“Get to the point,” Fletcher snapped. “Or you’ll find yourself on the end of one.”
He loosened his khopesh in the scabbard at his side.
“I see you’ve joined with some other undesirables,” Didric said, ignoring Fletcher’s threat and looking pointedly at the dwarven recruits, then the elves. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Dalia spat derisively at his words. As she did so, Didric noticed Rabbit, sitting close by her feet. The little fox gave him a high-pitched snarl as he looked down at it, and Didric lashed out with his boot, sending the fox scampering away with a yelp.
“Don’t you touch him,” Dalia hissed, jabbing at him with her poleaxe.
“Nasty little rat,” Didric smirked, watching as the fox disappeared into the brush with his tail between his legs.
“I won’t ask you again. What are you doing here, Didric?” Fletcher snapped, his arms crossed.
“Why, we’re here to pick up Lord Forsyth’s men for him,” Didric replied, throwing a hand out at the mountains beyond the ruin behind Fletcher. “Unfortunately, this hellhole was on the way.”
“Doing Forsyth’s dirty work for him?”
“A favor for a friend,” Didric said. “He’s rather indisposed at the moment, thanks to your little stunt.”
“You call him a friend?” Fletcher replied, pointing to the remains of his parents’ old home. “See that. That’s what the treacherous snake does to his friends.”
“You call it treachery; I call it the cost of doing business.” Didric shrugged. “You must admit, it was a bold move. Your fool father never saw it coming.”
Each word felt like a slap across the face. Fletcher felt the blood rise in his cheeks.
“Say that again,” Fletcher snarled, drawing his blade.
Didric smiled and stepped back, allowing Jakov to speak for him.
“Stand aside,” Jakov said, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. “We’ve business to attend to.”
“Not on my land, you don’t,” Fletcher replied. “You are trespassing. Turn back and wait for your men at Watford Bridge. We will send them on.”
Jakov unsheathed his sword in a scrape of metal. Behind him, Didric’s soldiers did the same.
“I said, stand aside!” Jakov bellowed, lifting the blade.
Then a shot rang out. The sword clanged in a shower of sparks, tumbling from Jakov’s hands and into the grass.
“You want to fight, leave the blades on the ground,” Rotherham’s voice sung out from the barracks. “The next man to move gets a bullet in his skull. Or maybe I’ll start with Didric; I haven’t decided yet.”
Jakov spun around, his eyes searching the windows of the houses. He crouched and reached for his sword, his eyes still fixed above. Another shot whipped by, knocking the sword out of reach.
“I can do this all day,” Rotherham called.
“All right!” Didric shouted. He looked around him, seeing his predicament. With weapons, his men would have had the advantage. But with Raleightown’s citizens joining in the fistfight … not so much.
“Please, let’s drop the weapons,” Berdon rumbled from beside Fletcher. “I’ve unfinished business with that man over there.”
He cracked his neck and raised his fists. Jakov blanched as the big man took a step forward, standing only an inch lower than he was, but with the same broad shoulders. Jakov and his guards had beaten Berdon to unconsciousness and burned down his home on the night of Fletcher’s escape. Unfinished business indeed.
“Aye, let’s have ye,” Gallo shouted from behind Fletcher. “Ye’ll see how undesirable we are when ye’ve got a dwarven boot up ye arse.”
More soldiers joined in the shouting—elves, humans and dwarves alike.
“Back,” Didric ordered, tugging at Jakov. The black-and-yellow-uniformed men retreated, their backs against one another, swords raised in a porcupine of blades.
“Phalanx formation,” Fletcher ordered. His men jumped to obey, ordering themselves into three rows that bristled with poleaxes.
“Advance!”
They followed the retreating soldiers down the street, stepping in time to present an unassailable wall to the enemy. All the while, Didric and Jakov stared fearfully out at the houses around them, terrified of the shot that might pluck them from their feet.
Step after step took them to the edge of the town. Now the rain had stopped, and the gray stains of cloud were beginning to recede. Didric’s men moved into the tall grasses, lifting their feet high to avoid tripping.
