The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  Inspecting the saddle harness, Jackal saw that all of Roundth’s javelins were there, as was his signal horn. Whatever had happened, it was swift.

  Jackal resisted the urge to sound his own horn and raise the alarm. That would only bring everyone running to his aid, which was little use. The enemy was not here, just the evidence that they were within the walls. Drawing the slopheads away from their posts could only help the intruder.

  Searching the dust, Jackal found the animal’s blood trail. It appeared to lead around the other side of the supply hall. Leaving Hearth with the other barbarian, Jackal followed the splatters, his stockbow pressed into his shoulder. He stalked around the corner of the hall and continued to allow the blood to guide his feet. Soon, he found himself at the curtain wall. He could see the tracks made by the patrol riders, the freshest left by Hearth when he and Jackal had ridden by at a gallop in search of Roundth before checking at the Hogback. The blood would have been impossible to see at such speed, even with half-orc eyes.

  Thinking quickly, Jackal shot a look upward, craning his neck to view the rampart. He began a silent count. When he reached eighty and there was no sign of a slophead patrol, Jackal growled and rushed for the nearest stair, taking them two at a time until he reached the battlements. Whirling in either direction, he quickly ensured the wall was clear of foes. Nothing moved, but the rampart was not entirely vacant. A body lay along the wall-walk to the south. Jackal rushed over to find a young half-orc sprawled with a spear still clutched in lifeless fingers. His head was wrenched at an unnatural angle above his shoulders.

  Jackal ran to the outward-facing edge of the wall and stole a look over the parapet. Below, the starlit scrub of Ul-wundulas was mute and empty. There was no Tine raiding party scaling the walls. At least, not here.

  Jackal hesitated. If he ran north along the wall he would reach the Hogback, the most likely spot for an assault if the elves wished to bring larger numbers into the Kiln. But south lay the bunkhouse and the object they sought.

  Starling.

  Jackal stuck two fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle before breaking into a sprint. He ran south.

  Glancing down, he saw Hearth racing through the yard below, keeping pace with Jackal’s progress along the wall. His boots pounded the planking, his stockbow clutched in both hands at the ends of his pumping arms.

  “HALT!”

  A challenge rang out ahead of him. The voice was loud, yet twanged with uncertainty. Jackal answered the slophead in a voice made of iron.

  “Keep to your post! We have intruders within the walls! Keep to your post!”

  He sped by the sentry without stopping, ignoring the half-leveled spear. To his left, the mass of the keep seemed to crawl by and Jackal pushed himself to run faster. He lost Hearth for a moment, as the hog was forced to travel closer to the wall to pass the great central structure. Two more sentries issued challenges and were answered as the first. As soon as he cleared the keep, Jackal again caught sight of his mount and his destination.

  The bunkhouse was a long, narrow three-story building that rose to almost half the height of the rampart. The span of empty air between the two, however, was daunting. Not wanting a loaded thrum in his hands during what he intended, Jackal jerked the tickler of his stockbow, launching the bolt out over the wall into the night. Keeping his eye on the roof of the bunkhouse, he darted left, angling his steps, and jumped.

  There was a heartbeat of weightless wonder. Jackal nearly choked on the next heartbeat as his leap quickly transformed into a plummet. His feet smote the roof a handsbreadth from the edge, shattering tiles as his legs buckled, the shards piercing his knees. He fell forward, catching himself as tiles began to slide out from under his scrabbling boots, falling to the yard below. Finding his balance, Jackal stood and slung his stockbow behind him. He moved over to an unspoiled section of tiles and lowered himself slowly over the lip of the roof until he hung from his fingers. The windows of the bunkhouse were little more than arrow slits, but they made decent handholds. Kicking forward, he reached out with his right hand to grab at the nearest window and managed to hook the upper sill. The rest of the descent was a simple matter of crawling down from window to window.

  Hearth awaited him at the bottom, falling into step beside Jackal as he made his way around the bunkhouse, reloading his stockbow on the move. The door was flung open just as he reached it, revealing Hobnail and Oats with thrums leveled.

