The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  Ignoring the men, Jackal turned to find Oats.

  “Get ready. We need to go down the other side.”

  His friend’s concerned eyes drifted down. Following his gaze, Jackal saw a centaur spear sticking out from under his left arm. With a frustrated snarl, he pulled it free and cast it down upon the ground.

  “Gripper, Kul’huun! Form up, we’re going again. Stone Gut!”

  “Jackal,” Oats said slowly.

  “We have to go now!” Jackal told him. “Before they recover.”

  Zirko stepped up beside his hog.

  “There is no need,” the halfling said calmly, and cocked his eye at the horizon.

  Jackal looked and saw the sky was blushing with the beginnings of dawn. Ensconced in the besieged band of night, the Betrayer Moon waned, returning to a pale crescent. Below, the centaurs were riding off in living currents, back to their ancient, shadowy groves and vine-strangled temples. Troops of returning Unyar outriders sped the horse-cocks’ departure with volleys of vengeful arrows.

  “It is over,” Zirko proclaimed.

  The surrounding tribesmen continued to marvel at Jackal and each began repeating the words of the first. The archers on the hill turned and began to gather. One of them plucked the spear that Jackal had removed from his body and held it reverently before punching it aloft.

  “Va gara Attukhan!” he cried, and his kindred let loose a victorious cheer.

  The call was taken up and the tower reverberated with the chant of the Unyars.

  Jackal looked down at Zirko.

  “What are they saying?”

  “They hail you,” the priest replied. “They recognize you for what you are.”

  “And what is he?” Oats asked, his face mirroring Jackal’s own confusion.

  “The Arm of Attukhan,” Zirko answered solemnly with a small, pleased smile.

  Jackal looked wearily about him. Everywhere were the gleeful faces of the Unyars, men he had never known to smile. Every voice was lifted, every arm was thrust into the air. Whatever exhaustion they felt after so bloody a night, whatever despair was in their hearts at the losses they had suffered, none of it showed as they chanted, saluting Jackal with words and beliefs he did not understand.

  “Va! Gara! ATTUKHAN!”

  “Va! GARA! ATTUKHAN!”

  “VA! GARA! ATTUKHAN!”

  Chapter 31

  The morning was infused with a rare rain. It fell thinly, not even audible upon the roof of the corral shed. The near-invisible drops brought a chill to the early air, summoned it seemed, by the funerary song of the Unyars.

  Jackal sat listening to their voices, carried on the damp breeze for some time now. Somewhere, out of sight, the tribesmen buried their dead, entombing the warriors within Strava Hill, the women and children entrusted to familial mounds. The half-orcs had not been invited to attend, all offers of aid denied. They were given food and a place to rest, but Jackal had been unable to sleep, unlike the rest, who slumbered around him. At his side, Oats snored softly, despite the singing, his head pillowed by a bedroll. Even Kul’huun slept, sitting upright in a corner of the shed. Red Nail had stirred long enough to walk stiff-legged out into the rain for a piss, then immediately returned to his blanket. Stone Gut was the first to fully rouse and sauntered out into the corral while finishing off the contents of a milk jar.

  Jackal was anxious to ride, but Hearth was in need of a decent rest. He lay out in the corral, huddled beneath the low roof of a foaling pen with the other barbarians. Stone Gut barked a curse when he discovered his hog had been bullied out from beneath the shelter by Ugfuck. The paunchy thrice saddled his drenched mount in a frustrated hurry and rode away without so much as a parting glance. Eyes still closed, Oats smiled widely, and went back to sleep.

  Jackal bid the surly Orc Stain a silent riddance with a grin. This was the way of the hoofs at Strava. You stood, you fought and, if you survived, you left, duty done. Depending on the number of riders sworn to the Stains, Stone Gut would not have to spend another Betrayer here for years to come. Jackal envied him that comfort.

  The singing wore on. The swath of sunlight behind the seamless grey of watery clouds spread across the sky. By noon, the dirge had ceased, but the rain fell on, aging the day. At the back of the shed, Gripper and Dumb Door were stirring. Looking down, Jackal saw that Oats was awake. He lay on his back, but his head was turned, his eyes fixed upon Jackal’s ribs.

