The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  “Both?” Ghost Last Sung said, his stag shifting in response to his agitation. “Why do you speak such?”

  Xhreka’s taut voice answered. “You’re about to find out.”

  Fetch followed the halfling’s westward gaze. “Fuck.”

  A score of low, loping shadows sped across the plain. There was no sign of their master, but he wouldn’t be far behind.

  The dogs laughed.

  And Starling cried out, staggering as she clutched her belly.

  Fetch caught her as she crumpled. “What is—”

  “Get. Away.” Starling told her, face contorted with pain. She shoved Fetch with enough strength to push her over into the dust.

  “We only got moments, mongrel girl!” Xhreka warned.

  Scrambling to her feet, Fetch shouted at Ghost Last Sung. “You need to get Starling out of here!”

  If the elf heard he gave no sign. Shrieking a war cry he kicked his stag and charged the oncoming pack.

  Fetch turned to his son. “N’keesos!”

  The younger warrior’s eyes snapped from Ghost Last Sung to Starling, torn between the father riding into the maws of the pack and the mother writhing in agony upon the dirt. Confused and troubled, he was trapped by indecision.

  “Shit!” Fetch gnashed her teeth. “Xhreka, be ready!”

  “With that point-ear in the wa—”

  The halfling had turned her head to speak. She didn’t see the dog coming.

  Fetch did. Too late.

  Too late to raise her stockbow. Too late to do anything but realize the others had been a distraction, to keep the attention away from this lone beast sent in to pounce on the most dangerous quarry from the flank.

  The hyena slammed Xhreka to the ground, seized her arm in its jaws, and took off. The halfling was dragged, bouncing on the hard-packed earth, limp as a child’s doll. Fetch snatched her stockbow up, sighted. Before she could pull the tickler, a wave of sound lashed the dog, bowled it over. Xhreka tumbled free. The dog was rolling back to its feet, but N’keesos rode his stag between the beast and its prey, a song-club in his good hand, guiding his mount with nothing but his legs. Swinging his weapon in downward arcs, he chased the devil off with whipping shrieks.

  Fetch sprinted to Xhreka’s side. Her head must have struck a rock. She was unconscious, hair sticky with blood. But she was breathing.

  “My father,” N’keesos said.

  Fetch looked up. Nodded. “Go.”

  As his stag sped away to aid Ghost Last Sung, Fetch scanned the horizon for any more skulking dogs. And that’s when she saw them.

  The sun was rising upon the plain. Against its glare rode silhouettes Fetch would have known by the drumming of their hoofbeats alone.

  Her True Bastards.

  THIRTY-NINE

  SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW they were here. They weren’t supposed to be. But she knew why. They’d come for her. Her heart should have soared, yet it felt nothing but dread for their lives. They could not save her. Not from this. She wasn’t certain she could save them.

  Turning, she saw Ghost Last Sung fighting amidst the pack. His harrow stag darted and bounded through the snapping press, antlers aglow as it dipped its great head to sweep dogs aside. The elf’s war lance was never still, and the devils within its reach yelped as the keen blade speared their hides. None were slain.

  N’keesos was upon them now, his club scattering the pack with its clamorous assault. The magic of that weapon had felled the Bastards, and Fetch felt a kindling hope as the hyenas were tossed and buffeted by its power. But there were too many. Forced to keep nearly twenty at bay, N’keesos could not focus the song on any one beast long enough. Yet neither could the dogs overwhelm the Tines. As if sensing the futility of bringing the elves down, the pack broke away.

  And came for Fetching.

  Seventeen dogs ran full-pelt, spread out and kicking dust. Fetch sighted, tracked one on the far edge, and loosed. The bolt struck its neck, dropping the beast. Fetching cursed as it twitched, rolled, and regained its feet, surging forward once more to rejoin its devilish brethren. She locked the string back, set a bolt, raised, loosed. Another dog fell. Didn’t stay down. She was only stalling them, but it was all she could do. A chance for one more shot and then they would be upon her.

  Lock. Set. Raise. Loose.

