The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  Oats was studying Jackal’s face. “What are you thinking, brother?”

  Jackal only shook his head, a head filled with a whirling mass of disturbed thoughts.

  “It’s another Incursion.”

  It was not Jackal who had answered, though the words reflected those in his mind. All looked at Zirko. The halfling continued to gaze at the swiftly passing tail of the orc column.

  “No offense, priest,” Red Nail said, “but that is far from an Incursion. I saw it the first time, and there were a heap more thicks than those down there.”

  “I was there, too,” Zirko replied. “This is simply the beginning.”

  “That’s hogshit,” Slivers declared airily.

  “No, the halfling is right,” Kul’huun said, surprising all but Jackal and Oats with his use of Hisparthan. “That down there is an ul’usuun. A tongue. It has come to taste the enemy’s blood, test the courage of those they mean to devour.”

  “So we cut off the tongue,” Oats said. “Surely we got enough Unyars back there to get it done if we hit hard and run harder, again and again until the orcs got more feathers than a buzzard. Thicks won’t find blood so delicious when it’s their own.”

  “That will be a decision for the Hero Father,” Kul’huun replied. “But killing these only ends one ul’usuun. The orcs never taste just one dish. They will be lapping at Hispartha with a pronged tongue. Three, at the least.”

  Oats ran an aggravated hand through his beard. “You saying we got close to a thousand orcs moving through the Lots?”

  Kul’huun looked squarely at the thrice. “Again, at the least. All probing, all preparing for what comes behind.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The teeth,” Jackal answered.

  “Duulv M’har,” Kul’huun agreed with a nod. “Forty thousand orcs.”

  The three hundred below were dwindling while every mind on the ridge tried to imagine them swelled to such a force. There was a long silence.

  The tide pool in Jackal’s head began to settle, and nightmarish bits rose to float upon the surface. The details were loathsome, but now that they lay still, he found them easier to sift. Jackal studied the bloated remnants of long-rotting questions and found the drifting answers incapable of escape.

  “He sent them.”

  Jackal had barely whispered, had not meant to even speak aloud.

  “Jack?” Oats pressed.

  Shaking out of his dark musings, Jackal met his friend’s concerned frown.

  “Crafty,” he said, knowing the others would not understand, and refusing to care. “He wants to rule Hispartha. To do that he has to conquer it. He would need an army.” Jackal extended an arm at the backs of the orc war band. “There it is! He doesn’t need to do a damn thing to bring the kingdom to its knees, except allow the orcs to pass. Another Incursion will likely end Hispartha, especially if the Lots do nothing to stall the advance.”

  “I don’t follow all your raving, boy,” Red Nail grumbled, “but, these days, all the hoofs riding together would be hard-pressed to stop just one of those ul’usuun, to say naught of forty fucking thousand. A second Incursion was never within our power to stop, even at our height.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jackal told the aging Tusker. “In the early years, any of the nine hoofs could have done it, and done it alone. Tell me, Red Nail, tell me you didn’t have a rider in the Tusked Tide years ago, one twisted from the plague. Some tough mongrel who endured weeping sores and swollen joints long after he should have been dead.”

  Red Nail wore a perplexed expression. “Yeah, called him Quicklime.”

  Jackal looked to Kul’huun. “What about in the Fangs of Our Fathers?”

  The savage mongrel thought briefly, then gave a quick nod.

  “Before I was cast out of the Shards,” Slivers recalled slowly, “the old-timers used to talk about some poxy brother they used to ride with. Said he hung himself one day.”

  “Every hoof had one,” Jackal said. “A plague-bearer from the days of the Incursion. They were what kept the thicks from returning, from trying again. Not the hoofs, just nine tortured mongrels. Now, there is only one left.”

  “The fucking Claymaster,” Oats rumbled.

  “And Crafty’s got him hiding behind the walls of the Kiln,” Jackal said. “That’s why he was so intent on the Grey Bastards. Our chief was the last thing the thicks feared, the best weapon against them. And now, at a wizard’s insistence, the Claymaster is going to stay away. The orcs will march unchallenged across Ul-wundulas. Maybe Hispartha can repel them, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. They will be weakened and Crafty will set his fat ass on the throne.”

