The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  Oats stopped gnawing on a lamb shank long enough to look affronted. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You look like an Uljuk goat herder,” Fetch declared without looking up from opening a pomegranate with her knife.

  Popping an olive into his mouth, Jackal laughed his agreement.

  “Well,” Oats countered sheepishly, “I thought it looked…”

  “Crafty?” Jackal offered.

  “I was going to say cunning.”

  Fetch began breathing in laughter as she sucked on the fruit.

  “I couldn’t find a kerchief,” Oats complained, “and I don’t have hair to keep the sun off my skull like you two! Damn meeting on top of walls.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Fetch whispered. “You’ll scare the goats.”

  Jackal nearly choked on an olive pit.

  They ate and laughed and jested, playing the small pranks and needling with the old teases, the ones invented in the orphanage and perfected in the hoof. The morning sun continued to rise, and the wind birthed by the dawn faded to a death-whisper breeze. Jackal did not mention his reason for bringing them here. Not yet. He basked in the comfort of having his friends sit beside him, each half-drunk with fatigue and breakfasted beer. Too soon the morning would be gone, too soon would he tell them his intentions and the mood would change, probably forever. If all went as planned, Jackal would be chief, elevated with the support of his friends. In backing his challenge, they would also be hoisting him above the reach of simple, pure companionship. Breaking bread and exchanging cuffs on that wall, Jackal found he was in no hurry.

  Nothing lasts, however.

  “So?” Fetching said, the word sailing on a belch. “Why we here?”

  Jackal swiveled his head, looking from one side to the other, taking in his siblings’ expectant faces. He took a final pull from the jug and set it aside, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. A deep breath, meant to help propel a simple statement, froze in Jackal’s chest.

  In the yard below, a hog was riding toward the tunnel gate. It bore two riders. Both figures were familiar, but seeing them together, one held close in the restraining arm of the other, was alien and frightful. Unnatural.

  Hoodwink and Starling.

  “Where the fuck?” Jackal cursed, scrambling to stand, knocking the beer jug off the walk.

  “Jack!”

  “Brother, what are you—?”

  Ignoring his friends’ exclamations, Jackal snatched up his tulwar. He didn’t have time to gather all his weapons and couldn’t be bothered with loading a stockbow, not now. Reaching the yard before Hood’s hog entered the tunnel was his only concern. Sprinting across the top of the wall, Jackal sent the slophead sentry sprawling on his way to the stairs. He descended them two at a time until he was halfway down, then jumped off the side to fall directly to the dirt. Hoodwink was nearly to the walls and Jackal surged to intercept him. He skidded in front of the tunnel mouth and tore his tulwar free, discarding the scabbard onto the dust. Hoodwink reined his hog to a stop. No doubt his face was expressionless, but Jackal was not looking at him.

  Starling sat astride the barbarian, wilted, eyes downcast. She looked up slowly when the hog stopped, seeming to take no interest in Jackal’s sudden appearance. Whatever she believed her fate to be at the hands of her captors, she was unmoved by it.

  “What are you doing, Hood?” Jackal demanded.

  “Taking her away,” Hoodwink replied tonelessly.

  “Where?”

  The cadaverous eyes lodged in Hoodwink’s face did not blink. Hells, did they ever? There was no response.

  “WHERE?!”

  Hood’s hog squealed and recoiled slightly from Jackal’s outburst, but neither of its riders reacted.

  Still no answer.

  Through the hot pounding of blood in his ears, Jackal heard Oats and Fetch draw up behind him. A hand reached for his arm, he was not sure whose, but he jerked away from the touch.

  “You stay right there, Hood,” Jackal managed through a jaw locked with rage. He lowered his tulwar and strode swiftly past the hog.

  “Don’t let him leave!” he called harshly over his shoulder.

  Throwing the doors of the meeting hall aside, Jackal stormed through the common room, barely seeing the slopheads on duty. He pushed into the empty voting chamber and went directly to his place. Snatching the axe up off the table, he flung it into the stump behind the Claymaster’s chair, the wood tolling his choice as the blade smote the wood.

