The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  Bare. Hands.

  Weakening, groping, she searched. Found. Nothing to do but keep killing these fucks with their own knives. The angry face became confused, appalled, when the dagger blade plunged behind its ear. The throttling hands went slack and Fetch kicked the body away.

  Wheezing, she looked into the room through a jumble of legs.

  The pair of Stains who rushed Mead had pushed him back through the doorway, the narrow jamb preventing him from being surrounded, but neither could he win back into the room, his sword a hindrance in the close confines. One thrice fended him off, while the other pushed the door closed. Sluggard struggled, but was quickly overpowered, injured as he was. The thrice smashed its forehead into his face, dropped him with a pair of ruthless punches. The one gut-stabbed by Fetch’s thrown dagger stumbled to his feet, cradling his leaking belly.

  She tried to yell out, tried to stop the folly before any more died, but was trammeled with coughs. The sound drew Knob’s attention.

  Turning slowly, he towered above, taking a step.

  Another.

  Between them, on the floor next to the wall, was Fetch’s sword belt. Following her bleary gaze, Knob grinned. A step forward, he would be upon her. A step left, he would reach her weapons. Fetch could hear Mead screaming her name, the sound of resounding steel as he tried to chop through the door.

  “Walk away from this,” Fetch managed, her voice ragged. “You got one dead, one dying, and one that will never ride again. I’ll call that settled after this shit.”

  “You think these boys are all I brought? The rest of my hoof will soon be inside your walls, slut. You sure you want to settle the tally before knowing how many of your own are dead?”

  Fetch went cold. From outside, she could hear the sounds of the village responding to the fire. The shouts were coming from the north end. Farthest from the gate. Her dismay must have shown upon her face, for Knob’s grin broadened.

  Fetch hardened her stare. “Stop dancing between me and the sword and make a fucking choice!”

  Showing his teeth, Knob went for the weapons.

  Fetch dove, confident she would be swifter, but one leg was snatched by the Stain with the broken knee. He could not hold her, but the stall was enough. Knob yanked the sword belt from the ground, tearing the tulwar from its scabbard. Fetch was belly-down at his feet, hand still outstretched over a vanished prize.

  Knob gloated. “I wager you would eagerly take my cock now, rather than die. Rather than watch your boys die.”

  There was nothing for it. She was armed with only a knife, trapped in a room with four hale thrice-bloods, while outside her people were unknowingly under siege.

  I’ll make them stupid. You make them corpses.

  Cissy’s words.

  Slowly, Fetch nodded.

  Getting up on her hands and knees, she turned in place. She could feel Knob’s eyes crawl across her unclad back.

  “Toss the blade.”

  Fetch sent it sliding across the floor. Looking over her shoulder, she watched Knob hand the tulwar over to one of his mongrels.

  Hating herself, hoping Sluggard would forgive her, in this world or in the hells, she made a choice.

  “Mead! Fall back!”

  Springing forward onto the balcony, she vaulted the railing. The quick drop sent a lurch through her stomach, but she landed well, rolling. Above, Knob rushed out onto the balcony, loading Fetch’s stockbow.

  She darted beneath the overhang, nearly colliding with Mead as he stumbled out the door of her solar. A quick glance showed two Stains rushing down the stairs after him.

  Fetch and Mead ran for the hoof barracks, slamming the door behind and dropping the bar.

  Inside, all the bunks were empty, the place turned out to fight the fire.

  “My thrum’s on the hook,” Mead hissed. Fetch got the weapon and a full quiver before hurrying to Oats’s chest. She snatched out a shirt and threw it on, the large garment nearly falling to her knees. Culprit had left his sword belt behind, so Fetch claimed it, hoping she would get the chance to berate the new rider. Realizing finding boots was a fool-ass dream, she returned to the door, where Mead stood on guard, peering out the squint.

  “They didn’t pursue,” he said. His stump was pressed to his side. Fetch cursed when she saw the blood. “Stuck me on the way out” was Mead’s only response, not relinquishing his vigil. “What do you want to do?”