  Oats made an apologetic face. “Might not be a bad thing, Jack, having one of us as king.”

  “This wizard’s a half-orc?” Slivers gawked. “Hells, why aren’t we helping him?”

  Jackal opened his mouth to respond, but faltered. He had feared that reaction and been unprepared with a counter. It was Zirko who provided one.

  “History is littered with the tyranny of sorcerer-kings,” the priest intoned. “I have beheld this wizard and, though I believe he masked some of his potency, I can tell you he serves greater masters.”

  Jackal recalled the vile Abzul’s words in the castile tower. “The Black Womb.”

  The looks he received showed none were familiar. That ignorance quickly turned to disquiet.

  “I tell you,” Zirko went on, “this is not one you wish to see wear a crown. That he has made allies with Dhar’gest is enough for me to oppose him. I believe Jackal has the right of it. More, I think this wizard used the Betrayer Moon as a signal, one the orcs would be certain to see.”

  Further realization dawned at the halfling’s words.

  “The Lots are practically empty,” Jackal said to Zirko. “All the hoofs holed up. Free-riders hiding. Your own horsemen drawn close to Strava. All the orcs need do is use the most remote stretches in a land already made sparse by the centaurs.”

  “Like the Rutters’ lot,” Gripper offered.

  “The Old Maiden too, I wager,” Red Nail added.

  Jackal felt as if a nauseating fist drove his fruits into his gut. Hells, the thicks had always favored the marsh for entry into the Lots. The only thing there to oppose them was the occasional rokh and the cursed Sludge Man. A man Crafty had made a point to eliminate. A man who, even now, had vacated his precious home in order to assault the very walls the wizard now dwelt behind. Jackal had thought Crafty wanted to rid himself of a potential rival, but it was possible he was simply trying to open another road for the orcs to tread without restraint. By seeking the Sludge Man’s help, Jackal had unknowingly aided Crafty’s plan, putting Fetch, Warbler, Starling, and the other captives in danger with the same folly.

  “This has to end,” Jackal said, his private rage honing his voice.

  “A thousand orcs?” Slivers reminded him. “Coming in from…we’re fucking guessing where! With forty times that number right on their heels? How we supposed to end that?”

  Jackal looked at Zirko. “You going to let this ul’usuun live?”

  The high priest of Belico shook his head. “None will return to Dhar’gest.”

  “That’s one tongue,” Gripper said with an approving smile.

  “Red Nail is right,” Jackal decided. “Another will be coming through the Old Maiden. But they will be the slowest. Gripper, if you can warn the castile, they might have a chance to muster enough cavaleros. At the very least, they can get word to Hispartha. I think Crafty planned to have the castile’s wizard on his side, probably have the mad fuck murder the garrison, but seeing as he is now dead, we may have a chance of getting the frails in this fight. Captain Bermudo won’t want to speak to you, and he won’t believe you. Force him to do both! And don’t talk to Captain Ignacio. He’s too entwined with the Claymaste
r to be trusted.”

  “That leaves one ul’usuun,” Red Nail muttered. “If we’re lucky.”

  “And we are not going to be,” Jackal said. “I would wager the thicks are sending in more than we want to think about. There could be ten tongues out there. If there are, we need to know. Red Nail, Kul’huun, you need to get back to your hoofs, warn them of what’s coming. We need riders ranging the Lots, so we know where the tongues are, and when and where the damn teeth are coming from. Slivers, go to the Skull Sowers. Dumb Door, to the Sons of Perdition. Can you make them understand you?”

  The big mute gave a nod that promised mountains.

  “Good. We can only hope that Stone Gut sees some of this and tells the Orc Stains.”

  “Jackal,” Oats put in, “that leaves the Shards and the Cauldron Brotherhood in the dark.”

  “Pick one,” Jackal told him. “That’s where you are going.”

  “And you’re taking the other?” Oats asked, doubtful.

  “I’m going to the Kiln.”

  “Then fuck if I’m not going with you.”

  “What good is warning the Bastards anyway?” Slivers put in. “If you’re right about this, they know all about it.”

