In their worst moment, Fetch had set aside the impostor and taken what she wanted, what she knew they both wanted. The last chance. It was agonizing and infuriating, the pain and anger made all the more tempestuous by the fact that Jackal already wanted her again.
He called a quick halt to keep Starling from having to ride with a saddlehorn in front and behind. Reining Hearth up next to a rocky spur above a draw, Jackal dismounted quickly and turned to help Starling down, but she had already swung a leg over and ignored his reaching hands. Feigning stiffness in his legs, Jackal moved away to walk off the actual discomfort. Starling remained close to Hearth, the natural grace of her kind evident even in the small pacing steps she took. Beryl had scrounged clothes for her that fit properly; deerskin breeches, a linen shirt, a riding hood and mantle. Clean, garbed, and unguarded, she appeared less the cornered animal, yet still out of place. She reminded Jackal of rainfall during a day bright with sun, natural, yet rare and inharmonic. Her captivity in the Sludge Man’s hut had been an atrocity, her confinement in the Kiln a crude necessity. Jackal could not imagine Strava would be much better. He wondered, was there a place in the world she would belong?
Hells, the same could be asked of him. Two people just got down from Hearth’s saddle and both were strangers to Jackal.
He ambled up the shallow slope, giving Starling some space, and stood atop the spur. What he saw moving along their backtrail sent him rushing immediately back down.
“We must go,” he told Starling, mounting up and reaching down for her. This time she did not ignore him, the urgency in his voice undeniable. He kicked Hearth into a gallop, guiding him along the draw as long as possible, sticking to the lower ground to avoid revealing a silhouette on the horizon to their pursuer.
A lone rider. On hogback. Not a mile behind.
Damn the Claymaster! He had already sent the boys out, which meant they weren’t waiting for dawn. It was all a lie, the chief’s mercy nothing but a ruse. The poxy cur never had any intention of letting Jackal and Starling live. There was no time now to try to lose them, cover his trail. Dawn was coming and life was now a race to the river.
“Reach forward,” Jackal called behind Starling’s ear. “Grab his bristles.”
He took one of her hands and guided it into Hearth’s mane, squeezing down on her knuckles until he felt her fingers clench. She understood and did the same with her other hand.
“Don’t pull back, just hold steady and let your arms go with him.”
Jackal did not know how much of that Starling would comprehend, but was relieved to see her follow his instruction. Hearth was surging now and Jackal counted half a dozen of the hog’s deep exhales before letting go of Starling’s waist. Gripping only with his legs, Jackal slung his stockbow around, pulled back on the string, and loaded a bolt. Jamming the butt of the weapon hard against his thigh and holding it one-handed, Jackal grabbed a fistful of Hearth’s rough mane and bent to the task of a hard ride. There wasn’t a barbarian in the Grey Bastards’ stables that was faster than his, but none of his former brothers would be doubled up. As soon as they discovered he had given flight, they would kick their hogs to match. Once they were within thrumshot, it would be over.
Scrub and boulders, silvered with moonlight, rushed past as Hearth chewed up the dirt. Jackal ignored the ground immediately before them, trusting to his mount, and looked ahead, quickly assessing the oncoming terrain and making small adjustments to their course with the weight of his body. The hog responded without hesitation, anticipating the subtle commands. They stuck to the flats, thundering across sandy swaths lit with leeched starlight, bright white against the dark. The open ground would make them an easy mark, but it was the only way to gain a lead.
Jackal turned in the saddle and saw none giving chase. Not yet. They would need every heartbeat.
Starling was doing well holding her seat, her balance perfect. Hearth ran as if unaware of the extra weight. The Alhundra came into view ahead, the constellations sliding upon the skin of the water. Snatching a look behind, Jackal cursed. He did not know precisely how long the other rider had been in view, but he was certainly there now.
