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

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