“We is meeting again, Fletcher,” Blue said, jumping down from his mount to stand beside Halfear. “You is lucky, I think.”
“Lucky is an understatement,” Fletcher said, forcing a smile in spite of the dead bodies of his men so close by.
“I is hoping you is well?” Blue asked, shuffling his feet nervously. Behind him, the masses of gremlins had slowed, yet still more were emerging from the jungle. Now there were at least a thousand, and the muskets behind Fletcher were slowly rising again. It was not the time for small talk.
“Blue, let’s dispense with the niceties, eh?” Fletcher said, lowering his voice so the men couldn’t hear. “What are you doing here? Where’s Mother?”
At the sound of the orc matriarch’s name, Blue’s ears flattened, and his large eyes filled with tears.
“Dead. The orcs is killing her,” Blue said, his whispery voice quavering, as if on the verge of a sob. Even Halfear looked away, his usually hate-filled face a picture of misery.
“They is on the move,” Blue said, pointing out at the jungle. “They is attacking all our warrens at once, filling them with smoke and sending down hyenas. They is hunting us to extinction.”
“Even the slaves?” Fletcher asked, horrified.
“They is killing them. Some escape,” Blue fluted, twisting his webbed fingers as he spoke. “Not many.”
“Why?” Fletcher asked, hardly able to believe the madness of it all. “Orcs have been keeping gremlins as slaves for thousands of years.”
“Because Khan is saying that they will have human slaves soon. No more need for gremlins.”
Blue was speaking more quickly now, spurred on by the approach of the band of refugees behind him.
“There is an invasion happening now,” Blue said, his voice low and urgent. “Thousands and thousands of orcs is attacking the front lines. All of their tribes is fighting together. It is the battle to end all battles.”
He pointed east, past the mountains, where the southern border of Hominum lay. Was that the distant booming of cannons he heard? Or just the echo of the wind?
“Heaven help them,” Fletcher murmured. “I have to warn—”
“It is being too late,” Blue interrupted, shaking his head sadly. “It has already begun.”
Fletcher chewed his lip, considering the news. He could be at the battle within the hour if he flew.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he looked at Ignatius, who had dragged himself a short way from the battlefield and curled up in a patch of thick grass. The Drake was half-asleep, but the horror of their near deaths was still simmering in the demon’s mind. Could he fly Ignatius into danger once again, so soon after they had barely escaped with their lives?
“So the cassowary riders—they were hunting you down?” Fletcher asked, as the first, timid refugees slunk past him, parting like a branching river around the small band of Foxes.
“No,” Blue said, looking over his shoulder once again. For the first time, Fletcher realized he was looking not at the other gremlins but at the jungle behind them.
“The orcs is attacking in two armies. Orcs to the east. Goblins to the west … here.” Blue opened his arms, then crooked them toward each other. “It is … how you say? Pincer movement.”
“So that was it, right?” Fletcher asked, feeling a cold lump of apprehension hit the pit of his stomach. “We just killed them.”
Blue shook his head, his ears flattening once again.
“That was the vanguard, the scouts. There is more coming on foot. Maybe an hour behind,” Blue explained.
“How many?” Fletcher asked, looking back at his exhausted, bloodstained men.
Blue said nothing, instead mounting his fossa again and stroking the silky fur of its head.
“I asked how many?” Fletcher snapped again, the apprehension morphing into abject fear. Blue closed his eyes, and answered with one, brutal word.
“Thousands.”
CHAPTER
51
FLETCHER CONVENED AN URGENT WAR council with his officers and sergeants, away from the soldiers. Already the mass exodus of refugees had made their way through the Cleft, heading to the uncertain safety of Hominum’s countryside. Fletcher had sent his injured men with them, along with a message to Berdon, warning him of the approaching army and instructing him to evacuate to Corcillum.
“We cannot hold the pass alone,” Sir Caulder said, the first to speak after Fletcher told them the dire news.
“We aren’t alone,” Fletcher said. “Blue has promised us forty-two gremlin warriors to help us.”