  “Rally the hoof. Kill every thrice-blood within the walls that isn’t Oats.”

  “Or Incus.”

  “Right.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I need to know about that wound, Mead.”

  “It didn’t take off a hand, so I’ve suffered worse.”

  “Mead…”

  “Why do you think they didn’t follow?”

  Going over to the nearest bunk, Fetch tore a strip from a blanket and began bandaging Mead’s side.

  She answered his question while she worked. “I’m not raped and dead, so that fire was set too early. Knob had a plan, but it’s gone sloppy. He’s regrouping.”

  “Doesn’t want to spread his boys too thin,” Mead agreed, grunting as the bandage tightened.

  Or Knob was taking his anger out on the mongrel she left behind. Fetch pushed the thought away.

  “Don’t reckon the Stains are second-guessing,” Mead said, his tone snide. “Taking the chance to get away?”

  There was no need to reply.

  Knob was never going to abandon this raid. The Orc Stains had just embarked on something never before known in the Lots. They had just waged war on another mongrel hoof. There was no coming back from that, despite Fetch’s offer of pardon.

  Tonight, another of the half-orc hoofs would join the Rutters in ruin. Fetch had to make sure it was not the True Bastards.

  “Where was the fire set?” she asked.

  “One of the boarded-up houses,” Mead told her. “Between the hog pens and the mason’s shop.”

  Northwest side of the village. Across town from the well.

  “That means we have at least one more Stain inside our walls. Shed Snake had the last gate watch?”

  Mead nodded.

  The brother leading the gate guard was not to leave for any reason. Fires were always suspected to be a diversion, so the slops on sentry duty were taught to hurry for the gate, leaving one in four to patrol the walls at double pace. That gave Snake a force of twelve slopheads. Knob would be hard-pressed to take it. He would also need more weapons than daggers, unless his thrice-blood pride made him arrogant enough to attempt it without swords and thrums. He didn’t know Winsome, wouldn’t know where they stored their arms…

  “Fuck!”

  “What?”

  “They knew where I slept. No chance they searched all of Winsome looking for me without being spotted.”

  “They came right to you,” Mead realized. “How?”

  Fetch shook her head. “They likely know our watches. Know how we respond to a fire. They’re not coming in through the gate….”

  “Then where?”

  “Same as the rest, over the walls. Only other way. We need to move.”

  “Lead on.”

  Slipping out the door, Fetch moved swiftly along the wall of the bunkhouse, away from her solar, making sure to keep well out of sight of the balcony. They went around to the north side of the dormitory, winding their way behind the neighboring buildings, using them for cover before darting across the main thoroughfare.

  They passed village men rushing to and from the well. Fetch ignored them. Reaching the house, they found it fully ablaze. Polecat and Oats were in the face of it, battling with buckets passed down the chain. Culprit came running up from behind with two sloshing pails, but he slowed when he saw Fetching.

  “I don’t think we ca
n put it out, chief,” he said.

  “Drop those!” Fetch demanded. “Doesn’t matter. TRUE BASTARDS!”

  Her roar eclipsed that of the inferno.

  Looking up, Polecat and Oats abandoned their efforts, running over, both sweating and squinting from the flames. Still, they noticed her appearance.

  “The hells?” Polecat said.

  “Weapons and mounts,” Fetch ordered. “The Orc Stains are here to end us.”

  Oats growled and ran for the hog pens.

  Polecat was bewildered. “The Stains? The fuck? Why?”

  “No time!” Fetch barked. “Straddle your damn razor!”

  Shaking off the confusion, Polecat nodded and ran after Oats. Fetch caught Culprit by the arm.

  “Where is Hood?”

  “He was running buckets. Thought he was right behind me.”

  “Go,” Fetch said, removing the sword belt from her waist with one hand and throwing it at the new rider. “And take your fucking slicer this time!”

  Fetch looked at Mead. “I know Hood. He smelled something. The Stains are about to make a move.”

