King of the Bastards (4 page)

“How do they move so fast, Javan?” Wagnar asked, knuckles white
on his pommel.

Javan affirmed, “Light sails. They maneuver well with little
effort.”

“Who sent them on to us, bound up to such a vessel?” Harkon
asked.

Javan glanced to the circling bird and offered, “Who knows? It
doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Rogan nodded, clutching the handle of his broadsword, letting the
heavy weight of it rest on side of the ship. “Aye, true enough. They’ll be on
us soon.”

Captain Huxira barked orders in Olmek-Tikalize as the vessels
sped towards them. The sailors all took a knee, partially concealing themselves
behind the undamaged ridge of the boat and raised their large bows. The
taskmaster cracked his whip and the slaves doubled their efforts on the oars.

Wagnar noticed the wet breeches of one of the sailors who had
just come from the hold. He elbowed his brother.

“Either that man has soiled himself or we are taking on water.”

“We’re taking on water,” Harkon confirmed. “We must send these
dogs to their gods with haste, lest we all feed the sharks. We’ll sink before
long.”

Javan looked up at Rogan. “You wanted a glorious death?”

Not looking back, Rogan snapped, “Shut your ass.”

“On my word!” Captain Huxira shouted, and then paused, his eyes
wide. “Look at them!”

The attackers were heavily muscled and black as coal; clad in
little more than loincloths. Each bore hoops of gold and other decorations in
their noses and ears. Ivory teeth flashed savage grins. The ebony warriors
raised their bows, but unlike Captain Huxira’s crew, didn’t hesitate. They
unleashed a volley of long, flaming arrows, and seconds later, crackling orange
flames greedily engulfed the mast.

“Damn you, dogs,” Rogan barked. “Release!”

The stunned crew unleashed their arrows, but a second volley was
already soaring towards them. The sky rained feathered shafts, and sailors on
both sides dropped to the decks.

Javan, crouching, noticed that even as the smaller boats strafed
the bireme, the larger galley bore down on them.

Hefting a spear, Wagnar leaped over a wounded sailor and roared
an Alatervaeian battle cry. Muscles and tendons stood taut, and he projected a
ferocious image. Smoke from the burning sails obscured him for a moment.

When the smoke lifted, he lay jittering on the deck, a gray arrow
jutting from his eye.

“Wagnar!”

Enraged, Harkon sprang to his brother’s side. His huge hands
cradled Wagnar’s head. His brother’s blood and brain matter oozed from around
the arrow shaft and ran between his fingers.

“Brother,” Harkon whispered. “You have left me here alone.”

“Focus, Harkon.” Javan coughed as the smoke reached him. “Make
sure he did not die in vain.”

Harkon raised his head and stared at the youth. His red-rimmed
eyes burned with bloodlust and vengeance.

“I swear this to thee, Javan,” he seethed. “These waters will run
with their blood by the time this day is done. My brother shall be avenged.”

“Then, for Rogan—and for your brother, make it so.”

The fires raced up the mast. The smoke grew thick.

“Captain,” Rogan commanded, “get some men on those flames.
Quickly, now!”

Huxira panicked. “They are already below, bailing the seawater
rushing through the hull. I’ll have some others to attend to it.”

A spear slammed into the boards at the old man’s feet. Captain
Huxira scrambled backward. Rogan yanked the spear out and hurled it back at the
warrior who’d thrown it. The shaft buried itself in the man’s chest, and he
toppled into the water. Rogan spied another small boat approaching on a
collision course from the north. The grinning pilot didn’t turn or slacken his
pace. Cursing, Rogan grabbed Javan and wrestled him to the other side of the
vessel as the Pryten reaver rammed into them.

The black men on board the reaver leapt into the air with
cat-like grace. A dozen of them boarded the vessel, swinging great curved
swords and hiding behind long, oval-shaped bronze shields. The bireme tilted
and swayed from the blow to its side. Below decks came the sounds of cracking
timbers and bones, and the screams of the dying.

“They are well trained,” Rogan observed, picking up a bow from a
fallen archer.

One of the pirates hacked the head from a sailor. He raised his
eyes and glared at Rogan, just in time to have an arrow sprout from his throat.

