A man ducked out of the pavilion’s shadow, stepping between the large blacks to take in the disturbance with sharp, perturbed eyes. His skin bore the same tawny shade as the riders, his features aquiline, punctuated with a small, sharp beard at the chin. He wore a vest and loose breeches, the sash at his waist the same green as the scarf about his head. Beneath the vest, he was well formed, especially for a frail, muscles bespeaking a life preserved by prowess. His keen stare settled upon Fetching.
“You may speak with me,” he said, his Hisparthan accented but confident. He looked beyond her and called out orders to the cavalry in his own tongue before giving quieter instruction to the tent guards. Fetch was glad to see them lower their huge, curved swords. “Come within.”
Dismounting, Fetch hobbled Sluggard’s hog and walked into the tent.
It was pleasantly cool within. Incense and oil lamps burned from hanging brass vessels, tickling Fetch’s throat and eyes. An eagle spread its wings in greeting from a perch near the center of the space, where a thick arrangement of carpets formed around a low table of darkly lacquered wood. The head Tyrkanian sat there in a nest of cushions, attended by a woman in flowing garments of blue, white, and gold.
He gestured to the cushions opposite the table. “Please. Sit.”
Fetching complied and the woman offered a small cup containing a steaming drink. Her kohl-rimmed eyes did not meet Fetch’s, but her movements were calm, assured. The man was given an identical cup and he spoke a word before sipping. Fetch kept the cup in her hand, but did not drink. The man noticed this with a flick of his eyes, said nothing. He regarded her for a moment before setting his drink lightly upon the table. Leaning forward, he stretched out his hand for Fetch’s cup. She gave it over and he took a swallow, offering it back.
“I am Tarif Abu Nusar. And I do not poison my guests.”
Fetch left the cup hanging between them. “And what about your enemies?”
The man’s arm remained steady. “Are we already enemies?”
“If you are hosting Crafty in this camp, we’ve been enemies since before you awoke this morning.”
Tarif set the cup down upon the table and leaned back once more, his face betraying nothing. “Forgive me. I speak your tongue, but some of the expressions are strange. Hosting crafty?”
“Don’t play the ignorant foreigner with me, frail. Uhad Ul-badir Taruk Ultani.”
“I do not know this name.”
“Whatever he’s calling himself, he’s a lard-ass half-orc wizard, so let’s quit pawing at each other’s cleverness and bring him the fuck in here!”
Tarif studied her for a moment. He nodded slowly. “He is not here.”
The earnestness in the man’s pronouncement was undeniable.
Fetching tensed. “But you do know him.”
“Yes. I was never given a name, but it was such a half-orc that encouraged me to bring my people here.”
“Hells. I fucking knew it.”
“It pains me to know he is your enemy. He was a great friend to my tribe. I owe him a debt.”
Fetching had to laugh. “I bet he was. And I bet you do.”
“Please,” Tarif said, lifting the cup once more. “Drink some tea and tell me your name.”
“Fetching. Chief of the True Bastards.” She left the tea where it was.
“These True Bastards, they are one of the much-spoke-of hooves of Ul-wundulas?”
“Hoofs,” Fetch corrected, “but yes. You going to sell me the wizard never mentioned us.”
“I sell nothing. I can, however, give you the truth. Our meeting was brief and he said nothing of you or your True Bastards. Why would he?”
Fetch could not quite tell if she was being mocked. The man’s face may as well have been carved from wood. “Because we were at the center of his schemes once. But we know his face now, know all that leaks from his mouth are lies. Reckon it’s not a leap that he’ll now come at us through his Tyrkanian minions.”
“We are not Tyrkanian,” Tarif told her.
“You sure as shit look it, swaddlehead.”
She actually managed to get a wrinkle to form in his brow. “Tell me, how many riders do you command as chief of the Shards?”
“Bastards, you mean.”
Tarif’s eyebrows rose. “Do I? A hog-mounted half-orc with flesh sullied by patterns of vulgar ink. This I understood was the appearance of a mongrel hoof and the only hoof I have heard tell of is the Shards. You…sure as shit…look like one.”
