Neanderthal King: A Medieval YA Epic Fantasy Adventure

By Matt Ward

Imagine Game of Thrones, but Neanderthals never died off.

It's 1107, and the once-great Neanderthal empire is no more, laid waste by the dark Sapien king, Isaac, the same bastard who slaughtered the Thal queen's young heirs. A brutal reversal of medieval power forged in blood and fueled by Sap ingenuity.

But one babe escaped the mad king's wrath.

Raised the son of a simple Thal herder, Maralek's a rough lad with the ferocious pride and temper of his ruined people, a scorn for rules and rulers, and less than a little creativity in his thick skull. In a word, your average Neanderthal. 

And life's livable, until King Isaac resumes his bloodthirsty crusade, and Maralek's forced into slaving shackles. Then, a rowdy caravan, a mysterious gypsy, a whispered prophecy… A whirlwind of devastation and war as his master is murdered, his fate unwoven, and his world ripped asunder in an epic battle to end all. 

Neanderthal King is a historic epic YA fantasy by renowned science fiction and fantasy author, Matt Ward, that features savage twists and darker secrets, raging kings and enslaved heirs, and an audaciously ambitious coming of age quest set in an alternative medieval Europe. If you love Brandon Sanderson, Ursula le Guin, or Robin Hobb, or explosive high and low fantasy classics like Lord of the Rings, the Kingkiller Chronicles, and the Earthsea Cycle, you'll love this heroic historical tale.

Buy Neanderthal King today for a bold new take on a daring teen hero's fantastic adventure… right up to its shocking conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Ward
• Release date: Aug 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734592269

Book preview

Fall of Akkaj

T he Saps are coming, my D'rori! Aeik cried. Quick, we haven’t much time before they pierce the re’drak’s outer walls.

Orik leapt to her feet, throwing aside her blood red quilt and the earthen crown of her people as she raced for the royal nursery. Not now. How could they have known? Swords clanged outside the keep’s stone walls, heart pounding. They’d already reached the city? Impossible.

Fire! a Sapien voice shouted. The twang of their gods’ damned crossbows filled the air, echoing as her guards screamed, and fell. Their d'rorji was in ruin, defenses no match for the Saps’ steel bows and artillery.

She flung the iron-handled door open. Come, my children, now. We haven’t—

A massive BAM shook the fortress. Another. Twice more.

Not the ram.

A crash, and the keep’s impenetrable door splintered open below. Hammering steel grew louder.

My lady, now! Aeik grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the far door. Four young handmaidens scooped up the six sleepy children—all that was left of our royal lineage—and ran.

Acrid smoke... Something burning.

At the end of the stone hall, Aeik grabbed her arm again. Are you all right, my— A whistling schwaff as an arrow thudded into her throat. Eirisek shrieked.

There! one of the high-pitched little intruders yelled. His comrade spun his crossbow toward them, and they veered right, sprinting toward Oren’s den, and skidding through the holy ornate doors. Arrows and bolts thudded the heavy oak as Orik heaved it shut, and locked the latch. It wouldn’t hold long. Not with their fancy rams.

Behind Oren, under the canvas. Orik crossed the torch lit prayer room of pelts and power, and pulled aside the bloody mural of the bear god. Two of Aeik’s fair-haired, identical underlings carried Arkaek, Liorik, and her other sleeping babies through the hidden opening.

But not fast enough. Hurry.

Something struck the door with a rattling crash. Ugly male voices roared from the other side. Their chickenfooted bitch soldiers… but there were too many of them.

And not enough time. My babies…

A reverberating crack as a gap appeared along the door’s iron frame.

The two women turned with Orik, and as one, drew swords that hadn’t left their sides for many a fortnight, not since that fateful day. The door exploded off its hinges, and arrows flew through. They dove, lifting hardened shields from their backs. An honorable death… And many more with us.

For Oren! Orik cheered. Her ladies took up the cry as they charged, cutting through Isaac’s miserly reds.

Darkened smoke filled the room, clouding their weak Sapien eyes as Orik slayed three more. Another thrust, another slash. But still, her re’drak shook as the dark king’s troops poured in. Impossible numbers. They never stood a chance.

But she wouldn’t surrender, not to that inferior monster. Not to a Sap.

A quick glance. The children were gone. Had they made it? Had the knights seen?

Burning worry as a bolt smashed Orik’s chest. She ripped it out.

Another, and another.

Stabbing pain. They must have upgraded again. Bloody engineers.

Two Sap knights stepped forward as she slumped to her knees. Heavy silence, a hush. Tension built as the weaklings froze, the silence replaced by a resounding set of footsteps. Isaac.