They would reach the river ahead of their pursuer, but perhaps not ahead of a bolt in the back. Jackal had a vague idea what stretch of the Alhundra lay before them, but there was only a single ford for miles in both directions. At night, after a desperate flight, the odds of striking the crossing were slim, and then there would be no choice but to turn and fight.
Hearth charged toward the flow, his sides heaving as he smelled water. The hog found reserves of speed and made directly for the bank, his hooves striking rocks as he jumped down into the gully bordering the wash. Jackal nearly pulled back on one of the hog’s swine-yankers to prevent the beast from rushing headlong into the drink, but stayed his hand at the last moment. Water erupted beneath them as Hearth barged confidently across the ford.
Jackal smiled and nearly let loose a triumphal cry.
“Hearth, you beautiful, savvy son of a sow,” he said, rubbing the pig vigorously.
They quickly reached the other side and Jackal tugged his mount around. It was time to see who chased them.
A moment later, the other rider came into view. The Alhundra was wide, but the pale, bald figure was unmistakable.
“Hoodwink.”
Jackal cursed the name softly, his voice swallowed by the sound of the river, but Hood’s gaze settled on him in that moment, as if he had heard. They stared at each other across the ephemeral barrier of the current, and suddenly it felt as if the water flowed down Jackal’s spine. He saw Hoodwink’s mind, the intention to cross written in the set of his shoulders.
Baring his teeth in a silent snarl, Jackal whirled his mount and made for the scrabble of boulders he had spied while crossing the ford. The other Bastards weren’t in pursuit, he was sure of that now. The Claymaster had sent his pet murderer to ensure Jackal and Starling were found on hoof land come the morning, no matter where their feet stood when they died. Had it been anyone else, Jackal would have kept riding, knowing the tradition of safety would be upheld. But this was Hoodwink.
Riding swiftly up the rise, Jackal jumped from the saddle as soon as the rocks blocked him from view. Keeping low, thrum in hand, he left Starling astride Hearth and scrambled up the boulders. Nearing the uneven crest, he dropped and crawled on his belly until he gained vantage over the river. Just in time. Hood was already more than halfway across.
Jackal would rather have come to grips with the dead-eyed spook, vented his rage in the clash of blades, but he couldn’t take the risk. He needed the Claymaster to know that coming after him was a mistake, to let the hoof know that any who hunted him would not return to the Kiln alive. Pulling the stock of his thrum tight into his shoulder, Jackal sighted down the shaft, leading Hoodwink with the barbed head of the bolt. The skulking wretch wasn’t pushing his hog hard, his pace almost leisurely, mocking those who fled from him. Well, Jackal wasn’t fleeing. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs. Let Hood’s cold confidence accompany him to every hell.
“Get your finger off that tickler, boy.”
The voice was deep, gravel loosed by thunder, and uniquely resonant. You could never forget that voice.
Jackal cocked his head to the right to find an arrow trained on him, steady behind the straining string of a recurve bow. The archer stood amongst the boulders, his position perfectly chosen. Jackal would never be able to swing his thrum around and loose a bolt before receiving a shaft through the ribs. Complying with the command, he splayed his fingers away from the tickler and watched as a phantom from his past detached from the shadows.
Warbler.
The older half-orc had changed little in all the years. His thick, wavy mane of hair was now entirely silver, but it didn’t appear one strand had been lost. The distantly familiar face was more wrinkled than Jackal remembered, housin
g the same flinty stare and prominent fangs that had often glowered at him as a child. Some softness had settled into his midsection, but his shoulders were still broad, and age had not bent his spine. Hells, he was still taller than Jackal. That was disappointing, yet not surprising. Warbler was a thrice-blood, after all.
“It’s me, War-boar,” Jackal said. “Look hard, it’s Jaco.”
“I ain’t blind,” came the low reply. “I know who you are, Jackal of the Grey Bastards. Though, judging from those cuts, perhaps not anymore.”
