The grey bastards, p.29
The Grey Bastards, page 29
Hells with it. Jackal would hold to the plan. Warbler would get in or not. Jackal would leave alive or not. No use yanking the hog to a stop now.
The castile appeared beneath the midday sky. From his inverted position, Jackal did not see the fortress so much as felt its presence. No fewer than six towers lorded over the curtain wall, which crowned a steep, parched hill. The road switchbacked up the western slope towards the barbican. Jackal craned his neck to eyeball the Tyrkanian style battlements along the wall and above the gate. A pair of bartizans jutted imposingly from either side of the yawning arch, no doubt filled with archers.
This was the last fortification in Ul-wundulas still held by Hispartha. It must have once had a name, but none uttered it anymore. Home to a sizable standing garrison, as well as two companies of cavaleros, common and noble, the castile contained the largest armed force in the land. The towers commanded views for miles in every direction. And one of those towers was the residence of the castile’s wizard. Like the stronghold, he had no spoken name, and like the stronghold, his simple presence was a reminder that the crown still retained ample power in the Lots.
The castile was larger than the Kiln, its tallest tower double the height of the central chimney. The construction of the Bastards’ home had borrowed the splayed-base walls found surrounding this citadel, but the Kiln did not come close to matching its imposing bulk. An army of orcs would be hard-pressed to breach these defenses. Countless waves would be broken on the hill, the entire ascent plagued by withering arrow-fire. The bodies would be heaped beneath the talus before the battlements could be gained.
Since boyhood, the castile had been an arrogant, brutish fixture in Jackal’s life, but never had he felt its slumbering oppression more keenly than he did now, trussed to a mule and entering the shadow of the gateway. Stableboys ran up and took the cavaleros horses in hand as they dismounted. Orders were barked and Jackal was hauled roughly off the mule by a pair of guardsmen. He got a brief look at the sizable bailey beyond the barbican before being shoved through a low door set in the base of a square tower. Hells, he had been inside the walls for only a few heartbeats and had already seen at least two-score soldiers.
One of his guards lifted a grate in the floor, permitting access to a set of stairs spiraling down into darkness. As he began the descent, a voice in Jackal’s head told him this may have been a fool-ass plan. The voice sounded too much like Fetching’s. Clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders, Jackal walked steadily downward. A long, dim corridor met them at the bottom of the stairs, lit by far-spaced torches. The guards must have been warned about him, or else had a healthy fear of half-orcs, for both leveled their halberds, one in front and one behind, before herding him down the passage, the lead man walking backwards.
This tedious shuffle eventually brought them to a large, foul-smelling chamber with a heavy door in the opposite wall. The guards stopped well short of this, however, and Jackal heard the man behind him open one of ten iron grates in the floor.
“Down,” the lead guard instructed with a punctuating jab of his halberd.
Turning, Jackal looked into the pit. It was a narrow shaft, and double his height in depth. Water stood at the bottom, dully reflecting the meagre torchlight.
Spitting, Jackal squatted and sat on the edge of the pit. Turning to rest on his elbows, he let his legs dangle and gripped the edge with his manacled hands. He lowered himself down and hung with arms fully extended before letting go, landing with a heavy splash in the water. The unseen stone beneath the pool was slick with scum, but he kept his feet. He made a point not to look up, lest the guards decided to piss on him, a distinct possibility considering the smell of the ankle-deep liquid. Thankfully, he heard the grate slam shut above and the footsteps of the guards withdrawing, though not far. Jackal could hear their low voices muttering to one another in the chamber, but the sloshing cell swallowed the words. They conversed sporadically until they were relieved some time later by another pair. These two must not have liked each other much, for they said little.
The width of the cell might have permitted Jackal to sit, but the water made even that small comfort a miserable prospect. So, he stood, alternating between pacing the cramped, flooded square and leaning against the slimy walls.
Time rotted.
Jackal was just about to give in and sit when he heard the sound of the door open once more. The footsteps were not the ambling plod of bored soldiers, but the purposeful, resounding stride of one in command. Jackal did look up now, remembering the morning he and Oats stood by the well in the brothel, waiting to see which of the captains was riding towards them. Then, they had wished for Ignacio and been disappointed. Now, Jackal was unsure who to wish for.
A shadow fell across the square holes of the grate.
“I knew leaving men at Sancho’s would prove fruitful,” came a gloating voice. “Vengeance or lust. One of these was sure to bring you loping back to the brothel. Mongrels are ever driven by base needs.”
“Glad to help you prove your capability, Bermudo,” Jackal called up. “Someone needs to.”
“The only proof you provide, half-orc, is the witlessness of your kind. Pride without brains, that’s what disgusts me most about you soot-skins. Though, in this instance, I should be thankful for it, considering it was your need to avenge yourself on the brothel-keep that delivered you in chains, where you belong.”
Jackal bit back a laugh. Bermudo truly believed he had caught him through his own designs. Witlessness and pride were certainly present, just not where the captain claimed. This plan was perfect, after all. At least, it would be without the manacles and the locked pit.
“It’s that childish need for undeserved respect,” Bermudo droned on, “which sours my stomach. That’s what got the better of you, not me.”
