Plucking a cherry with a vengeance and popping it into her disinterested mouth, Fetch got to her feet.
“Time to move.”
They rode for the deeper shadows of the pass and were through before the sun rose high enough to find them again. At the other end, they went slower, wary. These lands were just east of the castile and belonged to the Crown, retained due to the sea of olive trees that grew effortlessly in the marches above the Amphora Mountains. The plantations of the old emperors had been so vast, the crops continued to thrive. The villas were long crumbled, the slaves that worked them nothing but the near-forgotten ancestors of Hispartha, the names of their Imperial masters known only to decaying scholars despite all the statues raised to their own vanity. But the olives remained, worth more than any damn monument, to Fetch’s thinking. You couldn’t eat marble.
Fetch followed Hood through valleys that were leagues-long groves, bitter that these trees were untouched by the blight that destroyed Winsome’s. But even the bounty of the Old Imperium had limits. By the time they reached the assailable north-thrusting edge of the Amphoras, the olive trees were bullied away by choking forests of oleander. Only a place as harsh as Ul-wundulas mated prosperity with poison. The thin, twisted trunks of the harmful plants grew upward until they leaned and entwined together, the fingers of a plotting man. Riding within the gnarled tunnels, ducking her head, Fetch kept a careful eye on Womb Broom, making sure he did not attempt to forage while among the oleander. The hoofs called it hogbane with good reason. At least they were safe now from cavalero patrols. The frails had no interest beyond the olives. From here on, the land was a wilderness of thorns and creeping juniper.
The sun beat at them as they ascended the barren slopes of the Amphoras. Hoodwink pulled a cowl over his bald, linen-colored head. They spent the day climbing higher, Hood guiding them along shallowly ascending trails that did not tax the hogs. The air cooled and the wind grew spirited.
Eventually, they crested a long ridgeline and rode westward along its spine. The ground became littered with fragmented rock as they progressed, and soon they traversed a wasteland of broken stone. Slopes and seams molded the rubble until the vistas were lost. They were nestled within a pockmark of the mountain, but not one formed by the slow crawl of time, one burrowed by the suffering labor of many hands. Like the olive groves, this was a vestige of the Imperium. A quarry, worked for centuries and abandoned for far longer. Unlike the olive trees, stone produced nothing when neglected, becoming naught but a calcified wound.
Fetch and Hood dismounted, began leading their hogs over the scrabble of loose stones, picking their way down the side of a crease to a relatively flat stretch. Fetch had come here once before with the same guide and had been confounded then by the bleak, seemingly endless splay of debris. Everything looked the same. This return trip did nothing to help her bearings. But Hood knew his way, then as now, gliding across the tumbles without pause.
At last, they spied a variation in the striated grey.
Ahead, a wooden pole, half again as tall as a man, thrust up from the rocks, its base surrounded by loose stones. Atop was affixed a wheel, the same that would be found on any oxcart, but here, in this place, its appearance was horribly strange. Seated upon the wheel, revolving slowly at the whims of the wind, was a figure. To call it a man was generous to the point of fallacy. Painfully thin and naked, skin both cured by the sun and blanched by rock dust. Hair and beard, vulgarly matted, brittle and dry, blew stiffly in the gusts. Small, desiccated black turds littered the rocks beneath the wheel, waste from a body that had nothing left to rid. A cracked, hollow voice drifted down from the perch, mumblings made unintelligible by thirst, weakness, madness.
Behind this living, totemic scarecrow, a passageway yawned in the side of a rubble hill. A narrow, low lintel of stacked stone, held up by nothing but skilled balance. Or fuck-crazy faith.
The wheel creaked as Fetch and Hood passed beneath, the inhabiting loon issuing his tortured, throaty nothings. They were a child’s toss of a stone away from the lintel when the Bone Smiler ducked through.
For the second time in her life, Fetch laid eyes upon the man, and for the second time she was convinced he was the frail that fathered Hoodwink. Parchment skin pulled tight and thin over a bald skull, sockets sunk deep, cheekbones that could cut. Tall and lean, movements fluid and predatory. He was older, though hard to give a number to his years for he was nimble, his eyes clear and clever. Not well-muscled, but then he was a human; the most formidable often wasted down after middle age. Still, picture him getting a mongrel girl with child and the mind’s eye conjured Hood, though he possessed one mannerism never seen on Hoodwink’s face.
