The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  The black spots melded into a seamless darkness as Fetch died with those words.

  You taste weak.

  THIRTEEN

  THE HELLS WERE HOT. And bright as midday.

  Fetch’s eyes had fluttered open and been abused for their daring. Clenched tight now, the gates of her lids did little to brunt the battering light. Cowed and blinded, she felt dust scratching her cheek, between her fingers. There was also a sound. Wet. Ebbing and flowing, but harsh. Jagged pebbles sliding in a drenched sack. It was her breath, tortured and clogged, hardly strong enough to push against the dry earth beneath her chest.

  Keeping her eyes shut, she pushed up. Too soon. Trembling and dizzy, she ate dirt again, cheekbone slapping the hard-packed pebbles beneath the grit. Twice chastened, she waited. Waited to grow accustomed to the light’s assault, for her lungs to clear, for her limbs to steady. Patience did for the light and for her limbs, but her breath remained ragged and shallow. Still, she made a second, slower attempt to sit up and fared better.

  Fetch opened her eyes to slits and recalled something Thistle had said once.

  I imagine the worst of all the hells is the one that looks just like living.

  Looking about, Fetch beheld the face of a ridge. The ridge. There were no dogs along its crest, but dead men were strewn at its feet. Sprawled and bloody and still. The remnants of their campfire was a sooty stain, black to contrast the smears of red. Out on the plain, the vultures were feasting on the humps that were once horses.

  Gathering her legs, Fetch stood, hissing at a sudden pain in her ribs. Inspecting the source revealed an angry-looking puncture wound. Probing it gingerly she remembered the bolt from her own thrum that transfixed the cavalero. Her hand moved to the back of her head. The hair was crusted, mud and blood impossible to differentiate, but the soreness in her skull, the welt from Maneto’s mace, couldn’t hide from her searching fingers.

  Fetch again looked around, the injuries forcing her to wonder.

  Was she still fucking alive?

  Plodding steps brought her closer to the ridge. She inspected the corpses, too weak and stiff to use anything but her eyes. Death and its trappings rendered most of the cavaleros identical. Few had discernible wounds, straddling that queer line between the sleeping and the dead. Only the small, gruesome details betrayed them. The poses only a corpse can attain. The half-lidded, sightless eyes. Plus, the flies of Ul-wundulas were never lazy. Scanning the slaughtered, Fetch wondered why her own meat wasn’t among them. A massive orc, impervious to steel, had jumped from the ridge’s deadly height and…broken these men. With nothing but bare, brute savagery. It had commanded the dogs, set them upon the fleeing. The shimmering blobs of buzzards supping within the heat phantoms out on the plain showed the success of their hunt.

  She had gone mad. Grief and sickness had shattered her mind, serving up a host of visions. She’d died and her hell was crafted from the delusions of her final moments.

  Yet…she knew the dogs to be real. Her brothers had seen them. And their tracks were evident among the carnage. As were the orc’s. Fetch followed them back to where she had lain, the path the orc had taken before he seized her, named her weak. A judgment. A condemnation. Why had he allowed her to live? An orc of his size and strength was unknown. An orc that would show mercy to a half-breed was impossible.

  Fetch shambled about, following the tracks for answers. She found Cissy first.

  The cavaleros had only dragged her a few dozen strides from the tree before the orc appeared. She’d been abandoned, the noose still around her stretched and discolored neck. Fetch’s legs threatened to give out. She let them carry her down, but only long enough to get her arms beneath Cissy. Cradling her close, Fetch stood once more. She would not leave Cissy here for the vultures, nor would she bury her beside her murderers. No. She would carry her away from here. If this was her hell, she’d choose how to suffer.

  She began walking.

  * * *

  —

  THE SUN WAS A FIERY MALLET. Cissy’s back took the brunt from above. The reflected glare and heat from the parched ground was Fetch’s to bear, along with the yoke of her dead companion. She had stopped only once, to remove her brigand and shift Cissy up across her shoulders. Free from the vest’s weight, she continued onward, trying to keep south and west, but the fully ascended sun did not help her muzzy brain stay confident of a true course. South and west. To the one place that may provide refuge. The castile was closer, but that was just another way to die.

