“Now, you should all get some rest,” Harold said, clapping his hands together. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
CHAPTER
34
THEY LOOKED LIKE BEGGARS. Their clothes were little more than rags, their belongings pushed on rickety handcarts and makeshift sleds that rattled along Corcillum’s cobbled streets. Fletcher barely recognized the men and women who slumped in exhaustion beside the tavern.
Then he saw him. Berdon. The man stood head and shoulders above the rest, his long red hair and beard tangled and unkempt. He was carrying two children on his back and dragged the largest cart behind him, but still he walked tall and proud.
He barely had enough time to let the children down before Fletcher’s arms were around him, face buried in Berdon’s shoulder. Beneath the shirt, Fletcher could feel his father’s ribs. The journey had not been easy on his adoptive parent.
“Easy there, son,” Berdon said, cupping Fletcher’s face in his big hands and smiling down at him. “It’s good to see you.”
“I thought I’d been through the wars,” Fletcher said, smiling through tears. “But you look like you’ve had it worse.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Berdon said, wiping at his own eyes. “We watched every minute of that mission of yours. Those orcs and goblins made the highway robbers look like milksops.”
“Robbers?” Fletcher asked, looking at the band and suddenly noticing their numbers were far lower than he remembered. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Not with Sir Caulder around.” Berdon winked, motioning over his shoulder with his bushy eyebrows.
Fletcher looked up to see the cantankerous old man striding toward them, still skinny as a rake but no worse for wear. The children were imitating his lopsided gait, and he feigned a swipe at them with his hook, sending them squealing to their parents. He grinned and patted Fletcher on the back with his good hand.
“All right, lad, nice to see you made it out in one piece. More than you could say I did when I fought them last, eh, boy?” He knocked his peg leg with his hook.
“I’m sure there are a couple of orcs out there who are missing a limb or two thanks to you,” Fletcher replied with a grin.
The people of Pelt were already being welcomed into the tavern, where the Thorsager family was waiting with warm food and fresh clothing. Fletcher caught a glimpse of Janet, their spokesperson, ignoring a greeting from Thaissa and stomping into the tavern without giving her a second glance. He grimaced at her behavior and put it down to tiredness from their long journey.
“Right, so where are these recruits Harold informed me of?” Sir Caulder growled, squinting around. “His message said there would be plenty of them for me to whip into shape. They should be out here, helping us get this baggage sorted!”
“We haven’t gone to collect them yet,” Fletcher replied. “They’re in the barracks, a few streets from here. Although, in all honesty, I’m not sure if any will show up.”
“No time like the present,” Sir Caulder barked. “We could use some likely lads to help sort this mess out. Well, come on, don’t dawdle.”
Berdon chuckled at Fletcher’s expression of incredulity and gave him a gentle nudge.
“You go on, son. I’ve been to this tavern before; I’ll make sure everyone gets squared away.”
Fletcher stared at Berdon.
“What, you didn’t know?” Berdon laughed. “When you were in prison, the Thorsagers and I were busy petitioning the king for your trial, remember? Uhtred and I have spent many a night in there, sharing our sorrows over a beer. Of course, that was before the Anvil attacks started and it closed down.”
Fletcher felt a twinge of shame. He knew so little of Berdon’s life now.
“All right,” Fletcher said, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “But you tell Uhtred I will need the transports and our dwarven volunteers ready to set out, first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Volunteers?” Berdon asked.
“Uhtred will explain,” Fletcher mumbled, unwilling to go further. No matter how he cut it, the people of Pelt would be unlikely to relish sharing their new home with strangers, especially ones who until recently had been reviled as anarchists and assassins. He would put off telling them as long as he could.
“All right,” Berdon said, his brows furrowed. “You’d better get on before Janet accosts you. She’s been doubting their decision since we left the damned mountains.”
Fletcher gave Berdon another quick hug and then hurried off, Sir Caulder in tow.
