The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  Morning found them all alive. Jackal opened his eyes to Crafty squatting beside the elf girl, removing the leeches that had affixed themselves to her during the night. The wizard had also fashioned a rude garment from one of the many shawls that comprised his robes, and when he was done ridding the girl of bloodsuckers, he slipped the shift over her head, and belted it with a length of cord.

  “She remains unconscious,” Crafty said needlessly.

  Jackal’s mouth tasted awful. He bent to spit and saw the shadow. Cast by the morning sun, it lanced across the pale grass, lengthening more than widening, devouring Jackal’s own silhouette.

  “Down!” he shouted, and flung himself face-first to the marsh, rolling as soon as he hit.

  A shriek of fury, a battering of feathers, and then the shadow passed over.

  Jackal jerked his head up to see the rokh pulling out of its dive, flapping its great wings as it ascended. Crafty pushed himself upright, away from the prone elf he had shielded with his own body. The wizard needn’t have worried. Jackal had been the intended prey. Why attempt the fattest calf when the injured one would do?

  The rokh was climbing steadily, flying directly away. Soon, it would be lost to distance and glare, invisible until it chose to strike again. The giant raptor would come at them silently, as before.

  Crafty was now searching through his shapeless bag, his head nearly buried in its depths.

  “Keep your eyes up, dammit!” Jackal snarled, averting his own vigilance only long enough to look for some kind of weapon. There was nothing. No sizable logs or decent rocks. Nothing but bog water and vomit-colored grass.

  Hissing in frustration, Jackal went back to searching the sky, especially to the east, where the sun was blinding. Hells, there was nothing he could do! Only now the thought was not comforting as it had been in the deep of night. With the morning came the will to live fueled by the illusion that survival was possible, that fighting would be worth a damn. It was a cruel lie. Twenty men could have sheltered in the shade of that rokh’s wings. Even with a stockbow, a full quiver, and two good arms, Jackal would’ve been hard-pressed to bring the bird down. And here he was, scrambling for stones to throw.

  Crafty continued to root around in his sack. For what, more smoke? No, their only chance was to leave the elf girl behind, give the rokh something even easier to eat than a wounded half-orc. The thought only made Jackal angrier, fanned the flames to fight. He still had a mouthful of teeth. Let the feathered fiend come! He would be standing here when it did.

  The rokh didn’t keep him waiting long.

  He caught sight of it to the south, dipping one wing earthward as it came around for another pass. This would not be a plummet from the clouds. No, the bird was going to swoop close to the ground, lead with its beak. Hells, it wanted to be seen, trying to spook its quarry into running, for easier pickings.

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it fast!” Jackal called to Crafty over his shoulder.

  The rokh was now gliding swiftly over the marsh, a natural, graceful hunter, certain in its ability to kill. As the distance between them dwindled, Jackal resisted the urge to flee, watching the bird grow in size with each pounding of his heart.

  Two objects sped past Jackal’s head, so fast they were nearly invisible, leaving only a whisper of air at the edge of hearing.

  The rokh screeched as the thrumbolts struck. It lurched in midflight, abandoning its path with a frantic flapping of wings. Jackal turned and saw four hogs splashing through the marsh, two with riders. He knew their outlines well.

  Oats and Fetching reloaded on the run, their bowstrings snapping as they loosed another volley at the retreating rokh. Hearth and the hog Crafty had ridden were with them, trundling through the morass and sending bog water flying in all directions.

  Jackal was smiling widely by the time his friends reined up before him. Oats kept his stockbow pressed firmly into his shoulder and trained on the sky. Fetching had the butt of her weapon resting on her hip as she looked down at Jackal and shook her head.

  “The Old Maiden certainly had her way with you,” she said, her green skin flecked with pieces of wet grass. “You’re supposed to ride through the marsh, Jackal, not let her sit astride your face all night.”

  There was no time to respond. Hearth trotted over and nuzzled Jackal so hard with a wet snout that he nearly fell over.

  “Be glad that pig knows your scent so well,” Fetch said.

  “Ug led you to him,” Jackal said, looking at Oats. It was not a question.

