But it was not all good news. Fletcher was unable to visit his mother. He had received word from the king’s doctors, who said she was making progress but feared she would regress to her former, animalistic state at the sight of him at such a fragile juncture in her recovery. It killed him to be unable to see her, for she had been whisked away without even a proper good-bye on the night they had returned to their dimension.
Still, being able to fly again kept his spirits up, even at his most despondent. At daybreak each morning, he would mount Ignatius and soar into the cloudless skies. Athena’s wing had finally mended, and her joy compounded his own as they glided above the wild landscape, learning every fold and turn in the land that they had come to call home. It was glorious to fly, and Fletcher could not believe that some people could go their entire lives without experiencing it. But no matter how much he cajoled Berdon, the bluff blacksmith refused to even mount Ignatius, let alone allow the Drake to take him a few feet off the ground.
Although he and the colonists were contented, there were divisions within Fletcher’s army. This was nowhere more apparent than at dinner. The dwarves preferred to sit at their own tables, led by a dour-faced dwarf named Gallo, whose beard was so long that he had to tuck it into his belt. Fletcher knew from Thaissa that he and the other dwarven recruits spoke dwarfish between themselves even when the humans were present, earning the ire of many of their fellow soldiers.
Kobe and his ex-slaves had bonded with the convicts, who were loud and brash but good-natured enough. Unfortunately, the most popular among them was the pockmarked boy who went by the name of Logan, a born troublemaker. He and his allies could often be seen sniggering away, usually at a joke made at dwarven or elven expense.
Then there were the standoffish elves, with Dalia as their ringleader. She had warmed to Fletcher in the past months, and her manner was civil, if a little terse. However, Fletcher could not be sure if he had truly earned her respect or whether it was the arrival of an unlikely mascot for his army that had prompted her improved mood: a fennec fox, as small as a puppy, with gold-white fur and the overly large, bat-like ears that were synonymous with their species.
It had taken to following them on their forays into the savannah; begging for scraps of meat and reveling in the belly rubs that the soldiers would give him. Dalia had immediately adopted the little creature, and the fox had become her constant companion, trotting at her heels during the day and sleeping beside her at night. Though the fox was ostensibly hers, the entire company of soldiers considered the fox a good omen, and had named him Rabbit on account of his ears. He was spoiled rotten by each and every one of them, and did a good job of bringing the occasional smile to Dalia’s usually stern face.
They were two months into their training when the trouble began, on an evening much like any other. Almost all of the colonists had left for bed already, as training had run late and most had already eaten by the time the soldiers arrived in the church. Hunting had been sparse that day—their meal consisted of a stew made from the leftovers of the day before, and the mood was more somber because of it.
Fletcher was sitting at the head table with Rory, Genevieve, Sir Caulder and Rotherham when he noticed it. Logan had taken a half loaf of bread and held it up to his chin as if it were a beard, waggling his tongue at the dwarves. Perhaps it had been meant as a joke, but the dwarves were not smiling; much the opposite in fact, and the way they glowered at Logan made Fletcher think it was not the first time that he had teased them in that way.
“If I got to my knees, ye couldn’t tell the difference,” Logan announced, earning himself an appreciative chuckle from the boys sitting around him. “Then again, the dwarves have been doin’ a lot of kneelin’ lately too, ain’t that right, boys?”
The jibe prompted one dwarf to get to his feet, but he was pulled down by Gallo, who whispered furtively in his ear.
Disappointed by the lack of reaction, Logan turned his attention to the elves. He tore the bread in two and held a piece to each side of his face, imitating their ears.
“What do you reckon, ladies?” he called to the female elves. “Close enough for ye? It’ll all look the same in the dark anyway, eh, lads?”
Dalia closed the distance between them in one agile leap and gripped Logan on the scruff of his neck. A stiletto blade flashed up as if from nowhere, and she hissed.
“You want to look like an elf? Let me sharpen your ears for you.”