  Chapter 18

  The air around the table was suffused with conflicting currents. Heavy lidded eyes lolled above clenched jaws, rapidly drumming fingers extended from slumped shoulders, flagons were drained quickly or left untouched. No one so much as glanced at Roundth’s empty chair, or Jackal’s full one. Stares bore into the surface of the table or were cast sidelong at the Claymaster.

  A hoof survived on regimen. Riding drills, patrol patterns, protection runs, slop training. All of these were carried out in rigid order, day after day. Only the assured chaos that would follow if just one grinding task were neglected kept the tedium from birthing madness. Ul-wundulas demanded vigilance, constancy, and unfaltering patience. Even then, the land would conjure a test. A famine, an orc raid, the Betrayer Moon, all of these rose without warning, and a hoof’s reaction must be as unvaried in peril as in peace. Threats were met swiftly and decisively. Brutally. It was the only way to live in the Lot Lands.

  Time and again of late, the regimented existence of the Grey Bastards had been interrupted. Garcia. Batayat. Crafty. Starling. Roundth’s death. And the hoof had not responded with the needed alacrity. The secure foundation of their regimen had been shaken by events, but their ability to respond with customary force had been denied them by the Claymaster. The chief’s pox was no longer catching, but his scheming had infected them all.

  Jackal saw it running rampant through all his hoofmates. Uncertainty was rife, yet all continued to look to the chief for answers, though his every word were another stone placed upon the cairn of the Grey Bastards.

  Jackal was done allowing the chief’s governance to afflict him further. No more.

  No more underhanded ploys, no more conspiring whispers or grubbing for support. Jackal had told no one of what he intended. He had been robbed of the chance. But the Claymaster had also unknowingly robbed himself of his greatest advantage. His attempted disposal of Starling had forced Jackal’s hand, but now there would be no time for the chief to shore up his authority. The challenge was made, with no time for either side to maneuver for an advantage within the brotherhood.

  Jackal trusted Oats and Fetch completely, and he was confident Hobnail would keep his word. Otherwise why would he have revealed his support? Hob was not cunning enough to bait Jackal into a trap, the lie would have shown, and he was too mulish not to stand by his decision. Mead was the only true unknown. His affection for Fetching would play upon his choice, but he was also only a year removed from the slopheads and still might perceive the Claymaster as a frightful, absolute ruler. Hopefully, an erect cod would win out over childish fear.

  Jackal relaxed in his chair and waited.

  “A challenge has been issued,” the Claymaster began, formally announcing what they all knew. “Jackal has thrown his axe in defiance of my decision to rid our hoof of the Tine captive. It’s his right as a Grey Bastard to voice his reasons.”

  Jackal looked up at the chief, trying not to allow a bemused expression to take root on his face. Had the Claymaster truly misconstrued Jackal’s challenge? Or was he giving him a chance to back away from the greater undertaking?

  Fuck that.

  “I threw my axe against you, Claymaster,” Jackal said gravely. “Against you sitting in that chair.”

  The room became very still.

  The chief’s deep voice, restricted by the bandages, m
umbled over the table.

  “So you think to sit here, boy?”

  “I do.”

  Grocer shot to his feet, his axe in hand. He scowled across at Jackal and raised his sinewy arm before chopping it down, burying the axe into the surface of the table, the sign of support for the current leader. No one else moved as the cups and flagons danced from the impact.

  “It appears some aren’t interested in hearing your reasons, Jackal,” the Claymaster gloated.

  Grocer remained on his feet, seething. Jackal ignored him and looked around the table.

  Mead was clearly rattled, which did not bode well. Polecat was a bit slack-jawed. Jackal reckoned he saw despair in the former Rutter, as if he feared losing another hoof. Oats seemed to grow in size even as he sat there, unmoving, the strength of his resolve increasing in the face of turmoil. Fetch was typically sulky, and Hobnail’s demeanor bordered on hostile. But his ire was directed at the Claymaster. Every word from the chief’s lips seemed to pick at the raw ends of Hob’s patience. At the far end of the table, self-sequestered in stillness and half-shadow, Hoodwink was an unnerving effigy.

