The dwarf looked very much like Athol had, with a dark red beard and a powerful, stocky body. He glared at them from beneath his bushy eyebrows and then took a tray from a nervous servant’s hands. He sat away from the group on another table, turning his back on them. Though Fletcher was sure that the dwarf was the source of everyone else’s fascination, he was more interested in the demon that had trailed in behind him.
At three feet high, the creature was shaped much like a young child, were it not for its squat profile and hefty arms and legs. Yet what was most fascinating was its colouring. The creature looked as if it was made from misshapen rock, the effect made more striking by a dusting of moss and lichen that grew on its surface. Its hands were like mittens, with a thick opposable thumb that could be used for grasping. With every movement it made, Fletcher could hear the dull rasp of stone against stone.
As the commoners gawked at it, the demon turned around and looked back through a pair of small black eyes that were set deep in its head.
‘A Golem! Those are difficult to capture. The servants said they grow over time, so you have to catch them young,’ Seraph whispered. ‘I hope I get gifted one of them.’
‘Not likely,’ Atlas said. ‘They must have given it to him as a favour to the Dwarven Council, a show of good faith as dwarves are incorporated into the army. I didn’t realise they had been accepted into all branches of the military. God knows what they would ride if any join the cavalry; their little legs would barely be able to grip a horse’s sides!’
Atlas laughed at the thought. Fletcher ignored him, looking at the dwarf sitting hunched and alone. He stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Rory hissed, snatching at Fletcher’s sleeve.
‘I’m going to introduce myself,’ Fletcher said.
‘Did you see the look he gave us? I think he wants to be left alone,’ Genevieve stammered.
Fletcher pulled out of Rory’s grasp, ignoring them. He had recognised the look of resentment on the dwarf’s face when he walked in. He himself had worn it many times before, back when he had been ostracised by the other village children in Pelt.
As he approached the bench the Golem rumbled threateningly, its craggy face opening to reveal a toothless mouth. The dwarf turned at the noise, a look of apprehension on his face.
‘I’m Fletcher.’ He held out his hand for the dwarf to shake.
‘Othello. What do you want?’ the dwarf replied, ignoring it.
‘Nice to meet you. Why don’t you sit with us? There’s plenty of room,’ Fletcher asked. The dwarf looked at the others, who were staring at them from the other table, their faces full of apprehension.
‘I’m fine here. Thank you for making the effort, but I know I’m not welcome,’ the sullen dwarf muttered, turning back to his meal. Fletcher decided to make one last attempt.
‘Of course you are! You’re going to be fighting the orcs just like the rest of us.’
‘You don’t understand. I’m nothing more than a symbolic gesture. Hominum’s generals don’t mean to let us join the military for real. They sent most of our recruits to the elven front to rot with the chaffed. The King meant well by forcing them to let us join, but the generals are still the ones who decide what to do with us. How can we change their minds when they won’t let us fight?’ Othello murmured, so only Fletcher could hear.
‘Vocans has girls, commoners too. In fact, everyone you see here is a commoner. The nobles are arriving tomorrow,’ Fletcher replied, his heart going out to the unhappy dwarf. He paused for a moment, then leaned closer to the dwarf and whispered.
‘They need adepts, no matter where they come from. There’s even an elf! I don’t think the battlemage division is very picky, as long as you can fight.’
The dwarf smiled at him sadly, then took Fletcher’s hand and shook it.
‘I know about the elf. We had an . . . interesting conversation when we were waiting to be gifted our demons. Anyway, I hope you’re right. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier; I must sound very jaded,’ Othello said, picking up his tray.
‘Not to worry. I met another dwarf yesterday and he felt much the same as you did. He gave me something,’ Fletcher said, pulling the card he had been given from his pocket.
‘Put that away!’ Othello hissed under his breath as soon as he saw it. Fletcher stuffed it back in his trousers. What was the big deal?
They sat down at the table with the others, their conversation suddenly muffled by the dwarf’s presence. Fletcher introduced them all.
‘Good morning,’ Othello said awkwardly, nodding to everyone. They all nodded back in silence. After a few beats Rory piped up. It seemed to Fletcher that he hated awkward silences.
‘I’ll tell you what, I wish I could grow a moustache like that. Did you always have one?’ Rory said, stroking his own bare face.
‘If you’re asking if I was born with it, no,’ Othello said, cracking a wry smile. ‘It’s our belief that cutting our hair is a sin to the Creator. We are made just as he wished us to be. If he gave us hair, then we must keep it.’
‘Why don’t you let your nails grow too then? Sounds like madness to me,’ Atlas said bluntly, pointing at Othello’s stubby but neatly trimmed fingers.