The grey bastards, p.27
The Grey Bastards, page 27
Jackal tried not to think on what it would have been like, existing entombed from your first memory. Thankfully, he had neither the imagination nor the madness to conjure a clear idea.
Until they reached the cages.
Lost in horrid reverie, Jackal was only dimly aware of entering the cavern. It was the smell that brought him around. Rust, tangy and pungent. It was the stench of old metal, corroding not from water, but from piss and sweat, the fearful humors that once leaked out of uncountable slaves, soaking the bars and chains which held them underground.
Warbler took in his surroundings for the first time since entering the mine. He held his torch high, but the light could not penetrate the upper reaches of the cages, stacked one atop the other until they vanished into the ink. Each was a wrought rectangle, big enough for a single occupant to stand within, so long as they weren’t very tall. The meagre light shone on mercifully little, but Jackal could still feel the hulking blocks of cages stretching beyond the darkness. Little avenues ran between the blocks. Warbler strode slowly down one until he reached a junction, where he stopped. The forest of iron bars dwarfed the old thrice.
“ANY ALIVE?!”
Jackal jumped, unprepared for Warbler’s sonorous voice to challenge the cavern. The echo died quickly, as if ensnared by the flaking silhouettes of the bars.
“That’s what they used to call out,” Warbler said, lowering his voice. “After every trial, they would ask if any of us were still alive. Every time after the first, I thought about not answering. But we never saw what they did with the bodies…how they emptied the cages. I was more afraid of their arts than I was of the rats.”
Jackal was having trouble hearing, but he could not bring his feet to venture forward. The prospect of walking down that aisle, between and beneath that legion of cages, held him paralyzed.
“Who?” he asked, sending his voice where his steps would not go.
“The wizards,” Warbler answered. He bowed his head and let out a disgusted blow of air. “I hated the overseers when I was a boy, when this was still a mine. They had whips and loud voices, and used both. I hated them, but I never feared them. They were just men and could be killed…often were. Easy for a mongrel to kill a frail. Hells, they didn’t even execute us for it. Just shattered a knee, made you keep working. Crippled like that, wouldn’t be long before you would beg a fellow slave to cave-in your skull. They had us digging down here long after the silver ran out. Once, I asked why, expecting a kicking. But the snapper just laughed and said, ‘For a vein hope.’ I didn’t understand the jest until I was older.
“Sometime after, the war broke out, though none of us down here knew it. Even the overseers didn’t think much of it, at first. They kept shouting and whipping, we kept digging. And then…the wizard arrived. The first one. He took control of the mine, brought in so many more slaves I thought we would drown under each other.”
Warbler pointed a finger upward and revolved it around. He loosed a curious little chuckle. “We cut this out and, fuck-all, we found silver. The wizard ordered it delved…and thrown in the slag pile with all the other rock. That’s when we knew something had changed. That’s when I started to fear. Another wizard arrived, then a third. I don’t know how many there were, at the end, but we hated them more than we ever did the overseers. One of the new boys, one of the slaves brought in from the surface, he tried to kill one. None of us ever tried again.”
Jackal didn’t expect Warbler to elaborate, nor did he need him to. He had seen what Crafty was capable of, and yet, had never seen him do anything wrathful. It was always calm and calculated. The thought of a wizard driven to anger by an attempt on his life was not pleasant.
“The Great Orc Incursion,” Warbler went on, “that’s what the wizards called the war. Even down here, we started to get news of the battles. When they ordered us to drag these cages into the new excavation, we figured it was going to be a prison for the thicks. We found ourselves inside instead. I had spent my life as a slave underground. But that was the first time I felt trapped. The slave in the cage above me shat himself when they swung his door closed, dripped all over me. I swore to kill him next chance I got. Then they unleashed the rats, and my bowels ran down my legs too.
“They came like a flood. Chittering, chewing, biting. The screams from the cages as they crawled through the bars…”
Warbler paused, his deep voice faltering for a moment.