  “Well, Jackal?” the Claymaster prodded. “You going to say something or just sit there looking young and pretty?”

  Jackal did not want to make some foolish speech, but it was obvious Mead and Polecat were straddling two hogs. He needed at least one of them.

  “The Grey Bastards can make up their own minds about who they think should be sitting in that chair,” Jackal said, addressing the Claymaster directly. “But from where I sit, Roundth is dead because you allowed five thicks to live. We need less orcs in the Lots and more Bastards, but you seem to have gotten that turned around. And the rest of us are going to follow Roundth if you keep on.” Jackal swept the Bastards with a look. “He gave that Tine to the Sludge Man, brothers, risking a war with Dog Fall. Now he’s trying to bury her, same as he had me and Hoodwink bury the new cavaleros from the brothel.”

  Hearing that, the Bastards stirred. Oats took a breath and held it. Hobnail’s frown deepened as Mead searched every surrounding face, looking for clarity. Grocer looked as if he regretted planting his axe in the table instead of Jackal’s face.

  “But the trouble didn’t get buried with the bodies,” Jackal went on. “Bermudo is still seeking a way to end us. You can damn well wager the Tines won’t vanish with Starling.”

  The Claymaster leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, slow as a grinding millstone. He didn’t address the hoof. His response was for Jackal alone. “You believe that, don’t you? That I’m the root of all the rot in the world. I don’t know how the Sludge Man got that elf hussy, Jackal. Don’t care. I do know how I got her. You. You brought her here. Same as you brought the trouble from the castile. You went into the Old Maiden without my leave, made an enemy of a strong ally, likely killed him. If the Sludge Man’s gone that leaves the marsh unguarded. We’ll have thicks coming through unchallenged in droves by high summer. Because of you. And yet you challenge me, want to replace me, for trying to rid us of the shit you hauled into our midst.”

  Jackal didn’t believe the Claymaster’s lies about Starling, but there was no sense in challenging them. He could not prove his suspicions. The time for that was over. All he could do was plant them in the heads of his brethren, hope they sprouted into doubt. But the chief had just sown his own seeds and they were many. Jackal had only his own conviction to scatter them.

  “The wizard you’ve been wooing did for the Sludge Man, not me. Save for the shackled man you had me murder, the only corpses I’ve made were of those trying to make corpses of us! We have less enemies because of me, less brothers because of you. I want to see this hoof survive. I think there are those at this table who want the same.”

  The Claymaster’s smile managed condescension even beneath the wrappings.

  “Let’s find out if you’re right about that. Boys, cast your votes.”

  An axe came whirling by the chief’s head, close enough to disturb the wisps of hair sprouting from between his bandages, and struck the stump. Hobnail had moved so quickly, Jackal had not seen him stand, much less throw. The Claymaster did not so much as flinch. But neither did Jackal when an axe came arcing over to embed itself in the table right next to his hand. Hoodwink had made the unerring cast without even rising from his seat.

  “Two against me, two for me,” the Claymaster said. “And, of course, I’m comfortable where I am.”

  The chief took up his axe in one swollen hand and lazily, effortlessly, hammered it into the wood before him, all without leaving his seat. With a display of almost laughable devotion, Polecat stood and followed the Claymaster’s example.

  Four to two.

  Jackal felt pangs of doubt begin to take root in his chest. But then Oats rose.

  “Sorry, chief,” the thrice rumbled, and hurled his axe into the stump, the force of the toss opening several new splits in the old wood. From the other side of the table, a chair scraped back and Mead stood up. His voting axe was in his hand, and Jackal could see he was holding his breath. The toss went a bit wide, coming nowhere near the Claymaster, but it struck the stump behind him nonetheless.

