Bastards.
Yelps went up from the dog pack, snatching Ruin’s attention. Fetch craned to look through flooded eyes. The beasts had fallen, were writhing atop one another. A dark substance crawled over their flopping bodies. Fetch took it for sludge until her focus returned. It wasn’t a fluid mass, but a swarm. The morning sun reflected green and purple upon the black shells of thousands of beetles. They surged into the dogs’ mouths, sloughed into their ears, and where they went an oily smoke emerged. One by one the dogs began to succumb, giving a final twitch before going limp as the last of the insects vanished within their swiftly bloating corpses. Corpses that were shoved aside as Jackal crawled from beneath the mound.
His clothes were in tatters, his flesh shredded, both covered with blood. Deep bite wounds gaped across his body, exposing bone, one making a horror of his throat. The desert scarf had been torn from his head and his unbound hair hung heavy with gore. He climbed to his feet, sword still transfixing his body, and let the glinting shards of some crystal vessel fall from his fingers.
“I…told you…I knew how…to kill devils,” he said, voice ravaged. He pointed at Ruin. “And you…you’re not the only one who can do…this.”
Jackal grimaced, grabbed hold of the sword and pulled it from his chest.
Ruin’s face went slack.
Fetch gave him a triumphant grin. “Va Gara Attukhan, you fucker.”
She drew her knees up, kicked out, and drove her feet into Ruin’s chest, breaking his grip. Hitting the ground, she turned the tumble into a roll that put her back on her feet.
“Out of the way, mongrel girl!” a familiar voice cried.
Fetching jumped clear as the wrath of a god knocked Ruin over.
Belico’s scream battered his body, causing his flesh to ripple, the bone piercings to burst.
“Die,” Fetch hissed. “Die, fucking die!”
But Ruin climbed to his feet. And took a step, his mouth gaping in a howl that was devoured by the tumult. He planted a foot, another. Unstoppable, wroth, he strode toward Jackal.
Fetch was startled by Incus passing by, the kataras in her hands.
“Don’t!” Fetch yelled, grabbing the thrice’s prodigious arm, forcing her to turn and see her lips. “Incus. Belico’s voice is more than sound. It’s fury itself. You won’t be immune to the pain.”
“Hurt me less,” came the reply. Incus held up the kataras. “Borrowing these.”
Incus barreled forward, visibly slowing as she waded into the earth-rattling din. She cut Ruin off and rammed one katara into his chest, the other. He reeled backward. The thrice kept coming, punching with her bladed hands. Ruin’s flesh parted beneath the might-driven knives, his torso awash with blood. He put a palm in the path of Incus’s next strike, allowed the blade to stab through his hand, and wrenched the weapon out of her grip. Bulling forward, he tackled her to the ground. Incus twisted to avoid being pinned, hooked a leg behind Ruin’s knee and rolled them both on their sides. They came up grappling. For all the thrice’s great size, she was made normal by the hulking uq’huul. And yet, he could not throw her off. Incus had him seized around the middle, feet planted. Ruin brought his hands together into one fist, raised his arms to strike. Belico voiced his displeasure. Ruin stumbled as the ear-breaking sound increased.
Fetch cast a look back. Xhreka stood, pouring on the god’s unfettered temper. The halfling was flagging, supported by Oats. Incus’s back was to them, forcing her to take the brunt of the cacophonous assault. Corded arms straining, the thrice lifted Ruin and turned, shielding herself with his body. Though blood was running from her nose, Incus thrust a leg back to brace against the gale and held. Ruin’s movements were sluggish in the hellish current. Reaching down he took hold of the thrice’s hair, began forcing her head back. Her arms began to loosen. Either her hold would break or her neck.
Incus refused to let go.
It was Xhreka who succumbed. The halfling collapsed. Belico was silenced.
Ruin brought his conjoined fists down on Incus’s back. She was hammered to the dirt and did not move. Stepping over her, he continued toward Jackal, standing unsteady among the dead pack, barely able to keep his sword raised.
