Raised voices and the stomps of armored men sent her to look down into the bailey. Two dozen cavaleros were making their way deeper into the yard on foot. They had arranged themselves into a block of shields and lances to defend against a mounted charge. Even Jackal would have difficulty cracking their armored formation, and the Thrice Freed would be crushed.
Fetch took hold of the gun. The wooden carriage squealed against the flagstones as she dragged the weapon to the edge of the tower. She tilted the barrel down, took up the match cord, and touched it to the small hole at the rear. The gun bucked, thundered, spewed smoke, and pieces of screaming men went flying. The block of cavaleros was reduced to lucky men fleeing, crippled men crawling, dying men wailing, and the silent, shattered dead.
A livid, savage noise burst from Fetch at the sight. Part laugh and part scream, she spat it down at the smoking pile of dismembered frails with almost as much force as the cannonball. Upon the opposing tower, she could make out Hoodwink and Polecat killing the gun crew who’d destroyed the stable. That left only the towers attached to the keep.
At the rear of the citadel, where the hill was highest, the imposing structure waited. She could see no one atop the towers, the guns there standing mute and unmanned. The roof of the keep, however, hosted a solitary figure. Fetch left her stockbow slung. Retrieving her sword, she hopped down to the wall and made her way along the walk toward the keep. The tower door stood open. None opposed her. She went up the stairs, circled the turret, and crossed to the massive roof of the keep.
Maneto waited at the rearmost battlement. His back was turned, the shrouded sky spread out around him as he gazed north. His chain-mace hung from his hand, the heavy, flanged steel head resting on the stones. He spoke without turning.
“You half-breeds have an enviable talent for killing. All mine fled or dead in the time it takes to have a good shit.”
“You brought this, frail,” Fetch said moving forward. “You all did.”
“Nay, Chief Quim. We brought this. And together we’ll bring what neither of us could do alone.”
Maneto turned. His other hand was close to his chest, clutching the calm form of a messenger bird.
Fetch stopped.
“ ‘Castile fallen to mongrels. Garrison put to the sword.’ ” Maneto grinned, flicking the small tube attached to the bird’s foot. “Not my most eloquent, but as the poets say, breviloquence is the life’s blood of truth. They will come now. Aye, they will come. Not for my pleas, not for yours, not for the invading thicks, no. They’ll come for honor. Blue bloods hate when their lessers rebel. All are beneath them o’course, but none so much as you rutting soot-skins. They’ll come just so the peasants won’t grow ideas along with milord’s crop.” Maneto half turned and extended his arm out over the parapet. “Wonder how many of you they’ll leave alive to bring back north in cages?”
Fetch returned the smile. “Send it.”
The victorious gleam died in the man’s eyes. “It’s why you came. Blessed Magritta, you want a war.”
“Send it.”
Maneto’s hand opened.
Dropping her sword, Fetch pulled her thrum around, loaded, shouldered the weapon. The small shape of the bird was dwindling against the blanket of cloud. Fetch jerked the tickler. And brought the bird down. She did want Hispartha to know what she’d done here.
Just not yet.
Maneto had fled. She caught a glimpse of him disappearing through one of the towers. Fetch pursued.
The cavalero made it as far as the great hall. Fetch found him there, sprawled on the floor, Dacia bashing his head in with his own chain-mace. The scarred mongrel turned, blood-spattered and breathing heavy.
She held up the mace. “Spent my whole life threshing grain with something like this. Fool-ass should have known better than to come at me with it.”
Fetch gave Maneto no more thought. “You find Ahlamra?”
“Come see.”
Keeping the chain-mace, Dacia led her out into the bailey. Dozens of men were lined up on their knees. Most looked to be castle servants, but there were some cavaleros and men-at-arms. They were watched over by Incus, Culprit, and Jackal, all still ahog with loaded stockbows. Bekir and Lopo, on foot, held thrums on the surrendered frails as well. Shed Snake was sitting nearby with his own weapon, Touro standing beside him. Gosse stood with Ahlamra, the swords in their hands bloodied.
