The parade of Dragoons neared, and Fletcher began to see the other demons that the battlemages rode. It became obvious that Hippalectryons were the most popular demons among the elite troops.
He could see Slepinirs, muscle-bound horses with six powerful legs that made them one of the fastest land demons in existence. Musimon, like enormous, bearded billy goats with two pairs of horns, the lower curled and thick, the other long and sharp like a bull’s.
There was even a rare Kirin, horselike in appearance but with a reptilian snout, a single antler on its forehead, shimmering green scales armoring its body and plumes of red hair that erupted from its mane, tail and legs.
It was clear to Fletcher that all of the demons were designed for speed and sudden violence, ideal for the crack troops of the empire.
Each battlemage wore an armored breastplate, a plumed helmet and was armed with a cavalry saber: a long, curved blade that could chop down with brutal efficiency. Accompanying the deadly weapons were shortened carbines, pairs holstered on either side of their hips. Fletcher watched them enviously: The guns were longer and more accurate than pistols but shorter and lighter than muskets. They were awesome weapons, but an impractical middle ground for a foot soldier like Fletcher.
“How could we lose with them on our side?” Fletcher said, watching as the fearsome cavalcade passed below them.
“Will the dwarves come through this way?” Sylva asked.
“No, they’ll march through the northern end of Corcillum, down toward Corwin Plaza,” Othello replied, the excitement of the passing Dragoons instantly wiped from his face at the reminder. “That’s where the parade ends. There will be some ceremony there, an oath of fealty to the king from all the new recruits, dwarves included.”
“Will they do it?” Fletcher asked.
Othello chewed his lip.
“They have to” was his only response.
“Can’t your father talk to them, tell them what might happen if they don’t?” Fletcher asked.
“If my father and the elders had that control over our men, then Alfric’s speech wouldn’t matter either,” Othello said, shaking his head dejectedly. “He’s gone out there and spoken with them, but they’re keeping tight-lipped about the whole thing. You don’t know what it’s like, Fletcher. Hundreds of years of subjugation. Pinkertons killing us with impunity; our lives ruled by the laws of our oppressors.”
“I’m sorry,” Fletcher murmured. “I didn’t think…”
“These young dwarven men put all of that aside for a chance to become free and equal citizens,” Othello explained. “They endured the misery of the elven front, endless drills, marching and barked orders from your officers. And now, when it’s finally at an end, to be told it was all for nothing? That the old laws are back in place? Then ordered to stand aside and watch our homes invaded by the Pinkertons.”
There was a knock on the door behind them, and Briss emerged onto the balcony.
“Athol just sent word. The dwarves have arrived,” she said. “They’re a mile out.”
Cress sighed and got to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “We should go to the square before it fills up.”
So they went, hurrying out of the tavern and pushing through the crowded streets. They kept their heads down and wore hoods despite the warm day, to prevent themselves from being recognized.
As they fought their way through the crowded streets, Fletcher was amazed at the number of vendors hawking their wares to the crowds. Men and women walked around with platters of food: The intermingled smells of their pickled whelks, jellied eels, meat pies and fried fish permeated the air. Others sold ginger ale and honeyed beer in paper cups, the remains of which already littered the streets, crumpled balls of white that were trampled underfoot.
Fortunately for Fletcher and the others, the crowds were gathered along the parade through the main roads, allowing them to cut through the side streets unmolested. Fletcher was amazed by how easily Othello navigated the warren of alleys, cutting left and right to avoid the thoroughfares, even scampering along the low roof of an abandoned building to get them to the square.
“Almost there,” Othello panted as they squeezed through a particularly narrow street, the space between the buildings so tight that Fletcher could stretch out his arms and put his hands through the windows on either side. Already they could hear the roar of the masses just beyond, singing the national anthem of Hominum in raucous unison.
They reached what appeared to be a bricked-up dead end, but Othello grinned at his friends’ confused faces and shifted aside a wooden slat leaning against the wall. Behind, a hole just large enough to squeeze through had been knocked into the brickwork.