* * *
The barracks were a five-minute walk from the Anvil Tavern. On the way, Sir Caulder regaled Fletcher with tales from their journey down from Pelt; of hungry mountain wolves prowling in their wake and marauding brigands who had underestimated the preparedness of the intrepid band.
Their numbers had dwindled from roughly eighty to sixty, mostly families with young children peeling off to seek work in the towns they had passed by. But Berdon’s confidence in his son had kept most of their group together. On hearing each story, Fletcher’s heart sank deeper and deeper. He could only hope that their trust wasn’t misplaced.
The barracks was a compound that took up an entire street, with a palisade surrounding it. Blockhouses with firing slots could be seen above the wooden stakes, and sentries kept a lookout from towers on each corner. It was a fortress inside a city, and Fletcher felt out of place as they walked past marching squads of soldiers and through the open gates.
They found themselves at the edge of a courtyard, with more blockhouses hemming in on each side. There was a single occupant in the center—an aged man with a long, bent nose, upon which rested a pair of golden spectacles. He sat at a wide desk that was covered in ledgers, and he was busily scribbling away with a quill.
“Come!” he barked without looking up from his books.
Startled, Fletcher obeyed, standing before the man’s desk like a naughty schoolboy. Sir Caulder stomped in his wake, a bemused look upon his face.
“Lord Raleigh, I presume,” the man said in a reedy voice, his quill still scratching.
“Yes, that’s right,” Fletcher answered. Was he expected? Perhaps Harold had sent word ahead.
The man sighed.
“Squeems!” he yelled, making Fletcher jump.
A door opened in the building behind them, and a young lad wearing a red uniform and a peaked cap hurried out.
“Get the volunteers for our young lord here, sharpish now,” the bespectacled man ordered.
“Right away, Staff Clerk Murray,” Squeems said, doffing his cap to Fletcher before scurrying back the way he had come.
“Clerks,” Sir Caulder muttered derisively.
Murray paused and looked up from his writing.
“The administration of the military is often disdained by the feeble-minded,” he snapped at Sir Caulder. “Any fool can load and fire a musket.”
“And any coward can hide behind the walls with his books, while the real soldiers do the fighting,” Sir Caulder replied.
Murray did not respond, only smiled as Squeems emerged from the door behind him. A troop of boys no older than Fletcher followed in a ragged line. No sooner had the boys entered the courtyard, Squeems disappeared back into the blockhouse.
“One of the best parts of being a clerk is deciding which volunteers to send off for training and which to keep back for skivvy work and outside hires,” Murray said, his smile widening. “I’ve saved you some of the best. Fresh delinquents from jail these ones, volunteering to escape a trip up to Pelt prison.”
Fletcher tried not to let his disappointment show as he took a closer look at his new soldiers. There were fifteen in all, wearing homespun canvas shirts and trousers—most likely the clothing they were given in jail. They were a rough-looking bunch, with greasy, unkempt hair and unshaved faces. Those who weren’t staring at their feet gave him surly glances, resentful of their predicament.
“You’ll want to watch them,” Murray said in a loud, exaggerated whis
per. “There’s already been a few escape attempts.”
“Is this all?” Sir Caulder asked, his tone apparently unconcerned at the pedigree of their new recruits. “Fifteen lads to defend an entire county?”
“These are just the jailbirds,” Murray said nastily. “There’s a few freemen mad enough to volunteer for you. They say they know our young lord here.”
“Know me?” Fletcher asked aloud. Who could they possibly be?
Already Squeems was leading out some more young men, all of them strangers in Fletcher’s eyes. They were on the skinny side, and there were only six of them, fewer than Fletcher had hoped for, but otherwise they looked perfectly normal.
“Still not nearly enough,” Sir Caulder said.
“Squeems, get the guests who arrived last week,” Murray ordered. “I think I’ve found the ideal place for them.”
“You mean…,” Squeems began.
“Now, boy,” Murray ordered.
Squeems shot off, a look of apprehension on his face.
