The Way of the Gods
With Javan and Algeniz clinging to him, Rogan used the rocks as a buffer to slow their progress. He took the brunt each time the water slammed him into one. Battered and bruised, he relied on Javan to keep them afloat in between such episodes. Their pace was slowed enough that the plunge proved not as deadly as he had feared. They fell in a deep swell between a series of rocks acting almost like breaks, which further slowed their progress. After this, the current became much calmer. Exhausted, Rogan conceded to Javan and let the youth guide them to the forest-lined shore.
Once out of the water, they collapsed, gasping for breath and tending to their wounds as best they could with no gear or equipment. Javan’s bow and sword had been lost during their plunge into the river, and his quiver was empty. Rogan tried to get his bearings by the sun, but his weariness made it difficult. Javan estimated they were somewhere in the forests between the states of Hickerson to the west and Solow to the northeast.
“We have to go back,” Rogan insisted. “I will slay every one of them.”
“In time, sire,” Javan aid. “First, we need to seek the cover of the trees. They’ll be looking for us all along these riverbanks. We must find a place to shelter and plan our revenge.”
“But where?” Rogan asked. “Where is a good place to seek refuge? Where can Rohain … Karza … not reach? Hickerson is large and expansive, but there is nowhere to hide in that outer realm. And Solow? The populace prefers wrestling to fighting. They’ll crumble beneath a military advance. We should just march back now and kill as many of them as we can.”
Algeniz crawled to her father’s side and hugged him. Rogan returned the embrace, but his gaze remained on the shoreline. Then, almost gently, he lowered his head and nuzzled her hair.
“You fought well back there.”
“Thank you, father. Erin …”
“Best not to think about it.” He picked her up and rose to his feet. Then he placed her back on the ground at his side. “Javan is right. We should go. The forest will offer us some protection.”
“From dogs and search parties,” Javan agreed, “but not from Papa Bon Deux’s sorcery.”
“I wonder about that,” Rogan said, as they limped toward the tree-line. “They were unable to find you after your escape from the throne room. Something was protecting you from his sight.”
“Rhiannon be praised,” Javan replied.
“If it was her,” Rogan muttered. “Right now, we need all the help we can get.”
“In her temple …” Javan’s expression fell. “I blasphemed. I had no choice. I was hungry and …”
“We all do things we don’t want to do, boy. Do you think I wanted to watch Erin die? Sometimes we have no choice.”
“Yes, sire.” The youth struggled for a moment to regain his composure. After a deep breath, he said, “If Solow and Hickerson are out, perhaps we could travel east?”
“If we head east,” Algeniz reminded them, “we will cross into Morrisland. That may not be the friendliest of places.”
“You speak kindly,” Rogan grumbled. “Morrisland is a realm of ass-goblins and dwarves that fancy goats, my dear. There is nothing worth killing, fucking, or puking on there, and the people are so stunted that we could not hide behind them.”
“That’s what my school lessons tell me,” Algeniz agreed. “They say that land is full of little trolls.”
“So, your teachers are doing their job,” Rogan muttered. “At least that is something.”
“They were, until Rohain … I mean Karza, had them all killed. But I can get my education elsewhere. I hear many things in the palace. Most talk freely in front of me because I am just a child to them. They take me for granted.”
Rogan grunted. “They do that to me as well, girl. I am old. They look past the old and the very young, smug and overconfident in their youth. They thought me an old dog ready to just roll over and die. They will learn the error of their ways. I still have my balls.”
As they jogged into the shadowed woods, Algeniz looked back in the direction of Albion. “They must die, father. All of them.”
“They will, girl. Badly. Still, we cannot kill them alone. I say we head north, toward the higher lands, and the Pryten wilderness, and whatever forces Thyssen is supposed to be gathering. The villagers there are at least a more exclusionary folk. They will not accept that monster masquerading as Rohain as easy as these civilized city folk have.”
