The True Bastards

by Jonathan French

  Shed Snake grunted. “They’re calling him a coward, but they don’t dare challenge him anymore.”

  Kul’huun dipped his shallow nod.

  Polecat cocked a squinted eye at him. “And you Fangs are here to, what, worship him as some thick-slaying god?”

  “We came to tell what we learned,” Kul’huun replied, an edge to his patience. “And found your holdfast destroyed. There was evidence of the uq’huul and his pack, but also of the Orc Stains.”

  “Thrice-blooded fucks tried to end us,” Polecat said. “Your new hero and his damn curs too.”

  “No. He was trying to help us. Help…me.”

  All eyes went to Fetching. Even Oats looked up and, though the anger was far from comforting, his face gave her the will to voice the hard truths.

  “Ruin…U’ruul…” She broke off, frustrated. Fuck. All she now understood and she still didn’t know what he called himself. All she had were names foisted upon him. Hateful, condemning names. “He was drawn here, to me. He didn’t know why, tried to resist and couldn’t. But he saved me from the cavaleros.”

  You taste weak.

  “He was…curious. Thought perhaps I was another uq’huul coaxing him into a trap. But I was sick, dying. Not a threat. He tried to return to Dhar’gest.” Fetch took a deep breath. “Had I not survived, he would have. By reaching Strava, getting rid of the sludge, I lived. So…he could not leave. And was drawn back. More than that, he was compelled to protect me. So he came again when the Stains attacked.”

  “Hogshit.” Oats’s growl possessed none of Kul’huun’s patience. “Those dogs attacked you.”

  “They’re still animals, Oats. And I attacked them.”

  “Because they were trying to get their jaws on me and Xhreka and three babes!”

  Fetch shook her head. “Just you. Just the thrice-blood. Like the Stains.”

  “They didn’t come for me,” Incus said.

  “You had already fled Winsome,” Fetch told her. “You weren’t near me.”

  Oats’s face fell for a moment, but hardened again. “I know what I saw! He wasn’t protecting you at the Kiln pile, Fetch. That monster wanted to kill you.”

  Fetch recalled that night with more than memory now. She could see Ruin stepping in front of her, relived the rage he inspired within her. She roped him, dragged him to the death trap of the Kiln. She recalled Ruin trying to strike her. Only, he’d been trying to grab her. He could have leapt clear at any time, left her to burn, but he didn’t, not without carrying her out with him. And he had burned.

  “I tried to kill him,” Fetch said. “Nothing has been able to cause him pain since the orcs. The Al-Unan fire, that…changed things. I was now a threat, no longer a confusing curiosity. I was the source of what kept him from going home and had the power to harm him. So, he came to free himself. Today, he wanted me dead. He meant no harm before.”

  “No harm?” Oats was so incensed his voice had gone quiet. “Dumb Door’s dead, Fetch. And that wasn’t the Stains. That was him! He took hold of a hog with his hoodoo and killed one of us, well before the night you burned him.”

  The hoof stared at Fetch, awaiting an answer. It was a difficult one to give.

  “That wasn’t his doing. It was mine.”

  Her brothers shifted uneasily.

  “The Filth that gives the uq’huuls their powers is hateful shit,” Fetch told them. “Evil. It is why all of them, since the beginning, have served the orcs. They are driven to destroy. Not Ruin. He possesses the same magic, but it doesn’t corrupt him. Somehow, he dominates it, and can even share it. The Filth is in the dogs, same as him, and they passed it to Little Orphan Girl when they nearly killed her. Without Ruin’s influence the dogs would be driven mad by the Filth. He wasn’t in control of Little Orphan Girl, so she succumbed.”

  “I don’t see how that’s your fault,” Shed Snake said.

  “The dogs attacked Slivers because of me. I told him if he ever returned to Winsome, I would kill him. Ruin felt that through our…I dunno, fucking bond. Like me, he wasn’t aware of it. He didn’t know why, but he felt rage and hatred for Slivers. So, he sent the pack after him. Slivers was killed and his hog corrupted because of me. Dumb Door is dead because of me.”

  Shed Snake’s mouth twisted in disagreement. “You can’t shoulder that, chief.”

