The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  “I say you know how this fucking works,” Red Nail spat back. “Tonight, we’re one hoof.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the rider from the Sons of Perdition.

  Ignoring the growing argument, Jackal led Hearth through the middle of the group and joined the other free-riders.

  “Gripper, right?” he asked the most familiar face.

  The nomad nodded and motioned at his companions. “Slivers and Dumb Door, in case you don’t recall.”

  “Welcome to the shit,” Slivers said with gold shining in his smile. His small frame and paler flesh marked him as a frailing.

  Dumb Door remained true to his name.

  Gripper leaned and spat in the dirt. “Causing some dust there, Jackal.”

  Glancing back, Jackal saw the sworn brothers were still griping and posturing. All save one. He sat his hog at the edge of the argument, wearing nothing but a breechclout. A large tattoo of a gaping, toothed maw covered his muscle-etched belly, and bone fetishes hung from his stockbow. His barbarian stamped constantly, looking one generation removed from feral. The rider watched the others with thinly veiled contempt, running a hand over his shaved pate to rid it of sweat.

  “I see the Fangs of Our Fathers have civilized some,” Jackal said dryly.

  Gripper snorted. “That one may cook his meat. Thick-loving fucks.”

  “I never met a free-rider thrown out of the Fangs,” Slivers commented, idly tugging at his balls through his breeches. “Bastards. Sons. Hells, Dumb Door here was a Cauldron Brother. But never any Fangs.”

  “That’s because they kill all their castoffs,” Gripper said dourly.

  Jackal had heard the same, but he kept his mouth shut. Walking over to a pitiful excuse for a persimmon tree, he picked what was left and shared the fruit with Hearth, continuing to watch the half-orcs snarl at one another. When it became clear there was no more food to be had, Hearth grunted with disappointment and settled down in the dust. Jackal joined him, stretching his legs out and leaning back on the hog.

  Gripper turned.

  “Sleeping during the Betrayer?” he asked, impressed. “You really don’t want any friends.”

  Jackal just grinned and kept his eyes closed.

  Some moons the ’taurs came late and sometimes not at all. Ul-wundulas was vast. Many as there were, not even the centaurs could raid the entire land in a single night. Jackal still remembered the gloating Roundth had done upon returning from his turn at Strava and reporting the horse-cocks never showed. He had regaled them with lies about spending the entire night fucking pretty Unyar girls. Jackal dozed off to the fond memory of a dead friend, knowing that slumber would only summon trouble. Exhausted as he was, there was no choice.

  It felt as if he only blinked before someone nudged him roughly on the shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways. His skin was wet from where they touched him. Cursing, Jackal righted himself and threw a sour look at his rouser. A flaring snout greeted him, the gateway to a warty, hideous face.

  “Ugfuck?”

  “Shouldn’t sleep with your mouth open, brother,” the big shadow next to the hog rumbled. “One of these heathens is likely to stick their cod in.”

  With a whoop, Jackal took the large hand extended down to him and allowed Oats to haul him up into a crushing embrace. They clung to each other in a vise of muscle, laughing. At last, Jackal broke free, stepping back to look at the big thrice, and took his bearded face between his hands.

  “Hells, I’m glad to see you!”

  Oats grabbed the back of his neck and thumped their foreheads together, then drew back smiling. Jackal found himself marveling, unable to let go.

  “This is getting a touch backy,” Oats said after a moment.

  “Well then I will love on Ug!” Jackal proclaimed, hugging the smelly hog’s head and humping his jowl until he squealed in complaint. The other half-orcs were watching and some laughed.

  Nearby, Slivers snorted. “That is one ugly hog.”

  “Isn’t he?” Oats beamed.

  Sparing Ugfuck further affection, Jackal turned.

  “Zirko thought the Bastards weren’t going to show.”

  Oats shrugged his massive shoulders. “What does that waddler know?”

  Jackal heard the forced levity and squinted at his friend. “Cut it close, though. You had at least, what, four days’ warning?”

  Oats tried, and failed, not to look over his shoulder at the other mongrels. Most had lost interest after Jackal stopped molesting Ug, but Stone Gut and the savage Fang brother still peered their way. The three free-riders stood closest and, with a motion of his head, Oats signaled Jackal to walk with him out of earshot.