“Very well,” Fetching said, smiling with appreciation as she caught the point. “If you’re not Tyrkanian, what are you?”
Tarif stood, retrieving a tray from the serving woman. “We are the Zahracenes.”
“Still means shit to me, frail.”
Tarif walked over to the perched eagle and began hand-feeding it morsels from the tray.
“Ours was a land of mountain tribes,” he explained, “long before Tyrkania rose. As with every land in the world in those ancient days, we found ourselves standing against the conquering steps of the Imperium. My ancestors fought their legions and bravely failed. But the Imperium was never wasteful. Recognizing the fighting spirit of the Zahracene tribes, they used them to help conquer other lands. Generations later, the Imperium was no more, but my tribe endured, molded by time and war into formidable horsemen. This is the reason the wizard said we should petition Hispartha to settle here, for he told me the hoof is what truly reigns in Ul-wundulas. Only now do I come to understand the meaning of this.”
Not liking the man standing while she was not, Fetching got to her feet. “What Crafty wants to truly reign here is him. He likes using the hoofs to make that happen. Know that. And why would you want to come? Surely your mountains would be better.”
Tarif turned away from the eagle. “Ul-wundulas is not the only harsh land in the world. We come from rocky places rising from the desert. And still would we dwell there if our home was not now lost to Tyrkania.”
Understanding settled over Fetching. “You’re nomads.”
“No longer,” Tarif proclaimed, giving the tray over to the waiting hands of the serving woman. “After the wizard told us of this vacant parcel, we fled those who would rule us and took ship at Al-Unan, crossing the Deluged Sea to arrive at Valentia on the eastern shores of Hispartha, where we were met and welcomed by envoys of your queen—”
“I don’t have a damn queen.”
Tarif looked embarrassed. “Yes, of course. Apologies. Perhaps it should be enough to say that it has been a long journey, and not without loss. But we are here at last in our new home and grateful for that.”
“Give it a year,” Fetch told him. “After your first thick raid, your first Betrayer, if you survive, you might find yourself wishing you were back in the desert.”
“The Zahracenes will endure,” Tarif claimed, returning to his cushions.
Fetch remained standing. “Hear me, frail. Nothing is certain in the Lots, survival least of all. Crafty is using you because he knew Hispartha would use you. Up north, the blue-bloods are shitting their silks because the orcs just tried to launch another Incursion that he fucking arranged. We mongrels repelled them because that’s what we are here to do, but as you said, not without loss. Hispartha sees the defenses here thinning and they are shoving you in to fill the gap. Take it from one who inherited this heap of hogshit.”
“If our presence aids with the defense, why would you have us leave?”
“Because up to now the Lots haven’t played host to a hoof with both Hispartha’s and Crafty’s bejeweled hands up its ass.”
“He has asked nothing of us, and the Hisparthans have only been generous.”
“Give it time. You’ll see Crafty again, and he’ll still smile, but he’ll name a price for his help. Don’t think Hispartha won’t, either.”
“They hav
e. We are to help defend Ul-wundulas. They ask this of their own people. They maintain garrisons here, yes?”
“Hardly,” Fetch scoffed. “Crown lands are few and all in the upper lots or along the coast. The last fortress they keep here is formidable, but its warden is a madman, hanging on by a hair, and the men left to him are animals. Seems to me, you are the next grand idea to shield the kingdom from the thicks. But other than your new neighbors, the Unyars, frails have never fared well in Ul-wundulas, and they have a god on their side.”
“How do you know we do not?”
Fetch held out a hand. “Spare me any preaching. If you’ve come here with a mind to convert the backward mongrels to some twisted, haughty beliefs, save your breath. It’s been tried. Half-orcs don’t suffer gods, yours or any others. We also won’t suffer you being the tip of some conquering spear. Hispartha has plans to retake the Lots. They come asking for you to lead the charge, best refuse. You don’t want to put yourself between the hoofs and our land.”
It was a damn bluff. From what she’d just seen on the ridge, the other chiefs would certainly fight hard to protect their own patches of ground, but working together in defense of the Lots entire, that was a fucking child’s jest.