Quarters were too close to reload the bow, so Rogan swung the
shaft up, snapping it off on the jawbone of an attacker. Trying to unsheathe
his sword, Rogan needed more time as another man came after him. He seized the
fighter’s nipple ring and yanked it from the dark flesh. The wounded savage
wailed in agony, allowing Rogan to free his blade.

Javan drew his small sword as well, throwing an elbow into the
spine of Rogan’s new opponent. Nearby, Harkon raved, swinging his sword in
wild, sweeping arcs as the berserker bloodlust seized him. With each pirate’s
head he sent spinning into the frothing waters, he shouted his brother’s name.
The element of surprise was against the bireme’s crew, and the corsairs had the
upper hand, but Rogan, Javan, and Harkon killed a dozen of the attackers in an
instant. They swung hard with their heavy weapons, splitting shields and
skulls. Heads and limbs dropped from torsos, and blood jetted across the wet
boards.

Another Pryten crept towards Captain Huxira. The pirate’s gold
earrings glinted in the sun. He thrust his spear forward, but the old man
dodged the attack and lashed out with his dagger, slicing the black man’s
abdomen. The corsair drew back, and Huxira plunged the dagger into his side.
The blade scraped against the man’s ribs. Whispering rumors of the Pryten’s
mother’s heritage and how she’d mated with a goat, Captain Huxira twisted the
dagger and opened his opponent up. As the Pryten died, the old man spat a wad
of chewing leaf into his face. Then he reached for a leather pouch and stuffed
more leaf into his mouth with bloodstained fingers.

The bireme listed farther to port. Racing flames licked at the
fluttering sails. Billowing smoke filled the air. Several crewmen struggled to
extinguish the fires. They scaled the burning mast and were shot down with
arrows from the bowmen aboard the Pryten mothership.

Rogan slipped in a steaming pile of intestines loosed from the
belly of another pirate, parrying a sword blow as he collapsed to one knee.
Face to face with black legs, he hacked the ankles from his target in a clean
swipe. The man toppled over.

With one vicious thrust, Harkon impaled two of the savages as
they rushed him. He smashed a third man’s face with his shield, watching the
pirate’s nose burst like ripe fruit, before retrieving his sword.

“My brother will meet you on the other side, dog.” Harkon
skewered the man with his blade.

Javan felt a kick from behind as he slashed a throat. His
opponent’s jugular vein sprayed blood. Falling to his knees, Javan turned and
drove his blade into the groin of the second warrior. The man collapsed to the
slick deck, a small whine escaping from his frothing lips. Javan yanked his
weapon free and the wounded savage curled into a ball, hands cradling his
flayed manhood.

As the mothership turned sideways in front of the bireme, Captain
Huxira shouted more commands. He aimed the listing bireme at the long ship, even
as he took an arrow in the shoulder. Grimacing, he snapped the shaft, spat
another wad of chewing leaf, and continued his efforts.

Another corsair, so dark that the sunlight seemed to reflect off
his skin, and taller than even Rogan, stood in the long aisle between the
terrified rowing slaves. He laughed, tossing his beaded locks of hair as a
second Pryten reaver crashed into the bireme, depositing a dozen more warriors.
This time, they didn’t attack the sailors, but swung weapons at the chains
imprisoning the rowers.

In moments, a dozen slaves were free. The pirates boarding the
bireme handed them small dirks, and encouraged them to join in the fight
against their oppressors. The slaves clambered to their feet, cheering their
newfound saviors.

Rogan stepped forward.

“Back, you worthless fools,” he shouted in Albion, decapitating
two of his own slaves in the hope of quelling the rebellion before it began.

The Pryten savage with the long, beaded hair laughed at him.

“Laugh now, mutt.” Rogan pointed his blade at the pirate. “For
soon, you’ll only shriek.”

Rogan, Javan, Harkon, and two of Huxira’s sailors waded into the
corsairs, slicing and stabbing, swinging and cutting for all they were worth.
Huxira’s men were slashed to ribbons. Harkon and Javan leapt over their
corpses. Consumed with fury, Rogan tried to reach the giant Pryten leader, who
freed more slaves. Bodies fell into the ocean and more shark fins appeared as
if by magic. The churning water turned red. The roar of warfare, the clash of
steel, and the cries for freedom from the slaves rang in the air.

