by Brian Keene
“They had better be. Time draws short.” He glanced down at the weapons. “But we have stacked more weight on the scale, eh? And they seem proficient enough with these. Good. I grow anxious for a fight.”
Finished with his meditations, Akibeel stood and approached them. “You might get your wish sooner than you expect.”
Rogan glared at him. “Why is that?”
“Amazarak’s forces regularly attack us,” Akibeel said. “But with the exception of what happened on the beach, they have left us alone since your arrival. We are overdue for an assault. I fear that they will try again before we ascend the mountain. If so, our numbers may dwindle long before we even reach the top.”
“So be it.” Rogan swung the hammer. “I would welcome an attack.”
Akibeel didn’t respond.
§
Asenka lay with Rogan again that night, while Javan and Zenata grew closer, as well, telling each other secrets of their childhoods. The Kennebecks and Asenka’s warrior women slept as much as possible, reserving their energies in preparation for the assault.
Akibeel heard Javan and Zenata speaking, soft and low, but their words weren’t of passion. He heard the girl ask, “What are the Thirteen?”
Javan dutifully replied, “One of the stories I heard at school was that they are what remains from a previous universe. You see the sky, full of stars that goes on forever?”
“Yes.”
“Story was that the ultimate God, the creator of all others and of this cosmos, destroyed a previous universe to make this one. I don’t comprehend how, of course. But the yarn goes that the Thirteen are all that remain of that original universe, thirteen entities with different desires for this world.”
The girl lay silent for a bit before saying, “I wonder why the God of creation allowed such things to live.”
“He must have a reason. Either that or those that know of the Thirteen are lying or that some force talking to the Thirteen lied to them. They say the ultimate negative force in the universe is a liar.”
“One of these Thirteen, Croatoan, or who was it?”
“Meeble. Croatoan. Different names for the same swine.”
“He is at the top of the mountain?”
Javan cleared his throat a little. “Supposed to be, but I think he isn’t there, at least not yet.”
“Why?”
“If Meeble was, why wait? His servants cause chaos, and he loves that, I suppose, but if he were here, he’d be on a rampage, no waiting.”
Akibeel retired to his lodge, and though his eyes were closed, too, the old shaman did not sleep.
Instead, he traveled the astral plane.
What he saw filled him with dread, and when he returned to his body, he still could not sleep.
He shivered silently, wrapping his arms around his legs and drawing his knees up close. Then he rocked back and forth.
For Akibeel, the dawn was a long time in coming, and when the sun finally rose, it brought no warmth.
§
Dawn came early for the others, as well. They rose quickly, ate a brief breakfast, and then made their final preparations. As they packed supplies for the trip, Akibeel pulled Rogan aside.
“I traveled last night,” the old man whispered. “And I am afraid. I fear we will lose this battle.”
“Why?”
“Because Amazarak’s forces also make preparations and their numbers far outweigh ours. They are stronger. I fear my people will lose strength during the ascent. The mountain will shatter their resolve. Croatoan exudes fear like an aura. It permeates the atmosphere at the summit.”
Rogan grinned. “Let us be honest. Many of your tribe will probably weaken just from the climb alone. You’re not mountain folk. You are forest dwellers.”
Akibeel appeared unfazed by the veiled insult. “It is not a sheer climb, but a gradual one, for your information. My people could eagerly face and best Amazarak’s soldiers if that were the only obstacle. But as I said, fear is in the air. And it is not his human followers that I am concerned about. There are others, like the beasts you saw in the vision. The hairy giants.”
“The ape-men. But you said there were only a few dozen.”
Akibeel nodded. “Aye, there were. But there are more of them now. Last night, I saw many more pouring from their caves. I do not know how their number could have grown so quickly.”
“I think the spirits screw with your head. No matter.” Rogan shrugged. “They can bleed and die, yes?”
Akibeel nodded again. “Everything can die, Rogan. You just have to know how to kill it.”
Rogan clapped the shaman’s bony shoulder. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since we met you on the beach. Leave the ape-men to Javan and I, and to Asenka’s females. And after we’ve finished with them, and their blood melts the snows, we shall see if this Croatoan can perish as well.”