The Bone Smiler smiled. And it was hideous to behold.
His teeth were false, carved. The individual teeth were too large. When exposed beneath his straining lips, they transformed the entire mouth into a chilling rictus. Whatever bones were used, they must have been from multiple remains of various ages, the colors of each tooth forming a patchwork of every shade from white to black, gruesome browns being the most common. Despite the horselike size of the teeth, the entire construction was ill-fitting, sliding and shifting as the man spoke. He had to work his lips in exaggerated patterns to accommodate the unsightly, clicking mass behind them, all the while sucking and slurping to keep it in place.
“Chief of the True slup Bastards. Back to visit sslk.”
Behind, the man on the wheel loosed a protracted moan.
The Bone Smiler’s hand drifted behind the lintel and there came the sound of sloshing water. His hand reappeared grasping a thin rod, a dripping rag attached to the end. He walked past Fetch and Hood, stopped a few strides from the perch, and extended the rod, holding the rag up to the wretch’s face. It was ignored, but the Bone Smiler stood patiently for a long while, moving the rod to match the motion of the wheel so that it remained hovering before the madman’s lips. But he never drank.
At last, the Bone Smiler lowered his arms. “Later, perhaps.”
Turning, he regarded his visitors for a moment.
“Same complaints? Ssst.”
Fetch considered. Nodded.
“Liar. They clik are worse.” He stepped beyond them again. “Come inside. Schlup. Weapons remain without.”
Ducking through the hole, he vanished. Taking a long breath, Fetch unslung her thrum, unbuckled her sword belt, and handed both to Hood. He pointed down at her boot. Shaking her head, she removed the dagger, handed it over. She tried to bury her trepidation, failed, and followed the man into the dark.
The single-chambered grotto was as close and uninviting as before. Worse, even, because it was no longer a fresh mystery. A high, ancient wooden table dominated the center, backed and flanked by dilapidated cupboards. The only light was that which dared enter through the opening, but the Bone Smiler was already touching a taper to numerous tallow candles set about the room. The tepid flames revealed his low cot, single stool, and the plethora of herbs and instruments hanging batlike from the intrusive ceiling.
Fetch stood in front of the table, trying to stay out of the man’s way as he moved about the confines. He retrieved a wide-mouthed glass vessel from a cupboard and handed it to Fetch on the move. Last time, this had caused some confusion and no small amount of curse-infused challenges when the explanation came. Now, however, she was less ignorant, though no less discomfited.
Unlacing her breeches one-handed, she worked them down past her knees, squatted slightly, and positioned the vessel. The Bone Smiler went about his preparations, neither ignoring nor heeding Fetch as she pissed. When finished, she set it upon the table and it had barely touched down before being taken up again. The Bone Smiler maneuvered behind the table, squeezed into the space between it and the cupboards. Fetch began to pull her breeches up.
“Leave them.”
She stood there, feeling a fool with her bare ass exposed.
As the Bone Smiler worked, she avoided looking in his direction, remembering her revulsion upon her first visit when the man tasted her water.
He was busy for some time, and Fetch heard a bubbling hiss, no doubt the result of him mixing one of numerous powders into the urine flask.
“Up on the hithhht table.”
She hopped up, breeches still sagging at her ankles, and grit her teeth as he opened a vein in her arm with a small blade. He watched her blood flow into a shallow pewter basin with rapt attention, face so close, his nose was in danger of being dipped in crimson. Giving over a linen bandage for her to stanch the bleeding, he returned to his cupboards.
At last, he turned, his eyes fixed somewhere between the edge of the table and the floor.
“Tell me how this began. Clop.”
“I told you bef—”
“Tell me!” The Bone Smiler raised a forestalling hand. “Again.”
