The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  Chapter 13

  Hobnail was the first Bastard they saw after riding through the Kiln’s tunnel. He didn’t raise his stockbow or an alarm, nor call for the slopheads to put Jackal in chains. His voice contained relief rather than rancor.

  “Fuck all the hells,” he swore, jogging over to help wrangle their hogs. “We figured you all for dead. Where’s Oats?”

  Jackal managed not to cast a surprised look at Fetching. They’d been preparing for a confrontation, not an easy welcome.

  Hobnail took his hesitation for grave news. “Shit. Don’t tell me he’s—”

  “Oats is well,” Jackal cut in, swinging down from the saddle. “He’s back at Winsome. Long overdue visit with his mother.”

  It was the truth. Oats hadn’t been happy about it, but the Tine girl had to be left somewhere and Jackal could think of no better place than Beryl’s. He was not about to bring her into the Kiln, not yet, and he couldn’t leave her completely unguarded. That meant Oats got to play watchdog while being badgered and overfed.

  “Well, you are long overdue a report to the chief,” Hobnail told him, holding steady to one of Hearth’s swine-yankers. “He was a cunt hair away from sending the hoof looking for you.”

  Jackal noticed that Hob’s gaze drifted to Crafty while he spoke. So, the Claymaster was worried about his potential wizard. Likely the source of all the forbearance. Whatever the cause, Jackal wasn’t going to waste the chance.

  “Where’s Mead?” he asked, hoping to all hells he wasn’t out on patrol.

  “Mucking about with the ovens, I think,” Hob replied, looking perplexed. “You not hear me? Chief wants a word.”

  “I heard,” Jackal said.

  He nodded to Fetching and she hurried off toward the Kiln’s central keep. Mead spoke the elf tongue. The notion was for Fetch to bring him to Winsome, to see if he could coax the Tine into talking, give them any clues toward the chief’s hand in her capture. Mead had carried a stiff cod for Fetching ever since he was a slophead, so he wouldn’t need much convincing to help. If he could provide a few more answers before Jackal went to the Claymaster, all the better.

  Hobnail leaned in and grabbed Jackal around the elbow. “You going to tell me what the fuck is happening?”

  Though not a thrice, Hob was big and wore a beard that he dyed red with rose madder. He stuck his face close, eyeballing Jackal with a burning look. Refusing to be cowed, Jackal grinned.

  “You’ll find out at table, Hob. Along with everyone else.”

  Hobnail released his hold, his face going slightly slack. “You’re calling us together?”

  Jackal gave Hob’s shoulder a reassuring thump. The larger mongrel was off-balance with confusion. Best to keep him that way. Jackal kept his own questions coming.

  “Any brothers out riding?”

  Hobnail shook his head. “Only a few slops.”

  That was disappointing, but Jackal tried not to show it. He had been hoping at least one of the Bastards was ranging. There could be no table meet unless all the sworn members of the hoof were present. Now, any stalling that could be achieved would fall on Oats, Fetch, and Mead, but the Claymaster could order them to return from Winsome. And that’s precisely what the plague-ridden tyrant would do, soon as he learned they were gone. Fortunately, Jackal had a shiny trinket to dangle.

  By now, a group of slopheads had converged on the hogs, bringing skins full of water and wine to offer to the returning riders. Jackal accepted one, made sure it was water, and took a long pull. He waited until the slops were making enough of a fuss before giving Crafty a pointed look. The wizard gave the barest hint of a grin and sidled up next to Hobnail.

  “I would like to offer apologies to your Claymaster for taking so unexpected a leave,” Crafty said. “Would you take me to him?”

  “Sure,” Hob said, clearly uncomfortable addressing the stranger. He gave Jackal an almost apologetic look. “Chief is gonna want to talk to you, too.”

  “Just going to see to my hog, first,” Jackal told him, motioning at the slops. “Can’t damn well leave him with these twat lips.”

  “Don’t I know,” Hobnail agreed, and mock-lunged at one of the hopefuls, causing the youth to flinch. “See you in a small while, Jack.”

  As Hob led Crafty away across the yard, Jackal heard the wizard chatting amiably.

