The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  Oats moved aside at his approach, his shoulders swinging away, leaving Jackal facing the Grey Bastards.

  In a frozen moment, five faces stared at him in disbelief at the far end of the long, coffin-shaped table. Hob, Polecat, and Grocer sat on the left, Mead and Fetching on the right. She was closer to the door, and closer to Jackal. In a glance, he took in the stockbows propped against the walls behind every occupied chair and the voting axes on the table before them. The stunned inertia was over in a blink, broken as Polecat lurched to his feet, upsetting his chair.

  “You can’t be here,” the hatchet-faced mongrel said.

  The instant Jackal focused on Polecat, Grocer’s arm moved, quick as a snake, drawing and hurling his knife. The wiry old coin clipper was fast, but Oats had kept an eye on him, and a hand on an empty chair. He snatched it up and knocked the blade away, using the return swing to throw the chair at Grocer. Unprepared, the aging frailing was sent sprawling. Hobnail was on his feet now, but his hands were empty, his bearded face awash with agitated indecision. Mead went for his stockbow. His hands were shaking, his eyes spooked, unable to make sense of what was happening. In his hurry, he fumbled the load, dropping the bolt.

  “This isn’t what I want!” Jackal declared, but the ears in the room were deaf to all but the rising tidewaters of violence.

  Polecat had drawn his tulwar. He jumped up on the table and began charging down its length. Snarling, Oats tore his own sword free. Polecat made it only a few pounding steps before Fetching’s hand darted out, seizing his ankle and yanking him off his feet. He fell hard in front of her, chin striking the dark wood of the table. Rising, Fetch snatched the thrum from Mead’s hands, threw a back kick that knocked him into the wall, and loaded the weapon swiftly from her own quiver. Stretching one leg up onto the table she placed a knee over the back of Polecat’s neck, pinning him with her weight while pressing the stockbow firmly into her shoulder and aiming at the half-recovered Grocer.

  “Hob?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the quartermaster. “Do I need to do anything to you?”

  Across the table, Hobnail raised his hands casually and retook his seat. “No.”

  Jackal reached over and lowered Oats’s sword arm, inwardly thanking all the hells his instincts had not lied to him. Had he been wrong, if Fetch had intervened differently…fuck, right up until the moment she moved he had not been certain. For one moment, everything felt normal. He and Oats and Fetching were on their feet, triumphant against the world. But the moment fled quickly, leaving behind nothing but the cold touch of recent events that had twisted the faces of family into threatening strangers.

  “I don’t know how many times you need to hear it,” Jackal said to the room, “but the thicks are in the Lots. It’s the beginning of another Incursion. Hells, it may already be too late, but if it’s not, we don’t have much time. I need to talk fast and you need to listen. If turning other hoofs away from your gate sits right with you, if the evil-looking shit coming out of the chimney doesn’t unnerve you, if you are content to ride the trail of ruination that the chief has led this hoof down, then keep trying to stick daggers in me. But if you want some answers, then get up, sit down, and open your ears.”

  Polecat’s strained and muffled voice echoed off the table. “Fetch. Let me up.”

  “Let go of the slicer, Cat,” Fetch told him.

  Splaying his fingers, Polecat allowed his sword to rest on the table. Fetch removed her knee. Rising up to sit on his heels, the former Rutter rubbed at his chin and set his beady eyes on Fetching.

  “If I had known that’s what it took for us to grapple,” he leered, “I would have tried to kill Jackal and Oats years ago.”

  “Get off the table, limp-cock,” Fetching instructed him lightly. “And Grocer, you keep giving me that shit-filled stare, I’ll put a bolt in your throat just to change your expression.”

  The thin old frailing redirected his sour grimace at Jackal and got to his feet, his long, ropy hair dragging the floor as he pushed up. Righting the chair that had felled him, Grocer sat down.

  “Mead,” Jackal said, inviting the youngblood to take a place with an inclination of his chin. With a look of downcast contrition, Mead picked himself up and obliged. “Fetch, I’d feel better if there were no loaded thrums.”