  “I best saddle my hog.”

  “No. I need you up on the wall. Tell the sentries to watch for scalers. Get to the gate if you can, tell Snake what has happened.”

  Fetch was concerned about the hole in Mead’s side. The bandage was already soaked through. She wanted him where he would be safest. He made for the nearest palisade stairs, not far from the house, while she headed for the stables.

  Oats already had Ugfuck saddled and was working on Womb Broom. Polecat was seconds from finished with his hog. Culprit was only a little behind, nervous but keeping his head.

  “We need to hurry,” Fetch told her hoof, taking over tacking her hog. “There are at least seven Stains inside already, including their master. Two of them are wounded, likely still holed up in my solar. They may have Sluggard held there too.” This drew a quick look from Polecat and a noticeable stillness from Oats. “Likely, he’s dead, but keep an eye. The other Stains will be coming. It’s possible they know all about how we work. Knob might make a move for the chandler’s cellar.”

  “For our weapons stores?” Polecat said, climbing into the saddle. “Chief, there’s nothing there. We took everything out and loaded it up for tomorrow.”

  Fetch had forgotten. The town was set to empty at dawn. The supplies, food and weapons, such as they were, were already on the wagons sitting near the gate. It was a piece of luck Fetch was willing to accept.

  “We’re going for the chandler’s. If Knob doesn’t know we stripped the weapons, we may be able to catch him there with his breeches around his ankles. Let’s ride.”

  As they spurred out of the paddock, Polecat drew alongside.

  “Chief. What the Stains are doing ain’t right.”

  “I know, Cat. We will make them pay.”

  “No, listen. Sneaking around, setting fires, pilfering weapons. Sound like a bunch of thrice-bloods to you? They respect strength. Their own. This just doesn’t…it ain’t right.”

  Fetch slowed her hog. Polecat was right. Thrice-bloods were more orc than man. They were more savage, more bloodthirsty, this was known across the Lots. Were it not for Beryl, Oats would likely be little different, and he was still frightening when provoked. The Orc Stains did not fear the True Bastards. Knob did not fear her. Skulking into her bedchamber had been a need to punish her, to catch her unawares and make her feel helpless. She was not a threat, just something to be tamed. As for the rest of the hoof, they were lesser in the eyes of the Orc Stains, mere half-orcs, little better than frails. They would not avoid a direct fight, nor see a need to separate their enemy before striking.

  The burning house raged, just ahead to the right.

  “It’s not a distraction,” Fetch realized. “It’s a fucking beacon.”

  One of the sentries began screaming. Sence. He was up on the palisade, just beyond the blaze, the intervening smoke and flickering heat turning him into a phantom. Another slophead came running, alerted by the call, as did Mead, both pounding along the wall walk from opposite directions. Still yelling, Sence cast his spear over the wall. The next instant, he reeled and fell to the walk, smote by something Fetch had not seen.

  Giving Womb Broom a kick, pulling him to the right, she led the riders toward the wall.

  Above, Mead reached Sence’s side, looked over the palisade and, quickly raising his tulwar, began chopping between the stakes. The other sentry, Graviel, arrived. He pulled his arm back to cast his spear and was dropped. This time, Fetch saw the thrumbolt strike, taking the poor slop through the throat.

  As she, Culprit, Polecat, and Oats skirted the edge of the burning building, a creaking groan sounded from the wall, loud enough to be heard over the holler of the flames. They were about to dismount, rush for the stairs when Mead looked down, eyes wide, and held his stump out to them in warning.

  The wall lurched beneath him, timbers bending. A wide section of the stockade began to splay, the wood complaining. The planking coming apart beneath his feet, Mead fell back upon the sloping, creaking spars.

  Polecat screamed his name.

  Dazed and desperate, Mead tried to find his feet, but the beams at his back snapped in half, flinging splinters as large as hog tusks. Womb Broom squealed and reared. Fetch threw a warding arm across her face, shielding herself from the flying shards, but refused to look away, crying out with wordless, impotent grief as Mead pitched over the collapsing wall and toppled backward into the night.