  “The Claymaster didn’t send me,” Oats admitted in a hush. “He’s had the Kiln closed and fired since we got Zirko’s bird about the Betrayer. Winsome was evacuated, as usual, but the chief hasn’t let anyone out, even during the day. No patrols, no tending to crops, nothing. He said we weren’t going to help Strava this time. I remembered the deal you made with Zirko and figured you’d be here, so I had to come.”

  “So how are you here?”

  “I bullied the slops to lower the Hogback and left. Two nights ago.”

  Oats’s face was a conflicted mask of defiance, doubt, shame, and anger.

  “It’s not the same, Jackal,” the thrice went on, as if worried he was being judged. “Ever since your challenge nothing makes sense. When I woke up from the fight with…when I woke up, everything was all ass-end up. Glad as I was to hear you were alive, I couldn’t figure why the Claymaster spared you. Seemed everyone was doing the last damn thing expected. So, that’s what I did.”

  Oats would be branded a traitor. Abandoning your hoof during the Betrayer Moon was unforgivable. Jackal knew it, but said nothing, for nothing needed to be said. Oats knew what he had done, the weight of his choice was heavy upon his brow.

  “I’m the reason you’re out here, brother,” Oats said, his voice thickening. “If I hadn’t lost, then—”

  “No,” Jackal hissed, stepping forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t! This falls on a lot of heads, mine included, but not yours. Hear me?”

  Oats dipped his chin sharply, embarrassed by his welling eyes.

  Jackal put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me about Crafty.”

  Oats sniffed hard and cleared his throat. “Crafty? Same. Smiles and jibes. Sometimes he and the chief stay shut away, like they did before, but no one knows what they talk about.”

  “Thrones and crowns, I’m sure,” Jackal muttered.

  Oats frown deepened. “Huh?”

  “Crafty is making a play for Hispartha. His human blood is blue and he means to be king, with the Claymaster’s help.”

  “Shit,” Oats gasped. “Anything else I should know?”

  Jackal ran a slow hand through his hair. “Warbler takes baths in the brothel, Hoodwink is spying on the hoof for him, the Claymaster can unleash the plague that ended the Incursion, and Fetch is a half-elf that the Sludge Man wants to sacrifice in the marsh.”

  “Hogshit!” Oats declared with raised eyebrows. “Warbler sits in those nasty tubs?”

  “I mean to stop it, Oats.”

  “Well, sure, you wouldn’t want the old man’s cock falling off.”

  “Enough, fool-ass,” Jackal held up a hand. “I get that you don’t believe me.”

  Oats’s face settled. “Of course I do. That’s the most anything has made sense since I came to. Which do you want to tackle first?”

  An Unyar horn sounded a warning in the distant darkness.

  “Let’s start by surviving the night,” Jackal replied.

  Chapter 30

  “Mount up!” Red Nail yelled as the echo from the first horn was joined by a fresh blaring. “They’re coming.”

  The half-orcs jumped to readiness, those not ast
ride their hogs quickly swinging into the saddle. Oats removed a full quiver of thrumbolts from Ugfuck’s heavily laden harness and tossed it to Jackal. Quickly affixing it to his own harness and checking his sheath of javelins, Jackal loaded his stockbow. Red Nail eyeballed the patchwork hoof as they assembled.

  “If this is your first stand at Strava, listen well,” the old-timer barked, giving Pits, the young Shard, a withering look. “Keep together. Keep moving. We got twelve riders here, more than I’ve seen most years, so no reason we shouldn’t be breathing at dawn. The frails have horsemen around the hill to protect the waddlers. They’re also riding the flats, thinning out any big herds, but the ’taurs don’t fight with much order. Our job is to kill those that will break through into the village. You all harken?”

  There were nods and grunts of agreement.

  “And remember,” Cairn said, grinning darkly. “We call them horse-cocks, but the females are the worst. If you see a pair of tits, you’ve already let the filly get too close.”

  This drew some laughs.

