‘You may go now, Fletcher. You’ve done well today,’ Berdon called. ‘I’ll put away the stall myself.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Fletcher, eager to be away from the horses and hear the soldier’s war stories in the warm tavern.
‘Be off with you before I change my mind,’ Berdon said over the hiss of burning hoof.
The leather stall was not too far away, yet Fletcher’s heart fell as he noticed the jacket he wanted was no longer hanging there. He ran ahead of Rotherham down the street, hoping that it had been put away by accident. Janet looked up at him as she counted out the takings for the day; a hefty pile of silver shillings and gold sovereigns that she covered with her arms.
‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Fletcher, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I sold it about an hour ago. Don’t you worry, though. I know I’m guaranteed a sale so I’ll start working on another right away. It will be ready in a few weeks.’
Fletcher balled his fists in frustration but nodded in acceptance. He would have to be patient.
‘Come on, boy. I’ll buy you a drink. Tomorrow is another day.’ Rotherham patted him on the shoulder. Fletcher pushed away his disappointment and forced a smile.
‘Hunting season is almost over,’ he said, arguing away his dismay. ‘Wouldn’t get much use out of it this winter anyway, I’ll be in the hot forge prepping for my next trip to the elven front. They’re in dire need of weapons to fill their quotas.’
‘Not that we’ll ever use them,’ Rotherham laughed.
The tavern was loud and crowded as the locals and traders celebrated the close of business. Despite this, Fletcher and Rotherham jostled their way to the corner with a large flagon each, managing to somehow keep most of the ale inside and off the wooden floors, already sticky with spilled booze. They settled into an alcove with two stools and a rickety table, where it was quieter and they would be able to hear each other speak.
‘Do you mind me inquiring about the war, or is it a topic you would rather avoid?’ Fletcher asked, remembering the emotion the man had shown when he recounted the night he lost his comrades in the wood.
‘Not at all, Fletcher. It’s all I’ve known for the past few decades, I’ve probably little else to talk about,’ Rotherham said, fortifying himself with a deep gulp. The beer ran down his grizzled chin, and he smacked his lips and sighed.
‘We hear rumours that the war is not going well for us. That the orcs are growing bolder, more organised. Why is that?’ Fletcher kept his voice low. It was seen as unpatriotic to speak pessimistically of the war, perhaps even treasonous. This was one of the many reasons why news from the orcish front travelled so slowly to Pelt.
‘I can only answer with more rumour, but likely from better sources than yours.’ He leaned in close enough that Fletcher could smell the beer on his breath.
‘There is an orc that is uniting the tribes under one banner, leading them as their chieftain. We don’t know much about him, other than he was born an albino and is the largest orc ever known. The tribes believe he is some kind of messiah, sent to save them from us, so they follow him without question. There has only been one other like him that we know of, back in the First Orc War two thousand years ago. It is because of this albino that the orc shamans share their knowledge and power so that they can send wave after wave of demons at us, and hurl fireballs into the sky to bombard us in the night.’
Fletcher’s eyes widened as Rotherham spoke, his beer already forgotten. Things were even worse than he had thought. No wonder pardons were being exchanged for criminals’ enlistment.
‘Sometimes they break through the lines and send a raiding party deep into Hominum. Our patrols will get them eventually, but never fast enough. I’ve seen too many villages burned to the ground, nothing left but charred bone and ash.’ Rotherham was in full swing now, spitting as he slurped his beer.
‘I’m glad I live so far up north,’ Fletcher murmured, trying to shake the images from his mind.
‘They get rid of the old veterans like me, put a musket in the hands of a boy, and tell him he’s a soldier. You should see what happens when the orcs charge in all their glory. If they’re lucky, they fire one volley and then turn and run. It’s a goddamned disgrace!’ he shouted, slamming his flagon on the table. ‘Too many of our boys are dying, and it’s all the King’s fault. It was Hominum who turned the occasional raid into a full-fledged war. When King Harold was given the throne by his father, he started pushing into the jungles, sending his men to cut down the trees and mine the land.’