  “Hells,” Hob swore, stretching his fingers away from his thrum’s tickler. “What the fuck are you doing? Trying to die?”

  “They haven’t been here yet,” Jackal said. It was not a question. He spun to cover the yard behind him.

  “Talk to us, brother,” Oats urged.

  Jackal backed up a pace, but continued sweeping the shadows. “The Tines are inside. At least one slop on the palisade dead. And Roundth is missing.”

  “What?” Hobnail demanded. Roundth was his ranging partner.

  “Found his hog hiding behind the supply hall. Nearly gutted.”

  “Fuck!”

  Jackal felt Hob try to run out, heard Oats hold him back.

  “Not alone,” the thrice rumbled.

  “Then you two fucking come on!”

  A tense silence settled behind Jackal. He could sense Oats looking to him. Turning, he found he was right.

  “Take Grocer and go,” Jackal told Hobnail.

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  Jackal spoke quickly. “It’s not an order, Hob. It’s the damn smart thing to do. Fetching and Mead need to stay here with the girl. Oats, you too. We are going to need our main strength here for when the point-ears do make a run for her. Is Crafty still here?”

  “Took a room on the second floor,” Oats replied.

  “Good. Get him too. Hood and Polecat need to reach the chief, make sure he’s aware and safe.” Jackal turned back to Hobnail’s simmering face. “That leaves Grocer to help you find Roundth.”

  “And you?” Hob asked through a mouthful of loathing.

  “I’m going to the Hogback,” Jackal told him. “Make sure the slops hold.”

  Oats shook his head. “Same rules. Not alone.”

  “I’m going to ride fast,” Jackal said, already swinging a leg over Hearth. “And I won’t be alone once I’m there unless something has gone very wrong. It’s the best way to divide our numbers.”

  Hobnail hadn’t cared to wait through the debate and was already back inside gathering the others.

  “Let me go with you,” Oats said. “Three on the girl is plenty.”

  “I need you here,” Jackal insisted. “With Crafty at your back, you and Fetch can hold off an army. And you might need Mead if the Tines decide to talk.”

  “They’ve already killed a slop, brother. The time for words is burnt.”

  Jackal nodded grimly. “I know.”

  With that he punched his heels into Hearth and rode away before Oats could say another word.

  Jackal rode directly east, past the lower curve of the keep. He needed to reach the Hogback with all haste, but the slopheads in the stables needed to be told of the danger and get a head start on readying the hoof’s mounts. After, Jackal could cut up along the eastern wall and get a look at the stronghold’s other half. The Tines had to be somewhere.

  He could hear the hogs squealing before he reached the stables. Something was wrong.

  Fearing fire, Jackal surged ahead. When the building came into view, he saw no flames, no smoke, but the slopheads were down. Jackal could see them in the glow of the lanterns, lying in beds of red straw. He rode his hog directly into the stable and jumped off on the move. One of the slops still moved. The poor youth was feebly struggling to keep his life from flowing out of his ruined throat. He was failing. Jackal knelt beside him, knowing there was nothing to be done. Their eyes met and the e
bbing light in the boy’s read the inevitable in Jackal’s.

  “How many?” Jackal asked.

  Unable to speak, the young half-orc raised one finger, sticky with blood. The hand fell.

  Gritting his teeth, Jackal rose, turning away from the body and sweeping the stable with his thrum. The surrounding stalls emitted a horrible chorus of screams and squeals from the hogs. The wood resounded with the strikes of hoof and tusk. The barbarians were crazed, fighting to be free of their pens. They were war mounts, bred for battle, the blood of three young half-orcs should not have stirred them to such fearful frenzy.

  Icy realization seized Jackal’s guts. It wasn’t the Tines.

  As if sensing his awareness, the orc stepped out from an empty stall at the far end. The large, curved knife in his hand dripped. His dark grey flesh was further darkened by smears of soot, applied for better concealment in the dark. He wore no armor, nothing that would glint in the night, just a simple leather clout about his loins.

