“If you think only of the hoofs, you’re right,” Fetch said. “If you ignore the Traedrian mercenaries, you’re right.”
Notch cocked his head as if he misheard. “What Traedrian mercenaries?”
“The ones we’ll hire,” Fetch replied.
There was a silence as the chiefs absorbed her words.
“Hire?” Boar Lip grunted. “With what? Ul-wundulas has never been a land of riches.”
Fetch came around the table. “There’ll be coin aplenty. The Pit of Homage has enough to choke even the greediest sell sword.”
Pulp Ear scoffed. “The Pit? The cutthroats in those hills will never let you take any of that shine.”
“I have a pair of thrice-bloods who will be very persuasive. The Big Bastard is revered among those cutthroats and more than a few will have heard of the Anvil’s Bride. They’ll get the coin for the mercenaries, and spread it among the bandits as well. Those men won’t need much coaxing to go raiding into Hispartha, give the kingdom something else to send troops against. There may even be a few with cods enough to come south and help take Kalbarca, though I’m mostly counting on Zirko’s halflings in the tunnels beneath for that task. Far as the hoofs, your own numbers will be bolstered by the free-riders. Hoodwink is already out rounding them up. The canniest will have eluded the cavaleros. More mongrels will be coming down from Hispartha, as well, once I send a gritter and a runaway harvester back north. They know what it is to be a half-breed in civilization and each now has a taste of life in the Lots. Mad as it sounds, they assure me there are others like them who would rather die free down here than live working a lord’s fields or entertaining blue bloods in a carnavale up there.”
Notch gave a cough. “You’ve already planned this war.”
Fetch nodded.
Pulp Ear gestured at Notch. “And you’ve just told Hispartha everything! This one used to scout for the Crown.”
“Let them know!” Fetch exclaimed. “Let them fear! Any one of you could betray this information. Pulp Ear, you wanted to turn me over just a moment ago. And that’s why we’re weak. That’s why we don’t have a chance. The Bastards don’t. The Thrice Freed don’t. Nor the Fangs of Our Fathers. Put all together, the mongrel hoofs don’t have a hope of victory. And we never will with our traditions. We need seasoned, hardened, blooded hog riders, yes, but we also need help, allies, and we are going to have to seek them out. We stay divided, we die. Fast or slow. But we stand together, we may be able to forge the Lots into something new. Something that can resist Hispartha, Dhar’gest, and anyone else that tries to put us under their heel. We join together now and our hoof, our one hoof, will grow. And all of Hispartha’s gilded armies will be ground to dust beneath a thunder of cloven feet.
“We have a better chance if you’re all with me, but even if you’re all against me, it changes nothing. I am fighting this war! The True Bastards are fighting this war! You’re here to tell me if we’re the only hoof with the courage to make Ul-wundulas more than a land of castoffs.”
“No,” Marrow said without hesitation. “You’re not. The Thrice Freed are with you.”
Kul’huun stood, rapped his knuckles on his chest. “The Fangs of Our Fathers will live in this battle.”
Father hung his hoary head, took a deep breath. When he looked up, he was smiling.
“Those Traedrians are going to need a port. Mongrel’s Cradle will be open to them. The Sons of Perdition will serve, chief.”
Notch sucked his teeth. He threw up a hand. “Hells, Shards will fight anyone. Might as well fight everyone.”
Boar Lip glanced at his fellow chiefs, considering. “Very well. The Tusked Tide will add their strength.”
“As will the Cauldron Brotherhood,” Pulp Ear said. The doubtful stares he received made him add, “We’re no damn cowards.”
“Tomb?” Notch prodded. “Silence ain’t an answer.”
Tomb’s thick white arms crossed. He was silent for a moment. At last, his choice rumbled forth. “If we’re all going to die, the Skull Sowers will be there to help bury us.”
The mongrels were decided. The halfling remained quiet.
