The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  “Unless it does!”

  Oats crossed his massive arms in front of his huge chest. “You’re more chummy with him than any. Now you don’t trust him?”

  “I trust him to help himself,” Jackal said. “But I don’t think he wants to join us.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. And now the chief knows I don’t. He smelled the growing alliance, Oats. Between me and Crafty. Maybe the wizard even told him. He certainly told him plenty already. Our position in this hoof is getting unsteady, and fast.”

  Oats shook his head and looked down at the dust of the yard. “I know you want to be chief, and when the time comes, I’ll throw my axe. But until then, brother, you best quit getting angry at us ruining plans you’re making up as you go.”

  With that, the thrice strode slowly away, giving Jackal a heavy clap on the shoulder as he passed.

  The brute was right. Jackal was trying to catch mute crickets in the dark. He needed them to start singing.

  Oats was already speaking with Roundth, Hobnail, and Polecat when Jackal entered the bunkhouse. They were working out the patrol order for the night. Leaving them to it, Jackal went quickly to his own room and found Crafty within, but not Starling.

  “She sleeps in Fetching’s chamber,” the wizard explained, seeing Jackal’s frown. “I thought that more tolerable should elven…emissaries arrive to inquire on their missing maiden.”

  “I think we both know she’s no maiden, Uhad,” Jackal said, ridding himself of his stockbow and quiver, before slumping down to sit on the edge of his bed.

  Crafty lowered his bulk down on the small room’s single stool and rested his back against the wall.

  “You use my name,” the wizard said, cocking his head to the side. “Am I no longer deserving of an unimaginatively descriptive appellation?”

  “That may be entirely your choice,” Jackal replied. “The Claymaster proposed putting your name up for brotherhood. Seems you’ve made an impression.”

  Crafty smiled and twisted his beard braid around one pudgy finger. “You think I bargained with him behind your back. Told him of our rescued elf—which you would rather have related yourself—in exchange for further trust and whatever other mystery terms I may have set.”

  “Something like that,” Jackal admitted.

  “I assure you, that did not occur.”

  Jackal leaned forward. “You certainly told him more than I wanted. That occurred. Why should I believe the rest didn’t?”

  “I told your Claymaster everything he needed to know,” Crafty replied. “Had it come from you, his rival, he would only have listened to the words you did not say and seen the trap. But for me, he was intent, eagerly hearing every flapping of my tongue, for he wants to trust me, so that I will trust him. This saved time. Often the best scheme is none at all. Your hoof is now in quite a scorpion pit. In order to survive, its current leader needed to be made aware of the dangers quickly. But that does not mean I betrayed his successor.”

  Jackal glanced at the closed door. Crafty was not making an effort to whisper. Any ear pressed to the wood could not have failed to hear their discourse. Jackal chose not to let that worry him. Let the word get back to the Claymaster that Jackal and the wizard were closeted away in conversation. It could only bring further fears to the old man’s brain.

  “Out of curiosity,” Crafty said, lowering his voice with mock caution, “how would my joining the hoof transpire?”

  “I thought you had no interest in being a Bastard?”

  “I don’t. But it would behoove me to know the process, no? You said it took two to propose a new member.”

  “Not when it’s the chief putting you forward. The Claymaster’s word is law. Unless…one of us disagrees. Any member can cast a vote against the chief’s order by throwing an axe into a stump behind his chair. It is no different from any other decision he makes.”

  Crafty blinked slowly. “Symbolic. Yet not subtle.”

  “It’s a challenge,” Jackal stated. “An open display of aggression against the Claymaster’s will. Once an axe has been cast, others may join the opposition. If the majority of the hoof disagrees, the chief’s order fails or is amended by the brother who first threw.”

  “And if the vote fails?”

  “All opponents retrieve their axes with no consequence…except the original. Whoever first throws against the Claymaster must stand before the stump and allow the chief to throw an axe. Refusal to do so is craven, and cowards are not tolerated within the hoof. A true Bastard will stand firm and accept whatever fate comes.”

  “And hope your Claymaster is feeling merciful,” Crafty said with grim humor.

  An image of Warbler appeared in Jackal’s mind, the same as it did every time he came to table and saw the lone axe embedded in the stump.