They rejoined the others. Akibeel pulled his cloak tighter about himself. Rogan joined the procession of fighters arming themselves. He selected his sword, a quiver of arrows, and a bow. Javan approached, elbowing his way through the crowd, and extended a flask of water. Rogan drank deeply.
Javan said, “We have a long trek ahead of us, sire.”
“Yes,” Rogan agreed. “And when we are done, an even longer journey awaits us. Let’s get on with it. I have had my fill of this village.”
Suited up, armed, and ready, the small Kennebeck army departed the forest and headed for the low plain beneath the mountain. Asenka’s warriors flanked the troops on both sides. Akibeel and six braves led the way, followed by Rogan, Javan, Asenka, and Zenata, and then the rest of the force.
All of them felt eyes on them as they left the shadow of the forest, as if the very trees were watching them leave. Somewhere above the leaves, a great bird cried out, its screech echoing across the land. As the party emerged onto the plain, a dark shadow raced across the countryside. They cast their gaze to the sky, but it yawned, empty.
“Croatoan?” Javan whispered.
“Nay,” Rogan said. “That was the work of the others—Karac and his ilk.”
“The ones who usurped your former kingdom,” Asenka said, surprised. “Then indeed, their reach is strong.”
“Aye, least that is my feeling,” Rogan agreed. “Enemies in front of us. Enemies to the rear. All we can do is to carve our way from the middle.”
They continued on their way. The sky remained vacant, save for the blistering sun.
§
At a resting point, Rogan sagged wearily, collapsing atop a broad, flat rock. He stared into the sun and blinked. Javan noted his uncle’s weakness, but knew better than to ask what ailed him. Asenka, however, knew no such tact.
“Do your eyes start to fail you, old one?”
“I need no eyes to make you scream, woman,” Rogan muttered. “But my sight is fine. Thank you for asking. It’s these visions I can’t abide. They’ve started again, as we trekked, flooding my mind. I see things like they are remembered in a dream. I see old, black skinned people, working magic.”
Javan stretched his arms high. “Perhaps these are the ones guiding the evil Karac.”
“He probably doesn’t think himself evil but that doesn’t matter. But I was never given to visions before,” Rogan said. “I don’t understand why they occur. What’s their source? Mine is the way of steel and blood, not soothsaying and reading fortunes. Why am I afflicted with these visions now?”
Akibeel sipped water from a flask and sighed. “Your enemies taunt you. Perhaps they cannot reach you this far and wish to draw you back to your kingdom? So they send you these visions as a means of doing just that.”
“I concur,” Javan said. “All the more reason to see this business atop yonder mountain finished.”
“A righteous god might warn me, not taunt me.” Rogan closed his eyes. “I see great peril, boy. These dire folk have made Albion murky to my mind. Algeniz…” His voice trailed off. Rogan arose and walked away.
Zen
ata and Asenka turned to Javan.
“Who is Algeniz?” Asenka asked.
“His youngest daughter,” Javan said.
He stood up and motioned for them to stay. Then he approached Rogan and casually offered him a skin of wine. Rogan muttered no thanks, but accepted it just the same. He drained the small skin in one long swallow and tossed it aside, then stood silently. Javan cleared his throat.
Rogan glared at him. “Are you awaiting a tip?”
“You mentioned Algeniz, sire. Have you seen some new evil regarding her?”
“I have seen what Karac has in store for her.”
“But she is just a child.”
“That doesn’t matter to him. All of them, all of your cousins, are in peril.”
“All of them?”
“Erin has escaped his touch. I saw her escape in the horror that was the sacrifice of my grandchild. It was at the place of the gods on the river Severin.”
“Where the giant stone blocks are erected?” Javan asked.
Rogan nodded. “I saw the wizard and his mate, dressed in dusty clothes, with Rohain’s wife, Darva. She was tied down to the main sacrifice slab. Her belly was great with child, my grandchild. Erin, my daughter, was tied nearby. As the sun rose, the incantations to Damballah began. It was so real, Javan. I could see Erin’s strawberry blonde hair blowing in the breeze. I could smell her scent—a scent I have known since the day she was born.”