A rock-hard fist struck Javan in the temple, the blow knocking
him to his knees again. The boy’s ears rang. The battle’s din became a slight
buzz. He shook his head, trying to clear it, as a pirate hovered over him. The
attacker raised his sword and brought it sweeping down, but Harkon parried the
deathblow with a stolen spear. The bodyguard ripped the corsair’s sword from
his hands and then thrust it back into the man’s belly. The pirate tottered backward
in surprise, clutching the hilt. One of the bireme’s crewmen cleaved the
wounded Pryten savage in half. Harkon nodded at the sailor. The sailor nodded
back. Then Harkon helped Javan to his feet and danced away, consumed once more
with bloodlust.

The fires continued devouring the masts. The sails were
fluttering sheets of flame. Only the main mast, with the crow’s nest at its
top, remained unscathed. Despite the smoke and fire, Captain Huxira’s crew
managed to fend off the pirates’ and slaves’ combined onslaught and stood their
ground. Just as they thought the worst neared an end, the sailor in the crow’s
nest shouted that more reavers were coming. Having drawn his attention, the
leader of the corsairs threw a spear at the lookout. The missile impaled the
sailor’s foot, and he plummeted from his perch. He slammed against the oars on
the eastern side of the ship. One of the slaves tossed him over the side, into
the waiting jaws of the sharks. The sea foam, normally white, turned pink hued.
The rest of the freed slaves advanced on the bireme’s crew.

The vessel’s hull splintered on the aft section as more pirates
boarded. Captain Huxira, still driving the shattered, flaming bireme toward the
Pryten galley despite his injured arm, let go of the wheel for a second and
swung a long sword, slaying two men before they skewered him on their spears.
Then he grabbed the wheel again. Harkon and three crewmembers sprang to his
aide, fighting valiantly, but were soon overwhelmed. Javan caught a quick
glimpse of Harkon’s intestines slipping from a wound in his belly, and then the
big man was crushed beneath more savages.

Captain Huxira closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to his god.

Javan closed his eyes as well, and held on for dear life.

Rogan was oblivious, the heat of battle consuming him. He killed
slave and pirate alike, not wanting those still in bondage to join the growing
throng of opposition.

The bireme slammed into the larger ship, ripping a hole in its
side. Both the crewmembers and corsairs alike were mangled in the crash. The
burning bireme rolled over, spilling the remaining inhabitants into the ocean.
The sharks swarmed. Those slaves still in chains were eaten like dangling bait.

Treading water and clutching his sword, Javan searched for his
uncle. A floating barrel of apples bumped into him, followed by a severed leg.

“Rogan?” he yelled. “Sire?”

There was no response. A wave crashed over him, obscuring his
vision. Choking on bloody saltwater, Javan shouted again.

“Uncle?”

Something hard brushed against his boot. At first, he thought it
was another barrel, but when he looked down, he saw a sleek, gray form beneath
the surface. Javan held still, waiting for the shark to pass. Floating amongst
the blood and body parts, he saw the mothership taking on water. Then he heard
a savage cry.

Javan gasped, his eyes staring in disbelief.

Rogan rode the capsized bireme like a steed. He stood with his
feet apart and his sword ready. The towering leader of the corsairs faced him,
brandishing a curved blade. His beaded locks of hair matted with the blood of
those he’d slain.

“You are finished,” Rogan roared, jabbing his broadsword at the
great ship taking on water. “Your transport sinks to the bottom of these
waters, and you shall join it momentarily.”

“My life matters not,” the pirate responded in the Albion
language. “We were sent to make sure you die, old man. I have done my job.”

“Sent by whom?”

The black warrior looked up to the sky, pursed his lips at the
giant bird, and then faced Rogan again. “That matters not, as well. We were
sent to kill you. Under the blessings of Damballah, we have attained that. He
will be happy for the blood spilled this day.”

Treading water, Javan reached the overturned bireme. Neither his
uncle nor the black warrior noticed. A shark loomed beneath him, but then
darted off to consume a floating, mangled corpse.

“I spit in Damballah’s face,” Rogan laughed. “Call your little
god down and let him taste the wrath of one given life by Wodan.”

The leader grinned, tossing his curved blade from hand to hand.
“Damballah smiles upon us, old man, for your death is assured. But before I let
loose your entrails, since you asked—take this knowledge to your watery grave.
In your kingdom of Albion, a true heir will soon rise to the throne. The first
born of your loins is not Rohain, but Karac, whom you sired with a Nubian
concubine of Zimbabwe.”