  “Hobnail? So named because you are blunt, yet keep your feet in difficult situations?”

  “Uh…”

  “Or perhaps it is simply the shape of your penis which gave rise to the name?”

  Grinning, Jackal hurried in the opposite direction, leaving Hearth in care of the slopheads. Despite his prejudices, he didn’t have time to waste in the stables. On his way to the supply hall he saw Fetching and Mead riding toward the gatehouse tunnel.

  Good. They would be in Winsome soon.

  Of course, it all hinged on the Tine girl actually talking, but that was out of Jackal’s hands. Mead was younger and soft-featured for a half-orc. The Bastards had always given him shit for wearing his hair in the Tine fashion, but perhaps today that affectation would prove useful, help the point-ear to trust. She best start getting used to half-breeds, if Zirko’s prediction were true.

  Jackal hadn’t told anyone about the halfling’s revelation. If the elf truly was pregnant, and if she was carrying a thick’s get, that knowledge would only twist things into more of a vipers’ nest than they already were. Besides, if Zirko was correct about the girl not knowing, the last thing she needed was to hear it from a bunch of half-orcs she viewed as her captors.

  Jackal didn’t know what would become of her, no matter which way his plan went. Even sitting in the chief’s seat, he could not prevent her from taking her own life. Likely he would have to bargain her back to the Tines to make amends. He was using her, same as the unknown orc that raped her, same as the Sludge Man. It wasn’t right, but neither was ending the lives of naked, pleading men in chains. All of these evils had been handed to him. The only way to end it was to snatch everything away from the one that gave them over.

  There was no doubt that Crafty would be able to keep the Claymaster preoccupied, especially if the chief’s inevitable questions and aggravation inadvertently caused the wizard to suddenly become offended, forcing a scramble of apologies and fawning to ensure the hoof did not lose its prospects for sorcery.

  Jackal’s grin widened as he entered the supply hall.

  “Look who finally comes slithering back,” Grocer droned from his usual place behind the counter. “Got the birdcage you stole?”

  “Sorry. The Sludge Man was smitten with it. Gave it to him as a gift.”

  Grocer blew out a disgusted blast of air. “Damn that bogfucker! I had that cage for twenty-two years. Old Creep made it, back before the thicks split his skull. And you just go and give it away—”

  “Grocer,” Jackal cut the curmudgeon off, “who gives a shit?”

  The old mongrel’s face curdled and he glowered. “Did you at least bring the Claymaster back his sand-sucking spell weaver?”

  “Uhad Ul-badir Taruk Ultani?” Jackal said easily.

  Grocer’s wrinkles soured further. “Damn foreign-sounding gibberish…”

  “Just call him Crafty,” Jackal said impatiently. “Yes, he’s here. I need new gear. Full kit, except for brigand and javelins.”

  The quartermaster really got offended now. “You trade everything with some whore? Serves you right, you being the one who caused us to have to pay for cunny now.”

  “Like you have any quick left in your shriveled cock, old man. So miserly, you couldn’t bear to part with your spend, even if you could get hard.”

  Jackal was practiced at giving as good as he got, and made sure to put just enough levity in his insults to push back without offending.

  Grocer chuckled darkly. “Why do you think I piss in the b
eer? Can’t stand to waste it, and you young bucks don’t notice the taste.”

  “We notice. We just like it. Now get me a fucking thrum and a thick-slicer. I’ve felt naked for days.”

  Sliding off his stool, Grocer skulked to the back to gather the gear. Neither he nor Hobnail had said anything about Jackal being gone without orders. Both had displayed curiosity and frustration at his absence, not anger. And Jackal reckoned he knew why. The Claymaster had not revealed one of his riders left without his consent. To do so would be to admit his hold on the hoof was slipping. Which meant Jackal’s footing was stronger than he dared hope.

  “Here,” Grocer said begrudgingly when he returned, laying a tulwar, stockbow, two daggers, and a full quiver on the counter. “That’s the last you get from me this year, so better keep hold of them.”

  Jackal laughed off the empty threat as he buckled the weapons on. Whatever happened now, at least he would be armed. “Anything interesting happen while I was away?”

