The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  “Go!” Crafty yelled, turning to make for the scaffolding. With nowhere else to retreat, Jackal and Fetch followed. As soon as the wizard passed beneath the timber, he halted, sinking down to rest with his back against a support beam.

  “Get off your fat sacks,” Fetch told him. “Go stick your hands back in the damn furnace!”

  “Not so simple, I am fearing,” Crafty replied breathlessly. “The spirits within the flame will only suffer servitude for so long.”

  Jackal saw the sludge already stirring.

  “We don’t have long,” he warned.

  “I have had it with this bog sucker!” Fetch raged, following his gaze. “What can we do?”

  Crafty gave a tired, helpless gesture.

  Fetch got in his face. “Think! You were just crowing about how we needed you!”

  “Have to kill the man within,” Crafty offered, “but I cannot reach him.”

  “Then I’ll fucking go in and get him!” Fetch declared.

  “That’s madness,” Jackal said.

  Ignoring him, she pressed Crafty. “Got anything in that bag to keep me from going to sleep?”

  The wizard shook his head. “No. Were there such, it would be little use. Elf-blood quickly dispels most all—”

  Crafty’s eyes went wide with inspiration.

  “Friend Jackal, give me your knife!”

  Snatching the dagger from his boot, Jackal handed it over. Crafty grabbed Fetch and sliced her across the inner forearm. She winced and hissed, instinctively tried to pull away, but the wizard held her firmly, opening her flesh again across the shoulder.

  “The hells are you doing?” Jackal demanded.

  “Her own blood may protect her. Help me!”

  Seeing Jackal’s hesitance, Fetch grit her teeth, drew her own dagger and quickly drew three cuts across her thigh, slicing through her breeches.

  The sludge had been roiling since it landed and was now gathering its shape once more.

  Fetching jerked away from Crafty after he cut her a fourth time. “Enough! Leave some where it belongs.”

  “You won’t have long,” the wizard cautioned.

  Peering out through the support beams, Jackal saw the sludge begin to move forward. It was no longer crawling, but rolling, sloughing over itself and quickly gaining speed.

  “It’s coming!”

  “Be ready,” Fetching said, winding her way out from under the scaffolding.

  There was a fleeting moment, as she passed, when Jackal could have reached out and tried to stop her. He did not take it.

  “Right behind you.”

  Fetch broke into a run as soon as she reached open ground and rushed to meet the creature. The sludge increased its pace as she emerged, barreling ravenously to reach the object of its desire. Screaming with a fury, Fetch leapt, her formidable legs launching her headfirst into the black mass. Her entire body disappeared within its inky embrace.

  The sludge’s rush was immediately arrested, the ripples from Fetch’s entry replaced by a violent quivering across the viscid skin. Jackal moved quickly toward the creature, his heart hammering. A tentacle birthed to strike at him, but was pulled back before it came close. The entire creature writhed with inner turmoil, swelling and constricting haphazardly. Jackal circled it, uncertain where Fetch would emerge, if she would emerge. As he watched, an irregular protuberance began to form. The flesh of the sludge stretched outward, thinning, as the bulge grew. Jackal began to see the outline of shoulder blades, the back of a head. The tension upon the greying membrane snapped and Fetching burst forth, back-first, her arms encircled about the waist of the Sludge Man.

  Using their combined weights to speed her escape, Fetch fell out of the sludge and rolled, planting her feet in the Sludge Man’s gut and kicking him over her head. The heavy-limbed, naked form landed hard. And Jackal was there to greet him.

  The Sludge Man’s eyes lolled in his calcified face. His grey flesh creased and cracked even as Jackal hooked a hand beneath his chin and drug him along the ground. The sludge was in pursuit, flowing over and around Fetch as she coughed on her hands and knees. The doors to the great furnace still hung open and Jackal pounded toward them, bent low. The Sludge Man began to struggle and kick, wriggling pitifully as the threshold to the oven loomed. Hauling him up by the throat, Jackal flung the decaying demon at the roaring flames. The Sludge Man’s long arms splayed wide and grabbed the jamb. He glared hatefully at Jackal from the brink of the inferno.

