“A question,” she said slowly. “Where will I go?”
She stared at the arrowhead, down the shaft to the hand, and finally to the eye. None wavered.
“To see if you may stay,” the elf said.
Fetch nodded and took a step back, but the elf remained taut as his bowstring.
“Tell the white one to step from the trees. I hear him there. Smell his ugly weapon.”
Fetch frowned, mind racing to decipher the words. “Hood?”
Movement to her left birthed Hoodwink from the brush, loaded stockbow in his hands. Hells, she had not seen him near the pond, had not known he was there.
With a liquid motion, the elf lowered his bow, relaxed the string. Turning once more, he departed.
Behind, Culprit let loose a breath. “Fucking hells.”
Fetch found Oats wearing a concerned frown. She gave him a nod.
Hoodwink glided over and joined them, dead eyes still fixed on the spot where the elf melted into the trees.
“Well,” Fetch told him, “I’ve had my piss. And you have your answer.”
“And your patience?” the cadaverous mongrel hissed.
Fetch gave him a genuine smile. “We got meat, we’re not wandering the badlands, and I ain’t dying until at least tomorrow. At the moment, Hood, my patience is as bottomless as I am.”
Oats and Culprit laughed as she slapped Hood on the arm and trudged back into the pond.
“Dacia! You and Incus, into the water and grab a girl! Time for the women to have a match!”
THIRTY-ONE
FETCH GATHERED THE TRUE BASTARDS before first light.
“I’m going up to speak with the Tines,” she began simply. “We came for protection. Seems we’ve got that. But whether it continues…well, that’s what will be decided. Either way, we need some answers.”
There were nods of agreement.
“Mead always said my elvish was so bad it would start a war,” she continued, drawing out a few chuckles. “So, there is a strong chance I will give offense. That happens, and I don’t come back, do not ride out of this pit with cods stiff for a reckoning. Hear me? Do. Not. I am going up alone as they said, and whatever happens will be on my head. You will not insist on coming with me, you will not attempt to shadow me. Hoodwink, you see where I am looking right now? If this does not work, you vote a new chief. My suggestion is Oats. Or anyone other than Polecat.” That drew more laughter. “Whoever it is needs to find a better way and succeed where I failed. Understood?”
Only Warbler and Culprit nodded.
Fetch glowered. “I need to hear I will be obeyed.”
There were morose noises of assent, though two still remained quiet.
“Hood?”
“You go alone,” he agreed after a slight pause. “No revenge.”
Fetch looked hard at the last tight-lipped holdout.
Oats was scowling. “Heard and obeyed, chief.”
“When do you think they’ll be here?” Shed Snake asked.
Fetch looked to the head of the steep trail.
“Right damn now.”
A pair of Tines came down into the gorge on foot with no light to guide their steps. Neither was the scout who brought the deer—and the summons—the day before, though they were identically armed. She went to meet them with no weapons save for the kataras, hoping the foreign blades would be viewed as less a threat than the familiar stockbow and tulwar. The elves made no move to take them from her, merely gestured for her to precede them in the climb out.
Well-fed rest had done Fetching good, making the trek up the trail a welcome exertion. Dawn broke along the way, the sky cloudless, the day building to hot. Eagles hunted in the blue expanse, circling the folded canyons of the Umbers that spread out before Fetching as she and the Tines progressed higher.
Reaching the top of the trail, they walked in the cool umbra of the surrounding scarps all morning. Fetch trudged along between her escorts. She was a stranger to these mountains, but her memory said they should have passed through the inhabited canyons with their walls of triangular caves long ago. Yet the cliff sides remained bare rock and there was sign of neither cultivation nor people. It was said that the canyons of Dog Fall were a riddle for which only the Tines knew the answer. Traversing its depths now, Fetch reckoned that was no child’s tale. The trails the elves took became wild and elusive, often branching.
They were ascending now, their path nothing but a sunbaked track of dust pinched by steep banks of loose rock. Ahead, a wide bluff cut the sky in half. Forced to single-file, the elves put Fetch in the center of the line as they made the climb.
