Round fruit littered the ground, having fallen from the tree branches above. They looked like limes, with a yellow-green rind on the outside. Sir Caulder picked one from the ground and split it open on the edge of his sword.
“Jackalberries,” he said as the tart citrus smell filled Fletcher’s nostrils. “Try it. They’re not quite ripe yet, but you’ll rarely manage to find one that’s purpled; the animals get to them first. Jackals in particular—hence the name.”
Fletcher bit into it, the juices bursting in his mouth like sweetened lemon juice. It was delicious and reminded him of persimmon.
“Well, they’ll add to our meager supplies, even if we don’t catch anything to eat tonight,” Fletcher said, his mouth half-full.
He peered into the grasslands. There were antelope herds in the distance, but the shimmer of a heat haze made it difficult to gauge the distance.
“You can make flour from them once they’re dried and ground—not to mention a pretty decent brandy,” Sir Caulder said wistfully, biting into one himself. “And don’t spit out the seeds—you can eat them.”
Surprised, Fletcher crunched down on the seeds he had been holding between his teeth and found them to have a pleasant, nutty taste, not unlike almonds.
“What about the wood itself?” Fletcher asked, skewering a jackalberry on his khopesh and tossing it to one of the soldiers. The man pulled it apart, then groaned with delight as he bit into it, setting off a chain reaction as the recruits picked their own fruit from the ground.
“Well, that’s the best part,” Sir Caulder said, grinning. “Your grandfather picked these because of their fruit, but there’s something special about them. They’re termite proof.”
He pointed to the red humps of the insect mounds growing around the tree bases.
“They’ve got a special relationship, termites and these trees. Their roots protect their homes, so the termites leave them alone in exchange. Even when you cut them down, the termites won’t touch the wood.”
Fletcher smiled and ran his hand along the rough-grooved bark of the nearest tree. He had found a source of timber.
“So that’s what they’re called then, jackalberry trees?” Fletcher asked. “I can’t say I’ve heard of them.”
“No, they’ve another name,” Sir Caulder said, a smile playing across his lips. “Most people call them ebony trees.”
CHAPTER
41
THERE WAS NO HUNTING THAT DAY. The troops were put to work, using their poleaxes to cut down the first trees for the rebuilding of Raleightown. The wagons were refitted and wheeled out over the flat ground of the savannah to take the first branches, cut away from the main trunks for the carpenters to turn into the smaller necessities, like wooden bowls and furniture struts.
Despite their numbers, Fletcher weighed in with the men, stripping down to his shirtsleeves and chopping at the base of his own tree with one of the few felling axes that had come with the convoy.
Every hour, the shout of “timber” would precede the crackle of falling branches and the ground-shaking thud of the trunk hitting the ground. Then the men would swarm over it like the termites that crawled beneath, hacking away the branches to leave long, straight trunks to be turned into planks, beams and lumber later on.
When the sun began to set, the soldiers were finally given a brief reprieve. Their arms were near dead, but within half an hour Fletcher called for ropes and colonists to be brought up from the town, even as he staggered with exhaustion from their labors.
The logs were too heavy for them to lift onto the wagons. So the trunks were tied with ropes around their stumps and dragged inch by backbreaking inch to the carpenters, where the tools had been prepared for the night’s work. If the boars had not been on hand to help, they might not have managed it at all.
Then it was the carpenters’ turn to begin their labors, with the aid of a score of helpers. The exhausted soldiers were billeted in the church, where they were served hot goat’s milk and dwarven fried root vegetables to sate their hunger. But Fletcher did not join them, for the first trunks were being hewn into what would return their settlement to its former glory.
As he walked from the church to the carpenters, he was amazed at the difference just a day had made. The detritus of the village was all but gone. Brambles had been shorn, vines torn away and moss peeled from the lower stoneworks.
