The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

Oats was still mounted, riding a protective circle around the others on Ugfuck, the only hog to have survived. Fetch was on her feet. The relief in Jackal’s face at seeing her alive must have shown, for she grinned wearily. Polecat had managed to get Mead’s stump bound, but the youngblood was ghastly pale and on the verge of passing out. Dumb Door had pulled Gripper’s body out from amongst the dead thicks and stood beside it, staring blankly. Stumbling into their midst, Jackal’s eyes settled on Hobnail’s still, impaled form. Kneeling down, he put a hand on his fallen brother’s shoulder. Fetch joined him, placing her hand atop his.

  “Kul’huun?” Jackal asked, his voice raw.

  Fetch lifted her chin toward the direction of the fighting. “Went chasing after the orcs when they attacked the elves. That is one loony fuck.”

  Jackal tried to laugh, but it died in his throat.

  “Looked like Hood with them,” Fetch said. “But that other? Is that War-boar?”

  “It is.”

  “Never thought to see him again.”

  It wasn’t long before she did. The Tines finished off the orcs and the old thrice rode up with a pair of elves. Dismounting, Warbler picked his way through the carnage, giving nods to the hoof, his eyes lingering longer on Oats and Fetch. She stood. Jackal did not bother to rise. Squatting down, Warbler regarded the body between them, but remained silent.

  “How?” Jackal asked at last. “How did you get the Tines to help?”

  Warbler shook his white head. “You know it wasn’t me, Jaco.”

  “…Starling.”

  “We had to hole up for the Betrayer. After, we were moving slow. Hood found us. Told me about being sent after Oats and all the strangeness at the Kiln. Figured the Claymaster was making his move. Word had already spread amongst the nomads about the orc tongues in the Lots. Still, I had to get those she-elves someplace safe, and that Starling was insistent on Dog Fall. Tines were on us long before we even made it into their territory. They were already looking for her. Hoodwink and I were a sow’s whisker from being lanced, but Starling vouched for us. Told her kin she had a debt owed. To you. Next I know, the she-elves are being taken away and I got a pack of whooping point-ear warriors asking where we’re going. Made for the Kiln…you weren’t hard to find after that. Still a heap I don’t understand, Jackal, but I figure that can wait.”

  “It can. What about Starling? The Tines accept her back?”

  Warbler’s face answered the question before his words. “No, son. Maybe they would have. But…she went off alone.”

  Jackal managed a nod of acceptance and fought not to cast dark looks at the two elves now tending Mead’s injury.

  A terrible howl went up over the battlefield, coming from the site of the Tines’ last skirmish with the orcs.

  “That’s probably the work of your Fang friend,” Warbler said as the questioning glances fell upon him. “He insisted on letting one orc live. He’s pulling all its teeth. Hoodwink and some of the point-ears were happy to help him. Says it will bring a message back to the rest.”

  The scream rang out again.

  “Brutal. Simple,” Fetch said. “Might just work.”

  Jackal was too tired to agree, but he did hope.

  No teeth.

  Chapter 37

  Jackal thanked the Unyar messenger and walked back to the orphanage. Entering the cool shade, he blinked the sunspots from his eyes. The Bastards waited expectantly.

  “Well?” Polecat asked, sitting atop one of the long, low dining tables used by the children.

  “Strava has seen no sign of any orcs,” Jackal told the room.

  Polecat spread his hands. “That’s it. That’s all the Lots.”

  Dumb Door nodded slowly in agreement. Leaning against the wall next to the door, Hoodwink continued to clean his fingernails with a knife, saying nothing.

  “You want to do another patrol, Jack?” Fetch asked from her usual stool.

  Jackal didn’t immediately answer. Near the fireplace, Oats shrugged, giving him the decision.

  “It’s been nearly a fortnight,” Warbler said. “They ain’t coming.”

  “They will always be coming,” Jackal replied, staring at the floor.

  Polecat slumped a little. “Our people can’t stay with the Tusked Tide forever.”

  “Some of them will,” Mead said quietly, hand cradling his bandaged stump.