Jackal was surprised to hear the use of his hoof name, a name he had not possessed when Warbler left the Kiln.
“You’re making a mistake,” Jackal told him.
The broadhead did not waver. “No, boy, I’m preventing one. Now, empty that runnel.”
Gritting his teeth, Jackal reached with his left hand and pulled the bolt from his weapon.
“Thrum it,” Warbler ordered.
Jackal hesitated. The string on the recurve bow groaned as Warbler pulled it tauter. With no choice, Jackal pulled the tickler on his unloaded stockbow, sending the string snapping forward on useless air.
“Leave it and stand up.”
Abandoning his thrum, Jackal stood slowly. “I got a killer on my heels. He is going to be up these rocks soon. I know it’s been a long span of years, Warbler, but you need to trust me.”
“Killer?” Warbler seemed amused at the word, grinning for a long moment before unleashing a sharp, controlled whistle. “Hoodwink is a damn sight more than a killer.”
Jackal heard footsteps on the lower rocks and Hood appeared, holding his tulwar loosely in one hand, Starling firm in the other.
“A damn sight more,” Warbler said again as the pale devil climbed to stand beside him, “and right now, I trust him for all the hells more than I do you.”
Chapter 21
Bound hand and foot, Jackal could only glare as Hoodwink and Warbler spoke in hushed tones. The familiarity in their furtive discourse was nearly impossible to reconcile. Warbler was clearly asking questions, and the answers were given readily, but with grim brevity. Though their words were lost to distance and whispers, this was the most Jackal had ever seen Hood speak. There were more than a few gestures and glances at Starling, who sat unbound less than a stone’s throw from where Jackal knelt.
He wondered if she had even tried to run, though Hearth would not have responded favorably to commands from a strange rider. The hog was now tethered to a gorse bush beyond where Hood and Warbler stood, next to their own mounts, perfectly at ease. Likely Hoodwink had come up slowly, a familiar smell on a fellow pig, the cunning fuck. No doubt he simply reached out and took Hearth’s swine-yanker without so much as a squeal of complaint. No, Starling had not tried to run. She was not as big a fool as Jackal.
He looked over and met her eyes.
“They won’t harm you,” he said, trying to sound resolved. She looked away almost immediately. Indeed not a fool, to ignore assurances from a captor now trussed up with leather straps.
“No, we won’t harm you,” Warbler announced gruffly as he strode toward them.
He went to Starling and squatted, waited calmly until she met his gaze. Then he spoke to her in the elf tongue. It did not sound beautiful, even with Warbler’s distinctive voice, yet the old mongrel wielded the language with confidence. It seemed to Jackal that Starling gave a wordless affirmation. Warbler remained balanced on his haunches, deep in thought. He nodded shallowly to himself and drew a knife from his boot.
Jackal jumped up and managed to land on his yoked feet, but an unseen hand clamped around his neck and pushed him back to his knees.
“One day, Hood,” Jackal snarled, “you’ll fail to be so damn quiet.”
With a deft motion, Warbler flipped the knife, caught it by the blade and slowly offered it, grip-first, to Starling. She took it readily, eagerly, her hand darting out with all the speed of a scorpion sting. Standing, she gazed at the blade for a moment, then her eyes flicked to Warbler. He remained where he was, giving nothing but a small permissive gesture with his hand. Jackal slumped beneath Hoodwink’s hand. Warbler had just given Starling the choice he couldn’t, and her decision was written in the haunted set of her face.
As she turned, her eyes settled on Jackal, brief as the landing of a butterfly, and then she was gone, hurrying into the night with the instrument of her salvation clutched in her hand.
Clenching his teeth in futile rage, Jackal hung his head. His hoof, his friends, his life, all now lost for the protection of a she-elf who wanted nothing but to die.
Warbler approached and resumed his squat.
“You challenged the Claymaster.”
It wasn’t a question.
Jackal looked up. “Same as you.”
