Eventually, Oats joined Jackal at the fence, where he had taken up a torturous vigil of Strava’s star-banishing shadow.
“Fetch and I are gonna sleep,” the thrice said quietly. “Crafty’s got the point-ear.”
“Good.” It was all Jackal could think to answer. He waited, knowing his friend had more to say.
“We have to return to the Kiln tomorrow, Jack. Gotta let the hoof know we’re all still alive.”
“Yeah,” Jackal agreed slowly. “At sunrise, you and Fetching go. Crafty and I will follow with the girl when we can.”
“You really going to bring her back? What’s the chief going to do when he sees?”
“Exactly,” Jackal said. “What? His reaction will tell us something. Hopefully enough.”
“And if his reaction is to kill her? And you?”
Jackal had been thinking on that. “He doesn’t have to know what we suspect. Hells, all he’ll know for certain is what we tell him. Sludge Man tried to kill us when asked about the horse. We put him down and rescued his elf slave. Whatever more there is will be for him to betray. We just have to hope he does and we are quick enough to take advantage.”
A rumbling sigh poured out of Oats. Briefly, he pawed the back of Jackal’s head, giving it an affectionately rough shake before walking back to the stable.
Hearth trotted over, rooting around noisily before settling down in the dust. Soon, the hog was grunting and snuffling in his sleep. Jackal sank down to the ground, exhausted to the point of feeling sick. His broken arm had been completely taken over by the frightening numbness. Concentrating on the dull, dead feeling made Jackal nauseous, so he tried to put it out of mind. He lay back on Hearth, his head and shoulders resting against the hog’s barrel of a belly. The rhythm of the barbarian’s breathing quickly pulled Jackal’s eyelids down.
Chapter 12
Jackal awoke coughing. The air was musty, heavy with a mixture of unpleasant odors. Hearth must have moved on in the night, for Jackal was flat on his back. Blinking against the lingering confusion of sleep, he sat up, nearly gagging on the morass sinking into his lungs. The stench of smoke was strongest, with foul undercurrents of rust and decaying leather.
Zirko stood before him.
“You have grown strong, Jackal of the Grey Bastards.”
It was damn dark, the sky devoid of moon and stars. The high priest was visible only because of the torch in his hand.
“You remain companioned with a thrice-blood and that singular female,” Zirko continued, “yet now you add a wizard and an elf slave to your followers. Some would call that madness.”
Squinting against the glare of the torch and his own befuddlement, Jackal stood.
Zirko turned and his light revealed the stone arch of a low tunnel just behind him.
Jackal recoiled as his perception was violently altered. He had thought himself in the corral, under the vast openness of the sky, yet now he realized he was underground, hemmed in by rank dirt and threatening rocks. The oppressive air, allied with the reek of a thousand old graves, began to drown him. Spitting and coughing, fighting not to retch, fighting to breathe, Jackal struggled amidst the undeniable leaden blackness.
Zirko’s voice reached through the panic.
“There were many who deemed Belico mad when he rode out to conquer his neighbors with only two brothers, fourteen men, and one dwarfish slave.”
“Where…?” Jackal sputtered before succumbing to dry heaves.
“In the end, none dared call him madman. Warlord. Scourge. God. These were the words now on the tongues of the world.”
Snarling furiously against his own weakness, Jackal forced his body to obey.
“Where have you brought me?” he demanded.
“Come,” Zirko gestured toward the tunnel. “Allow me to show you.”
Clammy with sweat, but breathing easier, Jackal took a step toward the halfling. Zirko waited patiently until he was within a few steps, then entered the yawning mouth. Jackal had to duck to follow.
The dragging torchlight shone raw inside the narrow throat. Timber and mortared stone held the earth at bay, though the struggle was an old one and small avalanches of dry soil fell through fissures in the brickwork. They walked in silence for a long time, and Jackal’s legs began to burn from the effort of propelling him while holding a squat. Numerous passages intersected with theirs, sinister gullets of shadow opening irregularly from left and right. Zirko made several turns and Jackal soon despaired of ever finding his way back to the sky.