Javan nodded. “If we muster an army for invasion, the less tangled plains in that region will fit a consolidated force.”
Rogan pondered that. “If Andraste is true to her words, I wager her folk and the Troglodytes could attack from anywhere. I wish I knew what Boone was planning.”
Javan’s expression darkened again. As they made their way deeper into the forest, he told them what had befallen Akibeel. Rogan cursed the news, but showed no other emotion.
“We will add his name to the list of those to be avenged.”
“Aye,” Javan agreed.
After an hour, they paused to catch their breath. While Javan hunted for berries and nuts, Rogan tried unsuccessfully to break his chains. Soon, they heard baying of hounds. The three jumped to their feet and ran on, staying ahead of the search parties, navigating through the forests and open fields. Algeniz had no trouble keeping up. Her thin legs stabbed like a leaping fawn, but she proved more sure footed than a tiger in her journey. At times, her father let the girl ride his back. The landscape echoed with the sounds of dogs, horses, and men.
“He will never give up,” Algeniz said.
“I know,” Rogan replied. “But we will find help. The entire kingdom cannot be sheep! We did such great things here.”
Algeniz held her bottom lip in her teeth for a few moments. “Are we really going to the Pryten Wilderness?”
“Yes,” Rogan told her. “We will cut through the marshes and then into the Pryten wilderness.”
She sighed. “Perhaps they will not search into such a savage place.”
“That,” Rogan agreed, “and also because we have friends and allies there.”
Algeniz flinched. “But I thought—”
“Forget everything you thought you knew, girl. Things have changed.”
As they continued on, Rogan thought of Albion’s high society. How would the gentry change their life, under this new rule? Little, if their behavior so far was any indication. They swapped one brute with a crown for another.
They emerged from a grove of pine trees and tipped along a marshland, certain that no horse could travel in such a soggy path. No creatures assaulted them, but many bugs did arise and light on their skin. The sound of their steps, hard breathing and the rattle of Rogan’s chains kept rhythm. Occasionally, Javan glanced at the sky through the breaks in the treetops, searching for winged creatures, but there were none, aside from sparrows.
Algeniz wiped the sweat off her brow. “I am not yet prepared to die, father. I said I was, back on that altar, but I lied. You will kill these men so I can get the time I need. If I die before then, my shade will haunt this land for eternity. I do not think the gods want that.”
The old warrior said nothing. Her words were a cross between childish bravado and earnest blood anger.
“Father, what does your heart of hearts want?”
“My own son dead,” Rogan seethed. “Or, at least the thing that used to be my own son. If Albion is that fickle to follow this dark butcher, perhaps it isn’t worth saving. I will die before I let that bastard go on breathing, though. I would do no less to a dog.”
“Maybe,” Javan suggested, “we are not supposed to save them. “Maybe this is simply the gods’ way of telling us who our friends are.”
Rogan frowned. “If so, then their humor is not appreciated.”
Hours passed and they cleared the marshland, emerging at a farming hamlet near the twisting, shallow Renraw River. A hunched over, thin, repugnant old man stood by a series of smoldering steel grates near the edge of his disused pasture. Each of the grates held a blackened pile of bones and dying embers. As they drew nearer, the wind shifted. All three grimaced. The man smelt of feces, sweat and smoke. Both of his eyes were nearly covered with cataracts. One gnarled hand clutched a rusty short sword.
He nodded at Rogan. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?”
“My time is past and my family is gone. A madness came upon my boy. He read too much of the black arts. Possessed by a hovering spirit from afar, he slew his mother and sisters. I had to strike him down. It is a terrible thing when you must face the fact that your son is something the world can do without.”
Rogan frowned, not sure of the old one’s intent. Algeniz clenched her fists, moving to strike the man, but Rogan gave her a disproving look. Javan stood at attention, hands behind his back.
“There is naught left in this world for me,” the farmer continued. “The world is infested with shadows and it grows shoddier day by day.”
