The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  So, they kept their eyes on the Hogback and their ears open.

  A long span passed, and then abrasive voices echoed through the night. Sounded like someone cursing vehemently in orcish.

  “Inhospitable Bastards tonight, ain’t we?” Oats whispered.

  So, the chief was not risking outsiders. That was cautious, which meant he was not wholly confident.

  “Let’s go,” Jackal said in a hush and sped for the walls, hoping all eyes were turned to the commotion at the far end of the fortress. If not, he may never know it, especially if the slophead on guard was a good shot.

  Halfway to the wall Jackal was struck. Not by a thrumbolt or a javelin, but by the heat. He was nearly repelled by a stifling, invisible barrier, forcing his eyes closed. He steeled himself, plowing through the air-robbing waves. Somewhere behind him, Oats grunted in surprise and discomfort. The walls of the Kiln were designed to be hot when the ovens were lit, the conducting tunnel within being a death trap for any who entered, but this was unlike anything Jackal had known during his years living within the stronghold. Flinching and sweating, he stumbled against the bricks and immediately recoiled to save his flesh. He was amazed the stonework had not begun to crack. Oats appeared beside him, his beard dripping. Mouth agape, the thrice shook his head, denying the possibility of a climb.

  Setting his jaw against the futility, Jackal snatched the kerchief from his head and tore it into rough halves. Oats watched as he wrapped his hands, and followed his example. The thrice also shrugged out of his brigand, leaving him bare-chested like Jackal. Almost as one, they sprang up, and grabbed the top of the angled, triangular buttresses that supported the slope of the wall. Oats growled in his throat, the exclamation no doubt caused by the burning of his exposed fingertips, a pain that Jackal shared. Nevertheless, they each managed to scramble up and anchor themselves within the first row of recessed arches. Oats was now hidden from view, but Jackal could hear his hissing breaths. The arches were too short to allow them to stand upright, but were just deep enough for a balanced crouch. Though his skin was saved contact from the stone, Jackal still suffered the hellish heat. He could feel it cooking through his boots.

  Licking the tips of his fingers quickly, he grabbed the right edge of the arch and swung out, pushing off the shelf with one foot. At the end of his spring, he managed to catch a fissure in the bricks with his left hand and tried to ignore the sizzling sound. The slope of the wall was less pronounced now, but it aided him enough to reach a second, near-vertical buttress. Seizing either side of the stone support, Jackal crawled apelike up its length, grinding the balls of his feet into the bricks for purchase. He ground his teeth as his fingers seared. At the end of the buttress the wall rose straight up for nearly two lengths of Jackal’s body. Beyond, the latticework of the palisade beckoned, promising an end to the scorching stone. Accepting the pain, he climbed, his burning hands speeding his ascent. There was no time for care, to search for the next handhold, there was only the need to escape the agonizing touch of the rock. To halt was to burn.

  The latticework was within reach. Jackal snatched for it, knifing his fingers through the crumbling render to seize the dry wattle beneath. The wood snapped and broke under his weight, but he threw his other hand up, grabbing hold to prevent a plummet. His throbbing fingers entwined blissfully in the rough lattice, Jackal planted his boots into the stone below and held for a moment, looking to his right. Oats too clung to the bottom of the palisade, a little more than arm’s length away. The sweating thrice gave him an exasperated look of triumph, a look that quickly fled as his eyes darted up above Jackal and widened. Oats opened his mouth to voice a warning, but forced himself to silence.

  Looking up, Jackal saw the silhouette of a sentry directly above him, leaning over the parapet. An arm rose, holding a javelin. There was nothing Jackal could do. The shaft of the weapon eased down. Jackal found himself staring at the butt end.

  “Grab it,” an eager voice hissed.