  There was silence for a long time.

  The Incursion had not come.

  Jackal knew he needed to accept that the orcs had chosen to heed the warning, but his mind was plagued with visions of the Duulv M’har marching across Ul-wundulas. Five ul’usuuns had been sent. None of them made it back to Dhar’gest. Zirko and the Unyars dealt with one, Bermudo and his cavaleros another, though it was rumored the captain was grievously wounded and not likely to live. Two of the tongues came through the Old Maiden and made it into Hispartha, but the kingdom had been warned. The thicks were ambushed and every last one ridden down. Still, Jackal could not bring himself to say, to believe, that they were not coming.

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” Fetch said, at last. “Bring Winsome and the slops home?”

  “Can we have a separate vote for the slops?” Polecat suggested playfully.

  Fetch ignored him and raised her hand in favor. Cat’s went up readily, a grin on his hatchet face. Mead held up his good hand. Dumb Door, still unsure of his new place within the hoof, waited to see what Jackal would do. Warbler, too, was reluctant to vote.

  “What do you say, War-boar?” Oats goaded, his own hand going up.

  The old-timer shook his head and gave a little laugh of self-mockery. “Keep forgetting I get a say.”

  “You’re a Bastard again,” Jackal told him.

  A mote of panic appeared in the old thrice’s eyes as he considered. After a moment, he shook his head rapidly. “I say no. Too soon.”

  A knife seemed to sprout from the table next to Warbler’s hand. All eyes snapped to the mongrel that had thrown the blade.

  “Hand up,” Hoodwink told Warbler evenly. “See her again.”

  “Oh, right,” Polecat said, swinging a finger toward Oats. “He used to fuck your mother.”

  Oats came away from the fireplace just as Warbler stood up, both wearing the same threatening look. Polecat, sitting between two glaring thrice-bloods, bared his teeth sheepishly and mouthed an apology.

  “Just vote for the old man, Hood, and let’s get this done,” Fetch said, trying and failing to hide a smile.

  Hoodwink raised a finger languidly.

  “Five to three,” Jackal said. “Who wants to escort them home?”

  Polecat bounded to his feet. “Me!”

  “By the hells, you want some quim!” Fetching criticized.

  Polecat nodded excitedly and thumped his knuckles on Mead’s shoulder. “We’ll both go!”

  Jackal saw the younger half-orc hide his stump under the table, not looking at anyone.

  “Ride with me,” Polecat urged, sitting down next to him and leaning in. “The hogs the Fangs gave us are spirited. We would be at the Wallow in a few days. And. I wager, Cissy would go for being spitted between us.”

  “I would just slow you down,” Mead protested.

  With visible effort, Polecat managed not to make a jest. “Hogshit.”

  “You need to get back in the saddle,” Fetch said.

  “Plenty of one-handed riders, son,” Warbler put in.

  Jackal found Mead’s eyes on him. “What are you looking at me for? Go if you want. Or don’t. Your choice.”

  “I just thought…”

  “We haven’t voted a new chief yet, Mead,” Jackal reminded him.

  “Needs doing, though,” Oats said pointedly.

  Jackal shared a look with Warbler.

  “Let’s not rush a vote,” th
e old thrice said. “It can wait until your…our folk get back.”

  Most of the hoof let it go at that, but Jackal could feel Fetching and Oats eyeing him, while Hoodwink gave Warbler a passive, yet fixed look.

  Polecat rode out with Mead as soon as their gear was gathered. Mead was unsteady in the saddle at first, but had begun to adjust before he was even out of sight.

  Winsome had been left untended since before the Betrayer Moon. Houses needed to be swept out and vermin chased away before the villagers returned, but that could wait a day. For now, the hoof was ready and eager to relax. Hoodwink went hunting, while Dumb Door, unaccustomed to sleeping in a bed, snored loudly on the floor of the orphanage.

  “That’s the most noise I’ve heard him make,” Fetch said in a hush as she, Oats, and Jackal crept out to scrounge some wine. The cooper’s shop next door provided and they sat on the roof, passing the bottle for a while in silence.

