The answering bolts came in a swarm.
Fetch’s arm was grazed by a barbed head, another sank into her saddle, and Ugfuck squealed and shied as he was struck in the face, his thick skull deflecting the shaft. Culprit’s mount screamed again, a bolt sprouting from its flank just as Polecat was punched forward, hit in the back. But he kept Culprit and himself upright, pushing the hog through its pain to greater speed. When he reached Fetch and Oats, a thrumbolt piercing his shoulder blade, they all rode hard for the gate, where the garrison stood shouting encouragement. Bolts flew overhead as Shed Snake and the half dozen slops with stockbows pulled their ticklers. They launched two volleys at the Stains before Fetch and her riders reached the gate.
“They’re scattering!” Shed Snake called down.
Turning, Fetch saw the Orc Stains’ column split down the middle, taking cover behind the surrounding buildings.
Knob may not have feared a fight, but he was no fool. Rushing the gate, where foes on higher ground bristled with spears, was inviting the death of his hoof.
“How many?” Fetch asked Snake.
“Counted near twenty, chief.”
“Twenty-two,” Dacia amended. “At least.”
Only two Stains lay unmoving in the thoroughfare, one Fetch had put down herself. Damn thrice-bloods were nearly as hard to kill as thicks. Of course, the same could be said for her own. Polecat had two bolts sticking out of him, but he still helped a pair of slopheads ease Culprit down from his hog. The young mongrel had taken a blow to the head, but was breathing, moaning.
“Get him up on the wall,” Fetch ordered, “but give me his damn sword. You too, Polecat.”
The hatchet-faced mongrel shook his head, slapped his saddle. “Aim to fulfill my creed.”
Fetch did not argue. Not even a chief was bigger than the oath.
“Shed Snake, mount up.”
Snake came down from the palisade and untied his hog from the hitching post near the gate.
Bolts began flying in from a few dismounted Stains leaning around corners to loose. A slophead on the palisade cried out and fell to the planks.
“Drop!” Fetch called out.
The garrison went to their bellies. Their vantage was useful, but it also made them easy targets.
Slinging his stockbow, Oats dismounted. “Cover my hide.”
He hurried to the closest supply wagon, squatted, and took hold of the tongue. Taking his lead, Incus rushed to another. Fetch ordered a volley to keep the Stains tucked away while her thrice-bloods hauled the laden wagons across the mouth of the gate, giving the riders some protection.
The wooden frames drummed as they were struck.
Fetch looked at her riders. “Here is what we—”
“Chief!”
Up on the palisade, Touro was half-raised, pointing.
The Bastards looked out from the wagons.
Fetch’s heart dropped into a queasy gut.
Knob and the Orc Stains led the orphans out into the open, thrums trained.
“Craven fucks!” Oats exclaimed.
Fetch had to grab his arm to keep him from spurring Ugfuck out from cover.
“Where are you, cunt?!” Knob shouted. “Let me see you!”
The look Fetch gave her hoof said all that needed saying.
Riding out from behind the wagon, hands empty, arms spread, Fetch began moving forward.
“Off the razor!” Knob commanded.
Fetch did as she was told. “Release the children.”
“Once I have you.”
“You have me,” Fetch said, walking steadily. “Let them go.”
Beyond Knob, his boys held Thistle. Her mouth was bloodied, but she was still struggling, screaming and pleading. There was no sign of Sweeps or the three infants, just the children who could walk.
That put a dread in Fetching she had never known. Her eyes shot to Thistle and the woman gave the barest shake of her head.
Fetch stopped halfway between the gate and the Stains.
“I’m here. Let them cross over to my hoof.”
Knob ignored her, pitched his voice over her head. “Listen well, Bastards! I could kill every damn one of you. I will kill every damn one of you, if you force it! But I just want this slattern here. The runts and their minders are yours, so long as you stay put. Forget this hussy, choose a proper leader, become worthy of being called a hoof again. Do anything else, and the vultures will break their fast on everyone in this village come dawn!”
