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

like gods.”
    “I swear this,” Javan said, squinting at the mention of the Thirteen,
“if my father was truly slain, then I shall have revenge on Karac.”
    “We both will,” Rogan grunted. “Keep that hate alive in your
heart, lad. It’ll warm you when nothing else will.”
    They continued on through the dense forest. Javan moved forward
to speak more with Akibeel. Rogan scanned the lush foliage. Through the breaks
in the trees, he caught an occasional glimpse of the distant mountain that
towered over them. The mist around its peak hung tinged with a greenish hue.
    “Javan,” he called. “Attend me.”
    The youth trotted back to him. “Yes, sire?”
    “That green mist that surrounds the mountain. What is it?”
    Javan shrugged. “I assume this color is an effect of the sun and
the mist, but I am not certain. Akibeel has not mentioned it.”
    Rogan drew him close and whispered, “You grow too complacent with
that old shaman. Be on your guard.”
    “You do not trust him, Uncle? He reminds me of—”
    “You alone do I trust, boy. I’ll not hesitate to kill every
damned one of them. Neither should you. Remember that. There’s no room for
sentiment in our task. Our only concern is doing what we must to get home.”
    Javan bowed slightly. “But of course, sire.”
    “I don’t want to see you hesitate to kill these women, either.
Only a weak man will be stopped from the death blow by emotion or deference to
another gender.”
    “By your command.”
    Rogan sniffed the air. “I smell cook-fires. We must be nearing
their village.”
    Sure enough, they rounded a curve and the Kennebeck village laid
spread out before them; a series of well-made lodges nestled deep in the forest
near the base of the mountain. The pyramid shaped dwellings were constructed
from long branches wrapped in long canvasses and skins. Smoke trailed out of a
few. A great cry went up amongst them as the rest of the tribe came out to greet
them. Rogan studied the men. The tallest was six feet, but they were all slight
of build.
    “Quite a few of them,” Rogan remarked. “I would think the members
of the tribe were nearly all dead, judging by the tales Akibeel spun. But I see
that it isn’t so. They seem almost overpopulated.”
    “This village,” Javan explained, “is but one in a chain of
Kennebeck communities set about the base of these mountains. Akibeel says they
stretch on and on in many rings. I doubt all of these folk are from this
particular settlement.”
    “Look at them. They scurry like ants. I see brickwork, so they
know masonry. Farming and agriculture are on display, as well. But they know
not steel.” He gestured toward a group of women working straight wooden staffs
into spears or grafting flat stones onto axe handles.
    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