The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  “Me?”

  Effortlessly, Thistle switched the baby to her other breast without waking him. “You didn’t know?”

  Fetch felt her own head shaking. It was the same small, uncomfortable motion she did to shake off a punch. “Beryl was never…fond of me, when I was here.”

  “Maybe once you were walking, talking. But as babes, she loved you all. Plain to see, when she talked about it. Impossible not to love the ones you’ve given suckle.”

  Fetching stood, feeling the same need to flee she’d felt at the Kiln ruins. “You need to rest.”

  “A wet nurse,” Thistle reminded.

  “I’ll find one.”

  Dusk was yielding to night beyond the orphanage door. Fetch’s patrol had lasted longer than intended. Womb Broom was not a hog to linger when his rider took a fall. Thankfully, that same wild nature kept him from returning to town and they had been out of sight of the walls. A small mercy. She had been a long time gaining her feet and even longer tracking the unruly pig down. Her late return was met with some anxiousness from Mead. A tale about deer tracks leading her far afield settled his creased brow.

  Abril had been more fortunate on the southern patrol. A chance sighting of an actual farrow deer, the first in months, led to a long chase, a chase the slophead was unwilling to give up before putting a thrumbolt in the animal’s heart. The smell of the meat had turned out all of Winsome, the folk gathered around a cook pit tended by the five senior slops. A beaming Abril oversaw his comrades, reveling in his role of heroic provider.

  It had been a stroke of rare luck, that deer, but, like all fortunes, the weight of it risked breaking the recipients. More than one hundred pairs of eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the preparations. Anticipation of the largesse was palpable, mixing with the aromas of stewed venison and sizzling offal. To guard against a rush, Polecat, Dumb Door, Shed Snake, and the thirteen younger hopefuls surrounded the fire. It was a naked display of distrust between the hoof and Winsome’s folk, but better to be rude than foolish.

  Fetching approached, winding her way through the crowd. Most of them were blind to her presence, the spell of the impending food unbreakable. Only when she was standing directly in front of the hanging pot, blocking its view from most, did the gazes grudgingly shift.

  “The chief’s got words!” Polecat announced.

  Fetching raised her voice to force the attention of the few still trying to peer through her body. “I know your guts are growling. I know your mouths water. That’s about to be satisfied thanks to our bounding friend that ran Abril halfway up Batayat Hill. She’s in the pot now, and soon, she will be in your bellies. But let me be clear. The first portions are going in there.” Without looking, Fetch extended her arm and pointed at the orphanage door. “After that, your own children. After that, you. That is how it’s going to go. No need for it to go any other way. Any harder way.”

  Fetch let the promise of that last statement hang for a moment.

  “Now get your little ones arranged. Youngest to oldest, and line them up.”

  Parents quickly took to the command, herding their children up front with words and guiding hands. As the crowd shuffled, it was easy to pick out the selfish and petty among the adults; the big man who planted himself behind the children, the old woman who pretended not to see anyone else and used her frailty to bully. Fetch tried to ignore them, but she found her memory marking the faces all the same.

  “We are done, chief,” Sence’s voice informed.

  A year ago, Fetching would not have been able to accurately name a single slophead. It was hoof tradition to keep a callous distance from the hopefuls, except when training and then any attention was purposefully harsh. Things had changed a great deal in recent months. The chief of the True Bastards not only knew every slop’s name but could recognize their voices without turning.

  “Take the orphans their share,” Fetching said, still watching the villagers.

  Movement behind her signaled the slops jumping to the task. Once they returned, Fetch stepped aside and gestured for the village children to approach. The adults came next, those near the back of the line growing nervy as the wait extended. The children had already hunkered down within steps of the cook fire, slurping at stew that was still too hot to eat, but an empty stomach ignored a scalded tongue. Fetch had ordered the meal be prepared out here in hopes the chance of additional helpings would prevent the villagers from returning to their homes to eat. That seemed to be working, and Fetch relaxed a little. At least she did not have to worry about parents stealing from the mouths of their own children. It may have been an unworthy thought. The people of Winsome had never given her cause to believe them capable of such deeds, but hard times had a way of bringing out the worst instincts.

