The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  Jackal winced and muttered a curse when Oats did it again.

  Fetching was bloodied now, her eyes rolling about unfocused. Oats let her go and stood. He loomed over her a little unsteadily, his fist balling up. Unable to stare directly at what was coming, Jackal looked around. Mead had his eyes completely averted. Hob was leaning forward, eager for the final blow. Across the way, the Claymaster’s bandage-shadowed face looked firmly upon the impending end of his reign.

  Oats hesitated for just a moment, then drove his fist down. Jackal narrowed his eyelids against the impact and immediately snapped them open.

  Fetch had not fallen.

  Her entire body had reeled beneath the resounding blow, but she caught herself, the knuckles of one hand dug into the dirt. For what seemed an eternity she remained there, motionless save for the heave of her ribcage as she sucked air through a mouth pouring blood. Jackal could not say whether Oats had pulled his punch or Fetch had borne the best he could give. Either thought was a heartbreak.

  Craning around, Oats looked at Jackal, his bruised face riddled with conflict. All Jackal could do was nod.

  Again.

  Hells, Fetch. Are you going to make him kill you?

  Oats clenched his eyes against the scourge of his task and turned back, raising his arm once more. He swung.

  And Fetching erupted off the ground. Her powerful legs drove her upward and she caught Oats’s entire arm, binding it in a locked hold. Before he could react, she sprang again, twisting herself around in the air to hook the back of one knee behind Oats’s head, the other looping under his armpit. Using his arm as leverage, she threw him to the ground head over heels. His arm still locked in her grasp, and her leg now across his throat, Fetching straightened with every muscle in her powerful body. Jackal heard Oats begin to gasp, then choke. He tried to hit her with his free arm, but there was no force to be had. The bulging muscles of the thrice’s torso bunched, working against the downward pressure. Inch by inch he began to rise, but inch by inch he strangled. Spit shot from between his clenched teeth, as Fetch grit hers and held firm.

  Jackal stood transfixed as the frightening wills of his two most loved friends ground themselves to dust against each other. Oats’s strength was monstrous. He labored with empty lungs and still managed to rise, torturously. Fetching punished him every bit of the way, her ability to constrain him a nearly unbelievable feat. Were he not seeing it now, Jackal would never have thought it possible. With nothing else to be done, he watched the nightmare.

  Oats was nearly upright, Fetching turned nearly sideways to maintain control. Suddenly, she released him and rolled to her feet. With ragged breaths Oats managed to make it to his knees, but that was as far as he could go. He slumped back, sitting on his heels to weave drunkenly, his face seeming to search the far removed ceiling of the chamber.

  Fetch paced before him, watching him. After a moment she hopped forward and sent a knee flying into the side of Oats’s skull, just above the ear. Jackal felt his guts curdle at the sound. The only thing more painful than that sound was the sight of Fetch catching Oats as he fell and lowering his head gently to the ground.

  Chapter 19

  Jackal stood before the stump.

  The hafts of the axes that supported his challenge stuck out around him, comfortless as an embrace from a corpse. For all the long hours Jackal had spent in the voting chamber, he had never seen it from this vantage. The head of the coffin-shaped table was within spitting distance, stretching out away from him as it narrowed toward the doors. The back of the chief’s chair was within a single, mocking stride, yet forever unreachable.

  The Grey Bastards were standing behind their chairs. Each tried to remain stone, but Jackal saw oily films of emotion playing upon the surface of the familiar faces. Sorrow. Shame. Disappointment. Wrath. Pity. That last was the worst, but thankfully, Jackal saw no pleasure. None were leering in anticipation of his end. Even the Claymaster, standing at the far end of the table with the doors at his back, was dour. Generously, he had allowed Jackal to stall this moment until it was certain Oats would not be following him in death.

  The care of injuries usually fell to Grocer, but Jackal had insisted that Crafty tend to Oats as well. They brought him into the Claymaster’s domicile and stayed closeted away for hours, hours that Jackal spent in the yard mere paces from the door. No guard was placed upon him. His hoof knew he would not run and dishonor himself. Besides, his worry for Oats was enough to shackle him to the fortress.