Occasionally, they passed other halflings in the side tunnels, each halting and bowing their head as Zirko went by. Every one bore a torch and some other oddment, held carefully, reverently. Jackal noted weapons and armor ridden with rust or verdigris, some little more than misshapen lumps. Several held silken bags or small coffers, their contents a mystery. Most, however, carried bones. After witnessing the fourth halfling cradling a skull to his breast, Jackal avoided looking into the other tunnels and focused on Zirko’s back.
At last, they emerged into a roughly circular chamber. The ceiling was domed, allowing Jackal to stand upright. The chamber might have once been quite sizable, but heaps of refuse piled against the curved wall intruded far onto the floor, choking the space. Treasure lay alongside trash; broken pottery scattered amidst golden urns, dry-rotted saddles perched atop gaping chests of coins, broken bows lying on burst sacks of gems. Atop it all was a grubby film of dust and patina and smelly age. In the center of the spoiling hoard lay an angled stone bier supporting the skeleton of a man. Fully dressed in moldering armor and surrounded by pitted weapons, the reclining bones faced the tunnel.
Zirko picked his way through the debris and stood next to the bier, holding his torch aloft to better bathe the remains in flickering light.
“This was Attukhan,” the halfling said, his voice hushed with respect. “One of the original fourteen men with the courage to join Belico.”
Jackal lingered at the mouth of the tunnel and said nothing.
“Your humors tell me that you share much with Attukhan, Jackal,” Zirko went on. “Courage, ambition, a thoughtless confidence that some would call foolishness. It will be a good match. I pray you are worthy of it.”
“Worthy of what?” Jackal ventured.
Ignoring the question, Zirko motioned at the contents of the tomb with a languid finger. “Do you know how long it took my people to find all this? How many halfling pilgrims wandered the world, tirelessly seeking the objects Attukhan possessed in life? How many returned empty-handed, their faith in splinters? How many…did not return at all?”
Jackal shook his head.
Zirko smiled. “No. And nor do you care. Why would you?”
Carefully, the halfling reached toward the bier with his free hand, winding his fingers beneath the skeleton’s left vambrace, and lifted the forearm bones free.
“Perhaps,” Zirko said, holding the bones close to his chest, “it is enough to say that your request requires something most precious.”
“I told you, I was willing to pay the price,” Jackal declared.
“Because you do not know what it is. You find charging into unknown danger simple, perhaps even comforting. But I wonder, would you be so bold staring it full in the face?”
Jackal felt his patience unraveling. “You asked if I would make a blind bargain and I agreed. Now you question my grit! Heal me or don’t, priest, but spare me your insights into my nature.”
Zirko took a deep breath. “Did you know that the first Zirko was born in the south? In Dhar’gest, that the orcs now claim?”
Jackal had heard something of the sort, but did not remember it until now. He was growing tired of questions, and was in no mood to voice an answer. The high priest did not appear to expect one.
“Before he was taken by slavers and sold to the Imperium,” the halfling
related, “Zirko was the stunted son of a lion hunter. His father traded him to the flesh markets when it was obvious he would never grow taller than a boy. Years later, he was given to a minor steppelands chieftain in tribute for some small service. He would eventually help that chieftain attain godhood. Yet still, what he wanted most was to return to the veldts of his childhood.
“When at last he did return, Zirko was the patriarch of his own tribe, the leader of the Unyar horsemen, and prophet of the god worshipped by both man and halfling. His former people, however, would never see his splendor. During Zirko’s long years as a slave, the orcs had overrun his homeland. Calling upon the Master Slave, Zirko bade the god destroy the slaughterers of his birth-kin, but Belico, fresh in his divinity, could not combat the ancient powers fed by the sacrificial fires of the orcs. Zirko was forced to flee north, across the Gut, and came here to Ul-wundulas. During the journey, he commanded the Unyars to fill their helmets with dirt and drag stones upon their shields, so that he could build Strava from the soul of his home.”