“Load!” Fletcher ordered. Immediately, the poleaxes were slung over their shoulders and the rattle of ramrods began.
At the sight of the muskets, Didric’s men broke into full retreat, tripping over one another in their desperation to get away. The muskets were unlikely to fire in the rain, but it didn’t hurt to give them some incentive.
“No discipline,” Sir Caulder murmured.
The men cheered as the enemy soldiers sprinted. Then, all of a sudden, they fell silent.
Didric and Jakov were out of range, but their figures could still be clearly seen across the grasslands. They had stopped beside a stunted tree.
Jakov was holding something up. Something with golden fur, wriggling in his grasp. He swung it against the trunk. Once, twice. Then they turned back, running into the grasslands.
“No!” Dalia cried, falling to her knees.
They had killed Rabbit.
CHAPTER
47
THEY BURIED RABBIT UNDER the training ground, laying the broken body six feet beneath the earth and leaving Jakov’s sword beside him. No words were spoken, but tears were shed, even by the gruffest dwarves.
The little fox’s death had been an act of meaningless cruelty, and it had taken all of Fletcher’s reasoning to prevent the soldiers from going after Didric’s men. But the enemy had the numbers and would be waiting for them. That and Fletcher could not justify a costly battle for the sake of a single animal’s life, beloved pet or not.
Still, the fox’s death had united them in grief. Dwarves, humans and elves mourned together, commiserating and telling stories about their lost friend. Ignatius returned with an impala clutched in his claws, and they roasted it over a fire and supped on jackalberry beer. That night, drunk and full of food, the soldiers sang songs of sorrow from their respective lands. All the while, Fletcher watched from the barracks with his officers and sergeants. They could not partake—it wouldn’t be right.
“Let them bond,” Rotherham had said. “They don’t need an officer ruining their night.”
So instead, Fletcher began preparations for the next day.
Training was over. Didric’s men would be expecting Forsyth’s troops; Athena had followed them back to their camp beside Watford Bridge, where they waited behind a hastily constructed barricade.
If Fletcher’s trade convoys were to make it to Corcillum, Didric’s men would need to leave, and that meant fetching Lord Forsyth’s soldiers.
They would need to go to the pass, and soon. But they needed supplies. So Fletcher and his officers secured a wagon from their small fleet. Berdon was tasked with reinforcing the wheels to handle the bumpy terrain, and in the meantime they organized everything they might need.
Barrels of salted antelope meat and water were taken from the stores, along with canvas tents, cooking utensils, oilcloths to keep weapons from rusting and whetstones to keep them sharp. They secured a spare barrel of gunpowder that Seraph had sent them, with cartridge paper, musket ball molds and bars of lead from Berdon, all for the production of their own ammunition.
They took two goats for milk, and four of their clutch of chickens were put in makeshift wooden cages to provide a regular supply of eggs. Bushels of fruit were added, and not just jackalberries but the other fruit that the townsfolk had begun to cultivate: horned cucumbers—spiky yellow on the outside but inside a sweet dark green pulp that tasted of lime, papaya and banana all at once. There were giant breadfruit that grew like
hairy, pimpled melons as large as an orc’s head. There were even a few baskets of durian fruit that stunk like death but tasted unexpectedly sweet—the fruit had unsurprisingly not sold well in the Corcillum, so Fletcher took their entire supply.
And there was one other, more secret task that Fletcher gave Thaissa, one she would need to work through the night to complete in time. But it would be worth it.
* * *
The next morning, the troops were paraded out on the training ground and watched by the townsfolk who had gathered to wish them good-bye. They were packed and ready to go, leather satchels and weapons strapped to their backs, uniforms cleaned and brushed. Each and every one of them looked lean and eager, like hunting dogs straining at the leash.
Rory and Genevieve stood proudly at the heads of their squads, with Rotherham and his small band of riflemen at the back, and Sir Caulder at the front, ready to act as drillmaster. An immense gratitude swelled in Fletcher’s chest—to have the honor of leading such men.
