‘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.’