  “Filthy half-breed! You dare lay besmirched hands upon us!”

  “Enjoy all the hells, Corigari,” Jackal growled, and booted the Sludge Man into the emerald flames.

  The onrushing tide of sludge was at his back. Jackal dove to the side as the river of tar went after its master, pouring into the furnace. As soon as the last flowed through, Jackal jumped to his feet and slammed the doors shut, burning his hands on the hot iron. Through the thick metal the final shrieks of the Sludge Man could still be heard.

  A great booming sounded within the furnace and the doors buckled. Jackal jumped back as the works began to rumble. The roar from the ovens was increasing as concussions blossomed within the belly of the chimney, sending bricks shrieking through the air on jets of steam. The scaffolding shivered and timbers began to snap. The entire keep began to shake.

  Fetch ran up. “What is happening?!”

  Jackal could hardly hear her over the din. He shook his head. A strident metal scream cut through the thundering as the door to the furnace, glowing white-hot, warped violently.

  Jackal put his mouth near Fetch’s ear. “Crafty will know!”

  “Jack! He’s fucking gone!”

  A massive explosion rocked the chimney midway up its length, vomiting green flame and large chunks of stone.

  “Go!” Jackal yelled, pointing at the passage.

  Staying together, they ran, reeling and flinching as the keep cracked and belched.

  Outside, they found the Kiln in chaos. The eruptions could be felt in the yard, and flares of flame were already fountaining out of the wall, beacons of jade against the foredawn sky. Slopheads were scurrying down off the shaking palisade.

  “The Al-Unan fire,” Jackal gasped, “it’s burning out of control.”

  “We have to get everyone out,” Fetch said, her eyes taking in the fortress and seeing the destruction to come.

  Jackal bit down on a scream as her words reminded him.

  “The Claymaster,” he said, turning back to the door of the keep. “He is still inside.”

  “Let him burn,” Fetching declared, grabbing his arm.

  Jackal looked back at her. “We need him.”

  “Go,” Fetch told him, setting her jaw. “I’ll get everyone out.”

  Giving her hand a grateful squeeze, Jackal flung the door open and ran back into the dying keep.

  Chapter 36

  The Claymaster stood in the middle of a green hell. Heedless of the falling stones, the collapsing timber, the fonts of flame shooting from the walls and the floor, he simply stared up at the crumbling chimney. Jackal remained in the fragile shelter of the sweltering passage and called out to him. Slowly, the Claymaster turned.

  “Come to revel in what you’ve done, Jackal?”

  The rancor in the old mongrel’s voice could be heard over the tumbling brick and sibilant fire.

  “This wasn’t my doing, chief!”

  “No?” the Claymaster said, flinging an arm back at the chimney. “I built it. You destroyed it!”

  Jackal took a single stride out of the passage. “The hoof isn’t destroyed. Even now. The Grey Bastards are more than the Kiln!”

  “And we could have been more than a hoof! But for you.”

  “We would have been bowing before a foreign sorcerer! Servants to a king!”

  “A half-orc king!”
the Claymaster shot back.

  Another of the oven doors gave way under the building pressure, cannoning off its hinges to slam against the wall.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jackal said. “He will always be the Tyrkanian cat’s-paw who allowed the orcs to destroy the Lots.”

  “The Lots!” the Claymaster spat. “Ul-wundulas is a blight, Jackal. If you had ever seen Hisparth—”

  “I’ve seen it! It’s beautiful. And it’s not home.”

  Phantom waves of heat distorted the Claymaster. “You only know what a home is because of me, boy! You are not living in chains because of me!”

  Jackal took another step. “That’s true. You gave us this land. So why are you not defending it? Why have you abandoned your prize to help Crafty win his?”

  “No one can fight forever, Jackal. You’ll discover that when you’re old and done.”

  “You’re wrong. You fight forever if you fight to the end.”

  The Claymaster laughed and spread his arms. “Wiseass whelp! This is my end!”

  “It doesn’t have to be! Come with me. Ride against the orcs. Remind them why they fear you. Remind the Bastards why we followed you.”

  Behind the hunched form of the Claymaster, half the chimney fell in on itself. The heat within the keep was nearly unbearable. The chief regarded the jagged throat of bricks for a moment before making his way toward Jackal, stepping over steaming fissures and around burning debris.

