“I did,” Jackal told him, hopping into his breeches. “Thought it was the end.”
He laughed lightly when he said it, but Warbler didn’t see the humor, and just continued to peer intently.
“What happened in there, Jackal?”
“What do you know about the king of Hispartha?”
Warbler’s mouth wrinkled, annoyed to have his question answered with another. “Which one?”
“The one they got now.”
The old thrice scratched through his white mane. “He’s a king in name, but he married the true power. The queen holds the bloodline. Old king was her father. Why?”
“She have a brother?”
“More than one, I think.”
“How about one that’s older and blood-fuck crazy?”
Warbler raised his brows, deepening the wrinkles. “Oh, yes. They lopped his head for him, years back.”
“Well, before they did that, he was exiled and survived shagging a she-orc. Probably arranged by some Tyrkanian caliph that was playing host, I don’t know for certain.”
Warbler was growing impatient. “What do you know, Jaco? What sunset are you riding for?”
“Crafty is his son,” Jackal said. “The beheaded brother’s half-breed son. Do you see? He is going to make a grab for the crown of Hispartha. That’s why he’s here.”
Warbler accepted this with a long exhalation. “Does the Claymaster know?”
Jackal could only shrug.
“He must,” Warbler decided. “It’s what he’s always wanted. A chance to destroy the frails. Hells, a half-orc king! His poxy cock is standing up at the thought and…”
The old-thrice broke off, his mouth slightly slack.
“You don’t know that he’s wrong,” Jackal finished.
Warbler gave an aggravated shake of the head.
“I thought the same,” Jackal told him, walking over to feed the remainder of the pear to Hearth.
Neither he nor Warbler said anything for a long time. The day was hot and the shade of the outcropping a relief, channeling the scant wind into a welcome flow across the skin. Gathering his tack, Jackal began to saddle his hog. By the time he was done, Warbler still hadn’t moved a muscle.
“What’s troubling you?” Jackal asked, though he suspected the answer.
The old thrice was a while in answering. When he did speak, he did not turn, but gazed out across the badlands.
“I just tasted vengeance, Jackal. Didn’t know I still craved it. After this many years, hells take me, it was sweeter than it would have been if I had killed every wizard in that mine the day we escaped. Retribution does not sour, apparently. I…I’m not certain the Claymaster doesn’t deserve to drink from that cup.”
“He won’t be sated with one wizard, Warbler.”
“Why should he be? You weren’t there, son. You cannot begin to know what it was like.”
Jackal gestured angrily at his wounds. “I think I can.”
“Could you suffer it again?” Warbler demanded, turning on him. “And again after that? What about again? And again and again and again, until you know nothing else! Until you can’t recall a day without that gnashing, squeaking, wriggling torment! You think you understand? Even I don’t understand! We are free from the plague, somehow, some way, we are free! He isn’t! You say it took hold of you, said you thought it was the end. Now imagine living with that for thirty years, longer than you’ve fucking been alive! If anyone deserves to burn Hispartha to the ground it’s him! The Claymaster has earned whatever he wants to do to those cunts up north!”
Jackal looked into Warbler’s tortured face. “You still love him.”
Tears appeared in the thrice’s sun-squinted eyes, infuriating him further.
“He was my brother! My savior! My captain! And I betrayed him!”
Jackal shook his head. “If I had known it would take the fight out of you, I never would have allowed you to kill that wizard.”
“Allowed?” Warbler demanded. “ALLOWED?”
The old thrice took two steps, reaping one arm across as he moved. His hard knuckles caught Jackal on the jaw, backhanding him to the ground.
“You are welcome to see what fight I got left, stripling!” Warbler threatened, looming.
Wiping the blood from his mouth, Jackal sprang back to his feet, causing Warbler to tense and clench his fists. But Jackal did not attack. He faced the old thrice, nearly nose to nose, and fixed him with an unblinking stare.
