Turning, she joined him at the balcony opening, followed his pointing finger and saw movement across town, near the orphanage. Oats and Xhreka, both carrying swaddled bundles.
Quickly, Fetch stepped from the shadows of the bedchamber and waved once when Oats’s head turned to look. He began leading the halfling their way.
“Cover them,” Fetch said, handing Hoodwink his weapon.
Fetch retrieved her sword belt. The kataras were still in their sheaths. She retrieved her tulwar from the floor and slid it back into the empty scabbard. Wiping her feet on the bedclothes, she found her breeches, brigand, and boots, and was dressed by the time Oats and Xhreka came into the room. The halfling was soaked to the chest, but the babe in her arms was wrapped in a dry blanket, as were the two Oats bore.
“Sweeps?” Fetch asked, knowing the answer before Oats shook his head.
He gazed at Sluggard, his expression grim.
Fetch took the baby from Xhreka. “Anything you can do for him?”
The halfling’s single eye narrowed and she went to inspect the gritter, cursing under her breath when she looked between his legs.
“We can press hot iron. May kill him, but he’s dead anyway if we don’t. It’s the only thing I know.”
Oats paled. “Hells.”
“Have it done by the time Hood and I return with the hogs,” Fetch said. She looked at Oats. “Barricade the door below.”
The infant in her arms was asleep but fitful, exhausted from the night’s travails. She placed it on the bed.
“I sent the hoof to Batayat,” she told Oats. “If we don’t return, that’s where you should try to go.”
Oats placed his own pair of babes next to the other and unslung his stockbow. He held it out. “At least take this.”
Fetch waved it away. “You’ll need it. I’ll get one.”
“We need to go,” Hoodwink said.
They left the way they came, over the roofs. When they reached the end of the dormitory, intending to again use the palisade, they saw something that made them pause.
A lone dog was stalking up the nearest stairs. It gained the walk and loped away toward the gate, Hood’s thrum tracking it until it was gone from sight.
They exchanged a look, but did not speak as they pressed on.
The fire glowed in the north end of town.
The hog pens came into view below. Bodies of Orc Stain riders and hogs lay scattered across the ground in front of the fencing, all dragged down in an attempt to escape the walls out the hole they made. Other than the fresh kills, there was no sign of the dogs, but the feral pigs in the sequester yard were awash in panic. In the main pen, the doors to the stable were closed and intact. Rushing across the walk, Fetch and Hood jumped to its roof. Listening, they heard movement beneath, and fretting grunts.
Hoodwink nearly smiled with relief and went to climb down.
Fetch caught his shoulder. “They may be like Little Orphan Girl.”
Unblinking, Hood considered this for a moment.
“Stay here.”
It wasn’t a command. It was a rider risking his life for his chief.
Without further hesitation, he went to the edge of the stable roof and lowered himself down. Fetch heard him open the doors. Several tense moments passed before a hiss sounded from below. Making her way down, Fetch found Hoodwink in one of the stalls, saddling his barbarian.
“It’s him,” the pale mongrel said with quiet certainty.
There were five other hogs within, including Mead’s and Sluggard’s. Working quickly, Fetch and Hood saddled all the barbarians, rigging guide ropes to those that would not be ridden. For her own mount, Fetch chose Dumb Door’s former hog, Three Tusks, so named because he possessed both swine-yankers, but only one lower tusk.
They rode out, each leading a pair of barbarians, stopping only for Fetch to retrieve a stockbow and a depleted quiver from the fallen Orc Stains. Reaching the breach, they guided the hogs over the debris and across the Orc Stains’ ramp. On the far side, Fetching dismounted. Most of the ruined timber had fallen into the ditch, a choking mass of splintered stakes.
Signaling for Hood to stay put, she slid down the dusty embankment. A body was entangled in the pile. Though broken and bloodied, Fetch knew it wasn’t Mead. The corpse had two hands. She picked her way over, having to climb a bit to reach the mongrel’s head. Dull, unblinking eyes stared through her.
It was Sence.
A voice sounded from below, digging up through the pile.