  Cissy’s deadweight pressed down upon her. Fetch kept meaning to halt, to put her down and build a cairn. But she kept walking.

  She had no notion how far they’d gone. Her knowledge of distance in the badlands was gained from the back of a hog, measured by their long, familiar paces. Only orcs walked through Ul-wundulas and lived. Anyone else was a future bounty for the vultures.

  Sweating, aching, Fetch squinted at the landscape. She needed to climb a ridge, gain a vantage. Hauling Cissy up a rocky slope would tax her legs, but she could not leave her.

  With no choice, they climbed.

  The first few upward steps brought Fetch confidence. The sliding dirt and treacherous rocks soon robbed her of that. A quarter way to the top and her thighs were afire, her shoulders knotting from holding Cissy steady. Each exhalation birthed a small sound of exertion. Every foot forward was watered by a hundred droplets from her chin and nose. Halfway up she considered putting Cissy down, just for a moment to ease her spine. The thought of picking her up again scattered that idea to the woefully scant breeze. At last, they crested the ridge.

  Ul-wundulas rewarded her effort by gifting a barren view to every horizon.

  Fuck you.

  She started back down.

  The afternoon was spent keeping to flat earth. Doing so destroyed a direct course. Dry gulches, boulder scrabbles, hills, all forced Fetch’s path to meander. Her mind was seduced into the hope that a lemon or pear tree would be waiting around the next obstacle, something to provide moisture to their mouths and a break from the unchanging terrain. The badlands mocked such hopes. It gave her nothing but heat and the toil of her own steps. The sun was lower, taunting her with the secret of west, but direction no longer had meaning. She was a slave to level ground.

  At some point, the boulders and ridgelines ceased diverting her path and crept in to enclose it. The shade solicited a sob of relief. Forward, ever forward. Fetch convinced herself she was walking deeper into a box canyon and would have to turn around and walk back out again. To think otherwise would only summon the dead end. Holm oaks began to appear. Had Fetch been ahog, the fallen acorns would have been a welcome sight for her barbarian. They did nothing to tempt her sandy tongue. As the trees increased, becoming a proper grove, she dared to become vigilant for water.

  She found the shrine first.

  Nestled among the oaks, she came upon it without knowing. It was a broken column of carved marble, its jagged top chest high. The white of the stone was besmirched with the accumulated dirt of long years, embraced by generations of vines both withered and lush. Its round, fluted body was wide as a rain barrel and rose from a square base. A slaughtered goat lay beneath, exposed entrails a lurid pink dotted black with roaming flies. Dozens of dead snakes were scattered around the goat, some freshly killed, some desiccated; most had rotted to nothing but strands of delicate rib cages still affixed to spines and fanged skulls. The sickly sweet smell of old decay spiced the air.

  Silently, Fetch cursed herself. Though she had never laid eyes on such a shrine, she knew what it portended.

  Her errant steps had caused her to wander into centaur lands.

  Backing away, as if the pillar were as dangerous as the sacrificed serpents surrounding it had been in life, Fetch turned and retraced her steps, going quicker now. She almost made it to the edge of the grove. Voices and the plod of hooves heralded
an end to any chance of surviving her trespass. There were the trees for cover, but she couldn’t move swiftly or silently enough to properly hide. The thought of fighting was laughable and tiresome. This was her mistake, raging against it was fruitless.

  Fetch stayed where she was, waiting as the centaurs came into view.

  There were three of them, two females and a male. They were moving carelessly, talking carelessly. They even laughed. Why not? A fool-ass half-orc had just blundered into their grove, weak, tired, unmounted and unarmed. It was worthy of laughter. Their voices died when they saw Fetching, their steps came up short. She expected cruel sneers, merciless grins that bespoke the anticipation of bloodshed. What she saw was wide-eyed surprise. The females clutched baskets, the male bore nothing but a long-handled spade. They had no weapons. The trio cast uncertain looks at one another, their front hooves shifting nervously.

