The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  “I remember,” Fetching said.

  It was early experimentation with the unnatural fire that had caused Snake’s burns when he was still a slophead. He was fortunate to have kept the arm, the flesh sloughing off as it healed. Grocer had tended him, the miserly old fuck even keeping one of the peels that had come away in a single, unbroken tube.

  “That slop’s arm looks like a freshly shed snake,” the ornery quartermaster had remarked, unknowingly providing Salik with his future hoof name.

  Grocer had died on the same day as the Kiln, along with the Claymaster and the Grey Bastards. Seemed only fitting when Salik rose to the brotherhood that Grocer make one final contribution. That had been Mead’s idea. Mead, who looked at her now with something very near disgust.

  “You remember the aftermath, but you weren’t there. You were out on patrol with Oats and Jackal. Like always. I was the only sworn brother in the furnace chamber when the slops were mucking about with that shit. I was the one who saw the fire knock the furnace doors open and lick outward, like it was alive and hungry. It barely touched Salik, and his flesh ignited like a brush fire.”

  The memory tortured Mead, his stare directed at Fetch, but seeing something else.

  “How did you put it out?” she asked, ashamed she did not know. Like he said, she hadn’t been there, just heard the report in a hoof meet, sitting around that fucking coffin-shaped table where she always did her best to remain small and quiet.

  Mead’s unblinking eyes refocused. For a moment he looked confused, as if he didn’t recall. He expelled a short, darkly amused breath. “Urine. I’d read somewhere that stale urine would extinguish it. I had the slops pissing in buckets from the first day, leaving them around. Didn’t even know if it would work until I tossed one on Snake. Too afraid to test it, in case it made it worse. But in that moment…”

  “There was nothing to lose.”

  Mead nodded, his quick mind seizing on the fact that he had just lost his argument. Wearing a gloomy little grin, he righted the bench and sat back down. Fetch joined him and placed an arm around his shoulders, to hells with how he might respond.

  Mead only sighed. “Guess I have to tell the boys to start saving their piss.”

  “I’d do it,” Fetch told him, “but I’m not going to.”

  They both laughed. Fetching withdrew the embrace and slid a little ways down the bench, tapping the fortification plans on the table with a finger.

  “We can’t wall off our entire lot. We need a way to attack as well as defend.”

  “I know. But…chief. It won’t sit well with Snake. We do this, we need to be prepared to lose him. He might go nomad rather than risk the fire again.”

  Fetching stood. “I understand. There’s no need to tell him anything yet. Like everything I need to keep this hoof alive, the stuff is not in our possession. I was hoping you knew where it came from.”

  Mead looked down, stifling a laugh.

  “What?”

  “Well…it is called Al-Unan fire.”

  Fetch made a mock lunge at her grinning rider. “Keen-ass! Just keep working on your damn chart and I will work on the thousand and one other miracles.” Remembering, she pointed at the door. “And what the fuck was Whore doing in here?”

  “Helping me,” Mead replied, perturbed at her question. “Sluggard’s spent his life in walled cities. Knows a thing or two. He even suggested one day we build an aqueduct.”

  “An ack-wa-what?”

  “It’s a way to bring water into the town.”

  “That’s called a well, Mead.”

  “No, this would be from the Alhundra itself—” He was growing excited, but Fetch killed his enthusiasm with her dubious sneer. “Never mind.”

  Guilt made her take a breath, preparing to encourage him to explain further.

  They both startled as the door was rammed open by Dumb Door’s cumbersome form, killing the chance. He was sweating and winded, jaw slack.

  Fetch sprang from the bench. “What is it?”

  Dumb Door put the sides of his meaty hands together and fanned them open.

  Mead was standing now too. “The gate.”

  “The dogs?” Fetch asked, moving around the table.

  Two extended fingers on one hand held below a single finger on the other.

  Worse.

  The stockade was filled with backs when Fetch arrived. None on the wall looked around when she began climbing the ladder. Mead was on her ass, his ascent hardly slowed by his lack of a hand.