Fetch scurried down, bending, trying to see between the haphazard spars. At last, she spotted him, pinned beneath a large section of what was once the walkway.
“Mead. Hold on.”
She whistled for Hoodwink and together they were able to work their way through the timber to free their trapped brother. Mead was alert but weak, and looked more drawn and cadaverous than Hood. The fall had caused several cuts to his face, but none were serious. It was the stab wound, left untended while he lay in the ditch, that had leeched his strength. He was muttering something as they hauled him out. Only when they got him up on level ground could Fetch lean down and make it out.
“The…pack. Hyenas…inside.”
“We know, Mead. We are all getting out of here.” She looked across to Hoodwink. “He can’t ride. Let’s get him up in front of you. You’ll have to hold him in the saddle. Get him to Batayat.”
Inside the walls, they heard the cackle of dogs.
“Going alone is foolish,” Hood told her, but he stood, picking Mead up.
“Oats and I will manage,” she responded, helping them mount. “Now get out of here.”
She squeezed Mead’s arm just before Hoodwink kicked his hog into a trot.
Mounting up, Fetching rode back through the breach.
She rode southward, ears straining, keeping to the alleys when possible. No dogs were to be seen and Fetch feared she knew why. The sound of squalling infants reached her ears before the solar was in sight. She guided the hogs to the north side of the cooper’s shop, peering around the building across the thoroughfare.
Eight hyenas were gathered beneath the balcony of her solar, laughing and hopping, the crying infants exciting their movements. One kept lurching back on its hind feet to scrabble at the door, giggling.
It was unlikely the dogs were getting in, but how was Fetch going to get her people out?
Dismounting, she untied the lead line from her saddle and quickly hobbled the other two hogs, loose enough that they could slip the rope if threatened. She just needed them to stay put long enough for her to tell Oats where they were hidden. Astride Three Tusks once more, she unslung her stockbow, loaded a bolt, and kicked him into a gallop. She loosed as soon as they rounded the corner of the building, taking a dog in the flank. The pack startled, lurching to face the oncoming hog. Reloading, Fetch shot another, but the beast was on its feet by the time Three Tusks smashed into the midst of the dogs. The hog gored one and trampled another. Fetch’s tulwar was in her hand and she slashed downward on either side as they charged through.
“Hogs behind the cooper’s!” she yelled, and spurred Three Tusks onward.
Whoops went up from behind.
Snatching a glance, she saw all eight beasts in pursuit.
She grinned. “Come on, you laughing bitches!”
Ripping her stockbow around, she loaded, turned in the saddle, and sent a bolt into the lead dog, spilling it to the ground.
Fetch knew better than to think the demon was dead, but she needed to keep their attention.
Pulling hard on Three Tusks’s left swine-yanker, she guided him down an alley between the rows of Winsome’s small homes. The pack followed, the encroaching buildings preventing them from fanning out and flanking her hog. Winsome had never been overly large, and the alley’s end was soon ahead, the wall ju
st beyond. Surging into the open, Fetch again pulled left, skirting the inside of the eastern wall. She was leading the pack back to the northern edge of town, giving Oats as much time and distance as possible.
But the pack was gaining.
Movement above drew her eye up to the palisade.
Another dog, barreling down the walkway, keeping pace.
Damn. They hadn’t all gone to the solar. How many more were out there waiting to ambush Oats and the others?
Fetch began screaming, hollering with all her breath, cursing the dogs, baiting every blood-hungry one of them that might be lurking.
The beast upon the wall pounced. Fetch swung her stockbow up and loosed. The bolt caught the dog in the chest, the force of the shot arresting its deadly leap.
A formidable weight smote her blindside, knocking her from the saddle. Landing hard, she struggled against bristling hair and slavering, snapping jaws. Rolling, she threw the beast off, stood, ran. Three Tusks was well trained and had not bolted when his rider spilled. He waited ahead, fighting his instinct to flee with sidling steps and punching squeals. The pack was at Fetch’s heels when she swung into the saddle.