  Taking hold of the shaft in one hand, Jackal finished the climb, aided by the upward pull of the javelin. Scrambling over the edge of the parapet, he came face-to-face with a panting slophead. Jackal knew the youth’s face, hells he knew all their faces, but names were another matter. Hopefuls weren’t worth remembering until they had proven themselves. Without a word, the slop went over to help Oats. Glancing about quickly, Jackal saw no sign of any other sentries close by, though the shadowy forms of those clustered by the Hogback were distinguishable across the curve. Jackal sat for a moment, putting his back against the parapet and breathing deeply. The heat was easier to take up here away from the radiating stones, but it was still uncomfortable. Small wonder there were fewer guards along the wall. The heat must have forced them to shorter shifts. Oats sank down next to him, gingerly flexing his fingers.

  “You all right?” Jackal whispered.

  “Good,” Oats grunted.

  The slophead came and squatted down in front of them. If he’d had a tail sprouting from his ass crack, it would have been wagging. Jackal studied his face. Finally, it came to him.

  “You’re the slop who came down to Beryl’s that day. Berno.”

  “Biro,” the youth corrected, though it sounded more like an apology. “I also saddled Hearth for you when you left with that swaddlehe—…with the wizard.”

  Jackal nodded, remembering. “You can call him a swaddlehead, Biro, no harm.”

  “Hells, you can call him a fat, backy, Tyrkanian fuck-mule for all we care,” Oats declared.

  Biro laughed, but the sound of his own mirth seemed to spook him and he cast quick looks down the parapet.

  “Why are you helping us, slop?” Jackal asked, snatching his attention back.

  The question confused the youth. He searched for an answer, trying to read one from Jackal’s face, but was too timid to look for long.

  “An exile and a deserter climb the wall at your post and you help them,” Jackal said, his voice hard with suspicion. Biro’s uncertainty was palpable.

  Jackal and Oats lunged at the same time, the thrice wrenching the javelin from the slop’s hand. Jackal caught Biro by the throat, twisting quickly until they had switched places, planting the boy on his rump.

  “This reeks of Crafty,” Jackal accused, getting nearly nose to nose with the wide-eyed slophead. “What does he want you to do?”

  Biro attempted to shake his head and speak, but Jackal’s grip around his neck prevented both.

  “Quietly,” Jackal warned, easing his hold.

  “The…wizard’s been hidden away in the keep,” Biro whispered. “I’ve never even spoken to him.”

  Jackal smelled the trepidation, but he couldn’t detect a lie.

  “You know hoof code,” he said. “Outcasts are to be killed if they return to the lot. Tell me why you would help us? The truth!”

  Beneath his grip, Biro slumped. Shame settled into his body, his downcast gaze.

  “I know what I was supposed to do,” the young mongrel said meekly, “but you’re…” He exhaled with agitation, then looked up and managed to keep his gaze steady. “You’re Jackal.”

  Frowning, Jackal looked over at Oats.

  The big thrice shook his head ruefully and snorted. “You got the luck of demons, brother. Thirty-odd slopheads and we crawl up under the one who smells the dust after you take a piss.”

  “I don’t do that,” Biro protested, then flinched when Oats glowered at him.

  Jackal released the youth. “Stand up. We don’t need some sharp-eyed slop noticing us three lounging about. Oats, give him back his javelin.”

  Both did as he bid. Jackal and Oats remained sitting in the shadow of the parapet while Biro made a display of standing his watch.

  “It’s not just me,” he told them. “A lot of the slops might have helped you. The younger ones might not have had the courage, but…Petro still talks about
the time you showed him how to reload a thrum on the run, and Egila says that yours is the best-trained hog in the hoof. Well, said.”

  “Said?” Jackal pressed.

  Biro glanced at the raised shadow of the Hogback. “He was killed in the stables the night that thick snuck in.”

  Jackal recalled the three slops he found slaughtered in the straw. The orc had killed two other hopefuls that night, but Jackal had never learned any of their names. That was just the way of the hoof. And yet, here this young half-orc stood, defying tradition.

  “Is it true, what those riders said?” Biro asked, unable to weather the silence. “Are the orcs invading the Lots?”

  “Yes,” Jackal replied. “The Claymaster and the Tyrkanian have incited another Incursion.”

  Biro’s eyes mirrored the moon as they widened.

  “But we can stop them,” Jackal told him, “if we can get to the Claymaster.”

  “He won’t—” Biro began heatedly, then snapped his mouth closed.