“So few?” Genevieve asked.
“I’m told most of the gremlin warriors died in the escape,” Fletcher answered. “They had to fight a running battle all the way here, using most of their darts, I might add. We’re lucky he’s sparing them at all. That’s most of the adult males left in their entire species.”
“Fat lot of good they’ll be to us,” Rotherham grumbled. “They took the goblins by surprise and in the rear, on open ground. They’d not survive the battle we’re about to fight.”
“We’ll work out how to use them later,” Fletcher said. “But what’s important is that we don’t need to win, we just need to hold the goblins off until help arrives.”
“What help?” Rory asked. “You think the townsfolk would help? They don’t even know how to load a musket.”
His eyes were wide with fear, with Malachi flitting nervously around his head.
“No,” Fletcher said. “They’re colonists, not soldiers. I wouldn’t ask that of them.”
“So who then?” Genevieve asked.
Fletcher took a deep breath.
“Didric,” he said.
“You what?” Rory said. “Are you bleeding mad?”
“There’s sixty trained soldiers no more than a few hours’ march away,” Fletcher replied. “If it means holding Raleighshire, I’ll take them.”
“And what if they’re not enough?” Rory replied angrily. “Your gremlin mate said thousands. What’s that? Two thousand? Ten thousand? There’s a big difference!”
“It’s not like he stopped to count,” Fletcher snapped. “The fact is, if we don’t hold the pass, the goblins will march right through Raleighshire and attack the front lines from behind before the night is out. We can’t let that happen.”
“Less than a hundred soldiers, who hate one another, I might add, and a few mangy gremlins, against all the goblins in existence. Makes you wonder how many had hatched before you destroyed the rest,” Sir Caulder grumbled to himself.
“We’re not running,” Fletcher said. “But you’re right. Even with Didric’s men it might not be enough. We’ll send word to the king and the men on the western front. Mounted reinforcements could arrive in half a day, with a bit of luck.”
He turned to Rory and Genevieve.
“I need you both to run back to the wagon and write letters on my behalf, explaining the threat to Hominum. Genevieve, write to Didric imploring him to return. Rory, I need messages for King Harold, Arcturus, Othello, Lovett, anyone who might be out there on the front lines. Then send every one of your Mites out with the notes strapped to their backs.”
“We’re out of mana,” Rory said. “Without our demons we’ll be…”
“Just like any other of these soldiers, that’s right,” Fletcher said, looking them each in the eye. “But I’ll need your leadership, your courage. You’re more than battlemages. You’re officers, and damned fine ones at that.”
They nodded grimly.
“Now go, there’s not much time,” Fletcher ordered, sending them scurrying away.
Fletcher’s mind raced, trying to work out how to turn the battle to his advantage. He scanned the landscape ahead of him, his eyes flicking back and forth. The first inklings began to emerge. Half-conceived, with no way of knowing if they would work. But he had to try.
He turned and walked over to his soldiers, his hands clasped behind his back.
“All right, lads,
” Fletcher announced, so suddenly that he saw Kobe jump in surprise. “Listen up. We’ve another fight ahead of us.”
He saw the fear in their eyes then, even glanced at the Cleft behind them, as if searching for an avenue of escape.
“You’ve done me proud today. We were ambushed by ten score of their riders and won, on open ground, no less. Now we’re ready for them. Let’s show them what we can really do.”
Some nodded in fierce agreement, but still, there were a few who muttered among themselves—Logan and a few of his cronies.
“I am asking you to trust me,” Fletcher said, striding in front of Logan and forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “You know who I am. I have fought the goblin hordes in the heart of orcdom itself, and lived. I have battled the shamans and their Wyverns alone in an alien abyss, yet here I stand. It can be done.”
He swept his eyes across his troops, letting them see his conviction.
“I am friend to both dwarf and elf. I am a summoner and a trained battlemage. A noble-born with the upbringing of a commoner and the record of a criminal.”
His words echoed across the pass, accompanied by the soft rustle of the grass in the wind.