Suddenly knives that had been used for eating were grasped and stowed under tables. Convicts jumped to their feet, and Logan bellowed in a combination of fear and outrage.
“Stop, right now!” Fletcher yelled. His heart hammered in his chest, shocked at the speed at which his soldiers had gone from companions to enemies. But before he could say another word, the stiletto disappeared, and Dalia was backing away with a predatory smile.
“What’s the problem, Logan?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “Can’t take a joke?”
He spluttered in response. The room held its breath—then Logan overturned his bowl with a snarl and stalked off, ducking through the door to disappear into the night air. The tension eased by a few notches. Knives were replaced on tables, and a low buzz of conversation returned to the room.
Fletcher sunk into his seat, breathing out in a slow sigh. It was over for now, but even as the first hint of relief slowed his heart, his mind turned to the rest of the night.
“I want all four of you sleeping in the barracks tonight,” Fletcher said to Rory, Genevieve, Sir Caulder and Rotherham, thinking of the confined space that the soldiers were lodged in. “Make sure this doesn’t turn into something ugly.”
“You’ve got a point, lad,” Sir Caulder said with a sigh, “but this won’t go away overnight. It’s been brewing for some time now.”
“I know,” Fletcher said, watching as the dwarves exited the room, their eyes fixed on the convicts with open aggression. Gallo turned and drew a finger across his neck, the meaning as subtle as a brick through a window.
Fletcher hissed a tight breath through his teeth, frustration seething inside him. He had allowed it to grow and fester, choosing to turn a blind eye with every day that the divide deepened. Now the damage had been done.
And it was up to him to fix it.
CHAPTER
45
THE DRUMMING OF FALLING raindrops accompanied the tramp of soldiers’ feet as they lined up in Raleightown Square. It was warm rain, fat and heavy, that drenched Fletcher’s hair and ran into his eyes as he surveyed the army before him. The morning training had been canceled, and now they would face the music.
Somewhere in the distance, the soft rumble of thunder echoed through the loud patter of the droplets. In his mind, Fletcher sensed Ignatius and Athena were above the storm, enjoying the rushing winds that allowed them to glide high without a single flap of their wings. Fletcher had sent them to fly out without him, not wishing to punish them for his own failure.
The soldiers stood there, sullen and brooding. Not one of them would meet his gaze as he waited, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He watched them, waiting for the green of their uniforms to darken in the wet, and their hair to plaster against their heads. The message was clear. This was punishment.
“I am ashamed,” he shouted, tempering the frustration in his voice, turning it into controlled fury. “You were supposed to be the best, an army to be proud of. Now look at you. Squabbling like spoiled children.”
He stopped, examining their faces. Was that shame there? Or just the frustration at being kept out in the rain?
“I blame myself,” Fletcher snarled. “I let it go on for far too long. So I’m going to let you have your chance. Get it all over and done with.”
Now they looked at him.
“Logan, Dalia, Gallo, get up here,” he ordered.
The three reluctantly stepped out of line and made their way to the front. He signaled to Rory and Genevieve with a subtle twist of his hand, and the two officers stepped out f
rom the shelter of the barracks and joined him in the rain. Sir Caulder and Rotherham looked on from within.
Then Fletcher raised his hand. Transparent strands of kinetic energy bloomed from the tip of his tattooed finger, twisting around Logan’s feet and hands. The boy gasped as they tightened around him, and rain spattered from the invisible cord that now connected him to Fletcher’s glowing finger.
Beside him, Gallo and Dalia also struggled against their bonds, as Rory and Genevieve followed the instructions he had given them that morning.
“What are you doing?” Logan yelled.
“Like I said,” Fletcher replied grimly, “everyone gets their chance.”
He turned to the soldiers, who were watching on with shock on their faces.
“Dwarves, elves, I want a single file of you in front of Logan. The rest of you, in front of Gallo and Dalia.”
They stared back at him, eyes darting from him to their bound companions.