  “Remind them?” the old mongrel asked as he drew close. “Remind them with what? The truth is…”

  The Claymaster’s hand came up. The bandages about his head were loose, heavy with sweat. Clawing at them with fingers no longer swollen, the chief pulled the wrappings down to hang about his neck. Jackal looked upon the old mongrel’s face. Wrinkles and the creases of long cares dwelled there, but no pustules, no sores. The ravages of plague were gone.

  “…I no longer have it in me.”

  Jackal felt his guts roll over. “Oats.”

  The Claymaster smiled, amused at his astonishment. His hands darted out and seized Jackal by the shoulders, dragging him nearly nose to nose.

  “Jackal,” the old mongrel said, invoking the name as a curse. “I am half-tempted to keep you here. Force you to watch the fall of everything I created. Allow our mistakes to burn us both.”

  “Half-tempted?” Jackal asked, grinning at the unmasked, unfamiliar face. “I am wholly hoping you will try.”

  The Claymaster’s mirth faded, replaced with a resigned regret. Dropping his eyes and his hands, the chief turned and strode back into the burning ruin of his works.

  Jackal was halfway down the passage, running for all he was worth, when he felt the furnace chamber implode. Overtaken by a fist of roaring wind and smoldering dust, he was punched forward, slammed to the ground, where he slid until striking the curved wall. Picking himself up, he ran on, choking on grit. He could feel the weight of the entire shuddering structure above him, ready to expire. The door appeared ahead and Jackal kicked it open, fleeing the calamity. He ran for the bunkhouse, darting around the corner to the far side of the building just as the heart of the stronghold succumbed. Hunkering, he put his arms over his head. Stones fell in a rain, many of them awash in Al-Unan fire. They besieged Jackal’s shelter with a terrifying clamor. He heard the roof of the bunkhouse collapse and the wall at his back felt made of wind-blown cloth. For what seemed an eternity, he existed in a world of cacophony and tremors. He could do nothing but shield himself with his own flesh and weather what could not be stopped.

  When the stones finally ceased falling, Jackal opened his eyes to dust and smoke. All was illuminated by the alchemist’s fire. The broken tooth of the bunkhouse stuck up from a sea of rubble. Looking around the corner Jackal saw the keep, reduced to nothing but a hill of burning stones. Stumbling away from the wreckage, he hurried across the quaking yard, making for the Hogback. Vaulting strewn stones and lurching away from blasts of flame and steam, he moved through the destruction, watchful for signs of any others. Thankfully, he saw no stragglers. None would be foolish enough to remain.

  The Kiln was tearing itself apart.

  Even as he ran, a stretch of the palisade ignited on the wall ahead. The white render vanished as the flames dined upon the latticework beneath. The fire spread swiftly in both directions. Soon, the entire wall would wear a dancing jade crown. Jackal raced the flames.

  The great ramp came into view. Upon its crest, at the top of the wall, a lone figure sat astride a hog, watching the yard. The smoke was thick in the air, but Jackal knew it was Fetching. She had ensured everyone fled, and now waited on the last occupant. The fire was coming, chewing its way toward the wooden Hogback from both directions.

  Jackal halted. He would never make it.

  Fetching had not yet spied him. She would come for him when she did. And then neither of them would make it out. Even her hog could not outrun the alchemist’s fire. His choice made, Jackal ducked behind what was left of the Claymaster’s domicile. Peering around the shattered wall, he watched the one who watched for him, and waited. He willed Fetch to leave, fearing she would gallop down into the doomed fortress to search for him. It was a near thing. She almost waited too long. The flames were licking at the hooves of her barbarian when she turned and vanished over the edge of the wall.

  Weary to the bone, Jackal sat down, leaning against the wall of the domicile. He had never had the Kiln all to himself before. The thought made him laugh aloud, the sound dry and humorless.

  An explosion erupted in the wall nearby, making him flinch and killing his laughter. A gaping hole stared at him, an eye with green lashes, weeping smoke. Jackal stared at it dully for a moment, wondering how long it would be before the walls completely fell. He wouldn’t live to see it. The conducting channels underground were already beginning to burst. Soon the entire yard would be a lake of fire. Jackal stared at the hole in the wall, the tunnel inside exposed.

