The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  “And you just set that demon on her,” Jackal said through gritted teeth.

  “I set him on the Kiln. That was the plan, Jackal. You wanted him to take on the Tyrkanian, and the Claymaster, too, by the gambles you were making. Well, he is headed their way. If we’re lucky, they’ll kill each other and save us the trouble.”

  “And what if he just slithers in, takes Fetch, and slithers out? He’ll bring her back here and drown her in some fucking bog.”

  “That’s possible,” Warbler said, moving toward the last five elves brought down from the wall. “But we won’t be here when he does. We will be alive and far away. As will these poor girls.”

  Squatting by the she-elves, the old thrice checked them one at a time. Jackal could tell from his body language that only two still lived. Bile rose in his throat. The Sludge Man had said the orcs killed all of Starling’s fellow captives. That meant these unfortunate women were all gathered and brought since her escape. Ignacio had been busy, the cur, likely bypassing Sancho’s altogether and delivering these elves personally, as he’d been forced to do with Starling. She was now tending the seven survivors. Several were beginning to stir, coming out of the strange lethargy imposed by the sludge. Jackal could not allow this to happen to Fetching.

  “I need to warn her,” he said.

  The older half-orc’s shoulders slumped. “You won’t make it in time.”

  “I have to try.”

  Warbler stood and faced him. “She betrayed you, Jaco.”

  “She cast her vote. It was her right as a Grey Bastard. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.”

  “You’re right, but she cast that vote for the Claymaster. Her chosen leader put her in danger with his scheming, not you.”

  “Hells, Warbler, the Sludge Man could kill the entire hoof!”

  “That was a chance we took by involving him. You wanted him as an ally. What you got was an assassin. There’s nothing you can do, but wait and see who dies.”

  Jackal fumed. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you ride,” Warbler told him. “And hope to all hells your hog is faster than that tar. Even then, the Bastards will fuck you full of thrumbolts on sight.”

  Jackal both accepted and dismissed the warning with a tilt of his head. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Warbler gave him a look that questioned his intelligence. “I’m going to guide these elves out of this sinkhole. Get them somewhere safe.”

  “Where?”

  It was Starling who answered, making a short declaration. Warbler and Jackal both turned to see her giving them a determined look.

  “Dog Fall,” Warbler translated.

  Jackal scoffed. “You do that, War-boar, and I won’t be the only one in danger of sprouting feathered shafts.”

  “And you don’t have time to worry on it.”

  He was right.

  Jackal clapped the old thrice on the shoulder. “Live in the saddle.”

  “Die on the hog.”

  Warbler’s reply sounded forebodingly like advice.

  Slinging his thrum, Jackal sprinted for the archway and charged through the hanging moss. He found Hearth and was in the saddle before realizing he had not even given Starling a parting glance. She had done what she must, for the sake of more lives than her own. Now Jackal had to do the same.

  Using the stars, he struck directly north. He rode when he could, dismounted and led Hearth when the ground was too boggy. Whether mounted or afoot, Jackal set a grueling pace, as quick as the Maiden would allow. Still, it took the meat of the night to traverse the sodden land.

  Jackal could not allow a rest. Knowing the feel of firm ground would seduce Hearth to run, he slung himself into the saddle and rode hard. The sun soon rose directly before them, blinding in its denouncement of their success. The day would be long, hot, and impossible. The unforgiving glare was a mercy. Jackal could not see the arduous leagues before him, leagues that would only grow longer as the strength of half-orc and hog began to falter. The distance was tireless. To defeat this ride the land simply needed to exist.

  Yet Jackal spurred Hearth onward.

  The Sludge Man would be well ahead, the marsh having offered him no hindrance. If Jackal wished to make up the distance it would be now, with dust and rock beneath the cloven feet of a strong hog. Hearth was a prize amongst barbarians, but even his bestial endurance had limits. After two treks through the marsh, he was far from fresh, but neither was he spent.

  Not yet.