  “I’m not going to warn them,” Jackal replied. “I am going so I can drag the Claymaster out of his hole and ram his swollen carcass down the throat of the orcs. The plague is our only chance to stop this. If the thicks discover it’s being used again, this Incursion might end before it begins.”

  “Our only chance,” Oats repeated gruffly. “Doesn’t sound like something we should trust to just one rider, even if that rider is you. I’m going.”

  “And me,” Gripper said. “The thrice is right. You will need help. Slivers can ride to the castile.”

  “Fuck that,” the smaller half-orc said. “I’m going with you boys.”

  Jackal grit his teeth, distracted by Zirko whispering briefly to the Unyars before two of the scouts rode off. He took a deep breath.

  “We don’t have the numbers. The castile and the other hoofs must be warned.”

  “And they will be,” Zirko told him. “Those riders go with all haste back to Strava. They will have my priests send birds across the Lots. Messages will reach every stronghold before any of you. Messages that will be believed, as they will bear my name.”

  Oats grinned triumphantly. “See there. Little waddler’s right fucking useful. I’m going.”

  “Yeah,” Red Nail said.

  “What about your hoof?” Jackal asked.

  The older half-orc frowned. “Seems the best way I can help them is to help you.”

  Jackal turned to look at Kul’huun. “You coming too?”

  The Fang’s eyes gleamed. “Sul m’huk tulghest, t’huruuk.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jackal said with a small laugh. He gave Kul’huun an appraising look. “The orcs have no word for saddle. That means the Fangs of Our Fathers must have a different creed than the rest of us.”

  “Thrul s’ul suvash. G’zul ufkuul,” Kul’huun recited, lifting his chest.

  Jackal looked gravely at the six mongrels choosing to ride with him.

  “You heard him, brothers. ‘Live in the battle. Die in a fury.’ ”

  Chapter 32

  The glow from the top of the Kiln’s chimney was evil. Visible from over a league, a green, eldritch light flickered and winked, a disturbing eye mounted upon a stalk of stone. Smoke drenched the sky above, flooding the night with a dense, living blackness. The stars were drowned, the pale corpse of the moon bobbing just beneath the surface.

  Jackal and his riders gazed at the fortress. Someone breathed a curse.

  “Never seen it lit,” Slivers said. “Does it always look like that?”

  Jackal shared a dark look with Oats.

  “No,” the thrice answered.

  “No doubt the ovens have burned continuously since before the Betrayer,” Jackal said. “They’ve exhausted their timber.”

  “Then what, they’re using that alchemist shit that Mead’s been mucking with?”

  “Al-Unan fire?” Red Nail asked, his face troubled.

  Jackal could only nod.

  “I thought it burned too hot,” Oats grumbled. “Mead couldn’t manage it.”

  “It’s Crafty,” Jackal said. “If anyone knows the secret to that eastern substance, it’s him. And it is him.”

  Together, the makeshift hoof gazed at the hunkered shadow of the fortress as the eerie light belched a steady torrent of smoke.

  They had ridden through the day and into the night, halting scarcely and briefly, ever-watchful for orcs. Fortunately, they saw no more ul’usuuns, nor any sign of their passage. It was cold comfort. They were out there, somewhere, but not knowing their roads of invasion was the least of Jackal’s worries. There had been plenty of time to think during the long ride, hours in the saddle yielding a simple plan, one that was easily communicated to the others during their fleeting rests. Yet that plan was nearly crushed by doubt when the Kiln came into view.

  Jackal had expected the stronghold to be closed to him, but the sight of that green, unnatural glow made his former home something sorcerous and unreachable. Getting inside was always going to be difficult, but now it seemed impossible. Gritting his teeth against a rising outcry, Jackal inwardly cursed Crafty’s keen mind. The wizard had sealed himself up in the most imposing fortification in the Lots, and bolstered its defenses with his arts. Immured with him was the only living being the orcs feared. By keeping the Claymaster close, Crafty gave the thicks free rein to march across Ul-wundulas, while also ensuring they did not attempt to murder him on their way to do his bloody work. All he need do was sit on his broad rump and wait until Hispartha was in ruins.