“You heard him, move it!” Sir Caulder barked, sending the soldiers scurrying to their places.
“Logan made hateful comments to both your races last night,” Fletcher announced. “Gallo drew a finger across his neck, and Dalia held a knife to Logan’s throat. None of them are innocent.”
He took a deep breath, hoping his plan would work.
“You there, Tallon,” Fletcher said, pointing at a dwarf in the front. He was the one who had stood up in anger at Logan’s comments.
Tallon looked at him, fear plastered across his face.
“Hit him.”
Cooper hesitated.
“I…”
“Last night I saw you threaten to kill him,” Fletcher shouted through the downpour, striding up to Tallon. “Is this how you treat your comrades-in-arms?”
He rounded on the troops behind him.
“Most of you had knives in your hands. Don’t deny it!”
Now he could see shame. Downturned gazes, faces turned away from him.
“So here’s your chance,” Fletcher growled.
Tallon stared at the boy in front of him. Logan met his gaze and lifted his chin defiantly.
“Go on,” Fletcher snapped, shoving Tallon forward. The dwarf stumbled on the cobbles, catching his balance a few inches from Logan. He stared at his rival, squinting through the rain that flooded down. Then Tallon gave him a halfhearted shove on the shoulder.
“This is foolish,” Tallon said, looking for supporters among the crowd. But they remained silent, only staring back with fear in their eyes.
“You call that a punch?” Fletcher asked. “I thought you hated him.”
“It’s wrong,” Tallon said.
“You were ready to take a knife to him last night,” Fletcher said, stabbing a finger at Logan. “This is nothing compared to that.”
“I will nae do it,” Tallon replied.
“Then get back in line,” Fletcher growled, shoving him away.
He turned back to the troops, stalking across the three files. His eyes settled on Cooper, one of Logan’s cronies.
“How about you, Cooper?” Fletcher asked. “You hate Gallo enough to take him to task?”
The boy glared at Gallo, whose face whitened as the boy stepped forward.
“Let ’im go,” Cooper said. “We’ll settle it like men. One on one.”
“What’s the matter?” Fletcher asked. “There’s your enemy, right there. All you need to do is reach out and hit him.”
“He’s helpless,” Cooper said, shaking his head.
“Would you not kill an orc, if it’d lost its weapon in battle?” Fletcher asked. “It would be helpless, would it not?”
“That’s different,” Cooper argued.
“You hate both as enemies, right?” Fletcher said. “He’s nothing to you. Do it.”
Cooper stepped forward, cracking his neck. He looked into Gallo’s eyes, the muscles flexing in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. But something held him back.
“No,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “I won’t do it.”
Fletcher shoved the boy down the line.
“Anyone else?” Fletcher asked. “Someone here must have some anger to take out on these three individuals. Now’s your chance.”
He looked to the boy in front of Dalia, an ex-slave named Arif who had been swift to pick up a knife in Logan’s defense.
Arif held up his hands and backed away, retreating to the end of the line.
“So suddenly nobody wants to hurt one another anymore,” Fletcher said, forcing a bitter laugh. “What’s changed?”
His only answer was the splash of rain and the distant rumble of thunder.
“Here’s the thing,” Fletcher said, running a hand through his sodden hair. “If you hated one another, this little dog-and-pony show would have gone a very different way. But hate isn’t your problem. It’s pride.”
He shook his head at them in disgust.
“Too proud to bear insult. Too proud to lose face. Too proud to forgive.”
The soldiers stood silent, miserable under the vent of his anger.
“Do you see that?” Fletcher asked, pointing over their shoulders at the ruin of his ancestral home. “My family was slaughtered by the orcs. Every person in this town, impaled on the borders of the jungle beyond those mountains. That is hatred. That is the enemy.”
He released Logan from the kinetic spell, letting the boy crumple to his knees on the cobbles. At his nod, Genevieve and Rory followed suite.