  “Make a gap!” Fetch commanded.

  A pair of backs parted and she looked over the stakes, thrum leading.

  A line of horsemen were assembled beneath the morning sun.

  Cavaleros.

  Had to be a hundred. Four score, at least. Too many.

  One man was ahead of the others, less than a stone’s throw from the gate. His head was craned upward and his voice raised a moment after Fetch reached the wall.

  “Hoofmaster of the Grey Bastards, I am Cavalero Ramon. You’re to come with me to the castile by order of Captain Bermudo.”

  “It’s True Bastards, you foal-fucking frail!” Polecat yelled down.

  Ramon ignored the laughter along the stockade. His face was as humorless as Fetch’s.

  She kept her stockbow trained, eyes darting. The sun reflected dully off steel helms, armor scales, the heads of demi-lances, the edges of shields. Hundreds of little blazes accompanied by the occasional thud of a hoof, the clink of a harness as a horse shifted. There were a hundred men, she saw now. Some seventy cavaleros along with thirty scouts dressed in canvas jerkins and brimmed hats, each bearing a loaded stockbow.

  She looked again to Ramon.

  They both knew she had a choice.

  “I’m coming down!” The tension that settled over the mongrels atop the stockade at her pronouncement was palpable. “Bastards with me.”

  The brothers converged on her at the bottom of the wall. Fetch kept a steady stride as she made for the stables, forcing them to trail along. Away from the slops, their concerns spilled forth.

  “You’re not serious about going?” Shed Snake asked.

  “I am. Figured this might happen.”

  “Chief.” Mead sounded on the verge of pleading. “The dogs are still out there.”

  “I suspect so.”

  “And if they come for you?”

  “They didn’t attack the eleven of us. Doubt they’ll risk a hundred men.”

  “Hundred frails ain’t worth the eleven of us, chief,” Polecat said.

  “No. And Crafty’s curs can feast on every last one of them before they reach me. Be the most damn use any cavalero has ever been in the history of Ul-wundulas.”

  “Still shouldn’t go alone,” Mead said, quickening his pace to pull ahead.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Fetch demanded.

  “To saddle my hog!”

  “STAY FUCKING PUT!”

  The savagery in her voice rooted Mead in place.

  Fetch stopped, the others along with her. She revolved in a slow circle, daring them not to heed her words.

  “This is a hogshit errand. Put Bermudo’s mind at ease, convince him that his men would actually desert. Fucker can’t sit a horse anymore, so he’s bringing me to him.”

  Polecat grunted in agreement. “Let’s show him that was a mistake.”

  Fetch let that hang in the air a moment before shaking her head, letting loose a small, biting laugh. “Is that what you all want? To fight? To make a fucking stand? We could. We’d feather some frails, wet our blades with cavalero blood.” Her sweeping gaze settled on Polecat. “We could open the gate, ride out as a hoof, and hit them with a tusker they don’t see coming. With the slops on the walls, we stand a chance of killing every last one. Today. But next
time? They won’t just ask for me. Hells, they won’t say a damn word. They’ll raze Winsome and put everyone behind this wall of driftwood to the sword. Everyone. Do I need to call a vote to see who wants that?”

  “We can’t just give over our chief because the castile whistled,” Polecat said. “What does that makes us? What does that make you?”

  “It makes you loyal to my command,” Fetch told her brothers. “It makes me less of a prideful fuck than Bermudo, and more sane than the Claymaster. Boys, we ain’t the Grey Bastards anymore. There’s no Kiln to protect us, no Captain Ignacio to come when we whistle. And no vengeful old pus sack of a chief to bring us all down with him.”

  “You’re not him,” Mead said, voice going thick. “Never were. You’re one of us. One of ours.”

  Fetch wanted to embrace him for that, wanted to embrace them all for the proud set of their faces, showing her they agreed. Instead, she thrust a finger at the gate.

  “Get back up on that wall and tell those backy frails your chief will join them directly.”

