The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  Jackal removed the bolt from his stockbow and slung the weapon over his shoulder. He took a slow step farther into the room, wary of any motion from the sludge. Other than the slow, incessant rippling across its surface, the creature did not stir at his trespass. Another cautious step brought Jackal within reach of the captive and he carefully cupped her unseen face in his hands, raising her head while he squatted slightly. The woman’s eyes were closed, her tanned skin feverish to the touch. She whimpered ever so slightly, but did not awaken. Whether this was caused by the sludge or the more mundane hardships of captivity, Jackal could not guess. She was slim, but well muscled, not emaciated from hunger, and though her skin was grimy, there were no obvious wounds. The creature did not appear to be harming her, merely acting as a living restraint.

  As Jackal slowly released her head, his fingers brushed against her ears. Frowning, he moved her hair away to confirm with his eyes what his touch conveyed. The prisoner’s ears were pointed. Jackal backed slowly out of the shed.

  He found Crafty sitting with his back to the wall of the building, facing the lagoon. A strange, sizable brass bottle with a bulbous base was standing upon the planks beside him, and the wizard was busy retrieving other oddments from his belongings. His motions were sure and practiced, his eyes never leaving the sludges in the lagoon.

  “That girl is an elf,” Jackal said.

  “Yes. I saw.”

  Crafty continued with his puzzling chore, now opening a compartment at the top of the bottle and filling it with what looked like a bunch of dried herbs and some dark powder. Next, he poured some liquid from a skin into another part of the bottle. Finally, he affixed a thin, serpentine brass tube into a shunt near the bottom of the curio. Jackal watched all this with growing aggravation.

  “She could be a Tine. The elves don’t tattoo the members of their hoof, so I can’t be sure. What the fuck is she doing here?”

  This last he said mostly to himself, but Crafty answered anyway.

  “Clearly, she is of some use to the demon you seek.”

  Jackal glared. “Demon?”

  Crafty now had the thin tube between his lips and his plump cheeks worked rapidly for a moment. Vapors soon leaked out of the wizard’s nostrils and snaked out between his lips as he removed the pipe. Jackal wrinkled his nose at the cloying odor.

  “Yes,” Crafty replied. “This Sludge Man. Indeed, even his name is a lie, for he is no man. Of this, I am now certain.”

  “Oh, no, he’s a frail. Just one with a few weird talents and some deadly pets. We need to get this girl out of here, but I don’t know how to begin freeing her.”

  “In a moment,” Crafty offered, “you may be able to inquire of her captor.”

  Following the wizard’s gaze, Jackal saw another sludge approaching from across the lagoon. This one was larger than the other six, forcing them to slither out of the way as it passed. The big sludge made directly for the landing that Jackal and Crafty occupied. Knowing it would be of no use, Jackal unslung his stockbow and loaded a bolt. Beside him, Crafty continued to sit and suck upon his complex pipe, exhaling the vapors without apparent care.

  As the big sludge reached the edge of the walkway, it changed fluidly from a crawl to a cresting rise. Now nearly vertical, the creature stretched upward until it equaled Jackal in height. He could have reached out and touched the thing, it was so close. His own image was reflected back at him from the shiny, black surface. A protuberance began to form at the top of the sludge, the membrane puckering as a round shape began to emerge.

  It was the head of a man.

  The eyes came clear of the sludge already open and staring directly at Jackal.

  The Sludge Man rose from the body of the creature, his pale, rounded shoulders quickly following a face molded with hostility. No trace of the sludge remained on his skin, but was birthed clean and corpse-white. Once his bare torso was free, the Sludge Man ceased rising. The sludge continued to embrace him from below his sizable paunch, holding him up to weave unctuously above the planking.

  Beneath his wild, thinning hair the Sludge Man’s suspicious eyes narrowed. His mouth hung open, his tongue sliding in front of his lower teeth, causing his bottom lip to protrude stupidly for a moment before he spoke.

  “Why are you here, half-breed?”

  The Sludge Man’s voice was deep, full of danger, and possessed a thick, mumbling quality.

  “To find you,” Jackal said. “And to find out why you broke faith with the Grey Bastards.”