Tarif was perplexed. “We are putting ourselves between the orcs and the Hisparthan monarchy. Just as you are.”
Fetch had to concentrate to keep her fists from clenching. “We are not here for any damn monarchy. Or king, caliph, emir, or any other fucking inbred with a crown. We are here because we carved this land out of the fists of the orcs and continue to keep their fingers from closing around it with the swords of our living and the bodies of our dead. You want to fight because you need a home. I understand. But you’re feeling grateful to Hispartha for allowing you to settle here, feel like you owe them. Wait until you’ve survived a famine or two, had your homes razed by centaurs, watched your men be slaughtered by a few marauding ulyud. Then you will feel like it’s Hispartha that owes you.” Fetch raised her chin at the serving girl. “You’ll find gratitude tough to conjure when you’ve endured your women being ravaged by thicks, the unfortunate survivors left to bear a half-breed. But you’ll see. If this is to be your new home, you’ll have to.”
Tarif’s wooden stare had calcified. “My wife would never live with such indignity. Nor would any Zahracene woman.”
A mocking breath blew from Fetch’s nostrils. “That’s what the Tines say. I’m living proof such vows don’t hold.”
Confusion brought Tarif’s eyebrows a little closer together, but he masked it quickly.
“Just remember what I’ve said,” Fetch told him, moving for the flaps.
“Wait.”
Fetch turned to find Tarif whispering in his wife’s ear. She replied with a single, soft word, and moved behind a partitioning drape. Curious, Fetch waited. It only took a moment for the woman to return, holding a long, thin case. Tarif rose and took this from her before approaching.
“I have a gift for you,” he said.
Fetching grew wary and it must have showed.
“From none but me,” Tarif assured her.
The case was made from a light wood, heavily carved with intricate depictions of strange animals. Balancing it on one forearm, Tarif opened the lid. Inside was a sheathed weapon. The blade was wide and triangular, tapering away from a strange hilt comprised of a pair of parallel arms running back from the blade. Between them were forged another set of metal bars forming a handle. Tarif gave an inviting nod. Fetch lifted the weapon out, finding a twin beneath. Gripping the handle, she drew the odd dagger, a smile forming at the weight and balance. The composition of the weapon when gripped caused the blade to extend directly away from the wielder’s knuckles, the flanking arms running along the forearm. Both sides of the blade were edged, effectively turning Fetch’s arm into a spear.
“Do you know of the Kingdom of Narasinga?” Tarif asked.
Fetching tore her eyes away from the weapon long enough to shake her head.
“It was once a grand empire, farther east even than Tyrkania. The weapon you hold, in their tongue, was called katara. Among the warriors of Narasinga, the truest test of skill and bravery was to slay a tiger with only a pair of these blades.”
“Was?”
Tarif nodded, a look of regret affecting his immutable face. “After the fall of the Imperium, my people continued to fight the wars of other masters. When the sultans that would one day form Tyrkania began to subjugate all lands east of the Deluged Sea, the Zahracenes joined their armies. Soon, their invasion eastward brought them to the Kingdom of Narasinga. The war between them was long, ebbing and flowing over generations. Narasinga was destroyed, though that was the last time the Zahracenes would ever serve Tyrkania.”
“Why give this to me?” Fetch asked, sheathing the katara.
“Because you came hunting the tiger, unarmed and alone. It seems only fitting that you have claws of your own.”
“Are you saying I am going to fight you one day?”
“I wish to make a gift of friendship,” Tarif replied. “But I will tell you truly, if Hispartha asks us to be enemies, I will not rebuke them. And if it comes to conflict between us, I will take the katara from you just as I did from the last warrior of Narasinga.”
The earnest stare of the Zahracene was difficult to stand, but Fetch did not look away. Instead, she smiled and placed the dagger back into the case, snapping the lid closed.
“You should not worry over Hispartha asking us to be enemies,” she said. “You should consider what your answer will be when the wizard returns and demands your people make war on Hispartha. Because he will, Tarif Abu Nusar, certain as sunrise. Where will your loyalty lie then? With the frails that offered you land on which to live? Or the mongrel that told you where to find it?”