  Polecat eyed the line of barbarians. “So…that mean Clusiana and Ugfuck are going to go mad?”

  “No. He’s freed them of the corruption.”

  “How do you know?” Polecat asked.

  “How do I know any of this,” Fetch replied. She looked to Starling.

  Culprit snapped his fingers, beamed with pride at his own intuition. “The sludge baby!”

  “I do not understand,” Kul’huun said.

  “The chief and that big, terrifying fuck are twins,” Culprit replied. “Can’t you tell?”

  Fetch kept her eyes on Starling, wanting her own answers.

  Oats forced her to wait.

  “Why, Isa?” he demanded, a big hand and great concern still resting upon Jackal.

  Fetch pointed to where Ruin still knelt among the swollen remains of his pack. “Look at him, Oats. What do you reckon you’d do if you were him and those dogs were the hoof? Your brothers. Jackal did that. For me. I did that. That rage you feel, we feel, for Dumb Door, for Mead and Sweeps, and all the rest, we gave it to him. Tell me you wouldn’t have torn any of their killers limb from limb.”

  Oats set his jaw, trying to hold on to his anger, but the fire in his glare was cooling.

  “I couldn’t stop him,” Fetch said. “All I could do was show him we were done trying to hurt him.”

  “Reckon that worked,” Culprit said, blowing out a long breath as he stared at Ruin. He looked back at Fetch, a little worried. “Right?”

  She didn’t have an answer.

  Starling did.

  “He will come to understand,” she said in accented Hisparthan. “I will help him. That is my path now.”

  “Better to just allow him to go back to Dhar’gest,” Fetch said.

  Starling shook her head. “He was compelled here for a purpose. Just as I am Returned for a purpose.” She looked to Ghost Last Sung. At last, he met her eye and there was a long moment before Starling continued. “I feared it was as Na’hak said, that my purpose was to rid the earth of my children. Your birth was my death. I could not allow my rebirth to be yours. I feared what would happen if we three should meet, for this could only end the way it began, with us together. In this I was right. Our convergence brought forth what I carried. I am thankful it proved not to be an instrument of your deaths.”

  “What was it, then?” Culprit asked. “Because I nearly shat my breeches when it came out. I swear even Hood blinked. Like once, but he did!”

  If Hoodwink had blinked, he didn’t now.

  Starling gave her answer to Fetch. “It was him. Your ta’thami’atha. You had been born when death took me, the cord joining us cut, but he was still within. When I awoke in this body, a part of him Returned as well. I did not know this, but now I see. Though it was a shadow of him, it came to you, as he was drawn to you. He journeyed from Dhar’gest to find you, as I journeyed from death.”

  “But why?”

  Starling grew visibly saddened. “I have hidden so much from you, I fear you will not trust me when I say…I do not know.”

  “It was to bring us the orcs’ champion,” Kul’huun said, eyes alight with flames of certainty. “He shunned them. Fought them. Now he will help us destroy them.”

  None added their voice to that belief.

  “I think,” Culprit said, rubbing at his head, “any mongrel that tough is going to do whatever the fuck he wants no matter what we say.”

  Shed Snake rolled his eyes. “If he could do whatever he wanted he wouldn’t be
here, fool-ass.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Polecat looked to Fetch. “What’s the move, chief?”

  “You’re going to sit there until that head’s no longer addled. We’re riding out soon as Culprit and Snake get a skid made for Jack and Xhreka.” The elected mongrels jumped to it. “I don’t need you falling off your hog again, Cat, so stay put. You, too, Incus. Rest until I say.”

  “Wouldn’t have gotten thrown if that sorcerous shit hadn’t hexed my sow,” Polecat groused. He grimaced at Oats. “How come you ain’t hurt?”

  “No magic in this world that can force Ug to turn on me,” Oats replied.

  Fetch went to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Reckon there has to be some boon for having to suffer looking at him.”

  “Damn right,” Oats grunted, and clapped a hand over hers. The other never left Jackal.

  * * *

  —

  THE SUN WAS HIGH BY the time the skid was built. Shed Snake and Culprit had been forced to range far for the wood. When they called to Fetch, letting her know it was completed, she had been crouching among the dead dogs for some time.

