Cerva returned to her seat, but kept her arms crossed.
Harold paused then, allowing silence to settle over the room.
‘Our next problem is perhaps the most shocking. Something new. Something that could spell doom for us all, allied or not. Lord Raleigh, would you be so kind as to remove the cloth from the container there?’
It took a few moments for Fletcher to realise Harold was speaking to him. Lord Raleigh. Was he ever going to get used to that? He stared at the object for a moment then, realising he had no other option, climbed on to the table.
The wood creaked underfoot and there was a mutter of annoyance from one of the elves, but he eventually reached the cloth-covered cylinder. He gripped the sheet and tugged it away, hearing the slosh of water from within as the cylinder rocked on its base. He did not know what he had expected to see, but the cries of disgust from the room echoed his own.
A creature lay within.
16
It hung there, suspended in a greenish liquid that continued to slosh back and forth. It had been pickled to preserve the flesh, and a ragged hole could be seen in the centre of its scrawny chest.
‘What is it?’ Cerva asked, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and curiosity. ‘A demon of some sort?’
‘No,’ Harold said gravely. ‘Not a demon. It is an aberration, a monstrosity. A strange mix of orc and gremlin, created by some dark art unknown to us.’
Fletcher examined the creature. It looked somewhat like a gremlin, for it had the same droopy, triangular ears, elongated nose and bulbous eyes. The fingers were long and nimble like a gremlin’s too, with a similar, if less exaggerated, hunch. It even wore a loincloth of the same design.
Yet it was far too large, standing at a height somewhere between a dwarf and a man. Its mouth was filled with sharp, yellow teeth, and it sported thick canines in its lower jaw that reminded Fletcher of a juvenile orc’s tusks. Its build was on the skinny side, but the cords of muscle that wrapped its limbs left no doubt that the creature was an agile fighter. The corpse’s skin, grey like an orc’s or a gremlin’s, had shrivelled slightly in the liquid.
‘We call them goblins, and they are breeding them by the thou—’ the king began, but was interrupted by Uhtred.
‘Thousands?’ the dwarf cried. ‘We are barely able to hold off the orcs as it is. Numbers were our greatest advantage!’
‘What weapons do these goblins use?’ Sylva asked, leaping on to the table so she could examine the creature more closely.
‘The same ones as orcs, so far as we know,’ King Harold said gravely. ‘Clubs studded with volcanic glass, javelins, rawhide shields, stone-tipped spears, that kind of thing. As Uhtred said, it is their numbers that worry us. Even with the addition of dwarven and elven troops, they may already outnumber us.’
‘How did you find out about them?’ Fletcher asked, his face flushing. Yet Harold answered him readily enough.
‘The boy. Boy, what’s your name?’ Harold asked, snapping his fingers. Fletcher was momentarily taken aback by Harold’s rudeness, but then realised he was still acting.
‘Mason, sire,’ the boy mumbled.
‘Mason here brought that body with him. He took one when he escaped. Clever boy, aren’t you, Mason?’
‘If you say so, your majesty,’ Mason said, lowering his head respectfully.
‘Mason tells us that he saw them spawning from eggs of all things, deep within the orcs’ jungle caves. The one you see is full-grown, one of the first specimens. Sexless beneath those loincloths.’
‘How many of these early specimens are there?’ Uhtred asked, directing his question to Mason.
‘I can’t rightly say, beggin’ your pardon, mister. Maybe a few ’undred,’ Mason said, after a few moments’ thought. ‘They mostly stay ’idden underground, tendin’ the eggs and such. Them eggs ’ave been cookin’ for a long time, ’cos the goblins come out full-grown – I’ve never seen no babies runnin’ about. Some of the eggs must be years old, from the dust and muck on ’em. Once this batch ’atch, there might not be another for while.’
‘Well, at least that’s something,’ Uhtred said.
‘Indeed.’ Harold nodded gravely. ‘Which brings me to the next part of the meeting. These eggs must be destroyed. Lady Cavendish must be rescued. Our peoples must be unified and morale improved. The question is how?’