He took a deep breath, for the words that he had so carefully prepared over the long night seemed to waver in his head. Last night he had berated them. Now, he would need to unify them.
“I am proud of what we have achieved here,” Fletcher said, standing in front of them with his hands behind his back. “You are now the elite, soldiers I would be proud to lead into the heart of orcdom itself. For that, I thank you.”
The men stood silent, their chests puffed, eyes straight ahead. A scatter of applause began from the townsfolk, but Fletcher was not finished.
“Today, we shall head to our new encampment, on the border between the orc jungles and the place we have come to call home. There, we shall prepare for our long vigil to keep not only Raleighshire safe, but the entirety of Hominum. For we defend the gateway to an empire.”
Fletcher turned and pointed into the distance.
“Out there beyond the horizon, no more than a day’s ride away, lies Corcillum. Thousands of innocents, going about their daily lives. You are the thin line that keeps them safe from the savage hordes on our southern border. I could think of none better to fight in that endeavor.”
Smiles now, even the hint of one from Dalia herself. He knew he was being dramatic, but he meant every word of it.
“But what are we to call ourselves?” Fletcher asked, pointing at his uniform. “We go to collect a contingent of Forsyth Furies. Yesterday we were accosted by the men Didric calls his wardens. So who are we?”
Even as he spoke, Thaissa was hurrying toward him from up the street. He saw the furrowing of brows from the men, even the hesitant twitch of their lips as they bit back a response.
Thaissa handed him a roll of cloth, attached to a pole. She curtsied and backed away, whispering.
“I did the best with what I had, only we didn’t have green left.”
“I’m sure it’s great, Thaissa, thank you,” Fletcher whispered back.
With a flourish, he unraveled the cloth with a sweep from the pole, allowing a flag to unfurl and flutter in the breeze.
“People of Raleightown, I give you … the Foxes!” Fletcher announced, and was relieved to hear a roar of approval from both soldiers and townsfolk as they saw Thaissa’s handiwork.
It was the first time he had seen the flag, and the result astounded him. Stitched on a cloth of rich burgundy was the golden outline of a fennec fox, a single paw lifted, nose pointing straight as an arrow. It rippled in the wind, glorious in its detail and color.
“Foxes, are you ready to fight?” Fletcher yelled, cutting short the cheers.
“Sir, yes, sir!” came the reply, shouted in perfect unison.
“Sir Caulder, give the order,” Fletcher said, forcing back a grin.
“About turn,” Sir Caulder barked.
Forty-two feet spun on their heels. Forty-two more stamped down.
“Forward … march!”
And Fletcher’s heart sang with excitement. Because Fletcher’s Foxes were on the move.
CHAPTER
48
IT FELT AS IF THEY REACHED the foot of the mountains in no time at all. But then, the pass they were heading for was only forty minutes’ walk as the crow flew. Now that Fletcher thought about it, it seemed strange to know that the Forsyth men were so close, yet they had not seen them in over two months.
As he took in the sierra, stretching left and right as far as the eye could see, Fletcher realized that these were no Beartooth Mountains. The sides were as sheer as the walls of Vocans itself, and the coloration was the light brown of sun-dried clay, though he knew from Sir Caulder’s stories that they were actually made from a crumbly sandstone. But regardless of their composition, they had come to be known as the Bronzestone Bluffs, an ignoble and inaccurate name for the natural wonder that separated the tropical jungles from the temperate plains of Raleighshire, not to mention the civilized world from the barbarian orc hordes.
“I’ve not been back here since … you know,” Sir Caulder said over the squeak of the wagon wheels. He was sitting on the back axle—walking too long chafed his stump against the leather holder of his peg leg. “Wasn’t much to look at then, nor will it be now.”
They were going up an incline now, where the steep walls of the mountains funneled in on either side. Above, the sky was a bright, empty blue, and Fletcher was filled with the temptation to summon Ignatius and fly ahead. But then …
“Halt!” Rotherham’s voice called out from ahead.
Fletcher hurried past the wagons, shouldering his way through the ordered rows of his men. Then he stopped, filled with confusion. They were in the right place—but there was nobody there.
