King of the Bastards (10 page)

Several women weaved between the returning party, carrying
freshly baked bread cakes, armfuls of bedding, pitchers of water, and other
containers. Their eyes widened when they beheld the two pale-skinned warriors.
Rogan winked at them and then grabbed his crotch. The women looked away,
giggling.

“What else did Akibeel tell you during our journey?” Rogan asked.

“Amazarak was a good man years ago, but was seduced into the dark
ways by Croatoan. At one time, Amazarak was the elder shaman and Akibeel’s
teacher. But he grew restless in his old age and wanted more from life.”

“Product of aging,” Rogan grumbled. His nostrils flared. The
scent of cooking food teased his senses. Without realizing it, he began to
drool. “One thinks the eyes will be satisfied, but once they are, the heart
aches for more. Once the heart is quelled, the body demands reassurance that
it’s still worthy of life. Once that is sated, the loins demand proof of life.
Once that happens, the process repeats. After a long time, one asks, is there
anything more?”

Javan blinked, taken aback by his king’s confession of life.
Rogan had never admitted to such things.

“Or so I read,” Rogan snapped. “To Hades with all of that. Tell
on, Javan.”

Javan fought to hide his smile. “Well, Amazarak consulted with
Croatoan and put himself in terrible agonies for power. Sire, you wouldn’t
believe what this man did to get close to his deity.”

A red-skinned woman offered Rogan a tiny bowl full of ground
meal. He took it and said, “I’ve traveled the world. The words like Shaman are
only used for those who go through great sufferings for their gods. I wonder
what this food is?”

Javan accepted a drink of water from another woman. “But Amazarak
was not content with the powers bestowed upon him. He still seeks more.”

“Is that why this tribe hasn’t destroyed him?” Rogan asked,
sniffing the bowl’s contents. “Akibeel spoke of their tribe’s champions; Takala
and Eyote. Do they not have two balls enough between them to fight or organize
a force?”

“Amazarak is high on the mountain and surrounds himself with
warriors sporting weapons these folk cannot fight against.”

Akibeel motioned for Rogan and Javan to sit. Asenka and Zenata
joined them. Rogan sank onto a flattened stump and stretched his aching back.
He dipped two fingers into the bowl and sampled the meal. Grunting his
approval, Rogan ate. Javan was offered a bowl and did the same.

Two tall men of the Kennebeck tribe appeared from the forest.
Unlike their fellow tribesmen, they were sturdily built. The deformities that
plagued so many of the Kennebeck were absent from their own bodies. Unlike
their pathetic brothers, these men looked battle-scarred, hearty, and well fed.

Immediately, Akibeel began admonishing with the two newcomers.
Smug smiles appeared on their faces. They stared at Rogan and Javan.

“Javan,” Rogan sighed wearily. “I grow tired of Akibeel’s
chatter. If you must tell me everything they say, perhaps we should just slay
them all now and be done with it.”

Zenata and Asenka glanced at each other, unsure if Rogan joked or
not.

The two newcomers continued staring. One of them muttered
something which caused gasps from the rest of the tribe. Their demeanor ran
clearly disdainful of the new arrivals.

“Do those two wish to propose marriage to us?” Rogan asked. “If
so, please explain to them that I was married once and have no plans to do so
again.”

“I do believe these are the champions, Takala and Eyota,” Javan
said. “They appear unimpressed with you and me, sire. Akibeel is angry because
they refuse to treat us as welcomed guests. Takala just made a rude comment
about your parentage.”

Rogan’s expression darkened. “What was it?”

“I do not know, sire,” Javan lied. “My understanding of their
language has failed me.”

“I told you before, lad; don’t lie to an old liar. Now, what did
that ox say about my lineage?”

“I-I believe it may have involved a g-goat and perhaps a sheep
herder.”

Rogan stared at the two men as they argued with Akibeel, studying
their voice tones and body language. The larger of the two champions shed his
quiver of arrows, his belt, knife, and bow and stepped into the open of the
clearing. Grinning, he pointed at Rogan.

“Apparently,” Javan translated, “Takala intends to—”

“I know a challenge when I see one, Javan.”

Javan eyed Eyota, only slightly shorter than Takala. Akibeel
turned to Javan and spoke quickly.

“He says,” Javan translated, “that I must fight the other after
Takala kills you, sire.”

“So be it.” Rogan set his feet. He did not disarm, but neither
did he draw steel. “This is a stupid waste of time, but I shall meet his
challenge. This doesn’t aid these people or get us home any faster. After I
have slain him, I say we be done with this entire tribe and just kill them
all.”