‘Leaving aside the morale problem, we cannot mount an all-out assault on the orcs,’ Cerva said as Sylva stepped down from the table. Fletcher followed Sylva’s example, glad to be away from the pickled corpse. Cerva did not wait for him to be seated before she spoke again.
‘You need open ground for your soldiers’ muskets and the orcs would be fighting in their own territory. It would be a slaughter.’
‘I agree,’ one of the generals said. ‘Lady Faversham, can’t your flying summoners mount an assault?’
Ophelia turned to the general and gave him a withering look.
‘Mason tells us he was kept deep in the jungle. He only escaped when he was swept away by a river, using the goblin’s corpse as a flotation device. Is that not so, boy?’ She barely waited for his nod before continuing.
‘That far in, the Celestial Corps might be spotted before we were even halfway there, and the shamans would fly their Wyverns out to meet us. Their airforce is stronger than ours, though we are faster. Even if we managed to reach the target, we would only be able to land at the site for a few minutes, then fly out again before the orc shamans mobilised their Wyverns and caught us up. But there would not be nearly enough time to search the caverns, destroy several thousand goblin eggs and break out a prisoner, especially with half of Orcdom alerted to our presence.’
At her mention of Wyvern riders, Fletcher’s mind flashed to one of the long, tedious demonology lessons with Major Goodwin, where he had learned about them for the first time. They were enormous, scaled creatures, sporting two powerful legs, batlike wings, a long, spiked tail and a horned, crocodilian head. At level fifteen, they were considered the most powerful demons in the orcs’ arsenal, an exception to the belief that orc shaman demons were generally weaker than Hominum’s. There were only a dozen or so of them, but even Hominum’s Alicorns, Hippogriffs, Perytons and Griffins were no match for the fearsome beasts.
For the first time, old King Alfric spoke. Fletcher steeled himself and tried not to glare at the man who had tried to kill him.
‘My dear cousin is right,’ he said, nodding at Ophelia. ‘If we lost the Celestial Corps we would lose our only air defence. Then the Wyvern riders could run rampant without the corps to harry them if they chose to raid Hominum.’
‘So, that’s not an option,’ Harold said, though his tone suggested that he had already known this. ‘But I have a solution. It is a risky plan, one that we would need a unanimous decision on. I propose we send in four teams of graduates from Vocans – to go behind enemy lines, rescue Lady Cavendish and destroy the goblin eggs. As battlemages, they will be powerful enough to defend themselves effectively, whilst also being in small enough numbers to pass through the jungle undetected. We cannot risk our experienced officers – the soldiers need their leadership on the front lines.’
Harold paused to see the council’s reactions, but this time the silence was one of surprise rather than disinterest. Fletcher’s mind raced, contemplating the plan. It could work, true – but it was so, so dangerous.
He already had an idea of who would be sent on this fateful mission – and a kick from Othello under the table told him he wasn’t the only one. He met Sylva’s eyes across the room. Her gaze was impassive, but he could see the muscles of her jaws were clenched.
‘They will each be given a guide to lead them,’ Harold continued blithely, ‘and once they have completed their mission and are out of the caves, the Celestial Corps will fly them out of there.’
Again, silence. Harold’s carefully rehearsed speech was not having the desired effect.
‘But that’s not all,’ the king said. ‘
We can unite all three races behind a common purpose. Lord Forsyth. If you would be so kind.’
Zacharias stood and removed something from his pocket, holding it up to the flickering torchlight, so that all could see. It was a purple crystal, carefully polished and cut into a flat, round gemstone.
‘Corundum crystal. Scrying stones, fulfilmeters and charging stones are all made from it. Up until a few weeks ago, it was one of the most expensive and rare elements in Hominum. No longer.’
Zacharias tossed the crystal across the table, as if it was worthless.
‘The Triumvirate invested in mining operations to supplement Hominum’s limited supplies of sulphur, the key ingredient of gunpowder. We came across a large deposit of corundum instead. Enough to put scrying crystals in every barracks, tavern and village hall across the country, with more to spare.’
If he had expected a reaction from the table he was disappointed, receiving only blank stares.
‘Congratulations,’ Sylva said, with only a touch of sarcasm.
