The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  Once Fetching had told him all, he nodded slowly, probing one of his lower fangs with a finger. The halfling slapped at his hand and gave him an admonishing look. She had only one eye, the other covered by a leather patch, but she managed to place double the reproach in half the stare. Oats lowered his hand.

  “When I saw you had come for me, I hoped it was because things were better, being earnest. But this…”

  Fetch let her silence agree.

  “Ruin Made Flesh,” the thrice grunted. “Shit. And we thought Crafty was an ass pain.”

  “We’re not free of him either.”

  “But you don’t think these Sar…Zayra…what was it?”

  “Zahracenes.”

  “You don’t think he’s with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Fetch admitted, seated upon the rickety cot that served as Oats’s bed. The damp cave he’d been living in since coming to the Pit was cramped and cheerless. “It didn’t appear so, but that’s what the fat fuck was best at. Appearances.”

  Oats began to nod again, but the motion upset the halfling’s ministrations to a large welt. Clicking her tongue sharply, she swatted him expertly on the back of the head.

  “Damn, Xhreka!” Oats complained, flinching away.

  “Stop moving,” the small woman commanded, pointing a finger at him.

  Fetch had to stifle a smile. It was a good thing Beryl was not here. She might have murdered this Xhreka out of jealousy. Oats stilled, suffering the attentions with a petulant grimace.

  The coins he had won sat in large bags against the moist wall at the head of the cot. The quantity hurt to look upon. The little cave had no door. Fetch could not fathom how the money remained safe, but neither did she understand why all the wealth had not been pilfered from the Pit ages ago. There was so much she did not know about this wicked place, so much she did not want to know, then or now. The choice was in the past, the money won, and Oats survived. He was damn lucky to be alive. Fetch was damn lucky he was alive.

  “Once we’re back,” she said, “we’ll decide what to do. As a hoof.”

  Oats’s bearded jaw kept clenching, and not because of the sting of the halfling’s rag. He hadn’t quite been able to look Fetch in the eye.

  “What is it?” she asked, knowing.

  “How long?” Irritation edged the question.

  Fetch paused, weighing how to answer. Oats wasn’t having it.

  “How long were you going to let those coughing fits go on without telling me? How long were you going to be sick, spitting up sludge, thinking it was killing you, before telling me?”

  She met his pained eyes. It was better to just admit it.

  “I wasn’t.”

  Oats blew out a furious breath. “Damn, Isa…”

  There was more. And she needed to say it.

  “It was one of the reasons I sent you away. Feared you’d see it.”

  Oats’s jaw hardened and he pulled his head away from the halfling’s care with such slow intensity that the little woman did not attempt to prevent him. “One of the reasons? Wager it was the only reason.”

  “You were starving yourself, Oats.”

  “We were all starving.”

  “The rest of us weren’t doing it on fucking purpose.”

  “ ’Least I wasn’t doing it in secret!”

  “I was trying to protect the hoof!”

  “So was I!”

  “By dying of hunger?”

  “By drowning in sludge? Fool-ass!”

  “What could you have done? If you’d known?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Because you sent me here!”

  “It was for your own good!”

  “It was for yours!”

  “Hogshit!”

  “You just admitted it!”

  “Exactly! I’m hells-damned sorry!”

  “Sorry? You’re fucking sorry?!”

  “You want a tit to suck on too? Fuck! I don’t know what else to say!”

  “How about y—”

  “AY!” the halfling woman screamed, going still as a statue.

  Fetch and Oats stopped yelling. There was a long silence where they simply sat, steaming at each other.

  “Done?” Xhreka demanded. “I’ve lost half my sight. Not about to lose half my hearing suffering this. Belico’s Cock, half-orcs can bellow! I’d say just thrash each other, get this out, but I don’t want more work than I got already. So, I’ll ask again. Are. You. Done? Otherwise, I got more rags here that I can shove in your loud, fangy mouths.”

  “We’re done,” Oats mumbled. He took a slow breath. “The brothers know?”

