Free King of the Bastards by Brian Keene, Steven L. Shrewsbury Page A

gray-blue hues that exist just
before the sunrise. The leaves swayed in the slight, cooling breeze. Birds sang
out to one another from the treetops, squirrels ran along the branches, and a
deer leaped across the trail in front of them, its antlers still covered with
velvet. As they walked, the Kennebeck picked berries from bushes along the
trail. Neither Rogan nor Javan had ever seen the fruit in their native lands
and each eagerly tried one. Javan relished the flavor on his tongue. Rogan
pronounced them not worth the effort, and instead, drained the last Kennebeck
wineskin of its contents.
    They walked single file along an old, rutted footpath. Akibeel
took the lead and Rogan brought up the rear. A Kennebeck warrior lagged far
behind, to guard their flank, while Zenata took point, running along ahead of
the procession. The group moved silently, and even Javan remained quiet, his
eyes drooping from weariness. Asenka walked between him and Rogan.
    “How came you here, Rogan the bloody bastard with a stiff cock?”
she asked.
    “I was joking about the name.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah, the bloody bastard part.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind.”
    “How did you come to be here?”
    Rogan yawned. “We took a wrong turn while heading to a famed
Assyrian whorehouse and the gods dropped us here instead.”
    Asenka frowned. “You jest.”
    “Yes,” Rogan nodded. “In truth, we were too weary from the
whorehouse and could no longer pilot our vessel. So we made camp on yonder
beach. Those whores will wear a man out.”
    Rogan’s laughter boomed through the forest, sending a flock of
birds screeching from their perches. A squirrel chattered angrily at him from
the branches overhead. A barrage of nuts fell from the tree.
    Asenka’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You still desire such
action at your age?”
    “I’m not dead yet.” Rogan smirked, halting at the crest of a
ridge that overlooked a lush valley. “Javan, tell this lass the story of
Rogan’s desire.”
    “Sire, you know it better than I.”
    “But I like to hear you tell it,” Rogan insisted, cracking his
knuckles.
    Javan yawned and cleared his throat. “The bards sing a tune of
how Rogan’s father cut him from his mother’s womb. The theory is that since
Rogan never passed naturally from a female opening, he will go down to his
death trying to replicate the experience in reverse.”
    “How droll.” Asenka rolled her eyes.
    Rogan shrugged. “It was a good line in the taverns of Luxor.”
    Some time passed before Asenka spoke again. She looked Rogan up
and down, and her tone was tart. “So you are the legendary savage who made
himself king? You are the man who carved his way to the throne of Albion and
took the crown from Silex’s head?”
    “What if I am?”
    “Are you not stunned that I know of you?”
    Rogan’s head began to throb, fatigue finally betraying him.
    “I don’t stun easily…” His voice faded.
    “Sire?” Javan stepped closer.
    Though his eyes were open, Rogan no longer beheld the forest. He
reached out and grasped a tree branch for support. His breath came in short
gasps, and his muscles trembled. His ears rang, and the strength vanished from
his limbs.
    Zenata had returned from her position at point, replaced by a
Kennebeck warrior, and she joined her sister and Javan as they clustered around
Rogan in concern.
    “What ails the old one?” the young girl asked.
    “We do not know,” Asenka whispered. “He suddenly became as weak
as a newborn foal.”
    Javan held on to Rogan’s arm, so that he would not fall. “Lean on
me, sire.” Abruptly, Rogan stabilized. Pushing the youth aside, he stomped his
feet and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, boy. But—Volstag is dead.”
    “What?”
    “I can’t explain it, Javan, but I saw it as if I were there. I
beheld it as clearly as I’m seeing you. Volstag is gone.”
    “Who is this Volstag?” Asenka asked.
    “General Volstag is Rogan’s great uncle,” Javan explained. “He
advised