“Tell Genevieve, but no one else. You must get your message through. I’d send Ignatius, but he’s needed above. You’re our only hope now.”
The young officer scurried away, and Fletcher saw Genevieve’s face fall as he gave her the news. She caught Fletcher’s eye and gave him a determined nod.
“Right, lads, that’s enough cheering.” Sir Caulder’s voice cut through the jubilant shouting of the Foxes. “Dalia, Gallo, bring the water barrels from the wagon; fighting’s thirsty work. The rest of you, clean out the powder from your fouled barrels. Use the water, or piss down ’em if you have to.”
Spurred on by Sir Caulder’s orders, Fletcher’s mind turned to the battle ahead. With no rescue coming anytime soon, they would be likely to run out of ammunition before long. The poleaxes would be essential, one way or another.
“Logan, Kobe, go with them,” Fletcher ordered, returning to the wall and peering into the milling crowds. “I want the whetstone wheel brought back here and every poleaxe sharpened to a fine edge.”
The two lads groaned but went to do his bidding, leaving him alone with Mason. The boy had not joined in the celebrations with the others, though it was not surprising because he knew so few of them.
“You’ve done a brave thing, staying here,” Fletcher said.
“I’ve been fightin’ ’em me whole life,” Mason said. “Plus, me mum and sisters live in Corcillum. Wouldn’t be right, leavin’.”
“You got any advice for me?” Fletcher said, motioning at the gathering goblins with his chin.
“They’re cowards at heart, goblins,” Mason said. “You hurt ’em enough, they’ll turn and run. Problem is, they’ve been kicked about by orcs their entire short lives, so they’re more afraid of ’em than anythin’ else.”
Fletcher’s eyes turned to the pile of chopped manchineel wood, oozing white sap from where the poleaxes had bit it.
“We’ll see about that,” he said.
CHAPTER
55
THE POLEAXES WERE WHETTED, with Kobe sitting behind a spinning wheel of rough stone that he pedaled with his feet, and soldiers kneeling beside him to sharpen their blades against it in a screeching shower of sparks. Even Fletcher managed a turn with his khopesh, once he had finished reloading Gale and Blaze.
Guns were cleaned, inspected and cleaned again, while the wall was repaired and reinforced with a combination of mud, scavenged shields and spears. The gremlins had brought back grisly trophies from the battlefield, and Halfear proudly paraded around wearing a necklace of goblin ears threaded through a dirty string. Fletcher did not discourage them, even requesting that the gremlins display their trophies beside the bodies within the Cleft—a warning to any goblins that chose to venture through once again.
All the while, orcs barked and bellowed guttural commands, shoving goblins into position, just beyond rifle range. The hyenas had been unleashed into the forests, presumably to hunt down the goblins that had fled earlier and herd them back to the killing fields. What Fletcher knew for sure was that there would be a massive attack coming, and not much time to prepare for it.
The wagon had come with shovels, which they had used to churn the earth to make the mud mortar for their walls. But Fletcher came up with another use for them. The ground just before the Cleft had been torn up by the explosions of the bamboo bombs, and Fletcher sent a contingent of soldiers to extend it into a trench, as deep as their waists. When this was done, they embedded the stone points of the goblin spears at the bottom, covered it with the canvas of the Forsyth tents and camouflaged it with a thin layer of earth.
It was too narrow to prevent goblins from leaping over it, nor could they conceal their actions from the watching enemy, but Fletcher was sure that in the chaos of battle, at least a few goblins would fall in and cripple themselves on the spikes below.
As for the manchineel tree timber, Fletcher ordered it moved into the space beyond the wall, and had spare tent covers, spears and the bamboo that had been left over from the bomb making added to the pile. It was still a far smaller heap than Fletcher would have liked, but it would have to do.
“Rory, any news?” Fletcher asked, sidling up to the young officer. He and Genevieve were sitting apart from the others, their eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration. They had small fragments of scrying crystal in their hands, and Fletcher could see the rushing images of a war-torn landscape within them.
“We can only hear and see from Malachi and Azura, our primary demons,” Genevieve answered before Rory could speak. “Since they’re the ones connected to our scrying crystals.”
“Of course,” Fletcher said, biting his lip. Rory spoke, his eyes still closed.