  “Do they know what?” Fetch asked.

  “About the sludge.”

  “Only Hood. He smelled the weakness on me like a damn carrion bird. But I’m going to tell them all. Everything. If you want to challenge me for leadership I’ll understand.”

  “Xhreka, hand me one of those rags. Feel like stuffing one all the way down my chief’s throat.”

  The halfling didn’t move for the rag, but she did shift her eye to Fetching.

  “Self-pity’s not worth a dung heap down here, girl.”

  Fetch let go of a humorless laugh. “Very well. But the others may feel differently. It’s not self-pity to prepare to lose the seat. Secrets like these buried the Claymaster.”

  Oats said nothing. She didn’t blame him. Only thing worth less than self-pity was pity from others.

  “Oats, however it goes with the brethren, you should know…this may be the end for us. For the Bastards. Fuck, I don’t even know that we will find Winsome still standing when we get back. That’s the cold shit truth of it. This orc and his beasts, the famine, fucking Bermudo, I might not…we might not find a way to best them. I want you to know, straight from me, that’s why I came for you. Figured you would want to be there with all of us. Figured…you would never forgive me if the Bastards went to the dust without you.”

  Oats was very still. “Then we go back. We struggle on. And if all this proves to be too much then there’s only one thing we can do.”

  “We live in the saddle.”

  The apple of Oats’s throat bobbed at the center of his thick neck. “We die on the hog.”

  He stood less than a heartbeat before she did. A step brought them to each other’s arms.

  “Hells overburdened,” Fetch said from the depths of his torso. “I forgot how hard you squeeze.”

  Oats only increased the constriction. “Take it and like it, sister mine.”

  After separating, they allowed silence to reign and Xhreka to return to her work. The way the halfling cleaned and dressed Oats’s battered bulk reminded Fetch of a rider grooming a hog. There was affection, but also a detachment. A necessary, though not hated, chore. She was certainly a curiosity. Not just the eye patch, and the fact that she was the only halfling Fetch had seen down here, it was her entire manner. Most of her kind were serene, patient to the point of aloof. But Xhreka’s movements, though deft and competent, were edged with a productive vexation. Fetch found the age of halflings difficult to figure. They did not wear the care of their years as obviously as the fairer frails. There was no grey in the tight rows of Xhreka’s twistlocked hair, no lines upon her ebony face. Yet her few words and actions, both filled with an easy courage, bespoke a woman long-accustomed to spitting at the harshness of the world.

  “You take care of all the fighters?” Fetch found herself asking.

  Xhreka made a noise in her throat that was either amusement or disgust. Or both. “No.”

  When no other explanation followed, Oats spoke up. “Xhreka used to enter the Pit of Bait.” Something disturbed the thrice’s face and he grew hesitant. “She used to…”

  The halfling came to his rescue. “I entered a pit with several other f
ools and a pack of wolves or starved dogs, maybe a bear. Whoever was last alive was hauled out.”

  “She helped me find my feet in this place,” Oats added.

  Fetch nodded. “I understand.”

  And she did. Xhreka found a way to survive the pit without needing to compete. No doubt Oats was paying her from his winnings. It might have been irritating if Fetch didn’t know the big fool-ass so well. He always needed someone to care for, to look after. Even in the orphanage, that was his way. More than half the reason Fetching was a sworn rider was due to that very nature. She wondered if Xhreka knew how much she was truly aiding the thrice, beyond stitching cuts and massaging muscles. Fetch was willing to wager she did.

  “Was that the first cyclops they’ve made you fight?” she asked.

  It was Xhreka who answered, attention never leaving her charge. “Third. But the others were older, crippled.”

  Oats could only raise his eyebrows in confirmation.

  I never should have sent you here. Fetch’s heart wanted to say it, but best not to dredge it up again.

  She stood. “Tell me where Ugfuck is and I’ll get him saddled.”

  “No,” Xhreka said, her single eye snapping where her voice did not. “He cannot ride. Not until morning.”

  “I can,” Oats groused.

