Perched atop barrels and lounging on half-finished coffins, the mongrels waited for everyone to arrive. Polecat was the straggler, still out of breath and lacing his breeches. There was some good-natured ridicule and shaking of heads, but then everyone settled, every face reflecting the importance of the meet. There was no table, no voting axes, no stump, no chief’s seat. Just eight sworn brethren sitting in a rough cluster. Jackal had placed himself on a workbench, no more prominent than the others, yet he found all eyes looking at him.
“We are here to select a new chief,” he said, accepting that he had to speak first. “Likely, most of you know who you want leading this hoof. I know my mind is made up. But before we vote, there are some things you need to hear.”
Jackal looked at Warbler and the attention in the room shifted.
The old thrice took a deep breath, remaining seated as he spoke.
“I helped found this hoof. Hells, in some ways I helped found them all. I remember the day we laid the first stone of the Kiln. I followed our chief loyally for years, until I began to see what he was becoming. After a time, I wanted to lead the Grey Bastards, felt it was my duty. I still do.” Warbler paused for a moment, seemed to lose his thoughts. He ran a hand through his thick, white hair. “None of you truly know me, saving Hoodwink, but I have been struggling to save this hoof for longer than some of you have been alive. It was a damn fool thing to try. One mongrel can’t do it. A hoof has to survive as a hoof. The Grey Bastards are far from saved, though we have been freed from the Claymaster’s madness. I’m proud to be back where I belong, where my heart always was. I could lead this hoof. I could, and do it well. But there is another duty for me. Far more important. One mongrel can’t save a hoof, but one mongrel can save one child.”
The room was still.
“I am taking Wily to live at Dog Fall,” Warbler continued with a small, hopeful smile. “The Tines have agreed to try and help him, rid him of that damn plague. I don’t know a heap of hogshit about wizardry, but the elves do. They think that, in time, they can cure him. If not, they have assured me they can do what that swaddlehead did, and force the plague to move.”
“Into you?” Mead said.
Warbler nodded. “They suspect it can go from one thrice into another. Something about how the Tyrkanian…crafted it.”
“Then I should be the one to go,” Oats insisted. “That backy tub wanted to put it in me. Stop laughing, Polecat!”
“You can’t go, Oats,” Jackal said. “Warbler knows the Tine tongue. You don’t.”
“Still doesn’t account for him being allowed to enter Dog Fall,” Mead said. “The Tines are known for rarely allowing other elves within their land, much less two half-orcs.”
“We understand less about their ways than we think,” Warbler said. “They took in those elves I brought out of the marsh, and not one of them was a Tine. They trust me, as far as they can, I think. Even if they don’t, I suspect they know how important the plague still is to protecting the Lots. Perhaps they’re simply using me. Either way, they have agreed to allow the three of us to come live in their gorge.”
Polecat’s brow creased. “Three?”
Warbler looked at Oats. “It’s the other reason you can’t go, Idris. Your mother would never allow you to take on that sickness.”
“Beryl’s going with you?” Fetching asked, wearing a bemused smile.
“Do you think she would be separated from the boy?” Warbler returned.
Mead looked at Jackal. “How? How did you get them to agree to this?”
“They didn’t take much convincing,” Jackal admitted. “Warbler’s right. The Tines know the importance of the plague. It’s dangerous. And useful. We’re lucky the orcs did not proceed with the Incursion. If they had, we wouldn’t have been able to stop them. Until Ul-wundulas is stronger, more united, the plague is necessary. We also gave the Tines something they wanted. Revenge on those who were delivering elf slaves to the Sludge Man. Sancho and the bog trotter himself are dead. But there was one more still alive. Captain Ignacio. Warbler told the Tines about him. They were eager to pursue. Likely he is seeing Dog Fall at this very moment, but he will never leave alive.”
Warbler blew out his cheeks. “So there it is, lads…and Fetch. I can’t lead the Grey Bastards, much as I want to, but I would be grateful to remain sworn to the hoof.”