The carpenters were ecstatic when Fletcher arrived, for there were over a dozen logs for them to work upon. He was shown how the cross section of each trunk was made up on a thin ring of lighter brown bark surrounding a heartwood so dark that it verged on black. It was ebony of the highest quality, or so the carpenters told him, fine grained and dense.
They were not alone in their work. Berdon and Millo were melting down the rusted iron that could not be saved, then beating the molten metal into the tools they would need to rebuild—nails, hammers, awls and the steel bracings that would be needed for the wood beams.
Thaissa provided Fletcher with the measurements for the windows around the village, as well as the name of a dwarven glassmaker who would give them a fair price. Janet helped Fletcher work out what other equipment and necessities they lacked: needles, spices, salt and dry foods. Then there were the extras that Fletcher wanted. They needed steel ingots to supplement those left over in the old forge. There were too few goats and chickens, no sheep for wool, nor were there mules to help with the carrying and construction.
With all these in mind, Fletcher made a detailed list of orders and chose ten colonists to take a wagon convoy back to Corcillum to resupply. For the first time, he dug into his bag of gold to pay for it all, sacrificing a portion of the heavy coins. It was an investment.
The trade caravan left in the late afternoon, in the hope that they would reach Corcillum by morning and return at nightfall the next day—the trip would be faster with fewer wagons, not to mention the lighter load and the passage cleared from their previous journey. Fletcher gave them their spare hunting muskets for defense, and hoped that they would not have to use them. Then, at a mental prod from Ignatius, he summoned the Drake to watch over them on their journey, and for the next few hours his consciousness was filled with the demon’s elation at being free to roam the night skies.
Still there was more to do. Under the light of sputtering torches, the carpenters toiled into the night, carving the first dark-wooded planks that looked as smooth and hard as onyx stone beneath the star-filled sky. The water barrels had to be refilled from the well, the meat needed to be rationed out and cooked over their fire. Wild berries had made two colonists sick, and they had to be attended to. So it went, late into the night, until finally, as the first rays of dawn broke over the plains, Fletcher collapsed into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Berdon’s face swam into view and Fletcher sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Here, eat something,” Berdon said, handing him a slice of cold pork.
Fletcher tore off a mouthful and gulped it down, savoring the gamy taste. He was ravenously hungry, and realized he hadn’t eaten anything the previous night. There had just been too much to do.
“What time is it?” Fletcher asked. He and Berdon were alone in the church, and the sun was glowing strongly through the canvas on the windows.
“It’s almost evening.”
Fletcher groaned and moved to get up, but Berdon laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Slow down. Sir Caulder started training your soldiers this morning, and the other colonists are keeping busy. You don’t need to do everything yourself, you know.”
“We need more timber,” Fletcher said, easing himself into a sitting position.
“There’re some colonists working on it as we speak,” Berdon replied, handing him a cup of water. “There are more logs already on their way. Probably enough to work with over the next few days at that.”
“What about the food?” Fletcher asked, after a long gulp.
“Well, that’s why I woke you. The convoy’s back, and they’ve brought enough for another day. But that’s not all they’ve brought with them.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher said.
“Let’s just say we have some new guests, and an old friend we haven’t seen in quite some time. They’re in the square.”
Fletcher stood and uttered a low moan. His body ached all over from their work the day before.
“Might as well go see then,” he said, making for the door. A twitch from Ignatius’s consciousness told him the demon was asleep somewhere. No clues there.
As they walked down the street toward the square, Fletcher saw that the repairs on the first houses were already under way. Arched beams were being manhandled through doorways, and rope ladders dangled alongside houses where colonists were beginning to work on the rooftops. Even the bakery was being used to fire roof tiles for waterproofing, using a cart full of red clay from a local watering hole.
Fletcher was so enamored with the sight of their progress that he didn’t notice the newcomers until he had almost walked into them. That and the fact that they were dressed in the same uniform as his soldiers.