  The sludge dipped slightly and leaned so that the Sludge Man could get a better look at Crafty, sitting behind Jackal. After a moment’s scrutiny, the column of living muck straightened once more.

  “The Hisparthan is gone, half-orc,” the Sludge Man told Jackal. “My lovelies ushered him into the black parlor. The faith is sundered only by you, who come unwelcome to our suzerainty.”

  Jackal sighed in relief. That was it, then. Garcia was gone. All evidence of Fetch’s deed lost to the mire. “What of his horse? Why did it return to the castile?”

  The Sludge Man’s frown deepened. “The fat man bequeathed to me the corpse the Grey Bastards made of a man. There was no steed offered or accepted.”

  Jackal’s mind began racing. Why would Sancho have withheld the horse? The whoremaster had always been a friend to the Bastards.

  The Sludge Man dismissed his obvious confusion. “The devious bawd is a problem for your coterie. I have received recompense for my aid and am well satisfied.”

  “Recompense? Was that the chests of coins or a damn elf girl?”

  “Neither are the concerns of a mere liegeman. You are not privy to the inveterate dealings of your captain. Your ignorance is rendered by your lack of import.”

  Jackal swallowed a snarl. He had met with the Sludge Man only a handful of times, and never alone, but the arrogance of the frail never failed to amaze him. He was an ugly, naked, inbred marsh dweller, but he always spoke as if he were some damn king. He and the Claymaster had conspired for years, the exact nature of their arrangement murky. The king’s ransom in those chests was more wealth than the hoof could provide in a lifetime, much less for the disappearance of one body. That left the elf. Was that how the chief kept the Sludge Man as an ally? Providing stock for his twisted pleasures? If so, it was more evidence that the Bastards needed fresh leadership.

  Taking a deep breath, he rallied his patience.

  “Sludge Man. This girl you hold could be a Tine. Do you want the entire elven hoof riding into the Old Maiden to take her back?”

  “Elves are not half-thicks,” the Sludge Man returned. “They do not come willingly here.”

  “You can’t keep her.”

  The Sludge Man’s eyes widened. “You add to your effrontery, soot-skin! You will not command me nor take what was traded. My beautiful vassals shall sup upon your flesh until you are naught but bones. These we will return to your blighted master as evidence of our displeasure.”

  Jackal focused beyond the Sludge Man and saw his creatures begin to advance, though slowly. They were difficult to see, for the surface of the lagoon was now covered with a low, thick carpet of fog. In fact, the stuff was everywhere, gathering quickly. Puzzled, Jackal looked at his feet and saw the vapors flowing past him to cascade over the edge of the walkway, heavy with moisture and moving with a queer vitality. The Sludge Man seemed equally perplexed, his gaze now directed beyond Jackal to where Crafty sat.

  The fat wizard retained his relaxed posture. The vapors roiled out from his nostrils and escaped from between his lips. His pipe and the strange vessel attached to it were brimming over with the mist that now filled the lagoon. The sludges were no longer moving.

  “Interlopers,” the Sludge Man accused. “You couple the insult of your presence with eastern devilry.”

  “Devilry?” Crafty asked, amusement in his smoke-laden voice. �
��Truly, you are the only devil here. Beneath this human mask you wear, what cursed face is yours, djinn?”

  “Foreign words!” the Sludge Man spat. “Keep them behind your teeth, mongrel. You pollute my servants with your primitive crafts.”

  Jackal kept his eyes and his stockbow pointed at the Sludge Man, but he heard the sounds of Crafty standing.

  “Oh, yes,” the wizard said. “They are quite inert. Friend Jackal, I believe you will find the maiden now unbound. Perform a kindness and bring her from within.”

  Jackal took one step toward the shed and heard a bellow of rage.

  The Sludge Man leapt forward, his legs erupting from the oily trunk that had encased them. Jackal jerked the tickler on his stockbow and sent his bolt flying. It caught the Sludge Man in one fleshy thigh, but he took no notice.

  Naked and screaming, he barreled into Jackal, backhanding him across the jaw before landing upon the planking. Blinded by pain, Jackal was sent sprawling, rolling upon the uneven boards. Somehow, he managed not to spill into the treacherous waters of the lagoon and regained his feet before his vision fully cleared.