  The big brute did not reply, but a smile appeared as he gave his own hog a rub between the ears. Ugfuck snorted.

  From the ground, Crafty cleared his throat. “If one would help me get this woman upon my mount, I will tend her during our ride away from this place.”

  Fetching’s lip curled. “So, you steal the chief’s pet wizard and now the two of you are collecting naked, dead elf girls.”

  “She’s not dead,” Jackal replied. “And Crafty’s right. We need to get clear of this damn marsh.”

  “Crafty?” Fetch asked.

  The wizard dipped his chin. “Uhad Ul-badir Taruk Ultani, at your service.”

  Still aiming at the sky, Oats chuckled and shook his head.

  “Crafty it is,” Fetch said as she dismounted.

  She could have easily lifted the elf girl by herself, but Jackal and Crafty both aided the process. The wizard climbed onto the hog’s back and cradled the unconscious girl against his large body, keeping her curled in front of him as one would a child.

  “What happened there?” Fetching asked, flicking her eyes at Jackal’s injured arm.

  “Later.”

  She looked as if she would press the matter, but Oats’s gruff voice forced them to turn.

  “Bird’s coming back.”

  Fetching sucked her teeth. “Time to put a bolt through this vulture’s eye.”

  Striding back to her hog, she mounted and slung her stockbow up. The rokh was coming in determinedly, its tiny brain unable to give up the hunt. As it sped closer, coming out of the sun, Jackal slung a leg over Hearth and plucked a javelin from the saddle harness. He wouldn’t need it. Fetching was the best shot in the hoof and would make good on her boast. The rokh would fall with her bolt in its eye, and Oats was not likely to miss either.

  The giant bird charged swiftly, pulling out of its dive to skim the marsh. It was well within bowshot, but Oats and Fetching held their bolts, waiting for the killing shot to present itself. With each flap of its impressive wings, the rokh sped closer, until Jackal was hard-pressed not to urge his companions to let loose. The beak opened, emitting a screech that seemed to come from everywhere but the bird. Its wings bunched, pulling back to catch the air on massive, colorless pinion feathers, allowing its talons to lead the charge.

  Oats loosed his bolt and pierced the bird’s breast, but it did not slow. Its claws opened, the talons long as scimitars.

  “Fetch!” Jackal yelled. “Bring it down!”

  The bog in front of the rokh erupted. Massive cascades of water burst into the air as a black shape shot upward. Hearth and the other hogs squealed, recoiling from the sudden violent disturbance between them and the bird.

  Jackal’s eyes widened.

  It was the largest sludge he had ever seen. Leaping from the water, it spread out with horrifying speed and, for one terrible instant, the black mass shaped itself to match the rokh, fanning out with perfect symmetry to snatch the animal out of the air. In less than a heartbeat the raptor was engulfed by the viscous form of the sludge, which struck snakelike from the bog.

  “RIDE!”

  Jackal was not sure which of his friends screamed the word. It might have been him.

  Hearth responded instinctually, turning around on the run and fleeing the unnatural creature. Jackal was forced to drop his javelin, grabbing the
hog’s mane with his one good hand. He clung as the hog raced across the marsh, skirting the mires and darting from one stretch of firm ground to the next. There was nothing for Jackal to do but trust his barbarian to find a safe path. Without two functioning hands, he could not risk taking hold of Hearth’s swine-yankers, so he held on to the beast’s bristles and focused on keeping his seat.

  Crafty rode just ahead, struggling to keep himself and the elf girl upon his hog’s back as it raced across the difficult terrain. The wizard was a fool for riding bareback and Jackal was twice the fool for allowing him to take charge of the helpless elf girl. Without a saddle, the fat conjurer could not hope to stay mounted, not with the panicked pace set by his hog.

  Turning as he rode, Jackal cast a look back. Oats and Fetching were spread out on his flanks, not four paces behind. Beyond them was a living nightmare.

  The huge sludge was pursuing, crashing through the marsh, a tidal wave of hungry black. Cresting and falling, the viscid monster surged over land and punched through the pools, parting the water with a fury. The thing was so wide, it would not need to run them down individually. If it caught them, they would all be dragged down in one swath, devoured by pitch-flesh.

