The true bastards

Review by Booklist Review

Picking up a year after the conclusion of The Grey Bastards (2018), French returns readers to Ul-Wundulas, the borderland between humans and orcs that is defended by half-orcs and other outcasts from human society. The brotherhood known as the True Bastards is led by Fetch, a rare female rider, who is struggling to keep her band together as drought, illness, and other residents of the Lot Lands seek to tear them apart. The hoof, or band, is further reduced by having three riders elsewhere: Warbler is staying with the elvish Tines for medical reasons; Oats is fighting in the Pits to support the hoof; and Jackal is still searching for Crafty, the wizard who betrayed their hoof. As in the previous book, there are glimpses of the other societies as the protagonist encounters them: Fetch interacts peacefully, to her surprise, with centaurs; visits the Tines; and confronts an orc wizard as well as other half-orc hoofs, each operating by their own set of rules. Once again, French holds readers attention and leaves them anticipating the next volume.--Frances Moritz Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This grim but brilliant sequel to The Grey Bastards follows the Bastards' new leader, half-orc/half-elf Fetching, as she takes charge of her cohort (or "hoof") of half-orcs and the humans who rely on them. Fetch and her fellow "mongrels" face off against famine and starvation, cavaleros from neighboring Hispartha, another band of half-orcs who feel that Fetch is unworthy to lead, and a mysterious, enormous orc (large enough to pick up a horse and throw it like a baseball) and the oversized hyenas that he commands. The woes that face the Bastards are unrelenting, and Fetch isn't sure she can count on their supposed allies: the other hoofs, the cultish human Unyars, the elven mountain-dwellers, and the newly arrived foreigners called Zahracenes. But by the novel's end, Fetch has secured real connections and support for the surviving Bastards. French's half-orcs are an uncouth lot but fiercely loyal to one another and those they protect, and Fetch herself is prepared to endure unimaginable pain to secure safety for her people. The many cultures are richly detailed, adding depth. This installment will more than satisfy fantasy readers who like deadly battles balanced with intricate worldbuilding and skilled characterization. (Oct.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

In the Lot Lands, bands of half-orcs called hoofs keep the tenuous peace. Fetching is an anomaly among the True Bastards, both as the only female rider, and now as hoofmaster and leader. The last year has been difficult, with a mysterious famine, a crumbling fortress, dissent in her ranks, and the other half-orc leaders questioning her abilities. As orcs and humans begin to encroach upon the Lots, Fetch and her band must defeat the plots against them while keeping their band and village alive. Searching for safety leads them through the barrens of the Lots themselves, into regions controlled by elves, and for Fetch, a deeper quest into her own mysterious heritage, which is darker than anything she has ever faced. The male gaze and attitude is rife but has purpose, one that Fetching and many other female characters upend every chance they get. VERDICT French's sequel to The Grey Bastards, a 2018 LJ Best Book, continues the half-orcs' penchant for rough rides, foul language, and heady action sequences. [See Prepub Alert, 4/1/19.]--Kristi Chadwick, Massachusetts Lib. Syst., Northampton

