The True Bastards Read online

  The Bone Smiler saw it too. “There’s some ssslk swelling in Dead Bride’s left hind foot.” He moved to squat by the hog. While he and Marrow conferred, Sluggard caught Fetching’s eye.

  And winked.

  “Even your tight-lipped friend there gave his name,” he commented playfully. “I hope to hear yours before you ride off. Unless I’ve just shamed myself by not knowing you were here seeking a cure for dumbness.”

  Marrow’s head jerked up wearing a scowl. “You’ve just shamed yourself because that there is the leader of the True Bastards, you ignorant!”

  That left Sluggard aghast. He looked at the entrance to the hut, as if hoping someone else was about to come out. “I thought…”

  “I’d be taller?” Fetch finished for him. “Don’t worry, my cock is every bit as large as you’ve heard.”

  “Pardon him, chief,” Marrow said. “Full of nothing but spend and stupid, this one.”

  “Yes, pardon him,” Sluggard recovered well, returning the smirk to his face, “and give him your name.”

  Tightening Womb’s girth strap, she tossed him an answer over her shoulder. “Fetching.”

  “And I thought all hoof names to be forged in irony.” Sluggard’s voice was awed.

  Fetch wasn’t sure what that meant, but from his tone, it wasn’t an insult.

  Hoodwink drew up on the other side of Womb’s saddle. “I need to remain. Hunt a day or two for the Bone Smiler.”

  Fetch nodded. It was the same as they had done before. The apothecary needed to be compensated, but she couldn’t afford the delay. Winsome had been without her too long already.

  “I’m for the brothel. Then home.”

  Hoodwink’s brow tightened by a hair.

  “If you disagree, Hood, say something.”

  When he did, his lips hardly moved, voice so low Fetch nearly missed the words. “You should wait.”

  Fetch snuck a look back to find Sluggard had ambled out of earshot. “Can’t.”

  “You’re ill.”

  “Fucking aware.”

  “You’re chief.”

  Fetch jerked a stirrup strap. “Again. Aware.”

  “You can’t ride alone.”

  She slapped the saddle flap back down, causing Womb Broom to grunt and sidle. Seizing his mane, Fetch forced him to stillness as she glared across his back at Hoodwink.

  “Can’t?”

  It was a look that would have made a slophead piss his breeches, but Hood was a headstone. And he wasn’t wrong. She was ill. Hells, she was dying. The knowledge might have scared her, if it hadn’t sounded right. Felt right.

  A year ago, it wouldn’t have. In truth, all her life it was impossible to fathom. Death, sure, but that was different. Facing thicks in battle on the back of a hog, death was there. It was familiar, expected. Something to be defied with every last screaming, spit-flinging breath. She never felt weak fighting against death. The struggle against dying, however, seemed to be waged in the grip of impotence. Fetch had never understood the complaints of the old and infirm. White hair and wrinkled skin were piss-poor excuses for slower reflexes and dimmed wits. To her mind, best to stop giving power to the ailments of age by refusing to recognize their presence. Weakness could be ignored. So she thought.

  Now, she knew the inescapable truth of a body’s betrayal. The coughing fits could not be ceased with grit. The lack of breath could not be dismissed by bravery. She could not be strong for the simple, treacherous fact that she was weak. An easy thing to defy death when you weren’t dying.

  Fucking dying.

  But not dead. Not yet. And until she was…

  “I have a duty, Hood. As chief. Foundlings need a wet nurse. Ain’t about to find one sitting here beside that brain-baked vulture up on his wheel. I have to get to Rhecia’s. Somewhere you’ll be a damn detriment and we both know it.”

  It was her turn to be right. Hoodwink terrified the whores, and it wasn’t just his pale, heavily scarred flesh or the lifeless eyes. Those women dealt with frightening men every waking moment, but one that never took them to bed was a sinister mystery with unknown appetites. There was no controlling a mongrel that possessed no obvious desires. At least, no control for a whore.

  “You’re staying here,” Fetch said. “Make sure we stay square with Smiler. I’ll see you back at Winsome. As for me riding alone…”

  She turned to see Sluggard furtively reaching up to give the hermit’s wheel little pushes, spinning him slowly while watching Marrow and the Bone Smiler to avoid getting caught.