“Vote it,” Oats barked. “Hands up to let the old man call himself a Bastard while languishing in the Umber Mountains!”
Every hand went high.
“Hells, War-boar,” Fetching teased, “you only had Hood’s vote anyway.”
“No,” Polecat said lightly. “I was going to throw for him. Sorry, Jack. Now, if you had been fucking Oats’s mother…”
An empty bucket went down over Cat’s head and Oats drummed hard on the sides.
As the raucous laughter reached its pitch, Oats yelled gleefully over the ruckus.
“Jackal as chief! Hands up!”
There was a shout of approval and the vote went up, every arm raised save for Warbler’s, who looked at Jackal solidly. Fetch caught that look before the rest.
“I’m leaving,” Jackal said, meeting her eyes.
The hoof, hearing his words, grew silent.
Oats’s smile vanished. “What?”
“I’m leaving,” Jackal repeated, louder. “I can’t be chief.”
“The fuck you can’t,” Oats declared.
Fetch was horribly silent.
Jackal swept the Grey Bastards. “This hoof has a long ride ahead. If I am with you, leading you, we won’t survive. Hispartha wants my head. Bermudo had already sent word to powerful nobles about me, and that was before I escaped from the castile and killed their wizard. As a nomad, they have little hope in finding me.”
“So you’re running to save your hide?”
It was Fetch, her teeth clenched.
“To help this hoof,” Jackal replied. “You are going to need Hispartha’s aid to build a stronghold. With me in your ranks, they will never trade with you. And it’s not just the blue bloods up north who demand payment from me. Brethren, I don’t know what Zirko truly did to me, but I can tell you his hold is real. I made a bargain, willingly, and it saved my life, more than once. I cannot escape my pledge to stand at Strava. The Betrayer Moon will find me there until I am dead, that much has been proven. But it goes deeper than that. Zirko may demand more of me, and if he does, I will not have a choice. You don’t need a chief that is pulled away by the whims of a priest.
“But most important. I cannot remain because I have to find Crafty. So long as he’s alive, we are not safe. The Lots are not safe. I won’t have us rebuild all we have lost only to have him return and pull it all down. He came to us and the Claymaster welcomed him, brought him into our midst, but we allowed it…I allowed it. I rode with him, fought with him, even grew to think of him as a friend. But one of us saw the wizard for what he was from the very start and cautioned me against him. One of us put the lives of the hoof before all other loyalties. That is the one you need leading you. That is the one I now raise my hand for.”
Jackal stood and put his hand up.
“Fetching.”
She looked sharply up at him, thinking, for a heartbeat, she was being mocked, but then she saw the stolid resolve he directed at her and grew very still.
“You are the best shot in the hoof,” he told her, not looking at the reactions of the others nor caring. “You are the fiercest fighter we have. Fearless. Bold. Frightening. The Tines know you carry their blood. Our alliance with them will strengthen once they see your existence does not sully them, but honors them. And they will see it, because you will show them, as chief. You are not charmed by wizards nor cowed by Hispartha. You would spit into the eye of every noble they have with a thrumbolt if they dared challenge you, as you did the day you killed that cavalero. Let Hispartha chase me
for that crime, while the true threat grows stronger, bringing this hoof back from the brink with her leadership.
“Grey Bastards, I call a vote! Fetching for our chief!”
Looking beyond him, Fetch produced a wry smile. “Their hands were already in the air, Jack.”
Turning, Jackal found she was right.
“Mine was up right after yours, brother,” Oats said.
Fetch stood and looked at her hoof. “You fool-asses going to do what I say?”
“Oh, yes,” Polecat said, his eyes glazing. “Anything. You tell me to lick your quim and I will serve without question.”
“If I need that done, I’ll ask Cissy,” Fetch returned. “She tells me you’re hopeless at it.”
Laughter boomed through the cooper’s shop, needling Polecat.
“So,” Jackal addressed Fetch when all was calm, “do I have your leave to ride alone, yet still call myself a Grey Bastard?”
Fetching’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
The silence stiffened and Jackal lowered his eyes.