“I screamed, too. But I stomped and grabbed and crushed and bit and chewed and choked. ‘Any alive?’ I awoke to that first call, chin-deep in dead rats. There was an answer, somewhere in another block, then another. Not sure how many before I cried out and they opened my cage. Not the one above. The rats had done for him what I swore to do. Perhaps a couple hundred of us had survived out of thousands. They took us away and chained us in another cavern. I slept. We all did. Still, no one had the strength to fight when they came to take us to the cages again. The dead were gone, rats and slaves both, but the cages were filled with more half-orcs from the surface. They didn’t know what was coming.
“And the rats came again. I don’t know how. Seemed they had unleashed every living one in the world the first time, but there it was again, that loathsome, deadly tide. Curse my luck, I survived again. And again. I don’t know how many trials there were, only that fewer of us lived each time. Most that did got sick. Weeping sores, pustules all over, fingers black and swollen. They usually didn’t survive the next trial, or died in the times between. I never got sick, don’t know why, but there were a few dozen of us that never did. Fewer still were the ones who did, but wouldn’t die. There were nine of them. And one tougher than the others.”
Jackal swallowed hard and waited. Warbler cocked his head and looked back down the aisle, directly at him.
“He was already called the Claymaster, then. Had already thrown off the shackles of slavery and joined the war, leading his fellow potters on charges against the thicks on hogback. It was the frails that first called them the Grey Bastards, and the chief embraced the name as he won battles for his captors. Hispartha used him as a slave, then a soldier, now an experiment.”
“The half-orc riders turned the tide,” Jackal insisted, confused and growing agitated. “They were the reason the thicks were pushed back.”
“Lies, son,” Warbler told him. “Some of the slaves fought and were effective, for a time. Perhaps if Hispartha had allowed them to stay in the field, the history you believe would have been true. But the frails panicked and rounded up the mongrel troops, brought them down here as fodder for the wizards and their creation.”
“What creation?”
“The plague. The damn thing wasn’t natural. The wizards made it, down here, and used us to do it. I reckon they wanted to perfect it before unleashing it on the orcs, but they never had the chance.”
“You escaped,” Jackal said.
Warbler nodded. “We did. Led by the Claymaster. I don’t recall him before the plague did its work. He was just another face in the herd. But I knew his voice. It was always the first to answer when they asked who was alive. No hesitation. ‘Any alive?’ And then there it was, his voice, strong and defiant. Every time I thought about staying silent, allowing them to dispose of me with the dead, I would hear that voice and it gave me the courage to live one more time. Hells, my suffering was nothing compared to his, all twisted up and ravaged like he was. But he just wouldn’t die, so neither could I.
“One hundred and thirty-four of us made it out of this mine alive. We would never survive in Hispartha. So at the Claymaster’s command we went south, into Ul-wundulas, where the war was still being waged. The conflict gave us room to move and we scavenged weapons and hogs, freed other half-orcs to swell our ranks. We fought everyone, man and orc, whoever we came across. We killed hundreds. The plague carried by the chief and the other eight did the rest. They were mongrels, human and orc, and the sorcerous sickness in their blood took hold in both armies. Within one summer, the war was done because there were none left to fight. In our hunger for vengeance, we brought peace. What orcs remained skulked back to Dhar’gest and the frails withdrew to glorious Hispartha.”
“And we got the Lots,” Jackal said.
“That was the price the Claymaster demanded. Otherwise, he threatened to ride north and bring the plague right to the king’s throne room.”
Jackal shook his head. “Why the lies? The Lots weren’t given to you, they were taken. That should make us proud. Why hide it?”
“The crown demanded the falsehood in order to keep its people calm. The mongrel hoofs had to appear beneath the king’s rule, whether they were or not, to avoid hysteria throughout Hispartha. Those were the terms.”
“But why keep them?”
“Because the kingdom was not without power. They still had their elf allies. And then there were the wizards. They escaped the mine when we revolted and scurried back to their masters. The Claymaster could have declared war on the kingdom and made good his threat, but without a way to counter sorcery, it was too great a risk. Better to take Ul-wundulas as prize and live in peace…or so I thought.”