  Slowly, he rose.

  The tunnel.

  He could feel the heat from where he stood. Hells, he would never survive. But it was a chance. The hole was just south of the upper curve of the wall. He would have a little more than half the circuit to traverse. It was madness. The gate at the other end would be closed. Even if he made it before he cooked, he would be trapped. Unless other holes had been blown in the wall. He only needed one on the outer-facing side to escape.

  “Going to burn anyway.”

  Jackal walked to the mouth of the hole. The heat pouring out of it was bearable, but it would be worse once he was inside. Stepping back to get a running start, Jackal took several deep breaths and rushed in, jumping through the ring of flames. Landing, he turned left and sprinted up the tunnel.

  He had light from the opening until he turned the upper curve, then all was darkness. Sticking his right hand out, Jackal placed it on the wall, dragging it along the scorching stones to guide him as he ran. And still he fell. Unseen debris, shaken loose from the failing masonry, tripped him up. Each time he hit the ground, it was harder to rise. The air was leaden. He was blind not just from the lightless tunnel, but the necessity to keep his eyes closed against the blowing heat lest they be boiled in their sockets. His first steps had drenched him with sweat. By his second fall, he was encased in dry, tightening flesh. Nothing flowed through his nostrils, nor his open, parched mouth. Yet he got to his feet, again and again, continuing to run.

  The curve of the wall was never-ending. He despaired of ever making it to the downward side of the oval, much less to the gate at the bottom end. His skin split. And mended. He could feel the blessing of Attukhan striving to save him, but it could not conjure air into his lungs. Zirko had said even a candle behind a rushing waterfall could be snuffed. Jackal could not have blown out a candle directly in front of his lips. Wheezing, suffocating, he fell again, and this time nothing had impaired his feet.

&n
bsp; He did not rise. The tunnel floor seared his cheek, his chest and stomach, but there was no strength within him to do anything but burn. The pain was excruciating. Jackal eagerly awaited his breathless body to drag him into darkness so he could escape. The tunnel pounded up ahead. Stones falling. Good. He would be crushed, buried. Whatever would bring an end. Through the rumble, the pounding continued, louder now, closer.

  Rhythmic.

  Jackal could feel it now in the floor beneath his chest, melding with the beats of his heart. Beats. Hoofbeats. A squeal echoed through the tunnel. Jackal raised his head, knowing that sound.

  It was Hearth.

  The hog stopped right in front him, unseen, yet heard, smelled. A dry snout, pulsing with labored breaths, nudged his arm. No! Jackal tried to call out, tried to tell him to go back, but his tongue was useless in his barren mouth. Turn around! Run! The hog squealed again, agitated, his own voice raspy and weak. Hells, Hearth, you are dying! Go! But the hog remained, buffeting him with the sides of his tusk, trying to hook his arm, force him to stand. Raising an arm, Jackal gripped the barbarian’s mane, the bristles dry and brittle. With an effort, he mounted.

  Hearth turned immediately and sped away.

  Lying upon his hog’s neck, Jackal felt the heat rushing around him, a torturous breath from every hell. Galloping down the tunnel he had traversed countless times, Hearth ran. The bellows of his belly heaved, less with every breath. Beneath his thighs, Jackal could feel his mount giving out. He reached weakly for one of the swine-yanker tusks, instinct telling him to slow the beast, but Hearth jerked his head and snorted, denying him. His every breath was audible, painfully punctuated by flagging squeals. The rider within him told Jackal he was astride an animal already dead. He screamed into his beloved hog’s smoldering mane as a mote of light appeared before them, growing larger as the beast thundered on. Leaping the shattered and twisted gate, Hearth bore Jackal out of the tunnel, his legs buckling as he landed. Without the strength to hold on, Jackal was thrown, landing beneath the arch of the gatehouse. Hearth was less than a stone’s throw away, spilled on his side. Jackal crawled, watching the barbarian’s last breaths rise and fall, wanting only to reach him before the end, place a hand upon him in parting.