  The Claymaster came and went several times, always bypassing Jackal without a word. Of Fetching there was no sign. Jackal kept dreading and wishing for her to appear, fearing what he might see, what he might do. But she never came. Even after Grocer emerged to tell Jackal that Oats would recover and then left to inform the rest of the hoof, she never came. She was present now though, in the voting chamber, waiting with all the other riders to watch the execution of one of their own.

  Jackal stared hard at her, desperate to glean some answer before his vision darkened forever. But her swollen face, mottled with bruises, displayed nothing but a guttering anxiousness, as if she wanted the impending deed done and over with. Jackal did not share her impatience.

  He did not want to die. Leastways, not like this. He kept yearning for the weight of a tulwar in his hand, so that he could unleash himself upon the room, try to cut Fetching down, the Claymaster, any who stood in his way. Part of him hoped they would all try to stop him, even Hob and Mead, who had tried to help him.

  Would he have felt such undiscerning hatred if Oats had been in the room? Would his instinct to fight for his life have made an enemy of the one who had given the most in his bid for power? Jackal hoped not, and was grateful he would never know. Oats was laid up, his injuries rendering him unaware of what took place here. Jackal was glad his friend would be spared the display. His bearded face would undoubtedly have been a comfort, but a selfish one. In truth, Jackal did not want any in this room to be the last thing he saw. He would rather have gazed upon the sun-drenched freedom of the Lots.

  But he stood firm, in this dark, remorseless chamber, and waited.

  An icy twinge slithered through him as the Claymaster began to approach. This would be the last thing he saw. The hunched, diseased form of the old man he had failed to bring down. It was woefully fitting.

  The chief came around the table and wedged himself between Jackal and the back of his retained seat. He leaned forward and reached an arm out to grasp the haft of Jackal’s axe, now lodged just above his left shoulder. This close, the Claymaster reeked of stale sweat, damp bandages, and dried pus. Jackal’s nose crinkled against the odors. Through the haphazard mask of wrappings, the chief’s rheumy eyes crawled across Jackal’s face. Despite his twisted back, the poxy mongrel was still equal in height. In his prime he must have been a monster. He stood there for a long spell, his hand resting on the axe handle, not yet removing it from the stump. When he spoke, his voice was low, his words meant only for the one he was about to kill.

  “You always were too damn ambitious, boy. Never did understand your place.”

  “I’m in the place you always wanted me,” Jackal returned.

  The Claymaster grinned. “You’re just going to keep thinking you are always right. Right to the end.”

  “Clearly, I was wrong about some things.” Someone.

  “I almost wish you had succeeded. I would have got to sit back and watch you break under the weight of being chief. The weight of discovering you don’t have all the answers.”

  “Oats and I would have figured it out. All of it.”

  The Claymaster’s face fell slightly. “Well, we will never know now.”

  “Don’t seek revenge against him,” Jackal said, not allowing the words to sound like a threat or a plea, just a last request.

  “Jackal,” the chief said, “with you gone, Oats is going to flourish
in this hoof.”

  And then Jackal saw it, something he had missed for years, but was now made obvious by the closeness of his rival. Not even the stained linen wrappings could hide the hope Jackal saw in the Claymaster’s face.

  “You want him to lead after you,” he said.

  “The thicks respect power,” the Claymaster said. “A thrice-blood at the head of our table proves we have it. You’re clever enough, Jackal, and you make the women wet, but our enemies ain’t whores and wet-nurses. They’re orcs. You are not the leader the Grey Bastards need. Never have been…never will be.”

  Impotent fury frayed Jackal’s patience and he leaned into the chief’s face. “Then fucking pull that axe free and be rid of me!”

  The Claymaster matched his aggressive motion, causing Jackal’s nose to brush against the loathsome bandages. The chief’s voice rose, now able to be heard by all in the room.

  “I pull this axe free and you are dead, boy. Don’t trust in some vain hope that this pustule-ridden carcass of mine is not up to the task of sending you to all the hells. I will bury this hatchet in your fucking heart if that is what you choose!” The Claymaster let the words hang there a moment.

  Choose? Confusion curdled Jackal’s anger.