  “What?” Oats growled.

  Biro shook his head. “Nothing. I’m not supposed to speak against the chief.”

  “We ain’t gonna tell on you,” Oats chuckled. “You’re looking at the last two mongrels who would give a fuck over shit-talk about the Claymaster.”

  “What is it, Biro?” Jackal asked.

  “Things just aren’t right,” the youth declared. “We been holed up since before the Betrayer, still can’t leave. The wizard’s done something to the fires to where it’s almost too hot to stand a post. Claymaster’s been in a fury ever since you left, Oats. Sent Hoodwink to bring you back and brought the cavaleros in—”

  Jackal held up a hand. “Hold. What?”

  “Captain Ignacio’s men,” Biro said, turning to point at something down in the yard.

  Standing momentarily and looking over the roof of the supply hall, Jackal saw a temporary corral had been staked out. Within, the moonlight shone smoothly off the backs of dozens of horses.

  “They weren’t here when I left,” Oats protested.

  “They rode in the day before the Betrayer,” Biro said. “The chief had us lower the Hogback to let them in.”

  “How many?” Jackal demanded.

  “Sixty.”

  “Hells,” Jackal swore, sitting back down. Ignacio and his men were a problem he had not foreseen. The Claymaster must have expected them, marshaling his every ally. A thought smote Jackal. “Biro? Any sign of the Sludge Man?”

  The very name took the youth aback. “I never even seen him before.”

  Jackal exhaled deeply, relieved. It was one fewer foe to worry over, at least for the present.

  “Shit, Jack,” Oats said, “even if we get Gripper and the other boys inside, the seven of us won’t be enough.”

  “Not with Ignacio’s men here,” Jackal agreed. “He’ll have told the Claymaster I escaped from the castile.” Hoodwink’s absence was also a blow. It meant one less solid ally. The fact that he had not caught up with Oats was also troubling. Had he run afoul of centaurs? Hood was a dangerous cur, but the Betrayer could claim even the most formidable. “Oats, you ever see Hood on your backtrail?”

  The thrice’s brow creased. “No. Chief must have really wanted my hide, sending that pale shit to kill me.”

  “Not to kill,” Biro put in tremulously. “I heard the Claymaster say he wanted you back alive. The whole Kiln heard it, he was yelling so loud.”

  “Generous of him,” Oats grunted.

  Jackal didn’t like it. The Claymaster’s expressions of mercy usually hid a knife. A knife named Hoodwink. The chief had promised Jackal and Starling their lives, then immediately sent Hood out to murder them, ignorant of his true loyalties. Likely all his insistence of retrieving Oats alive was posturing for the hoof, soften the blow of losing yet another member.

  “What do you want to do, Jack?” Oats asked. “Ignacio’s boys make this slightly more fucked.”

  “The cavaleros are nothing,” Biro declared boldly. “Frails on foals! I know a dozen of us slops that would fight them. Maybe more.”

  “No,” Jackal answered sternly. “Too risky.”

  “One mongrel is worth three men,” the youth insisted.

  “I said no,” Jackal hissed, rising swiftly and staring the youth down. “I’m not risking the lives of the hopefuls if it can be helped. That includes you. Besides, we are not here to fight. If it comes to that, we’ve already failed.”

  Biro tried to remain resolute. “Then…what?”

  “Do you know where the Claymaster is?”

  “In the keep with the wizard when my watch started. Where he’s been, mostly, since the Betrayer. They ousted everyone else, including the slops that normally help with the ovens.”

  “And the Bastards?”

  “Hobnail is at the Hogback. I don’t know about the others.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone riding patrol in the yard,” Jackal said.

  “The wall is too hot down there,” Biro told him. “The hogs can’t stay near it for long.”

  Jackal looked at Oats. “That only makes it easier to get where we need to go.”

  The thrice rose. “Let’s move, then.”

  Jackal clapped a hand on Biro’s shoulder. “You want to help?”

  The youth nodded.

  “Oats and I are going to make our way down to the yard. Once we are gone, I need you to find all the Bastards. Just you. Don’t send anyone else looking for them. Tell them to gather at the table immediately.”