  “You going to tell us why you’re dragging your heels on the chief vote?” Oats finally asked, handing the wine to his left so Fetch could take a pull.

  “Not dragging,” Jackal said, waiting for the bottle to come his way.

  “Hogshit,” Fetch said, smiling as she turned it over. Jackal felt her fingers slide off his and was all too aware of their thighs touching.

  “After all that’s happened? With the Claymaster? You two think a chief is what this hoof needs?”

  “Yes,” Oats replied without thought.

  But Fetch considered the question. “The people of Winsome will need one, Jack. The Kiln’s gone. They’re not going to feel safe. Having a leader is going to be necessary for those that do return or they won’t remain. Besides, what are the other hoofs going to think if the Grey Bastards don’t have a chief?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackal said, drinking.

  Fetch robbed him of the bottle before he could take another pull and then refused to hand it over to Oats. A tugging match ensued, with Fetch defending her prize while being assailed from either side. Try as they might, Jackal and Oats could not pry the bottle from her agile and laughing form. At last, she allowed Oats to win. He finished the bottle in one long guzzle while Jackal and Fetch groaned at him. Flushed with wine, Jackal watched Fetch bite down on her lower lip, trying not to speak, but the words were building on her tongue and would not be imprisoned.

  They came out in a drunken giggle. “Warbler and Beryl are going to fuck so hard when she gets back.”

  Oats spewed off the roof.

  Jackal erupted with laughter. “Oh, hells! It’s true! Remember the noise they used to make?”

  Crying and shaking, Fetch nodded adamantly.

  “Shit on you both,” Oats complained, his beard full of red droplets. “I’m going to push you off.”

  Fetch was struggling to breathe. “Remember Warbler? When he would finish?”

  Jackal launched into an imitation, sounding something akin to a dying bear. Fetch pointed and reeled back into Oats, who was fighting a growing smile.

  “Damn,” the thrice said. “I’m gonna take Ugfuck on a really long patrol when they get back.”

  Soon, the three of them were laughing so hard, Dumb Door emerged from the orphanage, roused from slumber, to glare up at them.

  “Come join us!” Jackal said, inviting the mute mongrel with a wave of his arm.

  “We’re out of wine,” Fetch pointed out.

  “I’ll find more,” Jackal volunteered, and made his way down.

  He was rummaging through one of the vintners’ cellars when Warbler found him. Turning around at the sound of the old thrice coming down the ladder, Jackal held up a bottle and wobbled it questioningly. Warbler declined with a wave of his hand, propping himself against one of the lower rungs. They looked at each other for a moment, neither speaking. At last, Warbler took a deep breath.

  “The hoof is starting to think there is going to be a contest between us for the chief’s seat,” he said.

  “There won’t,” Jackal replied simply.

  “I know,” Warbler said. “You still sure about this?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “And I would say no, being truthsome. Besides none of this is certain.”

  “It’s the best decision for the hoof, War-boar.”

  “They might not see it that way.”

  “They will. You’ll see. Now, if you will kindly remove your rump from the ladder, these bottles are sorely needed.”

  Warbler moved out of the way with a grin.

  Jackal put a foot on the lower rung. “You are welcome to join us. Of course, you might not want to carouse too much. Save your strength.”

  “For what?” Warbler asked frowning.

  Smiling, Jackal began climbing the ladder and did his impression of the dying bear.

  That night, head pleasantly humming, he bedded down on the cot he had pulled out onto the portico of the orphanage. The air was hot and pregnant with the constant song of cicadas. He slept fitfully, the wine unable to drown the dreams of orcs on the march. He was awoken by a more pleasant dream, yet one he feared would come true. And feared it would not.

  Fetching crawled atop him, clothed only in silence. The warmth of her smooth skin was cool compared with the night’s heat. The simple weight of her hardened him and he slid in before he was fully aware. Her mouth found his, her tongue languid and searching. It was over embarrassingly, blissfully, quick. She bit at his neck and grinned as he continued to pulsate. They lay together, and Jackal reveled in the slight breeze cooling the sweat that had formed in the crease between their bodies.