  Ruin’s eyes never raised.

  He did not weep, he did not hold one of the fallen animals, nor touch them in any way. He merely, awfully, sat. There was no sign of the beetles Jackal had unleashed to slay the hyenas, but neither would the flies of Ul-wundulas, ever eager to descend, gather upon their bodies. Ruin’s own wounds had already ceased to bleed. Fetch wondered if the rest of him would heal as swiftly, or at all.

  She’d risked squatting within reach. He’d given her presence no notice. The Fangs had kept a watchful eye, so had her own riders, for differing reasons. Neither hoof understood. They could no longer hurt each other. Not any further. Not anymore.

  So Fetch hunkered across from Ruin, took in the sight of him. This close, his sheer size, even in near complete stillness, was difficult to face without trepidation. The beating sun carved the slabs of muscle, wrought by savage survival, into a primal nightmare. The cruel, hooked piercings of bone that covered his flesh were hard to look upon. They’d been inflicted upon him by the orcs, and Fetch found herself wondering why he’d never removed them. The answer forced a rueful snort.

  “Women are only good for two things,” she muttered. “Fucking and fetching.”

  Her words had been in Hisparthan, meaningless to Ruin, yet the sound of her voice drew his attention. His chin lifted from his chest, his eyes were amber beneath the heavy brow, sagging with grief.

  She spoke again, this time in elvish as well as Hisparthan, hoping two languages would make up for the lack of her words in orcish.

  “Thank you.” And. “I am sorry.”

  She stood, picked her way through the dogs.

  Starling met her just beyond the cordon created by the Fangs of Our Fathers. She was a little unsteady on her feet, but like her monstrous son, the she-elf was frightfully resilient.

  “You going to stay with him?” Fetch asked, glancing back at Ruin.

  “Yes,” Starling said. “I will honor him as Returned. It is the duty of his blood kin to help him find his path.”

  “Where will you go? I can’t imagine Dog Fall will allow you back. Not with…him.”

  “Perhaps one day. For now, we shall remain with Kul’huun and his tribe. They have pledged to aid us. Their knowledge of the orcs is deep. My hope is that they will bridge the divide between the world my son knew and the one he now faces.”

  Fetch lowered her voice. “Be cautious. Kul’huun is a strong warrior and a good ally, but the Fangs are bent on Ruin being something he may not wish to become.”

  “Thank you for this warning. I will keep it close to mind.”

  Farther out upon the plain, Na’hak and N’keesos were holding a private, heated council.

  Fetch lifted her chin, directed Starling’s gaze. “And them? They staying with you?”

  “Blood Crow, yes. He wishes to restore his honor.”

  “But not his father.”

  “No. The wounds in Ghost Last Sung’s heart are too deep.”

  Fetch considered a moment before shaking her head. “It’s not his heart, Starling. It’s his eyes. He’s too blinded by hatred to see the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “That you succeeded. Not partially, but fully. You brought no Ruin Made Flesh into this world. You did what you set out to do.”

  The she-elf looked at her with woeful, careworn eyes trapped within a face of beautiful youth. “You have grown wise, daughter.”

  The word caused no small amount of discomfort, but Fetch said nothing. Telling Starling not to call her that would be…cruel.

  “Starling, I know that I’m also…blood kin. But I cannot go with you. I have—”

  The warmth of a hand upon her face stopped her words. “You have your brothers. I have my sons. And they are not the same.”

  Starling’s other hand came up and she cradled Fetch’s face, held her eyes with her own. There was pride and hesitance in that stare, the one deepening as the other fled. Leaning in, Starling placed a lingering kiss upon her forehead. Her lips were trembling. When she withdrew, her hands remained a moment longer.

  “When next you see Beryl,” Starling said, “please deliver these words: I thank you for your past kindness. I thank you for the lives of my children. For suffering to save my son. And for surviving to raise my daughter. My Ka’siqana.”

  The meaning of that last elvish word came immediately to Fetch’s mind.

  Purest Lark.

  It was an additional, aching heartbeat before she realized it would have been, in another life, her name.