  “I can do that,” Biro said, but a ripple of doubt moved across his face. “What if they ask me what for?”

  Jackal smiled reassuringly. “Just tell them their chief wants a word.”

  Chapter 33

  Lying on their bellies atop the roof of the Claymaster’s domicile, Jackal and Oats watched as the Grey Bastards entered the meeting hall. Mostly, they came one at a time, only Hobnail and Polecat arrived together. Grocer was yawning, clearly roused from his bed. Mead kept trying not to look up at the Kiln’s chimney, his shoulders slumped.

  Fetching came last.

  As she rode up, Jackal felt his guts twist. He stayed perfectly still, less than a javelin’s throw away, worried she would feel his eyes and turn, spot them in the upper shadows. Yet that foolish fear was not enough to deter his gaze. She swung agilely off the saddle, her every fluid motion sending currents of uncertainty directly into his bloodstream. Four heartbeats and she passed from sight, swallowed by the door of the hall. Four heartbeats that nearly caused Jackal to sneak away from the Kiln, from Ul-wundulas, and never return.

  “They all took their thrums inside, Jack,” Oats whispered beside him.

  “I saw.”

  “You still want to do this?”

  Jackal grinned. “You tell me. Do you believe the chief really wants you back alive?”

  “No,” Oats decided bluntly. “Let’s just hope someone in that meeting hall does.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Great. You’ll have time to scamper when their bolts skewer me.”

  Quietly, they lowered themselves off the roof and dropped down to the yard. Hurrying to the door of the meeting hall, they paused, listening. Oats eased the door open and peered inside, nodding when he found the common room clear. They slipped inside.

  Familiar voices drifted from the closed voting chamber. Voices, but no laughter. Oats made his way across the common room, causing enough noise to be heard. The voices began to grow quiet, thinking the Claymaster was about to enter. Jackal held his breath, remaining out of sight, as Oats slowly pulled the double doors open. There was a storm of exclamations, but Hobnail’s rough voice usurped the rest.

  “Fuck all the hells!”

  A silence followed, a silence where Oats merely stood there, his broad, corded shoulders fillin
g the doorway.

  “You got guts coming back here, deserter,” Jackal heard Grocer growl.

  “Put a cock in it, you coot,” Polecat said. “Hood was told to bring him back breathing. Why do you think we’re sitting here? We got to vote his punishment. Soon as the chief gets here.”

  “Chief ain’t coming,” Oats tolled. “Neither is Hoodwink. I never saw him. Came back on my own.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Mead. Sounding like any answer would shatter him.

  “To stand at Strava,” Oats replied. “As the Bastards always have.”

  Another pause.

  “That the only reason?”

  Fetch’s voice. Sympathy buried deep, inaudible to most. Jackal heard it, along with the faintest echo of a plea to look at her. From the set of his neck, Oats did not oblige.

  “I’m sure you all heard about the riders at the gate,” the thrice said, ignoring her question. “Members of the Tusked Tide and the Fangs. I fought with them during the Betrayer. Good mongrels. They brought news of thicks in the Lots.”

  “We heard,” Grocer said, sharp and hostile.

  “And what did you think?” Oats demanded, returning the ire. “That they were fucking lying? That why you turned them away?”

  “We turned them away because that is what the Claymaster ordered.” Grocer, again. “Same reason you should have stayed put when he said none were riding to Strava.”

  “There are orcs in the Lots,” Oats repeated, refusing to be baited. “I’ve seen them. And they are coming in numbers most of us can’t count. There’s more. More you need to hear. But not from me. Remember, if you keep calm, keep your hands away from your weapons, this don’t need to get bloody. But I fucking swear, if it does, it’s getting bloody on both sides.”

  “What in the hells are you saying, Oats?” Hob asked, laughing uncomfortably.

  Jackal was already moving. He had hoped to do this with Kul’huun, Red Nail, and the nomads at his back, force his former hoof to think twice about fighting, but there was nothing for it now. He had Oats and whatever affection still existed at that table. He also had the truth.