The Free Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

One

There were times Oats itched to shave his beard.

Never mind that he'd begun to grow the damn thing the year before he became a slophead. Never mind that without it he'd look a damn full-­blood orc, all huge and hairless and near black. Never mind that he liked the way it thrust from his jaw, a challenge without words. There were still times he wished it wasn't there. Vomiting, for an instance. Never want a beard when your guts are fountaining out of your mouth, especially if there's bits. Licking quim sometimes too. Trying to provide a woman a sure path to spending but she keeps giggling on account of chin thatch tickling her thighs, that's a frustration.

Sure as shit, there were times in life Oats wished he'd taken a razor to his face the day before.

Right now-­a dying man's gauntleted fingers tangled in his whiskers-­was one of them.

To be fair, Oats had hold of the frail too, hand clamped over his mouth to keep him from making a noise. Or breathing at all. Still, he wasn't going all that quietly. He kept struggling.

And pulling Oats's f***ing beard!

The stinging hairs, snarled in the segmented metal of the gauntlet, were more irritating than a kick in the cods. The strongest frail would have been hard-­pressed to move Oats, but his beard wasn't made of muscle. He was forced to give, leaning into the man's pull, or else allow a denuded patch to adorn his jaw. He'd fallen victim to this strategy before, at the pink hands of a little girl on Fetch's shoulders during a game. Never suspected a full-­grown fighting man to try it, even as his last act. He dragged the man close, encircling the entire helmeted head in his arms, and wrenched it around until the bones crunched. Always a weird thing, breaking a neck. Oats was never sure if that grinding was something he heard or felt. Either way, it was f***ing unpleasant. Made him a bit sick, every time.

Not enough to vomit, thankfully.

Two backward steps brought the new-­made corpse into the deep shadows beneath a high arch set into the side of the temple. Careful not to look up at the statue looming within, nor dwell on whatever judgmental god it depicted, Oats deposited the body behind the plinth and crept from the arch, giving the shrouded glare of the statue his back. He went across the alley, preferring the shadows cast by the portico of the adjacent house to the darksome embrace of the temple.

Oats hated temples. Hated their spires, all barnacled with hideous adornments. Hated the walls, all carved with images of leering devils and dwarfed people. Built like castles, they defended nothing but their own creepy mysteries. Well, that wasn't entirely earnest. Their bell towers were well suited to rousing armed men, should a murdering half-­orc get himself spotted by a sleepless priest.

But that's what a mongrel faced when leaving the Lots. That was the risk taken when setting foot in Hispartha.

Damn walled towns and their horrid f***ing religions.

Ellerina's cobbled square sprawled at the feet of the temple, silent and empty. None had seen Oats nearly make a pig's ear of killing the guard. He waited, watched, listened, rubbed at the sore skin beneath his beard. A day ago this town had been nothing to him but a map traced in the dust. The house sheltering him had been a rock. One of Jacintho's daggers thrust into the ground served as the temple, a cup for the well at the center of the square. As the stillness drew on, Oats hoped the other frails on watch were dying quickly and unnoticed. No cry had yet broken the night. Likely all was done. Jacintho and his cutthroats weren't in the habit of fumbling a murder. Or twelve.

The wind kicked up again, enough chill in its breath to make Oats grit his teeth. Winter was dying, spiteful in its final days. Down in the Lots it rarely found much of a grip, contenting itself with spitting rain over the mountains. But here, on the north side of the Umbers, the cold could find a foothold when the sun went down. Oats worried it would keep the guards alert, though his man hadn't exactly been a hawk, the beard-­yanking f***.

The wait stretched on. Oats could feel himself getting nervy. He clenched his hands, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles. He couldn't wager how long he'd been lingering. Time was nothing but a queer stretched instant between the plan going right and going to shit.

Then he saw the sparks. Tiny motes of brightness across the square, birthed in the shadows between the farrier's shop and the . . . the . . .&...