The Grey Bastards_A Novel

by Jonathan French

  “Ah, friend Jackal!” he said, leaning his sizable frame upon the railing. “You have returned. It pleases me to see you.”

  Sighting down the runnel of his stockbow, Jackal got the distinct, disturbing impression that the wizard’s pleasure was genuine.

  “We are taking the Claymaster, Uhad,” Jackal called up.

  “I think that unwise,” the wizard replied.

  The calm in his voice, the good humor, was infuriating.

  “Hob, Polecat. Lead him out.”

  Out of his periphery, Jackal saw the pair move to do as he instructed. He heard the Claymaster snarl as he ripped his tulwar free, slashing out on the draw, forcing Hobnail and Polecat to recoil. For all his infirmities, the old mongrel was dangerously fast.

  “Don’t try it again,” the Claymaster warned. “You blind sucklings don’t know what the fuck you’re doing!”

  “We know,” Grocer said bitterly. “And we know what you are doing.”

  “Fucking hiding!” Hobnail spat.

  From beneath the putrid wrappings, the Claymaster’s eyes burned. “Hiding? Hiding? You mewling, miserable cunts!”

  In a growing rage, the Claymaster advanced on the hoof, brandishing his tulwar. Everyone pulled back a pace, stockbows leveled.

  “Watch those ticklers!” Jackal yelled. “We need him alive!”

  “If I may, perhaps, interrupt,” Crafty’s voice drifted down. “Truly, I think this rash action is a mistake. Claymaster, please. Anger will not do.”

  The Claymaster halted, though his venomous gaze, undaunted by the pointed thrums, promised murder.

  “Friend Jackal,” Crafty continued, satisfied with the stillness. “What is it you think to accomplish?”

  “An end to your lies and your schemes. To repel the orcs you invited into our lands.”

  “I see,” Crafty said, standing up straight. “And I believe you could accomplish this. Once. Yet, I must ask, what will you do the next time?”

  Jackal hesitated and the wizard gave him a fond smile.

  “I fear you may have misread my…schemes, friend Jackal.”

  “Have I?” Jackal challenged. “You hold claim to the Hisparthan throne through your human father. You intend to win that throne using the fury of the orcs and the complacence of the Claymaster. You are both going to allow Ul-wundulas to be trampled beneath the conquering heels of a thick war host. You told me that you wanted to see the Lots before they were gone. You sounded so fucking certain! Now I know why. Your tongue is silvered and forked, Uhad. Tell me I have misread, and all I hear is how close to the mark I truly am!”

  “I have given you cause to distrust me,” Crafty admitted, “but suspicion shall not be outweighing your cleverness, I think. In this moment, you are correct. But what about the days to come? What is the future of these lands once you have thwarted me?”

  “We didn’t come here to listen to you, jowly!” Fetch said. “Counsel. Lies. Threats! Whatever comes out of your mouth, we are not hearing it.”

  “Then hear it from me!” the Claymaster said. He pointed at the hoof with his sword, moving it slowly across as he addressed them. “You all came in here with a mind to, what? Drag me out, force me to face the orcs? Jackal talks of silver tongues. What do you think is in his mouth, when it ain’t licking quim?” The blade came to a stop, pointing at Jackal. “Did you tell them I was the last? Convince them I was the only way to turn the tide of an Incursion? Well, boy, you are right. Probably makes you hard, hearing that. You are right.” The Claymaster’s bandaged head swung to look at all who had him at thrum-point. “Did you hear? My tongue ain’t silver. It’s black. Decayed. There are no pretty words in me. So just maybe you will believe me when I tell you, Jackal is right. I am all that stands between us and the hordes of Dhar’gest. AND I SHOULDN’T BE!!!”

  Without warning, the Claymaster flung his sword upon the ground, the blade ringing stridently upon the stones. He stepped fiercely into the ring of stockbows, leaning his face toward the points of the bolts. Mead and Polecat took another step back, spooked. Jackal tensed, hoping not to hear the snap of a bowstring.