  “Only a fool would hope for that,” he said.

  “If…” Crafty said, drawing the word out very slowly, “I was to be put up for your fellowship and none dared oppose, what then?”

  “You could refuse,” Jackal told him, “but that would be a great disrespect to the Grey Bastards and you would never again be welcome here. You would be escorted from the Kiln, to the borders of our lot. To return would be a mistake.”

  Crafty looked impressed. “So, all the Claymaster must do if he wishes to be rid of me is embrace me.”

  “Unless a vote is cast against your inclusion and won. Then you have not refused, but simply been denied by the hoof. Like all of the slopheads who have not been found worthy, you could still remain under the protection of the hoof, so long as you were of some service.”

  “Like growing grapes in your Winsome town?” the wizard asked, his eyes dancing within his plump face.

  “Or advising the new Claymaster,” Jackal offered pointedly.

  Crafty’s white teeth shone. “And so here I am, between old and new. I wonder, what will be the outcome?”

  “The same that always happens when two men wrestle with one knife,” Jackal answered.

  Chapter 15

  Jackal waited sleeplessly for his watch to begin. The ceiling of his chamber kept beckoning his eyes to open and stare at the timber struts above, little more than wide bars of heavy shadow in the gloom. Crafty had long since departed to seek his own repose, leaving Jackal alone with a guttering candle and the choppy sea of voices in his head.

  Several listless hours later, he heard the door of Fetching’s room open and shut across the hall. His own opened a crack, admitting nothing but a voice.

  “You’re on girl-guard, Jack.”

  Not closing his door nor waiting for a response, Fetching withdrew. Her familiar footsteps dwindled as she left the bunkhouse to take her turn riding circuit in the yard. Jackal sat up in his bed and swung his legs over the side, letting out a breath. Oats had helped set the watch rotation, pairing Fetch with Grocer and Polecat, and himself with Hood and Hobnail. Clearly, neither of Jackal’s friends wanted his company this night.

  He took up his weapons, and slid out to Fetch’s door. He eased it open.

  Starling was asleep on the bed. A lone blanket lay rumpled on the ground where Fetching must have rested. This small evidence of kindness surprised Jackal, but he immediately cursed himself for a fool-ass. Fetch wasn’t cruel by nature, just hard, the way a Bastard should be. They were all forged in the heat of Ul-wundulas, tempered by the pressure of the badlands and quenched in the brackish water of life in the hoof. Perhaps it was Jackal who was losing his edge, softening to brittle scrap. Fetch had lost no sleep over killing Garcia. Likely she would not have lost any over the cavaleros in the farrowing shed had she been tasked with their slaying. Would she have killed Starling at the river if he’d agreed? He didn’t know. He only knew he couldn’t.

  Standing in the doorway, looking at Starling’s slumbering form, he was seized with a need to wake
her, gently, with soft touches and tenuous words, or roughly, with lusty snarls and a fistful of her hair. It didn’t matter. Jackal wanted her eyes upon him, be they filled with trepidation or fear. If she had made him soft he wanted to prove it, to show it. Would she allow a mongrel hoof rider to touch her in comfort? It was doubtful. But her rebuke would permit him to retaliate. He could become what she thought him to be and delight in her fear, rid himself of all thought of her well-being with rough caresses, leaving her bruised and sobbing. For that was the mongrel needed to lead a hoof. A mongrel without mercy, one that slit throats, bartered flesh, took what he wanted from helpless girls.

  He stood there a long time, despicable visions fomenting within his skull. So lost was he in vain hopes and dark fantasies that Jackal failed to notice exactly when the elf’s eyes opened. She had not stirred, not even a twitch, yet two tiny glittering reflections of moonlight appeared in the silhouette above her sharp cheekbones. The pair of nearly imperceptible lights shone at him, unblinking. Jackal, already motionless in his brooding, froze. He felt ashamed as Starling’s eyes lifted the rock of his mind and beheld the crawling things beneath. Unable to retreat, he simply stood and weathered the intractable motes until Starling rolled over to face the wall. He could see in the tension of her slim shoulders that the girl held her breath.