  Her last bolt was joined by three others. Four dogs tumbled. Hooves thundered, shaking the ground as Mean Old Man and Ugfuck rushed past, Jackal and Oats upon their backs. With them was Hoodwink on his nameless barbarian. Her best, her deadliest. Behind them came Polecat and Shed Snake. Culprit. And Incus, riding Big Pox. They rode full into the jaws of the converging pack, hurling javelins, their hogs goring and sweeping with their tusks. One hyena shrieked as Oats thrust a javelin straight through its middle, pinning it to the earth. Hood had drawn his tulwar and sent reaping strokes in every direction.

  Fetch stood and cast a look at Starling as she reloaded. The bulge of the elf’s belly was thrust skyward atop an arching spine, cries of agony lifting higher.

  “Starling! I need to know what’s happening!”

  The only response was a tortured scream.

  Fetch put another bolt in a dog. None were staying down long. Na’hak and N’keesos rejoined the struggle. Together, hog and stag riders caused the pack to scatter. It was no victory. Only the dog Oats had impaled could not rise, though it kicked and hollered. Thrumbolts and javelins stuck out from every one of the beasts’ bodies, yet none were slowed.

  The Bastards knew better than to linger and rode back to where Fetch stood over the fallen Xhreka.

  Oats jumped from Ugfuck before the lumbering pig had fully stopped and hit his knees beside the halfling. The rest remained ahog, forming a protective ring. Fetch saw bite wounds on Polecat’s hog and Ugfuck, but otherwise the hoof was hale.

  “Good to see you ignored my fucking orders, Jack,” Fetch said.

  “Not me,” he replied, keeping one eye on the pack. “I told them what you wanted. These hard-nosed mongrels voted me down.”

  “Our place is here with you, chief,” Shed Snake said.

  “Where the fuck are our people?” she demanded.

  “Safe in Thricehold,” Shed Snake replied.

  “Thricehold?”

  Polecat grunted an affirmative. “Bit of a tale.”

  “I suppose there’s also a tale as to why you brought a damn slop?” Fetch exclaimed, pointing at Incus.

  Polecat clicked his tongue. “No. None of us wanted to tell her she couldn’t come.”

  “You said if I ever held back again, I would be out,” Incus said in her toneless voice.

  “Not what I meant!”

  The thrice’s shaggy head tilted slightly. “Must have misheard.”

  Culprit laughed. “Oh, shit! I taught her that one!” He winced as Starling’s wails reached a fresh height. “What’s going on there, chief?”

  “The fuck does it look like, half-wit?” Shed Snake said.

  Fetch knew what it looked like. She still didn’t know what it was. “We need to get her out of here.”

  “No time,” Hoodwink said.

  Fetch looked through the ring of barbarians. The pack was regrouping.

  “These beasts are corrupted by Filth.” Ghost Last Sung’s grim face thrust blame at Fetching. “This fight cannot be won.”

  Jackal hummed appreciatively. “You said they were devils. I know a few ways to kill devils.” He slid from the saddle. “You all get going. I’ll handle this.”

  “On foot?” Polecat called out.

  “Don’t want my hog getting hurt,” Jackal replied without turning.

  “Is he…sauntering?” Shed Snake asked.

  Polecat made a noise in his throat. “Fucking Jackal.”

  Fetch did not stop him—these creatures needed killing—
neither did she get on her hog. She would not run from this. Nor would her brothers. They’d made that known.

  Oats had Xhreka’s head cradled in his huge hands.

  “How is she?” Fetch asked.

  All she received in response was a shake of the head.

  Starling continued to suffer. Fetch ached to help her, but knew she would be rebuked.

  “Any of you know anything about birthing…babies?”

  “Piglets,” Shed Snake offered.

  “We all know how to do that,” Culprit told him. “Half-wit.”

  “Can’t be much different,” Snake countered.

  “It is.” Hoodwink slid from the saddle. The hoof watched, unblinking, as the pale killer knelt before Starling. “I have her.”

  “I ain’t even gonna ponder that one,” Polecat muttered.

  Out in the plain, Jackal stood, sword sheathed, thrum slung. The dark cloth of his desert robes stirred in the wind. The pack surrounded him, yowling but reluctant to attack. They padded about, sniffing and baring their teeth in turns.

  “The hells are they doing?” Culprit asked, his voiced hushed. “They afraid?”

  “No,” Fetch said, guts turning frigid.