  “See that’s already closed,” the big thrice said quietly.

  Raising his arm, Jackal inspected the spot where the centaur spear had pierced him. It had been a deep wound, though he had felt no pain. Now, it was nothing but a slightly ragged puckering of the skin.

  Oats sat up, grunting out a long breath and shaking his head, communicating a litany of opinions without a word.

  “We need to saddle up,” Jackal told him, handing over the last heel of bread.

  “To the Kiln?” Oats asked, his mouth full.

  Jackal nodded. “I set out to warn Fetch about the Sludge Man and that’s what I am going to do.”

  It was probably far too late, but he left that unsaid.

  Oats gave voice to the fear anyway. “Sludge Man could have already been there and left, brother.”

  The look on the thrice’s face reflected what they both knew but would not utter. The Sludge Man was capable of killing everyone within the Kiln, and all of Winsome would have been lodged in the fortress due to the Betrayer Moon. Beryl. Thistle. Cissy. The orphans. None of them would be safe from the bog trotter.

  The only person Jackal knew with the power to stand against the Sludge Man was Crafty, but trust in the wizard was a knife that cut both ways.

  “I need to see for myself,” Jackal said. “And so do you.”

  The set of Oats’s bearded jaw was all the agreement needed. They stood at the same time and began gathering their gear.

  “D’hubest mar kuul.”

  Jackal shot a look over at Kul’huun and saw he was awake too. His eyes were cocked and staring out across the corral. Jackal followed his gaze and found Zirko approaching through the spitting rain. The high priest was alone, his short steps tired. Arriving under the eaves of the shed, the halfling wiped the wet from his face and looked up.

  “I trust you have managed some rest?” he asked the gathering half-orcs.

  “We have, thankfully,” Gripper answered, stepping forward. “How are Cairn and Duster?”

  “I tended them,” Zirko replied, “but Cairn could not be saved. I am sorry. The younger one was more fortunate. He remains unconscious, though I believe he will wake. Some of my most skilled priests are with him, and I have sent a bird to the Sons of Perdition, telling them of their brother’s injury. Another I sent to the Skull Sowers to inform them of their loss.”

  “And what about Pits?” Red Nail snarled, a knee popping as he rose from the ground. “Did you find any sign of that craven shit?”

  “Or Slivers?” Gripper added.

  Zirko inclined his head gravely. “My riders found the Shard slain. The centaurs had torn him asunder, so there is little left for his hoof to retrieve. His mount was found alive and will be brought here to use as you please. Of the free-rider, there is no sign.”

  Red Nail gave a grunt of grim satisfaction.

  “Well,” Gripper waved a thumb between himself and Dumb Door, “if none of you object, my mute friend will claim the Shard’s barbarian and we’ll be on our way. Any who want to ride with us are welcome.”

  Jackal knew the offer was directed at him, but merely clapped his fellow nomad on the shoulder in a respectful farewell.

  As the free-riders maneuvered out of the shed, Red Nail looked to Zirko.

  “I trust the Tusked Tide will receive warning of the next Betrayer.”

  “Of course,” the priest promised solemnly. “Ride with t
he blessings of Great Belico.”

  Stepping past the halfling, Red Nail followed the nomads into the rain. Kul’huun continued to sit in his corner, watching Jackal, Oats, and Zirko with naked interest.

  “I hope your losses weren’t great,” Jackal told the little priest.

  Zirko bowed slightly, folding his hands before him. “Greater than some Moons, yet fewer than most. Belico will receive many faithful this morn, borne to his side on the voices of we who live to await the Master Slave’s return.”

  “The way those frails were carrying on at dawn,” Oats grumbled, “I’m surprised half of them aren’t here trying to give Jackal their daughters.”

  Jackal gave his friend a horrified look, but Zirko was smiling.

  “The Unyars have witnessed many of the god’s gifts throughout the generations and celebrate their arrival, yet will always remain an insular folk. Even we halflings live apart from them.”