“The others just have instructions, but we won’t hear who they’ve reached. We’ll only know that the message has been delivered and sense the emotions our Mites feel. If they’re happy, we can assume rescue is on its way.”
“Not rescue, reinforcements,” Genevieve rebuked him gently. It was only then that Fletcher saw the pair were holding hands. He smiled. It was about time.
“One message has been delivered,” Rory said suddenly, a smile breaking across his pale face. “Hang on … I think—”
“My lord, movement!” shouted Kobe. Rory’s eyes snapped open, and the pair scrambled back to their squads on either side of the wall, his words forgotten.
Fletcher refocused on his scrying crystal, and his heart filled with cold horror. It was the Phantaur. The enormous beast was advancing with its great flapping ears and arms extended wide. Behind it, a column of what could have been a hundred goblins followed, their rawhide shields raised as they took cover behind the demon’s bulk.
Already it was past the first row of stakes and was nearly in musket range. With every stomp, the chorus of death whistles and rattling slowly increased in volume, accompanied by the squalling of the many hundreds of goblins behind them.
Sir Caulder took a breath to order a volley, but Fletcher knew better.
“Hold your fire!” Fletcher yelled to the Foxes. “Its skin is too thick.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Dalia snapped, sighting down her musket regardless. “Let them come in and finish us off? As soon as we’re in close combat the rest of them will charge.”
“No,” Fletcher said. His mind raced, and then he turned to the riflemen in the stone ring of the old watchtower.
“Can you hit its eyes?” Fletcher asked.
“We’re low on ammunition, but it’s worth a shot, if you’ll pardon the pun, milord,” Rotherham’s voice called back.
“Do it then,” Fletcher ordered.
The Phantaur was in musket range now, and Fletcher could see the goblins behind it through the gaps in its great, tree-trunk legs. Should he order his musketeers to fire?
But even the riflemen were failing. The first shot glanced off the demon’s cheek, then as more gunfire whipped down, the great beast did nothing more than flap its ears inward over its face, slowing its pace as it stomped ever closer to the Cleft. It extended its arms, walking blindly.
Fletcher looked to Sir Caulder, hoping for a solution, but the old man simply stared at the approaching beast, his knuckles tightening white against the pommel of his sword.
He needed to solve this himself.
Fletcher’s mind flashed back to his lessons at Vocans. He’d read dusty journals from battlemages long dead that spoke of trunk tips that were like a thumb and forefinger, with equal sensitivity and dexterity. He had learned that their skin was so thick that only a speeding lance might penetrate it, and that Phantaurs used the clusters of nerves in their footpads to sense tremors of potential mates from as far as a mile away.
And that was when Fletcher knew what he had to do. It would take a bit of luck, and a big roll of the dice. But he would be damned if he was going to go down without a fight.
“Rory, I need your squad,” Fletcher said, jumping over the wall once again. “Poleaxes only.”
Rory’s mouth flapped open. For a
moment Fletcher thought he would ask something, but then he nodded grimly and gave the order. Fletcher looked to the platform above.
“Rotherham, I want a rolling fire on those ears; keep him blinded.”
“Aye, sir,” Rotherham said, punctuating his answer with a shot from his rifle.
By now Rory and his fifteen soldiers had leaped the wall, with a brief moment of awkward confusion as the three dwarves in the group struggled over the top. Gallo and Dalia were among his squad, and to Fletcher’s surprise, Halfear, Blue and a handful of gremlins had clambered over the wall to join them.
“We come too,” Halfear sneered, licking a wicked-looking dagger malevolently.
Fletcher grinned and waved the soldiers on. If all went to plan, there would only be a few moments of fighting. If it didn’t … well … a few more warriors wouldn’t hurt.
“There’s a hundred goblins and a Phantaur about to come through there,” Mason said, less concerned with propriety than the soldiers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Just cover us,” Fletcher replied, his voice loud for the benefit of Genevieve’s squad. Then, without looking back, he drew his sword and ran toward the Cleft.
CHAPTER
56
THE CLAMOR FROM THE GOBLINS was near deafening as they approached the Cleft entrance, where Fletcher and his soldiers waited. They had crouched beside the pile of wood and bamboo to protect them from the occasional projectile that the goblins hurled from behind the Phantaur. Luckily, the demon’s bulk was as good a barrier to the javelins as it was for the Foxes’ musket balls, and most of the javelins went wide.