  Jackal smiled as a wild look appeared in the Claymaster’s eyes. He had managed to hide any surprise he felt at Hobnail casting against him, but he clearly thought the youngblood’s loyalty was his. What he had not seen, what he had refused to see, was the influence of a certain member of his hoof. Ever since her hotly contested admission into the Bastards, Fetching had been maligned and discounted. Most of the brothers had come to accept her, even love her. Not the Claymaster, never the Claymaster. Entrenched in blind ignorance, the chief treated her with open hostility when possible and dismissive scorn when she began adopting the reticence necessary while in his presence.

  Looking to his left, Jackal saw she wore the guise now; the taciturn Fetching that only existed in this room, a false face she had created in order to weather the Claymaster’s ire. It would no longer be needed. Hers was the last vote left to be cast and Jackal nearly screamed in triumph at the justice she had been handed. It was only right that her axe be the one to finally bring the chief down.

  “Bury him, Fetch,” Jackal urged softly.

  She stood, her hand going to her axe idly, sliding it off the table edge. All eyes were on her, though she seemed unaware of the scrutiny. The axe hung in her hand, the flat of the blade flapping slightly against her thigh as she twisted her wrist in rapid motions. She seemed both lost in thought and gripped by a furious concentration. The room began to be charged with expectance. Jackal would not rush her, she deserved the moment.

  The Claymaster was not so gracious.

  “Throw the damn axe, you gutless quim!”

  Fetching’s head snapped over to look at the chief, the muscles of her neck tight with fury. The breath coming from her flared nostrils was audible. Close as he was, Jackal could feel her whole body vibrating. Her aggression slipped its chains and the axe came up over her head, hanging in the air for a heartbeat before the striking snake of her arm brought it down. The wood resounded alarmingly beneath the steel.

  Jackal’s horrified eyes fixed on Fetching’s axe, lodged into the table.

  “Hells overburdened,” someone hissed, the shock rendering the voice indiscernible.

  Jackal looked up from his chair at Fetch. He did not recognize her. It wasn’t Fetching. Fetching would never have betrayed him. The stranger glared down at him, her body readying itself in anticipation of reprisal. But Jackal could not stand. All he could do was gawk at the stolen face of the one who had just killed him.

  “Fetching, what have you done?”

  Oats’s voice, perplexed and strangled.

  “She’s just given me the vote,” the Claymaster said, his own tones dull with disbelief. The old villain recovered quickly. “Jackal, your challenge has failed, five to four. You
know the code of this hoof.”

  Jackal did know. He was now to stand before the stump, his axe thrown back at him by the Claymaster, his fate decided by his own blade in the hands of the one he had tried to supplant. Oddly, he could detect no pleasure in the chief’s pronouncement.

  He wanted to know why, why Fetch had done this, but he would not allow his last moments to be marked with mewling questions. Not daring to look at her, lest the need for revenge overtake his limbs, Jackal gained his feet. Oats was there, his bearded face seeking pardon for a treachery he had not committed. None of the other brothers would look at him.

  “Wait.”

  It was Grocer who spoke. His pinched face was peering at the stump.

  “Claymaster does not have the vote,” the old miser said.

  Jackal looked. Five axes protruded from the stump. And five were in the table. Where had the fifth vote come from? And then he realized.

  “Warbler’s vote stands,” Oats proclaimed. “Hoof code.”

  “Only if he is still alive,” Polecat added.

  The Claymaster looked down the table to the only other Bastard still seated.

  “Well, Hoodwink?” the chief asked. “You still have friends amongst the free-riders. What’s the word on Warbler? He still breathing?”

  Hoodwink raised his hairless head. “Yes. He is.”

  Oats released a relieved breath. Jackal, feeling the brink retreat, rallied. He looked at the Claymaster.

  “We have a draw,” he said. It was as needless a declaration as the chief’s about the challenge, but Jackal needed to hear it out loud in order to dispel the duplicity that had torn the earth from under his feet.

  “Noon,” the Claymaster decreed, “inside the keep. Until then the opposing sides are to have no contact.”

  Jackal agreed wordlessly and gathered up his supporters with a sweeping look, a look that, unfathomably, excluded Fetching. Leading Oats, Mead, and Hobnail out of the voting chamber, Jackal left her behind.