  Jackal waved his broken arm forward, signaling Oats and Fetching to catch up. Fetch drew up first and Jackal pointed at Crafty’s back, wordlessly communicating the wizard’s need for aid. Fetching kicked her hog to greater effort and began closing the distance.

  Looking back again, Jackal saw the sludge was falling behind, but his relief instantly soured. The hogs could not keep this pace. They would tire long before the end of the Old Maiden. That sludge would continue to follow without faltering, without need for breath or rest.

  Ahead, Fetching now rode alongside Crafty and was gesturing for him to hand the elf over. The wizard tried to comply, but was clumsy, hindered by uncertainty, uncomfortable with such a maneuver. Jackal grit his teeth, wishing for all hells his arm was not splintered. Fetching would lose patience, likely give up the attempt if she did not knock Crafty from the saddle out of frustration first.

  After a harrowing batch of failures, Fetching managed to grab hold of the elf girl’s makeshift garment and, with Crafty’s unsure help, began hoisting her over.

  The elf chose that moment to come around.

  Jackal heard Fetching shout a startled curse as the girl jerked awake. She thrashed, confused and fearful, and sent a kick into the ribs of Crafty’s hog. The barbarian lurched away, and the wizard lost his grip on the girl. Fetching tried to haul her the rest of the way with one arm, but was off-balance and lost her seat as her hog darted around a thick stand of reeds. Both women fell to the ground, rolling and splashing over the waterlogged turf.

  “Go!” Jackal shouted, pointing at the elf.

  Oats did not need to be told. He was already guiding Ugfuck toward the girl. Jackal rode for Fetching. She was already on her feet and facing him, her legs spread wide, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. As Hearth charged by, Jackal stuck out his injured arm, gritting his teeth and trusting Fetch to do the rest. She reached out and leapt. Jackal screamed through the pain as she vaulted up behind him. To their right, Oats had snatched the elf girl by the hair and tossed her belly-down over his saddle horn.

  “What the fuck is that fat shit doing?” Fetching yelled in Jackal’s ear.

  Crafty was just ahead. On foot. He faced them, but his gaze was beyond. Jackal did not have to turn to know what the wizard looked upon. He could feel the sludge still back there, inexorable vengeance made manifest.

  Jackal rode a few dozen paces past the wizard before he forced Hearth to turn.

  “What are you doing?” Fetch demanded. “Ride on!”

  Oats reined up beside them. The elf girl struggled feebly, but the brute held her firm with one powerful hand splayed across her back.

  “Jack?” he said. “What are we doing?”

  “We can’t ride triple,” Fetch said. “Not even Ugfuck could carry that sack of suet’s extra weight.”

  Oats grunted. “She’s right. We need to go.”

  Ignoring them, Jackal continued to watch the wizard.

  Crafty’s muck-sodden robes hung heavily about his ponderous frame. He did not turn to see if his companions were returning, but stood resolutely, watching the approaching sludge hulk. Occasionally, his right arm would raise and his head would tilt backward, as if he were drinking. Jackal glimpsed a sizable decanter in the wizard’s fist, glinting in the remorseless sun.

  “Brother?” Oats rumbled. “What are we doing?”

  Fetching’s breath was hot against his neck. “Hells, let’s go!”

  “No,” Jackal said.

  The sludge was upon Crafty now, rising as it surged near, dwarfing the wizard against a shapeless wall of black. The wave reached its zenith, crested, and began to fall, eager to drop upon the sorcerer.

  Crafty took a single, stomping step, thrusting his arms back and his head forward. A swarm of cinders shot forth, accompanied by an intense sound of rushing wind. Wind that burned. Countless, flaming granules assaulted the sludge, striking the black membrane and halting its charge. Jackal and his friends winced as a blowback of scorching air hit them in an unseen wave. The horde of sizzling mites poured from Crafty and, as he rotated his head back and forth to cover the breadth of the sludge, Jackal saw they were being blown from the wizard’s mouth. Cheeks puffed out, Crafty spewed forth the infernal specks, each a hellish mating of insect and flame. They flew directly into the sludge, thousands of them extinguishing themselves against its inky surface until it began to blister and boil.

