The knavery stopped for a moment. Ignoring the hoof, Maneto looked straight out over the badlands. When next the man spoke, he actually sounded regretful, betrayed.
“Ul-wundulas. Nothing but a child’s crude trap. Something for the thicks to stub their toe on while the blue bloods hide the silver and bar the doors. You know it, well as I.”
Fetch did know.
“You don’t belong here,” she agreed. “Time Hispartha understood that.”
“Is it?” Maneto said, amused.
Fetch didn’t answer. She twisted in the saddle, looked at her riders. Farthest down the trail, Oats and Ugfuck anchored them. Incus was in front of him, face hidden in the shadows of her hair. Shed Snake slung his half cape over his shoulder, freeing his scarred arm. Hood pulled his namesake back. Culprit was smirking. Polecat, too, eyes glinting. Just behind her, Jackal winked.
Slowly, Fetch got down from her hog, looked up at Maneto. “Yes. It is.”
“Best straddle that leather, missy. Or you won’t die by the words you mongrels so value.”
The switchbacks would hamper any retreat. The volleys from the archers would cut down mongrel and hog. Perhaps a few would reach the plain. And then, the guns would finish them.
It was Fetch’s turn to laugh. “You think we rode all the way up here just to ride away?”
“You rode up here to die. No mongrels are setting one ash-colored foot inside these walls, I promise you.”
There was movement along the battlements, the garrison stirred by something happening within the walls. Fetch couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, but she knew well what it was.
“You broke that promise long ago, frail,” she said, competing for Maneto’s attention now. “You had two inside last night. Of course, Hood didn’t stay long. Just slipped over for a span, find the one that’s been living among you for weeks. I was happy to hear she hadn’t been found out, but not surprised. She don’t look like a half-breed, ’cause she ain’t, really. Figured it’d be easy enough for her to get in, with all the supplies coming down from the kingdom.”
Shouts of alarm were going up now, coming from the yard, enough to be heard through the bulk of the gatehouse.
It was done.
Ahlamra had let the slops and the Thrice Freed in through a postern gate.
“Your promise just got broken a hundred times!” Fetch called to Maneto. “Think we don’t know about the Whore’s Slit? Sancho’s girls were sneaking in and out for years. Not much of a secret. Only trouble is having someone who knows you’re coming and can open it for you.”
Maneto got down from the merlon, began shouting orders, sending runners.
There weren’t a hundred mongrels inside. There weren’t half that. And they weren’t coming in the Slit, but a sally port in the north wall. Maneto was diverting too many men in the wrong direction. Fetch would not give him time to realize his mistake.
“Maneto!” she hollered.
The fury in her voice forced the mad cavalero’s face to reappear between the merlons.
Fetch grinned. “Told you I was going to add you to my tally.”
The man’s shock and ire melted away, replaced by that poisonous smile.
“See there?” he chuckled. “Beasts of the same hide.”
His arms came up holding a stockbow. He loosed.
The bolt struck Fetch in the chest, punched through her brigand. And shattered against her flesh.
“No,” she said. “Mine is a bit thicker, now.”
She reached the battlements in a single leap. The second tier.
Landing among the stunned archers, she yanked the first man within reach over the wall. His scream distracted the men surrounding Maneto below; his body breaking on the rampart scattered them. The man to Fetch’s left was still not certain how she was standing beside him. Snatching the stockbow from his hands, she flipped it around and feathered him through the gut. The archer behind had the empty weapon thrown into his face. His head snapped back, he dropped to the flags and did not move. Fetch’s tulwar was in her hand now. There were men to both sides. She spun to the left and slashed. Her blade took the first man across the throat. His blood fountained over the wall and she shoved him after it, advancing on the next frail. This one managed to train his stockbow and loose. The bolt took Fetch in the shoulder, sprung away. The disbelief in the man’s face vanished when Fetch chopped it in half. He, too, was made a gift for the lower tier. The men behind him fled, panicked feet bringing them to the door set in the side of the gatehouse tower. They slammed it shut. Fetch turned around to find the men behind had done the same.