  They had not known she was here. Her presence had taken them as unexpectedly as the shrine did her.

  The female in the center spoke to the other two in a taut whisper, her eyes never leaving Fetch. The male answered in low tones. Their words were a mystery. The other female pointed at her, or maybe Cissy, and gave voice to something with great concern. They conferred in their tongue for some time, wary and tense. Arguing over who was going to go summon the warriors to come put a few spears in the intruder, most likely. Fetch wondered if it would be that quick. Likely not.

  A decision was reached and the females passed their baskets to the male. Their empty hands came up, palms spread toward Fetch. The older spoke to her, unintelligible. Slowly, the females approached, arms still extended. The gesture was calming, peaceful yet warding, as if they feared she would bolt or attack. Hells, it was identical in tone and appearance to what Fetch would have done to an agitated hog.

  She stayed motionless, watched the male as the females began to spread out a bit, moving to either side. The older female kept up a stream of words, soothing at their core, but frightened at the edges. They stopped within spitting distance. The speaker repeated the same phrase several times. Slower than before, they moved in, reaching…

  For Cissy!

  Fetch jerked, tried to keep them away, but the sudden motion made her stumble, undermined what little endurance she had left. She was falling.

  The centaurs darted in, took hold of Cissy’s feet, her shoulders, caught her. The relief of the weight made Fetch lightheaded and she allowed the earth to greet her rump. The centaur women laid Cissy on her back, their front legs forced to kneel in order to lower her gently.

  Now that Fetch was sitting, the proud notion of dying on her feet no longer seemed so important. She’d be right here on her ass when the spears came and think no less of herself. The older female spoke, made an urgent clicking noise with her tongue, sending the younger to reclaim the baskets and trot deeper into the grove. Off to get the killers. The male was also given some instruction, but his face darkened at whatever he was told and he seemed to protest. The female countered with sterner words and shooing gestures that defeated any further defiance. He clomped away.

  The remaining centaur carefully lowered the bulk of her horse body down, folding the legs beneath. She gestured to Cissy and said a few words, her face piteous. Hells, she thinks…

  “I know she’s dead,” Fetch croaked. “I’m not mad.”

  Not mad. Not dead.

  The centaur reached and slowly, slowly, lifted Fetch’s shirt. Fetch made no move to stop her. Now that she was seated, all she seemed capable of was staring, numb and dumb.

  The centaur hissed at the puncture wound. She let the shirt fall.

  The male returned, bearing a load of sticks. Lowering himself in the same fashion as the other, he worked setting a fire. When the wood was laid, he unslung a horn hanging from a strap across his body and produced something that smoked weakly. Cupping it in his hands, he blew gently until the smoldering bundle rekindled and flames arose. Gently, he set the burning bundle beneath the wood. Soon, the fire was strong and the male fed it with sticks, building it up. The younger female returned with her basket full of acorns, which she handed down before going away once more. Using a rock and a flat stone, the older female began breaking the hulls and grinding the freed nuts.

  Watching all of this, Fetch’s exhausted mind began to understand. They were helping her.

  It was another trick of the hell. It must have been. Horse-cocks were blood-crazed slayers, lurking in their scattered and shunned lands until the Betrayer Moon when they rode forth in search of murder and rapine.

  Not mad. Not dead.

  Then the sun must have boiled her brain and this was some delirium born of thirst. Knowing her thoughts, the illusion of the younger woman came back with a skin of water and proffered it with a tremulous hand.

  Fetch snatched it, causing the filly to flinch and shy away. Upending the skin, she directed the stream into her eager mouth. The water was warm and silty and glorious. She waited for it to turn to dust, to choke her, for the skin to vanish. But the liquid continued to splash upon her tongue and she guzzled. Tearing her mouth away from the flow, she collapsed next to Cissy, giving herself up to the blissful mirage.

  * * *

  —

  HER EYES OPENED TO STARS and the song of crickets. Firelight pulsed upon the surrounding oaks. Sitting up provided a throbbing skull and proof she was still in the grove. Cissy was still nearby, still dead, but she now rested upon a well-constructed, unkindled pyre. Her body had also been cleaned. Fetch rose and felt something sticky beneath her shirt. Looking, she found her wound covered with some glistening paste.