Dwarves. There were seven in all, shuffling their feet nervously as he stared disbelievingly at them. Then a familiar voice called out from behind a wagon.
“I hope you’re not angry,” Athol said, his hands raised in surrender. “Othello and Cress heard you only had thirty-odd soldiers. These brave young lads volunteered recently, but they’re not too raw to fit in with recruits who have had a year’s training. So our friends thought you might make use of them.”
Fletcher smiled, happy to see his old friend.
“Why would I be angry?” Fletcher asked, slapping the swarthy dwarf on the back. “They’re most welcome here.”
He turned to the dwarves.
“Welcome to Raleightown, lads. It’s a bit rough and ready at the moment but we’re glad to have you.”
The dwarves smiled, and it felt strange to see the shaggy-bearded young men so worried about his opinion of them.
“Berdon, where are the rest of the soldiers?” Fletcher asked.
“Near the old mansion,” Berdon replied, pointing the way for the dwarven recruits.
“Please send your thanks to Othello, Cress and Atilla.”
“Well, Uhtred thought you might take it as us trying to sneak a few more dwarves to the colony,” Athol said, his face tinging red with embarrassment.
“Now we’ve got rid of the troublemakers, I don’t think it will be a problem if we take on a few more colonists,” Fletcher said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But to be honest, with our food intake, we might not be wanting too many just yet.”
Even as he spoke, Fletcher felt his stomach twist with hunger. He would send Ignatius out to hunt—at least until they found a more sustainable way of finding food. But it worried him how little they had been able to forage so far. Then again, there had been no hunting parties sent out, so their success was yet to be seen.
“Well, I might have just the thing for you. Something new we’ve been working on. Have a look at these.”
He motioned Fletcher over to a nearby wagon. Within, nine guns lay on a cloth blanket.
“We call them rifles, thanks to the rifling inside the barrel. Remember your pistol, Blaze, how it has those grooves to make the bullets spin? Well, these are just like it.”
Fletcher picked one up. It was longer and heavier than the other muskets and even had a carved cheek rest on the stock of the gun for easier aiming.
“These prototypes have twice the range and accuracy of a musket,” Athol explained. “The bullets come prewrapped inside the cartridge with a scrap of leather to grip the rifling as the shot spins out of the chamber. Trouble is, those grooves make it hard to ram down the shot and powder with your ramrod, so it takes twice as long to reload as a smoothbore musket. Not much good for massed volleys, but I’m sure they’ll come in handy when hunting for game. Just be sure to use the ammunition sparingly; there’re only a hundred rounds or so.”
“We’ll be sure to make use of them,” Fletcher said, laying down the weapon. “It sure is nice to see you. Did you want a tour of the place before you head on back?”
“Not exactly,” Athol said hesitantly. He paused, embarrassed.
“We’ve heard about your ebony.”
“Yes, it’s been a blessing,” Fletcher said. “We’d never be able to rebuild without it.”
He pointed at one of the nearby houses, where the wooden structure of the roof was already visible above the stone shell.
“Well, we were hoping we could take some back with us,” Athol said. “The wood is resistant to mold and termites and is beautifully black and dense. It would be perfect for making gunstocks, hilts and hafts, especially for rich officers and nobles.”
So that was it.
“How much would you need?” Fletcher asked.
“One log would be enough to begin with. We’d give you a fair share of the profits from each sale, as agreed.”
Fletcher did not have to consider it for long. It was the first trade in what he hoped would be a long and fruitful relationship.
“Head over to the carpenters down the road and pick up one from there,” Fletcher said, shaking Athol’s hand. “Take some of the branches too.”
“Aye, that I will,” Athol said, smiling with relief. “Thank you, Fletcher. I’ll be seeing you soon. We’ll let you know how it goes.”
Fletcher couldn’t help but feel elated as he watched the dwarf nod respectfully to Berdon and stomp off down the road. Every village needed to produce something. Pelt had been known for its furs and leather working. Perhaps Raleighshire would be known for its ebony. Although, he had plans for the sheep that had arrived, waiting in the stables nearby.