  The last time Jackal had seen Fetching, she was bruised and swollen from her fight with Oats. Those hurts had mostly healed and her alluring face regarded him boldly for a moment. He saw the expectation of ill will in her eyes. She was waiting for him to look away in distaste or peer at her in judgment. He did neither. He gave her a small, oft-used smile, perfected during their youth, and motioned at her thrum. Giving him a mocking sneer, Fetch removed the bolt, put the thrum on the table, and straddled a chair. Resting her arms on the chair back with her chin atop, she blinked up at him in a mockery of rapt attention. But just at the end, he saw her notice his Bastard tattoos, whole and free of axe cuts. Her brow furrowed, ever so slightly, and her concentration became real.

  Sweeping the countenances of the others, Jackal took a deep breath.

  “The Claymaster and Crafty have conspired with the orcs. They are using the thicks to bring Hispartha down, so the wizard can take the throne.”

  “Oh, this is hogshit,” Grocer groaned.

  “The chief can stop it,” Jackal went on, undeterred. “He still carries the plague, and can release it at will. There used to be eight others like him. They were the true protection against the thicks, not the hoofs. We were formed to protect them.”

  “I helped found this hoof, you arrogant cunt!” Grocer snapped, nearly standing, but a warning look from Oats put him back in his seat. “I was there when you were still a rape waiting to happen, so you can stop your lies.”

  “You were there for the start of the Bastards,” Jackal agreed evenly, “but you didn’t fight with the chief during the Incursion. He freed you from a quarry after the fighting. Didn’t he?”

  Scowling, Grocer did not respond.

  “I’ve seen the place where the plague was created,” Jackal said. “Seen the cages used to hold the slaves. I spoke to one of the wizards who concocted the damn thing.”

  The others were barely listening. Grocer was too busy contriving ways to kill him, Mead was lost in despondency. Polecat kept staring at Fetch, fantasizing, while Hobnail wore a gormless grin, as if waiting for the end of a long jest. Only Fetching truly heard him, yet his every word darkened her face, the revelations forming storm clouds in her stare.

  “I must sound mad,” Jackal said, shaking his head.

  Oats came to his aid.

  “Tell them how you know all this, brother.”

  Jackal gave his friend a grateful look and turned back to the table.

  “Warbler.”

  A change came over the hoof. They all tensed and their eyes settled on him. Hobnail’s grin began to fade. He had been a fresh slop when the old mongrel left, but the name still carried weight. Mead’s eyes drifted to the stump behind the chief’s empty seat, where Warbler’s axe had long resided, the only evidence of him the young half-orc had ever known.

  “He told me about the plague,” Jackal said, seizing the opportunity. “Brought me to the mine where he and the chief were slaves, prisoners. Where they were tortured. He has long believed the Claymaster was leading this hoof to destruction and has never stopped trying to find a way to wrest the Grey Bastards from his control.”

  Jackal almost told them about Hoodwink’s years-long deception, but held his tongue. Some secrets were not his to reveal.

  “I know how this sounds,” Jackal conceded. “But think about what you’ve seen. The Claymaster let those orcs go at Batayat Hill because he wanted them to bring word back to Dhar’gest that he still lived. That’s why the thick assassin came. He was sent for the chief. With him dead, the orcs have nothing left to fear.”

  P
olecat shifted in his chair, agitated. “You just said he was allied with them.”

  “He’s allied with Crafty, and I think the wizard made a bargain, one the thicks didn’t readily accept. It’s not their way. The assassin was a test or a message. Either way, Crafty made sure the orcs knew what he was capable of. He answered the message by hanging their cutthroat’s corpse from our fortress and giving it a voice. The thicks must have listened. They have been promised the Claymaster will not oppose them, keeping them safe from the plague while they march north. And now they are coming.”

  “That’s a tale with a long cod, Jack,” Hobnail declared.

  “Makes a heap of sense, though,” Mead said quietly.

  A disgusted noise rattled out of Grocer’s throat. “Good on you, Jackal. You got Oats and Mead convinced. Tough job, there! But you’ve always been too clever by half. It’s a fool that would take the word of a free-rider, especially one ousted for failing to replace the chief.”