  Jackal had carefully watched the others during Red Nail’s instruction, reading their reactions. The loudmouth Shard and the rider from the Sons of Perdition were certainly virgins to a Betrayer at Strava. The Son looked a little spooked. That was good, honest, but Pits’s eyes were too wide, his jaw too tight. His face was a brave, brittle mask. Jackal nudged Oats and lifted a chin at the youngblood.

  “Yeah,” Oats whispered.

  Gripper caught Jackal’s eye as well, confirming he saw the weak link.

  “We’ll ride six and six,” Stone Gut proclaimed, looking at the free-riders with distaste.

  “I just said we should stay together, thrice!” Red Nail complained.

  The horns continued to sound and another dispute was beginning. Jackal urged Hearth forward a step.

  “Red Nail,” Jackal said respectfully. “Twelve will be too many in the press of the huts. Two groups, within sight, would be better. I will take Oats and the nomads and one other.”

  “D’hez mulcudu suv’ghest s’ulyud wundu.”

  All eyes turned to the rider from the Fangs of Our Fathers. He looked fiercely pleased.

  Pits curled his lip. “The fuck he say?”

  “The Shards must not be teaching orcish to their slopheads anymore,” Cairn muttered, shaking his head. “Ignorant little shit.”

  Pits bristled, but Stone Gut blustered before the youth could speak.

  “Let the Fang ride with the nomads and the Bastard, then!” he declared, looking at Oats. “I’d invite you to ride with us, brother-thrice, but I know you won’t be parted from your outcast lover.”

  “When morning comes, Orc Stain,” Oats promised, “you and me are going have us a disagreement.”

  “Enough,” Red Nail growled. “Two groups it is. Let’s get on with this damned night.”

  The riders divided.

  The Fang approached on his ornery hog and joined Jackal’s group.

  “You got a name?” Gripper asked.

  “Kul’huun,” the savage mongrel replied. All the Fangs of Our Fathers took orc names, and never spoke Hisparthan, believing the frail tongue weakened them.

  Slivers screwed up his face. “What was that you were spouting? My orcish was never all that good.”

  “He said, ‘We fight with the hands of the orcs,’ ” Jackal replied. “Groups of six. Like an ulyud.”

  Kul’huun inclined his head and gestured at Jackal. “T’huruuk.”

  Slivers snapped his fingers. “That one I know! ‘The arm.’ Right?”

  Oats raised his eyebrows at Jackal. “Looks like the Fang wants you as leader, brother.”

  Jackal turned to Gripper. “Unless you would rather.”

  “Not me.” The nomad snorted and deftly strung his bow. None of the nomads carried thrums.

  “Hells, I’d say give the job to Dumb Door,” Slivers sniggered, “but our war cry might be a little lacking.”

  Dumb Door glanced down at his frailing companion. And said nothing.

  “All right.” Jackal sighed, shouldering the task. “We will go broadhead. Kul’huun and I are the point. Dumb Door, Slivers, you’re up behind us on the shoulders.”

  “That leaves me and Gripper on the flanks,” Oats said.

  “Everyone good?” Jackal asked to nods of agreement. “Let’s kill some ’taurs.”

  They all fell into position as Jackal rode off, Kul’huun on his left, with Dumb Door trailing Hearth’s right haunch. Oats was behind the mute. It felt good to have a trusted friend watching the rear. It felt good being part of a hoof again.

  Going at a trot, they moved back into the Unyar village and circulated through the huts. The tower of Strava stood blackly against the stars before them. Off to the left, within thrumshot, Red Nail’s group kept pace.

  “Keep an eye on the others, boys,” Jackal called to his companions. “They’ve got two untested riders. If they come to grips with the horse-cocks, we go to aid.”

  This was Jackal’s third stand with the Unyars, same as Oats. He suspected the riders with him had equal experience, possibly more. Half-orcs were a small, yet crucial, force in Strava’s defense. The halflings were no match for the centaurs, and their human protectors relied solely on their incomparable skills as mounted archers. An Unyar bowman could shoot quickly and accurately at a gallop, but if pressed into close combat, the odds of survival were grim. Centaurs were far stronger than frails, even when not frenzied beneath the Betrayer Moon. Half-orcs carried by the might of a barbarian mount, however, were capable of matching the ferocity of the ’taurs. That was why Zirko needed them here, to crush the enemy that survived the flights of arrows from his faithful Unyars. Still, it was an unwise warrior who became too eager for close quarters. Thrumbolt and javelin remained the best weapons against the ’taurs, though it was a rare Betrayer that passed without empty quivers, and hand-to-hand was often inescapable.