  Oats scratched at his bald head. “So…if Duster lives, he going to be some unkillable loon-brain like Jackal?”

  Abandoning the scathing looks, Jackal slapped the thrice across the shoulder.

  “The fuck is wrong with you?”

  Oats shrugged. “You weren’t going to ask.”

  Kul’huun was chuckling silently in his corner.

  Zirko’s face, however, lost its smile.

  “Attukhan was a great warrior in life,” the halfling said, “but death claimed him, as it did all of Belico’s loyal sworn men.” The priest’s cunning black face settled on Jackal and grasped his attention. “Do not mistake gifts for miracles, half-orc. You carry a soul within you favored by a god, but your own is still there, and can be torn from life. It is difficult to blow out a candle that resides behind a roaring waterfall. Difficult, but not impossible.”

  “He’s saying you’re not invulnerable,” Oats said out the side of his mouth.

  “I fucking heard him,” Jackal groused.

  “Just making sure.”

  Jackal looked boldly down at the high priest. “If you and your god are done with me, Hero Father, I have matters to settle.”

  He had tried to bury the bitterness in his voice, but it scuttled to the surface nonetheless.

  “Of course,” Zirko said. “Until the next Betrayer Moon.”

  The sword Jackal had borrowed was propped against the wall. He pointed it out to Zirko with a lift of his chin.

  “Could you see that gets back to its owner? All the Unyars look the same to me.”

  “Keep it,” the halfling told him. “The look in your eye tells me you will soon have need of it.”

  “My thanks.”

  Shouldering his saddle and taking up the blade, Jackal left the shed, Oats following. Kul’huun unfolded from his corner and came with them.

  Outside the foaling pen, Gripper and Dumb Door were already mounted, the mute having adopted Pits’s mount. Red Nail was giving his hog’s girth strap a final tug.

  “Where are you bound?” the grizzled Tusker asked.

  “The Kiln,” Jackal told him simply.

  “That wise?” Gripper asked. “You know your life is forfeit if you set foot on your former hoof’s lot.”

  Jackal slung his saddle over Hearth’s back. “We don’t have a choice. Gripper, if you see Warbler, tell him I was here at Strava and where I went after. Spread the message to any nomads you meet.”

  “I will.”

  Red Nail winced as he climbed atop his hog. “Luck to you boys. Hopefully I’ll be dead before my turn here comes up again, old as I am. But if you find yourselves on Tide lands, you will be welcome at the Wallow. I will vouch for you.”

  “Our thanks,” Gripper said, smiling as he hooked a thumb at Dumb Door. “Though this one is likely to have trouble saying who—”

  The nomad ceased speaking, his attention suddenly drawn by something that caused him to frown.

  Looking over his shoulder, Jackal saw a group of Unyar horsemen swiftly approaching. There were ten of them, surrounding a lone half-orc on a barbarian.

  “Is that…?” Oats began.

  “Slivers,” Gripper confirmed.

  The frailing was escorted into the corral and the horsemen reined up, their leader breaking away and trotting toward Zirko. The little priest listened to a quick report, then pointed at Jackal and the others. At a bellowed command, the horsemen allowed Slivers to ride up to the foaling pen. His face was tight and worried.

  “They catch you stealing a goat?” Red Nail accused.

  Slivers shook his head and tried to speak, but his throat only croaked wordlessly. Gripper tossed him a waterskin. As he drank, Zirko and the Unyar leader came up.

  “My men tell me you have spotted orcs nearby,” the halfling said, looking intently at Slivers.

  Oats grunted out a laugh. “You run to save your hide from centaurs, then come running right back at the sight of an ulyud. Hells, mongrel, you got any balls left?”

  Slivers tore the skin away from his panting, dripping mouth. “Not…not an ulyud.”

  Everyone stilled, all eyes locking upon the spooked frailing.

  “How many?” Red Nail asked.

  Slivers gave a searching shrug, mouth agape. “More thicks than I’ve ever seen.”

  “How far?” Zirko demanded.

  “Not ten leagues east.”

  The halfling was implacable. “Are they coming this way?”

  Slivers shook his head. “North. They’re moving north.”