“Hope you got your wrinkled rustskin elders tucked away up there,” Fetch muttered in Hisparthan as she strode up the punishing grade.
Her lead guide was not slowed, and pulled ahead. Fetch was still a stone’s throw from the top when the nimble Tine completed the ascent and stepped from sight.
“Must have had an overdue shit coming.”
Fetch made the jest in Hisparthan, but she still turned to smirk at the elf behind.
And found the path empty.
The nape of Fetch’s neck tingled. “Aw, hells…”
She dove to the side just as an arrow shattered where she’d been standing. The rocks hemming the path made for poor cover. Even belly-down, Fetch remained exposed to the ridgeline, and the next arrow sent a burning line of pain across her upper left arm as it grazed the flesh. She could not stay here. The face of the bluff was less than two dozen strides away. All uphill. Retreating down the path would leave her in range and vulnerable for far longer. Up, then. Her ambushers would have difficulty hitting her once she was directly beneath—and sheltered by—their rocky perch. If they wished to kill her, she would make them work for it.
Fetch darted forward, springing back to the path after two bounding strides. Arrows clacked and clattered all around, hissing by her ears. She felt the splinters from the snapping shafts sting through her breeches. She raced through a withering storm, knowing each step tempted an arrow in the heart, but fury kept her legs surging.
Diving for the bluff, she collided with the face, bashing hip and shoulder. Teeth gritted, she regained her balance, ran on, tight against the cliff. Voices came from above, shouts between the archers, directing one another, informing on her path. They were on the move, but so was she. The bluff was upon her left, a growing precipice to her right. Ahead was a fucking mystery.
An elf dropped from above, nearly landing atop her. He straightened, bow drawn and trained. Fetch did not slow. The elf loosed without hesitation, but Fetch was close enough to swat the arrow aside before it left the string. Drawing a katara with her other hand, she chopped across the lower curve of the bow, cleaving it in two. The Tine warrior jumped back, producing a hatchet. Fetch pressed the attack, launching a knee into his midriff, folding him up and exposing the back of his skull to her hammering elbow. She barely heard the other elf land behind her. Barely was enough. Spinning, she found this warrior farther removed than his cohort, taking aim. Fetch ducked, snatched the hatchet from the fallen elf’s hand, and flung it at the newcomer. He deflected the whirling ax with an impressive bowshot. But Fetch had rushed him as soon as the ax left her hand, eating the distance as he drew and nocked another arrow. They were damn fast, these point-ears, and the string sliced the air before Fetch was within reach. She twisted on the run and felt the arrowhead clip the muscle between her neck and shoulder as it flew past. Grunting against the biting pain she leapt at the Tine, flinging her shoulders back and leading with both feet. Her boots smote the elf’s chest and they both fell hard upon their shoulder blades. Bunching her knees swiftly, Fetch thrust her legs forward, back arching, and sprang to her feet.
The elf performed the same flip and they were again facing each other.
Katara poised, Fetch sent rapid, snakelike stri
kes at the Tine’s face to keep him off-balance. He danced back, an antler-handle knife appearing in his hand. Fetch kept coming and the blades scraped as he parried her thrusts.
Knife fights were delicate, perilous affairs that rewarded the patient. And Fetch had no time. The flights of arrows from the ridge were too numerous to be the work of only two elves. More would be coming, unless they’d gone for help. Either way, every moment Fetch spent fucking around with this one was a moment closer to him receiving aid.
One way to end a knife fight was not to fight.
Fetch sent a great, sweeping cut at the elf’s gut. He jumped back, as she’d hoped. Using the newly forged distance, Fetching spun around and ran, keeping her ears open. If she heard pursuing feet, the ruse had failed.