  “I grew tired of waiting for you,” she whispered.

  “Wasn’t sure. Last time was…”

  “I know,” she said, absolving him. “I didn’t know either. Most nights, we’ve been on patrol. And when we were here, it didn’t seem right with Mead hurt. Be like cutting his cods off along with his hand if he found out.”

  “And Oats?” Jackal added. “No telling what he would do.”

  “Nothing,” Fetch laughed. “Who do you think dared me to come out here?”

  Jackal shifted to look at her, seeing little more than the line of her exquisite jaw and the slivers of moonlight in her eyes. “You’re jesting.”

  “I’m not. He said I was a lily if I didn’t try.”

  “That still works? He said the same thing when we were children to get you to try and ride Border Lord.”

  “Oh, I remember. I remember the broken collarbone too.”

  Jackal smiled in the night, the fond thoughts of the past pushing his mind to the unknown future. He ran his fingers gently down Fetching’s spine. The motion, the affection, came more naturally than he wanted to ponder. He tried only to think about the moment, to live in the presence of the breeze and the cicadas and the feel of Fetch’s stomach against his. He tried not to think about how all this must end, and soon.

  “You are not allowed to brood,” Fetch chided, lifting herself up.

  “What am I allowed then?”

  She shrugged. “Sleep. But you’re a lily if you do.” She revolved her hips in a wonderfully torturous way.

  Jackal sat up and kissed her fiercely, their arms entwining. Rolling her beneath him, he bent to the task of not sleeping.

  It was another twelve days before Polecat and Mead returned with Winsome’s inhabitants. Jackal and Fetch spent much of that time together, sneaking off and fooling no one. When Polecat rode in ahead of the main group, their time was over and they both knew it. Fetching pulled Jackal into an empty house and they sacrificed all that had become so recently familiar in a final, desperate coupling. They emerged just ahead of the tired folk. Hogs carried some of the slopheads and donkeys some of the villagers, but most were walking. They flowed sore-footed into their village and the hoof turned out to meet them.

  Fewer villagers
returned than Jackal had hoped, but they lost fewer slops than he anticipated. Only four of the hopefuls chose to test their worthiness with the Tusked Tide. Biro was one of them. Jackal could not judge the youth harshly. The Grey Bastards were not the hoof they once were. Cissy returned, much to Polecat’s satisfaction, as did Thistle, both helping herd the flock of orphans who ran back to their home with gleeful enthusiasm. Beryl walked at the rear of that shrieking gaggle, leading a lone, wide-gaited child by the hand.

  “Thank all the gods I can’t name,” Oats declared at seeing Wily alive.

  Jackal sighed in agreement. As they walked down the dusty avenue to meet Beryl, they saw that the little thrice was already wearing bandages to conceal his affliction.

  “Most of the other children won’t play with him anymore,” Beryl confessed softly as she embraced them both.

  Jackal gave Oats a knowing look. “Well, who needs them when you’ve got—”

  “Bears and Mountains!” Oats bellowed, stooping to hoist Wily into the air and planting him astride his massive shoulders. The thrice-bloods went away together, the little one giggling from the furthest reaches of his round belly as the big one bounded and hollered.

  Beryl watched them play, a small, tremulous smile on her face. “He’s in pain, Jackal. You wouldn’t know it to look at that joyful face, but he is.”

  “You need some rest,” Jackal told her. “But I should warn you, there is someone here that wants to see you.”

  “Mead told me,” Beryl said, her face tight with a bevy of controlled emotions. “Where is he?”

  “Waiting by the farrier’s well. If you would rather wait, I can tell him later would be best.”

  Beryl shook her head. “No. Waiting isn’t much of a virtue.”

  Jackal had never laid eyes upon a queen, wouldn’t know it if he had, but if they carried themselves with any less strength than the half-breed matron walking away from him, they weren’t worthy of any regal title.

  There was no more putting it off. Jackal spread the word that the hoof would meet after sundown in the cooper’s shop, one of many that would remain empty because its proprietor had chosen not to return.