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The True Bastards' motto says it all: "Live in the saddle! Die on the hog!"In the action-packed sequel to The Grey Bastards (2018), French returns to the sprawling wastelands of Ul-wundulas with a gore-splattered, foulmouthed adventure following Fetching and her band of half-orcs as they battle adversaries bent on eradicating their kind from the lawless badlands that separates humans from orcs. After the events of the first novelin which the Bastards' home was destroyed and their legendary leader lostFetch attempts to save the dwindling group (called a "hoof") from dying off. On the verge of starvation and struggling mightily to finish a structurally sound and defensible home, she must deal with a number of momentous issues, first and foremost being her deteriorating health. As she tries to find a cure for her strange affliction, a pack of seemingly indestructible "devil-dogs" roams the badlands, as do encroaching humans (called "frails"), killing any free-riding half-orcs they run across. When Fetch uncovers a devious scheme masterminded by the frails to wipe out all the hoofs, she must somehow unite the bickering mongrel factions before it's too late. Although the pacing is a bit more methodical in this installment, the story is filled with relentless action and powered by a cast of adeptly developed and emotionally appealing characters. Fetch is an obvious favoritea female outcast finding acceptance and respect in a cutthroat and patriarchal societyas are Incus, the deaf giant female thrice (born of an orc and a half-orc) also known as the celebrated fighter Anvil's Bride; and Mead, Fetch's one-handed second-in-command. Fans will be overjoyed not only with the return of some beloved characters, but also with the novel's conclusion, which sets up the storyline for a much larger adventure to come.Imagine an outlaw biker gang of half-orcs riding giant war pigs and you've captured this saga's gloriously dirty soul. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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" NYELLOS ." "Nellus." "No. Nyellos ." ". . . Neelus." "Hard o at the end. Like 'open.' Nyellos ." "Neelos." "Better. But not 'nee.' Quick ' nnn .' N-yellos." "Nn . . . nnn . . . n-yell-ose." "Try not to split the word. The l' s roll into the o . Nyellos ." ". . ." "Again." "Nyelos." "Almost. You need to . . . clip the l' s. There is a sound within the sound. Nyellos ." "Nyellos." "Roll the l' s." "Nyellos." "But make sure to clip them." "Nyellos." "Roll, then clip." "Nyellos." "You lost the roll." "Nyellos." "You forgot to clip." "F*** THIS WITH A HOG'S TWISTED, SHIT-SMEARED COCK!" Fetching hurled the hunk of rubble with rage-driven arms. The stone smote its fellows resting in the wheelbarrow, upsetting the balance. The load toppled. Mead tried to seize the wheelbarrow handles to prevent it going over, instinctively using both hands. He got hold of the left handle, but the right smashed against his stump as the conveyance tipped. Fetching saw her tutor bite back pain and embarrassment as he floundered away from the small avalanche caused by her anger. The sounds of labor ceased as all eyes drifted to the disturbance. Fetch barked at the nearest gawkers. "Bekir, Gosse! Over here and help!" The appointed slopheads sprang at her call, swift and obedient as young hounds. "The rest of you back to it! And be f***ing cautious!" The workers atop the great pile returned their attention to the rubble beneath their feet, shovels tapping gingerly. Fetch righted the wheelbarrow. As Gosse and Bekir hustled the fallen stone back into its cradle she approached Mead and took a steadying breath. "I'm sorry." "It's fine, chief," he said without meeting her eyes. His stump was hidden, cradled by his remaining hand. A lie. And she knew it. She also knew it would make the hurt worse if she pressed. He'd told her once that the only thing more painful than losing a hand was forgetting it was gone. They stood together, silently sweltering. The morning was pale, the sun's heat still abed. It was not the sky above, but the rocks beside, that drew their sweat. Furious at its fall, the ruins of the Kiln still smoldered. Well over a year since the great fortress collapsed and yet the toppled stones continued to weep black smoke into the sky. The Bastards had tried to harvest usable blocks from the remains of their former home in the first weeks after its demise, but the scorched debris remained hot enough to burn flesh. Months passed before the uppermost layer cooled. Still, gathering the stone remained a dangerous task. The villagers and slops chosen for the day's work detail picked their way along the broken surface of the mound, shifting the occasional stone, slowly loading the wheelbarrows waiting at the base of the rubble. These in turn were taken and emptied into large rope nets to be dragged back to Winsome behind a team of hogs when full. As she surveyed the crews, Fetch's shoulders and upper back were dripping, itchy beneath her shirt, the linen weighted down by the fall of her braided locks. Cursing, she gathered the plaits in a tighter bundle and retied them higher upon her head. For the hundredth time since becoming chief she considered taking shears to the mass. She wouldn't, unsure why, unsure why she had let it grow in the first place. Perhaps because it marked the days, a living record of her time as hoofmaster. Perhaps she simply liked there being more of her and did not want to willingly return to less. Either way, in this heat, it was a vanity that was f***-all irritating. "Should we continue?" she asked Mead. "I think we have reached the limit of your patience today, chief." What Mead really meant was that he had reached his, but Fetch chose not to call him out. Making him give her lessons was abuse enough. In the silence that followed, Mead finally looked up and gave her a pardoning smile. "Elvish is tricky. But you'll get it." Fetching nodded, careful not to look away too quickly, but unable to hold Mead's eyes for long. Shit. He was still too damned smitten to be a proper taskmaster. The silence was worse than the heat, pointing fingers at the budding discomfort. Mercifully, Mead shifted first, running his hand through the plumed strip of hair he wore down the center of his otherwise shaved skull. That elvish affectation had once been the source of endless barbs and jibes from the other Bastards, but he had weathered the abuse, wearing the coif of the Tines with the same ease with which he spoke their tongue. Fetching knew how fortunate she was to have him as a sworn brother. He remained as invaluable to his new chief as he had been to the old. Excerpted from The True Bastards by Jonathan French All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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