weapons. There was no time to teach the Kennebeck of swordplay. Besides, an axe or spear in their hands could be just as deadly. Rogan was glad to perform the work. It took his mind off the events transpiring across the sea. While they manufactured the weapons, Asenka and Zenata trained the men of the tribe on better methods of fighting.

  The sun rose high into the sky. The village buzzed with activity. Rogan and Javan labored with the weapons, while Akibeel sat nearby, head bowed in prayer. Asenka and Zenata had gathered their women warriors and the Kennebecks in a large clearing. The rest of the tribe busied themselves with preparation.

  Rogan sweated over the fire, beating an arrowhead into shape with a stone hammer trimmed with metal. He swatted with irritation at a mosquito and then surveyed his handiwork.

  “These weapons will make for a great equalizer. Amazarak’s forces will be stunned when they have to face the Kennebeck folk armed with steel. And the loyalty we glean from these people will be a good thing later.”

  “True enough, sire,” Javan answered.

  His voice sounded far away. Rogan noticed that Javan studied Zenata, who taught hand-to-hand combat in the clearing. They watched as Zenata flipped her pupil over her shoulder for the third time. The other tribesmen laughed.

  “I think the women are training dogs to shave. A hopeless task, I reckon.”

  “And still, they try,” Javan murmured, his usual stoic manner dreamy as he watched. “They are noble savages. They have heart, if not the skills. And that may win the day. They will be ready.”