Algeniz spoke gently as her manner softened. “We need …”
The old man nodded and gestured at his barn. “There are smith’s tools in the building. Free yourself and take a mount. I see more than you think.”
Rogan looked at the barn. Sigils and glyphs had been painted on it to ward off evil.
“Old man, we are—”
“The last people I will ever see. I am to assist you, and then leave this place.”
They moved toward the barn and heard a strange noise behind them. When they turned, the old man was gone. Algeniz moved to look for him, but Javan and Rogan pulled her back.
“There is magic afoot here,” Javan explained. “If what I suspect is true, then it is best we don’t go seeking more of it out.”
Nodding reluctantly, she ran to the clothes line and pulled off a well-worn brown dress and a scarf. Quickly, she donned leggings and slippers waiting in a basket nearby. She tied her hair back and went to assist Javan. In minutes, they’d smashed Rogan’s bonds on the anvil. Inside the barn, they found a few short swords, daggers and two strong horses.
Still keeping clear of the roads, they took the horses and headed north-west. Javan looked in the sky often, but it remained clear.
“Sire,” Javan whispered. “Surely you have heard the campfire story of Wodan appearing as a blacksmith or a wayfaring stranger to those of his children he blesses?
Rogan didn’t look at him. “I have.”
Javan glanced back at the direction of the farmer house. “Just wondering if we should give a prayer of gratitude?”
“You offer up something in thanksgiving, Javan. I’m about prayed out for one lifetime.”
* * *
For three days they traveled, skirting the edge of towns and villages, staying away from populated areas and sleeping in caves and thickets. Javan hunted and Rogan speared fish. They ate their meals raw.
As the sun began to set on the third day, Javan said, “Cramond, the plains of Thule and the northern edges of the Pryten wilderness are near. If Boone and Andraste are still where we left them …?”
“Then we should be with them before nightfall,” Rogan replied. “Remember how easily you and I travelled from Boone’s encampment to the capitol city? If only we had been able to go that way again. We wouldn’t have spent the last three days romping around this stinking—”
His words were cut short as he was knocked from his steed by a bolo. Algeniz, who had been riding behind her father, fell off the horse as the surprised animal reared backward. Javan was removed from his mount a second after. Before they could rise, a voice called out.
“Slowly,” a voice cautioned. “On your feet. Make any attempt to resist or attack and we’ll cut you down. There are a dozen bows pointed at you.”
They did as commanded. Javan and Rogan choked under the weight of the bolos, but did not reach for them. Squinting, Rogan peered into the dwindling light, trying to see their attackers.
“You can take the bolos off,” a second voice, deep and craggy, said. “Then tell me who you are. You’re not Prytens. I’d like to know where your loyalty lies before I cut out your heart and read it for myself.”
Rogan undid the bolo and drew himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest.
“I am Rogan, son of Jarek, the Kelt.”
At this, a murmur went through the shadowed crowd. A towering man in rusty chain mail and oiled buckskin stepped forward into the light. He gripped a hammer in his right hand. With his left, he stroked his long beard, playing in the ivory curls.
“Aye.” He laughed. “I know who you are, you ugly prick. If not for me, you would never have gained the throne of Albion.”
Rogan smiled broadly. “Thyssen, you bastard. Glad my luck is changing.”
Javan gasped, and then gave a slight bow. “It is you, sir. I thought to never see you again.”
“Nor I you,” Thyssen replied. “When Boone told me of yer fool mission, I thought you’d run off with your uncle to your death. I see you fell off that horse with no broken bones. I am impressed. Still, we got the drop on you.”
“Do you want a prize for catching an old man and two kids?” Rogan joked. “Give me wine, you son of a bitch, before I bash your fucking head in.”
“Ever the statesman,” Thyssen grunted. “Come. I would sit by the fire tonight and drink with both my sons, and my friend. This may be the last time we ever do so.”