The Stains shoved the weeping children forward, but most of them were too afraid to move.
“Go on, now,” Fetch told them. “Go climb the mountain. Go to Oats.”
She turned and gestured. He could not have heard her, but she knew him well. Oats was already standing in the open, a harbor of safety for the foundlings.
That got a few of the older ones going, taking the hands of their quailing fellows. Once the children were past Fetching, the Stains released Thistle. She hurried after the orphans, weaving a bit. She mouthed something to Fetch. Beryl? Once she and the foundlings were all behind the wagon, Fetch walked the rest of the way.
The Orc Stains ringed her with their hogs. Knob shouted a final warning at the Bastards to stay put as his boys led Fetch away.
The houses were dark and silent, but she could sense the frightened eyes of the villagers watching the procession from hiding.
Knob rode up beside her, gazed down.
“You are not going to honor your word,” Fetch said, keeping her eyes ahead.
There was triumph in the thrice’s reply. “I am. I am going to bring you outside the walls and fuck you bloody. Then I will give you to my boys. All that they do will be in sight of your hoof. The acts they commit, your bewitched brethren will not be able to endure. They will come for you, I have no doubt. And then it will be they who break the agreement.”
They were nearing the abandoned north end. The burning house had spread its destruction to the mason’s hall, the breach in the wall hidden by the growing flames.
Fetch halted, turned to look up at Knob.
“Your boys may end up having their way with me, but not you. You’re about to die.”
Knob laughed. “Should I get down from my hog? Would that make it simpler for you to kill me?”
“I have no need to kill you myself, Knob. I’m master of a hoof. I can simply give an order and you die.”
Knob’s smile became a grimace. “You are no—”
“Hood!”
A thrumbolt came hissing in from above, sinking to the fletching between Knob’s neck and shoulder, angled perfectly to find his heart.
The chief of the Orc Stains keeled from the saddle.
No one, not even Fetching, saw where the shot came from. She had trusted to faith that the pallid killer was creeping about nearby, waiting for a chance.
They won’t see me. Neither will you.
Spitting curses, the Orc Stains trained their stockbows on the surrounding rooftops, sweeping, searching, but Hoodwink had already melted away from whatever perch he used to slay their leader.
Freeing the tulwar from Knob’s corpse, Fetching tried to mount his shying hog. Some barbarians would suffer an unfamiliar rider. Others would try to kill any who dared.
Knob’s hog was a killer.
As the animal twisted to seek vengeance, Fetch scrambled away and darted at the Stains to the rear. One had his stockbow leveled at her, about to loose. A bolt whistled into his eye.
This time Hoodwink allowed himself to be seen, giving the Stains another target. He was up on the roof of the house hemming them to the right, staying long enough for them to pull their ticklers. By the time the bolts shattered the tiles, he was gone.
Only one Stain remained focused on Fetching. Snarling, the thrice drew his blade, but his wra
th was stilled by a sound he did not recognize.
Fetch did.
It was the laughter of dogs.
TWENTY-SIX
THE PACK PADDED AROUND the burning homes. Their measured pace was not born from caution but from relish. They were inside. And voicing their amusement.
The Orc Stains turned at the queer laughter, looking puzzled as the hyenas gathered. A score of the beasts materialized from beyond the flames, born in the darkness, revealed in the scorching light. Their squat muzzles grinned at the end of those thick necks, those hunched backs.
The laughter had snared Fetch’s legs. Horror got them moving again.
She bolted, diving between a gap in the Stains’ stamping hogs, winning free of the circle.
Behind her, the pack whooped and the thrice-bloods cursed, more annoyed than alarmed. Bowstrings thrummed. The curses gave way to wordless exclamations, swiftly followed by the squeals of savaged hogs and the disbelieving screams of their riders.
Fetch kept running. Did not look back.