  Jackal pushed until they reached the banks of a stream, likely a tributary of the Alhundra. Here he stopped long enough for Hearth to drink. Eastward, the world was still bulwarked by the bright wall of morning. That was their course. Rather than continue on sun-blind, Jackal considered halting for a spell. A pause would allow the day to mature until the horizon was no longer afire, and provide a much-needed rest. A pause would allow the Sludge Man to get farther ahead.

  Jackal pressed on.

  Weary, squinting to keep the sun spears from his aching head, he rode. Hearth kept drifting north, trying to escape the punishing glare, forcing Jackal to constantly take the swine-yanker tusks in hand and wrestle to guide the hog. Knowing Hearth was tired, he listened closely to the animal’s breathing, thankfully hearing no sounds of bloodlung.

  Not yet.

  The day hauled the sun higher, removing the blaze from their eyes, only to send it pounding down upon their flesh. Sweating, legs aching against the heaving barrel of an ornery hog, Jackal rode on, hoping to see the River Lucia join the Alhundra ahead. The Kiln was his destination, but it was a distant, dangerous hope. Jackal kept it from his mind, worried the very thought would claim the last of his vigor. So he concentrated on the river to his left and yearned to see the waters of its larger sister reflecting the burning heat.

  Noon came, yet still the confluence did not appear. Twice now, Hearth had defied command and forded the river. Jackal had to take him firmly in hand, using all the power of muscle and voice to master the barbarian back to course. Temper flaring beneath his baking skull, Jackal kicked the hog into a gallop. He needed to run the willfulness out of Hearth. He needed to see the damned crossing of the rivers!

  Sunspots punched into his eyes as the dust kicked up. He blinked hard at the white flashes dancing at the edges of vision, summoning dark, punctuating blobs. Those black blotches became sludge and Jackal urged Hearth to the chase, knowing he pursued the lies of his own scorched eyeballs. Blood throbbed against his eardrums, pounding away the sounds of Hearth’s grunting breaths. A roar drowned out his furious heartbeat. The roar of water.

  Ahead, the rivers joined and frolicked in a mating of white currents.

  Hearth turned instinctively at the confluence, thundering eastward again until the ford. They crossed the merged waterway and surged, dripping, onto the flats beyond. Snorting in defiance of fatigue, the barbarian sped across the badlands, his hooves pummeling the earth. The heat was upon the hog. Some riders would fear they had pushed their mounts too far, driven them into a craze, but not Jackal. He knew Hearth, could feel the frenzy in his pumping limbs. He had more to give.

  The miles began to fall, but the land fought back, throwing each dusty defeat down Jackal’s parched throat. He coughed and choked and cursed and chewed on the grit. His legs screamed at him for ease as he bent low in the saddle, holding himself in perfect position for speed. Sweat and loose strands of hair stung his eyes, every muscle twisting into ever-tightening cramps. The sun began to sink and the hog ran on, transformed into a demon by his pursuit of one.

  Jackal rode long after he should have stopped, long after he should have fallen from the saddle. Hearth should have collapsed, but he endured, hungry for the horizon. Hog and rider boiled in the cauldron of Ul-wundulas, but they did not succumb. The heat infused them, fed them, ushered them into a fever dream of indomitable will.
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br />   Dusk settled and there, impossibly, was an excruciating silhouette.

  There, rising against the darkening skyline, was a finger of shadow thrusting upward from a brooding hump.

  As Hearth stormed toward home, Jackal was overcome by a haunting disquiet. Above the dwindling flush of sunset, the coming night was a hideous bruise, the purple tinged with a sickly green. The moon emerged from a pall of cloud and, before his eyes, the old crescent waxed, brightening with a pallid light. Jackal’s spine crawled and he looked ahead, unnerved.

  The shadow of the Kiln no longer looked familiar. The chimney was too short, the walls too sloped. The surrounding lands were not covered with vineyards and olive groves, but a barren plain where a hive of low huts squatted.

  Jackal then realized where he had truly ridden.

  The hill and tower of Strava stood before him, meek beneath the menacing glow of the Betrayer Moon.