  “And how did I fail?” Jackal asked, seeing the dreaded moment had finally come. He struggled not to look at Fetching, a struggle made all the more difficult by the feel of her eyes on him. “It’s the one answer I haven’t been able to grasp. I made my challenge knowing I had the chair. That day, even the chief was shocked when I lost. But there was one person close to me who didn’t want me at the head of this table. One person who had promised loyalty and delivered betrayal. One whose motives I was too blind to see.”

  He turned to Fetching now, to her hard, set jaw, her fierce, lovely face.

  “And that person was not you. Was it, Fetch?”

  Her nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly, as she let out a silent, relieved breath. She shook her head, just for him, then turned to the hoof.

  “Crafty,” she told them, her voice steady. “He threatened to destroy the hoof, kill us all, if I didn’t vote for the Claymaster.”

  Next to him, Jackal heard Oats’s breath catch painfully in his chest. All around the room, the mongrels were listening, not liking what they heard. Mead started to look awake. Polecat’s mouth slowly fell open. Even Grocer was changed, the malice smoothed from his pinched face by the slack of unwelcome understanding.

  “It was also the wizard’s idea that I volunteer as champion,” Fetch went on. She paused. The muscles in her throat constricting. She looked directly, and only, at Oats. “He said there was no one that could beat you…only one you would refuse to beat.”

  Oats had difficulty returning her gaze. His jaw bulged and he tried to clear his throat. Only when his eyes had welled beyond his control was he able to look at Fetch.

  “But I didn’t hold back, Fetching,” Oats admitted, his voice wet and quivering. “Not at the last.”

  “I know,” she told him. “And neither could I. I had to win. That fat tub said he would burn us all if Jackal got the chief’s seat.”

  Towering over the table, tears making their way down into his beard, Oats nodded slowly. Casting a stern glance at his brothers, daring them to mock him at their peril, he opened his massive arms and beckoned Fetch.

  “You going to get in here, or do I have to come haul your ass out of that chair?”

  Springing up, Fetch went to the thrice’s crushing embrace. Jackal could not keep the smile from his face and found it reflected by all but Grocer, who sat in an unblinking brood. Twice Fetch tried to break free and twice Oats refused to let her go, until her laughter emerged in muffled bursts from beneath mounds of muscle. Finally released, she looked at Jackal and quickly grew ashamed of her smile.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “Even after it was over. I knew you would confront him if you found out. After what he did in the Old Maiden and to that thick’s corpse, I feared he would kill you.”

  “I understand,” Jackal told her. “You were right. About him. About what you had to do. You were right.”

  Fetch’s mouth twisted and she gave a careless shrug. “I know.”

  Yet a gleam appeared in her eyes, one that promised to make up for all hurts in a very specific fashion. Without a word, Jackal returned that promise before addressing the others.

  “You heard it. The chief is not in control of this hoof. It is Crafty giving the orders now. I suspect he has been since the day he arrived. So, what’s it going to be, boys? You going to wait until the Kiln is an island in a sea of orcs before you do something?”

  Before any could answer, Grocer’s hand slapped down on the axe in front of him. His knuckles went pale as he gripped the haft. Jackal tensed and his hand went to his sword.

  “Our votes are sacred,” the old frailing said through clenched teeth.

  Twisting quickly as he stood, Grocer flung his axe into the stump.

  There was a moment of stillness. Grocer looked as if he were about to be sick, glowering at his choice. Nodding with approval, Hobnail stood and another woody thud resounded in the chamber. Mead and Polecat followed, casting their votes in quick succession, both into the stump.

  Striding to the table, Jackal reached and retrieved two more axes. He handed them to Oats and Fetch.

  “Bury him.”

  They threw as one, their flung blades sinking deep into the wood.

  Jackal basked in the sight of eight axes blooming from the grey, ringed face of the stump. Hoodwink’s axe was still on the table. By hoof code, the vote wasn’t solemn until all sworn members had cast, but it did not matter. The Bastards had made their displeasure known. In their minds, the Claymaster was no longer chief.