“The Claymaster doesn’t want your pity, War-boar,” Jackal said slowly. “He just wanted your blind loyalty. That’s what he wanted from all of us. Nothing but to serve his grudge. You loved him, but you grew to love the hoof more, the brotherhood you helped create. What happens to the Grey Bastards in the pursuit of his vengeance? To Winsome and the orphanage and Beryl? You know the answer, have known since before I sat a hog. Why else have you continued the fight from the outside? To save our hoof. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Warbler’s ire visibly cooled. His face fell and he took a step away, unable to meet Jackal’s eyes any longer.
“No, you’re not wrong.”
Shaking off the shame, the old thrice grabbed Jackal by the back of the neck and pulled him into a rough embrace.
“You always were too damn clever,” Warbler said, his voice muddled by Jackal’s shoulder. Releasing him, he stepped back and roughly pawed at his swollen jaw. “Sorry, son.”
Jackal pardoned him with a dismissive wave. “I’ve had worse from Oats. You’re getting old, War-boar.”
“Must be. Because I am about to ask you what we are doing next.”
Jackal thought a moment, tonguing his split lip.
“The Claymaster is being used,” he announced at last. “If Crafty wanted to reign over a wasteland he would make himself king of Ul-wundulas. He will never allow the chief to spread the plague in Hispartha, mark me. It’s too…vulgar for him. Whatever he intends, it’s farther reaching than the chief’s vengeance.”
Warbler loosed a weary sigh. “You must really want to stop him, if you think slogging through the Old Maiden in search of that naked scumsucker Sludge Man is the best way to do it.”
“That’s the trouble,” Jackal laughed bitterly. “I don’t want to stop him. In my time with the fat fuck, he proved to be wise, capable, a good ally. I liked him, Warbler. Still do. He would make a good Bastard and, being earnest, a good king, for the fuck-all I know about it.”
“So why fight him?”
“Because I know fuck-all about it. About him. On first sight he’s a half-orc. One of us. Below that, a wizard. Dig past that and you find the Black Womb, whatever that proves to be. There’s so much buried within him, we’ll be trapped if we attempt to reach the bottom. Whatever is at his core won’t be good for us. The mongrel hoofs won’t be sitting at King Uhad the Fat’s side eating dates while virgins suck our cocks. The Claymaster may be the wizard’s puppet, but Crafty’s also dancing to the twitching fingers of others. Tyrkania, most likely, but we will always be guessing. Helping him to the throne will only destroy us.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Because I’m not,” Jackal said solemnly.
Warbler remained patiently silent.
Feeling the hurt begin to rise, Jackal cleared his throat. “But Fetching was. She warned me against trusting him. From the start, she saw a scorpion in the blanket.”
“And she didn’t step on it,” Warbler said. “She stepped on you.”
“I know. And I’m not certain why. But I’ve been certain I had this all figured so many times…and every time I’ve been wrong.”
Picking up a stone, Jackal rid himself of the creeping self-pity by flinging it far out toward the river.
“So,” he proclaimed, “we are going with her gut now.”
Warbler gave
an amused grunt. “Which one of us still loves an enemy now?”
“Let’s see,” Jackal made a weighing motion with his hands. “A bent-backed, plague-ridden, pus-dripping vengeful old heap of hogshit, versus…Fetching. You have seen what she grew into? Between the two of us, War-boar, you are the tougher to understand.”
“Straddle your razor, Jaco.”
They rode hard until nightfall, made another rough camp, and were up with the sun. By midmorning on the fourth day, the dust began to slowly give way to the wetlands. Soon, they were bulling through thick reed beds and avoiding sinks of mire.
“All these years as a free-rider,” Warbler groused, “and I managed to avoid this midge-infested armpit.”
Jackal grinned over at him. “And yet you willingly soak in Sancho’s baths. Don’t see much of a difference.”
He had led them to the northern edge of the marsh, purposefully skirting it for long miles west before finally turning south and intruding into its muddy clutches. Abzul’s map was fixed in his mind.
“I think I can find the Sludge Man’s huts again,” Jackal told Warbler, “but there is something I want to try and see first.”