  A shout from the gatehouse snapped Fetch away from her grim thoughts.

  “RIDERS APPROACHING!”

  Mead’s voice.

  “Keep this in hand,” Fetch told Polecat before running down the main thoroughfare. She sent a wish into the darkening sky that the Tusked Tide had arrived.

  Uidal and Bekir were already hauling the gate open when she sprinted up. Hopes of fresh supplies were dashed when Hoodwink rode through the widening gap. Coming in behind him was a small mongrel Fetching knew well. She fixed Hoodwink with a scowl.

  Hood shrugged one pale, scar-crossed shoulder. “You said I could not kill him.”

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t,” Fetching said, glaring at Slivers before motioning for Hood to dismount and follow. He did not move. His dead eyes stared, flashing briefly, alerted by the same clues Thistle had seen. Unlike her, he knew the cause.

  Fetch gave him a warning look, resisted looking around. Without breaking that hunter’s gaze, the gaze that missed nothing, Hoodwink dismounted and kept his colorless lips tight as he retrieved a sizable sack from his saddlebag. They walked a distance away from the gatehouse, and the nervously grinning nomad, so they would not be overheard. Fetch regarded the cadaverous face of her returned rider and waited.

  “No signs of thicks,” Hoodwink reported, his voice always reminding Fetch of a tanner’s blade scraping a skin. “From our lot to Kalbarca and back. Nothing.”

  His arm flicked and the sack traversed the small space between them. Fetching caught it, her fingers closing around the bulging canvas, crunchy with coins. She clenched her teeth against the question, but it wriggled free all the same.

  “How is he?”

  The answer was simple, made her feel simple for asking. “He’s Oats.”

  Fetch nodded, gazing at the bag of coins. “Next time, I’ll go.” It was a false promise, as always. She looked up and changed the subject. “Any game?”

  “Rabbits. None in the last day.”

  “Horse-cocks?”

  Hoodwink shook his hairless head.

  “It’s happened again,” he said.

  Fetch gave a disgusted groan. She had hoped he would leave it alone. Instead, he pressed.

  “Have you been back?”

  Fetch shook her head. “Just happened.”

  “I will take you.”

  “Can’t spare a five-day ride, Hood.”

  “Death is longer.”

  “And you know what to do if it comes to that,” she snapped, voice still lowered.

  Hoodwink’s response was an unblinking stare that somehow reeked of disapproval.

  “I will go,” she assured him. “Tomorrow. I will go.”

  “And the draught?”

  “Haven’t needed it in months.”

  More pointed silence. Fetch had to look away. Hood’s hollow death mask of a face was often harder to endure than the noon sun.

  “I have some left,” she admitted. “I will take it.”

  Hood showed his satisfaction by blinking. Once.

  Eager to be back in control and to return to t
he matter at hand, Fetch stepped around him and returned to the gate. The unwelcome arrival had dismounted. Fetch got right in his face.

  “You were told not to return here.”

  Slivers recoiled from her growl, but less than usual. Like most frailings, he was smaller than other half-orcs, and shrank away from Fetch’s greater height to hold up placating hands.

  “I know, chief—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Slivers flinched. “Pardon. Just showing respect.”

  “Don’t try to charm me, nomad. Giving respect won’t earn you any. Not here. Now mount up and get gone.”

  “I could be useful, given half a chance,” he whined.

  “Half a chance?” Fetching could only laugh. “You had your chance during the last Betrayer. But I heard you showed your hog’s ass rather than charge the ’taurs. You had another chance when the orcs marched and the Bastards rode to face them. Again, you chose to flee. If you wanted to ride with this hoof, then you should have ridden with this hoof.”

  The nomad’s protests were endless. And gratingly familiar. “I spotted the first ul’usuun, coming through the Rutters’ lot. I rode back with the news. I helped see your folk safely to the Wallow when the Tusked Tide took them in. That should count for something!”