  “Figure I’ll see about these two.”

  “You don’t know them,” Hood said.

  “Don’t need to,” Fetch replied. “They know you. Your reputation among the nomads is…hells, you’re fucking feared. And with good reason. They’d be fool-asses to harm me. Besides, neither is putting a bad taste in my mouth. If they prove solid to Rhecia’s, I may invite them to Winsome.”

  “It’s more mouths to feed.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “But we are down to seven riders. With the wall taking so long, we are going to need more strength. It’s more mouths, yes, but also more hogs, more blades, more bows. If we don’t have a strong fortress, we damn well better have strong arms.”

  “Six.”

  “What?”

  “We have six brothers. Not seven.”

  “Fuck,” Fetch whispered, shaking her head. She was still counting Oats.

  “Something else.”

  “Hells, get you talking and you don’t shut up,” Fetch needled.

  A pause. “You could end up with a hoof full of cutthroats.”

  Fetch stopped fussing with her tack, considering. Free-riders were outcasts from the hoofs, voted into exile by their brothers for one slight or another. The Lots were an unforgiving land, meaning much was forgiven in those that dared dwell here. A rider had to be hard, willing to do whatever was needed for the good of his hoof. That commitment bred killers, rustlers. What did a hoofmaster care if his band was full of the worst mongrels ever to sit a hog, as long as they were loyal? Nomads, by their very existence, were not. But second chances were sometimes warranted, worth risking.

  Fetch met Hood’s pitiless eyes. “We tamed you, didn’t we?”

  “No,” he replied without passion. “I was a spy for Warbler.”

  “To overthrow the Claymaster,” Fetch pointed out.

  “To overthrow a chief.” Suddenly, Hood’s voice was no longer without passion. His sudden bout of feeling was unnerving, sobering.

  “I hear you,” Fetch assured. “But they ain’t sitting at our table yet.”

  “They don’t need to be sworn brothers to tell where they met you.”

  Fetch looked around the quarry, her gaze resting on the door to the Bone Smiler’s adopted hermitage. If the Bastards found out she had been here, there would certainly be questions, from Mead especially. And then there would be a choice. Lie or admit to the sickness. What chief would willingly reveal a weakness? It defied everything it was to be a hoofmaster. Fetch had no doubt the Claymaster would have hidden his affliction if he could, but it was the only thing he couldn’t conceal. Fetch could tell Hood she would be different, she would keep no secrets, but the words would be lies. And not her first.

  “Bone Smiler,” she called out, drawing the apothecary’s attention. “I expect you’ll continue to examine the cause of our crop failure.”

  The man slipped seamlessly into the mummery. “Indeed. Clut. My hope is the vine cuttings you brought will reveal the nature of the blight.”

  “Good.” Fetch shifted to Marrow. “You and the youngblood want to ride with me for a span?”

  Sluggard jumped away from the cenobite’s pole. “Yes!”

  Marrow looked up from his hog’s hoof, less enthusiastic. “Where?”

  “Rhecia�
��s.” Fetch looked at Sluggard. “You been yet?”

  “No,” he replied. And then came that smile. “But I am finding the prospect undeniably enticing just now.”

  Fetch turned away from his bald flirtation and looked once more at Marrow. “Not to sully the Smiler’s craft, but I’m sure he will tell you, no poultice can do for brush foot what sheltered rest and good fodder will. Your sow will mend quickest in the Bastards’ stables. Come with me to the brothel, and after, you can sojourn awhile with us at Winsome.”

  “Another name well suited, I wager,” Sluggard said.

  “Schlup. She is right,” the Bone Smiler put in. “I can provide something to hold you, but this could turn sssipt rotten if left.”

  Marrow’s gaze never left Fetching. “You offering me a place in your hoof?”

  “I’m offering you the chance to earn a vote. If you want it.”

  The nomad set his jaw, squinted up at the sky.

  “Before you answer,” Fetch said, “there are two things you should know. The first is that Winsome is a few hundred furlongs from prosperous. Likely you’ll go to sleep hungry most nights.”