That bastard.

The mountain swept into the room and glared down at her from behind dark, wild eyes before turning to his blond knight. Did you kill the children? All of them?

No… Her heart froze, blood chilled.

The hideous knight sneered at her, and nodded.

NO. It couldn’t be.

Yes, your highness, the hideous brute replied. All five of them.

Five? Only five? Orik stifled shock as the tan king flashed a hateful black smile. Like his heart. Like the horrific karma of his people’s tormented eternities.

Good work, Royce. Isaac patted his brute on the back with an empty gesture of warmth. Cruelty had no heart. Kill the Neanderthal.

The blond knight raised his gleaming blade, but she refused to look away. Stared him down as it fell. Never give up. Never show weakness.

On to the Great Slumber.

A searing icy stab.

Everything went dark.

Part I

"Rise and fall on dice’s fate,

For some the future be too late,

As scores of hordes engulf the land,

A world where not the free may stand,

Instead they fall as truth not rise,

Growing shadows and darker skies.

---

But are these not the wings of told,

From whence the world was not so old,

Thou needn’t not a bane of sorrow,

For better comes on better morrow,

Or perhaps that be just lore,

Now ye’ must judge, and tally score."

1

The Earthing

Sixteen passings later

Maralek

The boar grazed on the far side of the wooded clearing, half-obscured by low-hanging pine. Big guy, almost two whinnys wide. It would take two arrows. Together, Jiayallik and I lined up the shot with our creator’s handmade bows.

Three, two, one. I loosed my arrow, and the feathered missiles covered the seventy paces without dropping a notch. An eruption of blood as the hog squealed, turned to run, and collapsed. We rushed over, and I slit its throat to end its misery. A familiar smile flashed between the two of us as I asked my sister which end she wanted. Always the front...

She bent powerful legs, and together, we lifted the muddy behemoth onto practiced shoulders. It wasn’t the first time, or a long walk. Two-quarter-hours or less. Still, I teased her. Sure you can handle it?

She shot me a look that said it all, and I shut up. Didn’t need her to pull a knife again.

Before long, the outskirts of town came into view with a whiff of roast pork, dung, and someone’s meaty pottage that made my mouth water. We passed the Wartal’s and the Horniktal’s three-room mansions, chickens fleeing to half-painted coops out back as delicious smoke curled their fancy stone chimneys, and laughter mingled with rowdiness from within. Yosek was lucky. He still had third-elders—four whole generations.

We dropped the pig next to our two-ring, char-blackened fire pit beside our hut. Olarek, my father, was drenched in shirtless sweat, messy black hair tumbling his square back and hairy chest as he chopped wood with the hatchet Vogarik had made him last Passing’s Day. Maralek, help me with these logs. Needa rest after the heifer bearing this morn. Vogarik says rain comes.

He handed me the axe and headed toward the village well, whistling a weighty tune.

Time vanished as I swung, muscles flexing each arching blow.

At some point, my creator, Vogarik, peeped out. Is the boar ready?

Others said they saw the resemblance between us: the hard nose, angled chin, and smaller-than-normal forehead. I couldn’t. Her straight blonde hair and inquisitive brown eyes were a million paces from my unruly dark curls and black pupils.

Jiayallik and I lifted the stiffening beast onto the cutting board and grabbed our matching hunting knives. We raced to carve the hulking limbs first. This time, she won.

Hands soaked in crimson failure, I rammed the rod through the meaty flanks, and we hoisted the spit over the flame. I singed my hairy hands, and pulled back, silent. Face a mask. Jiayallik wouldn’t see me wince. She didn’t.

Supper was rowdy, as usual. With three kids, two elders, and two great-elders. Ought have been three. If Garsek were still here. If it wasn’t for that row over herding rights last spring. But even without his cutting blade and sharper comments, the table was a war zone. Still, it had been three passings since anyone got stabbed. And even that was only an eating knife. Plus, ale was involved.

After the free-for-all over the juiciest slabs, Vogarik wanted to hear a blow-by-blow of the kill. Even Yalanek kept his bearded mouth shut for once as we spun the story, at which point, he brought up the wars further south and west.

At last, something interesting.

But my creator shrugged when I asked what she thought. The Sap kings have warred amongst themselves fer passings. What’s to say this time’ll be different?

Which spurred a fire-turner of a tale from Olarek, who loved to one-up my other great-elder, Yalanek. Once, long ago, our people ruled these here parts. The d'rorjis were massive, and held dominion over all the best lands. Saps relegated to Efrica, South Marckal, and Endia... or so they say.