  With parting, resilient nods they did as told.

  Save one.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Hood.”

  “They won’t see me. Neither will you.”

  Fetch took a step closer to the serpent’s mask.

  “No. You won’t shadow us. That’s your chief telling you. You won’t. You’re needed here.”

  “You’re getting worse.”

  Fetch took in the scarred, bald, wax-skinned, corpse-eyed mongrel. “Yes. And not even you can do anything about it.”

  She left Winsome in full kit, riding alone beneath the gate under the conflicted eyes of the hoof. Cavalero Ramon turned his horse as she drew close, riding alongside as they passed through the line of waiting cavalry. He was a heavy-jawed, ill-shaven man. His troop fell into formation around them and set a quick pace. Though cavaleros in name, it was clear from the quality of their mounts and arms that all save Ramon were lowborn. There wasn’t a pennant or banner among them. While all bore demi-lances, it was a rare belt that held a sword. Axes and maces—cheaper to make and easier to maintain—outnumbered the good blades. Not a helm or coat of plates was free from tarnish. Fetch put no stock in the so-called quality of a man’s blood the way frails did, but most of these men were just a small step removed from brigands and, if their fortunes changed but a little, would likely become deserters.

  “Bermudo must be desperate to avoid idleness in his ranks,” Fetch said, unwilling to let the farce go unremarked. “This is an abundance of men to ride escort for one mongrel. Even a hoofmaster.”

  Ramon gave no response.

  At the Winsome Ford, the farce increased. In truth, it doubled. An identical troop of cavaleros waited just over the river. A further one hundred mounted men, equipped as the rest. Ramon produced a smirk that crowned him king of the gloating shiteaters. Fetch’s teeth began to grind. She’d been wrong. There’d been no chance of victory if the Bastards chose to fight. The hunting horn dangling from Ramon’s tack along with at least a dozen more among his troop would have signaled the reserves. Bringing the entire force to the gates would have quelled any notion of defiance from the first moment.

  “Fuckers,” Fetch hissed.

  A greasy, grinning ferret of a scout broke away from the reserves and crossed the ford.

  “Blas,” Ramon droned at the repulsive man, “you have charge of the half-breed’s…safety.”

  “Aye, Cavalero.” Blas stuck finger and thumb between his lips to emit an impressive shriek of a whistle, summoning a detachment of his fellow outriders.

  Fetch nudged Womb forward to meet them. Thirty men snapped stockbows to their shoulders. Their weapons had a rack and pinion to aid the frails with the reload, making them slow. Still, at this distance they wouldn’t need a second volley. Half these cunts could have shit aim and Fetch would still be more feathered than a goose. She masked the puzzlement and alarm with a yawn. This was more than the disdainful distrust frails held for half-orcs. They feared her. Two hundred to one, yet they feared her.

  Womb Broom snorted with aggravation as the horsemen began to encircle him. This Blas was foolish, surrounding a barbarian. A hog was easily capable of barreling through the horses, crippling and killing as it went if Fetch risked a break. Her face must have betrayed the thought, for Blas, peering at her, grew concerned.

  “If your mongrel brain tells you to become disagreeable at any moment”—the lead scout crafted a threatening smile—“I’d welcome it.”

  Fetch showed her own teeth. “You certain? Because if I become disagreeable, you’ll be the first to die.”

  Blas tried to hide it, but he grew visibly less sure. He called to Ramon.

  “Suggest we shackle the hussy and throw her over the back of a horse, Cavalero!”

  “You’re not putting me in chains,” Fetch promised Ramon as he rode through the scouts. His eyes flicked to her hand, resting upon the grip of her tulwar. The man’s tongue pushed at his tightly closed lips, bulging the flesh of his mouth as he considered.

  “Leave her be, Blas,” he said, at last, urging his horse onward.

  The scout squirmed in his saddle. “What if she turns savage?”

  Ramon did not slow or turn as he replied. “Have your men kill the hog from under her. Surely they won’t miss as they’ll have her surrounded.”

