“What happens now?” Mead asked when the four of them reached the privacy of the yard.
“Trial by combat,” Hobnail told him.
There was more air in Mead’s voice than words. “Jack is going to fight the chief?”
“How did your fool-ass ever become a Bastard?” Hob berated the younger half-orc.
“Let him alone,” Jackal urged soberly. “Not like any of us have ever been here before.”
“It’s happened in other hoofs,” Hobnail countered without much energy. “He should know the code.”
Jackal took a step closer to the perplexed Mead. “Claymaster and I each choose a champion to fight the trial. That way the combat can’t leave the hoof without any leader at all.”
“This shit’s to the death?” Mead asked, looking more spooked.
“Not always,” Jackal told him.
“It was the last time the Fangs of Our Fathers chose a new chief,” Hobnail declared.
Jackal gave him a sharp look. “We’re not the Fangs. It’s a bare-knuckle fight. Surely the Grey Bastards can declare a victor without caving in a skull or tearing a throat out.”
“So…who are you going to choose, Jackal?” Mead asked.
Jackal turned to the only one amongst them who had not spoken.
Oats stood with his arms folded over his chest, his eyes burning at the sand beneath his feet. Feeling Jackal’s gaze, the thrice looked up. They had known it would come to this, had planned and plotted and mused for years. The three of them. But now, only Jackal and Oats were standing here, their silence reiterating a hundred private talks. Everything had changed, and yet, nothing had. The possibility of a draw had always been there. Jackal would challenge, Oats would champion. He was the only thrice-blood in the hoof, the biggest and the strongest amongst the Bastards.
“Who do you think the chief will pick?” Oats asked, already preparing himself for the fight ahead.
Hobnail barked a short laugh. “Would have been me.”
Jackal nodded slowly in agreement. Hob was the nearest to Oats in stature and brawn, without him the Claymaster was lacking in raw strength. But he had something else.
“It will be Hood,” Jackal said, looking only at Oats.
His friend took this in resolutely, but there was a flicker in that familiar, bearded face. Jackal was sure he was the only one who caught it, so tiny was the reaction. He did not begrudge any trepidation. Hoodwink was not a foe to be taken lightly.
Mead had blanched. “Didn’t Hood once kill an entire ulyud when he was a free-rider? Six thicks, single-handed. I heard he wasn’t even mounted.”
Hobnail cuffed him hard across the back of the head. “You see him do anything of the sort at Batayat? Or any of the other half dozen times he’s ridden to stop a raid? Would have been useful! How can you speak Tine-tongue, Mead, and muck about with that alchemist’s fire in the ovens, and still be so fuck-all stupid?”
“Yeah…no, I know. But it’s different when he’s with us. That’s why the chief sends him out alone all the time. He’s got ways when no one is looking.”
“Well, everyone will be looking during the trial,” Jackal said, wanting to put an end to it.
They had all heard the stories about Hoodwink, but anyone who survived years as a free-rider built up a reputation. Amongst the nomads there were only the dead and the famous. Sifting out the facts from the legends was pointless. What was certain was that Hood had been the chief’s pet cutthroat since joining the hoof and there was no doubt he was dangerous.
Jackal drew Oats aside.
“Don’t let the ghost stories get inside your head. He’ll have speed and a few dirty tricks. Avoid a grapple and don’t tire out. That pallid snake won’t be able to take more than a few of your punches. Hells, none of us can. Pick your moment and put him down.”
Oats listened intently, chewing on the advice. After a moment’s digestion, he clapped Jackal on the shoulder, but his confident expression withered quickly.
“Why did she do it, Jack?”
All Jackal had for an answer was painful earnestness. “I don’t know. We’ll ask her once we are on the other side of this. Thank you…for standing with me.”
Oats’s powerful fingers clenched down. “Just a little ways to ride, brother. The hogs smell water.”
Noon came.
The interior of the central keep was sweltering. It was always hot within, but Jackal felt as if he were trying to draw breath at the bottom of a boiling sea. This amount of heat could only mean one thing: the Claymaster had ordered the ovens lit.