“I am all these things, yet none of them compare to what we will become tonight. This is where we make our name. This is where we take the fight to the enemy.”
Fletcher paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“I want you to know that across the mountains, a battle the like of which has never been seen is raging. Thousands are dying as we speak, and the outcome is yet to be determined. But if we don’t stop the enemy right here, they will march through Raleighshire and destroy everything we hold dear. There’s nobody else but us. We will hold the line, until help arrives.”
The soldiers stared back at him now, and he saw their resolve shift, jaws setting, eyes hardening. It was enough. It had to be.
“Rotherham, take ten men and have them salvage what ammunition, swords and muskets they can from the corpses,” Fletcher ordered, motioning at the forlorn forms of the dead Forsyth soldiers. “Kobe, Gallo, cut the manchineel tree into pieces and bring it to me. Careful of the sap, and don’t touch it with your bare hands.”
“The tree, sir?” Kobe asked hesitantly.
“We have less than an hour until the enemy arrives. Just do it!” Fletcher’s voice cracked like a whip.
The men rushed to do his bidding.
“I want the riflemen up in the watchtower, ready and loaded. The rest of you, head to the jungle and cut an armful of bamboo, then meet me at the Cleft. Hurry now.”
There was no delay, and soon Fletcher was left alone with the dead bodies of his soldiers. He stared at them ashamedly, burning the image into his memory. There was no time to bury them, nor the bodies of Forsyth’s men. A poor fate for brave men and women.
Then someone cleared his throat behind him.
Mason. Fletcher had almost forgotten the young lad, for he had looked almost like a corpse himself, lying spread-eagled among the bodies. The boy was gulping down water from a borrowed flask.
“Thanks for fixin’ me wounds, milord,” Mason said, touching his forelock. “I was ’alfway dead.”
“Tell me what happened,” Fletcher asked, cutting to the chase.
“The Forsyths promoted me, after bein’ such an ’elp in the mission an’ all. Sent me ’ere, told me it would be a cushy job.”
“I’m guessing they were wrong,” Fletcher said.
“Only problem, our captain was a right pillock, if you’ll pardon my language,” Mason said, shaking his head in disgust. “Camped on the wrong side, cos ’e wanted a tan, the bleedin’ idiot. We was caught with our pants down, so to speak.”
“And the tree? Why you?”
“Well, I killed a fair few of ’em, it was revenge I reckon. They wanted me to die, slow-like. So they left me as bait for any newcomers. Although, another hour an’ I would’ve been a goner anyway.”
“I wouldn’t speak so soon,” Fletcher said, lifting a musket from the ground and placing it in Mason’s hands. “We’ll need every man we can get to hold the line. That means you too.”
“I’ll fight for ye,” Mason said, giving him a level look, “I’ll be fetchin’ me falchion then, and some bamboo, was it? What do ye need that for?”
“Never you mind,” Fletcher said mysteriously. “Now hop to it. There isn’t a moment to lose.”
CHAPTER
52
THEY CROUCHED BEHIND the low stone wall, watching the swaying trees through the Cleft. The past hour had been frantic, but they were as ready as they could be. The dead soldiers had been moved into the mountain pass, and covered with their tents out of respect.
The wall was a fragile thing, constructed from the loose boulders left over from the watchtower and a clay mortar mixture of drinking water and the powdery earth beneath their feet. It curved in a U-shape, so that the enemy would receive fire from all sides as they came into the space beyond the Cleft. Fletcher’s soldiers were spread around it in a single row, their muskets loaded and aimed at the jungles. There were thirty extra muskets gathered from the Forsyths—not all of them had carried guns—but it allowed most of the men a spare to fire before they had to reload.
Blue and his fellow gremlins stood nearby, unable to see over the top, but ready with ramrods to load the spare muskets once they had been fired. Halfear scowled, still angry that their mounts had been sent on with the refugees: They would be little use in the tight confines of the mountain pass.
“Do you see anything?” Sir Caulder asked, his knees creaking as he peered over the parapet.
“Nothing yet,” Fletcher replied.