  Sour-faced, Blas jerked his head and gave another whistle, signaling his men to move. Fetch allowed them to herd her across the ford. There was little else she could do. Even if she won free from the scouts, there was a troop of cavaleros riding ahead as well as behind. The numbers of the men, to say nothing of their actions, pointed to Bermudo wanting her for something more than a palaver regarding dead deserters.

  The badlands spread out before the column, sunbaked and endless, the expanse broken only by scrub, heat phantoms, and the occasional low hill. Fetch supped on dust, malicious glances, and the dark suspicions of Bermudo’s true aims for leagues. By day’s end she had a dry throat, a renewed hatred for frails on foals, and no fucking notion what the captain intended.

  The sky was beaten purple after its bout with dusk, so the smoke remained hidden until it reached Fetch’s nostrils. The column slowed. Blas’s men spread out, revealing Ramon sitting his horse before the blackened, gutted, smoking remnants of what had been Rhecia’s brothel.

  “I think we will have those shackles now,” the cavalero said.

  Fetch shook her head. “I did not do this.”

  “Tell the captain,” Ramon replied without feeling.

  As Blas rode forward with the chains, Fetch considered being true to her word and putting a bolt in the man. What would it come to if she did? There was small chance of escape, and should fortune kiss her ass, Ramon would certainly order his men back to Winsome. Even if she went nomad and never again returned to the hoof, they would pay for her rebellion.

  And so she remained carefully still as the manacles were fastened about her wrists.

  TEN

  FETCHING BEAT THE STABLEMASTER until her knuckles were shredded by his broken teeth. Bloody spittle greased every blow. The man’s nose shattered, next his jaw. Just when she thought he was growing senseless, numb to the pain, she hooked a thumb into his eye and gouged it from the socket. The scream that followed lanced Fetch’s ears in the high pitch of agonized panic—

  “Ay.”

  Blas’s voice jerked her out of the black reverie.

  She blinked, nearly blind from the sun. A few strides away, within the shadows of the stable, the man was still on his feet, still whole, still drumming the simple-minded boy upon the head with harsh words and lazy cuffs. The stablemaster’s callousness was practiced, familiar, as was Muro’s response. The boy did nothing, merely continued to sit upon his little stool and attempt to practice shoeing, his clumsy efforts made more futile by the steady rain of
slaps and insults. Juggling the hammer, shoe, and the wooden dummy hoof, he kept his head bowed, face turned away, as comfortable weathering the abuse as the stablemaster was in its delivery.

  Fetch began to move forward, feeling her imagined vengeance crawling to existence.

  A sword barred her way, the flat of the blade slapped across her stomach.

  “Ay!”

  Seething, she settled. Blas withdrew his blade, though his vigilant stare remained. Fetch could feel it upon her temple. Gritting her teeth, she watched the cruel display until the stablemaster was called away to attend another matter back in the stalls, leaving Muro to his task. The boy abandoned it as soon as his master was out of sight and came plodding up to Fetch.

  “Grey Bastrin?” Muro asked, pointing a finger.

  “Yes,” Fetch told him. “I’m a Bastard.”

  “Like Oads. Bears and Moundtans!”

  Fetch smiled. “Like Oats.”

  “He here?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I’ll tell him you—”

  “Get back to your work, mush head!” Blas yelled, raising a threatening hand.

  Muro flinched, though he did not have the speed of mind or body to get out of reach. Blas did not strike him. Instead, he gave the boy a hard shove.

  “Get!”

  Crestfallen, Muro turned and went back to his stool.

  Fetch turned a disgusted eye on Blas. Had Oats been here, the cruel fuck’s head would be pulp. Maybe not, since the stablemaster would already have been broken in half and none would dare touch Muro after seeing that. Oats had long wished to remove the boy from the castile. But the hard truth was, callous treatment aside, Muro was better off here. The castile had strong walls and plenty of food. Winsome had neither.