“Why would he waste the timber?” Mead asked, with no small amount of wounded pride. The ovens had been his charge for the last year.
“A precaution,” Jackal lied. “Help keep the fortress safe while we are distracted with the trial.”
The true reason was more sinister. Fighting in this blistering air would be terrible. The chief was trying to give Hoodwink some kind of advantage. Was the gaunt-faced mongrel immune to heat? Jackal kept his suspicions behind his teeth. There was no need to burden Oats with unknown worries regarding the queer talents of his adversary. The brute walked at Jackal’s right, already stripped to the waist. Oats looked prepared, formidable, he had even snatched some sleep in the intervening hours.
As Jackal’s group entered the great chamber he saw no sign of any slopheads. What was about to happen here was for only the brotherhood to witness. The Claymaster and his entourage were already present. There was no cordoned-off arena, just a broad section of open ground beneath the great chimney. The two factions faced each other across the innocuous expanse of dirt.
“Your champion ready?” the Claymaster inquired.
Oats answered for himself, taking a full step forward and rolling his trunk neck around atop his corded shoulders. His attention was on Hoodwink, who seemed shrunken and sickly by comparison, lurking at the edge of the chief’s cadre. Jackal tried to read that sunken visage, but came away, as always, mystified.
“No weapons,” the Claymaster announced, sounding almost bored. “No yields. A champion is only defeated if knocked senseless…or killed. Understood? Then let’s get this done.”
The chief gave a quick, ushering wave, but Hoodwink did not move.
It was Fetching who stepped onto the fighting ground.
Jackal’s throat constricted. He had been avoiding looking at her and had not noticed the change in her attire. Her riding leathers were replaced by loose linen breeches, cropped above the knee, her breasts wrapped tightly in the same material. A glistening film of pig lard shone on her exposed skin and through her bound hair. The set of her head, the way she bounced slightly on the balls of her bare feet, the far-away brushfire in her eyes, it all bespoke a Fetching ready to fight.
Oats had tensed when he first saw her, but now he took a furious step forward.
“FETCH! What the fuck game is this?”
She stepped lightly away from the bellowing thrice, her fists coming up in relaxed defense. Oats’s hands remained by his sides, fingers splayed in pleading confusion. Just as suddenly as he had surged forward, Oats whirled and hurried away from her, his eyes agog with pained panic, his head shaking with disbelief.
“Jackal…”
Jackal caught his friend’s face in his hands, feeling the fear-tight jaw beneath the beard.
“What…what,” Oats stammered, “what is she…I can’t…”
“Listen,” Jackal tried to shake some focus into the near-crazed mask. “Listen!”
Oats’s eyes settled on him, barely. Jackal lowered his voice to a near whisper.
“I don’t know why. But it’s here. You’re letting her rattle you and that’s what they want. They got no one who can beat you, so they’re resorting to this. You can’t allow this to change anything.”
“I can’t hurt her, Jack.”
Oats lunged.
Jackal managed to stall the brute’s charge, but it was the derisive laughter from the Claymaster’s camp that actually stopped him. Throwing a warning look back at Hobnail, Jackal returned his attention to Oats.
“I don’t want her hurt either,” he assured, and was surprised to find he meant it, “but she put herself here. She put us here. Oats…she’s trying to get me killed.”
This last seemed to waken his friend, the truth of the words effective as a bucket of cold water. He calmed slightly, though Jackal could feel every muscle trembling, shivering from the frigid realization.
“I won’t let that happen,” Oats vowed.
Releasing his breath gratefully, Jackal lowered Oats’s head down with his hands until their brows were touching.
“She’s going to be fast. Remember. Don’t tire out. Let her temper get the best of her and snuff her candle. When she comes to, we will both get answers.”
Oats nodded, his forehead scraping against Jackal’s, then he stepped away.
Fetch was waiting on him in the center of the trial ground.
