“I knew he’d have to petition Hispartha to come here!” Jackal said from the ground, wiping the blood from his busted mouth. “My name would only have caused him trouble. And I didn’t know he’d come.”
“I told you!”
“You didn’t!”
“…yes!”
“Are you certain?”
Fetch’s hands clawed at her hair. “No! Fuck!”
Oats was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Tarif offered a hand down to Jackal, helped him stand. “No harm. The strands of Fate cannot be severed. All is as it should be.” His face turned serious once more as he regarded Fetching. “Jackal is not my enemy. I see now, neither is he yours. And I owe him my life, a debt greater than any due Hispartha.”
“You owe him that twice if he just stopped you from fighting the chief,” Oats said, wiping his eyes.
“The Zahracenes are your allies in any fight,” Tarif proclaimed. “If you require us.”
“We do,” Fetch told him.
“Then let us see our castle.”
* * *
—
FETCH HAD AHLAMRA SHOW Tarif the castile. The woman knew the fortress as well as the man’s native tongue. When the inspection was complete, he left half his men behind and rode out with the rest to begin preparing the Zahracenes to move. Fetch sent Ahlamra with him to act as envoy.
“He’ll likely fear he’s made the wrong choice in these first days,” Fetch told Ahlamra as she saddled a horse for her. “Help keep him steadfast. But…try to prevent his wife cutting his throat. Or yours.”
The beautiful frailing gave a patient smile. “That will not be a danger. The key to a man like Tarif Abu Nusar is his wife. She will keep him steadfast, and so it is her I must win to your cause.”
Tightening the girth strap, Fetch snorted. “You were around him for an afternoon. You can’t already know that.”
“Tell me, chief, when you raise your stockbow, how long does it take for you to know your aim will be true?”
“A heartbeat,” Fetch conceded.
Ahlamra allowed herself a smug look.
The wagon full of orphans was just trundling under the gate when the Zahracenes departed. Upon the bench, Sluggard drove the team of barbarians, Thistle beside him. The rest of the Bastards rode behind. Oats approached to help Thistle down, Muro nearly attached to his leg.
“See that they’re fed and settled,” Fetch told him.
Jackal came up and stood beside her. “Went down to my old chambers.”
Fetch smiled. He meant the dungeons.
“Less crowded than before we left for Thricehold,” he said.
The thought put a bad taste in Fetch’s mouth. “The men that were obvious trouble I had Hood quietly take care of. The rest, we will have to see. Hoping a few will help us understand how to properly use these guns.”
“I might be some use there,” Jackal said. “Saw a few used in Tyrkania.”
“Good.”
“I could have a look, as well,” Sluggard told them over his shoulder as he continued to unhitch the wagon team. Finishing, he turned the hogs over to a waiting Bekir and approached. “Some of the carnavales I rode with used black powder in small amounts. One even had a fake cannon.”
“You two are on it, then,” Fetch said.
Sluggard looked at Jackal. “Say we head up and have a look in a small while? I need to wash the dust from my throat.”
“Wine and incendiaries.” Jackal chuckled. “Can hardly wait.”
“Well, I meant water, but if you want to make it interesting.”
“Let’s…start clearheaded, see how it goes.”
“Very well. Chief.” Sluggard nodded at Fetch, clapped Jackal on the shoulder, and ambled off.
“Careful, Jack,” she said when the gritter was out of earshot. “Between him and Tarif, Oats could get jealous.”
He waved that off. “Oats is like the rest of us. Had his share of whores. Besides, any man gets jealous of one that’s lost what Sluggard has…he’d be a damn petty son-of-a-thick.”
Fetch returned the smile he gave. She’d hated Jackal being gone, but liked what the world had done to him.
* * *
—
AS THE SUN ROSE the next morning, Fetch climbed to the roof of the keep. She looked north, right eye squinted against the glare. She’d always hated the dawn, for the same temptation was always there. The call to quit, feeding on all the struggles of her life. She hated herself for it, the desire to embrace such weakness. Hated herself almost as much as she hated the Claymaster, and Maneto, and Knob, and every other cunt who made her doubt her earned place in these badlands. Another of those days was beginning.
Fetch looked at the stone of the merlon in front of her. Thrusting her arm forward, she punched through the block. Mortar and rubble fell away when she removed her fist. She watched the wind blow the dust from her knuckles, carry it away. Every foe could be as easily broken now. Yet the sunrise still heralded the same old desires. The call to abandon this life verged on irresistible.
The road behind was strewn with pain, doubt, cruelty—every step a defiance. And it had brought Fetch to power, such that she need never again fear another living thing. But what of her people? Shielding them, fighting for them, it was a monstrous task. She could break their enemies, but the shards of so many battles could still destroy all she loved, leave her kneeling in a pile of their corpses. This strength did nothing to lighten the burden of so many lives. The road ahead was terrifying, yet she could not share her dread with those she must lead.