Boring... Wasn’t near the first time he’d told it. I cut into a bloody slab with my eating knife when there was a knock.

A dirt-faced Yosek entered, chest pounding like the pale redhead had run down an elk.

What is it? Vogarik hurried over and put her arm around the troublemaker I spent every hour with. But still, he shook.

There’s been an attack. Wolves. He told us everything as Vogarik wrapped him in her brown homespun cloak. He’d been hunting with his brother, Barek, when the two came across a fresh kill east of our favorite fishing hole.

We were lugging it back when we stumbled on a pair of brutes. We tried to retreat, but Barek tripped. He winced as he described the vicious kill. They pounced, and I drew my sword, but it was too late. Tore up his throat and thigh. The second wolf had gotten away, like their last stillbirth.

How can we help? I gripped my friend’s scarred forearm with a seething anger to show our support. His second kin in as many moons... Even out here, that was high.

He nodded his thanks. Before we earth Barek, we must kill the pack, or more may starve. It would mean a great deal if—

I cut him off. Was he serious? Of course we’d come. It’s not like we could help with the carvings… Tireek was the best bone artist in town. And I had to help somehow.

Bows and quivers came down from hammered pegs as we suited up. Jiayallik grabbed her shortsword as well, but I hadn’t removed mine from earlier. Better prepared.

Quarter-hour later, Yosek’s clan arrived, armed and fuming. The night was dark and hazy, eerie fog covering the village. But Gayarik pressed ahead undeterred with her torch high as we entered the woods where I’d done my Rites three passings prior. Visions of cutting down that bull lynx still gave me chickenskin.

Past the pines, we came to bloodstained grass and claw marks and the edge of the clearing. We gave them space to make peace with their gods. They’d need to ensure his peace in the Great Slumber, but Tireek would handle that. He was the best.

After prayers and curses, we pressed deeper into the thick wood. Chances were, someone would die this night. It was dark as pitch and still as death.

I gritted my teeth and squeezed my blade harder. Never fear. If it was me, I’d do it with honor. I pushed harder to be at the front. The others followed, equally as aggressive. We all wanted this.

Jiayallik froze and drew her bow. A musky smell, wet fur. Where? Yalanek nocked an arrow as I drew my sword from its leathered strap. Despite the torch, my eyes strained in the dim moonlight. Senses alive, waiting.

A rustle came from behind as claws scuttled. I spun, yelling a warning, but it was too late. The wolves were on us. Bowstrings snapped as three sprang. I stepped to guard Jiayallik’s exposed flank and slashed an ice white killer, slammed my boot on his skull as a short, powerful thrust caught another. Behind me, someone shrieked.

Another round of arrows, and it was over. I hammered my pounding chest and others did likewise to still the nerves and soak up the glory. Even Tireek grinned, soaked in gore as he hugged his daughter. Both had tears of joy, because all was well again. We trekked home in fine spirits, bragging and jostling as the best of friends do. Gods, I loved a good hunt.

When we got home, we piled into our cramped sleeping quarters, and staked claims to the hay-strewn floor. A short fight over the corner. It reeked least of urine and was furthest from Tarasek, who writhed like a headless chicken. I got it, and fell asleep thinking of Sap kings and warring tales.

I’d never met a Sap, let alone a king. Didn’t know what to think of the pitchy little bastards. Did they sleep? Eat? Probably not. What an odd way to live.

The dream again, the turquoise-eyed pair. Her lips moving in wordless frustration, grabbing me. A hurried sprint. Wide-eyed fear… What were they trying to tell me? Must be a bad omen. Perhaps they—COCKADOODLE DOO.

That damned rooster. I’d kill him. Never missed a morn. If it wasn’t for Vogarik’s wrath, I’d have clipped him two passings prior. He’d make a good roast. But we’d had pork aplenty for several moons, and milk from Olarek’s cattle. Still, if it came to it, I’d fry that clucker.

Building dread in my tug, like I’d forgotten something. But what? Bleary pause as I sat up, brainwheels stuck. Smacked my head and it jarred loose. The earthing. Shite. I was late. Hurrying into stabbing sun as I raced for the Slumber ground.

Yosek’s clan were on the grassy knoll next to saplings and ancient oaks of clansmen past, double hammered crest carved into the circular stone at the center. The Horniktals were here too, on the far side of the hill. Our lot milled about, while the others tended sheep and young children that bounced with unspent energy. It seemed the whole town had been invited, unlike the last two earthings.