  “Thicks made a run at Black Knuckle,” Grocer replied. “The Cauldron Brotherhood saw them off proper, but they lost one of their own and four barbarians.”

  “Nothing in our lot?”

  Grocer huffed derisively. “Well, Roundth claimed he saw a Tine sniffing around while he was on patrol, but his mouth’s as full of shit as his skull.”

  Jackal froze for half a heartbeat. He tried to play it off as a momentary difficulty with his sword scabbard, but Grocer was quicker than Hob and missed nothing.

  “Unless you know something I don’t,” the old mongrel said.

  Securing his tulwar, Jackal looked up. “Just be ready to come to table.”

  Not waiting for Grocer’s reaction, Jackal shouldered the new stockbow and left the supply hall.

  The possible presence of a Tine on the lot changed everything.

  He grabbed the first slophead he saw and asked after Roundth. When the youth pointed at the bunkhouse, Jackal took off running. This was why he needed time, to catch up, to figure out, to make sure he went to the table meet with as few blinders as possible.

  The moment Jackal entered the dim building it was clear, from the grunts and moans, Roundth was not sleeping. Each Bastard had his own chamber, and though the stucco walls were thick, the plank doors were thin. Not that Roundth bothered to close his door.

  Jackal leaned around the jamb and immediately clenched his eyes with mild distaste. He was hoping to catch Thistle in a pleasing and compromising position, but he was served a healthy view of Roundth’s pumping backside, replete with sweat.

  “You could plant the flag of Hispartha in the crack of your ass, Roundth,” Jackal declared.

  “That you, Jack?” Roundth asked, not bothering to miss a stroke.

  Thankfully, Thistle had a bit more self-respect, fussing and pushing at her single-minded lover until he ceased his plowing. With a heavy, exasperated breath, Roundth disengaged his namesake and sat back on his heels upon the creaking bed. He turned to face the door, breathing through his mouth.

  “Glad you’re back. You’re still pretty. Now go away.”

  Jackal tilted his head to the side so he could give Thistle a wink. “I’m not the pretty one here.”

  “Go charm someone else, Jack,” the woman said. She managed to suppress her smile, but could do nothing about the blush. Thistle was a heavier woman, but one of the prettiest frails Jackal had seen, and blond, which was rare in the Lots.

  “Why?” he teased. “You’re already stripped down and in bed. The hard work is done.”

  “I’m right here,” Roundth complained, pushing some of the strewn covers at Thistle so she could cover up. The woman made an effort, but as the hoof loved to say, she had the largest breasts in Ul-wundulas. She served as wet-nurse for Beryl’s orphans and was amply equipped for her duties. Roundth had taken to her the moment she came to Winsome. He liked larger women, which was a mercy, considering his famed proportions. Jackal was fond of Thistle. Not many human women would agree to feed a gaggle of half-orc infants from their own body.

  “Darlin’,” Jackal said, “would you mind giving me and the battering ram here a moment?”

  With a final, resigned exhalation Roundth nodded at Thistle. “Just wait in the commons.”

  “Nooo,” Jackal chided, seizing Roundth’s arm and dragging him off the bed. “She can stay and we will go. What’s the matter with you?”

  Unprepared for the sudden tug, Roundth lost his balance and fell off the bed in an awkward, naked tumble. Jackal kept hold and headed out the door. Cursing, Roundth managed to get his feet under him and careened into the corridor. Jackal let go just long enough to put him in a headlock and they scuffled until reaching the bunkhouse common room. Roundth struggled free and stepped back, the smile on his face chasing away most of the irritation of having his fun interrupted. Roundth was short for a half-orc, but his nearly black skin, sizable tusks, and ghastly wide cock hinted at a thrice somewhere in the female line.

  “What is it, Jackal? And it better be good.” Roundth did not bother to cover up, just stood unmindful of his erection.

  “I need to know about the Tine you saw.”

  “That couldn’t have waited? Hells, it was one damn elf.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  “I don’t know anything else that rides a harrow stag.”

  With a shake of his head, Roundth started to head back to the corridor.

  Jackal put a hand on the shorter half-orc’s chest. “I need to know about it. It’s important.”

  It was his tone, more than his hand, that stopped Roundth.