Fetch turned to yell for her hog, but a horrendous squeal cut her off. Ugfuck was stamping, shaking his great head. He began to twist, movements growing aggressive as the squeals turned to screams. Oats left Xhreka and scrambled to get in his barbarian’s face, snatching at his swine-yankers, but Ug refused to be calmed. Culprit, Shed Snake, and the other hogs were forced to flee the big pig’s stamping, whirling form. Hood and Starling were in danger of being caught in Ugfuck’s fit, but the pale mongrel either could not or would not move the prone, laboring elf. Hood’s back was to Fetching, leaning between Starling’s knees. He continued to attend his charge with uncanny calm, ignoring the growing calamity. Whatever was coming, was coming now.
Oats was yelling at Ugfuck, finally had hold of him, and was wrestling with the berserk animal. “Ug! Settle! What is wron—”
“Chief!” Culprit’s warning was strident. His pointing frantic.
Fetch spun in time to see Polecat’s hog charging. There was no time to get clear. The barbarian hit her full with its head and she went spinning legs-over-ass before she struck the ground. She heard Jackal shouting.
Raising her head, Fetch saw him try to come to her, but his legs would not carry him. He collapsed as Ruin reached him, looming above.
Fetch made to rise, but the uq’huul flung an arm in her direction and she was battered back into the dust beneath trampling hooves. Reaching down, Ruin lifted Jackal by the neck. His legs hung over the dirt. Polecat’s hog had turned and was galloping for another pass. Fetch waited until the last instant and rolled out of the way.
Jackal struggled in Ruin’s strangling grip.
The brute’s voice was a hateful, grinding toll. “Where?”
His eyes alighted on Jackal’s left forearm and he snatched it up in his free hand, brought it to his nose and sniffed.
“There!”
Groans pulsed from Jackal’s entrapped throat as the uq’huul stretched his arm to the side and began to pull.
Horrified by what Ruin intended, Fetch got to her feet and was again dashed to the earth by the ensorcelled hog. Culprit and Shed Snake were trying to get lassos around Polecat’s barbarian. Cat himself was down, dead or unconscious from his mount’s sudden, crazed betrayal.
Jackal’s agony rattled in the air. Fetch needed to get to him. She rose to her knees, but a sudden sense of disquiet seized her. She was struck again.
But not by the hog.
It was sludge. The living blackness knocked her back down. She felt the ink adhere to her flesh, its lathing touch familiar and frightening. It crawled to her face. Lurching backward, blind, she tried to tear it away, but it clung to her hands, sucked them in to aid in smothering her. It flowed into her nostrils, leaked between her sealed lips. She choked on its vileness, gagged as it lodged in her throat, began to drown as it flooded her lungs. The darkness slid away from her eyes as the last of the loathsome tar crawled into her nose. There was no air, yet she breathed as gently as an enwombed babe.
Visions burgeoned against her clenched eyelids.
Beryl, younger, with bloody hands.
Blackness began to descend over her desperate, moist face and Fetch knew, with awful impotence, that it was the inescapable pull of death. She screamed against its coming, a plea of rage. And still it claimed her.
Drums.
She heard the furious beating of drums, the guttural, brutal howls of the orc tongue. An aged thick hurt her beneath a hellish sun, pushed sharp curved bones through her flesh. The excruciation threatened to drown her mind in madness. But she did not scream. Pain was nothing. It was as empty as the surrounding sands.
Fetch shoved the agony aside, allowed the flooding
power to take its place.
Her hands knew strength and hungered to crush. She broke bone, skulls. She broke free.
There was hunger and hunters. She quashed them both with blood. The desert yielded to her southward steps and her feet touched the grasslands. There, the pack came. Less foolish than the orcs, they did not hunt her. They gathered about her, she slept ensconced by their breathing beneath every phase of the moon. Her strength, shared, became theirs. The pack aged, cubs growing to mothers. The orcs still searched, still died. Farther south, into the steaming jungles. A place of monstrous life and quick death. Not for her, not for the pack. They survived. Ruled.
Until the call. The pull.
Back to the grasslands. The desert. The pack followed. And together they saw the great water, long forgotten from the time of pain and drums.
They crossed.
And Fetch knew Ul-wundulas.