“What?” the old thrice asked, swatting at the marsh flies gathering in front of his scowling face.
“A ruin,” Jackal replied. “I think it was his family home before the Incursion. Hard to believe, but I figure he might have once been Hisparthan nobility.”
Warbler grunted. “It always crawled at my spine the way he spoke like a blue blood, yet looked like his mother might also have been a sister. Of course, those two traits aren’t entirely mismatched on further thought.”
“And yet they call us half-breeds filthy.”
“What do you hope to find in this ruin?”
“Not certain. An advantage, perhaps. If he still lives, and I suspect he does, the Sludge Man won’t be pleased to see me again. Probably won’t find anything but sunken stones, if that, but this course should bring us through the Corigari holdings. That was his name.”
“Really think I need to know that?” Warbler asked grumpily, guiding Mean Old Man around a quagmire.
Jackal shrugged. “If he kills me outright, it might be a good idea for you to be…courteous.”
“Since when are half-orcs courteous?”
“Didn’t you hear? We are about to have our own king.”
“What’s got you all merry? Acting like your cock learned how to suck itself.”
“Just trying to balance out your bile, old father.”
Noon rose and began to recede. Jackal and Warbler had long been forced to dismount. They took turns leading, the acting scout proceeding with loaded thrum or bow in hand, while the other led Hearth and Mean Old Man a few paces behind. No matter his position, Jackal remained watchful for rokhs, and was relieved to have made it this far without encountering any of the giant birds. What he also had not seen, with an odd mixture of relief and doubt, were any sludges. Last time he and Crafty had come to the marsh, they hadn’t intruded nearly this far before the off-putting creatures appeared. Granted, they had journeyed from the east, not the north, but surely that made little difference. The Sludge Man should have been tracking the presence of any visitors to what he believed was his exclusive domain. Could he truly be dead? Was this just another foolish endeavor?
“The sun’s sinking fast, Jackal-boy,” Warbler said during his third time on point.
Shielding his eyes against the diffused glare of dusk, Jackal surveyed the horizon in every direction.
“We need to find higher ground to camp,” he said, “preferably with some trees. There, maybe.”
He pointed off to the southeast, where he thought he spotted a distant rise.
“Give me the hogs, then,” Warbler suggested. “My eyes aren’t that good.”
“Your eyes are fine,” Jackal said, handing the leads over. “You just doubt me.”
“That too.”
Unslinging his stockbow and loading a bolt, Jackal began working his way to the hump, little more than a black smudge against the darkening sky. They picked carefully through the marsh, but as they went, the ground began to grow firmer. The bogs became shallower, the spongy ground bolstered by thick beds of marram grass. The land was already gradually rising. Halfway to their destination, Jackal could see he wasn’t chasing a mirage. It was full night when they finally reached the mound, but the orc blood in their eyes showed them Jackal had been more than right.
“Luckier than a two-dicked hog,” Warbler chuckled softly.
Jackal looked ahead with no small satisfaction.
It wasn’t just a rise in the marsh, but the eroding remnants of a man-made bulwark, complete with the jagged teeth of a broken wall. Beyond, the shadows of an old keep stood brooding. Large sections of wall and the skeletons of fallen towers lay scattered around the mound, half-submerged in the mire. It was impossible to tell how tall the motte had been in its glory, but it was quickly succumbing to the sucking terrain and was now barely taller than Jackal, giving what was left of the stronghold a squat appearance, an old stone toad sulking in the marsh.
“This the one you were looking for?” Warbler asked.
“Likely,” Jackal replied. “Regardless, it’s a good camp. Come morning we—”
He broke off.
Something had moved in the ruins ahead, darting between the debris. Warbler saw it too, for he drew silently up beside Jackal, his bow now in hand with an arrow nocked.
Long before Jackal was a slophead, it was Warbler who had taught him the hand gestures used by the hoof when silence was needed. They used them to communicate now, quickly signaling that they each had seen one figure and verifying the location. Jackal suggested splitting up and Warbler agreed, immediately melting into the shadows. He would sneak along the skulker’s rear, while Jackal moved to head it off. They left the hogs untethered, knowing they could better defend themselves if any were foolish enough to confront them.