Below, the archers on the lower battlement had recovered enough from the rain of corpses to begin loosing bolts over the wall, but the Bastards were answering with volleys of their own. Fetch heard the squeal of hogs, the shouts of men and mongrels. She vaulted the battlement, dropped down, and started killing. This time, she allowed none to escape. But Maneto was not among the slain.
A glance over the wall showed the hoof regrouping. With the battlements cleared of defenders, only the towers remained, bolts spitting from the arrow slits. Bolts stuck out of Jackal’s shoulder and chest, but he stayed ahog, shouting and drawing the attention of the defenders. Hood and Incus rushed the gate and dismounted. She placed her hands together and when he sprang upon them, bolstered his jump to catch hold of Bermudo’s foot. The slick corpse began to come apart as Hood scrambled up. The body detached from the head just as he reached the chain. He slapped hand over hand and swiftly gained the wall.
Fetch nodded at him and sprinted for the right tower.
Time to open the gates.
The door burst beneath her boot, startling eight men inside the circular guardroom. Neither she nor Hood hesitated. They set upon the frails, swinging their tulwars. Fetch screamed, helms and breastplates parting easily as cloth beneath the curve of her blade. Hood did not even seem to breathe as he darted through the room, opening jugulars, lopping limbs. They were hindered by nothing but the effort of the butchery.
The door at the opposite side of the room was open. The spiral stairs beyond led up as well as down. Fetch and Hood raced downward a turn and sundered another door to charge back into the tower. The men here were more prepared and a thrusting halberd came to meet Fetching. She felt the spearhead punch her ribs, but she kept coming, knocking its wielder over. Ignoring the downed man, she cut down guards at the arrow slits before their stockbows could loose any more bolts at her unseen brethren. Hood dispatched the rest. There was no door in the arch before them, just two steps leading down into the winch room. A man knelt with a shield, another behind him training a stockbow. Fetch bulled down the steps, kept her face turned away as the bolt broke against her chest, and kicked the shield, launching its bearer into the crossbowman. His back broke against the ponderous mechanism behind, and a downward stroke of Fetch’s tulwar finished his sprawled companion.
Men from the opposing guardroom rushed down the far steps. Hood sent a bolt flying past Fetch to take the first through his open, howling mouth. She arrested the charge of the second with a thrust through his middle, lifting and pushing him back up the stairs. Bolts thudded into the man’s back as his companions loosed in a panic. Fetch let him fall along with her sword as Hood followed her in, feathering another man. He let his stockbow fall to the end of its strap, filled his hands with knives, and tossed one to Fetching. Slaying the remaining five men was close and bloody work. As the last frail gurgled to stillness, they returned to the winch room.
“Cover the doors,” Fetch said.
Hood loaded his stockbow while she unlocked the winch and began spinning the handles. The chains groaned as the backside of the portcullis began to rise up through the floor. The great drum of the winch had wheels upon both sides and likely took four men to operate. Fetch revolved it with such speed, the chains shrieked. She locked the winch on
ce the portcullis was raised.
“Hold here. Do not let them retake this room.”
Hood nodded.
She left through the first guardroom, ran down the stairs, killed the four men coming up without breaking stride and went another turn. Though she’d never set foot within these towers, her visits to the castile had made her very familiar with the tunnel beneath the gatehouse. There was a large murder hole set within its ceiling. Sprinting through the interior of the barbican, she found the room housing the hatch. Maneto must not have suspected the hoof would ever breach the gates, for the room was free of guards. Fetch quickly hauled the hatch open and lowered herself down the shaft. The final drop was more than three times her height, but with a piece of Ruin now within her veins, there was no danger in the distance and she landed without harm. The dark tunnel was sealed by gates at both ends. Fetch rushed to the outer doors, tossed the beam away, and flung them wide.
“True Bastards!”