The badlands, lush after the barren desert. She knew the rivers. The call, the pull, forced her onward. Orcs roamed here too. In her path, killing lesser of their kindred that sat astride tamed boars, plundering the food they hauled. Fetch knew the tattoos of the riders.
The Tusked Tide.
She set the pack upon the orcs, slaughtering them as they had slaughtered the others. The pack dragged the orcs away and feasted on their flesh. The source of the call drew close and Fetch saw Slivers, felt the disgust blossom at the sight of him. He was nearing the source, a place he was forbidden. Angered, she sent the pack…
Fetch shot up from the dirt, sucking air. The visions were tattered banners, blowing in front of the world before her eyes. Tendrils of memory tickled her spine, felt more than seen or heard. The revelations threatened to bury her.
Dizzy and disturbed, she beheld Ruin still tormenting Jackal.
No.
Fetch pushed herself out of the dust, stood.
“…no.”
Balance betrayed her after two steps and she spilled upon her face. She began to belly-crawl.
“No.”
Fetch got her hands under her, her knees, made her way like a beast, gaining speed.
“Stop.”
The toes of her boots found purchase.
“Enough!”
She found her legs.
“STOP!”
She spoke in orcish, a tongue he knew, but rarely used.
Ruin’s rage was unquenched.
Fetch grabbed his arm.
“Please.”
Ignoring her, he continued to pull. Fetch heard the knocking pop as Jackal’s shoulder left its socket. She tried to pry Ruin’s grip in vain.
“I didn’t know!”
Jackal was thrashing as he hung. The skin at his shoulder was stretching, starting to rend. His sword lay beneath his convulsing feet. Fetch snatched it up and looked into Ruin’s savage face.
“Don’t make me,” she pleaded.
He would not be swayed from vengeance.
Raising the scimitar over her head, Fetch gave a tormented cry and brought it down on the flesh she knew would part.
The Arm of Attukhan sundered with the fury of a thunderclap.
FORTY
“CHIEF…”
The word reached Fetch’s ears through a swarm of swollen bees.
“Chief.”
Wincing, she sat up, a firm hand helping.
“Chief, thank hells!” Culprit knelt beside her, mouth half open. “We don’t know what to do. Savages won’t let us near him.”
Fetch looked around, the movement of her eyeballs igniting ropes of pain in her skull. She’d been moved. No, thrown. She and Ruin and Jackal. Tossed into the air, scattered. But Jack was beside her now, Oats kneeling opposite. The thrice’s face was an uncomprehending mask. He would not look at her, only at the stump she’d made of Jackal’s arm, severed just above the elbow. The wound was bound. The wrapped, stained bundle nearby could only be the rest of the limb.
“He’s not dead,” Culprit assured her.
Fetch’s eyes told her that was a lie. A hand upon Jackal’s chest proved Culprit spoke true. Jack was breathing. Barely, but he was alive.
And not the only one.
Incus lay to Fetch’s other side, her great maned head stirring. Xhreka, too, though she was still out. Polecat sat nearby, looking dazed and stanching his split brow with a kerchief. Beyond, Shed Snake kept watch on the Bastards’ hogs, all hobbled, all docile.
Across from Fetch, N’keesos knelt behind Starling, holding her despite his broken arm and obvious pain. Na’hak stood removed. The older elf was battered and cut. Hatchet in hand, his gaze was fixed on Ruin, a javelin’s toss away.
The uq’huul’s great frame slumped in the center of his dead pack, head bowed. Only one hyena remained alive, slinking and whining at the borders of its bloated brethren, the haft of a snapped javelin protruding from its side. The animal was not the only feral thing that kept a vigil on Ruin. Sitting their hogs, the Fangs of Our Fathers formed a rough screen around him, almost two score mongrels festooned with bone fetishes and little else.
Kul’huun was at their center, speaking with Hoodwink.
“They arrived right after you…uh…” Culprit cleared his throat. “Right after you got possessed by the thing that came out of the elf’s quim and hacked Jackal into two pieces.”
Fetch placed a hand on the young mongrel’s shoulder, used him to push up from the ground.