“We should charge them at the Cleft, where the gap’s narrow,” Rory whispered, hunkering down beside Fletcher. “Leap the trench, go for the Phantaur’s legs. Numbers won’t matter so much then.”
“No, we wait,” Fletcher said, watching as the great beast continued its ponderous journey. It was almost at the Cleft now, its enormous body shrouded by the mountain’s shadow.
“Fletcher, if we don’t move now, it’ll be too late!” Rory hissed.
“I said no, Rory,” Fletcher replied, willing the Phantaur on. It lifted an ear for a brief second, then let it drop as a shot glanced off a serrated tusk. Fletcher could see the pockmarks where the bullets had struck, gouging the skin, some even drawing blood. But none going deep enough to cause any real damage.
“Come on,” Fletcher whispered.
The Phantaur was through the Cleft now, and the ground shook with each stomp from its round-bottomed feet. The goblins crowded in behind it, gathering the nerve to charge.
One foot lifted, and thudded down on the other side of the trench. Damn. Then the next one began to swing … too far.
Fletcher drew and fired Gale in one fluid motion, emptying both barrels. One shot glanced off the Phantaur’s belly in a puff of dust—but the other struck its sensitive trunk tip. It squealed in pain and stepped back. Right into the trench.
“Now, Foxes!” Fletcher yelled, charging toward the enemy.
The air was filled with their battle cries, but they were instantly drowned out by the scream of agony from the Phantaur as its sensitive footpad was impaled by the spear tips. It wheeled its arms and fell, crushing a dozen goblins behind it in a crackle of breaking bones and squeals of terror.
There was a roar from Ignatius as he swooped from far above, called by Fletcher’s consciousness. And then they were in among the goblins, swinging their weapons. A scar-faced specimen stabbed at Fletcher’s belly, but he parried it with the crook of his blade and head butted it with a satisfying crunch. Then it was on to the enemy behind as Rory skewered the reeling goblin with his rapier, and Fletcher slashed the next one’s shoulder to the bone. He kicked it off the blade, and it collapsed to the ground, where Halfear was waiting with his dagger.
“Drive them back!” Fletcher bellowed, ducking as the Phantaur’s trunk swung down, grasping for enemies. “Protect Ignatius!”
The rifles were firing in earnest now, and the bullets ricocheted dangerously from the giant demon’s unprotected face and into the milling goblins behind. The ears flapped back into place, and the rifles switched their aim to the goblins themselves, the shots whizzing uncomfortably close to Fletcher’s ears. Even a few muskets were firing, their shots aimed at the enemies who charged around the small band of Foxes’ flanks.
“The rest of them are coming,” Fletcher heard Rotherham holler, and his gaze flicked to his crystal eyeglass; the gathered crowds of the enemy army were rushing toward the Cleft, hundreds upon hundreds of screaming, mindless savages. He had less than a minute.
With a rush of wind, Ignatius landed on the Phantaur’s chest, digging his claws deep into the demon’s skin for purchase. The beast’s tusks swung left and right, but the canny Drake had his head between them, and his beak clamped on the demon’s trunk.
“Hurry,” Fletcher called, stabbing wildly at a snarling goblin. He pulsed urgency through his consciousness, even as the uproar from the charging army washed over them. Rory leaped past him, slashing madly to send the nearest goblins reeling, their faces cut to ribbons. On the other side of the Phantaur, Dalia sang an elven battle song, her pure, lilting voice carrying above the uproar of battle.
Fletcher turned to help Ignatius, but the Drake already had clamped his claws on either side of the Phantaur’s elephantine mouth, levering them open with brute force. Fletcher felt the mana roil in the demon’s consciousness, and then Ignatius’s beak released from the trunk and dipped into the cavernous opening. Flames burst from Ignatius with explosive force, the heat palpable in the narrow Cleft as the Drake poured gouts of fire into the Phantaur’s throat.
The beast managed one last squeal, smoke erupting from the end of its flailing trunk. Then it was silenced, charred from within. Dead.