“Well, half of that is true,” Jackal stated lightly. “In earnest, Captain, you should be thanking me. Garcia was lording over you that morning. It was plain he would soon replace you. Maybe not in rank, but in your precious Hisparthan social standing hogshit, he was every bit your superior. And you were allowing it. Another month, and he would have been commanding the blue-bloods.”
The figure beyond the grate was silent for a moment.
“You’re right,” Bermudo admitted, but Jackal could hear the smile. “That was a service, killing him. And doubly so, now. I have just sent a messenger north with a letter to Garcia’s aunt. In the…pile of noble Hisparthan hogshit, she is a fat fly who buzzes close to the top. When she hears I have the half-breed who murdered her nephew, she will insist that you be brought to her for justice. I will, of course, respectfully refuse, informing her ladyship that you are simply too dangerous to transport. The chance of escape over so many leagues is just too risky. I have never met the lady in question, but I soon will, for based upon her reputation I am confident she will make the journey into the Lot Lands, risking their myriad dangers, just so she can witness your eyes pop on the gallows. Such a visit will give me ample time to place myself beneath the grieving aunt’s good graces and provide the possibility of leaving this post behind. So yes, thank you for being a murderous cur, Jackal. Know that my gratitude will be even greater the day you swing from a rope.”
Jackal hummed appreciatively. “Well, when you find yourself under the woman’s good graces, you might see this pink little nub. Lick that. Believe me, it will help win her over.”
“You really are an animal.”
“Just trying to remain helpful, Captain. Since you’ve sucked cock your whole life, I figured you didn’t know.”
Bermudo expelled a clipped laugh. “I will be sure to come back and seek your advice often. There will be time. The lady won’t arrive for a month or more, at the soonest. In the meantime, you can reside down there. Try not to waste away, Jackal. We don’t want Garcia’s slayer to appear too terribly weak and pitiful.”
The shadow above turned on its heel.
“You know I wasn’t even the one who killed him,” Jackal said.
Bermudo paused. “Do you think it matters to me? I will claim it was you. The men who were there will agree. The lady will believe justice done. The truth, Jackal, is that you are a nomad. I do not even need a reason to hang you. Guilty or innocent, I could put a noose around the neck of any free-rider I wish and none would speak out. Without your hoof to protect you, you are nothing but a wild dog.”
When Bermudo was gone, Jackal stewed in the reek of the cell and his own anger. It seemed that he had time, at least, before his execution. But the sands of an hourglass were still emptying all around him. His strength would not hold out a month in this wretched prison. And while he withered, Crafty and the Claymaster would continue to pursue whatever intentions they had for the Lots.
The guards changed again, denoting the passage of innumerable hours. Jackal knew he had not been here a full day, not yet. His thirst and hunger would have been greater. Both were very likely to increase before long. It did not appear Bermudo had much interest in keeping him healthy. Knowing he would only get weaker, Jackal attempted to climb the shaft.
It was tricky with his bound hands, but the closeness of the walls made it possible for him to find solid leverage with his legs and he was soon at the top. The guards must have heard him, for no sooner had he pressed his face to the grate then the haft of a halberd was shoved through, striking him in the neck. He fell back down into the loathsome water, his heels sliding out from under him and planting his ass in the wet. Nothing else for it, Jackal remained slumped there.
Ignacio arrived later, his rough, perpetually tired voice giving the guards permission to wait without.
“Don’t reckon you’re here to free me?” Jackal asked as the captain’s form darkened the grating.
The door of the pit swung open. Ignacio squatted at the edge and peered down. His ugly, pitted face was harried.
“You know I can’t do that.”
The captain’s tone was almost regretful. Almost.
Jackal smiled up at him. “And here I thought you were a friend to the Bastards.”
“You ain’t a Bastard anymore, Jack.”
“Well, this seems awfully severe a punishment for kicking a whore-monger around. Even for a nomad.”
“This is about killing Garcia and you know it.”
Jackal forced the snort of contempt down. “For Bermudo, it is. Surely, you don’t give a shit about that.”
“I don’t,” Ignacio admitted.
“Worried what I might say, Captain? What I might know?”
“What do you know, Jackal?”
It was a simple question, yet there was a cold menace in every word.
“Why don’t you ask Sancho?”
Ignacio’s dispirited face tightened with annoyance. “You know I can’t do that now.”
Jackal did not know, but he made sure not to betray his confusion. Had the whoremaster fled? Been taken into custody by Bermudo?
“I have to assume you know everything,” Ignacio went on, “which means I don’t have the time to squat here all damn night getting stiff in the knees while we bandy words back and forth.”
“Afraid Bermudo might offer me a pardon once I tell him about your elf-smuggling?”
It was Ignacio’s turn to laugh. “That noble son of a cunt would forgo the riches of Sardiz to see you hang! Nothing will sway him to spare you. He hates you, Jackal. Me, I don’t have any feeling for you one way or another. But before you shit yourself on the gallows, I need to know where that Tine hussy got to.”