  Revulsion bubbled in Jackal’s guts as he shook off his musings. He took one step into the room, closed the door behind him, and lay down on Fetch’s thin blanket on the floor, refusing to glance sideways at the bed lest the perverse demons arise again.

  When Fetching returned, hours later, Jackal arose.

  “All quiet,” she reported, answering the question voiced only by his lingering. Passing her by without a word, he left the bunkhouse.

  A slophead awaited him outside with Hearth fully saddled. Jackal mounted up and rode swiftly for the Hogback, glad to leave the waiting behind.

  The Claymaster had commanded that the Kiln not be lit. Their supply of timber was low and keeping the walls filled with deadly heat was a waste of fuel against an enemy that would likely sneak over the parapets in small numbers. The Hogback was the most vital point to protect, as any raiders who made it into the yard could lower the great ramp and provide their allies a direct route into the Kiln. Ten slopheads stood guard around the works, five on the ground surrounding the hogs yoked to the gears, and five on the wall above. The Hogback was also the point of convergence for the circuit riders, as well as the place to relieve shifts.

  Polecat and Roundth sat their hogs beneath the dark mass of the device. Jackal reined up in front of them.

  “Bunk time,” he told Polecat.

  The hatchet-faced mongrel sighed with relief. “Fuck, finally…I got Cissy waiting in my bed. Luck, brothers.”

  Polecat urged his barbarian into a fast trot and was away. Jackal was both relieved and annoyed he had not known Cissy was in the bunkhouse. He might have visited Polecat’s room before going in to guard Starling. It would have been foolish to leave the elf unattended, but the release would have been welcome. Cissy would likely not have minded.

  “And my shift’s just half over,” Roundth said mournfully as Polecat vanished into the night.

  “Better that than just begun,” Jackal told him, then motioned at the slopheads. “And these poor shits are here all night.”

  Hearing this, the younger half-orcs all stood a little straighter next to their spears, trying to appear fresh and alert. Jackal recognized Biro, the slop who had escorted him back from Winsome, amongst the lower guard.

  “It’s nights like this that will be remembered if your names ever come up for brotherhood,” Jackal told the slopheads. “Stay vigilant and keep a close watch.”

  The hopefuls all visibly recommitted themselves to their task and Jackal gave Biro a slight nod.

  “You done inspiring the arrow fodder?” Roundth asked, playing his part in the delicate dance of supportive degradation used when addressing the hopefuls. “We need to dizzy these hogs.”

  “What pace did you and Polecat use?” Jackal asked.

  “Piglets. Figured on Feathers next.”

  Jackal nodded. “Feathers, then Guard Dog. Figure out the rest on the third pass.”

  “Got it.”

  Roundth rode past and headed west along the wall. Jackal took the opposite way and spurred Hearth into a trot for forty counts, then into full gallop for forty. The hogs were well trained to these paces and picked up on the pattern quickly. Such practices made it difficult for skulking intruders to time the patrols, and also ensured the circuits met at certain points along the wall. With Feathers, Jackal and Roundth would pass each other at the tunnel gate first and again back at the Hogback. During his first circuit, Jackal would mostly watch the parapets above to see if the slops stationed there were walking the walls properly. Best to make sure their first line of defense was not slacking.

  He and Roundth reached the tunnel gate with precise timing. Roundth was standing in his stirrups, balanced perfectly, and windmilling his exposed cock around in one hand as he passed. The damn thing was as thick as a floppy tankard. Jackal could not help but laugh. Such buffoonery was a tradition on overnight watches, something to keep spirits high. They never did it in presence of slops, however, so Jackal would have some time to invent a response.

  The night was warm and dry. The moon was nearly full, but partially veiled by a march of cloud. The stars, however, held most of the sky, providing abundant light. The Tines would be hard-pressed to enter the Kiln unseen. Still, Jackal did not allow himself to become complacent. Elves were known to walk shadowy paths and the keenest ear could be deaf to their footfalls.

  The Kiln’s walls were nearly thirty feet thick at the base, making the yard within much smaller than the view from outside the stronghold would suggest. It did not take Jackal and Roundth long to ride full circle and cross paths again at the Hogback. They played no pranks, but Roundth grinned challengingly as he rode by. Jackal urged Hearth into the Guard Dog pace, which was slower and steadier than the previous pattern. This meant Jackal had until the stables to come up with some jest.