  FORTY-ONE

  IT TOOK THE TRUE BASTARDS the remainder of the day and all the night to reach the Orc Stains’ lot.

  The entire ride Fetching feared Jackal would die, hoped Xhreka would wake. Neither did.

  The rising sun caught them fording the River U’har at Guliat Wash. Fetch was long familiar with the border, but had never set foot on its eastern bank. Her boots were still damp from the crossing when the other riders appeared.

  There were eleven of them, all on hogs. They came at an uneven trot, spread across the plain. The Bastards rode to meet them. As the distance dwindled, Fetch scanned the haphazard line, saw the prodigious size of the barbarians. The riders atop such weighty pigs were far too small to be thrice-bloods. Only one straddled a razor with any skill, and he appeared to have a bit more meat on him. They began to rein up a stone’s throw from the Bastards, though most were within spitting distance by the time their large mounts agreed to halt. Fetch’s eyes darted among these gaunt, inexpert riders. Her brothers had given her ample warning, but the appearance of these mongrels still gave Fetch pause. Every last one was bald and shabby. None wore a brigand. Half had tulwars at their belts, the rest equipped with everything from rough-fashioned spears to wood-cutting axes. Fetch counted the slung straps of only four stockbows. They were stiff in the saddle, most unable to sit their hog without both hands gripping the barbarian’s mane. Above every unhealthy gaze, the puckered scar of a brand adorned their foreheads; three ragged, vertical lines.

  The Orc Stains’ rumored slaves in the flesh.

  And among them a familiar, though nearly unrecognizable, face.

  Fetch dipped her chin. “Marrow.”

  “Chief,” the nomad responded. His whiskers were thin and wispy, blanched of the flaxen hue that had once made them so conspicuous. The yellow had fled the hair to take up residence in the eyes. Above, his brand was pink, where those of his compatriots were pale.

  “We’ve got wounded,” Fetch said.

  “Come. Thricehold is not far.” Marrow motioned for the riders to move out. “Caltrop, you have point.”

  “Yes, chief,” answered one of the scrawny mongrels.

  The rest turn
ed their hogs, most with obvious difficulty, and entered into a slipshod formation that was not likely to last a league. The Bastards resumed their protective positions around the skid pulled by Big Pox.

  Fetch kicked Womb Broom forward and wove her way to Marrow’s side. He continued to stare ahead.

  “Thank you for taking my folk in,” she told the side of his head.

  Marrow was tense, uncomfortable. “There’s no need for that. It is you who have our gratitude. You rid us of our captors, though you suffered much in the doing. I count it fortunate that my hoof came upon yours. Our lot is vast and our numbers few. These boys are still breaking in, but are diligent in patrolling the crossings.”

  Fetch’s brothers told her about Marrow and the other slaves, but their encounter had been brief. The Bastards were eager to track her down and had not lingered after receiving assurances the Winsome folk would be looked after.

  “What happened, Marrow? How did you come to be a prisoner? You’re seasoned enough to know free-riders weren’t welcome by the Stains.”

  Beneath the pale whiskers, Marrow’s jaw pulsed. “They took me almost within sight of Winsome.”

  Fetch let out a sigh. “Knob had his boys watching us.”

  The nomad did not respond. It hadn’t been a question anyway.

  “I’m sorry, Marrow.”

  He remained silent. It was no wonder he had come to lead this ragged bunch. In the absence of their masters they would have looked to the strongest and, haggard and haunted as he was, Marrow was still a brute compared to the rest. The former Skull Sower who’d once challenged Tomb finally had his hoof.

  “What do you call yourselves?” Fetch asked.

  “We are the Thrice Freed.”

  “Fitting.”

  “Yes. But it is not only our escape from the Orc Stains we honor.” Marrow’s detached stare brightened. “First, we were freed from the womb. Next, from our slavers. Death will free us the third time when we give our lives in defense of Ul-wundulas.”

  Marrow continued to face forward as he spoke, but even in profile, Fetch could see the wild glint in his eye, hear the resolve of a zealot in his proclamation. Fetch worried the nomad’s time in chains had tarnished his mind with madness.