‘Meet back here in about two hours. There’s plenty of carts on their way to the front lines along that road, so just leave if the other group is late,’ Othello called.
They parted ways and increased their pace as the downpour intensified, ducking under the awnings in front of shops and keeping close to the walls. Ignatius purred in the dry warmth beneath Fletcher’s hood while Solomon followed several feet behind, struggling to keep up on his stumpy legs. The dwarf had the foresight to bring a hooded jacket of his own, but poor Solomon looked miserable in the wet.
‘So what do you need other than a tailor and the blacksmith? Did I hear you need to send a letter?’ Othello asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure Solomon was still in sight. As Othello threaded his way through the narrow alleyways, Fletcher realised that the dwarf would be the perfect guide to help him make the best of their trip to Corcillum.
‘Yes, I need to send a letter to the elven front,’ Fletcher said. It would be best not to send anything directly to Berdon in case Caspar or Didric intercepted it. Maybe if he sent it to Rotherham, then the soldier could pass on the message in secret.
‘Well, if that’s the case you’d be best sending it from Vocans. The military couriers stop by there all the time. As for the blacksmith, trust me when I say he is the best. He designed this for me.’
Othello paused and opened the leather pouch he carried on his shoulder and pulled a hatchet from inside. The handle was made of black, fire-hardened wood and painstakingly carved to conform to the shape of Othello’s hand. The axe head was thin but devastatingly sharp, with a keen blade coming from the back that made for a lethal backswing.
‘This is a dwarven tomahawk. Every dwarf is given one on their fifteenth birthday, to protect them in their adulthood. It was decreed by the first of our holy elders that all adult male dwarves must carry one at all times, ever since our persecution began two thousand years ago. Even our female dwarves own a torq, a spiked bangle that is carried at all times on the wrist. It is considered part of our tradition, heritage and religion. Now you know the high esteem I hold for the blacksmith’s skill.’
Fletcher’s eyes widened as he saw the beautiful weapon.
‘Can I hold it?’ Fletcher asked, eager to try the axe for himself. Perhaps he would have the same carved handle added to his khopesh.
There was a high pitched whistle and the sound of running feet. Two Pinkertons were sprinting towards them, studded truncheons drawn and pistols levelled at Othello’s face.
‘Drop it! Now!’
The first Pinkerton took Othello by the throat, lifted him off his feet and pushed him up against a brick wall. He was a huge brute of a man, with a bristling black beard that covered an ugly, pockmarked face. Othello’s tomahawk clattered to the ground as he struggled to breathe against the sausage-like fingers constricting his windpipe.
‘What have we told you dwarves about carrying weapons in public? Why can’t you get it through your thick, dwarven skulls? Only humans have that privilege!’ the second Pinkerton said in a reedy voice. He was a tall, skinny man with a pencil moustache and greasy blond hair.
‘Let him go!’ Fletcher shouted, finding his voice. He stepped forward as Ignatius dropped to the ground, hissing viciously. The demon blew a warning plume of flame into the air.
‘Release him, Turner,’ the thin Pinkerton said, registering the danger and rapping his truncheon against the wall.
‘All right, Sergeant Murphy, we’ll have more fun with him in the cells anyway,’ the large man grunted, releasing Othello to leave him wheezing on the street cobbles. He gave the dwarf a sharp kick in the side, making Othello cry out in pain. As he did so, an unearthly roar blasted from behind Fletcher.
‘No!’ Othello gasped, holding his hand up as Solomon pelted round the corner, stopping the Golem just a few feet short of Turner. ‘No, Solomon, it’s OK!’
The dwarf stood with difficulty, leaning against the wall.
‘Are you all right?’ Fletcher asked as the Golem rushed to his master, rumbling with worry.
‘I’m fine. They’ve done worse before,’ the dwarf croaked, patting the Golem on the head.
Fletcher spun and scowled at the Pinkertons, his hand straying towards his khopesh.
Murphy stepped in and prodded him in the chest.