  The creature strove forward, desperate to reach the wizard, but Crafty’s lungs were without limit. The battle between sludge and fire swarm was stalemated for a few dreadful heartbeats, but then Jackal saw the blackness begin to recede. The flesh of the sludge peeled back, flayed by a million tiny flames. Deep within the center, was the Sludge Man.

  “Hells overburdened!” Fetching gasped.

  Jackal set his jaw and watched as the sludge drew away from the man suspended inside its embrace. The Sludge Man’s eyes were fixed on Crafty, the flesh of his face quivering with rage. He screamed as the burning reached him, an animal sound. His pale flesh turned pink and then began to singe. Red, angry scorch marks erupted on his face, his belly. Howling madly the Sludge Man recoiled, flinging himself deeper into the sludge as the entire mass retreated, sloughing away into the bog. Steam rose from the waters into which it sank.

  Jackal, Oats, and Fetching sat motionless upon their hogs as Crafty turned and made his slow, steady way across the bogs to join them. In his hand was a dented copper vessel, thick with verdigris. After placing the decanter back in his sack, Crafty looked up and regarded them all with a friendly expression.

  “How?” Oats asked, shaking his head slowly.

  Crafty pondered this for a moment, before giving a large shrug.

  “In terms you would understand?” he asked with a smile. “It’s fucking magic.”

  Chapter 9

  No one spoke until they were well clear of the old Maiden Marsh. At last, Fetching called a halt at a grove of fig trees on the banks of the Alhundra. Fortunately, she and Crafty had managed to reclaim their hogs before they were lost to rokhs or sucking bogs. Every rider in their little group was filthy and weary, but sleep would have to wait. For now, answers were more important.

  “Why was the Sludge Man out to kill us?” Fetching demanded as she dismounted, slapping her hog toward the river for a drink.

  “Because we took her,” Jackal answered, nodding at the elf girl as Oats hauled her off his saddle. Her legs gave out as soon as she touched the ground, but she crab-crawled swiftly toward the shelter of the trees, casting a wild stare at the half-orcs.

  “Peace,” Crafty told her in gentle tones, squatting down with his hands splayed. “None here will harm you.”
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br />   “Who is she?” Oats asked, continuing to loom over the cowering girl.

  Jackal motioned his friend away with a wave. He led Fetch and Oats closer to the river, allowing Crafty a chance to calm their rescued captive.

  Jackal shook his head. “I don’t know. But she might be a Tine. She also might be what the Claymaster paid for the Sludge Man’s help.”

  “Hells!” Fetch swore, growing more agitated.

  Oats’s bearded face darkened. “You sure?”

  “No,” Jackal replied. “Not about any of it. But we have to find out. And we’re not going to do that if you continue to stand over her like some bearded, fuck-ugly mountain.”

  The tension broke as Oats smiled. Fetching punched him on one trunk of an arm.

  “Thrice-blood monster,” she teased.

  Oats sheepishly slapped her hand away, half spinning her. They all three grinned for a moment.

  “Thanks for saving my hide,” Jackal told his friends.

  Oats grappled his shoulder. “We will until the day we don’t, brother.”

  “Seems to me we ought to be thanking Ham Hocks over there,” Fetching said, hooking a thumb at Crafty.

  “I still want to know how he did that,” Oats grumbled.

  The wizard had managed to get a little closer to the she-elf and was now attempting to offer her a waterskin.

  “Crafty is a separate mystery,” Jackal said, “one that doesn’t need solving right now. What did you two find out at Sancho’s?”

  Oats gave an angry grunt while Fetch answered.

  “We couldn’t get close, Jack. Castile soldiers were all over it.”

  “Captain Bermudo’s boys?”

  Oats nodded grimly.

  “Shaft my ass!” Jackal spat. Bermudo was putting Sancho in his grip. He would be looking for his lost cavaleros too. They were greasy ash now, but it hardly mattered, the damage was done.

  Fetch looked at Oats. “You should have killed him with that bucket.”