“Get chased by enough Pinkertons, you’ll end up knowing all the shortcuts.” Othello winked. “Come on, before someone notices.”
And with that, they emerged into Corwin Plaza.
CHAPTER
31
THE NOISE HIT FLETCHER like a solid wall. The plaza was enormous, and thousands of people had gathered, surrounding a red-roped cordon where the soldiers were gathering in neat ranks. When he craned his neck, Fletcher could see three of the roads into the square were filled with crowds, leaving a single way in, through which battalions of soldiers continued to march.
“Come on, let’s find a good spot,” Sylva yelled, her voice barely audible over the singing of the assembled masses.
She grasped Fletcher’s hand and dragged him through a gap in the crowds. He had just enough time to snatch Cress’s sleeve before they were pushing their way to the front. Soon Fletcher’s world was full of elbows, squashed toes and angry cursing as they fought through the heaving bodies.
Then somehow they were through, their stomachs pressed against the rope as the spectators surged back and forth. Now that their view was clear, Fletcher saw that a platform covered with an ornate canvas roof had been raised within the center of the plaza, with a thin line of royal guards surrounding the base. Upon it were two familiar figures, seated on extravagant thrones.
Alfric stared icily at the uniform rows beneath him, while on the larger throne beside him was King Harold, a benevolent smile on his face. He looked far too calm for Fletcher’s liking. Had he forgotten what a dwarven rebellion could mean for Hominum? Was he not thinking of the thousands of lives lost on both sides, or the vulnerability of the empire while the army was divided, fighting a war on two fronts?
“He’s a good actor, isn’t he?” Sylva half yelled into Fletcher’s ear, as if she could read his mind.
Fletcher hoped that was the case. He had met the king on no more than three brief occasions, and now the future of the dwarves’ race seemed to rest in this man’s ability to manage his despot father. Fletcher only hoped that his trust was not unfounded. Who knew what game Harold might be playing?
Only some of the troops before them were the fresh-faced boys they had seen from the balcony earlier. The others’ appearance was more slovenly, most with untucked shirts and scraggly beards. While the boys stood to attention, these men slumped and spat on the ground, some even swigging from hip flasks.
Fletcher thought they might be veterans from the front lines, but their uniforms were brand new. He suspected these were the conscripted convicts from Didric’s prisons—muggers, burglars, con men and all the rest of the undesirables who had been offered freedom in exchange for their enlistment.
A fresh cheer drew his attention back to the entrance, and for a moment he felt a flash of hope that it was the dwarves. But no, it was the Dragoons, riding straight backed into the plaza, their right hands touching their foreheads in a salute to their king. Once they reached their places, even the demons themselves knelt, one foreleg bent, the other extended in a gesture of subservience. The effect of their disciplined lines was only slightly marred by the lesser demons that accompanied their masters at random alongside their neat rows; mostly a smattering of Canids, Felids and Vulpids. Sacharissa was among them, her great pink tongue lolling ou
t as she panted beneath the warmth of the bright, cloudless sky above. There was space in the plaza for only one more regiment.
Then, as if they had received some signal, the crowd fell into silence. Because beyond the Dragoons, shimmering in the heat haze, the dwarves were marching.
Even in the distance, Fletcher could see their uniforms and weaponry were different. The glint of metal shone from rounded helms and the heads of back-slung battle-axes. They carried muskets too, though theirs were somewhat shorter to match their height and lacked the fixed bayonets of the human soldiers. Strangest of all was their hodgepodge of clothing—only the red jackets they wore over their shirts were the same; the rest was traditional dwarves’ garb of heavy leathers and canvas cloth.
The silence drew on as the marching dwarves neared. The spectators on either side did nothing but watch, occasionally leaning in to whisper in one another’s ears. Now Fletcher could see the sweat on the dwarven brows, the exhaustion on their faces. These men had marched from one end of Hominum to the other, for king and country. Would they kneel, after all that had happened? They had joined before the Anvil attacks had happened, before the hatred had become commonplace. It was a neat trick of Alfric’s to force them to kneel.
