The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  “Chief! What are we doing here!?”

  Shed Snake.

  “That ain’t fucking him!” Polecat. “You all blind? Crafty’s turned him. Oats, get your fucking thrum up!”

  Movement behind, above. More shouts. These in elvish. The Tines had arrived, bringing more demands, more taut bowstrings. Fetch heard it all, felt the motion, the confused anger, the impending violence. The chaos without.

  Within it was slower, torturously so. Her shoulder was still filled with the stockbow, her eyes still sighting along the bolt, pointing at that face, the one that should not be here.

  He, too, was ignoring the upheaval he had conjured, looking only at her. Dripping water was all that moved upon him.

  And Fetch saw it. He wasn’t enthralled, no wizard’s puppet. He was Jackal. The same cunning, the same daring, the same fool-ass choices. It was all written there in that bright, unwavering stare, the one that showed regret for being discovered, the one that asked her forgiveness.

  For what, Jackal? Which trespass do you want pardoned? She wanted to shout, add her voice to the growing turmoil. There was no need. It was all there in her face for him to read.

  Fetching lowered her thrum.

  “True Bastards! Put them down!”

  Turning to make sure she was obeyed, she found a dozen Tines along the lip of the dell, two with song clubs. Polecat and Shed Snake relinquished their aim. Nearby, Culprit was picking himself up, only now recovering his wind. Oats’s stockbow was already pointed at the ground.

  In the pond, Jackal’s scimitar remained in his hand.

  “Your hearing not recovered?” Fetch demanded. “I just told the members of my hoof to drop weapons.”

  Jackal opened his hand, allowed the water to claim his blade.

  Half the Tines began to come down, converging on him while the rest covered their approach with bows.

  “He is one of mine,” Fetch told them in elvish. “This was a misunderstanding.”

  They paid her no heed. Jackal was surrounded, herded out of the water. He went calmly, though Fetch could see in the set of his shoulders that he was riled. She watched him go, and within moments returned to the comfort of his wonted absence. The Bastards were left alone in the dell casting dumbfounded looks at one another.

  Polecat and Shed Snake plodded down, gathered around Fetch and Culprit. Oats was again kneeling beside Xhreka, eyes far away and burning.

  “You good, chief?” Polecat asked.

  She scowled at the off-putting concern. “Go dredge up Jackal’s sword.”

  No one else spoke while Polecat searched about in the muck, muttering complaints.

  They all looked up at the sound of footsteps, were surprised when they heralded Hoodwink at the top of the dell. He rarely allowed anyone to hear him coming, but that was not all that was off. He was paler, if that was possible. He joined the group right as Polecat waded back with the scimitar.

  “You will never guess who we saw,” the hatchet-faced mongrel chimed.

  “Jackal,” Hood replied.

  “You saw him too?” Shed Snake asked.

  “No. He smells the same. Caught his scent just before—” Hoodwink stopped short, wearing a pensive expression. Another rarity.

  Polecat snapped his fingers. “He got you. Oh, fuck! He took you down!”

  It was clear from Hood’s careful stillness, Cat was right. Still, it was damn hard to fathom, for Hood more than any of them. Perhaps it wasn’t the same Jackal.

  Fetch found herself looking past the others, down at Oats, his thumb rubbing Xhreka’s forehead. The halfling was alive, breathing regular, but out cold.

  “Let’s get her back to the hut,” she said.

  On the walk back, Fetch motioned Shed Snake away from the others.

  “What made you come looking for us?”

  “Starling. She kept…reading those sounds. Told us the intruder was already here, that the only thing coming down the trail was Tines, so we ran to help.” They walked side by side for a moment, both quiet and pondering. Snake broke the silence, barely above a whisper. “Hells, chief. How did he do it? Sneaking into Dog Fall. Taking Hood down. I heard things about him back in the slops. Mead told us stories. Saw him around the Kiln, of course, like all of you. But damn. Was he always like that?”