  The brutalized remains of the wall were dragged away, leaving a broken tooth in the mouth of Winsome’s defenses. Through the ragged gap, revealed in the light from the house fire, were the Orc Stains. Afoot and arrayed in two lines, a dozen thrice-bloods still gripped the thick ropes they had used to rend the stockade in a terrifying display of raw power. Another four rushed between the rope lines, bearing a makeshift bridge.

  “Bring them down!” Fetch yelled.

  The Bastards let fly, but only one of the Stains fell. The remaining three planted the bridge on the far side of the ditch, heaved it forward to lean against the pile of fallen beams, creating a ramp. As soon as it was in place, the bearers scattered.

  Hogs came charging out of the darkness.

  Two surged across the ramp abreast, another three pair right behind. Though saddled, they bore no riders.

  Culprit loosed at one of the lead hogs but failed to bring it down. The seasoned Bastards saved their bolts, knowing they could not stop a column of barbarians at full gallop. With no other choice, the riders scattered, allowing the eight swine to barrel through the gap. The scent of their masters in their snouts, the riderless hogs passed them by and ran into the heart of the town, a delivery of mounts and weapons for the raiders already inside.

  “We are about to have mounted Stains riding up our asses!” Fetch called out.

  “Gonna be some in our teeth soon too!” Oats declared.

  Thrumbolts were already whistling through the gap in the wall, preventing the Bastards from taking up the defense, giving the Stains time to mount and gather for the charge.

  “We don’t have the numbers to hold that hole for long,” Polecat said.

  For the second hated time, Fetch gave the order to fall back.

  Yanking Womb around, she led her boys in flight, away from the breach.

  “Ride for the gate!”

  If they could reach Shed Snake and the slop garrison, make a stand, maybe there was a chance.

  Galloping down the center of town, they found Knob and four riders arrayed against them, charging. Thrumbolts were loosed from both sides. Fetch’s shot spilled one thrice from his mount, a bolt in his chest. To her right, Polecat grunted but kept his seat. Culprit’s hog squealed as it was struck. Trying to flee the pain, the barbarian lurched away, leaving a hole in the Bastar
ds’ line.

  There was no time for another volley. Swords were drawn.

  Her tulwar gone, Fetching drew a javelin from the saddle brace. Oats pulled ahead at the last moment, turning Ugfuck’s bulk into the tip of the Bastards’ spear. But the Stains’ mounts were far from runts and they refused to break.

  The barbarians met in a chorus of enraged squeals.

  Oats sent his tulwar for Knob’s head, but the chief turned the blow with his own blade. The mongrel on Oats’s left sought retribution, but before his sword could descend Ugfuck jerked his head and plowed a tusk into the side of the other barbarian, sending it careening away. Seeing the opening, Fetching veered and thrust with her javelin. The Stains must not have had time to don their brigands. The javelin sank deep into the rider’s exposed body, just beneath the rib. Snarling in pain, the thrice chopped the transfixing shaft in two.

  And then Womb Broom galloped through the bloody press. Oats was ahead and pulled Ug around, though the gate was little more than a thrumshot away.

  “We’re not whole!” he declared.

  Fetching turned in the saddle. Polecat was on foot, a thrumbolt in his thigh, his hog down and kicking, entrails spilled from a goring. Farther away, Culprit was still mounted, but slumped over his barbarian’s neck. The injured animal had wandered near a house and come to a halt. The Orc Stains had ridden past, but were now turning for another charge. Behind them, the rest of their hoof appeared, a mass of blood-hungry mongrels astride snorting pigs.

  “Forget her!” Fetch screamed, seeing Polecat begin stumbling toward his fallen sow. “She’s done!”

  Casting about, Polecat saw Culprit’s hog and went back, as fast as his limp would allow. He leapt up behind, holding the younger brother in the saddle and taking control of his hog. Fetch and Oats both loosed bolts at the Orc Stains, trying to give Cat more time.