“Back,” Fletcher yelled, tugging Rory away from the goblins. The boy was staggering, but followed him out of the Cleft, the ground so thick with goblin corpses that they stumbled over splayed limbs and staring faces. None of the survivors of the Phantaur regiment pursued them, stunned by the ferocity of the counterattack.
The rest of the men did not need telling twice, leaping the trench and sprinting back toward the wall. Fletcher stopped at the woodpile, even as Rory reeled past him. Ignatius had used almost all of their mana in that attack, but there was still a small amount of it left. Enough for one last spell.
Fletcher closed his eyes and drew the mana from his reserves, allowing the last dribble of energy to surge through his veins. There was a thud as Ignatius landed in front of him, and a flash of pain as a javelin took the Drake in his haunches. The demon was shielding him with his body.
With a primal yell of fury, Fletcher hurled a wave of flame into the wood, flaring it into a bonfire that crackled with intense heat.
“They’re almost at the Cleft!” Genevieve screamed from behind the walls. Ignatius’s tail encircled Fletcher’s waist and hurled him back, even as more javelins buried themselves in the ground around them. Fletcher caught a spinning glimpse of a pyre of smoke, billowing into the sky.
And then Ignatius flared his wings and began to beat them in a long, slow pulse that gusted the black smog into the bottleneck between the mountains. That was when the screaming began.
Fletcher staggered to his feet and held his khopesh aloft.
“Charge,” he yelled breathlessly, running toward the Cleft once again. The Foxes roared as they followed their leader into battle, a few dozen brave souls against an endless legion of savages.
They took positions on either side of the trench, their muskets raised at the deep cloud of smoke, hair fluttering with each flap of Ignatius’s wings. Fletcher could make out the vague shape of the Phantaur, blocking the Cleft with its bulk. Still the woodpile crackled, and Fletcher could see the smoke staining the walls of the Cleft with a tar-like substance, so thick and cloying was the ash within.
Then the first score of goblins staggered forth from the haze, clutching at their eyes and
coughing, spears and shields forgotten. The toxic smoke from the manchineel tree blinded and choked them, as Fletcher had known it would.
“Fire!” Sir Caulder barked, and gunfire rippled down the line, plucking goblins from their feet. The gremlins handed up their spare muskets, and the order was barked again.
“Fire!”
Death whipped over the ground, thinning rows of goblins as they screeched and clutched at their throats. A pair tumbled into the trench, their hoarse cries of pain snuffed out as they were impaled on the spear tips below. Then the gremlins vaulted the ditch and were in among the rest, slicing at ankle and knee tendons with sickening abandon, tumbling more into the pit behind them. The men loaded frantically, while above, Fletcher heard Rotherham shout.
“That’s the last of it. Switch to musket ammunition, lads.”
It hardly mattered: At this distance Rotherham’s riflemen couldn’t miss. Seven more shots buzzed into the blinded ranks.
The smoke was thinning now, and Fletcher could see masses of goblins clawing at their faces, choking the entrance to the Cleft in their confusion. A few tried to clamber over the Phantaur corpse, but they were plucked away by Rotherham’s sharpshooters, leaving two thin channels on either side where the goblins could pass. That was where Fletcher’s Foxes concentrated their fire.
Volley after volley tore through the enemy. Even when the Foxes paused to load and a few escaped through the Cleft, the gremlins cut them down, their short stature protecting them from the gunfire that whipped overhead. It was a grisly slaughter. Far from triumphant, Fletcher felt sickened at the sight of the blood-soaked ground and the piles of the blank-eyed dead.
“Sir, we’re almost out of ammunition,” called Gallo. The short dwarf’s mustache was blackened from biting the cartridges open. Even as he spoke, Fletcher noticed a few Foxes slinging their muskets, while others rummaged desperately through their cartridge bags. A last ragged volley fired through fouled barrels. Then silence.
The white smoke of their final shots blended with the black of the manchineels’, even as it smoldered down to a pile of glowing embers. In his scrying crystal, Fletcher saw the smog drifting through the canyon, as far back as the jungle’s edge. There, the goblins hawked phlegm and covered their eyes, cowering beneath the rawhide shields as if they could somehow protect them from the oppressive smoke. The effects were not so strong that far back, but still enough to itch and blur their vision, as well as turn their throats raw with the toxins.
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