Incus, remounted on Big Pox, was the first to reach the shelter of the tunnel. She had Shed Snake up on the saddle in front of her, a bolt in his arm. Polecat rode in, followed by Culprit, both unhurt. Womb Broom and Hood’s hog followed the other barbarians, urged along by Oats and Ugfuck. Jackal came last.
“Got more plumes than a goose, Jack!” Polecat taunted.
“Next time you can stand still and draw their aim,” Jackal replied, gritting his teeth and grunting as he pulled the first of seven thrumbolts from his body.
Fetch pointed over their heads. “Cover that hole. Feather anyone leans over it. They’ll be in a hurry to drop rocks on us now that we’re in here.”
She went to the wall of the tunnel where Incus had propped Shed Snake. There was a bolt just above his right hip as well as the one through his scarred arm.
“Got the worst fucking luck, chief,” he muttered as she knelt in front of him.
She pawed his face. “Alive, aren’t you?”
“Ready to murder some frails too. They killed my hog.”
The sound of thrums drew their attention as Culprit, Oats, and Polecat loosed through the murder hole.
Polecat sent screams up along with his bolts. “We’re coming for you, frails. Hear? WE’RE FUCKING COMING!”
Fetch went to Incus, gestured at Snake. “I’m going to need you to stay with him. Don’t know that there’ll be anywhere safe once we go through these gates, but if you see a place, get there. He’s your ears. You’re his legs.”
“Yes, chief.”
Jackal snapped off the head of a bolt stuck through the meat of his forearm and pulled the shaft out. “Castile yard has room for at least three score cavaleros mounted and ready to charge, soon as we break through the gates.”
It wasn’t a warning, wasn’t a profession of doubt. He was simply figuring how many they each had to kill.
Polecat showed his teeth. “Frails on foals.”
“How are we going to break through?” Culprit asked, eyeing the huge doors.
“Fair certain the chief’s got that,” Oats said.
He directed the hoof to pull their barbarians to either side of the tunnel.
Fetch turned to look at her Bastards.
“The only way forward is through,” she told them. “The only way to survive is to kill. Live in the saddle.”
“DIE ON THE HOG!”
Fetching charged the doors, flung her shoulder at the crack between. The iron-banded wood buckled and the beam on the other side snapped. Heaving with both hands, she threw the gates wide as the hoof charged, splitting to pass her. Fetch jumped into the saddle while Womb Broom was on the run.
There were no cavaleros arrayed against them. What men and horses they saw were running about in a panic. Smoke darkened the air, thickest beyond the roof of the barracks. That could only mean…
“The stables are on fire!” Culprit called.
Fetch smiled. Her slops and the Thrice Freed had managed far more than she ever expected. They were told to cause what mayhem they could, keep the garrison scattered. She never thought they would attempt to reach so deep into the center of the castile.
Her joy died when she saw Oats’s dismay.
“Muro…”
He kicked Ugfuck into a gallop.
The Bastards sped through the bailey after him. A group of men-at-arms tried to stand against them, halberds leveled, but a volley dropped the front rank, causing the rest to flee in the face of the onrushing hogs. Oats and Ugfuck ran most of them down; the hoof saw to the remainder.
Several burning horses screamed as they galloped past. The overcast sky mated with the smoke to turn the surrounding bailey into a pit of gloom. Reaching the stables they found grooms and unarmed cavaleros slinging water, running buckets. All abandoned their efforts and scurried away into the jumble of buildings crowding the bailey as soon as they caught sight of Oats, furiously shouting Muro’s name.
Jumping off Ugfuck, the panic-stricken thrice rushed headlong into the growing blaze.
“Oats! Dammit!” Fetch shouted. It didn’t stop him. Nothing could.
Jackal made to dismount, but a roar went up in the yard, voiced by a block of men-at-arms moving on their position, spears thrusting forth from their shield wall.
“Need to tusker that to break it!” Polecat said.
More shouts, these coming from above, growing closer. Through the drifting smoke, Fetch caught glimpses of the western wall. The fire had broken the back of the cavaleros, but the men remaining in the gatehouse towers were coming out to defend the bailey. Fetch wanted to go in after Oats, drag him out of the burning stables if she must, but if the archers surrounded their position…
“Cat!”