‘As for you, you can wipe that look from your face,’ Sergeant Murphy growled, lifting Fletcher’s chin with his truncheon. ‘Why are you defending a dwarf anyway? You want to be more careful who you make friends with.’
‘I think you should be more worried about trying to arrest an officer of the King’s army for carrying a weapon! Or did you expect him to fight the orcs with his bare hands?’ Fletcher said with confidence he did not feel. Turner was swinging his truncheon back and forth.
‘Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?’ Murphy, pointed his pistol at Fletcher’s face. There was nothing that Ignatius was going to be able to do against a bullet. Fletcher weighed the odds of being able to perform a shield spell on his first try, but decided against it. Better to take a beating than risk death. He cursed under his breath; this was the second time he had found himself cornered in the streets of Corcillum with a pistol in his face.
‘What did you just say? I think he just swore at you, Sergeant Murphy,’ Turner growled, raising his own pistol.
‘Nothing! I was just cursing my luck,’ Fletcher stammered. The two barrels were like a pair of snakes’ eyes, ready to strike.
‘You have no idea who you’re messing with,’ Othello growled, straightening with a wince. ‘You’d better put those pistols down and get the hell out of here.’
‘Enough, Othello!’ Fletcher hissed. The dwarf must have gone mad! It was easy for him to be cocky, he wasn’t the one staring down two gun barrels!
‘Just wait till we tell his father about you. Lord Forsyth will be very displeased to find out that some low-level Pinkertons held his son Tarquin at gunpoint,’ Othello continued, unbuttoning his jacket to show the uniform underneath. Fletcher tried not to look too surprised, but inside he was horrified at the gamble the dwarf was taking. Even so, it was too late now. Then Fletcher detected a hint of hesitation in Murphy’s face.
‘Of course, you are aware of the dwarven battalions forming on the elven front. If the Forsyths have to incorporate one of them into our forces, we will want the best dwarf officers available,’ Fletcher said in a confident voice, pushing Turner’s pistol away from his face. ‘Now I find you assaulting our newest officer in the street, for carrying a weapon that Zacharias Forsyth himself gave him? What are your names? Murphy? Turner?’
Murphy’s pistol wavered, then lowered to the ground.
‘You don’t speak like a noble,’ Murphy challenged, his eyes focussing on the ragged hem of Fletcher’s uniform trousers. ‘Nor do you dress like one.’
‘Your uniform would look like this too if you were fighting on the front lines. As for my voice, if you grew up amongst the common soldiers, your language would be as coarse as mine. We can’t all be fancy boys like you.’ Fletcher was getting in the swing of it now, but Othello prodded him in the small of his back. He reined it in, worried he had gone too far.
‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will be on my way. Ignatius, come!’ Fletcher said, scooping Ignatius into his arms and striding off down the street. He didn’t look back, but heard the click of a pistol’s flint being pulled.
‘Keep walking,’ Othello whispered from behind him. ‘They’re testing us.’
Fletcher continued onwards, every second imagining a bullet was going to come bursting through his chest. The moment they rounded the corner they ran down the street, Solomon just managing to keep up with his stubby legs.
‘You’re a genius,’ Fletcher gasped, when they were a safe distance away.
‘Don’t thank me just yet. Next time they see yo
u, they will probably beat you to a pulp. They won’t be able to tell who I am, all dwarves look the same to them. I’ve been arrested twice before by that pair and they didn’t even recognise me,’ Othello wheezed, clutching his injured side. ‘I think they might have cracked a rib though.’
‘The sadistic brutes! We need to get you to a doctor. Don’t worry about me. My hood was up, and it was dark. As long as they don’t see Ignatius and Solomon next time our paths cross, we should be OK. We’ll need to learn how to infuse our demons straight away. Shield spells too, for that matter,’ Fletcher said.
‘Too right. Come on, let’s go. The Dwarven Quarter is not far from here. My mother should be able to bind my chest.’ Solomon gave a throaty groan as they set off once again. Clearly, he was not used to this much exercise.