“Where are Forsyth’s men?” Rotherham growled. “The buggers should be here.”
Looking around, Fletcher could see they were in a canyon, not dissimilar to the one they had passed through in the ether. There was no grass here, just a dry, desiccated mud beneath their feet, shadowed by the natural bulwarks stretching into the sky around them. The walls of the mountains angled inward, ending with a gap no wider than a stone’s throw across. Through it, Fletcher could see the green of tangled grasses and beyond, the rippling leaves and thickets of the jungle edge.
On the right-hand wall, a natural ledge seemed to have been worn up the side, just broad enough for a man to walk upon. At its highest point, perhaps two stories up and two score yards from the canyon entrance, the ledge extended outward into a platform of sorts. There, the remains of some sort of building could be seen, now no more than a ring of foundation stones, with the remaining rubble strewn about the ground far beneath it.
“’Tis the old watchtower,” Sir Caulder said, stomping up behind him. “Fell down long ago, before your father was even born. We used to post sentries on the ledge—you can fit half a dozen men and a campfire up there, and the base keeps most of the wind out. You get a pretty good view of the approach into the canyon too.”
“Handy,” Fletcher said, avoiding the temptation to walk up the ledge and have a look.
Instead, he wandered forward, toward the mouth of the canyon. It amazed him how narrow the gap was—Ignatius could have sat in the center and scraped the edges if he extended his wings. If an army were to pass here, they would have to march through the bottleneck in a column of no more than ten men abreast.
“We call it the Cleft,” Rotherham said, following behind Fletcher. “If you saw it from above, it’d look like an hourglass, with this gap as the pinch in the middle.”
“And this is the only way into Raleighshire?” Fletcher asked.
“That’s right,” Rotherham said. “The mountains extend into the Vesanian to the west, and the front lines protect the borders to the east, beyond Watford River. This is it.”
Fletcher took a step closer, then stumbled, his foot hitting something hollow and metal.
“What’s this?” he said, half to himself. He knelt down and scraped away the mud from a round shape, so badly rusted that it blended with the mud.
“Another relic fro
m the past?” he asked.
“Actually, that’s a bit newer,” Sir Caulder said, getting down on one knee and laying his hand on the rusted frame. “Believe it or not, this is the first cannon ever made, not a few weeks before you were born. The first gun in fact, by all accounts.”
He chuckled and shook his head.
“I’m surprised the old girl is still here.”
“Wait … didn’t Othello’s father invent the gun?” Fletcher asked.
“That he did, lad,” Sir Caulder said, brushing aside some dirt to reveal a word embossed on the side.
Thorsager
“What’s it doing here?” Fletcher asked, tracing his fingers across the old lettering of Othello’s family name.
“Your father, Edmund, commissioned it. Challenged all the blacksmiths in Corcillum to come up with something that would be devastating across a small area, with that gap over there in mind. So, Uhtred showed him this. Of course, it wasn’t much more than an iron tube packed with rudimentary gunpowder and old nails, but it did the trick. The early prototypes used bamboo segments, would you believe it!”
Fletcher grinned, picturing Uhtred as a young man, pottering about in his forge with bamboo. Sir Caulder sighed and patted the rusted frame.
“We never fired the bloody thing, except when Uhtred demonstrated it, of course. Must have sat here since the night your parents died. The Forsyths probably thought it was junk.”
“It’s a piece of history,” Fletcher said. “For both Uhtred and my family. I’ll have it taken to Raleightown and have it mounted.”
It pleased him to know that his father and Othello’s family had some connection. In fact, the invention of the gun was what had begun the dwarven bid for equality. Perhaps if his father had not issued the challenge, the world would be a different place.
“Ah, that’s where Forsyth’s lads are hiding. There’s a campfire,” Rotherham shouted. “Tents too.”
Fletcher turned, scanning the empty canyon behind him as if he had somehow missed them as they had walked in. But no, Rotherham’s hand was pointing through the canyon exit, into the knee-high grass beyond. As Fletcher looked more closely, he could make out the shapes of tents in the grasses.
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