  An ululating cry split the night, a sound that eschewed the ears and went directly for the spine.

  Off to the left, Jackal saw Red Nail respond and turn his riders toward the sound. It had come from the western borders of the Unyar village. The centaurs never attacked from a single direction, but Jackal could not leave Red Nail unsupported. He pulled Hearth to pursue and his column followed.

  The huts and animal pens of the tribesmen prevented a direct route. Through the gaps in the low structures, Jackal saw the other hoof winding through the village, searching for the enemy. Keeping them in view, he guided his own riders, drifting a bit to cover more ground. The chilling war cry came again, much closer, and nearly drowned out Oats’s warning.

  “To the right!”

  A pack of centaurs thundered from behind a cluster of huts, leaping the fences of a goat pen as they screamed lustily. Filthy, dark hair streamed from their shrieking heads. Jackal counted four at a glance, charging fast and leveling their great spears.

  “Snail left!” he yelled.

  Kul’huun took hold of his hog’s swine-yanker and pulled. An instant later, Jackal did the same. The hoof followed them in a tight wheel, spiraling around to meet the oncoming enemy. The maneuver was perfectly done, but they narrowly avoided being flanked. Jackal hardly had time to pull the tickler as he faced the ravening beast-men.

  His bolt slapped into the corded chest of the lead centaur, turning its gallop into a careen of flailing limbs. Thrum and bow strings snapped as the hoof let fly, felling two more of the ’taurs, but the last made it through the volley. Screeching fiercely, it charged the small gap between the point riders. Jackal now saw it was a female, sinewy and enraged. Hearth and Kul’huun’s hog squealed as the ’taur collided. The moon-crazed cunt just threw herself upon their tusks, stabbing with her spear. For one terrible instant she was dragged along before the force of the barbarians snapped her forelegs, gored her belly, and sen
t her bowling over to be trampled by the rest of the hoof.

  When they were well clear of the corpses, Jackal signaled a halt. Turning in the saddle, he was rewarded to see all five of his riders.

  “We whole?”

  “You’re the only one seeping, chief,” Slivers said, pointing.

  Jackal looked down and found he was bleeding from a gash along his left shoulder. The last centaur must have just missed her thrust.

  “It’s nothing,” Jackal said. Looking about, he saw no sign of the other hoof. Red Nail had either been unaware that they were attacked or chose not to lend aid. The latter was unlikely, seeing as the old Tusker had wanted to stay together from the onset. It was more likely he had been forced to respond to a different threat.

  “Let’s find the others,” Jackal ordered.

  They found more horse-cocks first.

  Nine of the savages had caught a company of Unyar horsemen and were finishing the butchery when Jackal’s hoof came upon them. Stamping and hewing, the cocks of the males erect with bloodlust, the centaurs failed to notice the arrival of the half-orcs. Reining up, Jackal silently assigned targets. Six bowstrings hummed and six ’taurs died. The remaining three turned, raised their dripping weapons, and charged, kicking up blood. The gore-splattered muscles of their horse limbs rippled as they surged forward, emitting hollers from frothing lips. Jackal and his companions calmly reloaded and sent the beasts to whatever hell they held dear.

  “Loony fucks,” Slivers said disgustedly as they searched the carnage of the Unyars for survivors. There were none. The centaurs had spared neither horse nor man. Thankfully, none of the nearby huts were despoiled, the hidden occupants spared by the sacrifice of their menfolk.

  Others were less fortunate.

  Farther on, they found the ruins of several huts, probably razed by the same band they had just slain. The Unyar innocents had been dragged from their hiding holes. Skewered by spear, crushed by hoof, pulled apart by lasso, the slain were strewn amongst the wreckage.

  Kul’huun dismounted, squatting briefly to inspect the churned earth before pointing deeper into the heart of the village.