These two had faced each other many times in training. Sword drills, grappling matches, half-lark fistfights. Black eyes and busted lips had been traded between them since Beryl’s. Yet seeing them now, Oats’s slab-thewed back drawing closer to Fetch’s springy stance, Jackal found a souring dread in his belly.
Hobnail was already barking encouragement and, on the other side, Polecat and Grocer urged Fetching on with zeal. Jackal had no voice. He barely dared breathe.
Oats advanced on Fetch, implacable as a mudslide. He was a good head taller and had the reach, but he kept his hands hovering beneath his chin well after he had closed the distance. Fetch slid to the right, tracing an agile semicircle to keep from being bulled over. Twice Jackal saw her left toes rise slightly off the dirt, but she held the kicks back.
They were both showing restraint, caution, using their heads instead of their bodies. Oats kept on pressing, forcing Fetch to keep scampering, tempting her to react.
Smart.
Eventually, she would get fed up with the rabbit game and her anger would surface, then she would do something stupid. Jackal stared hard at her feet, willing her to lash out. Fresh as Oats was, he would catch the leg easily and end this trial quickly. But Fetch was smart too. She moved with that natural, effortless grace that had been hers since adolescence. She used twice as much motion, but appeared to make Oats work twice as hard. Sweat was already dripping from his beard.
“Smash that cricket, Oats!” Hobnail yelled, forcing Jackal to reach over and silence him with a touch. That kind of talk was going to goad Oats into a mistake.
The brute ceased his advance and began merely pivoting to keep Fetch in view. She hovered dangerously close, well within the crushing purview of Oats’s fists. Jackal saw her toes come up again. Oats did too. And that’s why he missed the jab that Fetch sent darting into his face. She barely had the reach and her knuckles glanced off his cheekbone, but the punch was just as much a feint as the raised foot. Ducking under the hook Oats used to counter, the hook she must have expected, Fetching slammed a pair of quick strikes into his midsection and was away again.
Oats wasn’t hurt, Jackal was relieved to see, but Fetch had touched him three times without coming close to reprisal and that fact was creased on the thrice’s concerned face. Still, she could needle all day and not bring that tree down, while all Oats needed was one solid hit.
“Wait for it, brother!” Jackal reminded his champion.
The tilt of Oats’s head showed he had heard and understood. He waded back toward Fetching, hunched lower, his head and face more within reach yet bulwarked behind his rippling forearms. He was a moving wall of bunched muscle, prepared to bring all his power down on a single mistake from his opponent, a mistake he now courted. This time he sent fast, compact jabs at Fetch, his big fists scattering her fluidity. She dodged and weaved, but there was an ugly, fitful quality to the motions. One jab nearly caught her and she was forced to buffet it aside with her own hand, upsetting her balance. Smelling the opening, Oats barreled through, bringing a tight elbow around to hammer Fetch’s shoulder, then made a grab for her. For half a heartbeat he had her bound up, but his hands slid against the lard as Fetch contorted free, managing not only to break the grapple, but also land a departing strike to Oats’s jaw with the heel of her hand.
Hells, she had moved so fast, Jackal was not sure how she had managed it.
Oats expelled a wad of blood along with a curse. Thankfully, he refused to get angry. Pressing the back of his hand gingerly against his teeth, Oats paused. Fetching had retreated several arms’ lengths, and he watched her intently. Waiting, catching his breath, cooling off.
“That’s the way,” Jackal hissed to himself, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from smirking.
Oats was refusing the offensive. If Fetch wanted to come to grips, she would have to come to him. Every moment she delayed was another moment Oats gathered himself. He need not chase her all around the fight ground when he could simply wait for her to try to tackle the mountain.
“What’s wrong, honey-clit?” Hobnail jeered. “You only know how to run one way?”
Jackal saw Fetch’s jaw clench, the pride boiling into something dangerous. Dangerous and reckless.
You never were fit to be here!
The words were forming on Jackal’s tongue, but they died before he could voice them. He could not wield such a lie, even in service of his cause. Still, he made no effort to silence Hobnail.
“Come on, you useless gash! Stop stalling and fight like a Bastard!”