  Since entering the stable, Hearth had grown steadily agitated, the behavior of his caged kin building within him. The hogs sensed the greater predator, their natural inclination to flee replaced, through the careful selection of their forebears, with a need to attack. Seeing the orc forced Hearth to charge.

  Jackal reacted quickly, dropping his stockbow and seizing the barbarian by the swine-yankers, stalling his rush. He could not allow him to be butchered. Digging his heels in and pulling back with all he had, Jackal was only dragged a stride or two before managing to stop the beast. The orc continued to stand at the rear of the stable, his long lower fangs bared with brutish amusement. Jackal needed to mount up, to get full control of Hearth, to ride out of this enclosed space. To do so was to flee, however momentarily, and the mocking smile on the thick’s face would not allow him to.

  Pulling hard on Hearth’s tusks, Jackal forced him around to face the doors and gave him a hard swat on the haunch. The hog, long trained to the hand of his rider, trotted out of the stable.

  Jackal’s stockbow still hung from its strap, down by his left thigh, but the bolt had fallen free. The orc would close the distance before he could reload. Thicks were always bigger, but they were rarely slower. Keeping his eyes on the grinning beast, Jackal hooked a thumb under his thrum strap and freed himself of the weapon. He drew his tulwar and dagger, filling his hands with sharp steel. This only widened the thick’s amusement.

  “You won’t die in the saddle, half-blood,” it said in the foul tongue of orcs.

  “No,” Jackal replied in the same language, “I’ll be balls deep in your eye socket.”

  He launched himself at the orc, robbing its chance to charge. It hunkered to receive him, so big its head remained level with his own. Jackal made a reaping cut with his tulwar, leading with the longer blade to force the orc to give ground, wanting to back it against the wall. But the orc gave no ground. Instead, it jumped straight upward on corded legs, throwing up one long, bulging arm to catch the lowest cruck. As Jackal’s sword parted the air, the orc swung itself forward and released the beam, twisting its heavy body nimbly to land, reversing their positions. The large knife was already thrusting for Jackal’s spine.

  Allowing his missed stroke to bring him fully around, Jackal parried, and responded with a cut of his own dagger, whipping it at the orc’s face. The thick snapped away, the muscles of its torso recoiling only to immediately spring back, driving a fist into Jackal’s face. He rolled with the blow, avoiding the unconsciousness that hungered in the center of the colorful pain. The knife came again and it took both of Jackal’s blades to stop its edge, leaving him open to a knee sieging the gates of his ribs. Losing his balance, he careened away from the assault, making a warding strike with his tulwar, preventing the orc from pressing the attack.

  Nauseous and bleeding, Jackal backed up another pace. The wall of the stable was behind, his enemy ahead, empty pens to either side. The stable was wide enough for four hogs to ride abreast, but Jackal had little hope of darting past the thick, not with its frightening speed and reach. He had never faced an orc while afoot and alone. But he didn’t need to win, just survive, survive long enough for the others to arrive. Hood and Polecat, Hobnail and Grocer, they should all be on their way to claim their hogs. Soon, they would arrive and feather this big throat slitter with thrumbolts.

  Survive.

  Jackal waded in to the waiting orc, flinging strokes with his tulwar, his dagger ready to counter. The orc had only his knife, but it was a serpent in his hands, darting with alarming speed to turn every attack. The edges of the weapons scraped and sparked, ringing amongst the drumming of the cloistered hogs. But for all the clashing of blades, the orc gave not a single step. It was a bulwark of muscle and murder, a spawn of panther grace and monstrous ferocity.

  Through clenched teeth, Jackal grunted wordless challenges and fought. He held to a tenuous offense, preventing the orc from attacking yet unable to draw blood. For years, he had wondered what it would be like to fight Oats in earnest. Now he knew.

  Hells! Where were his brothers?

