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

Rogan’s son, King Rohain, on matters of state.”
    “If he is this old one’s great uncle,” Asenka whispered in her
sister’s ear, “then he must be ancient.”
    Javan ignored them. “Sire, did you see a vision?”
    “Pour the piss out of your ears, boy. Of course I had a vision. I
saw this bastard son of mine, Karac, enter the war room of the palace, clear as
if I was standing there. He was accompanied by dozens of black warriors. Rohain
fought them mightily, as did your father Thyssen, but they were overcome. Karac
slew Volstag. Impaled him on his sword and then opened him up from belly to
neck. The bald bruiser is dead.”
    Rogan paused, letting the rage drain from him. When his emotions
were under control once more, he continued. “That old prick taught me to fight
with a dagger, and how to bring down a stag with my bare hands. And now he is
dead. They cut his head off after his guts spilled out. His blood was all over
the maps on the table.”
    Asenka folded her arms. “Are you touched in the head, old one?”
    “Not so much that I can’t cut your other tit off if you don’t
curb your damned tongue, woman.”
    Asenka bristled but Zenata held her back.
    “Are you certain Volstag is dead, sire?” Javan asked.
    “I saw it, Javan, just as clearly as I see you. They tossed his
head amongst them like children at play. And Rohain is in chains. A prisoner of
these swine!”
    “What of my father?”
    Rogan shook his mane. “I saw not his fate, boy. Thyssen slew
many, but he was outnumbered. He jumped from the window of the tower when they
surrounded him, but I saw naught after that. I fear the worst. How could he
survive?”
    Javan fell silent, his fists clenched at his sides. His mouth was
a thin, tight line.
    “Damn it all,” Rogan grunted, “what afflicted me—more sorcery?”
    The rest of the Kennebeck tribe had halted when they realized
that Rogan and the others weren’t with them. Now Akibeel stepped forward as the
dawn’s first light filtered down through the leafy canopy overhead. He spoke at
length, making many hand gestures.
    Sighing, Rogan moved away into the shadows of a broad oak tree.
He pointedly ignored the shaman.
    Javan translated, “Akibeel feels that you were sent a vision of
your homeland.”
    “Akibeel feels his own limp manhood,” Rogan murmured.
    Zenata erupted with laughter at the jest. Asenka elbowed her in
the ribs, still clearly offended with Rogan’s barbaric reprimand.
    “It is possible,” Javan continued, “that some unknown power
allows you to see these terrible things. Perhaps he is right.”
    “Why would some evil force grant me such a sight; to taunt me?
No. The truth is more mundane. We cannot deny it. No need to make excuses for
me, boy. Don’t lie to an old liar. If I’m growing soft in the head, then so be
it. It’s not the death I would have chosen, but we have seen the effects of
senility and it is useless to put up a fight.”
    “I do not think your wits are failing, sire. Perhaps it is the
will of Wodan that you saw what is happening in Albion. He grants you a
boon—strengthens your will to fight on. He grants me one, as well, if the
vision of my own father’s fate is correct.”
    Rogan dismissed the suggestion. “Horseshit. Wodan grants no boons.
He sits on his mountain and shits out light upon the world. He gives us power
at birth, and that’s fucking all. What we make of life is just that. Wodan
doesn’t meddle in the affairs of humans, unlike other deities.”
    Asenka said, “He hardly seems like much of a god then.”
    “At least he doesn’t require daily blood,” Rogan replied, “or for
his females to be mutilated at birth.”
    The warrior woman’s hand unconsciously went to her missing
breast. She opened her mouth to reply, but Rogan cut her off.
    “Who would want to worship a god that constantly intervenes? I
can wipe my own ass. I need no god to do it for me. Why do the dire demons of
the Thirteen fuck with us all? They are acting