Jackal realized too late that he was grinning.
“Is something amusing?” Zirko asked mildly.
“No,” Jackal told him. “Sorry. Crafty had the story wrong. I was looking forward to gloating.”
Zirko chuckled. “To sorcerers, all knowledge is a weapon. In their haste to fill their quiver, they often do not look to see if the shafts are straight.”
“So why tell me?”
“In order for you to understand the price,” Zirko replied, his smile vanishing. “I have no desire for trickery. I simply could not speak terms in front of your companions. Your hoof sister was likely to try and kill me were she to hear the cost of my help.”
“Name it, then.”
“There are two prices. The one you must pay to me, you already know. The second is due to mighty Belico.”
“Speak, priest!”
“For me, you must stand with us here at Strava every Betrayer Moon. Do you agree?”
“Done.”
Zirko fixed him with a dubious squint. “You answer quickly, Jackal. I thought loyalty to one’s hoof was absolute. You would abandon your brothers on the night they will likely need you most?”
“They are Bastards,” Jackal said. “They can endure a few nights without me.”
“But can you endure a life without them?” Zirko asked quietly.
Jackal hesitated. Something in the halfling’s voice made his guts go cold. The little black man looked around slowly, calmly taking in the uncountable litter of relics.
“My namesake never relinquished his desire for vengeance. After long years, Zirko had a revelation. As a god, Belico could not contend with the orcs, but as a man there was no army that he could not defeat. So, my pilgrims dedicate their lives to collecting the vestiges of Belico’s host, bringing them all here to his temple. When he witnesses the power of his mortal life assembled once more, he will return to flesh and bring his men back from death. Belico will ride again and spill orc blood until there is none left to stain the world.”
Jackal saw the disturbing passion of belief spread throughout Zirko’s entire body as he spoke. His short stature no longer mattered. At the center of his own zeal, the halfling was a formidable, controlled storm. Had he been surrounded by thicks, the priest would have cut them all down with ease, Jackal had no doubt. The thought of a hundred temples in Hispartha was suddenly not so difficult to imagine, if this was what faith in the faceless could do to even the smallest man.
Holding the bones out at arm’s length, Zirko approached.
“I will give you the arm of Attukhan. But you must pledge, here beneath holy Strava, that if the great god Belico returns while you still breathe, you will ride beside him in place of the champion whose bones made you whole. You must swear to renounce all loyalties and serve only the whim of the Master Slave. This is the price demanded by my god.”
Jackal took a long time to answer, though he no longer felt any reluctance. This was a bargain that would never need to be honored. Gods were fables and men did not return from death. But Jackal took a moment to ensure his relief did not show. It was clear that Zirko believed what he said, but even lost inside his god’s fervor, the priest was no fool. Too quick an answer might tip him off to Jackal’s dubiety.
“I swear,” Jackal said solemnly, “that if Belico returns during my life, I will serve him.”
Zirko’s torch began to gutter. In the flickering, failing light, Jackal saw the halfling open his hand and allow the forearm bones to fall to the floor of the tomb. They were both snapped in two. Blackness spilled down from the dome, charging the weakened flame and snuffing it out. Jackal was blind.
And then he opened his eyes.
The morning sky was newborn, still jaundiced before a proper sunrise. Hearth was warm and bristly against Jackal’s skin. Groggy and stiff, he rolled and pushed himself up off the ground. Hearth went right on sleeping, only kicking a little at the disturbance. Looking across the corral, Jackal saw Fetching and Oats already saddling their barbarians. It looked like Crafty and the Tine girl were still asleep.
Jackal was halfway across the corral when he stopped, realizing what he had done. Out of old habit, he had placed both hands on the ground when he got up, pressing his full weight upward. Holding up his left arm, Jackal peered at it, flexing his fingers. There was no pain, no awful swelling or aching pressure. No nauseating numbness. The damn thing felt fine. Unwrapping the splint, Jackal scrutinized his arm further. His flesh was a little sour-smelling from sweating under the bindings, but otherwise normal. Shaking his hand rapidly at his side as he walked, Jackal came up behind Oats.