Warbler rubbed unconsciously at the web of raised scars on his arms. There had been more brothers during his day, more axes at the table.
“When I did it, the chief didn’t have a wizard tickling his ear.” Warbler snorted and shook his head. “You always had balls, Jaco. Waddled funnier than most toddlin’ whelps because of them. I’d hoped some of that wrinkled flesh would find its way up inside your skull.”
“My learning was cut a bit short…when my mentor exiled himself.”
Warbler ignored this. “Hood says Isabet turned coat. Cost you the seat.”
“It’s Fetching,” Jackal said through clenched teeth, “and Jackal. Not Isabet, not Jaco. Fetching and Jackal, our hoof names. We fucking earned them.”
Warbler gave a solid nod of agreement. “You’re right.”
The old mongrel’s gaze drifted up and his chin lifted. The bonds around Jackal’s wrists parted. Another swift slice from Hoodwink freed his ankles. Jackal got to his feet and Warbler followed him up. Hood came around to stand between them, sheathing his knife.
“The Tyrkanian had a forked tongue from the beginning, Jackal,” Warbler said. “He was just ferreting out the Claymaster’s biggest rival. Tell him.”
Hoodwink turned his unblinking stare on Jackal. “It was the wizard’s idea. Send me out with the elf. Told the Claymaster it would provoke your challenge.”
“And what were you supposed to do with her?” Jackal asked.
“Rape her and throw her off the top of Batayat,” Hoodwink said woodenly. “Make it look the work of orcs.”
Jackal bristled. “That what you did when you took her from Dog Fall? Make it look the work of orcs?”
“Wasn’t me,” Hood replied. “Wasn’t the Claymaster. You had that wrong.”
Jackal’s mouth was dry, foul-tasting with bitter truths. Hells damn it all. Fetch was right. She hadn’t done this to him. It was all his own fool-ass doing. The Claymaster’s biggest rival? Jackal had never been close, not near as close to a rival as he’d been to his own ambitions. All the old man had to do was wait him out, watch as he ground himself to dust beneath the heels of his headlong flight to leadership. He’d thought it was his last chance, and been warned it was the wrong one to take. He could have done it differently at any one of a hundred moments. He could have done it all differently.
“And what if Crafty had it wrong?” Jackal demanded of Hoodwink. “What if I had let you leave with her?”
Warbler stepped in. “He would have brought her to me. As you saw, we did her no ill.”
“No ill?” Jackal snapped. “She’s still dead now, Warbler!”
“A clean death and an honorable one to her mind, boy. It’s what you should have done when you found her.”
Sliding the kerchief off his head, Jackal scrubbed at his hair, pacing away from the other two.
Strava. He was taking her to Strava! A place to be safe, a place to live. And now she was out there in the dark, preparing her own end, or already dead, limp and cooling in the moonlight. Come morning, only the carrion birds would know where she lay. In a month
she would be nothing but another fetish of bleached bones adorning ancient, remorseless Ul-wundulas.
“And why would he bring her to you?” Jackal demanded, whirling and gesturing wildly between Warbler and Hoodwink. “What is this?”
“I’ve been a free-rider for nearly fifteen years,” Warbler told him, “but Hood’s been out here most of his life. I asked him to join the Bastards, get close to the Claymaster, be my eyes and ears. It took me a long time to find someone I trusted enough with the task.”
Jackal shot a look at Hoodwink. “And why would you do this for him?”
There was no response.
“I never left, Jackal,” Warbler went on, “not in my heart. They marred my Bastard tattoos, but the hoof lies deeper than flesh. The Claymaster has ruled too long. These last few months, Hood’s been telling me it looked like you would take the seat. I just learned you failed. Claymaster must have thought you had a chance and took steps to bring you down.”
Jackal chewed on this for a moment. “You think he knew Crafty all along, arranged to have him come to the Kiln?”
“I don’t know,” Warbler admitted.
The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands) Page 26