“Lord Raleigh.” A dark-skinned boy from the new arrivals stepped forward. “We came as soon as we heard you were hiring.”
“I’m sorry, I…,” Fletcher began. Then he knew. It seemed so long ago, but he had seen this young lad only two weeks before, chained to a wall and surrounded by a horde of sleeping goblins. These boys were some of the slaves he had freed.
“… almost didn’t recognize you,” Fletcher said, shaking the young man’s hand. “What’s your name?”
“Kobe, my lord,” the boy replied.
“I’d think after your ordeal you’d want to get as far from the orcs as possible,” Fletcher said to the escaped slaves.
Kobe smiled, his teeth shining bright against his dark skin.
“We’ve a few scores to settle first.”
But Fletcher barely heard the young man’s response, because Squeems had appeared with the next group of arrivals.
Elves.
CHAPTER
35
WOOD ELVES, TO BE EXACT. There were ten of them, both males and females, all dressed in the traditional robes of their people. Fletcher could tell their caste by the amber of their eyes and the coloring of their hair—a mix of russets, brunets and auburns rather than the pale gold of their high elf brethren.
“You look surprised,” Murray said, his reedy voice filled with amusement. “The elves sent a few volunteers down to learn the way of the musket. Arrived last week. We’ve been keeping them busy with sweeping the grounds. A bit of discipline, you know how it is. Lucky for us, you’ve arrived to take them off our hands.”
He cackled as if he had just scored a victory over Fletcher, but soon stopped when he saw Fletcher’s expression of fascination. The wood elves were experienced trackers by trade and would make a fine addition to his little band of soldiers.
His only qualm was the attitude of the waiting elves, their faces scowling, arms crossed at the sight of him. One she-elf in particular seemed downright hostile, glaring at Fletcher beneath furrowed brows.
“We’ll have to take them,” Sir Caulder said, less excited than Fletcher was about the prospect of training a group of elves.
“Aye, that you will,” Murray said, irritated by Fletcher’s lack of disappointment. “Now, be on your way; they’re your responsibility now.”
Fletcher hesitated, looking at the thirty-odd faces that stared back expectantly at him. Sir Caulder caught Fletcher’s expression and stepped forward with a bemused shrug.
“All right, you layabouts, step lively, you’re in the army now! Form up, form up! Three files, sharpish now.”
His voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard, forcing the recruits to hurry into a makeshift parade line.
“Come on, we haven’t got all day. You there, straighten up, you’re a soldier, not an elbow.” Fletcher couldn’t help but smile as the old veteran hounded them into what might pass for a parade line.
“Now, left foot first, eyes front. Quick march!”
Their column was a shambles, out of step and too close together, but it got the recruits out into the street in short order. But before they could begin the task of turning the men in the direction of the tavern, Athol appeared jogging toward them, his face puffy and red.
For a moment Fletcher’s heart skipped a beat at the sign of the flustered dwarf, his mind flashing to some terrible emergency, but Athol smiled apologetically as he bent over and caught his breath.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he panted, pointing farther down the street. “Don’t go to the tavern. We’ve got to get your men set up.”
He caught sight of the elves.
“Er, and ladies.”
“Hold it,” Sir Caulder barked, bringing the recruits to a standstill. Athol took a few more breaths, then straightened and pointed at a shop front farther down the street. Fletcher could see the sword and shield banner hanging above it, and the glint of weapons in the window. A weapons shop of some kind.
“Follow me,” Athol said, leading the way.
“Left turn … march!” Sir Caulder barked, kicking one of the men into position when he turned the other way.
Outside the shop, the recruits were ordered to stand to attention, and Sir Caulder instructed Kobe and the other escaped slaves to keep an eye on the convicts, in case of desertion while they went inside.
“We’ll have no trouble when we’re in Raleighshire, miles from the nearest town, but we’d best be careful of ’em for now,” Sir Caulder muttered as they followed Athol into the shop.