  They were waiting.

  Beyond raced the frightening bulk of Ruin.

  “Bastards, stay here!” Fetch shouted. “Protect Xhreka! Protect Starling!” She didn’t wait, she didn’t mount. She ran, matching Ruin step for step. They reached opposing edges of the encircling pack at the same moment. The dogs allowed him to pass. Not her. Jumping and biting, they blocked her path as Ruin charged and Jackal darted to meet him, sword leaving its scabbard. Fetch itched to draw steel, to fight her way to Jackal’s side, but the message in the low, warning growls of the hyenas was clear.

  Do not interfere.

  If she broke through, her brethren would follow. And die. She could only watch. And place her faith in the most brazen mongrel ever to ride the Lots.

  Jackal ducked a blow that would have removed his head, danced back, sidestepped another of Ruin’s terrifying fists, and cut across the orc’s ribs with his Tyrkanian blade. He may as well have sliced a fortress wall. Ruin snatched at him, but Jackal twisted away, chopped down on the offending arm. This time, his blade bit. Fetch felt a tingle of triumph as dark blood spurted from the cut.

  Hells, he can be hurt.

  But Ruin gave no sign he felt any pain. He swiped with the dripping arm, no doubt could have felled a tree, but again, Jackal slipped from harm. Ruin was larger, stronger, faster, his reach greater, his savagery unmatched, and still his foe remained untouched. Jackal moved with a spare grace Fetch had never seen in him before. Ever a skilled fighter, he was now honed into something sharper, more precise. And yet, the old Bastard tricks were there too.

  He sent a flurry of whirling cuts at the uq’huul’s face, and when Ruin shielded himself with his forearms, Jackal booted him brutally in the cods. It was a baiting strike. Ruin’s massive arms made a sweeping grab. Jackal hopped back, forcing the brute to overextend. Spinning, Jackal put his entire body into a crosscut that smote the side of the thick’s skull. The blade rebounded off the bone, battering Ruin’s head. He stumbled, had to place a hand upon the ground to keep from falling. Jackal did not waste the opening. He rushed his staggered opponent, leapt, placed a boot on the brute’s broad shoulder, and used it to vault above him. Jackal hung in the air, twisting as he reversed the grip on his sword. Stabbing downward as he fell, using all the strength of his arms and the force of his descent, he drove half the curved blade’s length into the meat of Ruin’s shoulder next to his neck. Forced to his knees, Ruin gagged, vomited blood. Jackal held fast to the sword, tried to twist the blade, plunge it deeper, but Ruin threw an arm back, grasping, forcing him to jump clear.

  It was a wound that would have slain any orc. And yet, Ruin stood.

  Inured to his dread vitality, Fetch did not feel any surprise. Not even when he reached up and began to slide the sword from his body. Jackal was not so benumbed. He had sensed victory. Seeing it flee left him standing momentarily rooted.

  “Jack, get mov—!”

  Ruin pulled the sword free, whirled, and flung. The blade flew straight as a spear, ripped into Jackal’s chest, and punched him off his feet. He landed on his back in the dust. His legs kicked feebly for a moment, a constricted groan escaped his lips, and he shuddered to stillness.

  Shock’s icy hands twisted around Fetch’s spine. A scream froze in her windpipe, yet Jackal’s name still smote the air, borne on the stricken voice of Oats. Tears boiled in Fetch’s eyes before they could fall. Fury filled her muscles, but her limbs refused to move.

  Ruin gave an aggravated grunt and jerked his head. Cackling, the pack darted to her fallen lover, eclipsed him with their loathsome bodies, and began to feed.

  Everything holding Fetch snapped.

  Drawing the kataras, she rushed the roiling heap of dogs. The pack turned on her. She punched one through the eye as it lunged, driving the dagger’s entire blade into its head. Powerful jaws closed around her calf, fangs driving through the leather of her boot to pierce flesh. She gnashed her teeth against the pain as the latched cur pulled her leg back until she lost balance and fell. Her vision shrank to a wall of hideous muzzles, leering teeth, round ears, and black eyes. She rose to a crouch, slashed out with her blades, but could not hope to hold them all at bay. Her wrist was seized by a sudden constriction and she was jerked backward, dragged out of the stinking mass. She ate dust for a short span and the pulling ceased. A lasso was about her wrist, slackening, Polecat at the other end, jumping from the saddle.