“The Forsyths organized it,” Fletcher said, and he saw surprise flash across their faces. “Told the orcs how to get in, where to go. It’s true.”
He lifted Logan to his feet.
“And as you well know, their family has sown disunity among our peoples, to further their interests. And you’re playing right into their hands. They feed on your pride. On your fear of the unfamiliar. Don’t. Let them.”
Fletcher leaned in and whispered in Logan’s ear.
“Make comments like that again, and you’ll be cut from my army,” he whispered. “That was your one and only chance.”
Logan scurried back to the men, helped along by a shove from Fletcher’s hand. His message to Logan had been loud and clear, even if the words themselves had not been heard. Gallo gave Fletcher a nod of respect as he rejoined the ranks, even as Dalia stalked away without giving him a second glance.
Fletcher sighed inwardly. She was as hard to read as Sylva. Still, he knew that for the moment, the troops’ anger had been abated. He could only hope that it would stay that way.
“My lord,” a voice called. Fletcher turned to see a young boy emerge from the street behind him, his eyes wide with fear. “There’s soldiers comin’.”
Fletcher spun to look out at the mountains, where the Forsyth guards would be coming from. But there was nothing. The boy tugged at his sleeve and pointed down the street he had come from.
“No, milord, down that way.”
“There’s no reas—”
Fletcher’s words died in his mouth. There were men marching from the north, coming into view as they turned up Raleightown’s main road.
Even from all the way down the street, Fletcher recognized the black-and-yellow of their uniforms.
These were Didric’s soldiers.
CHAPTER
46
THERE WERE SCORES OF THEM, at least sixty by Fletcher’s estimation, marching smartly down the road despite the rain. At their head, Fletcher could see the familiar, gorilla-like shape of Jakov lumbering along, and beside him stalked Didric. To Fletcher’s surprise, the young noble still wore the half mask from the ball. Clearly he liked the way it had made him look.
Berdon ducked through the forge’s double doors and walked over to Fletcher, squinting through the downpour at the approaching men.
“What do you think they’re doing here?” he asked. “Those are Didric’s wardens, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I don’t know,” Fletcher replied. “But I know it can’t be good.”
He
could see a smirk on Didric’s face, which widened as their eyes met.
“Should we tell the men to level their muskets?” Berdon asked.
“No,” Fletcher replied. “If they were here to slaughter us they’d have kept the element of surprise. And the muskets wouldn’t fire in this rain either.”
He contemplated the situation. His men had their poleaxes and muskets, but the rifles were still inside.
“Sergeants, a moment!” he shouted.
Sir Caulder and Rotherham hurried up to him.
“Sergeant Rotherham, take the rifles up to the second-floor window and load them. Be ready to shoot in case of trouble.”
“Aye, sir,” Rotherham replied.
“Sir Caulder, put the men in a crescent formation at the entrance. I want them surrounded when they walk in.”
Sir Caulder nodded and began barking orders at the soldiers.
“Genevieve, Rory, take command of your troops. Don’t let them start something we can’t finish. This is going to get ugly.”
The pair ran to do his bidding, and as if on cue, the rain eased to a thin drizzle.
“Berdon, get inside,” Fletcher said.
“Not this time, son,” Berdon said, standing firmly beside him. He tugged a forging hammer from his belt and let it dangle from his fingers.
In his mind, Fletcher called to Ignatius and Athena to return. But they were miles away, having flown northwest to the farthest reaches of Raleighshire. It would take them a half hour to get back.
Then Didric’s soldiers were there, stopping just in front of the thin line of Fletcher’s troops. Behind them, Fletcher could see his townspeople had followed, another twenty adult men and women. It put them at almost even numbers.
“So this is where you all ran off to,” Didric announced, spreading his arms wide. Behind him, window shutters shivered open as other, more timid townsfolk watched from behind their curtains.
“Why are you here, Didric?” Fletcher demanded.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Didric continued. “I reckon you were better off in the hovels back in Pelt.”
Didric’s men sniggered at his words.
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