But it was the sight of Oats that gave Fetch’s breath back. Covered in soot he walked over, carrying the clinging form of Muro. The simpleminded boy was crying against the thrice’s neck.
“It was him,” Oats said, still shaken. “Muro set the stable fire. Heard that loon cavalero say the Bastards were riding for the gates…and was going to kill us all. He set the fire to save us.”
Fetch placed a hand on her friend’s arm, the other on the boy’s head.
Marrow and his Thrice Freed strode around the corner of the granary, fewer than they’d been, but more than they were.
“Castle’s yours, chief,” Marrow said.
Fetch swallowed.
The True Bastards had voted to attack the castile. But it was a Tyrkanian prostitute, a few brave slops, a gaggle of former slaves, and a maligned child’s long-cherished memory of the thrice who’d once played with him that had allowed them to take it.
FORTY-THREE
IT TOOK THE BETTER PART of a fortnight for the other hoofmasters to arrive. From atop the gatehouse Fetch watched them ride up the trail. They were accompanied by Zirko and a sizable troupe of Unyars. The gates stood open, the portcullis raised. Fetch went down to the bailey and met her guests.
One of the castle grooms came to take Zirko’s mule, but was run off by a glare from an Unyar tribesman.
“You’ll have to see to your own mounts,” Fetch told the mongrel chiefs. “The frails can’t handle hogs.”
Pulp Ear scowled, but Notch found it amusing.
The Shards’ chief swung down from the saddle, adjusted his crimson sash, and pointed. “Stables are this way, if I recall.”
“Not anymore,” Fetch said. “We’re using the parade yard. I had the carpenters get a shelter up that will serve for now.”
Notch took in the castle servants going about their tasks in the yard and smirked. “Won them over quick.”
“Wasn’t too difficult. I’m not the previous steward.” Maneto’s inconstant temperament had left more than a few scars on the castile’s residents. “But they don’t trust us. Just doing what they know, hoping being useful will keep them alive. We’re still figuring out which of them we can trust, so I’d caution against eating or drinking anything they serve you.”
Fetch led the way to the parade yard and waited while the chiefs put their hogs in the three-sided shelter.
At last, she gestured toward the keep. “Now that we’re all here.”
“All here?” Pulp Ear complained. “Where’s Knob and the Fang?”
“Kul’huun has already arrived. Knob is dead.”
“Dead?” Boar Lip was more curious than alarmed. “The bird I received telling me to make haste for Strava came from Thricehold.”
“As did mine,” Father said.
“Come” was all the answer Fetch gave, and began walking to the keep.
She’d chosen the captain’s audience chamber for the meet. Bermudo had kept the room sparsely appointed, always preferring people stand in his presence, the castellan said, but there were chairs placed before his table now. Kul’huun stood in front of one, Marrow sat in another. Tomb halted when he saw him. His large, pale frame stilled, his expression darkening beneath the brim of his hat.
“What does this one do here?”
“Marrow is chief of the Thrice Freed,” Fetch said, going to lean against the front edge of the captain’s table.
Notch chuckled as he dropped into a chair, legs splayed
. “The fucking what?”
“The Thrice Freed,” Marrow answered. “We are the mongrels once held in bondage by the Orc Stains, now a hoof. We hold their fortress, their lot, and claim them as ours.”
“You sent the birds from Thricehold,” Father said, a glower growing on his craggy face.
Zirko moved to the stool provided for his small size. “And one to me to escort you all here.”
“The Thrice Freed owe a debt to the True Bastards for destroying the Orc Stains,” Marrow replied. “Our loyalty is pledged to their chief.”
Notch cocked an eye at Marrow. “Reckon you could have just said ‘yes.’ ”
Incensed, Father turned to Fetching. “You destroyed another hoof?”
“Knob attacked us in the night,” she replied, refusing to match his anger. “He destroyed the Orc Stains with his pride.”
“If he kept slaves, he fucking deserved to die,” Boar Lip declared, studying Marrow as he sat.