A silent snarl twisted across Fetching’s mouth, baring her teeth. She advanced on Oats, but it wasn’t the headlong, foolhardy rush Jackal had hoped for. No, it was a straight-backed, purposeful stride. Halfway, her fists came up, locking calmly just below eyes that were limned in chilling intent. Her first jab, swift as a striking snake, was met by an almost lazy swat from Oats. He caught the follow-up cross against his bunched arm, which he then sent out in a wind-punishing punch meant for Fetch’s face. Snapping away, she came right back, her hip twisting as she launched a kick. Her long, powerful leg careened into Oats’s side and Jackal just barely heard a grunt over the impact. Oats made a grab for the leg, but it had already recoiled, returning to place beneath its fast master to further fuel her assault.
The pair began to weave a storm of violence between them. Oats sent thick-armed blows revolving away from his savage torso, each an unfulfilled promise of a snapped bone. Fetching dodged and countered, her limbs a nest of pit vipers. The dull slapping of meat accompanied their breathy expulsions of fury. Oats blocked more than he avoided, weathering the knees and elbows of his swift opponent. He was able to send counter-blows less and less as Fetch’s attacks reached a fever pitch. Bright droplets of sweat were spinning off of both champions, but Oats was clearly flagging more beneath the palpable heat.
A trio of punches made it past his guard, the first carving a path for the next two, and Oats’s head rocked to one side and back again, blood now flying next to the sweat. A bestial growl tore from his throat and, abandoning all attempts at protection, the thrice lunged forward, driving his knee directly into Fetching’s midsection. She folded up as she was lifted off her feet and pushed backward, a choking rush of air coming from between her lips.
Jackal shivered. Every blow to this point was nothing that would not have happened in the training yard, but the sheer brutality of the strike Oats had just delivered seemed to stop time. A threshold had just been crossed. Somewhere within a muffled void, Hobnail was crowing. Ropey spit cascaded from Fetch’s pain-gaped mouth, but somehow she kept her feet when they again struck dirt. Unhappy with the result, Oats kept coming. He bulled into Fetch
ing, scooping her nearly bent-double form in his arms to haul her into the air, flipping her into a head-dangling bear hug. Using the momentum of his charge along with prodigious strength, Oats prepared to toss his inverted foe over his shoulder.
From both sides, cries of alarm issued from the spectators as Fetching hooked her legs around Oats’s neck and used that same momentum to sit upright. She was now astride his shoulders, his face buried in her stomach, and she began raining elbow strikes down upon his bald pate. Blocked by the clinging body of his attacker, Oats could not properly bring his own arms up to defend himself. Flailing ineffectually as Fetching smote his skull, the brute finally halted and began twisting his body in an attempt to dislodge her. Having witnessed Fetch break many a hog to the saddle, Jackal knew Oats’s attempts were useless.
“Bring her to the ground!” he yelled, hoping to be heard through Fetch’s gripping thighs.
His voice, or instinct, must have gotten through, for Oats grabbed hold of Fetch’s legs and threw his weight forward, slamming her shoulder blades into the ground. The maneuver had forced Oats to one knee and he tried to rise, but through the upset dust Jackal could see that Fetching held fast, now straightening her spine to hold her opponent to the earth. But Oats’s arms were still free and he punched viciously into Fetch’s kidneys, once, twice, and she let go, throwing her legs over her head into a back tumble to regain her feet.
Oats shot forward from his crouch and weathered a crosskick to the face in order to close the distance. His charge now a stumble, he swept his arm at Fetch’s weight-bearing ankle and knocked her to the ground beside him. She rolled and planted an elbow in his ribs, trying to stand, but he caught her. The lard on her skin, now infused with grit from the floor, was useless. Oats had her seized by the neck and one wrist. He pulled her up and around until they were both on their knees, facing each other. Fetch’s free hand struck defiantly across Oats’s jaw, but he dissuaded a second blow by hammering his forehead into her face.
Jackal winced and muttered a curse when Oats did it again.
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