  The Sludge Man had Crafty seized by the throat, throttling the wizard as he lifted him into the air. Jackal’s stockbow was still in his hand. Snatching one of the few bolts that remained within his quiver, he reloaded the thrum and jammed the stock into his shoulder, sighting quickly and pulling the tickler. The bowstring snapped forward, sending the bolt shrieking into the Sludge Man’s ribs. His aim was true. Such a shot should have transfixed a lung before lodging in the heart. It would have killed the biggest orc. The Sludge Man did not so much as grunt. He continued to choke the life from Crafty.

  “Fuck,” Jackal said.

  The wizard was right. This was no man.

  Discarding his stockbow, Jackal drew his tulwar and charged. He brought the curved blade up on the run and brought it down in a vicious slice meant for the Sludge Man’s outstretched arms, but the demon swung around with terrible speed, bringing Crafty into the blade’s path. Jackal checked his strike, wrenching the sword away with such desperation it flew from his hand. His forward momentum brought him crashing into the suspended wizard. He careened off Crafty’s broad back and fell once more to the planks. Snarling, Jackal sprang up, bull-rushing the Sludge Man as he rose. His shoulder barreled into the bog dweller’s stomach and he wrapped his arms around the man’s body. He may as well have charged a tree. The Sludge Man rocked slightly at the impact, but kept his feet as well as his hold on Crafty. Jackal was now wedged between the hanging wizard and the Sludge Man.

  Yelling furiously, Jackal threw all his weight backward, hauling on his foe with every muscle in his body. He felt the balance tip and they all fell. Jackal was crushed between ally and adversary, but he heard Crafty gasp for breath as the Sludge Man’s grasp was broken. Keeping his own hold, Jackal rolled and tossed the Sludge Man into the side of the shed, then scrambled to his feet.

  The bog dweller was faster.

  He was up before Jackal found his own balance, rushing in with fists flying at the ends of long, pale arms. The Sludge Man was a big-boned bag of meat, with hardly a hint of defined sinew, but Jackal dodged his blows desperately, knowing that just one might cave in his skull.

  The narrow walkway afforded little ground to maneuver. Jackal could not dance away forever. He waited for the Sludge Man to overextend, then darted in, pulling at the striking arm and bringing a knee up into the man’s stomach. The fletching of the bolt still protruded from the Sludge Man’s side and Jackal hammered it deeper with the heel of his hand. The Sludge Man made a wet grunt and turned on him, a hand darting out to seize his throat. Jackal managed to swat the hand away, but the Sludge Man planted a foot into his chest and kicked the breath from his body. The walkway catapulted up to meet him and he swam in a puddle of nausea. The sickness rising in his throat was quickly banished by the scream forced from his lungs when the Sludge Man stomped down on his left forearm, shattering the bone.

  Jackal rolled upon the planking, convulsing with the agony. He heard whimpers of pain and knew they were his own. Fighting not to pass out, he looked about.

  Crafty had risen to his knees, still sucking raggedly at the air. The Sludge Man was stalking toward him, intent on finishing the wizard, his back now turned. Out in the lagoon, the sorcerous mist was thinning and the sludges were beginning to stir. The large one closest to the walkway, the one that had vomited out its master, still stood nearly vertical, motionless within the grip of the vapors leaking weakly from Crafty’s upset pipe. Whatever the wizard had done, it would not last much longer.

  Cradling his useless arm, Jackal choked on unrelenting pain. This was madness! The Sludge Man could not be harmed. They were going to die here, killed by some marsh demon wearing human flesh. Hells only knew what would happen to the poor elf girl, trussed up and exposed for this mudsucker’s pleasure. Rage bubbled in Jackal’s guts.

  “Fuck that,” he snarled.

  Gritting his teeth, he rose and rushed the Sludge Man, keeping low. The sound of his boots pounding on the planks alerted the demon, but not in time. The big man had only half pivoted when Jackal bulled into him.