Fetch took a breath, delving deep for patience. “The Sludge Man attacked our hoof. He wanted me, for my elven blood. Some kind of sacrifice to heal the Old Maiden Marsh. He was…fucking unstoppable.” Fetch found herself staring at a scar on her inner forearm. There was another on her shoulder, difficult for her to see, but she reached up and felt along its raised length. Both had been made by Crafty’s hand. Three more adorned her thigh. She could see them now on her exposed leg. Those she had done herself. They were far from her only scars, but they were the only wounds that were also wards.
“There was a wizard with us. He said my blood would protect me from the Sludge Man’s touch.”
“Sssp. His touch?”
“The sludge,” Fetch said. “It made you fall unconscious.”
The Bone Smiler grunted. “A soporific. Proceed.”
“Crafty…the wizard, was right. He cut me. I went into the sludge, dragged that fucking bog-sucker out, threw him in a furnace, and now he’s dead. Don’t know what else I can tell you.”
The Bone Smiler pondered in the silence that followed. He peered down at the scars on her thigh, inspected them deftly with his fingers. “The cuts allowed the sludge entry. To take clop root. How long ago? Precisely?”
Fetch thought. “Nearly sixteen months.”
“How long before you took clik ill?”
“Four months…I think.”
“Think?”
“That was the first fit. First time I hacked up any of that shit.”
“Sssk. But you felt weak prior?”
Fetch nodded, hating the admission.
“Through what other avenues has it been expulsed?”
“Huh?”
“Glot. Have you shit it out? Pissed it? Has it come through the nose?”
Fetch felt a pang of panic. “Hells no! Will that happen?”
The Bone Smiler did not answer, his long fingers coming up to rub at his taut brow. “What about your womb’s blood? Last slup you were here, you had not had a flow since the attack.”
That was true, but not alarming. Unlike their male counterparts, female half-orcs were not sterile, but neither were they overly fertile. Fetch had gone years without bleeding and then, sometimes, it would occur a few months in a row. Beryl had taught her and Cissy that it would remain unpredictable until it vanished entirely.
“I’ve bled once since I was last here,” she said. “Two months back. There was nothing.”
The man nodded, thinking. “It comes from your lungs. The stomach clop. But worse now. How?”
“I…can’t breathe. I can feel it lurking, pooling. It’s always threatening to come up. When it does, it’s suffocating. Feels like I’m going to die before I can choke it out.”
“Very well. Lay back.”
The Bone Smiler was thorough in his examination, especially in his scrutiny of Fetch’s eyes and joints. She suffered the discomforts of his probing hands as she had before, willing herself not to lash out with each pawing. When he was done, he returned to his cupboards. She leaned against the edge of the table, sharing the cramped space with the reclusive apothecary. He faced her, his gaunt face blank.
“The draught I last made for you was a cast of the dice. I was shup surprised to see you still living.”
Fetch could only bark a grim laugh. “I was about to say the same about your friend outside.”
The man smiled, making her regret being amusing.
“He was here long before me. I am merely a tenant of this hermitage now that he forever shuns shelter. Clut. He falls, sometimes. But like a bird. Weighs hardly enough for the fall to cause harm. Bones so thin he practically drifts. It will go wrong one day. Broken neck or cracked skull will end his search for whatever truths he seeks. Sssslk.”
“And what about my search. Is there a fucking cure?”
The Bone Smiler actually looked regretful. “I am no wizard. Perhaps the one that cut you could help.”
“No. He can’t.”
“Strava, then. It is said the high priest of Belico—”
“No!” She spat the word this time. She had seen the results of bargains struck with Zirko and his god, and wanted no part in such a pact. “Is there nothing your medicines can do?”
The bulging mouth of the apothecary clenched. He looked disturbed as he thought.
“There is something,” Fetch declared.
The Bone Smiler went to his cupboards, slowly, gravely. From the very back he withdrew a small bottle, hardly larger than his thumb. The ceramic was stained a pale, unwholesome red. When Fetch was growing up, there had been a Grey Bastard named Creep. Sometimes, when he would visit Winsome, he would entertain the orphans by finding a pair of scorpions and coaxing them to fight. Seeing the way the Bone Smiler held that bottle, she was reminded of how Creep handled the scorpions. Comfortably, yet cautiously.