Three Tusks needed no encouragement. Trotters drumming, he was off again, kicking dust into the open maws of the hyenas.
Fetch pulled her stockbow around on its sling, went to reload, and found one of the prods bent. Cursing, she tore the weapon free and cast it at the dogs.
The hog pens came into view, murky from smoke. The fire had continued to spread, turning the abandoned homes into an inferno.
Fire.
Fetch felt a savage glee. She knew where to lead the pack. The Kiln ruin. She’d run the beasts up the pile, burn them all. Herself, too, if she had to.
As they surged toward the breach, a hulking form stepped into their path, backed by the flames.
Ruin.
He could burn too.
Fetch rode straight for him, screaming and freeing her lasso.
The orc’s hands were flexing to meet the charge. At the last moment, Fetch forced Three Tusks to a hard left. Flinging the rope out, she snared Ruin around the neck. Jerked off his feet, he struck the ground as Fetch spurred the hog to greater speed.
“Strong enough to halt a barbarian, you thick cunt?!”
Gripping the saddle with her legs, arm extended behind, Fetch dragged the great orc down the main thoroughfare toward the gate. Ruin tried to get his feet under him, but Fetch worked the rope, giving slack before yanking anew, denying all purchase. The tension tore at her shoulder, the rope sawed into her hand, but Fetch endured the pain and kept her captive on his back. Three Tusks bore them through the gate at a gallop. Fetch urged him off the track, into the rough country, shouting abuses at Ruin as he collided with jutting rocks. The hog wouldn’t be able to haul the orc’s weight at this pace for long, but they needn’t go far.
The pack was in pursuit, but their snarls only goaded Three Tusks to devour the solitary mile. The hump of the Kiln grew from the dark plain, welcoming their arrival.
Hooves struck the edge of the debris and sparked up the sloped scree. Fetch jumped from the saddle before the rubble fully thwarted their speed and swatted Three Tusks to keep going. As soon as her boots touched the broken stone, Ruin was on his feet. Fetch released the lasso and fled up the pile.
“Come on, you fuck! COME ON!”
She heard his vengeful snarl, the slap of bare feet on hard stone as he pursued. Reaching the summit, Fetch bounded across the slag. Ruin was gaining. Another moment and he would catch her. She spun around just in time to dance away from a grasping hand. Ducking, she drew her tulwar and slashed in one motion. The blade took him across the thigh, its curved edge scraping as if on stone. Fetch stayed low, inviting the downward blow, then rolled away when Ruin took the bait. The dread orc’s hand hammered the stone.
Nothing.
The pack arrived, slinking over the rubble, spreading out.
Fetch put her back to a heap of blasted rocks. She was done waiting. Flipping her sword around, she took it in both hands and plunged. A tulwar was no pickaxe, and the point blunted as it struck the rocks, sinking barely a finger’s length into the scree. It was enough.
Fetch smiled as the pierced stone hissed.
Ruin rushed in as she leapt to the side. A jet of emerald flame belched forth, but the orc’s reflexes were as unnatural as the rest of him. He halted, recoiling from the heat. The hyenas whimpered, dancing back as their master watched the fire’s upward flight with a hateful grimace. Fetch plunged her sword again, mining for death. The ground rumbled as the baleful substance beneath roused to the disturbance.
The whining dogs fled.
Ruin remained, undaunted, eyeing Fetch as he stalked around the fire. Steaming fissures heralded the arrival of more gouts. A flaming tongue licked upward an arm’s length to Ruin’s left. The fire did not touch him, but its heat still burned. He winced, baring his teeth and snarling. In pain.
“See?” Fetch taunted. “This shit can kill anything.”
Now she just needed to keep him from following the wisdom of his cursed dogs.
“Stay where the fuck you are!” Fetching cried, rushing him.