  Jackal slammed his lowered shoulder into the back of the Sludge Man’s legs. Taken off-balance, the Sludge Man fell backward as he was lifted from the ground, his buttocks and lower back pressing heavily into Jackal’s neck and face. Broken arm screaming in protest, Jackal hooked it around his grappled foe’s neck, bending his back across his shoulders. The Sludge Man began to struggle, digging into Jackal’s cracked bones with his powerful fingers. Pain and vomit flooded Jackal’s mouth, but his good hand was thrust between the brute’s kicking legs and he seized the soft flesh of the Sludge Man’s genitals. He gripped down hard and heard a squeal of pain. The Sludge Man’s struggles became desperate, flailing.

  “Does that hurt?” Jackal taunted. “Demon or no, some parts are needed. Why else keep a naked girl bound and alive?” He released the Sludge Man’s fruits just long enough to make a fist and began blindly battering the now pulpy organ. With each blow he screamed triumphant abuses. “You! Bog! Sucking! Fuck!”

  Whirling around on the spot, Jackal spun, gained momentum, and flung the Sludge Man into the lagoon. He broke the black surface of the waters with a slapping splash and disappeared beneath the foam of upset scum.

  Reeling and breathless, Jackal found Crafty on his feet, the elf girl cradled in his arms, still senseless.

  “Run!” Jackal screamed, and he stumbled after the fleeing wizard as they pounded across the gangplank, away from the Sludge Man’s home. The sludges in the lagoon trembled violently as they passed, trying to rid themselves of the lethargy caused by Crafty’s smoke. Jackal did not know how much longer the creatures would remain afflicted. He focused on moving as fast as he could across the marsh and did not dare look back.

  Chapter 8

  Crafty collapsed. He’d given a valiant effort, but the weight of the elf girl, coupled with the wizard’s own bulk, had quickly exhausted him.

  Jackal plodded to a halt as his companion sucked in lungfuls of humid air. He was hobbled by pain and had stumbled as many times as Crafty. They were both filthy and drenched from numerous spills into the bog.

  Finally risking a look back, Jackal squinted at the marsh they had covered. He could no longer see the Sludge Man’s compound. Nor could he find any sign of pursuit, all dead gods be praised. That meant nothing. Their progress had been torturously slow. Had they come a mile? Two? Less? It did not matter. They had not reached the hogs, and the hogs were life.

  Jackal slogged his way over to the fallen elf. A low, exhausted growl rumbled in his chest as he hoisted her limp form out of the muck.

  “Friend Jackal,” Crafty protested. “Your arm…”

  Jackal said nothing, too tired to speak. It took all his grit to get the woman up onto his left shoulder and drape his broken arm across her
lower back. He would need his good hand to catch himself if he should fall, when he would fall.

  They trudged on, no longer trying to run. The setting sun and the rising flies were incessant, both a plague on the eyes.

  “Are you certain of the way?” Crafty asked after a time.

  Again, Jackal did not answer. He knew the rough direction of the trees where they had left the hogs, but broken bones and a desperate flight from danger had properly befuddled his memory. It would have been difficult to backtrack even if he were calm and free from injury. The Old Maiden was an unvarying hell, all marram grass and stagnant pools. She took years to properly learn, years she spent trying to kill her explorers. Besides, Crafty knew the answer to his own question. Why ask if he were confident Jackal led them true?

  Night fell, forcing an end to their steps. Even with the advantage of orc eyes, the chances of finding the hogs in the dark were narrow. Crafty helped Jackal lower the elf to the ground and they slumped down beside her. Insects replaced the light, deafening in their multitude. Jackal allowed himself to drift in the din, surrendering to the freedom of uselessness. They could not walk on, they could not fight. They would never see the sludges coming in the dark, their black bodies would be one with the shadows until it was too late. There was no more Jackal could do. It was an exquisite relief. He would live through the night or not; either way he could pass the time in glorious, unavoidable impotence.

  Crafty was more industrious.

  Jackal heard him rummaging in the bag he had miraculously retained. There came the sound of ripping silk. Wits dull with pain and exhaustion, Jackal was dimly aware of the wizard splinting his arm and coaxing him to chew on some bitter-tasting lump. The rest of the night passed in a flood of frog song and fever dreams.