  “No.” Fetch scrubbed at her bedraggled hair. “Yes. Somewhat. I don’t know.”

  They put Xhreka in Beryl’s bed. Wily climbed up next to her, held her hand. The other orphans kept coming in, the curiosity and concern of children mixing into a tide that Beryl had to keep chasing from the room. Fetch pulled Warbler aside, told him the news, and waved off the questions before they came.

  “I don’t know, War-boar. It was him, that’s all I got for now.”

  She walked away from him, from everyone, went down to the bathing pond and cast stones into it until the ground surrounding her boots was picked to the mud.

  Hells’ cocks, she was relieved!

  He was alive, he was back, at a time when the hoof sorely needed him. An experienced rider, a canny fighter, to say nothing of the powers Zirko foisted on him. His was the kind of strength they needed against Ruin. That was, if the Tines didn’t burn him alive for invading their home on whatever foolish fuckery he snuck back to stir up!

  Fetch stalked over to the biggest rock on the shore and heaved it over her head with a vengeance, finding relief in the massive splash. She stood watching, stewing, until every last ripple was chased away by the pond’s placid surface.

  Starling was now standing beside her.

  “It wasn’t Ruin,” Fetch offered. Uselessly, it turned out.

  “I know.”

  “It was Jackal.” Fetch wasn’t sure if Starling knew that too, but said it anyway. “He’s here to bring Xhreka back to Strava. Certain as shit. Because fucking Zirko told him to. And they call me Fetching!”

  “He made a bargain.”

  Fetch snorted. It was that simple, wasn’t it? The consequences, however, were not.

  “What will happen to him? Because if your people don’t want to lose their big snake, they may want to think twice about throwing him in her cave. Jackal has a way of…who the fuck am I telling, you know what he’s like.”

  “Brave. Impulsive. Tireless.”

  “He’s a fucking idiot.”

  “Akis’naqam’s purpose is to consume the Filth. All else is beneath her notice.”

  “What, then?”

  “He will be judged by the Sitting Young. As his leader, it is likely you will also be summoned.”

  “I got no notion what to tell them about him.”

  “The truth would be best.”

  Fetching’s mouth soured. “There’s over a year’s truth about him I don’t know.”

  “Then that is the truth you must speak. The Sitting Young will not allow my presence in this matter. You will need to be able to speak and understand. Open your mouth.”

  Fetch grimaced. “Not this again.”

  “No. Something more is required.”

  Liking the sound of that even less, Fetch parted her lips. Starling reached up and pressed her thumb down on one of Fetch’s lower fangs until the flesh was pierced. Fetch suffered the flow of blood on her tongue and swallowed it down once Starling removed her hand.

  Fetching coughed and groaned. “Hells, I hate magic!”

  Starling was right about the summons. The Tines soon came down, demanded Fetch accompany them, along with Xhreka. The halfling woman was awake, but still very weak.

  “Tell them she ain’t hale enough,” Oats growled from her bedside.

  “We don’t have a choice, Oats,” Fetch told him, gentle as she could.

  Xhreka sat up, wincing a bit. She swatted Oats’s helping hands away. “I’m fine. Stop fussing over me.” Her one eye revolved to th
e other side of the bed to glance at Beryl. “Though you get it honest.”

  Fetch made way for her as she moved out of the hut, less stable than she claimed, but hiding it well. The trek up the trail would not be easy on her. Oats must have thought the same, for he had every intention of coming along. The Tines had other designs.

  “Only you,” one of them said, pointing at Fetch and Xhreka.

  Oats’s elvish was limited at best, but he took the meaning and bristled. “Try and stop me.”

  The mood he was in, the thrice-blood was likely to stomp the entire escort, but Fetch stepped in, put a hand on his chest.

  “What is this? Trying to be me and start a war?”

  “I’m going,” he claimed, sounding just as he did when they were children.

  “Oats. I won’t let anything happen to her. Hear me?”