A few quick words by Barek’s creator, and we got to work. It didn’t take long for a dozen shovels to clear a hole deep enough to earth the boy. Tireek dropped his shirtless grandson into the pit with a thump, and lifted a series of carved raven’s bones. I did a double take. Raven’s bones, talk about a rare offering. Gesturing to the earth and sky, he placed one spindly bone at each corner, the ceremonial fifth on Barek’s bare chest. After a brief nod, he clambered from the hole.

A moment of silence before we covered the boy. Soon, he was lost to us. Gone forever.

Once all was as it ought be, Tireek placed the lucky sixth on the center of the fresh grave. Now, we drink!

There were cheers all around as a barrel was rolled out, tapped, and a metal cup passed. One by one, a single sip of the imported ale from Akkaj, center of the old Rortik d'rorji. Must have cost a great many beads. But the Wartals only had six children, and each deserved a proper send off, at least according to the Church, for whom the Wartals contributed much.

The celebration broke at midday for a quick nack. It was my favorite meal of the day, an ingenious Sap custom of eating a small something between breakfast and supper. Often, outdoors. Especially in times like this.

We rested our backs against our wattle and daub wall overlooking Olarek’s fields to the north while we enjoyed leftover boar. Yosek brought bowls of pottage too, and we flavored the pig with the sweet rabbit and carrot stew. Unfathomably good.

As soon as he’d finished, Yosek stood. I need ta go. Gayarik’s learning me ta shoe a whinny today.

Jealousy gripped me. Yosek was two passings elder, and would take up the family hammer. Hammerwork always fascinated me, something about the power and finesse of working with one’s hands. If only we’d a smithy, instead of a herd. But such was life.

We’re ta make a good many, and travel ta Dimakk market fortnight after next. Need spun cloth and something fer the chimney. He got up, gathered his bowls, and left.

We had chores as well, less interesting ones, and headed off. Jiayallik was helping Vogarik with a set of high-backed chairs the Nortals had commissioned, and I had to milk the cows, who preferred midday. Least I could steal a few sips before supper. Jiayalli would never dare.

Kneeling under the semi-roofed wood shed, I took her third utter. A crack of thunder. But the sky was bright... I smacked my ears. Hearing things... Back to my work.

A hissing spray of milk as a scream shattered the still.

I jumped, startling Nelly. She bucked as I reached for my sword. It wasn’t there. Shite. I’d left it at home. Sprinting through fields, I hurtled the rickety cattle fence, and rounded the corner to the village square and skidded to a stop.

It ought have been empty. It wasn’t. Far from it.

My heart froze.

That wasn’t possible.

2

Too Damned Crafty

Dozens of whinnys and knights cluttered the dusty streets as steeds reared, and armed, red-cloaked riders glared at villagers. Several of the bigger bastards rounded us up, brandishing swords, and barking orders. But they hadn’t seen me.

I snuck behind the Wartals’ toward our house, and ran to our one window. Two knights held Yalanek and Vogarik hostage. Another searched the place, tossing our weapons in a disgraced heap in the center of the room. Sharp buggers even thought to look under the kitchen bench and found the spare daggers. Damn. Yalanek always said Sapiens were too damned crafty.

I had to get them out of there. Had to think.

A heavy hand clamped my shoulder. Where do you think you’re going?

I spun, raising fists. Wasn’t going down without a fight.

A gauntlet slammed my stomach and knocked the wind out of me. The stout, long-armed knight with the fat face turned his weapon on me. Pricked my throat. They’re going to love you in the mines.

A tingle shot through my bones. Not the mines... Anything but that.

But what were Sap knights doing here anyway? I sized the bastard up. He was taller than I’d expected.

He laughed and shook his head. You lot never could hide your emotions. Haven’t ya heard? King’s on the move again, conquered Corinkl fortnight before last. Headed to Nelne as we speak.

He was too far to jump him. Plus with the blade. I had the height and weight advantage, but my reach was no match, even without his sword. Another knight, black-haired and vile, with a crooked nose and girly beard appeared, ruining my plans. They forced me into our house and shoved me into a chair. Stubby yanked my hands behind my back and clamped iron cuffs on my wrists before jerking me to stand. Girlybeard flared a sneer and raised his sword. No one reacted, so he kneed Yalanek’s stomach. The frail elder crumbled, and Olarek leapt forward, shouldering the chickenfooted bastard to the floor. I stepped in front of my little brother, heart pounding, as the other knight swung at Olarek. The blade took his forearm, and I lashed out as a muffled scream escaped Olarek’s determined lips. The other knight stabbed him twice from behind. I shattered the fiend’s jaw and sent him flying even as Olarek spilled out over our floor.

A club imploded my head.

Throbbing agony. Fury. Confusion.

I fell. Hard.

Brightness.