  His head was smacked again. “You cannot.”

  Oats gave Fetch an apologetic look.

  “It’s fine,” she told him. It wasn’t. Every moment away brought the ax closer to the hoof’s neck, if it hadn’t fallen already. But Oats looked hard-used. “Get some sleep. We can leave at first light.”

  “No sleeping either,” Xhreka said.

  Oats threw up a hand. “Not that again.”

  The halfling put up her own hands, abandoning her task of bandaging the thrice’s head. “Very well. Do not listen. Lay down.” She flicked the bandage at the cot. “Sleep.” She flicked the bandage at the cave entrance. “Ride. But if I were asked, I would say a man who wants to die in the saddle should do it in battle, not because he grew dizzy, fell off his hideous farting hog, and dashed his brains on a rock.”

  Oats exhaled in compliance, but his caregiver was not ready to accept surrender and the reprimand kept coming.

  “If asked, I would say a man who wants to die in bed should do it while pleasing his woman, not because he was a lazy lout who chose slumber after having his head cracked by an Aetynian giant and never woke again, pissing himself as he passed from the mortal world.”

  Again Fetch found herself biting back amusement. She did not much like having her orders countermanded by this stunted woman, but could not help liking her.

  “We will leave at dawn,” Fetch repeated, stepping toward the entranceway.

  Oats gave her a confused frown. “Where are you going?”

  “To get my thrum back.”

  The mining tunnels were narrower in this section than those leading into the Pit. When Oats and Fetch had left the arena, using the same tunnel he had to enter, she made sure to track the route as they navigated the suffocating shafts. Though Oats’s feet were a bit unsteady from the fight, his familiarity with the mines was obvious, disheartening. His chamber had not been far from the arena, though it did feel they had climbed a bit higher. Xhreka had been waiting, ready to wash, stitch, and splint.

  Fetching did not retrace the route back to the arena, but followed her gut through what was clearly the dormitory for the fighters. In one of the small caves, she saw the unfortunate youth from the Pit of Flesh, curled up on a cot, unmoving. A little farther on, she found Jacintho, loitering in the tunnel. It was obvious he was waiting for her, a fact that made her skin crawl. Still, at this moment, she was in need of a guide.

  “Take me to the Orc Stains.”

  Jacintho rubbed at his throat, the marks from her throttling visible on his oily skin. “Mayhaps you are not grateful enough of my help, eh?”

  “You’re right,” Fetch replied, passing him by. “I’ll find them without you.”

  The ruffian did a crablike caper to catch up. “But! I am a forgiving man, so I shall be beneficent. Come.”

  Jacintho moved to the lead, taking her down a steadily curving tunnel to the right.

  The mines were a veritable hive. Cut-outs and caverns were regular, most occupied. Many were filled with nothing but drunken, stinking men, sleeping upon the stone. One held a meeting of hush-voiced cutthroats, plotting over a table, its lone candle casting no light upon their dark schemes.

  The Orc Stains were taking their ease in a cave furnished with rough benches. The three thrice-bloods had either bartered or bullied for a supply of wine and women. When Fetching entered, she found Knob lounging upon a bench, his back against the wall and a woman kneeling between his legs, head bobbing. The chief grinned over the girl’s knotted hair, his eyes narrowed with pleasure. He made no move to stop the service, but his two riders ceased their own carousing when Fetch stepped into their midst.

  She spied her stockbow leaning against the wall. “You like trying to take what’s mine, don’t you, Knob?”

  “I’m not taking it,” the Stains’ chief replied. “You should thank me for saving your hide from the mob.”

  “So, you’re not stealing my thrum, but you were going to try and steal my rider.”

  Knob chuckled. “Rider? Oats hasn’t ridden anywhere since you dumped him here. Did you think word of that would not blow through the Lots? A hoof-rider languishing in the Pit of Homage? When I saw he wasn’t with you at Strava, I knew it was true. Reckoned I’d offer him a better home.”

  Fetch took a step closer, ignoring the slurping sounds. “It’s against hoof code to poach brothers.”