  The chief took a slow breath and withdrew a bit before continuing, his voice calmer, yet still pitched for the hoof to hear.

  “I will give you a choice. A chance. Turn free-rider and you can live.”

  The energy in the room changed. Beyond the Claymaster, Jackal could sense his brethren silently react to this sudden offer of mercy. There were several perplexed glances exchanged. Fetching remained carefully motionless.

  Jackal was equally surprised and he stood transfixed, trying to reason out why the chief would allow him to live. Then he had it. Killing him would only push Oats further away, lengthen the time it would take for the Claymaster to bring him to his side. Since childhood, Jackal had held sway over Oats, sway the chief coveted. That was the reason he had scorned Jackal all these years, jealous of the influence over the one he had earmarked to be his successor. Too late, it was all so damn clear! Well, Jackal wasn’t about to help the Claymaster coax Oats into being his puppet.

  Jackal lifted his chin and spoke so all in the room could hear.

  “I am not some nomad,” he said. “I will die as I am, a Grey Bastard.”

  Grocer, Polecat, and Hobnail nodded with approval. Mead’s eyes brimmed with a mixture of horror and worship. Fetch’s eyes were closed, her chin fallen.

  The Claymaster leaned in once more, his voice again dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “You better think hard on that decision, boy. And fast.”

  “Oats may one day be chief,” Jackal hissed back, “but it will be because he wants to grind you beneath his heel, to avenge himself on you for killing his friend, not because you tempted him like a dog with promises of more meat.”

  “Very well,” the Claymaster said, his smile turning malicious. “You won’t do it for yourself. But what about the Tine girl? What do you think happens to her when you’re dead? Go nomad and you have my word you can take her with you, ride where you will. Stand here all prideful and die, and I swear on every god who craves bloodshed that I will turn that elf quim over to Polecat.”

  Seeing Jackal’s reaction, the Claymaster’s smile deepened, revealing yellowed teeth.

  “You know what the Rutters were before the war, don’t you Jackal? They were bed slaves, mongrel stallions used to sate the twisted tastes of Hispartha’s nobles. And not just the women. Polecat’s a little young to remember that, but the Rutters’ legacy has always attracted degenerates. He’ll use her in ways an orc couldn’t stomach and make whatever the Sludge Man did to her seem like a father’s tender kisses. I wager he even lets the rest of us watch, share the entertainment.”

  Jackal was unrestrained, no chains or ropes bound him to the stump. He could easily pull an axe and split the chief’s face. His palms burned with the desire. Hells, he could reach out and throttle him, snap his blistered neck before the others could even move. He didn’t have enough friends in the room to survive the act. Not even Hobnail would back such a murder. It went against the code. And Jackal would destroy the Bastards if he slew the chief now. There was none strong enough to lead them out of the chaos that would follow, not with Oats lying up with a cracked skull. Jackal did not want his name to be remembered as the failed challenger who treacherously murdered his chief and brought about the fall of the Grey Bastards. More than that, he could not abandon Starling. He could die to spite the chief’s plans or live, free to ride, with her safety in his hands.

  There really was no choice.

  “Give me the elf,” Jackal said, “and I will go.”

  The Claymaster rolled his head backward slightly. “Tell them.”

  Jackal looked past the chief at the hoof and found his throat suddenly dry. The words needed to be said, but it was possible they would choke him for the betrayal. Swallowing hard, Jackal raised his voice.

  “On the honored condition that I be allowed to leave with the Tine, Starling, I declare myself a free-rider and…renounce this hoof. I vow never again to set foot upon this Lot on penalty of death. From this moment, I am no longer a Grey Bastard.”

  The faces of his now former brethren turned truly to stone.

  “Your hog and your kit are yours to take,” the Claymaster proclaimed, “and the elf too. You have until dawn. If you remain on Bastard lands after that, you will be hunted down. Riders, retrieve your axes and mark this deserter.”