  “LOOK AT ME!” the Claymaster roared, his mouth opening so wide it stretched and loosened the wrappings beneath his jaw. “Look at me! I’m old! I’m rotten! Haven’t been able to sit a hog in years. How many wars do you think I have left in me? How many battles? And you!” The quivering mass of rage swung on Jackal. “You arrogant, pretty little fuck. You come in here with my hoof turned against me and demand I go out and fight. To save you. To save the Lots. And fucking Hispartha! Well, you are not the only one who is right, Jackal-boy. The wizard’s right too. I may be able to do it. Once. One last time. Maybe! And what then? WHAT?!”

  The Claymaster’s voice was raw, his voice hitched with small coughs. His shoulders slumped as his rage diminished, replaced with a resigned weariness. Stepping away from Jackal, he looked again at the group.

  “The Lots are an hourglass, boys. The orcs were always coming back, one year or another. Hispartha gave us these lands knowing that. They feared us plague-bearers, but they also used us. We bought them time to rebuild, to prepare. All for a hot, dusty swath of badlands.” The stained, loose wrappings swung as the Claymaster shook his head. “I could get on my chariot, ride out, let this hideous shit loose that the frails put into me. Orcs would die. The plague might scare them away again for another few years. Another few years for Hispartha to train armies, build towers, indulge wizards. None of which they are going to use to protect the Lots once I’m dead and you are facing this again. The sand is about to run out. I have spent years looking for a way to stop it. The Tyrkanian is that way.”

  “What is he going to do?”

  It was Mead that asked, his voice filled with curiosity and reluctant hope.

  “Turn the hourglass over,” Crafty answered from above.

  Realization struck Jackal.

  “You’re going to give the plague to another,” he said.

  Crafty produced a respectful little bow. “As I said, your cleverness abounds.”

  “Not me,” Jackal surmised, “or else you never would have arranged to have me ousted.”

  “Again, you are correct.”

  “Then why work so hard befriending me? Making promises to help me become chief?”

  Crafty’s smile widened, as if relieved Jackal did not have it worked out.

  “Because the friend of my friend is mine too,” the wizard replied. “You command great loyalty, Jackal. The influence you have over the one required could not be discounted.”

  Reflexively, Jackal’s head turned to look at Fetching.

  Her eyes narrowed as she steadied her aim at the wizard. “You’re not putting anything in me, suet-ass. Especially not anything coming out of the Claymaster.”

  Crafty’s bright teeth showed as he rejoiced in her vitriol. “Dear Fetching, you have many strengths, but a thrice-blood you are not.”

  Jackal’s spine went cold.

  Oats’s heavy brows knit together. “Me? He saying he wants me? I knew it, you backy swaddlehead!”

  Crafty’s amusement grew. “Yes, I must admit it. Though, strong Oats, my need for you is less base than you imagine. I simply do not wish to rule over a kingdom of corpses.”

  “The fuck are you on about?” Hobnail demanded.

  Mead lowered his stockbow slightly, pondering.

  “A thrice is more orc than man,” the youngblood said. “Oats carrying the plague would make it more deadly to thicks and less to frails.”

  “Be careful, friend Jackal,” Crafty said, clicking his tongue, “you may not be the most clever amongst your brotherhood.”

  “You’ve tricked the orcs,” Jackal said. “Lured them with the promise of Hispartha. But you do mean to fight them.”

  The wizard’s broad cheeks inflated as he blew out a breath.
“Oh, I am giving them Hispartha. For a time. Enough time for the kingdom to bleed, to despair. Their defenses are not as potent as they believe. Those I serve have seen to that.”

  “The Black Womb,” Jackal said sourly. “Abzul was not alone. You have others at your command.”

  “Quite so,” Crafty said. “Messages will be lost. Garrisons will abandon their castiles. Wells will be poisoned. A number of little catastrophes to allow the orcs to penetrate into the heart of Hispartha, near enough for the queen and her court to smell them coming. That is when we will strike.”

  Grocer wrinkled his face. “We?”

  “Half-orcs,” Crafty clarified amiably. “The hoofs of Ul-wundulas. We will rally all mongrel riders under the new plague-bearer and come to Hispartha’s rescue, routing the horde and sending those that survive the pox back to Dhar’gest.” Placing a thick-fingered hand on his chest, the wizard smiled. “But not before what is left of Hispartha’s nobility recognizes the half-breed grandson of their late, beloved king. A king whose legitimate daughter so recently failed to protect the kingdom and its people. With no other honorable course, she will graciously abdicate the throne.”