“None of you do,” Fetch declared. “The Grey Bastards were the Claymaster’s hoof. We need to leave that behind.” She looked at Jackal and Warbler. “In honor of the two mongrels that challenged our founder and, even in defeat, stayed loyal, I say we become what they always remained. True Bastards.”
Jackal glanced at Warbler.
“It’s a good name,” the old thrice said, clearing his throat against rising emotion.
Fetch put a hand on their shoulders. “And these two, no matter where they go, will forever be members of our hoof. Brothers, if you’re opposed, stick a knife in that table.”
No one moved.
Fetch winked at Jackal. “There’s your answer.”
“Thank you.”
“When will you leave?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.
“Dawn.”
The True Bastards spent the night in celebration with the people of Winsome. At last, the last jug was drained, the last echoes of song and laughter faded. Jackal went to his usual spot and lay there, sleepless, until the sky began to brighten. It was an uninviting sight.
She had not come to him, nor he to her, though he fought the urge with every long moment. Unwilling to listlessly watch the impending pain of the day draw closer, Jackal rose and gathered his gear. The village slept as he made his furtive preparations. Walking to the stables, he saw a wain moving toward him, pulled by the massive, grunting form of Big Pox, the Claymaster’s hog. Warbler and Beryl sat upon the seat, and the old thrice pulled the hog to a stop as Jackal approached. Peeking over the side, he found Wily asleep on a pallet amongst the supplies.
“Getting out before the others are awake,” he said quietly.
“You too,” Beryl said with a hint of reprimand.
Jackal smiled at her and looked at Warbler. “Not taking Mean Old Man?”
“Left him for you,” the old thrice said. “A hog like that is wasted cooped up in a gorge. Besides, the point-ears are likely to force me to ride a harrow stag before long. That pig was born for the nomad life. He’ll serve you well, wherever you go.”
“I’ll take good care of him,” Jackal said. “And thank you.”
Beryl leaned down and kissed him once, giving his face a fond pat as she withdrew. “We didn’t make it out wholly unseen. You’ll find two in the stables waiting to ambush you.”
Jackal smiled and felt his heart flutter.
The wain continued on down the avenue.
Oats was already astride Ugfuck when Jackal entered the stables. It took him a moment to understand these were the two Beryl meant. He tried to mask his disappointment, but Oats caught it all the same.
“She isn’t one for farewells, brother.”
“That is true,” Jackal agreed, pulling Mean Old Man’s harness from a peg.
“Besides, she said watching us part was going to get all backy and she didn’t want to see it.”
Jackal hummed a laugh. Oats waited in silence for him to get his hog saddled. At last, he was mounted and ready, but he did not turn his hog toward the stable doors. Instead, he looked at Oats.
“You should stay here,” he said.
Oats frowned. “Just keeping you company until the edge of the lot.”
“You go too far and you won’t come back.”
“I know,” Oats admitted. “Cornered me good, you cunning shit.”
“She is going to need you at her side, Oats.”
The thrice nodded once, sharply. “Then that’s where I will be. Until you get back.”
Urging his hog up alongside Ugfuck, Jackal leaned in the saddle and embraced his friend. Pulling away, they looked at each other for a moment.
“Hells,” Oats groaned, “she was right.”
Jackal laughed and clapped the thrice on the shoulder. “See you at the Betrayer.”
“Fuck that! I’m letting someone else take a turn watching you get worshiped by waddlers, Arm of Cock-in-Hand.”
Shaking his head as he turned away, Jackal spurred his hog out of the stables. As he rode down the avenue at a healthy trot, he saw Fetching standing on the roof of the cooper’s shop. He did not pause, knowing it would be impossible to leave if he did. Her voice called down to him as he passed.
“Bring me a wizard’s head back from Tyrkania!”
He waved. “Yes, chief!”
Leaving Winsome behind, he went east. Mean Old Man’s gait was smooth and strong. He did not have Hearth’s raw speed, but his girth felt solid, a deep well of endurance. The sun climbed higher and the heat of Ul-wundulas rose with the dust beneath the barbarian’s hooves. Jackal’s home grew more distant with each pounding step.