  One by one, the Grey Bastards approached the stump and wrenched their axes from the wood. They then took the blade and ran it across Jackal’s skin, drawing ragged cuts across his tattoos. The pain of the sharp steel was nothing compared to the numb despair of a life erased. He had ridden with those who now cut him, ate with them, trained with them, fought with them, some were friends and some foes, but they were all family, loved and despised in unsteady measures over years of shared turmoil and celebrated victories. From his own mouth he had severed the kinship and now they came willingly to wound him, an oath of what they would do should he ever return. Gritting his teeth against the bite of the blades, Jackal waited for it to end.

  When Fetching came, Jackal was already bleeding from cuts on both shoulders, both arms and his chest. Her eyes searched for a place to mark him and he saw hesitance shining through the flinty orbs. Jackal turned around and presented the tattoos upon his back, the proper place for her blade.

  When it was all over, Jackal strode from the voting chamber for the last time, his body weeping crimson.

  Outside, dusk had abdicated to darkness. The slopheads waiting in the yard stepped away from him when they saw the bleeding cuts reflecting wetly in the moonlight. They knew what the gashes signified. None of the hopefuls would help him now. He needed his wounds dressed, but did not want to distract Crafty away from Oats. There was only one place he could go.

  Beryl’s face melted and set, quick as candlewax, when she saw him. The Claymaster had not yet given the Winsome villagers permission to return home, so she and her orphans still lodged in the slophead barracks. Jackal tarried by the door as she approached.

  “Nomad?” Beryl said, a hitch in her voice. She was relieved, but surprised. Her eyes wandered over his injuries and mourned. “The children shouldn’t see you like this.”

  “Could you help me with the cuts?” Jackal ventured. “The Claymaster may take issue—”

  “Fuck the Claymaster. I’ll gather some things and meet you in your chamber.”

  Nodding gratefully, Jackal left.

  The bunkhouse already felt foreign. As he stepped over the threshold, Jackal was seized by the same sense of trepidation he once felt as a slophead when it was his duty to clean the Bastards’ quarters. He was an intruder once more. Moving quickly down the hall, Jackal entered
the expiring solace of his room. There would be no time to sleep. The nearest border to the Bastards’ lot was a ride of several hours. By the time his wounds were dressed, Hearth readied, and his gear collected, Jackal would be in a pressing need to leave. Plus, there was Starling to consider. With any luck she would go as docilely with him as she had done with Hoodwink. Resistance would only cause delay, and delay could get them both killed.

  Beryl arrived, bearing a lit lamp and a laden sling bag. She came wordlessly into the room and sat next to him on the bed. He waited while she scrutinized his cuts by the light of the flame.

  “None of them are too deep,” she said softly. “Your brothers were kind to you. This one across your back won’t even need a bandage.”

  Jackal laughed involuntarily, but bit it down when he heard the sob in his throat. Beryl began to clean his cuts, the wine-soaked rag more agonizing than the axe blades. Setting his jaw, Jackal sat slumped and staring.

  “I’m sorry about Oats,” he managed after a time.

  “Slops say he is going to heal,” Beryl replied. He could hear the chained anger in her voice and knew she held it back for his sake. How far had he fallen? What kind of pathetic thing had he become that he was spared the rancor he deserved from a woman who had never feared to scold him? It would have been better if Beryl had berated him, called him a fool, screamed all the truths of his folly. But he was beneath contempt now, just a shadow that would be gone with the sun. It was madness to scream at shadows.

  “The Claymaster wants Oats to be chief,” Jackal said, not entirely certain why.

  “He will never take that seat, Jackal.”

  “He should. Tell him, from me, he should. And tell him not to seek revenge on Fetching, not when he wakes up and not once he sits at the head of the table.”

  Beryl’s weary disapproval ran through her entire body. “Jackal, Jackal…you’ve always been blind when it comes to that one. How long are you going to protect her?”

  “No,” Jackal protested, “it isn’t that. Oats should never trust her again, but he shouldn’t go after her either. If he does, the Claymaster gets everything he’s ever wanted. Me and Fetch gone, and Oats under his wing. She took a side. That was her right as a Grey Bastard. We, Oats and I, helped her get a place in this hoof, but her vote is her own. If Oats treats her with scorn once he’s chief then he is no better than the Claymaster, and he has to be better, Beryl. He has to be better!”