  Zirko gave a string of commands to the Unyar rider in the tribesman’s own tongue, sending him riding away immediately.

  “You will lead my men to have a look,” the little priest said in a voice that allowed no chance for denial.

  “And us,” Gripper said as Dumb Door gave a solid nod.

  “I would see them, too,” Red Nail declared.

  Jackal and Oats shared a look, a look that agreed the Kiln would have to wait.

  Two hundred horsemen were assembled at the base of the hill. A swift war chariot drawn by a pair of horses waited at the head of the column. The Unyar driver bowed as Zirko mounted the conveyance, stepping up onto a platform that allowed the halfling to stand equal to the man. The little priest motioned the men to ride. Slivers was placed in the lead, while Jackal and the other half-orcs formed up around him. Strava dwindled behind them in a storm of thundering hooves.

  For all the jabs at his bravery, Slivers was an experienced rider and led the troop hard to the northeast. Not knowing the numbers of the orcs made this a scouting run. Catching up without overtaking was the goal. The Unyar horses were a hardy breed, but some care had to be taken when leading them. Barbarians were slower, but the hogs could traverse ground that could prove treacherous for a horse. Slivers kept this in mind as he guided the column through scrubby flats and dry gulches, avoiding the rocks and hardscrabble. The pitiful rain was transformed into swift sheets of tickling mites by the speed of the ride.

  It was not long before they came upon the orcs’ tracks. The damp dust was churned into weak mud, carelessly sculpted by heavy footprints. Zirko called a halt and ordered four outriders to proceed ahead. Kul’huun jumped down and studied the tracks, his face etched with concentration.

  “How many?” Jackal asked, but the Fang only frowned and remounted without answering.

  “Well, that’s unsettling,” Oats complained.

  The Unyar outriders were not long in returning. Jackal and the others watched intently as they reported to Zirko in low, foreign voices. The halfling’s face was grim. The tribesmen’s report ended quickly and, after a moment’s consideration, Zirko stepped down from the chariot and allowed the driver to help him up onto one of the outriders’ saddles. The high priest’s bearing was undented, even sitting a horse in front of its rider like a child. The scouts approached the half-orcs and Zirko gave them a
ll a look.

  “Come.”

  Without waiting for a response, Zirko commanded his four riders onward, leaving the barbarians to fall in behind. Four horses and seven hogs made their way slowly over the orc tracks until the Unyars diverted after half a league. The ground folded uphill, rocky shelves jutting from the creases. The way grew difficult as the boulders began to hold dominion over the scrub. To the left, the rain-darkened flats lay down a rugged slope. Picking their way through the rocks, the riders skirted the lower ground, the black line of orc passage still visible. Soon, they caught up to the marching mass leaving that dark trail.

  “Damn all the hells,” Red Nail growled as they reined up on a stony overlook.

  Looking down, they watched the long, dense column of dark-limbed shapes pass. They were only a little beyond thrumshot, close enough to see the scimitars in their hands, see them turn their gazes uphill to watch their watchers. Close enough to begin a count.

  “What is that, two hundred?” Gripper guessed.

  Dumb Door held up three correcting fingers.

  “Shaft my ass,” Oats said. “The hells are they playing at? There is nothing around here but the Rutters’ old lot. It’s abandoned for miles. There’s nothing to take, no one to kill.”

  Jackal’s spine went cold. “And no one to report their movements.”

  “Well, we see them,” Slivers said.

  “We weren’t supposed to,” Jackal told him. “They came close to Strava, but did not attack, they’re making directly for Rutter land, land they know to be empty. Look, they see us and are doing nothing.”

  It was true. No raiders were detaching from the main body, no attempts were made to rush the slope. The thicks just continued their mile-eating pace, hungrily intent on the northern horizon.

  “They are going to Hispartha,” Jackal realized aloud.

  He felt the stares settle. The others frowned at him, all but Zirko and Kul’huun, who both continued to watch the orcs.

  Slivers was the first to scoff. “Let them! Hispartha can handle three hundred orcs.”

  “Be good for them to fight for once,” Gripper agreed.