Zirko was deep in thought. His hands rested on his knees. He did not look to any, was not affected by the swell of half-breed furor. Fetch recognized the burden, the weight of a people’s lives upon their leader. Zirko took a small breath and gave a single, deciding nod as if agreeing with whatever his mind’s voice had just told him. The halfling rose from his stool.
“No.”
The chamber grew tense.
Zirko looked only at Fetching. “No. I cannot commit to such a war. Strava was here long before the mongrel hoofs. With the goodwill and protection of Great Belico, it shall still be here when this conflict you foment ends. We survived the Great Orc Incursion. I dare hope we will survive this. I will not command the Unyars—who have served my people and my god so faithfully—to die against a foe they need not fight. We bear Hispartha no grudge, nor will I court their wrath.” The priest swept the room with his limpid gaze, dwarfed in stature by all, but equal in his authority. “I will not stand against you, hoofmasters, so long as you do not bring harm to those under Belico’s protection. That is all I can pledge.”
Fetch felt the doubt begin to poison the room. The Unyars were the largest fighting force in Ul-wundulas. Losing them would be a grave turn, more so if it caused others to falter. She looked down at the little priest.
“You will do this.”
“I cannot.”
His calm detachment made Fetch smile. “I need to remind my fellow chiefs of something Knob said, the day you showed us the Zahracenes, Hero Father. Much as it makes me gag to say it, he was right, laying the blame of the Rutters’ destruction on you. We have one less hoof because of you, Zirko. You withheld warning of the Betrayer Moon and they never recovered from the damage the centaurs did. You punished them because they refused to bleed for you. You expect the mongrel hoofs to help protect Strava, but withhold your help from us.”
“I have aided the hoofs many times in the past,” Zirko said. “Yours most recently, Fetching of the True Bastards.”
“Would you have?” Fetch wondered. “If the Arm of Attukhan didn’t reside in one of our riders, would you have helped the Bastards?”
“It seems your mind is already made on the answer. It serves nothing for me to give mine. As to Attukhan’s vessel, I would say he is evidence enough of my assistance.”
“In the end, it’s still to your gain, Zirko. You don’t do anything that won’t benefit your people.”
“It seems it is now I that must remind you of help given that benefited me not. Of an evil purged without any mention of recompense.”
“You saved my life,” Fetch agreed. “At the insistence of another you aided. Starling came to you, Zirko. She needed protection and you gave it, but don’t think I haven’t reasoned why. You knew what she carried. Perhaps not precisely, but you knew there was a great power within her womb. And you wanted it. Don’t think that I—that she—didn’t see the bend of your mind. I don’t know how you intended to use it, but you had a design, priest.”
“What are you speaking of?” Father asked, his voice wary.
None answered.
Zirko gave Fetch a pitying look. “I will not help you fight Hispartha.”
Fetch took a step, leaned over the halfling. “You will or I swear to you, Zirko, it won’t be the orcs or the centaurs or the frails that bring destruction to Strava.”
The halfling lost his placidity. The whites of his eyes flared within his dark face. Half her height, in simple linen robes and sandals, the priest radiated menace as the room seemed to shrink around him. The chiefs rose from their chairs. Even Tomb took a step back.
“I sense that same power in you, Fetching, chief of the True Bastards. Beware it does not make you overconfident. You imperil your
self threatening my people.”
“I’m not threatening you,” Fetch responded. “Xhreka is.”
The room, and the priest, returned to mundanity. He attempted to restore his calm mask, but it was cracked at the edges of his tight mouth, at the corners of his worried eyes.
“I don’t know much about gods,” Fetching told him, backing off. “I do know Belico is angry. I’ve heard his wrath. Unlike his worshippers at Strava, I’ve heard his true voice. I wonder how he’d sound speaking to you, the man that keeps him the Master Slave. Xhreka seems to think he would destroy you. And Strava.”
“She cannot,” Zirko whispered. “She must not.”
“So stop her.” Fetch felt the venom in her words. “Send Jackal to take the tongue of Belico from her.”
Zirko’s face betrayed the slightest twitch.
“You can’t, can you? He’s free of you. Attukhan is no longer yours to command.”