“You know, you didn’t need to be so mysterious,” Fletcher said, turning to Berdon. “I saw Athol only a few days ago.”
“Actually, I wasn’t talking about him,” Berdon said, clapping a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and propelling him toward the southern exit of the square. “They must be with the soldiers.”
“Just tell me who it is,” Fletcher groaned, tired of the mystery. Then he saw them, standing where the town ended and the savannah began. They were looking out over the plains, where the soldiers could be seen exercising—so he couldn’t see their faces. But he would recognize that shock of blond hair and the red curls beside them anywhere. Rory and Genevieve had come to Raleighshire.
He broke into a run, amazed at the sight of them. Sir Caulder was standing between the pair, surveying the soldiers exercising in front of him.
“Hey!” Fletcher shouted.
They turned at the sound of his voice. It was then that Fletcher realized that it wasn’t Sir Caulder. It was a face he hadn’t seen in over two years. A man who had come and gone like a strong wind, and turned his life upside down in the process.
Rotherham.
CHAPTER
42
FLETCHER STOPPED DEAD in his tracks and stared at the old warrior.
“Well, well,” Rotherham said, hands on his hips. “Would you look who it is.”
“Hello, Fletcher,” Rory said, running a nervous hand through his hair.
“What are you guys doing here?” Fletcher asked incredulously.
“Well, a little bird told me you were hiring men,” Rotherham said, the hint of a smile playing across his grizzled face. “That little bird being our king, of course.”
“The king?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh, yeah, we’re thick as thieves, us two,” Rotherham said, scratching at his salt-and-pepper stubble. “Why do you reckon I wasn’t there during your murder trial? That king of ours is a sneaky bugger; as soon as the Triumvirate’s men started looking for me, he had me disappear, quiet-like. Knew I wouldn’t help your chances if I took the stand, me being such a colorful sort and a so-called deserter to boot. I’ve been bleedin’ coolin’ my heels on a farmstead eve
r since.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Fletcher said, smiling at the hoary old veteran. “We could use your experience, that’s for sure.”
“Aye, sir. Or lord. Bleeding heck, how things change, eh? Best and worse decision I ever made, giving you that book. From what I saw in those scrying crystals, we’d be up to our eyeballs in goblin dung by now if it weren’t for you and your little demon.”
“Well, he’s not so little anymore,” Fletcher said, clapping Rotherham on the back. “You’ll see.”
He turned to Rory and Genevieve, who had been standing silently in awkward embarrassment.
“And you two?”
“Well … we’d heard you needed soldiers, same as Rotter here,” Genevieve said. “And so … the army … well.”
“What Genevieve is trying to say is we didn’t like the army,” Rory said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They didn’t want us for our leadership, didn’t even want us to fight.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher asked. “We need every battlemage we can get on the front lines.”
“They wanted us for their charging stones,” Genevieve explained.
Understanding dawned on Fletcher, and his mind flashed back to his lessons with Rook in their first year. They were a grouping of smaller corundum crystals of the same color and were used to store mana for later use. He had only seen them used as an aid for novice summoners when first trying to open portals into the ether. But he knew they were essential on the front lines, the excess mana used to keep battlemages’ shields up over the trenches when orc shamans rained fireballs down upon them at night.
“Mites have low mana, but they recover it quicker than most demons. So every day we were ordered to drain our mana into them, then dismissed. We weren’t seen as important, because our summoning levels are so low,” Rory said, scuffing the ground with his boot.
“So, we petitioned the king for a transfer, and he granted it, on the condition that you accept us,” Genevieve said. She looked at him with pleading in her eyes.
Inwardly, Fletcher was rejoicing. Low-level though they were, having the pair on hand would be a huge advantage in battle. Not to mention that they would both have had training in military strategy and command.
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