Any moment, she expected to be dragged down by a slavering maw, but she kept her legs pumping. When she reached the lower end of the village, still alive, she lifted her voice at the houses.
“Out! Get out! To the gate! The gate!”
A door opened a crack, the hint of a frightened face beyond.
“You have to flee!” Fetch screamed. “Death is here! Out! Bring your families, leave everything! To the gate!”
A man emerged from a house up the way, ushering his wife and child. Those three frightened forms brought the rest from hiding in a tide.
“Go!” Fetch encouraged, waving the folk. “The hoof is at the gate! Go!”
Hoodwink emerged from an alley and came to her side. His stockbow was loaded, aimed back the way Fetching had come. A hog appeared, spooked and bloody, eyes rolling white. There was no rider. Seeing Fetch and Hood, it turned and trotted between two buildings, fearing all it saw.
“Let’s get to the gate,” Fetching said.
Together, they caught up with the villagers and stayed at the rear of the group, watching for the pack.
The Bastards saw them coming. Shed Snake rode forward, the relief on his face quickly banished when told about the dogs.
“Open the gate!” Fetch commanded. “We need to get our people away from here.”
“Never make it on foot,” Hood said.
Fetch ran to one of the wagons and began throwing the supplies out, precious foodstuffs cast to the dirt. She waved a woman and her daughter over, picked the little girl up, and placed her in the bed.
The True Bastards, sworn brothers and slopheads, jumped to follow her example. The food and weapons were dumped, replaced with the young and old. While they were helping the people climb into the beds, Thistle hurried over, grabbing Fetch’s arm with such force, her nails drew blood.
“We can’t leave,” she said, her voice tremulous. “Oats isn’t back.”
Fetch wrangled Thistle’s clawing hands and looked around. She spied Ugfuck, but Oats was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”
“We hid the babes,” the woman exclaimed, stricken beyond the point of tears. “You can’t leave. We hid them! Before the thrice-bloods kicked the door in, we managed to hide them. Xhreka was the only one small enough…”
“Small enough for where?” Fetching pressed.
“The rain barrel! In the rear garden. There was no time. It was half full. They were smashing in almost before we could place the cover. Sweeps tried to stall them. They hit her! Fetch…she was so still, but her eyes were still open. Oh, hells!”
“Thistle—”
“I told Oats! He went. To get them. We can’t leave!”
“We will get them, Thistle, but you have to get in the wagon.”
Thistle shook her head, protests forming only as a humming moan.
“Thistle, look at me! We. Will. Get. Them.”
The woman calmed enough for her voice to return. “Please.”
Fetch took hold of her face, steadying the frantic nods, and helped her up into the wagon.
Shed Snake came to Fetch’s side. “The wainwright fled without his team, so one wagon will have to stay. And most of the hogs are still in the pens. We don’t have enough mounts for the slops. How are we going to protect—”
“There is no protection from these things!” Fetch hissed. “All we can do is run.”
She barked orders at the slopheads and they began hitching the animals. While they worked, Fetch gathered the hoof, save for Culprit, who was still unconscious.
“Head for Batayat Hill,” she told them. “It’s close enough that you might make it.”
Polecat was pale from blood loss. “And what are you about to do?”
“Find Oats and the babes. Mead and Sluggard too.”
“You’re not going alone,” Shed Snake declared.
“She’s not,” Hoodwink said. “My hog is in the pen. I will not leave him.”
The pale mongrel’s dead stare left no room for argument.
Fetch swept what was left of her hoof with a pointed stare. “Batayat Hill. We will meet you. Live in the saddle.”
The response came in quiet unison. “Die on the hog.”
“Go.”
The gate was thrown open and the True Bastards took the people of Winsome out into the night.
Fetch and Hoodwink exchanged a small nod.
“First to the orphanage,” she said.
“Save that for last,” Hood intoned. “The babes are either safe with Oats or dead. If we are to find Mead and Sluggard, and retrieve the hogs, we should not be burdened with infants. They will get us killed. If we die, they die.”