  “Chief, we have to go!” he cried, hauling her to her feet.

  Fetch shoved him. “Get off! Jackal!”

  “You can’t help him. He’s fucking gone! Chief!”

  She thrashed against his continued grapple.

  “Chief, dammit, look! You want Jackal to be the last? Or the first?”

  Polecat managed to swing her around. A stone’s throw away, Oats was enraged. Culprit and Shed Snake had his arms, straining to keep him from rushing Ruin. They’d never have held him were it not for Incus grabbing him from behind. Still, Oats was crawling forward, screaming to snuff the sun.

  “We have to ride! Now!” Polecat insisted.

  None were impeding the Tines. Na’hak and N’keesos kicked their stags forward, loosing their war cries. The elder warrior led, the blade of his lance now sizzling with the same pale light held trapped within the stone of the son’s raised club. Ghost Last Sung threw and the lance shrieked in flight. Ruin lurched as the weapon sank deep into his chest. The lance began to hum, the haft vibrating. Snarling, Ruin reached to remove it from his flesh, but the lance burst in a storm of eldritch light, sending him reeling. Ghost Last Sung peeled away as N’keesos charged through the hanging azure vapors left behind, song club whirling above his head. His stag lowered its head as it closed on the injured monster.

  Ruin caught the antlers. A sickening crunch burst from the animal as he twisted its head fully around. Keeping hold of the twitching beast, Ruin spun in a circle, throwing N’keesos off and hurling the stag’s corpse into Na’hak’s animal. The elder Tine vanished beneath the fallen, kicking bodies of the stags. N’keesos had landed hard upon his injured arm, but was still struggling to rise, gasps of pain issuing from between his clenched teeth.

  Slowly, Ruin approached him, intent on the kill.

  Polecat tugged at Fetch’s arm. “Chief!”

  He was right.

  She broke loose.

  Enough.

  She threw the kataras down.

  No more would die for her.

  She ran.

  Straight at Ruin, snatching up Blood Crow’s fallen club.

  Fetch dove, shouldered one hated brother away from the other. Ruin turned just as she collided, hitting him with
her entire body. She launched the club into his gut, felt the impact of the sound wave. Her strength surged. Punched across the jaw, she kept coming, power growing with every blow given or received. She could hear herself grunting, snarling, every breath a defiance of her foe’s might, a war drum for her own. She pushed forward, digging at a mountain.

  Ruin fought back, heedless as a rockslide. His fists were nearly the size of her head and they sought to shatter it. Fetch ducked, came up club swinging. The monstrous uq’huul caught the blows on his arms, swatted the club from her hand. A punch took her across the face, the next in the gut, doubling her over his massive fist. Bloody spittle flew from her lips and spattered up his arm. Retching on a throat full of bile, she waded back in, slipped what she could, weathered what she could not, but keeping herself from harm was an instinct burned away by the need to cause harm. She sprung back each time he struck her, a steel blade standing against a hill of solid iron. Weaving beneath a propelling arm, Fetch snatched the limb, yanked, sent Ruin stumbling forward, and brought her boot down on the side of his knee. Bones should have snapped, but the brute’s leg only buckled. He flung an elbow, caught her ribs as she scrambled onto his back. He stood, tried to throw her off, but she clung to the bones in his flesh with her hands, her teeth. She got an arm around his throat, dug the fingers of her other hand into the sword wound Jackal inflicted. And still Ruin did not cry out.

  He pried her arm from his throat, used it to swing her over his head, and chopped her body into the ground. Hard earth hammered Fetch’s back. The pain was nothing next to the anger. She was lifted, dragged up by the arm to dangle before Ruin’s vengeful stare. She punched him across the cheekbone with her free hand. He caught the second blow and bashed his forehead into her face.

  Fetch couldn’t see through the wet agony. Warm, sticky fluid dripped from her chin. Blood and spit and the stuff pummeled out of her stomach.

  “CHIEF!”

  She could hear her brothers—her real brothers—coming. She raised a trembling hand, stretched it out behind her, commanded them to hold. They wouldn’t obey. They’d die, despite all her efforts.