“Perhaps it was not so, sire. Perhaps this is just your imagination. Waking nightmares; I have heard tell of such a thing during my time at the university.”
Rogan exploded. “Why would I dream of that bastard priest cutting the baby from my daughter-in-law’s belly? Why would I envision Damballah himself descending from the sky and feasting on the life of my grandson, placed in a burning censure?”
The rest of the party glanced over at them and muttered nervously amongst themselves. Zenata took a step forward but Asenka pulled her back. Rogan towered over Javan, his muscles taut and coiled. He shook with rage. But Javan held his ground, his voice calm and assured.
“They say that sometimes things of this nature are your inner self trying to tell you something.”
“Bah! I am a barbarian, boy. I know not of such silliness. I know what I see and feel what I can touch. These visions are real. Just as real as those corsairs we fought. I saw that bastard Karac, disrobing, planning to bed Erin amidst the grisly bits on the altar!”
“But sire, you said Erin escaped?”
Rogan nodded. “Escape she did, but that still doesn’t make the offense any slighter. She fought him, by Wodan! She truly was my daughter. A great son she would have made.”
“You speak of her in past tense.”
“She kicked the usurper and jumped into the raging waters of the Severin. Then the vision faded.”
Javan looked thoughtful. “Many have swam the river and survived, Rogan.”
“True enough. Not many, but some. The vision didn’t show me her fate; if she is dead, then good for her. She died with honor.”
Javan did not reply.
Akibeel called to them. “We have a long journey, friends. We must be moving on.”
Rogan did something Javan seldom saw him do. He trembled. It lasted but a few seconds, but the sight filled Javan with dread. He’d seen his uncle slay families; slaughter entire villages. He knew Rogan’s capacity for violence and destruction. But never had he seen the former king express the emotions so clearly displayed on his face at that moment.
Rogan ground his teeth and stalked across the plain. After a moment, Javan followed him. They took their places in the rest of the procession, and neither man spoke.
§
Hours passed as they left the plains and hiked through the foothills at the base of the mountain. Well trod paths gave way to feral, tangled wilds. Only a single footpath cut through the greenery, wide enough only for a single person at a time. The party walked in silence. Rogan kept his hand near his sword hilt; his keen eyes observed all. The air hung silent and still. The only sound was the gnats buzzing in their faces and ears. There were no birds or squirrels or other creatures, but dozens of black butterflies fluttered through the weeds and clung to the vines. Their numbers increased as the group rounded a curve between two hills.
“They are beautiful,” Zenata breathed. “I loved butterflies when I was a little girl, but we never had black ones in our country.”
“I would like to see your homeland,” Javan told her, watching the insects.
Zenata smiled. “Perhaps you will, one day.”
Meanwhile, Akibeel had halted in the middle of the slim trail. Ahead of them were two bluffs. The path disappeared into a small gap between them.
Rogan grew impatient. “Why have we stopped, old man?”
Akibeel’s expression was grave. “We must depart this way and go through the forest now.”
“But the path circles to the right and goes up into the higher ground. Why do we trek off of it?”
“We cannot go that way,” the shaman said.
“Donkey dung!” Rogan shoved past him and continued down the trail. This caused a stir of excitement among the Kennebeck. Several of the braves nudged each other and muttered among themselves. They repeated a single word, “Itzpapaloti!”
Javan hurried to catch up to his uncle. “Sire, the word means…”
Rogan spun around. “I’ve spent enough time in the lands of the south, boy. I’m not a complete fool.”
Asenka stepped forward. “Well, would you care to translate for those of us who didn’t spend time in Olmek-Tikal?”
Rogan peered into the vegetation. It was full of the fluttering insects.
“Itzpapaloti means ‘obsidian butterfly’. Correct, Javan?”
“Good show, sire,” Javan said.
Rogan frowned. “Two things trouble me about this.”
“And they are?” Asenka asked with a wry smile.