“He never stopped looking,” Jackal proclaimed. “The Claymaster never stopped looking for a sorcerer of his own. And now he has one.”
Warbler’s chin dipped in grim agreement. “And now he has one.”
Chapter 22
The stars had never been more blissfully distant. Jackal drank the sight of them, allowing the millions of luminous saviors to lift the weight of the mine out of his bones. The edge of the lake lapped at the stones, inches from the toes of his boots. Behind him, Warbler had the campfire going strong. Soon, the smell of cooking fish drifted amongst the woodsmoke, and Jackal relinquished his succoring vigil of the heavens.
He turned to find Warbler already chewing, sitting with his share of the catch steaming upon the small spit in his hands. Jackal came and sat beside him, plucking the other spit away from the flames. He did not immediately eat, though he was ravenous. Food, fire, freedom. Somehow, it felt shameful to relish them in front of Warbler, knowing now what he had endured.
“If you like cold fish,” the old thrice said with his mouth full, “then give me what’s in your hand and go catch yourself another from the lake.”
“You can have it,” Jackal said without rancor and held his food out.
Warbler fixed him with a stern look. “Stop feeling sorry for me and eat your supper, Jaco.”
Jackal let the name slide and took a bite.
Warbler huffed. “Time was, I didn’t have to encourage you to eat.”
“That’s because Oats was around,” Jackal recalled, grinning. “Had to swallow everything whole before he finished his helping, or you would find his hand in your mouth.”
Warbler grunted fondly as he dug a bone out of his teeth. “Little fucker could eat. That’s the only mongrel I ever knew who earned his hoof-name while still pissing the bed.”
“I remember!” Jackal declared, surprised at the recollection. “You said he should be called Porridge, but he could barely wait for it to cook.”
“Barely?” Warbler said, his eyes going wide with exasperation. “He couldn’t wait. I caught him with his hand in the pot while it was still cold so many times. Little shit was eating it raw! Raw fucking oats, like a damn donkey.”
“So why not Donkey?”
Warbler shook his head ruefully. “His cock was too big.”
Jackal sprayed flakes of fish into the fire, nearly choking as he laughed.
“That’s where all the food was going,” Warbler opined, trying to hold back his own laughter. “Weighed his cod down like a feedbag. Hells overburdened! I’m surprised he can sit a hog.”
“That’s why he got so tall,” Jackal put in, “to keep it from dragging in the dust.”
“No, he didn’t get tall enough. Those aren’t muscles! Just his dick wrapped around his entire body.”
It took them both some time to catch their breaths after that.
“I guess it’s a good thing it was ‘Oats’, after all,” Jackal said, still chuckling. “Beryl was pissed enough with that.”
The broad smile on Warbler’s face vanished. “He will always be her little Idris.” Clearing his throat, he resumed eating and stared into the fire.
“You haven’t asked me about her,” Jackal said slowly.
Warbler’s head snapped around. “No, I haven’t. And don’t go telling me anything either. Tell you the same as I told Hoodwink; no news of Beryl. Either she’s with another or she’s not. I don’t know which would be more painful to hear and I don’t want to find out.”
Jackal nodded slowly, in what he hoped was an understanding way.
“You’ve seen us, though,” he said.
Warbler’s brow creased.
“You mentioned Oats’ muscles,” Jackal explained, “so you’ve seen us.”
“Word gets around,” Warbler replied. “But yes, I’ve seen you a few times over the years. Mostly from a distance. I was at Sancho’s one time when you three rode in.”
Jackal gave him a mocking grin. “Horny old goat.”
“Just there for the baths, Jackal.”
“Hells,” Jackal curled his lip. “Small wonder I didn’t see you. Why not just use the river?”
“Ask me again when your joints are as old as mine.”
Jackal accepted that with a raise of his eyebrows and threw his fish bones into the fire. It was good to be talking to the old mongrel again.
“I understand why you brought me here,” Jackal said after a long silence. “Without seeing the mine…those cages, the bones, I would have thought you mad.”