Takala was almost as tall as Rogan, but the aged king outweighed
him in mass and muscle. The two circled each other. Takala spat something in
his dialect. Rogan remained silent. Takala said something else and several in
the crowd laughed. Glowering, Rogan reached down, pulled his tunic aside,
grasped his manhood, and waved it at the red-skinned warrior. The onlookers
cheered.

Furious, Takala charged, fast and low, striking at Rogan’s face
with a curled fist. Rogan slapped the blow away. Both men circled each other
like panthers. Takala jabbed at Rogan a few times, but the older man easily
sidestepped each blow. His opponent was young, brash, and angry, and Rogan
stepped light, content to wait. Takala scrambled forward, trying to grapple
with Rogan. Gripping him around the waist, Rogan squeezed his kidneys. Grunting
with pain, Takala slithered up, boxed Rogan’s ears and slipped around behind
the barbarian, never breaking the hold.

Asenka whispered to Javan, “It is silly that they fight. What a
waste of life.”

“Takala is insulted and his honor is at stake,” Javan replied.
“Eyota’s, too. They refuse to ally themselves with us, and since we cannot join
forces, they have decreed that two of us must die.”

Asenka sniffed. “Men.”

Twisting from side to side, Rogan grunted, attempting to kick the
Kennebeck champion’s groin. Takala dug his bare heels into the mud, trying to
leverage himself enough to pull Rogan from his feet. The tendons on Rogan’s
sunburned forearms flexed as he seized the wrists around his waist. With
fingers of iron, the old man dug into Takala’s flesh and pressed down. Blood
welled up around Rogan’s fingertips as his fingernails dug deeper.

Takala screamed, but never abandoned his attack. Rogan’s fingers
were now slick with his blood. Takala dropped down, releasing Rogan, and threw
his shoulder into the back of his opponent’s legs. Unbalanced, Rogan tumbled
onto his back. The crowd cried out. Takala sprang to his feet and grabbed
Rogan’s ankles. He aimed a kick at Rogan’s stomach, but then Rogan scissored
his legs, tore them free of Takala’s grip, and kicked the lean champion in the
nose. Bones crunched beneath Rogan’s boot heels and blood spurted from Takala’s
face. Cradling his nose, he stumbled away from the fight, crying out in pain.

“Enough,” Rogan gasped, panting for breath. “It is time to end
this. I’m still hungry and wish to continue with my meal.”

Rogan climbed to his feet. Takala rushed him again. Rogan took a
knee and struck upwards, snapping the champion’s jaw with an uppercut. The
crowd gasped at the sound. Again, Takala staggered away. Standing tall, Rogan
swiftly stole across the grass and grappled with Takala, knocking him to the
ground.

“You are no champion,” Rogan taunted. “And you were not spawned
from a man’s seed. Instead, it’s obvious that your father shat into your
mother’s womb.”

Though the younger man could not understand Rogan’s words, he
understood their intent. Takala sprang from the ground and charged low. His
shoulder slammed into the barbarian’s abdomen. Grunting, Rogan moved back a few
steps. Takala reached for Rogan’s throat. Their hands met, all fingers
interlocking. Knuckles popped. Rogan immediately brought all of his weight and
force down on the smaller man. Even though he was pinned, Takala refused to
yield. Takala’s ruined teeth sought Rogan’s ear, intent on ripping it off, but
his mouth wouldn’t work. Abruptly, he withdrew his face from the old man’s
mane. Rogan’s hair fell away from his face. The crowd murmured, spying the same
thing Takala had just learned.

Rogan’s ear was missing already. In its place was only a mass of
gnarled scar tissue.

“Someone beat you to it,” Rogan growled. “And now I’ll do to you
what I did to them.”

Roaring, Rogan snapped all the fingers on Takala’s hands, and
then went after his throat like a rabid hound. The Kennebeck warrior shrieked.
Rogan’s teeth sank into the soft flesh of Takala’s neck. Twisting his head back
and forth, Rogan yanked away, and spat a wad of bloody meat onto the ground. A
fount of crimson spewed from the wound, spraying Rogan’s face.

Rogan stood over Takala triumphantly as the dying man pawed at
his throat with pathetic, broken fingers. Blood bubbles burst in the wound.
Takala’s legs twitched uncontrollably. Rogan prodded him with his foot and the
man lay still. Takala’s blood dripped from Rogan’s chin and nose. The old
warrior licked his lips and grinned.