‘Don’t you understand what this means?’ Ophelia said, surprised by their lack of interest. ‘Every person in Hominum can use the scrying crystals to see what is happening on the front lines. It could be a huge morale boost.’
‘Yes, from the perspective of only one demon for each crystal,’ Othello said. ‘And they wouldn’t be able to hear a word – only the demon’s owner could do that.’
‘But they would see elven, dwarven and human troops fighting side by side,’ Uhtred said, warming to the idea.
‘But that only helps in the long run,’ Cerva interjected. ‘The elven and dwarven troops will arrive on the front lines within a few weeks. We need to solve these racial tensions before they arrive. If we don’t, there will be infighting between our soldiers, mark my words. One tavern brawl could spiral into an all-out race war.’
‘Well that is the second part of my plan,’ Harold said, jumping to his feet and addressing the entire table. ‘The mission takes place before these troops arrive, and it shall be transmitted to human, elf and dwarf alike through the Triumvirate’s scrying stones, generously provided by Lord Forsyth here. Most importantly, with dwarven and elven graduates, our peoples will see that we are all in this together, and that orcs are the true enemy.’
Harold paused again, allowing his words to sink in.
Fletcher considered the plan. It was risky, and it could hurt more than it helped. There were no guarantees that the different races would get along during the mission – he thought back to all the race rivalry that took place at Vocans. One slip-up and there could be rioting on the streets.
‘Our three races are branches of the same tree,’ Harold said, gazing earnestly at each person around the table. ‘This could be the beginning of a new era, where man, dwarf and elf can live in peace, side by side. Never before have we had an opportunity like this. Let us seize it, together!’
‘I have a question,’ Sylva said, raising her hand. ‘Who are these graduates you speak of? The only elven summoner is … me.’
‘Yes, well … that is part of the reason why I have gathered you all here.’ Harold coughed, his bravado replaced with a sudden awkwardness, the mask slipping for the briefest of moments. ‘We are in the infancy of the diversification of Vocans. You are the only elven graduate and Othello is the only dwarven graduate.’
‘I see,’ Sylva replied, her voice pensive as she considered him carefully.
‘We would need both you and Othello to undertake this mission,’ Harold said. ‘Lord Raleigh would be another candidate; his common roots and noble heritage would appeal to the people of Hominum. That would also make it fair – one from each of our respective councils. We will also allow one first-year volunteer to join each team. It is my hope that Atilla and Cress, the two dwarven first years, will do just that.’
Silence lay thick in the room. Then whispers began, as the dwarves leaned together and discussed the proposal. There was a shaking of heads. Across the table, Fletcher heard Cerva’s angry muttering.
‘If the mission failed, it would do more harm than good,’ she growled, clasping Sylva’s forearm. ‘It’s a risky mission as it is. Your father would never forgive us if his only daughter died.’
Fletcher looked to Harold. Sweat trickled down the king’s temple, plastering golden hair to his forehead in sodden curls. He flicked his eyes to Fletcher and gave the smallest of nods.
It was time to stand and speak. But was it the right move? All he knew was that the alliance was crumbling, and the hatred between their races was near boiling point. Sooner or later, it was going to spiral out of control. One more attack from the Anvils, one more argument gone bad, even a racially charged comment could set it all off. But sometimes, doing nothing was the greatest risk of all.
‘I will do it,’ a voice said, cutting through the hushed debate. It took a moment for Fletcher to realise it was his own. He gulped as all eyes turned to him once again.
‘I am not afraid,’ he continued, standing and knuckling his fists on the table. ‘Hominum will not back down from a fight.’
He was afraid, but he knew they were the right words as soon as they had left his mouth. Cerva bridled at the unspoken accusation.
‘The elves are not afraid either,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Sylva is the best of us. I cannot speak for her, but the clans will support her decision.’
Sylva stood to face Fletcher, looking at him with a cool, calculating expression that made it clear that she would not make this decision on the basis of their friendship. Fletcher stared right back, trying to convey a confidence he did not feel.