“We’re riding out,” the brute said, too busy with Ugfuck to turn around.
“We’re all going,” Jackal said.
Oats turned slowly, frowning, and Fetching looked up from her hog. Jackal raised his arm, showing them the back of his hand and wiggled his fingers.
“Well, that’s done,” Fetching muttered, and went back to securing her javelins.
Oats’s face went slack with relief and puzzlement. “When the…? What did he ask you for?”
“Nothing,” Jackal replied. “Going to be spending every Betrayer here, like he said.”
“Huh,” Oats grunted. “Claymaster’s going to piss venom.”
“Let’s go home,” Jackal said, ignoring the last remark and clapping the thrice on the shoulder. He whistled shrilly across the corral, waking Hearth. The hog clambered to his hooves and trotted over. Jackal wasted no time getting him saddled. Crafty came and stood by just as he was giving the girth strap a final tug.
“So,” the wizard said, “I gather a pact has been made?”
Jackal gave him a grin. “As solid as the one between you and me. Oh, and you were wrong about the helms full of dirt. It wasn’t Belico who ordered the Unyars to do that. It was Zirko.”
“Well, he would know,” Crafty replied with airy amusement. “He was there.”
Jackal threw out a small laugh. “The first Zirko was there.”
“As you say,” Crafty returned, already walking toward his barbarian.
“Fat-ass doesn’t like to be wrong,” Jackal told Hearth, still chuckling. Looking up he found the elf girl waiting within the stable, watching the preparations.
Fetch’s spare riding leathers were too big for her, cinched about the waist with a length of dirty rope. The shirt was not so bad, though the elf filled it out far less than its owner. Jackal found himself noticing her hair. She must have allowed Fetch to cut it at the river, too foul from the swamp to properly clean. Injury and a worried mind had kept Jackal from noticing before, but now he was struck with the vibrant color, so black it was nearly blue. The way Fetching’s knife had hacked it to just below the elf’s jaw, gave her a ragged, wild appearance.
Realizing he was staring, Jackal turned away and mounted up.
“Oats,” he called, “you got the point-ear.”
Once the Tine was up on Ugfuck’s back, they all rode out of the corral, finding a troop of horsemen waiting for them. Zirko was with them, astride an ass. Jackal and the others reined up.
“The Unyars will see you safely away,” the priest told them.
“We thank you,” Jackal replied, dipping his chin respectfully.
As the horsemen began escorting the hogs away, Zirko raised his hand toward Jackal.
“One last word before you go.”
The troop did not stop, making it clear that the priest wanted time alone. Oats and Fetching stalled.
“Go on,” Jackal told them. “I’ll catch up.”
Zirko waited until all the riders were out of earshot before speaking.
“I trust I will see you again.”
“The Betrayer Moon,” Jackal said. “So long as you warn of its coming, I will be here.”
“Good,” the priest replied. “Strava will be the safer for it. Take this too.”
From a pouch at his belt, Zirko produced a leather packet and tossed it to Jackal.
“Tea leaves?” Jackal asked, sniffing the contents.
“They will help with the nausea.”
“I don’t feel sick.”
“Not for you,” Zirko said. “For your elf woman. Another month and she will need those brewed each morning.”
Jackal felt his jaw go slack. “You think she’s pregnant?”
“I know what she does not. Not yet.”
“Fucking Sludge Man!” Jackal snarled.
Zirko clicked his tongue. “I am afraid her time is less than seven moons away. That is not the seed of any man in her belly.”
“That filthy bog trotter is no man…”
Jackal trailed off, his brain coming to grips with what the halfling just said.
“Seven months? You mean…?”
Zirko dipped his eyes in response.
Jackal ran his newly healed hand through his hair. The poor girl was carrying a half-orc.
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