It was likely the most Fetch had ever heard Hoodwink say at one time, and each word held the cold, pitiless reasoning that only he could conjure.
But he wasn’t wrong.
“My solar, then.”
“Best use the wall.”
There were no stairs built near the gate, a design of Mead’s to make it harder for an enemy to assault from within. Going to the ladders, Fetch and Hood climbed to the palisade, heading east along the walk until the wall curved northward. It was not the swiftest path to Fetch’s solar, but it was safer from the dogs. Hoodwink led, stockbow pressed to his shoulder, she a few paces behind, tulwar drawn.
Below them, the remaining Orc Stains were scattered throughout Winsome, fighting to survive. Fetch and Hood saw one rider making a dash for the gate, but the surging forms of three hyenas ran his hog down. Farther on, another pair of Stains crept on foot, moving from shadow to shadow between the buildings. Both were bleeding from bite wounds and only one still retained a loaded stockbow.
Hood shot that one first, felling the thrice before he noticed they were above.
The other ran, ducking around a house, but a dog’s chortle sounded and the Stain cried out. Both sounds were cut short, replaced by the wet gnashing of powerful jaws tearing flesh. Fetch hissed at Hood and they moved swiftly on.
Soon, they came to the back of the grovers’ dormitory, a large building within a stone’s throw of the wall. The foreman’s house that Fetch had claimed was just beyond, its second story sticking up above the lower sprawl of the workers’ quarters. There was nothing living in sight, though the body of a Stain lay facedown upon its own trailing guts. Fetch motioned for Hood to cover her and lowered herself over the edge of the walkway, hung for a moment, and dropped down. Staying beneath the palisade, she listened. There were no sounds, but that was far from reassuring. She sprinted for the rear of the dormitory, placed her back against the mudbrick, and looked to Hood. He signaled she was clear.
Without a sword belt, she was forced to hold the tulwar in her teeth to make the climb, the heavy blade straining her jaw. Thankfully, the building was squat, the roof flat, so a spring brough
t her hands to the edge. From there, she pulled herself up.
Hoodwink followed and soon they both crouched atop the dormitory, staying low as they moved for the far end, where the rear of Fetch’s solar was close enough to touch. Another jump and a haul of the arms brought them atop the angled tiles. They moved to the peak and down the other side. The thrust of the balcony was below.
Fetch dropped down, noiseless, on her bare feet. Her guts soured.
Sluggard sat slumped against the wall, chin on his chest, head glistening. The Orc Stains had scalped him. Coming around the bed, the bed they had so recently shared, Fetch stepped in a sticky pool. There was no way to avoid the blood. It blanketed the floorboards.
Fetch tried to curse, but only managed a choked sound.
Sluggard’s hair was not the only thing the Stains had cut from his body. But the gelding wasn’t the worst of it.
He was still breathing.
Fetch knelt by his side. She reached for him, but her hands only hung uncertainly, moving for his face, withdrawing, his hand, pulling away. Guilt forbade her to touch him. Yet he must have known she was there, for his eyes opened, the lids fluttering with delirium. His hand snapped up, grabbed her wrist, breaking the barrier. His voice was weak, almost as weak as his grip.
“Sh-should never…have…come here.”
Fetch did not know if he meant her or himself. Did not know where upon the path his regret was aimed. Ul-wundulas. Winsome. Her bed. He could have meant any of them. Or all. He should have stayed away from them all.
Sluggard’s fingers slipped from her arm, his gory head lolling back against the wall. He was barely conscious, mouth moving feebly with airy ravings.
Hoodwink’s voice drifted over her shoulder. “I can make it quick.”
Fetch’s eyes closed. She felt sickened as she stood. Without looking she reached back to Hoodwink. He placed his stockbow in her hands and went back to the balcony.
She aimed from the hip, straight at Sluggard’s heart.
Her finger tensed on the tickler.
Hoodwink gave a sharp hiss.
The True Bastards Page 35