“I know,” he replied. “We got to bristle-brush the walk.”
“Jack.”
“I’ll buy you time.”
Spurring Mean Old Man, he charged the spearmen.
Fetch directed Polecat to the western wall. “You take that side.”
“And me?” Culprit asked.
“Afraid this takes a Grey Bastard,” Fetch told him.
She made directly for the walls, Cat going the opposite way. Bolts began to streak down. Fetch could see the men drifting out of the gatehouse, the boldest running ahead of their comrades along the rampart. Fetch spurred Womb across the bailey, using the storehouses and workshops to help shield them. The wall was ahead. Fetch pulled her hog to the right and skirted the stones until they reached the steps leading up to the rampart. The barbarian hardly slowed as he surged up them. Womb Broom was a sizable pig, but the walls of the castile were wider than the Kiln’s. The Claymaster had trained the Grey Bastards to run their hogs along the rampart as a means of clearing them of any would-be besiegers. They’d never had need to actually do it. Seeing the dread on the archers’ faces as Womb began charging down the walk, Fetch had to give the vile old chief credit.
The first man took a bolt in the throat. Fetch let her thrum fall to its tether and drew her tulwar as her hog jumped the jutting end of a gun carriage. There was little need for the sword. The barbarian cut a swath along the wall. Men began leaping from the rampart to escape his reddened tusks and trampling hooves, some made so foolish by desperation they jumped over the outward-facing side. Across the castle yard, Polecat went plowing down the western walk. The gatehouse would prevent them from meeting, but the frails who managed to run back inside wouldn’t be eager to come out again.
There was one last stumbling archer before her. Fetch had to slow Womb before they ran headlong into the tower, so this fortunate wretch would live…long enough to stagger backward out of the door with his guts spilling out. Hoodwink emerged after him, blood standing out brightly against his white skin.
Fetch reined up. “You whole?”
Hood’s hairless brows lowered, as if the question were confusing. “Yes.”
Swinging Womb around, Fetch looked to the yard. Jackal and Mean Old Man had broken through the spearmen’s line. The hog was twisting, tossing men as Jackal’s sword went to work, coring out the center of the infantry. One mounted mongrel against three score men and still he broke them. They fled. Right into Marrow and his Thrice Freed, all on foot, eager to prove themselves warriors. Culprit sat his hog near the burning stables, watchful for Oats. He had not emerged. Movement upon the tower behind drew Fetch’s focus. The shapes of men, laboring with something heavy, moving it. The wind stirred the smoke, offering her a cruel glimpse of the gun now facing the bailey, the crew angling it down.
“OATS!!!”
The gun’s shout devoured her own.
The burning roof of the stable blasted apart, throwing flaming debris. Fetch barely heard the other boom before a chunk of the tower shattered over her head. Womb squealed and spooked, sidling away as rubble smote the rampart. Fetch wrestled the hog, got him under control. The door to the tower was obstructed by fallen stones.
“Hood?!” Fetch called out.
The pale mongrel appeared in the blackness above the blockage, unhurt.
“Get to Polecat. Silence those fucking things!”
Hood vanished into the gatehouse.
Looking down the wall, Fetch saw the wind carrying a gun’s breath away atop the nearest tower. The mouth of the weapon was pointed in her direction, men working quickly on the reload.
Snarling, she spurred her hog. The men spied her coming, began to shout at one another. Womb’s hooves drummed the rampart. The gun began to tilt. Fetch hopped up into a crouch, balls of her feet pressed into the saddle. She jumped for the tower at full gallop, cleared its battlements, and cut the head off the man lowering the match cord in flight. Landing, she spun and faced the other four. Seeing she stood between them and the stairs, they struck their knees, pled for their lives. Fetch took a step, smashed one man’s skull against the gun, slashed the throats of two more with one stroke. The last man made a run for it. Fetch windmilled her dripping tulwar into his back.
The True Bastards Page 58