The blacksmith in Fletcher was amazed at the array of weapons arranged on the shelves. Each of them was displayed in a velvet case, with the light from high windows at the front of the shop artfully arranged to fall upon the glittering metal.
Above and on the left, there was every type of sword imaginable, from wide-bladed falchions to dual-wielded claymores that were as long as a man was tall. Beneath were the axes, kept lower down for dwarven patrons, whose preference for the weapons was well known.
On the right side, firearms were kept in glass cabinets, for their value was many times that of a bladed weapon. Engraved pistols with inlaid gold and silver were the most popular, designed for wealthy officers who were allowed to carry sidearms.
“You won’t be wanting any of these,” Athol said, catching Fletcher’s expression. “Far too pretty for your lot; they’d probably sell one of these at the first opportunity from the looks of them. Come on, follow me down to surplus.”
Athol led them through a door behind the counter at the end of the shop and into another room. This one was far less glamorous, but the number of weapons was astounding—hundreds of blades, guns and armors stacked like kindling on shelves and in racks along the walls. Strangely, there were bales of cloth alongside them, and mannequins interspersed among the weaponry. Athol lit an oil lamp and lifted it high, casting flickering shadows about the room.
“We share our storage with a tailor,” Athol explained as Fletcher examined one of the wooden models. “Speaking of which, Briss has already sorted out your uniforms; poor dear spent half the night getting your prototype ready. But for now, let’s get started on arming your men first, eh.”
“I can choose anything?” Fletcher asked, resisting the urge to ask more about Briss’s surprise.
“Aye,” Athol grinned. “We’ll be wanting to keep the new colony protected—it’s in our interest.”
Fletcher resisted the temptation to hug the swarthy dwarf and instead turned to Sir Caulder.
“What do you think?” Fletcher asked.
Sir Caulder paused and considered the question.
“The common soldier is supplied with a standard musket and bayonet to stick on the end of it,” he mused, picking up a sword and hefting it for balance. “Personally, I always hated bayonets. It’s just a stabbing blade: no versatility, no finesse. Cheap and easy enough to sharpen, that’s why they’re used.”
“He’s got a point there,” Athol agreed, pointing to a barrel
full of the simple weapons. “If you’ll pardon the pun. They’re a last resort, and the musket gets damaged half the time, especially when you’re using them to parry a war club.”
He paused, scanning the multitude of blades.
“I guess the question is, what kind of fighters do you want your company of soldiers to be?” he asked.
“More than just people who can load a gun and pull a trigger,” Fletcher said. “I want soldiers who can counter cassowary riders and cut a charging orc’s knees from under him. Soldiers who can hold their own in close combat, be it against macana, spear or club, wielded by orc or goblin.”
Athol took a deep breath and grinned.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“We’ll want muskets too,” Fletcher said. “Nothing fancy, just solid, reliable weapons that won’t rust at the first drop of rain.”
“Well, that’s more like it,” Athol said, walking a few steps to a gun rack and lifting one of the guns from its slot. It looked much like any other musket in Fletcher’s eyes, with a long, single barrel, a carved wooden stock, a trigger and a flintlock.
“These are lighter than your average musket, just as sturdy but more weatherproof and less dense. Both the steel and the wood itself have been treated with linseed oil to keep it from rust and rot.”
“We’ll take them.” Fletcher grinned, wresting the gun from Athol’s hands and feeling the weight of it. It was barely heavier than his own sword.
“Now for your close combat problem,” Athol said, replacing the musket and browsing through the weapons. “If you need to block a cavalry charge, or a cassowary charge as the case may be, you’ll need a pole-arm, wouldn’t you say, Sir Caulder?”
“That’s right,” Sir Caulder said. “Something you can brace against the ground and let them run into. Plus, the extra length will help with orcs; they’ve twice the reach a man has.”
They followed Athol to where a mix of spears, pole-arms and other staff weapons were stacked vertically on a long wooden rack, from tallest to shortest.
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