Warbler hummed. “Too much time alone, brain baked by the sun? I know. I wish I was just some loony nomad. We would have a great deal less shit to handle.”
“You said I was here to see that we didn’t keep anything safe. What did you mean?”
Warbler took a deep breath. “I meant the hoofs don’t. The Grey Bastards, the Orc Stains, the Fangs, the Sons, all of the rest. Before the Rutters were destroyed by the horse-cocks, there were nine half-orc hoofs. Nine. One for each of the mongrels who escaped that fucking mine carrying the plague. When the Incursion ended, the Claymaster demanded Ul-wundulas be ours. Fearing him, Hispartha agreed. But they countered by parceling it off between us, the crown, and the elves, not to mention the parts already held by the ‘taurs and the halflings. There wasn’t anything the chief could do unless he wanted to go to war again. The elves were immune to the plague and we weren’t certain of a victory against Hispartha even without their point-ear allies. So, we took what we could get and formed the Lots.
“The Claymaster divided our portion nine ways, and put one plaguebearer in each lot. The hoofs were formed to protect them, Jackal. As far as men and orcs were concerned, Ul-wundulas was filled with nine bear-traps, any one of which could unleash the disease that nearly wiped them out during the war. The Claymaster was trying to ensure that neither the frails nor the thicks ever sought to retake the land that we had won.”
Warbler stood briefly to throw some more wood on the fire. As he was sitting back down, he fixed Jackal with a pointed stare.
“The orcs don’t stay out because a few gangs of half-breeds on hogs patrol the Lots, son. And Hispartha doesn’t neglect to resettle cities like Kalbarca because of us either. They stay away because they fear the plague.”
Jackal listened intently and chewed on Warbler’s words. It all made a crushing sort of sense. Delia had said all the mongrel hoofs together could not stand against a single Hisparthan army. He had scoffed at that, full of empty pride. But she had been right. She was right about him, too. He was a brave fool, living a lie within a land suitable only for the carrion-eaters.
The vultures and the jackals.
“The thicks do come, though,” he snarled, angry at his need for justification. “We have cut down scores of raiding parties!”
“And have for over thirty years,” Warbler told him. “They’re just scouting, Jackal. Looking for a bit of plunder and murder, most times. Other times, it’s to see what has changed. To see how many of the nine remain.”
“And how many do?” Jackal asked, knowing the answer already.
Warbler help up one finger. “Claymaster’s been the last for a long time now.”
“That’s why he let those orcs go at Batayat Hill,” Jackal realized aloud. “He wanted them to bring the news back to Dhar’gest that he was still alive.”
“So long as he is, there won’t be another Incursion.”
Jackal’s mind was reeling. “So why the fuck did you try and replace him?”
“Why did you?”
“Because I thought he was nothing but an aging cripple! I thought he was going soft and making piss-poor decisions. Because he was a hateful old fuck. Because I thought I would be a better chief! I didn’t know he was preventing the Lots from being crushed between two enemies simply by breathing!”
At some point, Jackal had shot to his feet and Warbler looked up at him with a placid face etched in firelight.
“You’re right,” the old thrice said calmly.
“About what?”
“All of it. He is aging. And he was making poor decisions when I still sat at his right hand. Jackal, he is a hateful old fuck. It’s all he is since he came out of the mine. For years, I tried not to judge him harshly. I went through it, too, survived the rats and the war, but I wasn’t possessed by the wizards’ foul creation. My body wasn’t corrupted and bent. He is in constant pain, son, and it’s a miracle he isn’t mad. That’s what happened to most of the others. They couldn’t live with the plague using them as a vessel. It only nibbled at their bodies, but it devoured their minds. Within the first year of the Lots, two of them took their own lives. But not the Claymaster, not him! He lives, always. His need to see Hispartha suffer for what they did keeps him going. They locked him in a stalemate, and for nearly twenty years I stood by him while he searched for a way to break it. I hated, too, at the beginning, but time forced me to see what we had gained. A land. A home. Freedom. I had a brotherhood, and a woman…and you children.