‘I’m going to need to get you into shape,’ Othello chided, pausing to rub the Golem’s craggy head.
They walked on, the streets getting narrower and filthier. Clearly the cleaners no longer bothered to come this way, not with the Dwarven Quarter so close. The dwarves must have been allocated the worst part of the city to live in.
‘Why were you arrested before?’ Fletcher asked, stepping over a tramp who was sleeping in the middle of the street.
‘My father refused to pay the protection money the Pinkertons asked of him. Every dwarf business gets turned over by their officers, but those two are the worst. They threw me in the cells both times, until my father paid up.’
‘That’s insane! How can they get away with that?’ Fletcher asked. Othello walked on in silence and Fletcher kicked himself. What a stupid question.
‘What does your father do? Is he a blacksmith? My father was a blacksmith,’ Fletcher said, trying to fill the awkward silence he had created.
‘My father is one of the artificers who developed the musket,’ Othello said with pride. ‘Now that we hold the secret to their creation, the Pinkertons tend to not bother the dwarven blacksmiths. I can’t say that for all dwarf businesses though. The creation of the musket was the first step in the long journey to equality. Our joining the army is the second. I will finish what my father started.’
‘You must be the first dwarf officer in Hominum, even if you are just a cadet at the moment. That is something to be proud of,’ Fletcher said.
He meant every word; the more he found out about the dwarves, the more he respected them. He endeavoured to emulate their resolve to better their situation.
Othello stopped and pointed ahead of him.
‘Welcome to the Dwarven Quarter.’
27
The tall buildings fell away to reveal row upon row of huge white tents, exquisitely embroidered with kaleidoscopic shapes of red and blue. Springy green grass replaced the cobblestones, and each pavilion was surrounded by lovingly tended gardens. The vividly coloured flowers wafted sweet scents in the air, reminding Fletcher of his youthful summers in the mountains. Unencumbered by the dingy buildings, the winter sun cast a pale but warm light across Fletcher’s face.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Fletcher said, amazed by the sudden transformation. He had expected the Dwarven Quarter to be a squalid and miserable place, given the standard of the buildings that surrounded it. Othello smiled at his words and limped on, waving at nearby dwarves as they sat talking in the gardens.
‘This is mine.’ Othello pointed to a nearby tent. ‘My whole family lives in here.’
‘How many are there of you?’ Fletcher asked, trying not to mind the stares he was receiving from the other dwarves as they passed by.
‘Oh, there are probably around thirty of us in each tent, but ours contains my father’s workshop, so there are only twenty of us in this one. He needs his space.’
Fletcher tried to wrap his head around how a pavilion tent could house twenty people and a workshop. Each one was about the size of a large barn but, unless they slept in bunk beds, there was no way that could be true.
‘Take down your hood and remove your shoes before you go in. In our culture that is polite,’ Othello said. Fletcher helped him take off his boots; the poor dwarf had begun to turn pale from the pain of his injury and bending over was difficult for him. As he kneeled and struggled with Othello’s thick-knotted bootlaces, a short figure in flowing robes ran up the path towards them, crying out in shock. Her face was obscured by a pink veil, held in place by a delicate silver chain.
‘Othello, what happened?’ the figure wailed in a high-pitched voice.
‘I’m OK, Thaissa. We just need to get me inside. It’s best not to let the others see me injured. They will think I am being mistreated at Vocans, which is not the case.’
Thaissa parted the tent flap and ushered them in. Strangely, it was not the tightly packed room that Fletcher had expected. Instead, the floors were lined with ornate floor mats and cushions. In the centre, there was a thick metal pipe that extended to the top of the tent like a chimney. Understanding dawned on Fletcher when he saw the spiral staircase that wound around the pipe, going deep into the earth. They lived underground!
Thaissa, who could only be Othello’s sister, continued to fuss around him, piling cushions on the ground for him to lean against.