  “To you,” Jackal said, unable to suppress a small laugh of admiration.

  Crafty’s turbaned head nodded humbly. “Just so.”

  Jackal was filled with a bitter curiosity. “Tell me, Uhad. Are you truly some prince’s mongrel son?”

  The question was not met with the smugness Jackal had anticipated. From his vantage on the scaffold, Crafty grew pensive, even mournful. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes blank. When he responded, his voice was solemn.

  “One thousand and one half-orc youths were taken by the Black Womb and tested in the crucibles of sorcery. To say that only I lived would be a falsehood. To say that only I survived would not. One thousand souls broken in the contractions of rebirth. I ask you, which is more possible? That the Hisparthan prince’s bastard was the one to overcome all the trials? Or that the one to overcome all the trials was the Hisparthan prince’s bastard? A blood tie to nobility needs only be claimed, but the mastery of wizardry must be real. Tyrkania desires to make a satrapy of Hispartha, this I know, and to this purpose I am tasked by potent masters. Yet for me to succeed they were forced to give me power equal to their own. My paternity may be a lie, but my arts are truth. Hispartha will allow itself to be deceived. They will crown their savior, half-orc and wizard though I am, comforting themselves with the knowledge that I am connected by blood to their precious, though perverted, lineage.”

  “You have it all solved, don’t you?” Jackal mocked.

  “Much of this was set into motion before you and I were born, my friend. The east has long yearned to make a puppet of Hispartha, at last turning to arcane counsel for the means. For my part, adjustments had to be made. Some of them regrettable.”

  “Like squeezing Fetch’s vote?” Grocer growled. “Find it hard to fathom you weeping over that.”

  “Weep? No,” Crafty confessed. “But causing one I had grown to admire to become outcast gave me no pleasure.” The wizard looked at Jackal directly, his face steady and earnest. “It did not take long to see you would oppose me, my friend. You hold such love for this land, and you are ever bold in your vain struggles against rule. I had hoped to make you an ally. I still wish it, for you would be a strong one, but it is a false hope. Seek potent allies and you shall find the most grievous of your future foes. We need simply look around to see I was correct. Here you stand, with the Grey Bastards at your command, willing to defy their master of moments ago. Willing, also, to defy me, though there is no hope in the doing.”

  “Wizards can be killed,” Jackal said. “I’ve done it with a lot less help.”

  “You should not be mistaking me for a toothless, twice-mad communer residing with his pet vermin in a reeking tower,” Crafty said. The words were a warning, but the tone was strangely affectionate.

  Jackal snorted. “Why? Because you can do what Hispartha’s wizards could not? Make the plague only sicken orcs and not humans?”

  “Humans will still sicken,” Crafty told him flatly. “Fewer in number, thankfully, but some will die.”

  “And the survivors will hate you for spreading it,” Fetch exclaimed.

  “The survivors will fear him,” the Claymaster muttered. “And they will kiss his feet, so that he doesn’t unleash it further.”

  Oats glared at him and Crafty. “You two think I’m going to be the cause of all that, you got runny hogshit in your skulls.”

  “You have to, son,” the Claymaster said. There was reason in his voice, and guilt, Jackal noticed. Fetch must have heard it too, and shifted uneasily.

  “Why does he have to?” she demanded.

  The Claymaster didn’t answer.

  Jackal snapped a look up at the gantry. “Crafty?”

  The wizard made a small, apologetic gesture with his hands. “It is rare that we half-breeds know a mother’s love. For many of us, not being killed at birth is all the evidence of her affection we have. But a lifetime of that love, reflected in an actual face? That is a rare blessing. Truly, Oats, you are fortunate.”

  Oats did not immediately understand what he was hearing, his face perplexed.

  “Damn you, Crafty,” Jackal growled.

  The venom in his voice burned through Oats’s confusion.

  “Beryl?” he said, his voice weak, then boiling over with rage. “My mother? My fucking mother! What have you done?!”