  “Sure, Jackal,” he said, stepping back again. “Um. I was riding near Guliat Wash. Chief had us out solo, on account of you, Fetch, and Oats being gone. I stopped to water my hog and as I was mounting back up, I saw it on the other bank, higher up the gully. Damn big stag with those shimmering damn antlers and there was a rider, right on its back. Fucker was watching me. I called out, demanded what he was doing on our lot, and started riding across the water. By the time I got to the other bank, there was no sight of him. But the tracks were there, right where he was waiting. I know, I know, you think I was heat-sick or some shit but—”

  “No,” Jackal interrupted, “no, I believe you. When was this?”

  Roundth’s eyes looked at the ceiling as he thought. “Two days ago. It’s one rider, Jack! Nothing to worry about.”

  Jackal didn’t say anything. One rider, not enough to worry about. That was exactly the point. One rider was not a threat and easily ignored, but more than enough to look around. The Tines were searching for her.

  “Can I get back to it now?” Roundth asked, gesturing down the corridor.

  “Yeah,” Jackal replied.

  Roundth was halfway back to his room when Jackal called after him.

  “I need a favor.”

  Roundth turned around, but continued to walk backward, making a face that demanded haste.

  “Give Thistle a ride back to Winsome when you’re done,” Jackal told him. “Tell Fetch and Oats I need to see them. Right away. Ride back with them. And tell them to bring the girl.”

  “Girl?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.”

  Rolling his eyes as he spun on his foot, Roundth waved acknowledgment and jogged to his room. The moans started up again before Jackal could leave the bunkhouse.

  Shit.

  Stalling further was pointless. They could not keep the elf in Winsome. Her people were looking for her. If they were already scouting the Bastards’ lot long before Jackal and his companions brought her through, it was very possible a Tine outrider had seen them coming home. And they would not have missed the elf woman riding captive on a barbarian. A lone scout would not have been foolish enough to confront four half-orcs, but if a message got back to Dog Fall, there could be a raiding party of angry point-e
ars riding for the Kiln even now. There was no choice but to reveal the Tine girl. And be ready to adapt to what happened next.

  The Claymaster’s head snapped up when Jackal pushed into his solar. Crafty lounged in the chair opposite the desk, a languid smile ornamenting a mouth that stopped speaking at the intrusion. It was the scene Jackal had conspired with the wizard to design during the ride from Strava. Crafty was relaxed. From beneath the bandages, the chief’s eyes were heavy with thought.

  Jackal clenched his jaw against a gloating smile.

  Seeing his submerged relish, Crafty gave Jackal a tempering look. “Ah, here he is. I was just describing our shared adventure, telling how that devil the Sludge Man attacked us. There was nothing but to defend ourselves.” He spoke to no one in particular, carelessly tossing his words into the room, yet they were laden with messages.

  Drumming his swollen fingers on the desk, the Claymaster stewed. Finally, his far-staring eyes focused on Jackal.

  “Wouldn’t have needed to defend yourselves if you’d stayed out of the marsh. But this mongrel’s stones swell at the thought of defying me. Don’t they, Jackal?”

  “I was angry, chief,” Jackal replied, and meant it. “Doesn’t sit well when my hoof is in danger. I couldn’t let it rest. Had to know Garcia’s body wasn’t going to come back to bite us. But he’s swamp scum now.”

  The Claymaster nodded. “Fucking frails. If Bermudo thought he could bring down this hoof with nothing but a lost horse and a greasy gash peddler, he has no notion of who we are. Now that we’re whole, we can decide how to show him.”

  This wasn’t the chief Jackal expected. He had prepared for him to rage, to scream and fret uselessly. But the mongrel sitting behind the desk sounded like the old Claymaster, the one from Jackal’s slop days, the formidable leader who had forged the most famed hoof in the Lot Lands.

  The Claymaster peered up at Jackal, a sudden glint in his eyes. “When is Oats coming back with this point-ear cunny?”

  Jackal nearly choked, and had to prevent his eyes darting to Crafty. That was not a detail he was supposed to reveal. Jackal had wanted to ambush the Claymaster with the sight of the elf. But his snare had been sprung early.