“You did this?”
“I did this! I am doing all of this so my people will endure, same as yours. I need your help. I asked for it. Now I demand it! Only I know where Xhreka is, Zirko. She does not wish to confront you. To do so would destroy the Unyars and the halflings. She doesn’t want that. I don’t want that. Question is…do you?”
The halfling’s gaze dipped for a moment. When it returned to her, the bright eyes were once again calm. “No.”
“Will you join us?”
Zirko exhaled. “Yes.”
Fetch hadn’t wanted to do it this way. In forcing an ally today, she’d made an enemy for tomorrow. But there was no choice. That battle would have to be fought after the war was done.
A war the chiefs of Ul-wundulas sat down to plan.
The next morning, they all returned to their own lands and the tasks set before them. Fetch tried to think of some words for Kul’huun to take back for Starling, but could conjure nothing but feeble hopes for her well-being. The elf was right. The Bastards were her true kin, and Marrow bore orders to Thricehold for them to return to the castile.
Zirko, too, carried a summons.
* * *
—
FOUR DAYS LATER, THE ZAHRACENES arrived.
Two hundred horsemen waited just outside the reach of the guns.
Fetch rode out of the castile alone and down to the plain.
Tarif Abu Nusar met her halfway on a strong stallion draped in armor. The man, too, was covered in a coat of scales, a scimitar at his hip. Unlike his men, he wore no helmet, only a green headscarf.
“Chief Fetching,” he said, greeting her with a crisp dip of his head.
“Tarif. I’m afraid I don’t have tea.”
“Tea is for guests. Not enemies.”
“Are we enemies?”
“I spoke truthfully when I said I would oppose you if you made an enemy of Hispartha.”
Fetch looked beyond at the horsemen. “You intend to retake the castile.”
“For now I am here because I was invited to talk. So first, I intend to listen.”
“You won’t need to storm the castile,” Fetch told him. “However this goes. I don’t have the means to defend it. Which is the reason I asked you here. Because what I intend, Tarif, is to give the castile to the Zahracenes.”
Tarif peered at her. “My people have fought many wars, chieftain. We do not fall easily to traps.”
“No trap. I can give myself over to your men. You can ride into the castile, look for yourself. There are none waiting in ambush. You have my word.”
Tarif considered but a moment. “Your word will suffice. Your offer will not. You cannot give what is not yours.”
“You just said you’ve fought in wars. Reckon you know it’s mine because I took it. The castile is the most formidable stronghold left in the Lots, and you have the men to fill it. Eight hundred horsemen that can strike from the protection of these walls is a force these lands haven’t known in many years.”
“Why would you do this?” Tarif asked.
“To make Ul-wundulas stronger. Because Hispartha won’t.”
Tarif waved a fly away from his face. “Tell me, chieftain of the True Bastards, why you would ask me to dishonor myself by betraying those that gave my people a new home.”
“Because they betrayed you before you ever set foot on this soil,” Fetch replied. “Because they gave you nothing. The land you have now was empty. It used to be the land of the Rutters, but the badlands did what the badlands do and made them a memory. But that lot didn’t belong to them any more than it belongs to the Zahracenes. It’s not your home. You’re tenants, vassals of Hispartha. They’ll use you up and when all your people are in the dust, they’ll forget you.”
“So you say.”
Fetch gritted her teeth. She wasn’t getting through.
“Tarif, when we met, your pride bruised at being named a Tyrkanian. It’s an insult to be mistaken for those that took your homeland. What do you think you are to Hispartha? Do you think they know the difference? Do you think they care? The half-orcs that have lived here for decades will tell you. No. You’re a swaddlehead and a sand-eater. Just another mongrel chained to your patch of ground, expected to bark and bite when given command. Don’t remain loyal to a cruel master just because he hasn’t kicked you yet.”
“You speak of our meeting. I recall you did not trust me for fear my people had another master. The half-orc wizard. Is he not still your enemy as well as Hispartha?”
“Yes.”
“Then why trust we Zahracenes in your coming war?”