“I don’t understand, chief,” he said, rising beside her.
Fetch didn’t answer, looked at Starling. She did.
The look on Starling’s drawn face gave it away, a mixture of fresh guilt, old sorrow, and, despite her exhausted appearance, great relief. It was a look Fetch had seen Beryl wear many times, especially when she looked at Oats and Jackal, but a time or two she’d seen it directed at herself.
“Give me a moment,” Fetch said to Culprit, and went to join Hoodwink with the Fangs.
“I cannot allow you to kill him,” Kul’huun announced as soon as she drew near.
Fetch rubbed at her eyes. “If we could have done that, he’d be dead by now.”
Kul’huun studied her a moment. “You know what he is.”
“More than you do. But come, you can tell my boys. They might…have trouble trusting me.”
The wariness in Hood’s unrelenting stare proved it wasn’t an unworthy concern.
Kul’huun dismounted, leaving his hoof to gather with the Bastards around their injured. Incus was upright now. Fetch motioned for Shed Snake to leave the hogs. Only Jackal and Xhreka had not awoken, though Oats was nearly as insensate. Fetch hoped the truth would bring him around. As for the other two…
“I began hunting the uq’huul as soon as I left Strava,” Kul’huun began, abandoning orcish for Hisparthan. “He remained elusive for many days. When I found him, I was cautious. I tracked him from afar, watched him when there was a vantage. His movements were strange. He would travel south and west, intent. Yet he would grow agitated after a time and return the way he’d come. Always back.”
“Back where?” Culprit asked.
“Our lot,” Shed Snake replied.
Kul’huun gave a single nod. “He did not wish to remain, yet he could not leave. A caged animal with nothing barring him.”
“Nothing you could see,” Starling whispered, though her elvish words were lost to most.
Kul’huun only glanced her way before continuing. “I came to understand he was aware of me, yet he did nothing. He did not fear me. He paid me no mind, as a bear pays no mind to the fox. Orcs believe themselves stronger than we half-breeds, but they never refrain from killing. He did not set his dogs upon me.” The Fangs chief looked at Fetching. “That made two this uq’huul had allowed to live. I did not understand this creature, so I rode back to my lot, commanded my brothers to take an orc alive. We hunt
ed, found an ulyud, and killed all but one. This orc I questioned about the uq’huul that commands beasts. I have never seen an orc show fear. Until that day. It tried to mask its fear with spite, but I saw what it hid. We pulled the tale from the orc, along with its entrails.”
Fetch watched her brothers as Kul’huun spoke. Her gaze kept returning to Oats, but he showed no sign he was even listening.
“It told of a child brought willingly to Dhar’gest by a mongrel witch that vanished from the slave pens not long after being taken. Had it been known what she left behind, the orc said, the babe would have been left in the desert to die. Ignorant, they gave the child to the care of their sorcerers, for he was one of them. Another uq’huul. He was raised by them, endured the trials of their tutelage, learning to draw out the magic in his veins. His power rivaled that of all his masters. They saw in him the champion that would lead them in a Duulv M’har to finally conquer Ul-wundulas. But, nearing maturity, he defied the uq’huuls. And slaughtered them.”
“Wait.” Polecat cringed against the sound of his own voice, pressed the kerchief back to his head. “Fucking all of them? How many were there?”
Kul’huun did not blink. “None now. The bloody-handed youth made himself the last. He fled the orcs after the killings and made the deepest reaches of the inner jungles his domain, suffering no trespass by any other than beasts, which he could bend to his will. Entire ul’usuuns were sent against him, hundreds of orcs led by strong t’huruuks with a mind to increase their standing among the hordes by killing the traitor uq’huul. None succeeded or survived. Now they leave him be, avoiding his lands. U’ruul Targha Bhal they name him.”
Culprit’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “Death’s…Empty Belly?”
“Those are the Hisparthan words, but not the meaning,” Kul’huun replied. “He is something the orcs do not understand, a thing with no appetite for slaughter, yet possessing a capacity for destruction without end. They seek to insult him, unable to admit it is also a name given in fear.”
The True Bastards Page 54