Not with them.
Fetch went to the dovecote housed atop the keep and threw the doors wide. The birds took flight in a flurry, two dozen or more. All went north, all bore the same message. Fetch had written it so many times, she knew it by heart.
You name us mongrels. You name us soot-skins. You name us ash-coloreds. You name us in hatred. What will you name us, when you learn to fear us?
Fetch gazed at the sky as her challenge flew to Hispartha. She whispered at the new day.
“Let’s find out.”
For Liza, my bride, fearless and fetching.
Thank you for earning a living in your underwear so I could earn one in mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book took more than two years to complete. In that time, the list of people who supported me has lengthened while my memory has…not. Apologies to those who deserve a mention and do not see it here. Feel free to send me a “What the hell, bro?” message.
First, I need to offer heaps of gratitude to my undyingly patient editor, Julian Pavia. He stuck with me through what can only be described as a bout (or two) of “draft madness.” All the classic doubts and fears of a sequel hit hard, but I never received any judgment or guilt trips, despite the headaches of adjusted launch dates. Julian, thanks for all the understanding and for helping me bring the best version of this story to the readers.
Also, great appreciation to the rest of the stellar folk at Crown: Angeline, Kathleen, Stacey, Lance, and everyone else who I may not know. I’m still awed to have so many dedicated professionals working on behalf of hog-riding half-orcs.
Across the pond at Orbit UK, thank you Anna, James, Nazia, Emily, and crew! You guys have turned your corner of the world into one hell of a dedicated hoof with your infectious enthusiasm for this series.
Thank you to Julie Wilson at PRH Audio for bringing in Harry Nangle and Will Damron to produce the audiobook of The Grey Bastards. Y’all did a kick-ass job!
I am blessed to have Josiah Bancroft as a sympathetic ear. Like my great influence, Robert E. Howard, I have a writer friend who understands what this journey is like (good and bad). Though, to be frank, my pen pal is way cooler than Lovecraft.
Those of you sporting Grey Bastards shirts, huge props for t
he extra (and visible!) support. Those mongrel-worthy designs were done by the talented Ian Leino, and I am very fortunate to have his talents unleashed on this brand.
Much respect to my late grandfather, Charles Arthur French Jr. (Graddy to me). Thanks for deepening my understanding of the deaf and showing me the nearly superhuman possibilities of lipreading.
I am indebted to the brilliantly profane writing of Jesse Bullington for providing the name of Fetch’s hog.
I also purloined from Mike “Everest” Evans (at his request) when adding Dark Hog to the Lots’ canon. Cheers, mate!
The Grey Bastards was lucky to have some incredible cheerleaders among the bookstores, most notably Victoria at Mysterious Galaxy and Beth at Powell’s. Thank you for recommending the book to anyone who didn’t run away at the initial premise…and for tackling a few of those who did.
Jim Hodgson, I can’t wait to see you again on the next season of Outlander. I miss your musk.
Appreciation to Dr. Aleron Kong and Dr. Davis Ashura for confirming my instincts on surviving castration.
It’s also fashionable these days to tip the hat to Dyrk Ashton. Perhaps because he’s the most genuinely kind person in the writing world. Or a nefarious villain. Kinda depends on who you ask. But he’s always been a staunch ally of mine, so we’ll go with the him being genuine and nice thingy.
Vas, long before Live in the Saddle, we had another salute. My friend, as always, Above Ground!
Mark Lawrence, the tithe of my soul is coming by courier.
Rob, thanks for accepting who I am, for always checking in, and for keeping me afloat.
The amount of daily support I receive from my family is staggering. Mom, this book was served and informed by you providing a lifelong example of resilience, compassion, perseverance, and grace. You are at your best when those you love are at their worst, which is a blessing and a burden that you carry like no other. Dad, I may not always seek your help, but I know I can and that when I do, you’ll give your all and more. Wyatt, you’re too young to read this book, but here’s one word just for you: POO. You are the treasure of my life. Liza, perhaps the best expression of gratitude I can give you is: this one is finally behind us. Thanks for digging in and staying sane, even when I wasn’t. Love you all.
This year I finally got to meet my agent, Cameron McClure, in person. This was after she slogged it out in the trenches with me during the writing of this book, especially the last months when things got rough. Cameron, you’re the best agent in the business because you’re so much more than that. You’re a collaborator, a confidant, an adviser, a mentor, and an incredible friend. You’re incapable of bullshitting and don’t suffer it in me. There’s only one hoof name worthy of you. Thanks for riding with me, Chief.
And, finally, to all the readers, this dream would evaporate without you. I’m forever grateful to each and every one of you.
Stay in the saddle, mongrels!
Jonathan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONATHAN FRENCH lives in Atlanta with his wife and son. He is a devoted reader of comic books, an expert thrower of oddly shaped dice, and a serial con attendee.
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