There was a sharp clatter—an antler-handled knife falling to the stones. Smiling, she turned sharply and jumped toward the face of the scarp. Seeing her flee, the elf had gone for the easy kill, dropping his knife to quickly load the bow that remained in his other hand. He was fast on the draw, but was caught off guard by her sudden change of direction. Fetch planted a foot onto the rock and vaulted off and away, twisting as she came down. The Tine spun, trying to bring his bow around in time. He nearly managed. The arrow sped beneath Fetch’s arm, the fletching hissing across her ribs. Punching downward, she sent the fist-blade sliding through the Tine’s forearm. He didn’t cry out the way most would, merely gave a clipped grunt. Landing, Fetch used her momentum to drag him to the ground and provided a balm for the pain by knocking him senseless with a boot heel.
Upon the trail, the dark line of the bluff’s shadow sprouted a silhouette. Allowing the katara to drop from her grip, Fetch rolled, grabbing the elf’s bow. An arrow bashed into the dirt she vacated. Upon her back now, looking up, she saw a Tine scout upon the ridge, another arrow already leaving his quiver. Rolling back, Fetch liberated an arrow from her defeated foe, nocked, held the bow crossways across her stomach, lifted it, and loosed.
The Tine cried out, the shaft slapping up into his armpit. He fell back, vanishing behind the lip of the ridge. It wasn’t an immediately fatal shot, but he was likely to bleed to death. Nothing for it now.
Fetch pilfered the fallen elf’s quiver, picked up the katara, sheathed it, and moved on.
An ambush. A fucking ambush! The Tines had given of their land, their food, all so they could try to murder her? A pang of dread for the hoof passed through Fetching, but reason would not allow it to take root. If the Tines wanted them all dead, they could have slaughtered them upon arrival. This was about her. Her alone. The offensive creature that dared live with their blood mixing with that of the orcs.
Hurrying along, she found the bluff broken by the threshold of a defile and entered. Unseen birds chirped within the sparse mountain trees. Otherwise, all was still. Fetch advanced with an arrow nocked, watchful and tense. The defile widened, becoming a cradle sheltered and watched over by the protective skirts of distant peaks. She walked through cultivated land. Small, pristine runs of persimmon trees bordered her path. Beyond, a dun wall of wheat, swaying languidly with the breeze. Any moment, she expected another attack, to see three-score Tine warriors emerge from the wheat, bows trained.
Who she met was the warrior from the falls.
N’keesos.
He stood between the trees, lacquered clubs spread low at his sides, blocking Fetch’s way. The stones within the clubs were angry with that pale-blue light.
Fetching raised her bow, drew the string to her ear. “I don’t want to—”
One of the clubs snapped upward, unleashing a sawing sound that buffeted the branches as it screamed between them. Fetch was struck by the reverberating wave, nearly lifted off her feet. The bow was torn from her grip. She gnashed rattled teeth, dug numbing toes into the dirt, and slid back a handspan but remained standing. The clubs were whirling now, producing a steady siege of sound. It kept coming, but so did Fetching.
She burrowed through the voice of the clubs, even as it burrowed into her bones, her guts. The pressure from the elf’s song threatened her with blackness, but she took another step. Another.
The clubs continued to release their sorcerous din, but its force could no longer contain her. Fetch broke through the wave, the release of tension sending her bursting forward. N’keesos snatched the clubs to stillness and leapt back, away from her bull rush, legs carrying him unnaturally far at great speed. His retreat birthed new rage in Fetching.
Bellowing, she jumped.
And slammed into the elf midair.
Air whipping at them, they grappled. The ground landed the first telling blow, breaking them apart. Fetch crashed and tumbled through a field of grain, a rolling, grunting thresher. Coming to a stop, she made it to one knee before the elf came charging through the stalks. He’d lost one club in the fall, the remaining coming down at the end of his arm, screaming shrilly as it hurtled for Fetch’s skull. She rolled forward, tangled the warrior’s legs with her own, twisted at the abdomen, and flung him down. Springing to her feet, she went for the kataras. An impact to the ribs sent her flying sideways before she could draw the blades. Wheat scratched her face as she careened through the field, burst through the edge. N’keesos had risen and struck so swiftly, the pain from the club did not announce itself until she slid to a stop on the ground. She saw him shoot up from among the wheat, rising high and descending in an arc.
Fetch hopped back as he landed, bare feet indenting the earth. She waded in, dodging the swinging club, caught the wrist of the wielding hand, went to put a knee into his guts, and found herself being thrown.