Pain.

I was shirtless, bent over the whipping block, bloodied hands cuffed on either side. A divided crowd of bitter silence and roaring jeers. The blond knight stepped forward, beaded scourge in hand. Chickenskin rippled my exposed back as fear threatened. My clan looked on. Horrified eyes, angry eyes. Silent hatred.

You’re lucky, boy. The big knight smirked. I’d have killed ya if you weren’t such a fine specimen. Perfect for the markets. Too valuable to kill. Twenty lashings ought do.

Show ‘im who is boss, Royce! someone yelled.

More taunting laughs, which quieted to silent anticipation as my body tensed. Royce stepped toward me and swung the cutting scourge.

Braced myself, arched my back.

Blinding torment riveted through me. Writhing spasms. Heart thundering an impossible race.

Again, again… another. Brain-ending agony as the lashing continued.

But I wouldn’t cry out, wouldn’t beg or whimper, as rage engulfed me, saved me.

At last, the leering cur dropped the triple-strung torture. It’s time to go. Someone unhooked my chains and I collapsed to the dusty earth, a slave.

But never a coward.

Struggling in sweat-soaked, bloody torment. Dirt biting at my wounds. A helpless nothing as my legs buckled once more. A broken slave, a failure… A guard jerked me to my feet and shoved me into the manacled procession.

I’d never thought it could happen to us.

All day along the bumpy road to Yorst. Every step was misery. Sun beat down on my carved back in raw burns as my shirt’s fabrics lacerated me. We got there as locals were getting slapped into cuffs and kicked around in a similar fashion. Overheated, parched, body broken… but I said nothing. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Two headless bodies lay in the center of the village, elder men. The other villagers moved like sheep as arrogant knights raided their stores and gorged on boar, venison, and beef, drinking and splashing ale in a right merry time. But Olarek was gone, dead. Not even earthed.

We spent a horrible night in tossing sickness alongside the road as knights feasted on stolen sweets. Lying in my own filth and bile. Reduced to nothing, less than a man. It was hard not to pine for earlier times. We’d been dominant once, according to Yalanek. But that had been long ago… Still, how had it come to this?

Two knights a few paces further down were eyeing several of the finer Thal women. I clenched my fists and signaled Jiayallik over. Come here, I whispered.

We’d heard the rumors, Sap men harming Thal women—worse than rape thanks to the pestilence. But not her, not my sister. I couldn't let that happen. She rolled toward me, creased face saying everything. Eyes like serving plates compared to her normal cool. Terrified, but too stubborn to ask.

I clenched my hand into a fist and smashed her pretty face. Once, twice. Again. Contorting guilt as her eye swelled shut and blood spilled down her lips.

Thanks, she grunted once we’d stemmed the bleeding. She was unrecognizable. Almost as hideous as our captors.

I was listening to the bastards earlier, she said. They’re taking us to Akkaj, the slave houses. S’pposedly better prices. Her voice fell as a knight came. Glowered over us, and gave me a good kick. Spasms rocked me.

Shhh. Sleep, Thal, you’ll need it. You’ll be on your feet all morrow. Another booted kick, and he was gone.

Jiayallik’s swollen eyes darted to the nearest knights. I wiped bloodied knuckles, and said nothing. It had to be done. Hopefully, it’d work.

A minute later, a short knight dragged a redhead Thal to her feet and his buddy yanked another. The women’s men stood, but a slash to one man’s stomach deadened the resistance in all of us as his innards spilled, raw acid filling the air. All was still after that.

So began my life as a slave.

The following nacktime, we reached Akkaj. The endless straightaway up to the sprawling city was packed, Saps and Thal alike, carts and herds headed for the markets. Hundreds of Thal, like us, clapped in irons.

So. Many. People.

And Saps everywhere. Several made me recoil, and all glared back behind turned up noses. Ugly noses. Most of them ignored us.

As we got closer, a realization. The Sap women. There was something off about them. Long, billowing cloaks instead of trousers and shirts, and puffed-up hair pulled back, or styled in the most impractical way. They giggled as we passed. Spineless excuses for women… but the knights’ heads cartwheeled to admire their wide bottoms and hips.

Past a carter, Akkaj’s great stone wall came into view. Massive, least five-men high. A city, an actual walled city… Looked impenetrable. Yet, the walls weren’t Thal-built. Rough edges and uneven ramparts. Shoddy Sap quality.

Archers and crossbowmen stood like statues atop the walls. Our captors waved, and more eagle-crested knights rode to meet us. Touched their heads in some strange greeting before eyeing us. Smiled as they counted our number, and led us toward giant arched gates on the east side