  Chapter 29

  Unyar horsemen teemed about the hill, so busy with preparation they did not give Jackal a second glance as he rode slowly through their village. Women were calmly herding children and sundries down into crude cellars dug beneath the huts. Strava had no walls, just the decaying mound and the broken tower, both nearly useless for defense. The halflings would hide within, but the humans had only the bows of their horsemen for protection. Holes in the ground would not deter the centaurs from slaughter if the riders failed to repel them.

  Zirko stood at the crest of the hill, overseeing his industrious followers. Jackal expected to be challenged as he dismounted and began leading his hog up the slope, but the little priest was unguarded.

  “The bad moon has risen,” the halfling said with a nod of greeting. “I am glad to see you honor our bargain.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Jackal croaked through dry lips. “You brought me here through some sorcery.”

  Zirko shook his head sadly, causing the black twists of his bound hair to swing.

  “I possess no sorcery. It was the will of Great Belico that brought you here. The Master Slave ensures his servants hold to their pledges…even when they swear oaths they do not intend to keep.”

  “Your god nearly ran my hog to death,” Jackal said.

  A small smile creased the halfling’s face. “Surely, you have come to know, since receiving the bones of Attukhan, the winds of death find you difficult to stir.”

  Jackal set his jaw. He had known his freakish recovery from harm was tied to the healing of his shattered arm, but hearing the priest admit it was unsettling. He took a deep breath, swallowing his anger and his unease.

  “I cannot be here, Zirko,” he said bluntly.

  “Ride where you will,” the halfling shrugged, “but I think you will find that this night, all paths lead to holy Strava.”

  Gut-born rage boiled back up Jackal’s throat. “Release me, priest!”

  “And where will you go? The centaurs are leaving their shrines even now, to worship with murder and rapine. None are safe until the morning.”

  Jackal’s thoughts turned to Warbler and the elves. Hopefully, the old thrice had not left the Old Maiden before the changing of the moon. Even that dread marsh was safer than being caught out during the horse-cocks’ bloody ritual.

  “Zirko, people will die if I delay.”

  “It is the Betrayer Moon. People always die.”

  “There are greater dangers than centaurs loose under this sky!”

  “Not here.”

  Jackal fumed and his hand itched for the sword he did not bear. His aggression must have reeked, for Zirko’s face became grave and his hand drifted to the grip of the stout Imperial blade at his side.

  “You are blessed, Jackal,” Belico’s high priest said. “But it would be unwise to test the boundaries of your divine gifts, especially against me.”

  The halfling was barely half Jackal’s height, yet his words were towers of iron.

  Jackal refused to be cowed. “You were the one that said I found charging into danger comforting.”

  “True,” Zirko replied, the whites of his eyes bright with the baleful moon. “And I still believe it. I believe many things. You took my beliefs for madness and swore an empty oath, yet where do you now stand? And now that you are here, willingly or not, what will you do? Stand with my people, as vowed, or break faith with Belico? Your choice will determine whether the soul of Attukhan resides in a worthy vessel. But I believe I chose rightly in you. I believe you will meet the danger that swiftly approaches and keep your word. Tell me, Jackal, does this belief further make me a madman?”

  Jackal bore the intensity of the halfling’s dark face as he awaited an answer.

  “It’s true,” Jackal said after a moment. “I swore an empty oath. I did not, I do not, believe your beloved warlord will return to life and destroy the orcs. Promising to serve a man who will never again draw breath cost me nothing. But the oath to defend Strava, that I did not knowingly break. I have been banished from my hoof and had no warning of the coming Betrayer.”

  “Then it is fortunate Belico kept his eye upon you and guided you hither.”

  The paltry amount of spit in Jackal’s mouth was bitter. “Yes. Fortunate.”

  Zirko made no reply.

  “I will need a sword,” Jackal told him.

  The high priest gave a call and motioned at one of the Unyar riders. The man obediently spurred his horse up the slope and made to dismount, but Zirko halted him with a word. He gave commands in the tongue of the Unyars, and the horseman bowed his head, then looked expectantly at Jackal.