  If the centaurs had been visions, Fetch was now asleep, and they had journeyed into her dreams. There were seven of them now, gathered just beyond the edge of the trees. Another, larger fire had been built and they encircled the blaze, each holding a ring of woven reeds. These they held up above their heads, chanting in their strange tongue. Fetch followed their eyes skyward and felt a pang of foreboding seeing the moon. It appeared normal, but the horse-cocks were directing their voices to its quarter-full face. Fetch despaired that it would wax before her very eyes and turn her would-be saviors to ravening beasts. But the moon held true.

  Lowering the reed circles, the centaurs held them to the flames. Once they were alight, they were again thrust toward the heavens until the flames threatened the hands of their bearers. Each centaur threw their ring skyward in a way that set it wheeling, catching it and throwing it again. They touched the burning wreaths only long enough to toss them again, repeating the action until they came apart, scattering embers and smoldering stalks to drift into the night. The chanting ceased and the group held for only a moment more. They drifted away with somber faces, all except the female who first knelt and crushed the acorns. She turned, saw Fetch regarding her, and approached, bringing a brand from the bonfire. Speaking, she indicated a basket nearby covered with a piece of hide. Fetch removed it to reveal persimmons, goat meat, figs, and the power of her own hunger. The centaur unslung another waterskin from her body and passed it down.

  “Thank you,” Fetch told her.

  The centaur’s eyebrows narrowed, as if trying to remember the answer to a riddle. Without another word or sign, she handed the brand to Fetch before turning to tread deeper into the grove, where the firelight could not follow.

  Fetch rested the brand in the small campfire.

  She ate.

  It was difficult not to devour the entire contents of the basket, though plenty had been provided. She kept some over, for tomorrow. There was going to be a day following this night, she became more certain of that the more she chewed. This was no dream, no vision, no hell. The horrors, the mysteries, were real. Fetch wasn’t mad, though she’d felt its grip out there in the badlands. Why else had she saddled herself with a body rather than weapons, provisions?

  Why else…

  Taking the w
aterskin, Fetch approached the pyre. The centaurs had washed the morass of blood and dirt from Cissy’s face, but there was no erasing the mark of the noose. Fetch spared a little of the water, placed it on the dead mongrel’s lips. She had comforted her like this once before, when they were children.

  A sickness had scourged the orphanage. She and Oats had been spared, but Jackal was laid low. So was Cissy. They’d all been seven or eight. One of the younger children had died, Fetch remembered, a little frailing girl. She was terrified it was going to happen to Jack and Cissy, refused to leave them. Beryl had shown her what to do, how to soothe their fevers. That night she had remained awake until her friends were out of danger. Tonight, however, no vigil would help.

  Fetch returned to the fire, took up the brand.

  “Seek peace, sister,” she whispered.

  Keeping her eyes on Cissy’s face, she lit the pyre.

  * * *

  —

  SHE JERKED AWAKE in the morning to the sound of approaching hooves. Strengthened by rest and food, Fetch shot to her feet to find the male centaur returning.

  “Fuck. My. Ass…”

  She stood, flooded by disbelief, by utter relief at the sight of the centaur leading Womb Broom. As the hog trotted closer, intent on something affixed to the centaur’s pronged pole, Fetch’s jaw hung slack. The barbarian was still saddled, though her tulwar was gone. She went to the barbarian with a joyful exhalation. Womb Broom did not care a shit. He was fixed on what had been used to bait him. The centaur removed the black wad from the end of the pole and tossed it to Fetch. It proved to be a pungent, shapeless black fungus.

  “A damn truffle,” she mused, tossing it down for Womb to devour with grunting relish.

  They were a rarity that the hoof never fed to the hogs, but after coming this far with the succulence in his nostrils, it would be cruel to deny the beast. She inspected him while he ate. The thrumbolt had been removed from his flank, the wound patched with the same acorn paste used on her. It wouldn’t be wise to push him, but she could certainly ride.