Pulp Ear followed once Kul’huun also took a chair. Grudgingly, Father eased himself down, joints popping.
Only one chief remained standing.
“Tomb,” Fetch said. “Marrow is no longer some rider that issued challenge to lead the Skull Sowers. Accept it, so we can get to matters.”
“Very well,” Tomb tolled. He still did not sit.
“Why are we here, girl?” Father grumbled.
“We are here, old man, to do what you wanted. To make Ul-wundulas strong.” Fetch turned to Kul’huun, addressed him in orcish. “How many orcs have your riders seen in Fang lands since last spring?”
“Few.”
“You rode all the way to Strava from the Cradle,” Fetch said to Father. “How many thicks?”
The old mongrel shook his white head. “None.”
“Pulp Ear, what about the Brotherhood?”
The hideous mongrel made a wet noise in his throat. “What is this? You summon us with a dead chief’s birds, bring us to the castle you foolishly took, and now you’re playing the general! No! We’ve seen nothing. Not that it should concern you. You, woman, have far bigger troubles with the Crown wanting to throw your guts in a fire while you look on!”
“They do and I promise you’ll be right there next to me.”
Pulp Ear shot to his feet. “Don’t threaten me, cunt!”
“Threaten?” Fetch blinked. “Your bashed ears must not have heard. I said promise. And it’s not mine, it’s Hispartha’s.”
Zirko cleared his throat. “Hispartha will come to know which hoofs assaulted the castile. I doubt any but the Bastards and these…Thrice Freed will be made to answer for it.”
“Tell that to the rotting nomads we cut down from the walls,” Fetch pointed out.
Notch snorted and bobbed his head appreciatively.
“Clever jibes change nothing,” Pulp Ear said, still standing. “Hispartha is coming for you. They won’t kill us all. They need the mongrel hoofs.”
Fetch moved around behind the table and put a hand on the back of the captain’s chair.
“The mongrel hoofs,” she mused. “Bermudo told me the mongrel hoofs were nothing but watchdogs, that our time was ending. He was wrong. Our time isn’t ending. It’s over. Father knows it.” The old chief looked grim as all eyes shifted to him. “I know it. I suspect some of you know it too. Hispartha is marshaling, a little quicker now because the half-breeds must feel the king’s justice, but make no mistake, they were always coming. Giving the Rutters’ lot to the Zahracenes, strengthening the defenses here at the castile, resettling Kalbarca. You ignored it. All of you. You can ignore this too. Stand back and be entertained by the bloody display the Crown makes of the rebellious Bastards. Pulp Ear thinks they’ll be content with my head. What then? They turn around and go home? What do you think will happen to my lot and Thricehold? They’ll take that land back, and if you try to stop them, you’ll be on the executioner’s wheel beside me.”
“Then we let the frails settle,” Boar Lip declared. “We allow them to share the burden of fighting the thicks. They will remember why they need us when we show Hispartha that none stand against the orcs as we can, when we show them that we live by our creed.”
Father sighed. “And we will. We’ll fight because we’ll have to. Because the frails will send us to the heaviest fighting. I saw it before. They’ll squeeze every drop of blood we have in favor of their own. We will, every one of us, die on the hog before it’s over. We’ll prove nothing to Hispartha save what they already believe. That we are here to throw our lives away for them.”
“That’s a more glorious end than you’re like to get, Father,” Fetch said. “You’re musing on an Incursion that may never come.”
“Explain,” Tomb said.
It was Kul’huun who answered. “The orcs do not have the strength or leadership they once did. Their strongest are no more. And something they fear now dwells in Ul-wundulas.”
Father looked disturbed rather than heartened. “What?”
“A weapon created by the Tines,” Fetch put in. She wasn’t about to shit in this bath by explaining Ruin. “For now it’s in the Fangs’ care, close to the Gut. Once word of that reaches Dhar’gest, the thicks won’t be eager to make the crossing. Which means we have a chance.”
Boar Lip leaned forward, his huge teeth leading. “What chance is that?”