  “This man will see to your needs,” Zirko said. “Yet again, Belico has answered my prayers and aided me in reading the portents. I was able to warn the half-orc hoofs of the coming rampage and they have sent aid, most of them, to Strava. No doubt, you shall wish to ride with them tonight.”

  Jackal nodded absently and looked up at the moon.

  There was small hope the Betrayer would slow the Sludge Man, but it was possible. The centaurs were terrible beneath its light. Stronger, faster, their senses keener than any beast. Perhaps they would be crazed enough to attack the bog trotter, maybe even kill him. Either way, he was beyond Jackal’s reach now. At least Fetching would be vigilant tonight, standing ready behind the walls of the Kiln with all the Bastards, save whomever the Claymaster had sent here to Strava.

  Unless…

  Jackal looked down at Zirko. “Is Fetch here?”

  “No,” the halfling replied soberly. “The Grey Bastards have sent no aid.”

  That was troubling. The Claymaster had unwaveringly honored the defense of Strava and never failed to send a rider. Why withhold support now? Zirko was the only one capable of predicting the waxing of the dread moon. If one of the mongrel hoofs refused to stand with the priest’s followers, he withheld warning the next time. The Rutters were the last to deny him, and their losses during the following Betrayer led to the dissolution of the hoof. Why would the Claymaster risk the Bastards’ safety after all this time?

  Because he soon expected to be sitting beside the throne of Hispartha, at Crafty’s right fucking hand, Jackal realized, far from the mercurial threat of centaurs.

  He motioned impatiently for the Unyar to lead, and followed him down the hill without another word to Zirko. The horseman guided his steed expertly through the bustle of the village, but Jackal stayed afoot, wanting to rest Hearth as much as possible. The women and children had all disappeared beneath the huts, leaving only the warriors organizing themselves into fighting cavalcades. Scouts would already have ridden out into all directions of the night, ready to give warning of the centaurs’ approach.

  Along the way, Jackal’s guide procured him a sword and handed it down. The Unyar blade was curved, but broader and heavier than a tulwar. The edge was well honed and the scabbard sturdy. Jackal hung the weapon from his belt, finding the w
eight welcome.

  Coming around to the northeast of the hill, the tribesman brought Jackal to a patch of ground on the outskirts of the village. Rough laughter and the snorting of hogs emerged from the bulky silhouettes milling there. Ten half-orcs and their hogs were assembled, some mounted, others still securing weapons to their harnesses. Every head turned and looked at Jackal as he entered their midst, his guide depositing him and riding off.

  “Pretty-boy Jackal,” a vaguely familiar voice proclaimed with amusement.

  One of the mongrels ambled away from his barbarian and approached.

  Jackal clasped the proffered arm. “Cairn.”

  “For a moment, I thought the Bastards wouldn’t attend,” the Skull Sower remarked with a crooked smile.

  “They still haven’t,” rumbled Stone Gut of the Orc Stains. “Word is he’s one of them now.”

  The paunchy thrice-blood pointed to a trio of shabby riders standing apart from the others. Jackal recognized them as free-riders he had met with Warbler. Nomads were always welcome at Strava during the Betrayer, long as they fought. For some, it was the safest place they could be, having no other refuge to weather the evil night. However, as Jackal now knew all too well, knowledge of the moon’s impending change did not often reach the nomads. Only those fortunate enough to have been told could ride to Strava in time.

  Cairn scratched at a boil on his cheek, looking quizzically at Jackal’s unmarred tattoos. “That true? You axed out?”

  “Lost a challenge,” Jackal confirmed.

  “Shit,” Cairn said. “We hadn’t heard at the Furrow.”

  “Well, then he can ride with the other outcasts,” said a young half-orc with fresh Shards tattoos.

  “Fuck off, Pits,” muttered old Red Nail of the Tusked Tide. “We stay together. I’m not getting a ’taur spear in the gut because some youngblood fresh out of the slops thinks he’s too good to fight with nomads.”

  “And what if I say the scum keep to themselves?” Stone Gut threatened. “What do you say then, coot?”