  Anger blossomed. Anger over the intrusion of his home, anger over the dead slopheads, anger over his inability to slay their killer. He slashed with both blades, forgoing all defense. The orc turned his tulwar, but neglected the dagger that raked across the brute’s abdomen. Growling, the thick hammered his head down, trying to smash Jackal’s face with his sloping forehead. Darting back, Jackal saved himself, but collided with the unresisting wood of the wall. Unwilling to be trapped, he rushed forward, pushing himself off the planking and thrusting with his sword. The orc slapped the blade away with his bare hand, but Jackal kept coming and punched his dagger into his opponent’s thigh. With immediate vengeance, the thick slashed into Jackal’s left forearm, his knife opening a vicious gash on the underside. He swallowed the pain, but his hand came away from his dagger, fleeing the injury. He chopped upward with his tulwar and the blade sunk into the orc’s side, biting into its ribs before halting. The big knife screamed for his throat. With no choice, Jackal released his sword, snatching at the orc’s wrist with both hands, wrenching the blade aside. The wind left him in a rush as the orc’s knee struck again, punishing his guts.

  Doubled over, world spinning, Jackal saw the knife coming again. He snatched desperately for his dagger, still protruding from the orc’s leaking thigh, and pulled it free. He pushed the blade into the thick’s descending wrist joint, arresting its stab, severing tendons. The cleaver fell from useless fingers, but the orc’s other hand seized Jackal by the brigand, lifting him bodily, spinning him around before flinging him to the ground. All three blades now lay at the thick’s feet and it stepped over them contemptuously to kick Jackal before he could rise. He found himself facing the doors, his fallen stockbow halfway between him and the exit.

  Jackal rushed for the weapon, half crawling, hands scrambling in the straw as he tried to gain his feet on the move. He felt a grip on his ankle and was snatched back, his chin striking the ground before his vision went sideways. Hurled through the air by his foot, Jackal struck the door of a pen. Head swimming, he found himself on the ground once more. He tried to rise, but was betrayed by his addled senses and spilled over, rolling to a slump. At his back came a recurring, violent vibration and a deafening crash, over and again.

  The orc had retrieved his knife, brandishing it in his uninjured hand as he lumbered toward Jackal. The grin was back.

  Jackal was battered and disoriented, the contents of his stomach souring within his skull. His vision was blurred and his ears roared. But he had grown up in these stables, mucked them as a youth, spent long hours mending tack and harness beneath this roof. He knew precisely where he sat. The thick was towering directly in front of him when Jackal returned its grin.

  “Orc. Meet Ugfuck.”

  Reaching up, Jackal grabbed the latch of the pen door and pulled, leaning away. Oats’s massive hog
came barreling out of the enclosure, screaming with pent-up rage. Ug struck the door aside, slamming it into Jackal and knocking him completely over. He heard a harsh, alarmed cry followed by an awful concussive splintering of wood. The stables resonated with the crash and the increased squealing of the hogs it encouraged.

  Jackal got to his feet.

  Ugfuck had the orc pinned against the opposite wall, gored on both tusks through the belly. The hog continued to press forward, shaking his head back and forth, worrying his tusks deeper as the orc punched feebly at his shoulders. His knife lay far away, fallen to the straw. Jackal walked slowly over and picked up his stockbow, fitting a bolt to the runnel as he returned to the orc. The thick, no longer struggling, was gagging on a feast of its own blood, beyond questioning. Jackal was in no mood to talk anyway. The orc raised its bald head and looked at him. Its eyes could have lit the Kiln.

  Holding his stockbow low at the hip, Jackal aimed.

  “What did I say? The eye socket?”

  He pulled the tickler.

  Chapter 16

  Roundth’s body was found in the slopheads’ barracks. The orc’s big knife had taken him up under the jaw, just below the ear. It was a wound dealt to render Roundth silent, yet suffering. Death had come at a cruel pace. The slops’ barracks had been empty, all the hopefuls turned out for guard duty. The orc must have dumped Roundth on his way to the stables. Thankfully, the dying slophead had been right; only one thick infiltrated the Kiln.

  One, and he had taken six lives.