  “Being a lookout and an escort counts for shit if you won’t fight, Slivers. The True Bastards were born on the day we charged that orc tongue. We found out who we were in that mass of thicks. We found out who could be counted, could be trusted. Dumb Door became one of us. Gripper is counted among our fallen. Your fellow nomads, Slivers. Where the fuck were you?”

  He had no answer and she gave him no time to think of one.

  “You squandered your chances. Showed who you are. And it is not one of us. You are a stray dog. And I will not take food out of the mouths of my people to feed a stray dog.”

  Slivers found his voice, high and desperate. “Do you know what they’re doing to free-riders out there?”

  Fetch knew. She turned, calling to Uidal and Bekir. “Open the gate! This one is riding on.” She went to Hoodwink. “Make sure he leaves our lot.”

  The deep-set serpent’s eyes in Hood’s skull glinted a question.

  “Alive,” Fetch told him.

  Hoodwink slid past her without further expression to carry out the orders.

  Mead took his place, looking troubled. “You sure about this?” His gaze shifted to the departing hogs. “Slivers is a seasoned rider.”

  “He’s a fucking weathervane,” Fetch said. “I need mongrels that will not only ride with this hoof, but stand with it too. A mongrel that goes with the fairest wind is worth less than nothing here. There are no fair winds blowing up the Bastards’ cracks these days, Mead. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”

  “You don’t, chief.”

  They both watched as the gate closed once more.

  “I’m riding for Rhecia’s in the morning,” Fetch said. “Need to find a new wet nurse.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “No. I need you here.”

  “You shouldn’t ride alone.”

  “No choice. Door’s got hogs to break. Shed Snake will have to shoulder my patrols. And you know I can’t take Polecat.”

  “Then wait for Hood to get back or at least take some of the older slops.”

  “Not about to lose any of our hopefuls to the scent of whores, Mead.” She ignored his point about Hoodwink, hoped he’d forget. Fool-ass hope that was.

  “Hood will be back—”

  “Hoodwink won’t be back before I am,” she said, and left it at that. Mead’s frown deepened, but he knew better than to ask after any task the chief gave Hood. It was the one thing Fetch had inherited from the Claymaster that was worth a damn.

  Eager for her bed and an end to the discussion, she walked away.

  She had taken the head grover’s house for her solar. The smell of olive oil greeted her as she pushed through the door. The cadre of aromas that accompanied a hoof rider could not seem to find a foothold in these rooms. Saddle leather, sweat, weapon oil, none of them kept the field against the entrenched occupation of the long-absent olive grower. Not bothering to light a lamp, Fetch felt her way to the stairs and up. The foreman had built a portico onto the upper story, thrusting out from his bedroom. It had once provided an unobstructed view of Winsome’s olive groves. The stockade now interfered with that purpose, but Fetch still found the vantage useful for overlooking the town she had enclosed.

  Dropping her sword belt and thrum on the bed, along with the sack of coins, she stepped out onto the balcony. The cook fire had begun to die down, tended only by a trio of slopheads stuck with the clearing up. A few villagers loitered about, those nurturing a desire that another secret cache of food was about to be brought forth. Across the main thoroughfare, Polecat and Dumb Door sat upon the roof of the cooper’s shop. Once, they might have passed a bottle between them, but the wine stores had dwindled, were now tightly rationed. Fetch’s throat craved a drink, but she refused to keep a private stock. The tanner’s widow appeared, briefly joining the riders before she and Polecat slunk off together, no doubt to fuck. The thought caused a low, momentary stirring in Fetching that was quickly chased off by fatigue, the aches of the day, and a rattling in the depths of her lungs.

  She hated lying to Mead. He was right, of course. It was foolhardy for anyone to ride alone in the Lots, but she didn’t have a choice.