  “She is safe,” Crafty insisted. “Watched by the trusted Captain Ignacio, who awaits to hear word that you have accepted your chief’s mantle.”

  Jackal began to shiver with fury. Of course. No one else would agree to hurt her, not even at the Claymaster’s order. Every sworn brother, slophead, and bedwarmer loved Beryl. Hells, she had raised most of them.

  Dropping his stockbow, Oats surged at the Claymaster. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?”

  Up on the gantry, Crafty leaned forward eagerly. Too late, Jackal saw the trap.

  “Oats, don’t!”

  Deaf to all, the thrice seized the Claymaster, his huge hands curling around the old mongrel’s neck. As soon as they touched, both stiffened, screams erupting from their gaping jaws. The Bastards cursed in alarm and stepped back as a palpable miasma poured from beneath the Claymaster’s bandages. The visible fetor was a churning, living cloud of pale brown, limned with sickly yellow light and veined with tendrils of putrescent green. Reaching forth from its host, the plague cloud ensnared Oats, the tendrils caressing and encircling his limbs, his neck, while the vapor crawled into his mouth and nostrils. Choking noises bubbled from the thrice’s retching throat as he convulsed violently, his hands still throttling the Claymaster.

  Jackal snatched a look at Crafty and found the wizard standing transfixed, his eyes rolled to white above a mouth moving wordlessly.

  “Take him!” Jackal yelled, raising his stockbow.

  The Bastards responded swiftly and six bowstrings thrummed. The bolts sped for the wizard, each a killing shot, but none touched their mark, turning to shafts of smoke just before they pierced flesh, passing through harmlessly and becoming solid once again to splinter against the chimney behind.

  “Fuck!” Polecat exclaimed, his curse wild with anger and fear.

  “We have to do something, Jack!” Fetching screamed, her head darting between him and Oats. The thrice was almost completely hidden within the noxious cloud, his beleaguered cries of anguish ringing through the chamber. The Claymaster appeared in equal agony, yet he was mostly free from the roiling murk.

  Grocer had reloaded his stockbow and, with a scowl of pure loathing, stepped up close to his former chief, heedless of the cloud.

  “Time to put this cur down,” the old frailing said, taking aim at the Claymaster’s temple.

  A wrathful cry came from Crafty and, b
efore Grocer could pull the tickler, the plague snapped away from Oats. The sorcerous tendrils wrapped around the quartermaster’s throat and lifted him off his feet. Pustules formed and erupted on Grocer’s strangling face, his protruding tongue awash in a torrent of bile. His flesh blackened and sloughed away, melting from his shaking body. As quick as it had entangled him, the cloud released Grocer, letting his corpse fall in a wet heap upon the ground.

  “Hells overburdened!” Hobnail said, his forearm pressed firmly against his mouth. Next to him, Mead fell to his knees, heaving.

  Fetching gave a cry of helpless fury as the plague renewed its claim upon Oats’s stricken form. Eyes lifting, she fixed Crafty with a vengeful stare.

  “Fetch, wait,” Jackal urged, but she did not listen.

  Slinging her stockbow, she ran for the chimney, sprung up on the nearest ladder, and began to swiftly ascend the scaffolding, intent on the wizard. As she climbed, the mingled screams of Oats and the Claymaster intensified.

  Jackal gnashed his teeth and, dropping his thrum, charged the ensorcelled pair. His mind was filled with images of rats and Abzul’s leering visage. The plague had not been able to touch him in the tower. He could wrest Oats free. There was still time.

  But Hobnail and Polecat intercepted him, grabbing his arms and waist.

  “Are you mad?” Hob yelled.

  “Let go!”

  Polecat held firm. “Do you want to fucking die?”

  “I won’t!” Jackal struggled against them. “Let me go!”

  “Jackal!”

  It was Mead’s voice, hoarse from vomiting. The younger half-orc was still crouched on the ground, but his gaze and extended arm were pointed upward. Still held fast, Jackal looked. At first, he thought Mead was indicating Fetch, now one platform below Crafty and making her way swiftly for the next ladder, but then his eyes alighted on movement above the wizard. A darkness crawled on the surface of the chimney, glistening and clinging to the bricks as it progressed downward.