Fucker was fast. Strong. It wasn’t just the clubs.
Twisting, Fetch managed to land in a crouch and used the position to pounce, catching N’keesos around the waist, spearing him off his feet. She landed atop him and rammed her head up beneath his jaw. Scrambling to sit upon his chest, she pinned his throat with a knee, used the opposite foot to keep his weapon arm stamped down. His other arm swung up to hit her, but she caught it with both her own, twisted the elbow to the edge of breaking. The elf made no sound against the pain, but his determined face became stricken. She had him now, this potent warrior who took down her hoof, this arrogant point-ear that had pissed on his hand after touching her. Fetch grinned.
“Do I sully you, Tine?” she taunted, using her own tongue. “Do I dishonor you? Do I…let you live?”
N’keesos’s face was puffy from the pressure upon his throat, yet he wheezed out a reply. Said something in elvish.
Another pair of warriors appeared, one striding boldly from the wheat, the other landing from some unseen vantage in the rocks. Both bore the same glowing weapons as the elf at her mercy. Angled eyes stared at her, watchful. Stern faces regarded her, contempt writ in stone.
She hated them as much. More.
There was no help in Dog Fall. Only the judgment of this imperious tribe. She opened her mouth to speak, to curse, to tell the Tines that the Bastards were leaving these damnable gorges, but the words were throttled by wrath. There was a crunching sound, followed by a stifled outcry of pain. Fetch let N’keesos’s shattered arm slip from her grasp and stood.
She filled her hands with the kataras.
The newcomers charged, angling from opposing sides.
Fetch dashed to meet the one near the wheat field, was dimly aware of being struck in the back by cutting vibration. She shrugged it off, legs devouring the distance. The warrior was before her now, swinging both clubs. Fetch caught them on her blades. The energy from the clubs shrieked and warbled as they connected. With a sweep of her arms, Fetch turned the clubs aside, spun, and cut a kick across the Tine’s face.
Knowing the other would be upon her, she whirled, leading with a reaping cut. The Tine bent backward, slid beneath the blow on his knees, and chopped across the side of Fetch’s knee with one club. The leg buckled, forcing her down, level with her assa
ilant. She tackled him, ramming the arm guard of one katara into his neck. Briefly, she was atop him, pressing down on his windpipe, but his clubs struck from both sides into her ribs. She reeled with the pain, giving the elf room to bring his legs up and kick her off, his preternatural strength sending her flying.
Flipping in the air, she brought her feet over and around, landing upright at the verge of the persimmon grove. The elves were all standing once again, including N’keesos, broken arm dangling.
Spite scratched into Fetch’s mouth at the sight of their persistence. She didn’t wait for them, leaping back into their midst, going for the weak one first. Even crippled, he was fast, parrying her slashes with his remaining club, weaving a perfect defense. His hale brothers came to his defense with the song of their clubs.
Three foes. Five weapons between them, each emitting unbalancing waves of sound with every swing, discharging bone-jarring power when the blows fell true. Fetch found herself inside a storm, assailed from all sides, yet she howled a fury of her own. A katara took one elf across the hip in a backhand sweep, her other blade half severing the screaming weapon of another. A club resounded across her cheek, snapping her head to the side, another pummeled her stomach. Either blow should have been the end for her, but Fetch found only anger where pain normally dwelt.
A cut across the chest sent one Tine reeling. The other two scattered, gaining some distance. As one, the trio began spinning their weapons, weaving the patterns. Caught between the warriors, Fetch was quickly encased in the roar.
“You want to kill me?!” she yelled into the agonizing gale. “What are you waiting for? FUCKING KILL ME!”
Screaming in defiance, Fetch tore from the invisible cocoon, rushing the Tine still in possession of both his clubs. The warrior twisted away from her first cut, sent a club barreling for her face in response. Ducking, Fetch tuck-rolled, came up on the elf’s flank, and took his legs out from under him with a scything stroke. Cut deeply, he wriggled upon the ground.
The True Bastards Page 43