“To take Ul-wundulas. To have a land of our own.”
She expected Pulp Ear’s temper to unravel again, but he simply stared at her, uncomprehending. It was Tomb who filled the silence with a single pronouncement.
“Impossible.”
“I don’t think so,” Fetch said. “But even if it is, I’d rather die trying than allow Hispartha to rid the Lots of us one hoof at a time.”
Pulp Ear found his voice again. “You’re mad!”
“Perhaps. But I ain’t blind.”
The swaybacked mongrel pointed a finger at her. “This slattern is trying to do to all of us what she did to the Bastards. Seduce us into doing her bidding. She’s trying to save herself and using us to do it.”
“Maybe she is.” Notch gave a languid shrug. “But I’ll say this. If Kul’huun says the orcs aren’t coming, that’s good enough for me. Should be good enough for the rest of you. And the Bastard’s right. We ignored Kalbarca, the hunting of the nomads. All of it. Don’t see how we can ignore her taking the castile.”
“We don’t,” Pulp Ear declared. “We’d be best served by delivering her and her hoof into the Crown’s hands.”
Notch laughed. “Her hoof? You are fucking blind.”
Pulp Ear scowled at the amused Shards chief. “Meaning?”
“He means the castile is all but deserted,” Fetch said. “The Bastards aren’t here. If Hispartha wants a head they will have to settle with mine. And it won’t come off easy.”
Marrow stood. “Know that I will not stand by if any of you attempt to make Fetching a bargaining piece. Draw steel against her, and mine will be bared against you.”
“I add my warning to his,” Kul’huun told the chiefs. “Though it protects you more than she.”
Pulp Ear’s ire faded under the fiery stares and calm voices of the liberated slave and the half-clad savage. He returned to his chair. Beside him, Boar Lip’s frown deepened, though whether it was anger over the threats or at Pulp Ear’s bluster, Fetch could not tell. Father was equally grave. Zirko sat in detached contemplation while Notch’s relaxed posture was belied by his active eyes.
Tomb stood behind the others, as silent and stony as his name.
Fetch took a breath, swallowed her own emotions. “I lost a rider to the Stains, a good one. He told me once that the core of a hoof was just one thing. Mongrels on hogs. He was right. And…it’s no longer enough. Training hopefuls to ride patrol, hunt ulyud, taking the best and the strongest, putting a brigand on them and wel
coming them into our small fold, it’s not enough for what we must now do. And that’s fight a war against Hispartha. You think I started it by taking the castile? No. This wasn’t close to first blood. They drew that a long time ago. And they were going to keep bleeding us until we were too weak to fight back. Keep ignoring that and your lands are just undug graveyards.”
“That’s what the Lots are,” Tomb said. “The Skull Sowers have always accepted this.”
“Not me,” Fetch said. “I don’t accept anything for the sake of how it’s always been.”
“And how do you expect to change it?” Boar Lip asked.
“By destroying the Lots for the sake of Ul-wundulas. By taking this forsaken land and making it our kingdom.”
“Looking to be a queen, are you?” Notch asked, grinning.
“I don’t want a crown on my head. I just want the weight of Hispartha’s off our backs.”
Pulp Ear’s sour expression went rancid. “What makes you think you can fight them?”
“Alone? I can’t. With all of us—”
“Impossible.” Tomb echoed himself.
“Have to agree,” Notch said. “Even without the orcs coming. Our smaller numbers will serve us well in the beginning. We can avoid battle, harry their supplies. Winter’s nearing, so the passes through the Umbers and the Smelteds will be difficult. But once they’re open again…” He clicked his tongue. “We don’t have the strength for pitched battle.”
“Then we must be stronger by winter’s end,” Fetch said.
“Words!” Pulp Ear declared. “You’ve offered nothing but words. Stronger. We’ve already lost the Orc Stains. We’re no stronger today than last Betrayer and we won’t be stronger in a moon’s turn, if we’re alive at all.”
The True Bastards Page 59
