‘You miss the point, as I knew you would,’ Didric said with exaggerated exasperation. ‘We’re going to call in our debts, Fletcher. Seize everyone’s houses and turn this whole village into a prison. Imagine charging the same price as a luxurious inn, whilst serving gruel and bedding made of straw. Full bookings every night, all payments guaranteed from the King’s treasury. Think of the profits! Our redundant guards will become the warders, the palisades will keep people in, not out! And if a prisoner escapes, the wolves will take them, if they don’t get lost in the forest. The Pinkertons have already signed the agreement. Even if the law doesn’t go ahead, our prison will be the most remote and secure ever made, away from the good people of the city.’
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Their beautiful home, hundreds of generations old, made into a prison. Most of the townsfolk would have their properties seized, unable to pay the debts that were ten times more than they had borrowed. It was too horrific to even contemplate, yet he clung on to one hope, a glaring problem that Caspar must have overlooked.
‘It will never work, Didric. The elven front doesn’t need conscripts. They send the dregs up to wait there until retirement. And even the chaffed don’t visit Pelt, travelling through the night or making camp in the woods to save paying for an inn,’ Fletcher pointed out, pushing the tablet far enough that he could now climb through the gap. But he waited – he needed to know more. The villagers had to be warned.
‘Not so stupid after all, Fletchy. But you’re wrong. Dead wrong.’ Didric chuckled at his little joke and gave his sword a threatening swing. ‘You see, the elven front is the perfect place for a training ground. Get them prepared for war in a relatively safe place with experienced warriors to teach them, then ship them down to the south when they’re ready. No, Fletchy, this plan is going to be perfect. But there’s one thing I haven’t told you. I think you’ll like this.’ Didric paused, waiting for Fletcher to ask him what it was.
Fletcher’s heart sank. Of course, if the prisoners went directly to the orc front, it would be chaos. The King’s army couldn’t fight a war and try to contain thousands of freshly released criminals at the same time. If there was a riot, the soldiers would end up fighting on two fronts. Better to teach the new recruits discipline and indoctrinate them up here, before sending them to reinforce Hominum’s beleaguered army in the south.
‘What is it, Didric?’ Fletcher snarled. He could feel anger bubbling, caustic and hot in his chest. Didric’s family were like ticks, sucking the life from Pelt. Now they were infecting it too.
‘Just before the deal was done, I remembered you, Fletchy. You and that great oaf, Berdon. I reminded my father that the new recruits were going to need to be equipped, then suggested a rather elegant solution. So the Pinkertons made an addendum to the agreement – giving us exclusive selling rights to the new conscripts on the elven front. Only weapons and armour sold by our family can be purchased by their quartermasters. We begin shipping from Boreas within the week, and trust me when I say that, in the quantities we will be buying, our prices will be half what Berdon is charging. So, you see, as that redheaded fool mourns your death, he will become penniless. Who knows, maybe we will let him work as a stable boy. That’s all he’s good for, after all.’
Even in the darkness, Fletcher could see the satisfied grin on Didric’s face. The rage inside him burned like Berdon’s furnace, quickening his heart until he could almost hear the blood rushing in his ears. Hatred throbbed in his body with each heartbeat, pulsing at his temples. He had never wanted to kill someone before, but now he understood the compulsion. Didric needed to die.
With that thought, he felt the link between him and the imp, as if it were a house spider hanging from a thread of gossamer. His anger flowed through it with a potent ferocity, and he felt the demon’s consciousness fill with the same intent as his own. Didric was an enemy, a threat.
‘Nothing to say? That wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.’ Didric sighed to the others, lifted his sword and stepped forward. ‘Right . . . let’s kill him.’
12
Even as the words left Didric’s mouth, the imp came flying out of the shadows. It squealed as it dug its claws into his face, scrabbling and scratching. Didric gave a shriek and dropped the sword with a clatter, spinning around the room like a man possessed.
‘Get it off, get it off!’ he howled, blood streaming down his face. Jakov and Calista batted at the imp with their fists, wary of hurting Didric. With each punch, Fletcher felt a flare of dull pain on the edge of his consciousness, but the demon clung on doggedly, emitting barks of rage. Fletcher’s anger continued to radiate from him like roaring fire, filling him with righteous fury. As it reached its zenith, he felt that moment of clarity once again; Didric’s dark blood turning ruby red in his vision.