Rogan and Javan floated on a sea of corpses. Bodies bobbed up and down in the blood-frothed waves--their crew, their slaves, the pirates who had attacked them, and the sharks and other predators. Birds blocked out the sun, hovering overhead and landing on the dead long enough to seize the choicest morsels.
Rogan kept his eyes closed, listening to the seagulls shrieking. Then he knew no more, until--
"Uncle," Javan shouted. "We live still!"
Rogan's long body lay adhered to the hull in a dried circle of blood, seawater, and sweat. The ocean lapped against the shattered craft, and the prolonged rhythm--along with the fatigue from their battle with the pirates--had lulled him to sleep. Rubbing his eyes and scratching at his salt-hardened beard, Rogan raised his head and pulled his mane of hair away from the surface. He blinked, licked his sun-blistered lips and winced, grinning at the pain.
"You are a brilliant advisor after all, Javan. It is not a wonder I brought you along to interpret and counsel me. Of course we still live. Our crew and slaves were slain, but death has not come for us. Perhaps soon."
"I endeavor to bring satisfaction, sire, but look." Javan pointed, then jumped into the water, his dark hair flailing as he hopped.
"Javan? What madness has seized you?"
Rogan arose to see what had inspired his young nephew's folly. Javan hopped in waist deep water, gesturing at the brown, sandy beach nearby.
"We made it, sire." The boy laughed, splashing. "Wodan is merciful. Rhiannon is just."
Rogan chewed salt from his mustache and stared at the shore. He slid into the cool water, muscles aching, wounds burning. Though in the latter stages of his life, Rogan still felt great strength in his thews.
"Wodan is merciful? Shit fire and spare the flint stones! Wodan is a bitch's son with a bad sense of humor, boy. I may pray to your goddess, Rhiannon, before this day is out, instead."
Javan splashed again, then sank beneath the waves and emerged, spraying a mouthful of water.
"Javan, you are acting like a child. Do you still suckle at your mother's tit? Are all the young men from Albion this foolish? Back in the Caucaus Mountains, we'd have killed many and learned to be Smiths by your age."
"Death doesn't lurk around every corner in Albion, Sire."
Rogan snorted and then said, "Of course it does, you jackass. You're looking hard enough."
"Sire, I know that you have cheated death many times in your life. It is an old cloak for you to discard, slipping out of the shadows of the afterlife. But this battle with the pirates and our loss at sea was my first true test. I hope this is the only time I must dodge such a foe."
"I've never cheated death, lad. I've only escaped him for a time."
"Still, I hope to never have to do the same again." Javan stood, looking up at Rogan.
"All men meet death sooner or later, Javan. The trick is to bend him to your will. That is what I have always done. Nothing more. But my will is strong."
They waded ashore and collapsed in the warm, sun-baked sand. It stuck to their wounds and their raw skin, scratching and scraping--but neither had ever felt anything more luxuriant. Gulls darted across the beach, their beaks snapping at small, scuttling crabs. Scrub grass swayed in the breeze, and bleached driftwood dotted the dunes. Further inland, a dense forest walled off an immense series of mist-enshrouded mountains. The blue sky brushed against the mountaintops.
Rogan gazed up at the dwarfing spectacle.
Aye, my will is strong, he thought. But death can only be bent over so many times. And as I get slower, his pace stays the same.
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