  Going to the chest at the foot of her bed, she rummaged around until she unearthed a ceramic bottle, hideously made. She shook the contents, felt them slosh thickly at the bottom. Pulling the stopper, she made a face and tossed back a mouthful. The foul stuff attempted to come right back up. Fetch fought its resurgence. She reckoned hog spend tasted better than this sour shit. Certainly shared a consistency. Slamming the stopper back, banishing the drifting smell of the draught, Fetch sunk onto the bed and lay down beside a scatter of weapons.

  She groaned. Her boots were still on.

  THREE

  AT THE WINSOME FORD, Fetch guided Womb Broom halfway across the river and stopped.

  “Far as you go,” she told her escort.

  Mead had insisted the chief be accompanied to the edge of the lot. Himself, of course, plus the three most experienced slops—Touro, Abril, and Petro. They each displayed their own unique expressions of disappointment.

  “Get on back. And be careful.”

  She urged her hog on, but the sounds of following splashes caused her to halt again. Twisting around in the saddle she found Abril on her heels.

  “The fuck are you doing, slophead?”

  Abril’s eyebrows shot up with the same speed that his jaw dropped. “Oh! You meant all of us? I thought you meant only they should go home.” He cocked a thumb at the others, all glowering. Abril stood in his stirrups and leaned over his saddle horn, his voice dropping to a whisper that could still be heard over the crossing’s current. “Remember, chief? You said that since I felled that deer and fed the entire town, you would take me to Rhecia’s and pay for my first wet end.”

  “I never said that, Abril.”

  The young mongrel gave her a dubious squint. “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I am that if you don’t get out of my sight I’m going to put a bolt in you and you can feed the entire town a second time.”

  Abril took a moment to ponder that with a slow, repetitive nod before rejoining the others. As a group, they turned their hogs south, Mead’s parting look lingering the longest. Fetch watched them go, waiting until they were claimed by the heat phantoms on the horizon before she finished the crossing and climbed weak-legged from the saddle.

  Shaking hands gripping her knees, stomach muscles heaving in violent spasms, she retched. The sludge was forced out in a sluggish, painful rope. The foulness fell from her mouth,
and she stumbled away from it in disgust. Trembling, she reached into her saddlebag for the bottle and downed the last measure of the draught, which stung as it slid down her raw throat.

  She used the rage over her own weakness to crawl back atop her hog. There was no time to waste. If she waited to feel hale enough to ride, she would be here forever. Fetch spurred Womb forward. And set her will to being alive when she reached her destination.

  Were she headed directly for Rhecia’s, as her hoof believed, the quickest route was a narrow stretch of Crown land running almost due north between the Tines’ lot to the east and the Amphora Mountains to the west. But it was the mountains for which Fetch was truly bound. They were a low range, not yet intruding on the horizon. Above, the sun slouched in the afternoon sky. Fetch was hard-pressed, but managed to reach the foothills by nightfall. Though far from the Lots’ most imposing mountains, the southern slopes of the Amphoras were their most unforgiving face. To enter the range, Fetch would first need to cross through using a pass she knew and come at the slopes from the more traversable north. But that was tomorrow’s task.

  Putting her back to the darkening peaks, Fetch backtracked until she struck a stream. Dismounting, she allowed Womb to drink while she walked a short distance to a stand of almond trees. A vigorous shake of the lower limbs brought a cascade of hulls, summoning the eagerly snuffling hog. Fetch unsaddled the beast while he ate, and prepared a mean camp. Sitting, she shelled a handful of almonds, but found she had no appetite.

  Sleep proved a nervous visitor and was often chased away by the barking of her savage coughs.

  Hoodwink was standing nearby at night’s end, his sinewy form flanked by the rising sun.

  The region was known for wolves and Fetch had kept her stockbow loaded beneath a resting hand. Only Hood could have intruded upon her camp without taking a bolt.

  “Creepy fuck,” she greeted him, face scrunched with bleariness and annoyance.

  As she sat up, a bundle of cherries fell upon her lap.

  “Not hungry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Eat.”