“One, that the Kennebeck know a word from a distant tribe and culture. And two, that they seem afraid to tread on the black butterflies. Have you noticed?”
“I would guess,” Javan said, “that most of these primitive cultures have had some interaction, sire.”
“Akibeel,” Rogan grunted, “let us continue.”
Shaking his head, Akibeel stood his ground. His tribesmen followed his example.
“I told you, we cannot go this way. The itzpapaloti are harmless, but sacred.”
Rogan’s voice dripped with scorn. “Your people worship butterflies?”
“No,” Akibeel said, “but neither do we harm them. They are gatekeepers. They show the way to the Witches Gulch.”
“Gatekeepers, huh?” Rogan mumbled. “Maybe that is who fucks with my head from afar. Rat bastard.”
A large butterfly hovered in front of Rogan’s face. He swatted it with his hand, causing an outburst from the Kennebeck warriors. The insect fell to the ground. Rogan raised his boot heel.
“Caution, sire,” Javan warned.
Rogan ignored him. “What is this Gulch?”
“It is haunted by a spirit,” Akibeel said. “We do not go there.”
“And you didn’t think to tell us of this earlier, before we set off on this expedition?”
“There was no need,” Akibeel explained, “for as I said, we do not go there.”
“Need? We need to reach the top of yonder mountain. The path goes upward. To pass through the forest adds time—time that Javan and I do not have. Tell me, what sort of ghost haunts this gulch?”
“The ghost of a great snake. Their kind used to roam free over these lands. A tribe far to the west built a great mound in its likeness, so that none would ever forget. But they do not exist anymore. This shade is the last; a cursed reminder of what once stalked this land.”
Rogan stared at Akibeel, his expression one of disbelief. “The ghost…of a snake?”
The shaman nodded.
Rogan threw his head back and laughed. Then he strode forwa
rd.
“Come,” he shouted without looking back. “I shall lead us through the pa—”
His voice trailed off.
Black smoke poured from the gap between the bluffs. It swirled and coiled, forming into a shape. Gasping in terror, the Kennebeck warriors fell back, fleeing down the path. Akibeel thrust out his arms and beseeched them to stand their ground. They ignored his commands. Some of them dropped their weapons as they fled. Asenka’s archers shoved past them and stepped forward, following Javan, Asenka, and Zenata as they ran to aid Rogan.
The smoke coalesced, becoming solid. It took the form of a giant serpent, twenty feet long and as thick as four stout men. The phantasm slithered not on the ground, but through the air.
Silent, Rogan drew his sword.
Javan reached back and fixed an arrow. Asenka and Zenata did the same. The scrambling Kennebeck tribesmen stopped and turned, unsure whether to flee or wait for the outcome.
Rogan stayed where he was, watching the snake in amazement. “It’s as big as the pythons found near Luxor. Longer and thicker, too, I reckon.”
Akibeel and his warriors shrank away as the snake floated closer. The beast did not strike. A long, forked tongue flickered from its mouth. Sunlight glinted off its black scales. The creature moved in silence.
Rogan strode forward, his sword at the ready.
“Sire,” Javan shouted. “You might not want to attack that thing as such.”
“What have I to fear,” Rogan seethed, staring down the hovering serpent. “It moves and breathes. Therefore it can be killed.”
Howling, he ran forward. The snake twisted in mid-air. Its head reared back to strike, but Rogan was quicker. His broadsword whistled as he swung it.
“Wodan!”
Javan, Zenata, and Asenka all gasped.
The blade passed through the snake as if it were air. Rogan stumbled forward. The snake’s head darted for him, fangs bared. Rogan side-stepped the strike, and Asenka’s bow-women let loose a volley of arrows. The missiles also passed through the snake without harming it.
Javan reached into his quiver and selected a silver-tipped arrow. Even as Rogan prepared to swing again, Javan’s bow sang out. His aim was true. The silver arrowhead flashed through the air, and as it struck the serpent’s form, the creature turned to smoke again. Slowly, the gas-like form dispersed until there was nothing left.