“The wizard saved my life,” Tarif answered without pause. “Honor forbids me to deny him.”
“Then the Zahracenes will serve Tyrkania once again, for Crafty is their instrument.”
“Then I can only pray you are wrong.”
“Luck with that,” Fetch said. She pushed the case toward him. “I already took about two bushels of that fucking good fruit from your trees. Rather have that if you’re in a giving mood.”
“Have both,” Tarif said, managing a slight smile himself and placing the case in her arms. “The kataras as a gift, the bounty of the nāranj as payment for the wise advice of one who knows these lands.”
Fetching took the gift with a surrendering smile, and Tarif returned to his place on the carpets. Instead of leaving, Fetch stepped forward and retrieved her cup from the table, drinking the contents down. The tea was now cold, but sweet. She raised the empty cup in salute.
“Welcome to the Lot Lands, Tarif Abu Nusar of the Zahracenes.”
The man nodded in acceptance. The woman was clearing the table and Tarif gently caught her hand, placing a kiss upon it as he tenderly pulled her down to sit with him upon the cushions.
Fetch stopped once more at the flap, turned.
“Oh, and if I find out you were lying to me—if Crafty is here and you’re protecting him—I will come back to return these fancy daggers to you. Blade first.”
SEVENTEEN
AN ACOLYTE CAME to the hut and spoke with Fetching’s wrinkled hosts. The Unyar tongue passed between them in an incomprehensible report before the halfling told Fetching directly that the Hero Father would soon arrive. The Unyars returned to their serene preparations as soon as the acolyte was gone.
“I don’t know that Zirko will stoop to speaking orcish,” Fetch told Kul’huun.
Squatting across the fire pit, the Fangs’ chief ignored the old man offering him tea until he went away. “He has always respected our ways. He knows our hatred of Dhar’gest matches his own.”
Mead shifted, his curiosity taking hold. “Why do you emulate the orcs if you ha
te them so much?”
Fetch, like Mead, had a bemused understanding of the beliefs that drove the Fangs of Our Fathers, but it was obvious he could not pass up the chance to delve a little deeper. Kul’huun was so silent, so still, for so long Fetch thought he was treating the question like the tea. An annoyance not to be humored. At last, the guttural language of the orcs passed through the woodsmoke.
“You wear your hair as an elf.”
It wasn’t a question or an accusation. Fetch wasn’t certain it was an answer either. Neither was Mead.
“I respect them,” he said.
“You love them,” Kul’huun grunted, forced to speak Hisparthan because orcs had no word for love.
Mead cleared his throat. “I don’t know that I understand them enough for that.”
“It is the ignorance that allows your love. You fill the holes in your understanding with this affection.”
“There’s much about the orcs I don’t know, but I have no love for them,” Mead countered.
Kul’huun leaned forward. He spoke orcish once more. “Do you hate the orc that took your hand, Elf Hair?”
Mead’s good hand slid to cradle his stump. “Yes.”
“Do you hate him so much that if you could replace your lost hand with his, you would refuse?”
It was Mead who took a long time to answer now. “No. I would not refuse.”
Kul’huun’s eyelids flared. “The Fangs of Our Fathers seek to understand the orc. We use his ways in place of our own to strengthen us and we do not fill the holes in our knowledge. We leave them empty. To fill them as you have with the elves breeds respect; that is the foolish way of the Orc Stains. The Fangs do not hold the orc above us, we keep him close beside us so that we may continue to see the vicious beast he is. Close, so that we can put that beast down.”
Mead held Kul’huun’s gaze and answered the best way he could in a tongue with no expressions of gratitude. “Your words are strong.”
The hut brightened as the flaps were pulled wide by the old couple, bowing deeply as they invited sunlight and Zirko into their home. The Hero Father spoke to the overjoyed, genuflecting ancients. He took one of the wife’s hands between his own and whatever he said sent tears running through the wrinkles of her face. Zirko was shown to their fire and, once he was seated on their best sheepskin, the Unyars placed a small feast before him then humbly absented the hut.
The True Bastards Page 21