  Marrow shrugged that away. “I do that now. What’s the second thing?”

  “I demand much from my riders.”

  “Hhhmm.” Marrow’s fingers raked his pale whiskers. “Never taken orders from no woman before.”

  “Sure you have,” Fetch said, giving her saddle’s girth strap one final, sharp tug. “Had to be at least one that told you to go faster.”

  Easy laughter burst from Sluggard.

  Marrow’s hesitation lasted only another moment. “Very well.”

  Fetch drew Hoodwink farther away while the Bone Smiler went into his hut for the remedy.

  “I will take the measure of these two. Should know all I need by the time we reach home.”

  Hood was looking over her head. “Be vigilant.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DWINDLING SUN ROASTED UL-WUNDULAS. Once down from the Amphoras, Fetch led Marrow and Sluggard, keeping the hogs at a dust-churning run until they reached the River Cavalero, a tributary of the Guadal-kabir so named because it marked the eastern border of the castile’s lot. Ignoring the ford, she eased up on Womb Broom, called a halt. They dismounted and allowed the hogs down to the river’s edge to drink. As Marrow squatted to scoop a handful of water to his mouth, Fetch noticed an ax tucked into his belt at the small of his back. The weapon looked suspiciously like the throwing hatchets the hoofs traditionally used to vote against a chief’s decisions. All the Bastards’ axes had been lost when the Kiln tumbled, and no one was in a hurry to replace them.

  “Rumor is, he caught it.”

  Fetch had not heard Sluggard approach and almost startled at his sudden, soft pronouncement. She turned to find the grinning nomad standing just behind her right shoulder.

  “Caught what?” she asked.

  “The ax,” Sluggard replied, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tried to gain leadership of the Skull Sowers and lost the vote. Marrow stood before the stump for judgment, but when his chief threw, our surly friend down at the bank there? Caught the ax in flight. Walked right out of the Furrow with the damn thing in his hand, cutting across his own tattoos as he went.”

  Fetch gave him the shit-eye. “I bet you believed it when he told you his cock rivaled a centaur’s too.”

  “Oh, he never said a word,” Sluggard said, unaffected. “That’s how you know when the stories are true, when they go unsaid from their heroes.”

  “That some kind of nomad wisdom?”

  “I like to think it’s the supposition of solid intuition.”

  “More fancy words,” Fetching said, feigning awe. She gave him an appraising look, again noting his lack of hoof tattoos and outcast scars. All half-orcs were well built, but there was something odd about his muscled frame. It was too…refined. He looked like one of those headless Imperium statues that remained in the ruins of Kalbarca. Fetching gave voice to her realization with no small amount of disdain, the little clues now forming a clear image. “You’re from Hispartha.”

  Sluggard smiled brightly. “Magerit.”

  “The fucking king’s city?”

  “Well, queen’s, but yes.”

  “Hells fuck me! You’ve never been in a fucking hoof.” Sluggard’s smug face wilted a bit in the face of her scowl. “Why the fuck are you in the Lots?”

  “He’s a gritter.”

  Marrow trod up the embankment, leading his hog by a yanker.

  “A what?” Fetching demanded.

  Sluggard held up a finger. “It’s—”

  “A gritter,” Marrow repeated. “Mongrels from the kingdom come down to Ul-wundulas to get some dust in their crack, some nomad ink, maybe a few scars. Soft little pieces of fruit looking for the Lots to make them hard men. Most of them die quick. The rest piss themselves after their first glimpse of a thick or a ’taur and run their damp breeches on back home.” Marrow leveled a finger at Sluggard. “This one is here so he can go back to the flesh-houses and pass himself off as a blooded orc slayer, up the price the bluebloods will pay for his cod.”

  Fetch swiveled her head back to look at Sluggard. “This true?”

  The accused gritter gave a cocky little shrug. “Noblewomen crave a little danger, a little dirt. I grew tired of riding for the carnavales, plucking pennies from the mud. Once I have experienced the badlands, I will fetch a high price catering to the whims of the most fashionable ladies in Magerit. Comfort. Luxury. These will fill my life.”