  Jaw working beneath his beard, Oats’s gaze darted uncertainly from her to the halfling and back again. His breathing was quick and shallow.

  Fetch blew a short whistle through her teeth to get his attention. “She’ll be safe.”

  He nodded. “If you say so, chief.”

  She slapped him lightly on the cheek. “No. Fetch says so.”

  Oats exhaled, relieved and sheepish, backed up a step.

  Xhreka shored up the reassurance. “See you in a small while, Idris.”

  They went with the elves. Soon as they were out of earshot, the halfling fell into step next to Fetching.

  “Figure we were lying to him?”

  “Oh, fuck yes.”

  The climb was difficult, but Xhreka would not suffer to be carried, so the going was slow. At last, they reached the cave of the Sitting Young.

  Jackal stood in the center, unguarded, unbound. He did not appear injured, but that meant little. The Tines could have been torturing him since he left the dell and the restorative gifts of Attukhan would have erased the evidence. Still, Fetch did not believe that was their way. At least, not yet.

  Their guides motioned for Fetch and Xhreka to join him before spreading out along the walls flanking the entranceway. As Fetch came up alongside Jackal, putting herself between him and Xhreka, she felt him look over, but kept her gaze fixed on the council before them.

  The eldest girl was the first to speak, addressing Fetch.

  “We wish to hear what you know of this one that intruded upon our lands.”

  “His name is Jackal,” Fetching answered, heeding Starling’s advice to respond with honesty, and inwardly thanking her for the fluency in the elf tongue. “He is a member of my tribe, but has been away on a task I set him.”

  “And?” This from a younger girl.

  “And he should not have come here.”

  The blind boy cocked his head. “Why did he?”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “We did,” the same boy replied. “But we want to hear what you believe.”

  Fetch took a breath, let it out slowly. “He is beholden to Zirko, high priest of Belico.” She tilted her head to the side in Xhreka’s direction. “Zirko wants her, so he snapped his fingers and my roving brethren here came running, wagging his tail.”

  “I came running when told my hoof was in danger!”

  Jackal’s words were passionate, directed at the council, but meant for Fetch. She should not have been surprised that he now understood and spoke elvish. More changes, more mysteries.

  “Zirko said there was something hiding among my brethren,” he went on, “something they may not know was there. It needed to be removed before it destroyed them. When I reached our lands…I thought it already had.”

  Fetch felt a moment of sympathy. But it was fleeting, chased away by the greater pain, the living knowledge of what really happened.

  “Xhreka did not destroy our home,” she told the Sitting Young. “She helped us survive the attack of those that did.”

  The eldest elf girl’s face turned grave. “The Ruin Made Flesh.”

  “Him, yes,” Fetching replied before glancing at Jackal, “and the Orc Stains.” She looked away before he met her eye.

  “The Orc Stains?” the smallest boy on the council asked.

  “Another half-orc tribe,” Fetch answered.

  An older boy gestured at Jackal. “What was the task this one undertook for you?”

  “To bring me the head of a Tyrkanian wizard that wronged our tribe.”

  “You did not know he was coming here to attempt this intrusion on our land?”

  “No.”

  The first girl held up a hand and the elf man behind her leaned down. There was a hushed exchange. When it was over, the man straightened once more and the girl returned her attention to Fetch.

  “Why does the Hero Father of Strava want this halfling?”

  “You will have to ask her.”

  “I got the god he made inside my head,” Xhreka announced without waiting. She spoke Hisparthan, though it was obvious she understood the Tines.

  Over half the Sitting Young sought advice after that statement, some needing a translation. While waiting, Fetch could no longer resist. She looked at Jackal.

  He turned immediately. He was angry at her for calling him Zirko’s dog, confused by the answers about Winsome’s fall, but those were only the freshest emotions, a few leaves newly fallen into a well. The deep waters beneath were uncertainty, regret, longing, and the same conflicted relief that had caused Fetch to throw stones into a pond. As he returned her gaze, the leaves were chased away and she saw a cautious joy pull at the corners of his lips. Fetch itched to punch him, ached to fuck him. One, then the other. Or one during the other. Repeatedly. Neither would likely be well received in this solemn chamber full of children.