He was wearing his scrying crystal, strapped like an eye patch across his face. Far above, Athena had found a crevice to shelter in and was watching the jungles with a keen eye. But despite the clarity of the image, the foliage obscured the contents of the forest. The army could be waiting just a few feet beyond the tree line and Fletcher wouldn’t know.
As for Ignatius, Fletcher had learned his lesson after their battle. The Drake had no armor like a Wyvern, but was still a large target that would be vulnerable to javelins and spears in prolonged combat. So Ignatius had instead been sent into the sky above, to intercept any scouting demons that might be flying ahead of the goblin army, and serve as their reinforcements should the tide of battle turn. Occasionally his shadow flitted over them, as the Drake wheeled and swooped, eager for the fight.
“How are we coming with the ammunition?” Fletcher called over his shoulder.
“We’ve a few extra hundred rounds,” came the reply from Gallo, holding up a misshapen cartridge. “They’re not pretty though.”
Gallo and three other soldiers had been tasked with melting the lead ingots over a small campfire and casting them into musket balls, while two more wrapped them in paper with what remained of their gunpowder. With the numbers of goblins that would be storming the breach, Fletcher knew they needed to meet them with a hail of bullets, and their current levels of ammunition would run out swiftly.
The wall also served a different purpose: It would not only protect them from the hail of javelins and stabbing spears, but it would also shelter them from Fletcher’s other plans—if it all went wrong, that is. He had a surprise waiting for the first goblins to pass through the Cleft.
“We’re out of lead,” Gallo called, holding up the last heavy sack of newly minted cartridges. “That’s all of it. Scraping the bottom of the barrel for gunpowder too.”
“All right, well done. Hand the new cartridges out to the men,” Fletcher ordered, pointing at the other sacks at Gallo’s feet. “And send a few up to the watchtower too. Once they’re out of rifle rounds, they’ll be able to fire these at close range.”
Gallo blanched at the narrow path up to the platform high on their right, where rifle barrels could be seen, balanced on the low ring of rocks that had once been the base of the watchtower. Rotherham was up there with them, guiding his small squad of sni
pers.
“I’ll do it,” Logan volunteered, seeing Gallo’s expression. He jogged over and took the sack from the pale-faced dwarf, earning himself a respectful nod.
Fletcher smiled, despite his nervousness. That was one silver lining—whatever grievances the soldiers had before were now firmly in the past. If they survived this, the Foxes would be as close as any band of brothers in Hominum’s army.
He felt a twinge of excitement from Ignatius, just as Sir Caulder growled under his breath.
“Where the hell are the—”
A corpse thudded beside them in a burst of black-and-white feathers, and Sir Caulder unleashed a tirade of curses as he was spattered in blood. It was the broken body of a Shrike, with a gaping slash across its midriff. Above, Ignatius roared in challenge. A second, smaller Shrike crashed onto the wall, its corpse knocking a stone free in a puff of dust. The Drake was in his element, and Fletcher could see him swooping and diving as small black dots made a beeline toward him. It could mean only one thing.
“It’s starting,” Fletcher said, drawing Blaze from his holster and resting it on the wall’s parapet.
But his last words were drowned out, for a horrendous noise had begun. It was like hundreds of voices screaming in agony, accompanied by an unearthly rattling. It echoed eerily through the canyon and into their ravine, setting Fletcher’s teeth on edge.
And then, at the forest edge, the first goblins could be seen marching out of the trees in a wave of gray. Hundreds of them.
“Hold your fire,” Fletcher called, watching as the man next to him tightened his grip on the gun, so much so that his knuckles turned white.
His eyes focused on the pink overlay of the scrying crystal. There were too many goblins to count, marching over the grass in a great unordered mass that poured out of the jungle. Just like their cassowary-riding counterparts, these goblins wore nothing more than a loincloth to protect their dubious modesty. But as well as the usual variety of spears, stone-studded clubs and javelins, these goblins carried rawhide shields on their left forearms, and they clattered their weapons against them as they marched into the canyon, providing some answers for the terrible din. But not the screaming.