Moving swiftly at a crouch, Jackal hurried to the closest piece of cover; a tumbled section of a once round tower, now a shattered egg in the muck. Pressing his back to the stones, he listened intently for a moment, then crept around and made his way furtively to the line of rubble lying thickly near the slope of the motte. The shadow he pursued should be making its way toward him on the other side.
He waited, ears straining. Soon, there came the faintest sound. Cautious feet on sodden ground. Jackal waited for it to draw near and spun out from behind the masonry, stockbow aimed. He saw the dull reflection of moonlight on the dagger blade, raised to strike, but Jackal snatched his fingers away from his thrum’s tickler, his eyes widening as they stared down the runnel at a fair, familiar face.
Starling recognized him with equal shock and arrested the plunge of her dagger. They stood for a long moment, both trembling, trying to reconcile each other’s presence. Finally gaining his wits, Jackal lowered his thrum.
The she-elf was filthy, still wearing the garments Beryl had given her. Her short, knife-shorn hair clung to her grimy cheeks below the slightly slanted eyes, luminous with surprise. She spun around when Warbler emerged from the shadows behind, but relaxed when he quickly said some words in the Tine language.
“What is she doing here?” Jackal asked.
She turned back at his voice and her face settled with resolve. Motioning for them to follow, she went hurriedly up the slope of the motte, scrambling with her hands when the footing grew difficult. After sharing a look, Jackal and Warbler went after her. She waited for them at the top, then struck off along the curtain wall until she reached an opening large enough for them to all pass through.
Inside the murky yard, the keep lay before them. Starling paused, staring at the black walls of the structure. Standing behind her, Jackal was unable to see her face, yet still he felt the trepidation radiating from her slim shoulders. Quickly maste
ring her reluctance, the she-elf went forward again, leading them across the yard on nearly silent feet. The door to the keep had long since rotted away, but a thick curtain of bearded moss took its place in the archway. At the threshold, Starling again halted and her breath began to come in audible shudders. She stared at the entrance, fearful and furious, trembling. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Jackal stepped around in front of her and gave her a reassuring look, seeking permission to go in first.
Starling nodded.
Sweeping the moss aside, Jackal stepped into the keep.
The roof had collapsed, bringing the floors of the upper stories down with it. All that remained was a hollow shell. A shell alive with cruelty.
Jackal heard the others enter behind him, but he could not take his eyes off what he beheld, though, in truth, he had seen it before.
“Hells take me,” Warbler marveled darkly.
The interior of the keep, from the rubble-strewn floor to the yawning hole at the top, was slick with gently moving sludge. Embedded within, held captive as Starling once was, were the naked, slack forms of female elves. Jackal counted maybe a dozen at a glance. Looking down at Starling, his mouth hanging open, he shook his head sorrowfully.
“She came back for the others.”
Chapter 28
Sixteen were imprisoned within the sludge. The eerie black substance embraced them, holding them close as it moved sluggishly, almost imperceptibly, over their wrists and ankles, their thighs, necks, stomachs. Some were almost fully encased, others dangling from their extremities. Only their faces were left uniformly exposed, though none were conscious. Jackal was not certain they were all alive.
Next to him, Warbler came out of his disturbed torpor.
“We need to get them free of this shit,” the old thrice declared, moving determinedly toward the nearest she-elf.
“Wait,” Jackal warned, keeping his voice level but firm.
Warbler halted. “Will they attack?”
It was a direct question, posed by a seasoned warrior without fear.
Jackal looked at Starling, remembering when he had first seen her, the trepidation he had felt when reaching out to see if she were alive, wondering if the creature holding her would react aggressively to his meddling. It hadn’t, but neither had he actually tried to remove her from the living muck. She stood now, surrounded by a horror she had escaped, a horror to which she had willingly returned for the sake of those still ensnared.
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