  “You don’t have a hoof, quim. I told you before.”

  “And you think you decide?”

  “I do. Who else? We aren’t frails. We are the mongrel hoofs. There is no court or council to govern what we do, to approach for permission. Ul-wundulas is our only judge and she respects strength. I say you are no chief. I say your rider belongs in a proud hoof among his brother thrice-bloods. I say! You cannot stop that if you cannot stop it with strength. And you. Have. None.”

  Fetch made a show of consideration. “You’re right. At least about the hoofs. There is no council. Hells, we could not reach an accord on some damn frails squatting in the Rutters’ lands. What did you decide there, Knob? I know! None of the others agreed to go to war, so you skulked off. The Orc Stains can’t ride against the newcomers alone? Sounds like strength to me.”

  Knob’s eyes flashed and he sat up. The girl had to adjust her head, but did not stop.

  “Those frails cross the Stains and they will see how strong we are.”

  “You’re not adding to that strength with my brethren.”

  “Had you not arrived, I would already have made Oats the offer.”

  “Then you should be thanking me for saving your life. Oats is a Bastard to the blood. He would not have taken kindly to you trying to pull him away from his brothers.”

  “Brothers?” Knob grinned, leaning back once more with a satisfied sigh. “Or is it the sister he can’t refuse? The tight gash that gives command as well as favors.”

  Fetching looked down at the busy whore for the first time. She smiled and shifted her gaze up to Knob.

  “You’re right,” she said, slowly moving to stand just behind the girl. “You can’t offer what I can. And wouldn’t it be easier to find out for yourself why I inspire such loyalty? Why take one of my riders, when there is so much more you could get from me?”

  Fetch languidly entwined her fingers in the whore’s tangled tresses, and pulled her head back until there was a wet pop. “I see where you got your hoof name,” she remarked, looking down. The whore’s expression was full of venom for the interference, but she was expert enough to know Knob was enjoying himself. The chief�
�s face was flushed with eager curiosity. He inhaled sharply when Fetch guided the woman’s head back down, his eyes closing.

  Throwing her weight forward, Fetching wedged her knee behind the whore’s neck and drew one of the katara, the weapon transforming her fist into a blade. Knob’s eyes flew open and bulged when the steel kissed his throat.

  “Move and I open him!” Fetch shouted at the other Stains without taking her eyes off their master. Beneath the weight of her leg, the woman tried to free herself, but was held fast.

  “You ever sucked a cock, Knob?” Fetch demanded. “I wager you have. In your slophead days. In some hoofs, I hear they’re not given that name just because they feed the hogs. Did you forget that when a cod is this deep down your throat, you can’t breathe?”

  The whore’s squirms intensified. Muffled, choking protests filled the cave.

  Fetch leaned closer to Knob’s enraged face. “I wonder how long she’ll hold out before biting it off?”

  The thrice paled.

  “Or will you scare first,” Fetch taunted, “and try to throw me off? Give me a reason to wash in your glorious. Thrice. Blood.”

  Bucking against the restraining leg, the woman began to gag.

  “Now! You ever think to meddle in the ranks of the True Bastards—MY FUCKING HOOF—again, and there won’t be a whore’s breath standing in the way of you being made a fucking eunuch! Where’s the strength here now?”

  Fetch removed her knee, allowing the woman to pull away, retching. The katara stayed at Knob’s throat.

  “Jacintho!” Fetch called over her shoulder.

  “How can I be of use?” came the bandit’s unctuous reply from outside the cave.

  “Get my stockbow and load it. Should be plenty of bolts around.”

  There was a pause. “Truly…the half-orcs within are quite large. And they look as if they very much wish to kill someone.”

  “So do I,” Fetch proclaimed. “And he’s under my knife. Reckon we will see who has the stronger desire.”

  The unseen cavern at her back filled with small, tense sounds. Fetch made sure to keep her blade and gaze firmly on Knob, both an unwavering promise should he act on the burning ire smoldering across his countenance.