“You mean your big mistake?” Jackal sneered. “How did you fuck that up, Captain? Elf slaves are dangerous enough without provoking Dog Fall by nabbing one of their own.”
“Her mistake, you mean,” Ignacio said. “Fair little quim like that shouldn’t wander too far alone. You have to take what comes in the Lots, Jack. Figured you knew that.”
“And what’s the reward for you?” Jackal spat. “Claymaster gets the Sludge Man on his side, Sludge Man gets his twisted perversions sated, but you? What’s in it for you?”
Ignacio drug his fingernails beneath his chin for a moment. “I reckon you don’t know everything, after all. Let’s just say your former chief is offering me the chance to go home and leave it at that. Now…where’s the elf?”
Jackal shrugged. “No reason to tell you. You’re not going to let me lose, so you can’t offer me anything. And threatening a condemned man is feeble. So the short of it, Captain, is- you’re as useful as a limp cod.”
Ignacio stood and began unbuckling his belt. “Well...they have one use.”
Jackal turned away. There was a brief silence and then came the stream of piss.
Once the warm liquid ceased spattering his skin, the door to the pit slammed shut.
It seemed Jackal would be lucky to make it to the gallows. The entire garrison was peasant-stock, and no doubt any one of them would murder him in his cell if Ignacio ordered it, Bermudo be damned.
His survival balanced on the hope that Warbler could free him. That had seemed far more certain while planning by a campfire.
“Alright, War-boar, time to save my life.”
Chapter 24
The sound of the door groaning open roused Jackal from a fitful doze. He heard the voices of the guards, and movement in the chamber above. Jerking upright, Jackal cursed as his numb legs and feet betrayed him, instantly forcing him back on his rump. The splashing drowned out all chance of catching what was being said. As the water settled and Jackal strained his ears, a burst of laughter resounded, followed quickly by the door shutting once more.
Silence followed. Jackal waited.
The quiet reigned for a long time, until he was convinced that the room above was vacant. Using the walls for support, Jackal stood again and rubbed some life back into his legs. He removed his boots and poured the water out of them before donning them once more, then climbed the shaft. No halberd shaft greeted him this time and he was able to push his cheekbone against the grate, revolving his eye around one of the holes to see what he could. The chamber appeared empty from his limited perspective, and his ears continued to testify to what his eyes could not completely confirm. He held himself there for as long as possible, but after a span his muscles began to cramp and quiver. Climbing down before he fell, Jackal stood in the cell and continued to listen, face turned upward.
At last, he heard the door open again, though the sound was softer. The play of shadows above implied furtive movement, before the holes in the grate darkened as a figure eclipsed them.
“Jack?” came a sharp whisper.
Jackal’s guts jumped. “Delia?”
The sounds of a bolt sliding back rang stridently down the shaft. The grate slowly lifted and was laid aside soundlessly. The woman’s familiar silhouette came into view once more.
“Can you climb up?”
Jackal did not waste time with an answer. Within moments he was hoisting himself over the lip of the pit. Still on his knees, he gawked at Delia. She too was crouched down and looked at him with a quick nervous smile of relief, but her wide eyes kept flitting to the door.
“Help me put the grate back,” she whispered.
Jackal did as she said and once they had carefully completed the task, Delia slid the bolt back into place, wincing at the noise. They both held their breath for a moment, but when no guards appeared, Delia took Jackal by the hand and led him towards the door. Opening it a crack, she checked the wide, vaulted passage beyond. All was still.
“The castile sleeps,” she whispered, closing the door once more and turning to face Jackal. “But we must hurry. Rhecia is occupying your guards, but they will want to be back before their relief discovers them gone.”
“Rhecia?” Jackal’s brow creased, but then his mind began to settle. “The one from Anville…but how did you two get in here?”
“Let in through the southern sallyport, same as always,” Delia answered. “Whores never need to lay siege, Jackal. Let’s get you out of those manacles.”
“Did you steal the key?”
Delia shook her head and began gathering her skirts up behind her legs. “Too chancy.”
Her mouth wrinkling with momentary discomfort, Delia’s hand came back around, producing a thin, finger-long stick of wax. Letting her skirts fall, she moved quickly to one of the torches and held the sliver over the heat of the flames. The wax melted quickly, leaving behind a pair of lock picks.
Jackal expelled an amused breath. “Impressive. Though…couldn’t you have just hidden those in the folds of your clothes?”
“Wasn’t sure I would still be wearing clothes when I got in here,” Delia replied with a purposefully exasperated sigh. “Besides, it’s far from the most uncomfortable thing I’ve had up my arse.”
“There I am a culprit,” Jackal replied while she began on the first lock. “Though you may find some justice knowing I will now go everywhere similarly equipped.”
“That might make riding a touch difficult,” Delia replied, opening the first lock with a practiced hand.
“True,” Jackal conceded.
Delia was having some difficulty with the second cuff. Jackal looked as the slight care-lines in her face deepened with growing concentration.
“Why did you risk this, Delia?”
She glanced up at him, briefly distracted by the gratitude in his voice.
“I saw you being hauled out,” she replied, going back to her task. “Rhecia told me what happened. She needn’t have bothered. Sancho was right behind her.”