‘You have a lovely home,’ Fletcher commented as another figure came up the stairs. He caught a flash of a rosy-cheeked face with bright green eyes before the female dwarf uttered a shriek and pulled a veil over her face.
‘Othello!’ she cried out. ‘How can you bring guests here without letting us know? He has seen my face!’
‘It’s OK, Mother, I don’t think a human counts. He is my friend and I ask that you treat him as such.’ Othello slumped to the ground and clutched at his side.
‘You’re hurt!’ she gasped and ran to him.
‘Please, get the bandages. Constable Turner and Sergeant Murphy attacked me again. This time I think they may have broken a rib. I will need you to bind my chest.’
He spoke in short bursts of breath, as if it hurt to breathe, as he removed his jacket and the top half of his uniform. His broad chest and shoulders were covered with a thick pelt of curly red hair, which also extended halfway down his back. The skin of his shoulders was latticed with scars; evidence of more brutality from the Pinkertons. Fletcher shuddered at the sight.
Othello’s mother ran downstairs as Thaissa dabbed at his forehead with her sleeve. She returned soon after with a roll of linen and began to wrap it tight around his chest. Othello winced with each swathe, but bore it stoically. Fletcher could already see a black bruise blossoming on the dwarf’s chest.
‘Othello, what are you doing back so early? Someone told me they had seen you in town,’ came a voice from behind them.
‘I’m just getting patched up, Atilla,’ Othello said. ‘The Pinkertons had another go at me. Lucky I had Fletcher here to help me out.’
Another dwarf stood in the doorway. He looked the spitting image of Othello, almost identical in fact. The dwarf gave Fletcher a look of pure hatred and helped Othello to his feet.
‘The humans will never accept us. We should move out of this goddamned city and create our own settlements, away from here. Look where fraternising with this human has got you,’ Atilla ranted. ‘Get out of here, human, before I do the same to you.’
As if Ignatius could understand the words, he leaped on to the floor and hissed, allowing a thin stream of smoke to waft from his nostrils.
‘Enough! I have had it with your antihuman rhetoric!’ Othello shouted. ‘I will not have you insult my friend in my own home. It is you who needs to leave!’ He coughed with pain at the outburst and leaned on Fletcher. Atilla gave Fletcher another glare and then swept out of the tent, muttering under his breath.
‘You will have to forgive my twin brother. He too passed the testing, but his hate for your people means he will never fight for Hominum, not even as a battlemage. We both desire freedom for
the dwarves, but that is where our agreement ends,’ Othello said miserably. ‘I worry about him, what he might do. I can barely remember the number of times I turned myself in when they put out a warrant for his arrest, enduring his punishments. If they tried to arrest him, he might have fought back. Then they would have killed him. What else could I do but go in his stead?’
‘It’s OK. How can I blame him for feeling that way after what I saw today? I hope that I’ll get a chance to change his mind some day. We aren’t all bad.’
‘Aye, you’re all right,’ Othello said with a grin. ‘We’ve been keeping Atilla out of trouble, working with Dad in the workshop. I might as well take you there now. My father will take a look at that sword for you. He’s the best blacksmith in all of Hominum.’
‘The inventor of muskets and pistols? I don’t doubt it,’ Fletcher said, then remembered his manners. ‘I would be honoured if you would allow me to visit your home,’ he said to the two female dwarves, inclining his head.
Othello’s mother’s veil hid her expression, but she nodded after a few moments.
‘I trust my boy’s judgement, and I am glad he has found a friend at the academy. We had feared that he would be unhappy there. My name is Briss. It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘He has many friends. I am just one of them,’ Fletcher said, patting Othello on the back. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Briss, and you too, Thaissa.’
‘We must seem very strange to you with our veils,’ Thaissa’s voice was shy and hesitant. ‘It is not often that dwarven women meet humans. Why, many still think that dwarf women grow beards and cannot be told apart from the men!’
She giggled and even Briss let out a light, tinkling laugh.
‘I must admit, I was wondering why you wear them. Would it be rude of me to ask?’ Fletcher enquired.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 14