“Because I failed to keep one good, proud warrior away from his schemes once. I want your help in this fight, but I also want to save you from whatever Crafty has in mind.”
“Know that I respect your intentions. My answer remains the same.” Tarif drew his scimitar. “You are alone, so we shall keep this between us. My men will honor the outcome of our combat.”
“Tarif—”
“If you slay me, they will not harm you and they will return to our land. The castle will remain yours. It will be the burden of the new shaykh to decide the Zahracenes’ course should Hispartha bid them return.”
“Dammit, hear me! This isn’t a fight you can win.”
Heedless, the man turned his horse, put some distance between them.
Fetch gnashed her teeth as Tarif faced her once more, a thrumshot away. He raised his blade. Fetch still hadn’t pulled her tulwar when he spurred his stallion forward.
“Fuck!”
She ripped her slicer free.
The Zahracenes began shouting, cheering their leader. No, not cheering. Warning. Their calls caused Tarif to rein up. His men were pointing, drawing their own blades. Fetch looked. Another rider was coming across the plain from the east, barbarian at a gallop. Straight for the two hundred Zahracenes. Alone.
The distance was great, but Fetch didn’t need details to know who it was.
“Jackal! Stop!”
He was supposed to be leading the Bastards back from Thricehold, must have also acted as scout. The Zahracenes were between her and Jackal, and their formation was now wheeling to converge. Tarif’s horse raced to join them.
Fetch kicked Womb Broom forward, but she had no hope of reaching them in time.
Worse, Oats wasn’t far behind. Heart in her throat, Fetch rode hard for the yelling mass of cavalry, dreading the moment the men’s voices were joined by ringing steel and the screams of horses.
The Zahracenes’ war cries were strange. No. Familiar. They were…laughing.
The horsemen had halted their steeds, and parted as Fetch came up.
Jackal and Tarif were both down from their mounts, embracing and speaking in a tongue she did not know, smiles on their faces. As she got down from her own hog, bewildered, the closest Zahracenes erupted in fresh laughter over something Jackal said to the
ir leader. As he glimpsed her coming forward, Tarif’s face fell and he spoke to Jackal in hushed tones. Clapping him on the shoulder, Jack shook his head, responded. He gestured for Fetch to join them, as Oats rode up from the other side, a wary frown on his bearded face.
“Chief, this is Tarif Abu Nusar,” Jackal said.
“I know who the fuck he is,” Fetch told him, covering the last few steps. “How do you?”
“We fought together,” Jackal replied.
“That is a modest answer,” Tarif said, still smiling. “He saved my life and those of many of my men. This is the one I told you of, chief Fetching. It was he that told us of these lands and suggested we might dwell here.”
Fetch thrust a finger at Jackal. “Him? He’s no fucking wizard.”
Tarif gave her a dubious squint. “He stood against a pair of afrite, suffering wounds that should have slain him countless times, and prevailed. Such demons do not die at the hands of regular men.”
“I said the wizard was fat!” Fetch declared.
Jackal’s mouth twisted. “Fat?”
“No,” Tarif raised an eyebrow. “You did not. You said he was a large ass. This means he is humorous, yes?”
“Lard-ass!”
Tarif’s other eyebrow came up in realization. “Ah.”
“Fair mistake,” Oats said, chuckling as he reached down from the saddle and seized Jackal’s butt. “Damn thing is fairly meaty!”
Jackal swatted at his hand. “The fuck off!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fetch demanded, screaming into his face.
“I only knew his name, Isa! Not that of his people. Not until just now. We found ourselves on the same side of a battle against the Black Womb. When it was done, it wasn’t safe to linger, but I could tell they were nomads and were damn fine fighters in the saddle, so I suggested he come to the Lots.”
Fetch took a deep breath, backed away. And punched Jackal in the face.
The Zahracenes burst into fresh laughter as he fell to the dust, Tarif loudest of all.
“He said you didn’t mention us!” Fetch yelled down at him. “You didn’t have time for that?”
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