The free bastards A novel

Review by Booklist Review

"Live in the saddle. Die on the hog." This is the motto of the True Bastards, half-orcs sandwiched between their orc and human (frail) forefathers in the barely habitable area known as the Lot Lands. The Lot Lands trilogy (which started with The Grey Bastards, 2018) concludes with a story told by Oats, a thriceblood born of an orc father and half-orc mother. He has won impossible battles, but is sent on his most difficult mission ever: journey into Hispartha on a mission of peace, attempting to negotiate independence from Hispartha. The Hisparthans have vast resources, including magic, religion, and gunpowder, and lay claim to both the half-orc territory and people. Oats and his allies must join Crafty, a half-orc wizard who is supposedly the nephew of Hispartha's queen, and who has repeatedly betrayed the hoof to pursue his own interests. While Oats' hoof doesn't trust him, they have no other viable path to peace. French masterfully navigates the twists in this story to reach one startling conclusion after another, keeping the readers on edge throughout.

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The triumphant conclusion to French's Lot Lands trilogy (after The True Bastards) thrills with combat and astonishing magic, balanced by skillful character development. This time, the viewpoint character is huge thrice-blood, half-orc Oats, a faithful friend to the True Bastards' female chief, Fetching. French sets the uncouth tone immediately, with Oats musing on the downsides of wearing a beard when vomiting, engaging in oral sex, and murdering frails (the half-orc term for humans). Said murder is the first act in a rescue mission of a group of half-orcs, swiftly followed by a flight from and battle with a troupe of Hisparthan knights, who are championed by the holy, near-unkillable Maiden Spear. The kaleidoscopic violence continues with a shipboard skirmish, an assault on a Hisparthan fortress, and a fight in a subterranean temple. Oats sustains grievous wounds to both body and spirit in the war with Hispartha--until Fetching decides that Oats will lead the Bastards in accompanying the wizard Crafty to try something new: diplomacy. French paints Oats as a ferocious combatant but also as someone who cares deeply for his fellow Bastards and others in his orbit--including children, humans, and even his ugly battle-boar--and his combination of brawn, magic, and wit may win the day. Series fans will relish this thoroughly satisfying finale. (Sept.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