The unridden surface of the world lay ahead.
Acknowledgments
This book is even more of a mutt than its main characters are. It was inspired by Sons of Anarchy, Middle-earth, spaghetti westerns, and the history of Reconquista-era Spain. That makes Kurt Sutter, J. R. R. Tolkien, Sergio Leone, and El Cid the Bastards’ beloved godfathers. I hope that enthusiasts of any/all these men will enjoy the homages and tips of the hat within this chimera of a fantasy, and that anyone who’s enjoyed riding with the Bastards will be moved to spend more time with their illustrious ancestors. Only time and readers will determine whether these inspirations formed an endearing mongrel love-child or a monstrous abomination. I certainly hope it’s the former.
The Bastards’ ride into the world has been a complex one. A few will recall its days as a self-published book. To those few, I would like to express immense gratitude, especially to Thomas J. C. for becoming a fan and inviting me to the Grimdark Readers & Writers Facebook group. It was there that I discovered the SPFBO hosted by Mark Lawrence. Had my mongrels not entered that contest, their story would still exist, but their reach would not be what it is today.
To Mr. Lawrence, there is no amount of profound thanks I can offer that won’t sound feeble or, worse, hyperbolic. But I must try. The SPFBO is a game-changer, for some it will be a life-changer. I firmly believe the contest’s positive impact exists only because it is an extension of the open mind and generous heart that invented it. You’re a damn fine man, Mark, and if we ever meet in person it’s likely to get a touch backy.
Another in danger of an imminent, crushing man-hug is Julian Pavia, an editor who sent an email I thought was fake; a belief only truly dispelled when the female robot voice of my caller ID announced between rings, “Call from. Penguin, Random.” I will likely remain ignorant of all his efforts on behalf of this book, but I can imagine they were immense. His feedback was beyond brilliant and the book is better for it. I am beyond thankful for his involvement, especially for putting me in contact with…
Cameron McClure, an agent who puts Burgess Meredith to shame as a cornerman. I used to cringe reading author acknowledgments that
extolled the endless virtues of their agents, but I have drunk the Kool-Aid and am now converted. I can no longer imagine how I ever did this without her.
If there is a real-world hoof in my life, it is made up of my test readers. Once again, they rose to the challenge of scrutinizing this story. They earned hoof names this go-round. Thank you, “Shenanigans” Matt, “Grim” Rob, “Left Coast” James, “Doppelwulf” Chael, and Mom (no quotations needed).
Likely I have forgotten many fine folks, but True Bastard status is due:
To Angeline Rodriguez at Crown for putting fresh eyes on the story and for likely much else I know nothing about.
To Anna Jackson at Orbit UK for bringing the book across the pond and fulfilling my mother’s dream that I one day be published in our former home.
To any and every reader that ever reached out with something positive to say (like Tony D. & Mike E.), your encouragement kept me writing when I wanted to quit.
To Lizbeth, for being on the team during the indie days.
To Chris & Angela (and by extension all of CONjuration), for predicting this book would “go places.”
To Rick, thanks for being an open ear, a great friend, and a stellar uncle to my little boy.
To my fellow SPFBO entrants, especially Dyrk Ashton, Phil Tucker, and Josiah Bancroft, thanks for the continued camaraderie and commiseration.
To the SPFBO judges, with a scraping bow to Ria and a brisk high-five to Laura, much appreciation for taking the time to read and, shockingly, enjoy the grimy tale of these half-orc hog riders.
And miles ahead of the rest, much love and gratitude to my wife, Liza, for convincing me the Bastards deserved a book. Without her, this story may have remained simply a creative exercise. Hopefully, darlin’, there weren’t too many days when you regretted encouraging me…
Finally, to Wyatt, my beautiful son. It will be many, many, many years before this particular book is appropriate for you, but you have my deepest gratitude for being a ceaseless source of joy during its creation.
Until next time,
Live in the saddle!
The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands) Page 48