  “While your meat and tongue fill rich frail quim,” Marrow muttered, checking his hog’s swollen hoof.

  Fetching was perplexed and annoyed. “So you came down here, so you can go back up there…to be a whore.”

  “A cortejo,” Sluggard corrected.

  “No, no, no, no,” Fetch said, a laugh beginning to bubble. “You said you were going to fuck rich women for coin. I don’t know who named you Sluggard, but since you probably picked it yourself and you’ve never been in a hoof, that can’t be your hoof name. It’s Whore from this moment, if you want to ride with me.”

  “I—”

  “Mount up, Whore,” Fetch said, swinging up into her own saddle. Behind her, Marrow made a noise in his throat that might have been a chuckle. “How long have you been in the Lots? Truthfully.”

  Sluggard lifted his chin. “Nearly half a year. And I’m not dead yet.”

  “Can he fight?” Fetch asked, craning around to Marrow. “Shoot?”

  The nomad scratched at one of his bushy cheek whiskers and produced an uncaring shrug.

  Sluggard’s jaw tensed with defiance. “Do you think it’s only a hardship being a mongrel in the Lot Lands? Think coming up a half-breed in Hispartha is free from scorn? Every frail ruffian with something to prove sees you as a challenge. Bragging rights for besting the half-orc. And winning doesn’t save you from the retribution of the challenger’s friends. I can fight. I can also read. Think anyone wanted to teach me? I can speak orcish. Try finding a tutor for that in a bastion of culture. You ridicule me for coming to Ul-wundulas, for wanting to see if I can survive here. Tell me, the both of you, have you ever tried to live in Hispartha? Have you tried to thrive in the callous, casual wickedness of civilization? I learned to ride a hog in the carnavales because it was the only way to avoid the arenas. Because, fortunately, it is fashionable among the nobles to witness dramatic enactments of the Great Orc Incursion. Merchants’ wives would come to me with coin for their pleasure after seeing the spectacle. But the ladies of court want only genuine badlanders. So I have come.”

  Fetch decided she wanted to see him squirm some more. “I only asked if you could shoot.”

  Sluggard snatched an arrow from his quiver, nocked, raised, and loosed in one motion. The a
rrow sped across the Cavalero, squarely striking a mossy rock protruding from the current midstream.

  Considering the distance, Fetch gave a slow, approving nod. “But can you use a thrum?”

  “Stockbows are forbidden to Hisparthan citizens,” Sluggard said. “I was only ever allowed to carry a mock one during a performance for the Queen Madre’s birthday where I played the Clay Monster.”

  It took Fetching a moment to understand what had just been said. “You mean…the Claymaster?”

  Sluggard’s brow creased. “The leader of the Grey Bastards? The Clay Monster.”

  Now Marrow really was laughing.

  “There are…playacts of him?” Fetch found her stomach pushing something up toward her throat. Sludge or simple disgust, she didn’t know, but fought it down regardless.

  “Dramatic enactments,” Sluggard insisted. “Yes. He is quite the romantic figure among—”

  “Fucking hells, Whore, stop speaking!”

  Silence was the order for the rest of the day’s ride. They pushed their hogs into the night for as long as was wise; there was a limit to even the endurance of a Lot-born barbarian. The moon and stars were stewed in a murky broth of clouds, making a night ride foolhardy besides. They made camp upon the plain. Risky, but the time it would take to find something more defensible could not be spared. Fetching allowed a fire. Their meal consisted of a few pulls from a waterskin. Neither nomad complained.

  “You two sleep,” Fetching told them. “I will watch. We’ll give the hogs a proper rest, but if this sky clears after midnight, we ride.”

  There were noises of agreement. Sluggard bedded down, reclining against the belly of his sow. The mongrel hoofs called such a position “skull-suckling,” and not every hog would tolerate it, especially the males. Hearth used to allow Jackal, one of the many behaviors that made that hog so special. The thought caused Fetching a moment of pain. She shook it away. Womb Broom snuffled at the edge of the firelight. There was no way in all the hells that pig would suffer to be a cushion. None of the Fangs’ mounts would, not even the females.