  “T’huruuk?”

  Kul’huun’s voice pulled Jackal out of his brooding. He found the others staring at him expectantly.

  “You know what to do,” Jackal told them.

  Red Nail and Kul’huun nodded, and spurred their hogs toward the Kiln without another question. Jackal led the rest to Winsome.

  The small village was deserted. A sleepy, stray goat and a few errant geese were all that remained. The buildings were dark and shuttered, the homes vacant and quietly foreboding. Jackal had seen Winsome sleep many times over the years, but this was the first time he had seen it dead. The sight was unsettling, though far from unexpected. It was now nearly two days since the Betrayer. The villagers should have already returned, but Crafty and the Claymaster knew the orcs were coming. They were keeping everyone safe in the Kiln until the thicks moved through. That’s why the chief wouldn’t allow a rider to go to Strava. No way for them to get back.

  Going to the mule skinner’s empty stables, Jackal dismounted and allowed Hearth to root around in the old straw for a moment. Oats did the same, but Gripper, Slivers, and Dumb Door remained on their hogs.

  “Tie Ug up,” Jackal told Oats, quickly securing Hearth as he spoke. “This close to home, they are likely to follow.”

  Oats did as instructed before removing one quiver from his harness and hanging it off his belt.

  Securing his own weapons, Jackal swung up behind Gripper. Oats rode double with Dumb Door. They left Winsome as quickly as they had come, keeping to the track leading to the Kiln for mere heartbeats before Jackal wordlessly guided Gripper into the scrub. They approached the fortress from the northeast, close to the top curve of the oval. Jackal signaled a halt several furlongs from the wall. The Hogback was still half raised, the ramp sticking up vertically above the parapet.

  Jackal pointed and whispered a reminder in Gripper’s ear. “When you see that come down.”

  The nomad gave a confirming grunt and Jackal dismounted. Oats was already on the ground, crouched and ready.

  “Lead the way, brother,” he rumbled quietly.

  B
ent nearly double, they scurried toward the walls, creeping between the shadows of boulder and scrub. Their swords were sheathed, their stockbows slung. They made for the Kiln, as furtive as cutthroats. Just out of thrumshot, Jackal paused. He could see the heavy shape of the orc assassin he had killed still affixed to the raised Hogback. Other silhouettes moved behind the parapet, fewer than Jackal had expected. Usually, the Hogback was the most heavily defended section of the walls, but there seemed to be only a handful of guards. Still, this was not the place for an ascent. Jackal had simply wanted to be sure the enchanted corpse of the orc was not going to scream a warning at their approach. When all remained silent, they continued on. They went no closer to the walls, but snuck along, following the curve around to the west.

  Hunkering down in the scrub, Jackal and Oats waited, listening.

  Unseen, on the opposite side of the Kiln, Kul’huun and Red Nail would have reached the gatehouse by now. Their task was to hail the sentries and simply tell the truth. Orcs were invading the Lots and word needed to be spread. As members of the Tusked Tide and the Fangs of Our Fathers, the pair would be viewed for what they were, sworn brothers of allied hoofs riding to the stronghold of the Grey Bastards with dire news. The reaction to that news would be telling. Oats had known nothing of the coming Incursion when he left the Kiln, and it was likely all within remained ignorant, save Crafty and the chief. Jackal could not imagine his former brothers would consent to such a plan. In truth, he was relying on it.

  Regardless, word would be brought to the Claymaster about the riders at the gate. They would request shelter for the night and, Jackal suspected, be turned away. This would spark an outrage, one that would necessitate Red Nail and Kul’huun shouting abuses at the walls. That would be Oats and Jackal’s signal to move.

  Of course, it was possible that the Claymaster would allow the messengers entry, in which case the Hogback would need to be lowered, signaling Gripper, Slivers, and Dumb Door to ride. If a pair of hoof riders were granted entry, then surely a trio of nomads would not be turned away, as long as there were no former Bastards amongst them. That would put five swords loyal to Jackal within the walls, five conspirators that could aid his and Oats’s skulking entry with nothing more than a little time, keen wits, and a few distractions.