Fletcher looked at the faces around him. Many were expressionless; others, solemn. A man squinted. Was that anger in his eyes … or just the sun?
Still they came. Now he could hear the tramp of their feet, the jingle of metal. Othello’s breath came thick and fast beside him. The quiet was deafening. Was the crowd’s apathy enough for Alfric to make his speech?
Fletcher looked up—the old king had the staff in his hand, the black carapace of the Mite stark on the tip. It was uncovered, facing the approaching dwarves. The whole of Hominum would be watching through its eyes.
The dwarves reached the square. Still, no reaction from the watching crowds, except for the gentle susurration of whispers that Fletcher could not make out. Then they were there, standing in place before the platform, eyes staring straight ahead. Harold stood.
“People of Corcillum,” he began. His voice was loud, unnaturally so. The amplify spell was being used. “We are gathered here to pay our respects to the men and women who protect our empire from the savage hordes gathering just beyond the horizon.”
His words echoed around the square, the noise broken only by the flutter of tarpaulin above him and the gentle soughing of the breeze.
“In honor of their sacrifice, we will sing the national anthem. Bandsmen, if you please!”
At his command, the drummer boys began a slow, deliberate beat that signaled the beginnings of the age-old song. Sergeants brandished their bugles, usually used to signal orders to their men in the heat of battle. In unison, they added their brassy fanfare to the melody.
It was a tune as old as Hominum itself, sung by Hominum’s first ruler, King Corwin and his men as they marched into battle and drove the orcs back into the jungles. It was more of a short chant than anything else, but every girl and boy in Hominum knew it by heart.
A chill ran through Fletcher as he looked at the stage. Alfric was grinning, glee plastered across his face. It was a song full of history, tainted with the reminder of when the dwarves lost their homeland to the human invaders.
Alfric didn’t think the dwarves would sing. Didn’t think they would even know the words. This was all part of his plan, and Harold had been forced to go along with it.
But Alfric was wrong.
Hear us all ye foes, o’er land or sea,
Our lads’ll march to hell an’ back,
To take the fight to thee.
The dwarves sang in a deep baritone, their bass voices raised above the scattered recitation of the crowd.
Ye’ll ne’er see us falter, nor spurn duty’s call,
Not one of ye can break our lines,
Nor watch our banners fall.
Even the sound of thousands of people chanting was lost in the depth of the dwarven choir, so much so that many of their voices were beginning to fade, put to shame by their lack of fervor.
Bring all yer soldiers, o’er sea or land,
Our folk’ll fight till our last breath,
Under our king’s command.
The dwarves powered into their final stanza, heads thrown back, voices soaring with the rising tide of trumpets and drums. Not even the gruff soldiers could match the rich timbre of their song.
Hominum, Hominum, Hom-in-uuuum.
Silence. It hung heavy in the air. The dwarves were grim-faced, their eyes almost defiant as they stared out into the surrounding crowds. It was a gesture that told the people of Corcillum that nobody could question their patriotism.
Then there was a single cheer. A young boy, sitting on his father’s shoulders a few feet from Fletcher, clapping and laughing at the performance. Then another, and another.
“Bravo,” shouted a woman in the crowd. The smattering of applause turned into a tumult, accompanied by whoops and yells from the spectators. Soon the entire square was cheering, no longer afraid of being the first to react.
Then the dwarves did something Fletcher never thought they would do. One after the other, they knelt facing the crowd. On bended knee, they placed their fists against their hearts and lowered their heads to the surrounding masses. It was an oath of loyalty … to them. The people.
Fletcher knew what to do then. He fell to his knees, dragging Othello and Sylva down with him.
“What are you doing?” Cress hissed, crouching beside them.
“Just trust me,” Fletcher said, praying he was right.