Watching from the side, Asenka turned away.

“Your turn,” Rogan said, slapping Javan on the back. “Make it
quick. We are burning the day time.”

Enraged, Eyota stepped into the clearing. He bowed his head over
his fallen partner, then reached down, dipped his fingers in the blood, and
painted crimson stripes across his nose, cheeks, and forehead. He beckoned to
Javan.

Rogan snatched a skin from a passing Kennebeck woman and quenched
his thirst. Then, without thinking, he smoothed his hair back over his
mutilated ear.

Javan took off his quiver and handed it to Zenata. “Keep this
safe for me?”

She gripped his arm. “Surely, you are no man-killer. You have the
eyes and voice of a poet. You cannot hope to beat one so much larger than you!”

Javan dropped his bow and shrugged her off. “Just keep it safe. I
shall be back for it momentarily.”

“No more tarrying, Javan.” Rogan returned to his bowl of ground
meal, digging into it with bloody fingers. “End this distraction. Then you can
ply this lass with your silver tongue.”

Zenata blushed, and her sister frowned.

“You’re a pig,” Asenka said.

Rogan licked his fingers. “And do you ever lay with pigs? If so,
come here and attend to me.”

Gasping with disgust, Asenka looked away again.

Smiling, Javan walked into the clearing and nodded at his
opponent.

Eyota beat his chest and grinned, setting his feet.

Rogan tossed the empty bowl aside and reached for a platter of
fruit.

Javan calmly approached Eyota, dodged the first jab, and planted
a boot in Eyota’s groin. The brave doubled over, the air rushing from his
lungs. Javan grabbed him by the hair and yanked him closer. Holding Eyota in a
headlock, Javan snapped the warrior’s neck. Eyota sagged in Javan’s arms. The
youth dropped him like a sack of grain. Straightening his tunic, Javan winked
at his uncle, and then smiled at Zenata.

Several in the crowd grumbled and hissed. One woman sobbed. But
the majority cheered, pleased at the prowess the two newcomers had displayed.
Surely, they whispered, the gods had sent these two pale-skinned warriors to
help them best the wizard on the mountain and his dark god.

Javan crossed through the crowd.

“You took your time,” Rogan mumbled around a mouthful of berries.
Juice dribbled down his chin.

“I apologize, sire. I was distracted.”

Rising to his feet again, Rogan walked over and grabbed Eyota’s
limp form. He laid the body on top of Takala’s, so that their corpses formed a
cross. Then, with a bellow, Rogan withdrew his sword and thrust it down like a spear,
impaling both men.

“WOOODANNN!”

His shout echoed through the trees. Akibeel and the women
warriors stared aghast. Leaving the sword in the two bodies, Rogan drew his
dirk and knelt, using Takala’s head as a pillow for his knee. Stabbing the dead
man’s hairless chest, Rogan split the ribs and cut out his heart.

Zenata cried out and averted her eyes. Several of the Kennebeck
onlookers vomited or gagged. The rest gasped and murmured. But none of them
dared to approach Rogan. Rogan stomped his foot at the crowd, and they fled for
their huts and scattered into the forest. Overhead, a flock of shrieking birds
soared into the sky.

“By the heavens,” Asenka murmured, glancing around the deserted
village, “they are all terrified of him now.”

Javan nodded. “As well they should be. Did they think him an
ancient and kindly patriarch of our far land, tired and worn?”

Laughing, Rogan took a huge bite from Takala’s heart. Blood ran
down his chin like plum juice. Swallowing, he then cast the organ aside.

“Is it bitter, Uncle?”

“Aye, Javan. Needs herbs.”

As Rogan wrenched his sword free, Asenka coughed, suppressing her
gag reflex.

“That was barbaric!”

Javan seemed surprised. “He is a barbarian, miss. Did you think
otherwise?”

“But he is a king—a ruler.”

“And a good one,” Javan confirmed. “But he is not as
sophisticated as those he ruled. He is unlike anyone else to ever sit on
Albion’s throne. You and your sister indicated before that you knew the stories
of how he gained the throne. Did those methods seem civilized to you?”

“No. But this…”

Drawing his own dirk, Javan then walked over to the body of
Eyota. Zenata followed him, curious. Cutting through the man’s loincloth, Javan
stabbed upward and sliced quickly. Then he deposited his extracted prize on
Eyota’s head.

Zenata grabbed Javan by the elbow and turned him around. “You say
that your uncle is a barbarian, but then you cut off Eyota’s balls and place
them on his face? You call that proper and civilized?”