‘The dwarves will not let you down.’ Fletcher breathed with relief as Othello growled from his right. ‘If Hominum’s people wish to see a dwarf fight the orcs, I shall be glad to show them.’
Uhtred snatched at his son’s sleeve, but it was too late, the words had been spoken. Othello gave Fletcher a grim nod, and Fletcher clasped his wrist in gratitude.
‘Agreed,’ one of the white-bearded dwarven elders said, after a quick glance at the others.
Sylva looked unmoved, her eyes flicking from Zacharias Forsyth, to Ophelia Faversham and old King Alfric. It threw a shadow of doubt over Fletcher’s heart. Whose plan was it really? Something didn’t add up. Why would Lord Forsyth give away all those valuable crystals for free, when all he cared about was profit? He didn’t care about uniting the races: the dwarves were his main competitor in the weapons industry, and a war with the elves would mean continued demand for weapons on the northern front.
Stranger still, Ophelia seemed to be supporting the decision, despite the fact that she was just as invested in the weapons industry as Zacharias. Perhaps they finally understood just how dangerous a race war would be for the safety of Hominum.
Even as Fletcher tried to wrap his head around their bizarre behaviour, Sylva finally spoke.
‘So be it.’
17
‘I’m not doing it,’ Fletcher said, as Captain Lovett leaned out of her saddle and pulled him up behind her.
‘Too late,’ she laughed, grasping Fletcher’s hands and putting them around her waist.
It was the next morning, and they were on a wide tree branch, with Lysander pawing at the bark beneath his claws, ready to take off. Before, Fletcher hadn’t minded heights much, but now he knew he would be flying above it, the ground seemed a long distance away.
The other riders were down below, Arcturus included, ready for the long flight to Vocans so that they could watch the Tournament. He could see Sylva among them, the only elf in a sea of humans and elderly dwarves. He felt anxious about what had happened between them at the council meeting, but had not spoken with her since, instead being ushered back to his room by an impatient elf servant and, after a night of uneasy sleep, had been woken by Lovett that morning.
Sylva would always put her people before their friendship, and the memory of her attempted alliance with the Forsyth twins at Vocans came, unbidden, to his mind. He could har
dly blame her for feeling that way, but the reminder of her priorities at the council meeting made his chest tighten.
‘Are you sure you’re OK taking me back to Pelt first?’ Fletcher asked, trying not to look down.
‘Of course. Between you and me, I don’t like spending time with the Celestial Corps, though I am still a member,’ Lovett said over her shoulder. ‘That’s why I volunteered to teach at Vocans. Ophelia Faversham is as unpleasant as any corporal I have served under – though she prefers to go by the title of Lady, thinks the rank sounds too masculine. I’ll stick with Captain Lovett though, so don’t go getting any ideas!’
‘I’m a captain too, you know,’ Fletcher grumbled, trying to focus on the square of Lovett’s back. ‘I won the Tournament after all.’
‘I forgot about that!’ Lovett laughed. Fletcher smiled, for he had never seen her laugh before. Her voice, usually so steely and resolved, had become warm and inviting.
‘I think—’
But Fletcher never got to tell her what he thought, because Lysander had launched himself from the branch, and the world had turned a blur of brown and green. The Griffin swooped and jinked between branches, and Fletcher felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, then somersault. Lovett whooped with unbridled joy, urging Lysander on to greater speeds.
With a few last thrusts of his great wings, the Griffin burst through the foliage at the top, the thick, waxy leaves slapping against their faces. Then they were out in the dawn air, the morning sunlight pale but warm against Fletcher’s skin.
In the distance, the Beartooth Mountains loomed, their jagged peaks stretching into the sky like the fangs they were named after. Despite their heady ascent, Fletcher felt a sudden calm wash over him. A sea of green stretched out beneath them; the treetops waved in the breeze, accompanied by the gentle creak of moving boughs. It was breathtaking.
‘I never tire of flying,’ Lovett exclaimed, rubbing Lysander’s neck. ‘How are you doing back there?’
Fletcher gazed at the vista around him. Even when he had peered out of his bedroom window at Vocans, he had never been this high, nor seen more of the world he lived in.