“Kinnabar,” he said, addressing the bottle in his hand, cursing it. “In the mines of Hispartha, men die in droves to dig it from the earth. The Imperium valued it higher than life, just so the wives of emperors could paint their faces. Sssslk. Refined to quicksilver, it is prized by alchemists all the way to Tyrkania, believing it can mate with worthless metals and birth gold. Gold. Clut. Again, more valuable than man. But in my trade, made into potions, powders, salts, it was slup thought to prolong life.”
He began to give it over, but as Fetch’s hand came up, the Bone Smiler withdrew the bottle.
“Hear me. Sssslt. This is poison. Nothing more. It is worthless save in the murder of all that risk its presence. Understand, by taking it you are trying to kill the malignance within you. Orc blood is hardier than man’s. Perhaps ssslt that will serve you. But know, the kinnabar infusion will likely kill you. Faster even than the invading humors.”
The bottle was again proffered.
Fetch reached out with a question first. “So…the sludge? It is killing me.”
“Yes. I believe so.”
She took the vial.
A ripple of disappointment played across the Bone Smiler’s skeletal face. “One drop under the tongue. One only.”
“Every day?”
“If you can.”
Fetch eyed the small vessel. “It won’t last very long.”
“No,” came the somber reply. “One way or another. Ssslt. It won’t.”
FOUR
OUTSIDE, FETCH FOUND a pair of nomads waiting with Hoodwink. She had noted their arrival while on the Bone Smiler’s table, hearing the shuffle and snort of the hogs, the brief murmur of introductions. Breechless inside the hut, she had paid it no mind, trusting that any trouble could—and would—be handled by her cadaverous rider. The older of the two gave her a nod as she exited. Orcs were entirely hairless, so any mongrel wearing a beard or locks had their human half to thank. This one possessed flaxen whiskers, a rare color in a half-breed. They grew in bushes above his ears and down his jawline, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. Fe
tch reckoned he had fifteen years on her, perhaps a few more. He wore a stockbow across his back, another oddity. Nomads usually lacked the resources to maintain a thrum. The younger free-rider hardly noticed her presence. He was too busy casting uneasy looks up at the hermit on his pole.
Ignoring them for the moment, Fetch retrieved her weapons from Hood. The Bone Smiler emerged while she was buckling her sword belt.
“Ah, Marrow. Cluk. What brings you?”
“Nothing injurious, Smiler,” the older nomad replied, and gestured at his companion. “Just showing this youngblood where you dwell. Likely to need you before long. If he lives, that is.”
Marrow gave his companion a nudge, breaking him out of his morbid study of the madman.
The apothecary stepped forward and smiled. “Ssslt. I am at your service. Though I pray you never need it.”
The young nomad was undaunted by that horrid grin. He returned it with a smile of his own, far more comely, and extended his arm.
“I’m called Sluggard,” he said, his smile broadening when the Bone Smiler clasped his wrist, a rarely seen greeting in the Lots.
Fetching took in this good-natured mongrel. He wasn’t lean, like most underfed nomads, but even with that his name was peculiar. There was not a pinch of indolence in his well-muscled form. On the contrary, there was something of the leopard in this one, his body, even in stillness, appearing on the verge of some sudden, violent action. Unlike his companion, Sluggard’s hair grew atop his head, worked into short twists. Fetch’s frown deepened as she noticed no scars upon the exposed flesh of his arms. When a rider was cast out, his brothers marred his tattoos with ax blades, marking him an outcast and erasing his connection to the hoof. Marrow and Hoodwink both bore the scars of their ousting, but Sluggard’s slate-colored skin was free of injury, old or new. Hells, he did not seem to bear any tattoos at all.
Fetch let their absence go unremarked. She had to. It was hoof code not to question a free-rider about his past.
He wore riding leathers, but unlike Marrow’s, they weren’t sun-bleached and sweat-eaten. Weathered, certainly, but far from rotten. A stout bow, fashioned in the Unyar way, was in his hand. Both the nomads’ hogs were swift-bodied, tough beasts, though Fetch noticed a touch of brush foot in Marrow’s spotted sow.
The True Bastards Page 4