Leaping, she sent a reaping cut at his eyes. Ruin caught the blade, snapped it with a flick of his wrist. Releasing the fragment, the orc tried to seize her. Ducking the swiping arms, she rolled, came up at his flank, and hammered his kidney with her fist, nearly broke her wrist. He spun around, backhand leading. Fetch snapped out of the way, felt the weight of his hand punish the air a finger’s width from her face. She got under his arm and pummeled his cods, cutting her knuckles on the bone piercings. Two quick, brutal strikes and she was out, rolling again. The Al-Unan fire belched from the ground she had just vacated. Shielding his face with his forearms, Ruin reeled. Fetch darted behind and kicked the back of the orc’s knee with all her might. She rammed him with a shoulder, tried to force him into the fire, but the monster only stumbled. Launching a knee into his lower spine, Fetch hooked her arm around his throat, locked her wrist with the other hand, and began to pull back, using his chin as leverage, keeping him off-balance. Ruin thrashed, slung her about, but Fetch held fast and would not be dislodged.
All around, geysers of jade pillared the surface of the pile, their livid fury devouring the shadows, melting the rock, thinning the air. Fetch welcomed the end. Of Ruin. Of this danger to her people. Of the burden of being chief. It would all perish in the embrace of a green hell.
Ruin pawed at her arms. Refusing to let go, she licked his face, whispering orcish in his ear with a fierce joy.
“You taste weak.”
The orc crouched and leapt. There was a lurching heartbeat as he carried Fetch into the cool air above the flames. Whistling wind. Hurtling ground. They didn’t quite clear the pile. Ruin landed in the ragged edges of the fire, the impact breaking Fetch’s hold. Her face smashed into the back of his skull. Black spots exploded with light as she bounced off his back, tumbling down the remainder of the slope. Forcing her eyes open through the dull pain of a busted nose, she found the flames had not touched her.
Ruin had not been so fortunate.
He staggered from the rubble, swatting at the green blazes dancing upon his massive form, his movements becoming more frantic as the sorcerous fire spread to his hands. When the fire would not yield, he dropped to a knee, dug into the ground, tried to smother the flames in the earth, but it was no use. The Al-Unan fire would not die.
Ruin’s face wrinkled with confusion, pain. He did not cry out, did not panic. He looked up from the smoking dust, his gaze finding Fetch, eyes burning with greater violence than the flames eating his flesh. The orc stood, hands leaving the scorched earth still aflame, and took a step toward Fetch.
Hells, her plan was now his. He was going to take her with him.
Fetch went to rise, to flee,
but froze before she reached her feet, rooted by the slavering dogs cutting off her escape.
Ruin’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile, might have been a grimace. A few more strides and he would be upon her. Fetch had to make a choice. The burning orc or the dogs.
Spitting into the dirt, she ran at Ruin.
And the world bellowed before she reached him.
Blinded by sudden agony, Fetch did not remember falling. She writhed in the dust, horrible pressure building behind her eyes. She began to scream, a sound to sunder mountains.
But it wasn’t her voice. She had reached the bottom of her lungs, yet the cry persisted, grew. She tried to rise, but the surrounding roar had weight, kept her down. Balling up, she clapped her hands over her ears. The assault did not cease. The dread cry bored into her bones, shook her sickened innards until she feared they would come spewing from her mouth, be shat out in a runny mass. She boiled within a cauldron of thundering rage, wishing to die, so the tumult would end.
It did end, swift as it had come.
Trembling, ears filled with an endless shrill pealing, Fetch opened eyes murky with tears.
She did not see the orc, or the pack, just a small figure approaching from the darkened plain, holding a hand over its face.
Zirko?
Fetch could not hear her own voice, was not sure she said the name aloud. She crawled to her feet and as she straightened, her addled head punished the effort by snatching consciousness away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SUN. BRIGHT AND SPEARING.
Motion. Rough and revolting.
Sounds…sounds?
Fetch tried to speak. Unpleasant vibrations swam through her head. Nothing more. A hand touched her brow, callused and familiar. More vibrations, deep and distant. Fighting to focus, she followed the arm attached to the hand.
Oats.
He was turned, leaning to touch, to comfort, sitting upon a wooden bench, the glare of the sun attempting to devour his bulk. The hand came away and Oats turned to become a broad back. Next to him sat Xhreka, sharing the bench.
The True Bastards Page 36