In this final installment of French's epic fantasy trilogy, the Lots have been at the mercy of the Hispartha for years; now its armies are planning a last push to take the lands of the half-orcs, and others who live there. Oats is thriceblood; more orc than man, and ready to kill or be killed for his kin and chief. Now that they have more than the half-orc rebellion, all of the residents of the Lot Lands will come together to repel the invasion. Yet even with the power of his chief, Oats finds that the losses may be too much to bear, and his faith is failing. When a slim thread of hope arises, Oats will follow it, even knowing that it is held by one of the Bastards' cunning foes and leads to the center of Hispartha and its machinations. French brings back some of the trilogy's beloved and despised characters in this epic Western fantasy centered on Oats, the characters Fetching and Jackal, and their fight to free the Lot Lands. VERDICT A satisfactory conclusion to French's trilogy, full of all the blood, battles, and profanities readers expect from the Bastards.--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 rip-roaring, shelf-bending conclusion to French's Lot Lands trilogy--following The Grey Bastards (2018) and The True Bastards (2019)--follows a group of badass, war pig--riding half-orcs as they attempt to end a bloody war with humans (known as "frails") and finally liberate themselves and their lands. It's nothing short of an adventure fantasy masterwork. With the giant thrice-blood Oats (born of an orc and a half-orc) as the focal character, the story leaves virtual burn marks on the narrative pavement from the action-packed, adrenaline-fueled opening sequence, in which Oats is involved in an audacious mission to free some hoofmates from a frail prison and a subsequent battle in which they're surrounded by enemies atop a mountain of skulls. The action and intensity only increase from there as Oats, Fetching (the hoof's legendary female chief), Jackal, Polecat, Sluggard, Anvil, and the rest of the band of mongrel orcs maneuver through a gauntlet of adversaries, including invading frail armies, scheming wizards, and god-touched warriors. French's expert worldbuilding creates a virtual wonderland for fantasy fans, inhabited by half-orcs riding massive war hogs across a sprawling wasteland, giants, cyclopes, monstrous birds of prey, and marauding centaurs. But the real power here is in the author's ability to bring these fantastical beings to life, with character development so deep and insightful that readers will find themselves emotionally connected not only to the main characters, but to a host of supporting players as well, including Muro, an orphan boy Oats befriends, and even Oats' giant war pig, Ugfuck. Oats' poignant journey of self-discovery, in particular, will have more than a few readers weeping by novel's end. One of the most original fantasy sagas to come along in years; like Tolkien on a bender. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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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 . . . F***. Oats couldn't recall what the structure was. It had been a lemon rind on the dirt map. Anyway, the signal was appearing right where it was supposed to, the sparks bursting to life and dying just as they began to fall. Oats surveyed the square one last time before hurrying across its exposed width. Jacintho melded further with the darkness when he arrived, tucking the measure of flint he'd used to strike the sparks back into his rags, but not the knife. Oats wedged himself into the alley next to the man. They did not speak. There was no need. The sentries were dead, their bodies hidden. The easy part of the plan. Jacintho made for the alley's opposite end, pausing for a heartbeat at the mouth before creeping into the street. Oats stayed on the rangy frail's heels, feeling every bit the lummox. Simple to convince himself he was deft at sneaking when alone. Towering over a scrawny little weasel like Jacintho made Oats feel as furtive as a fart­ing bull f***ing a sack full of empty wine jugs. Still, the town remained undisturbed by their presence. Ellerina was the largest settlement Oats had ever set foot in that wasn't a ruin. Jacintho was confident in their path, however, despite only having part of a day to scout the place. He'd dressed as some kind of wayward penitent, barefoot and clad in sackcloth, a guise he still wore. Odd to see him without his ugly flop of a hat, held together by more filth than cloth. His lank, greasy hair was tied into a tail that fell near to his ass, a lure that pulled Oats along through the murk of sleeping streets and reeking alleyways. They came to the broken stirrup. That's what Jacintho had used to represent the place. In truth, it was a square two-­story building of stone. A small arched portal set with a door of iron-­studded wood was the only entrance. Jacintho had not been able to gain access. The only way in would have been at the rough invitation of Ellerina's bailiffs. And such an entrance would have made it damn unlikely he would ever come out again. So he'd resorted to idle gossip among the most loose-­lipped sots of the tavernas. Their wine-­soaked tongues had confirmed this was the spot. Getting in without bringing the entire militia down upon them hampered their planning. Until Jacintho had placed a small sack down on the miniature rendering of the town and said, "They also have a powder mill." The broken stirrup was near Ellerina's center. The sack of blackpowder rested close to the scratched line denoting its western wall. And it was from the west of town that the explosion now thundered, the sky flaring over the rooftops. Dogs began barking, disturbed babes wailing. Ellerina woke, her people's dreams blasted apart. The powder mill's stores were brimming, Jacintho had said, and Oats now heard the evidence. Felt it too. The building next to him rattled, render falling away from the bricks as the distant barrels continued to burst in an unsteady rhythm of startling concussions. Hoping the explosions would mask the coming ruckus, Oats sprinted from the alley, charged the door to the fortified building, and bashed it open with his shoulder. He broke the beam barring the door . . . as well as the man behind it. Oats hadn't known he was there. Perhaps he'd a mind to come out and see what the commotion was. Piss luck for that frail. He lay unmoving beneath the shattered wood. Oats stepped over, wasting no time to see if he still breathed. Jacintho would see to it he wasn't for long. Oats was more concerned with the man who appeared in the arch to the right, rushing into the cramped entry room, mace in hand. His steps stuttered when he saw Oats, the creases of determination in his ruddy face smoothing with the slack of sudden fear. Men often needed a moment to put a fresh tally on their courage after setting eyes on Oats, he'd found. This one came up short. He halted, spun to flee. Excerpted from The Free 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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