  This circuit, he placed most of his attention on the interior of the fortress. The Kiln was designed so that the oval yard was mostly open ground, allowing for quick rides through the compound and giving intruders few places to hide. The center of the yard was dominated by the structure that gave the stronghold its name. Its round, bloated bulk was imperiously entrenched behind the curtain wall, crowned with its towering chimney. This keep essentially split the yard in two, with space to its east and west for three hogs to ride abreast. The northern half of the yard contained the meeting hall, Claymaster’s domicile, and supply hall, along with the Hogback. The southern half was more crowded and home to the stables, breeding pens, farrowing shed, bunkhouse, slophead barracks, and the tunnel gate. When he reached the southern yard, Jackal took special care scanning the dark alleys between the buildings for movement.

  It was important that no one roam about, to avoid false alarms. The slopheads were all standing sentry on the walls, with a few on duty in the stables to keep the Bastards’ hogs tended and ready. Amongst the brotherhood, only the circuit riders were to be out, the others snatching what rest they could in their bunks. This also placed the meat of the hoof close to Starling should the elves make an attempt to reach her.

  The sows and piglets were all bedded down in the breeding pens, content in their hovels and filling the warm air with a familiar, earthy stink. Passing the stables, Jackal peered in without easing Hearth’s trot and was pleased to see a pair of slops brushing down a barbarian while a third stood guard outside. His mind had been on the patrol and Jackal realized he had forgotten to come up with a counter to Roundth’s cod-woggling. Looking ahead, he prepared to catch shit.

  But there was no sign of his partner.

  The Guard Dog pattern put the greater ground to cover o
n the westward rider, so it was possible Roundth had merely fumbled the pace. Jackal urged Hearth to quicken, passing the tunnel gate and coming around the southern loop of the wall.

  Still, nothing.

  Jackal breathed a curse. If Roundth was pissing about, he was going to get a thrashing. Looking around, Jackal reined Hearth to a stop, giving Roundth every chance to spring a hogshit prank, but the thick-dicked mongrel did not appear. Swinging his stockbow around, Jackal yanked back on the string and loaded a bolt. Training the thrum at the interior of the yard, he kicked at his hog and set off to complete the circuit at speed.

  The slopheads manning the Hogback were confused to see him return alone.

  “You haven’t seen Roundth?” he demanded of the group, and was answered with shakes of the head. He bit back another curse.

  “Should I run and rouse the others?” Biro asked, ready to be of service.

  “You stay where you are,” Jackal growled. “No one moves from this spot, understand?”

  The second round of nods was still bobbing when he rode off, cutting directly across the yard. He passed the meeting hall and Claymaster’s domicile, and only briefly considered waking the chief. The old man’s bellowing and blame seeking would only slow Jackal down. Better to handle this quickly.

  When he reached the keep, Jackal pulled Hearth to the right and headed for the western part of the curtain wall, back to Roundth’s first half of the circuit. The whitewashed walls of the supply hall shone ahead, lonesome and quiet. Jackal was about to ride by when Hearth grunted in complaint and pulled stubbornly toward the building. Knowing when to trust his hog, Jackal gave the animal its head. Hearth trotted around to the back of the structure, where the shadows lay thickest. Roundth’s hog stood in the darkness, still and nervous. The barbarian’s saddle was empty.

  Jackal eased Hearth closer and dismounted, covering the eaves of the supply hall with his stockbow as he carefully approached the hog. Other than a spasmodic quivering at the shoulder, the animal was completely motionless. Jackal knew it was hurt. With soothing noises, he came around and gently took hold of one of the beast’s swine-yankers. He pulled just enough to turn the hog’s head away from the building wall, squatting as he did so. Leaning to get a view of the hog’s other side, Jackal hissed. A deep gash yawned wetly in the barrel of the animal’s belly, sagging intestines plugging the wound so that there was little blood. As soon as he released the tusk, the hog buried its face back against the shadowy plaster, resuming its spooked stillness.