It was an old lady who joined them first. She smiled apologetically as she leaned on Fletcher’s shoulder to get herself down, kneeling beside him on dusty cobbles. A ruddy-faced man followed next, perhaps wishing more to be off his feet than to show respect to the dwarves. But more followed, most sitting, but many kneeling as the dwarves did. It was like a wave, as row after row of people settled on the ground.
It took all of thirty seconds—not one person beyond the cordon remained standing. The soldiers within stood with nervous expressions, unsure of whether they ought to follow suit.
Harold’s voice echoed through the square.
“Kneel,” he barked.
The men responded with alacrity, metal clanging as their weapons hit the ground. Harold took a deep breath.
“Do you swear to fight for king and country. Say aye.”
“Aye!” every man, woman and child in the square yelled out in unison, caught up in the patriotic fervor, but none so loudly as the dwarves.
“Do you swear to defend these lands with every fiber of your being and kill any that threaten its safety?”
“Aye!”
Harold’s smile beamed out across the crowd, but it was nothing compared to the glowering look of black hatred coming from old King Alfric.
King Harold spread his arms wide.
“Rise, soldiers of Hominum!”
CHAPTER
32
THERE WERE CELEBRATIONS THAT NIGHT. The Anvil Tavern had opened once again, the boards on the windows piled up and burned in the fireplace, and rickety tables brought from the basement and covered with food and beer.
Most of the guests were the dwarven recruits, having sneaked away from their camp outside of Corcillum. It was hard to tell how many had crammed themselves into the building, and Fletcher found himself huddled beside a low table of swarthy dwarven men, resisting the temptation to sample the jugs of beer they generously offered him every few minutes.
They all knew who he was, knew what he and his friends had done for the dwarves. He had more tankards of beer in front of him than he knew what to do with. Uhtred had spent most of the past few days in deep conversation with the recruits. It was he who was responsible for their performance that day—though it had been touch and go for a while.
Dwarven songs were being sung simultaneously on different sides of the room, with each group trying to drown out the others in a cacophony of deep
voices. Sylva and Cress had been adopted by an opposite table, and their sweet voices trilled above it all, much to the encouragement of the men around them. A strange instrument that looked like a mix of a bagpipe and a trumpet was playing a tune that somehow managed to be the only one that nobody was singing to.
The entire Thorsager family was busy behind the bar, the happy reunion between Othello and the male members of his family swiftly superseded by the need to cater for their scores of hungry guests. Traditional dwarven food was being rushed out of the small kitchenette in the back at an impressive rate and disappearing down throats just as quickly.
Fletcher gave the hungry soldiers a run for their money though, reveling in the variety of the food and mouthwatering flavors. Soft, honeyed bread studded with nuts and fruit was hand-torn away in hunks, an appetizer to the piles of steaming dumplings stuffed with garlic and pork. Baskets of crispy root vegetables seemed the most popular—parsnips, yams and cassava that had been thin sliced and seasoned with rock salt, all of it still sizzling and golden fried.
It was only just beginning to dawn on Fletcher that his immediate troubles were over, and for the first time in a long while he found his mind wandering to Pelt, his old home. But Pelt was gone. Berdon—that was what home meant to him.
Worse of all, he had no way of knowing where his surrogate father and fellow villagers were. The journey from Pelt down to Raleighshire was a dangerous one, patrolled by brigands and con men.
He was already planning to fly out in the morning, scan the main roads for their passage. His own route had been in the back of a sheep cart, which as far as he knew could have taken many detours along its way down. That journey had taken two weeks, but theirs … well, they could arrive any time between that very minute and another month.
It was these thoughts that were swimming in his mind when the Anvil doors slammed open and the armored men marched in, their pikes crossed in a solid wall of wood and steel. Fletcher’s heart leaped, but he soon relaxed when he saw Harold following behind them, his hands held up and an apologetic smile on his face.
The Battlemage Page 18