  “Let’s go deliver the news,” Hobnail said with relish.

  “Remember,” Jackal reminded the group, “we still need him. If the orc tongues see that he stands against them, they will turn back and inform the teeth that the plague still protects the Lots. We have to get the Claymaster out from Crafty’s clutches.”

  Mead raised a finger. “How are we going to do that? He threatened to kill us all, and Fetch thinks he can, which is proof enough for me. So…what is going to prevent him from doing that?”

  Before Jackal could speak, Oats hooked a thumb at him.

  “He is. Crafty may be a wizard, but our pretty-boy here is the Cock of Armakhan.”

  Hobnail’s lip curled beneath his red-dyed beard. “What the fuck is that?”

  “And how can I be it?” Polecat asked peevishly.

  “It’s Arm of Attukhan,” Jackal corrected Oats wearily. “And I don’t know exactly. Something Zirko gave me. It helped me handle one wizard. No reason it shouldn’t give me an edge against the Tyrkanian. You all just get the Claymaster out and away. And avoid Ignacio. He may try to stand in your way. Get the Hogback lowered. There are five riders outside the walls ready to help.”

  “That will still put us far from matching the cavaleros’ numbers, Jack,” Mead pointed out.

  Jackal gave him a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “Let’s get the first task done before we start sweating the next.”

  Gathering their weapons, the mongrels left the meeting hall. As a group they crossed the yard. Jackal strode purposefully in their midst, free from any more skulking in the shadows. There was no more need to hide. Fetch was right about him. Had he known of Crafty’s treachery sooner, he would have faced the wizard immediately. But he would have done it ignorant and alone. Now, he was whetted with knowledge and bolstered by six mongrels with a grudge. The Claymaster had shaped them all, but chosen to abandon them for the machinations of a devious outsider. The hoof was a thrumbolt the chief had removed from his quiver, and now the barbed head of that bolt was speeding toward his heart.

  The question remained, would they be able to punch through Crafty if the wizard chose to stand in their way? Jackal may very well have just set the Bastards on the path of their destruction, but braving that path was the only way this would all end.

  He had wanted to be the instrument of the Claymaster’s fall since before he was
a slophead. He daydreamed of power and went to sleep with flattering images of leadership stewing in his head. In youth, it was a selfish scheme, an unfocused lust for importance. Once he was a sworn brother, his reasons matured somewhat, becoming dimly driven by a need for change, lest the hoof continue to decline. Now, it had nothing to do with vain rivalry, or worthiness for leadership, or even what was best for the hoof. The Claymaster was a weapon. Hells, to Crafty he was a toy, one the wizard needed to be deprived of for the sake of the Lots.

  The central keep loomed ahead.

  Mead pulled the heavy door open and the Grey Bastards filed inside, loaded stockbows held low. Jackal took the lead.

  Chapter 34

  Oddly, the air within was chill. Expecting an oppressive furnace, the hoof cast quizzical glances at one another. They moved smoothly down the curving passage, passing the kitchen, forges, and storage rooms until they emerged into the great, central chamber. The base of the massive chimney awaited them. Honeycombed within its bloated form, the edges of the closed iron doors of the ovens were etched with that horrible green light.

  The Claymaster stood beneath the imposing works he had designed. He turned at the sound of their steps, his bent back slowly revolving beneath the uneven hunch of his shoulders. Swaddled in bandages and covered in layers of boiled leather, the misshapen mongrel was a bulky, intimidating presence. He watched as the remnants of the hoof he had led for nearly thirty years approached.

  “What the fuck is this?” the Claymaster demanded, seeing Jackal at the head of the group.

  “You know,” Jackal told him.

  A sudden glare appeared above as an oven door set higher in the chimney was opened. Revealed by roaring jade flames, Crafty stood upon the gantry and, removing a handful of something from the bag at his hip, tossed it into the inferno. Jackal had failed to notice him, but now his stockbow, along with those of his companions, jerked upward to train upon the scaffolding. Crafty calmly pushed the oven door shut with a bare hand, and turned. Looking down, he made a show of noticing the hoof, his broad smile visible from the ground.