  They were both pulled back to the council by another youthful voice.

  “We are not familiar with all the mysteries that the followers of Belico believe.”

  Xhreka’s mouth twisted. “If I go into all that, you lot will be old enough to stand behind your replacements before I’m through. We will just say that I have no desire to go back to Strava and leave it there.”

  “The half-orc man claims you are dangerous,” a girl said.

  “Not if I am left alone.”

  A boy looked at Fetching. “Did you know what the halfling possessed?”

  “Like you, I don’t understand most of it. But yes, I knew she had power.”

  The eldest girl did not look pleased. “We cannot deny Akis’naqam’s judgment nor our returned sister’s wisdom and intercession on your behalf. However, you also brought this godling among us, without our knowledge or permission. You willingly brought a potent, destructive force into our lands. By his own admission, your wayward rider bears similar, dangerous blessings. His intrusion was due to your presence, or more correctly, the presence of the halfling under your protection. It is not our place to interfere in the affairs of outsider gods, but neither was it our wish to host a conflict between Belico’s disciples.” The girl looked at Jackal. “You will be taken immediately from our lands. Tell the Hero Father that he has earned the ire of the Seamless Memory. That he would send a servant creeping beyond our borders dishonors decades of peace between us. If he ever sends another, we will ride to Strava and bring war.”

  Tine warriors surrounded Jackal and began to lead him from the chamber.

  “I need to speak with him,” Fetch told the council, but was met with no answer. The guards did not hesitate and were soon gone, along with their charge. The firm words of the girl again filled the chamber.

  “And you, chief of the True Bastards, your part in this has forced us to consider the wisdom of allowing your people to dwell here.”

  Fetching tensed as the Sitting Young delivered their judgment through the eldest girl.

  “You will leave our lands, never to return.”

  “You can�
��t mean…all of us?”

  “All,” said the girl.

  Fetching swept the faces before her, careful not to look at the adults. “My brothers and I will leave. There will be no more threat to you from those that remain. They are only children, families, farmers and grovers and tradesmen. They are not a danger, I swear it.”

  “When you came to us we thought you to be the danger, Aberration. Now we see more perils were nested within those you brought here. This halfling was not one of your riders. Who else among your people will reveal themselves as capable of bringing woe to our tribe? We would be unwise to allow any to remain within our borders.”

  Fetch hit her knees, desperation pushing her words forth in an airy torrent. “Please. Do not do this. I will take my riders and the halfling woman and be gone. Only allow the rest to stay safe. Please!”

  The faces of her judges were youthful, soft and smooth, but their eyes were cold and jagged as flint.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  OLLAL CLUNG TO HER MOTHER as Fetching spoke, one fearful face amidst two score. Some tried to hide it with outrage, others disbelief, but all were afraid as they heard the news.

  They could no longer stay. The Tines were demanding their withdrawal.

  Beyond the shelter of the canyons, Ul-wundulas slavered, eager for them to once again place themselves upon its altar and expose their throats. The slops wore the most convincing masks, but Fetch saw through the set jaws and folded arms. Dog Fall was a strange and stifling home, but there was food and water, and the nights were free from the laughter of demons. There was no choice. They must leave. Both feeble statements issued from Fetch’s mouth, her voice the filthy outreaching hands of a beggar.

  She had called her folk together in front of the larger hut, the one the slops had worked so hard to restore. She now sent the same diligent young mongrels away to help the Bastards, already informed and making preparations. The survivors of Winsome remained, the parents’ faces growing numb as the questions of their children drifted up to ears deaf to all but ill tidings. Fetch forced herself to look at Thistle. The fear stained her too, but the woman was quick to take it in hand, mold its wet uselessness into something resolute for the sake of the sixteen foundlings arranged around her skirts.