Solomon growled, then began to tear apart some of the barrels. The Golem’s hands were like stone mittens, but the opposable thumb gave him enough dexterity to crack the rotten timbers and throw them into the centre of the room.
‘Stop, Solomon, save your energy,’ Othello muttered. The demon paused, then gave Othello an apologetic rumble. He growled and motioned at the barrels, pointing with his stubby hands.
‘Oh, all right,’ Othello said, waving his hand in defeat. Solomon continued his work, but more methodically this time. What on earth was he doing?
‘He’s building a fire! Come on, before Sylva goes into shock,’ Fletcher said. The elf was still shuddering, hugging her knees to her chest. He couldn’t imagine the day she’d had. The escape had left the tips of her ears wind-bitten and red with cold.
Soon the wood was stacked high, but Fletcher put most of it aside for later. Solomon pummelled some planks into splinters to work as tinder, then Ignatius blew repeated bursts of flame until the fire flickered into life. Soon a warm light filled the shed, the smoke wafting up and out of the cracks in the corners of the roof. The wood was punky and slow burning, as rotten timber so often is. Though it added to the musty smell in the air, the chill slowly left their bones and their wet clothes began to dry on their bodies. Even so, it was going to be a long night.
31
Fletcher started, then looked around the room. Othello was moodily poking the flames with a stick. He was topless, his shirt and jacket left to dry out beside the fire.
‘I must have drifted off. How long was I out?’ Fletcher asked, sitting up. His clothes were still damp, but he decided to leave them on. He supposed that Sylva would not be pleased with such a lapse in decorum. Yet, to his surprise, she was sitting on the other side of the fire, ripping the bottom of her dress off in a long strip. Ignatius was curled up beside her, his back warmed by the flames.
‘Only a few minutes, Fletcher,’ she said, handing the strip to Othello. ‘Here, use it to wrap your head. It will help it heal.’
‘Thanks,’ Othello said, with a look of happy astonishment on his face. ‘I appreciate it. I’m sorry you had to ruin your dress.’
‘That’s the least of my worries. How stupid of me, to think I could walk the streets of Corcillum in the middle of a war and not suffer the consequences.’
‘Why did you?’ Fletcher asked, furrowing his brow.
‘I thought I would be safe with the Forsyths. They walked with their demons in plain sight and we were given a wide berth. In hindsight, I am not surprised.’ She wrung her hands in frustration. ‘I am sure if a man was to saunter into elven territory, he would suffer a similar fate. There are race haters on both sides of the frontier.’
‘I’m glad you feel that way. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking the worst of us and convincing your father to end all chances of an alliance between our peoples,’ Fletcher said, shuffling over to the fire and warming his numbed hands.
‘No, it has only strengthened my resolve,’ Sylva replied, gazing into the flames. Gone was the haughty girl who had looked down her nose at them. This person was someone entirely more righteous.
‘How so?’ asked Fletcher.
‘If even the false war we pretend to fight has created so much hate between our peoples, what would a real one do?’ she explained, pushing more wood into the fire.
‘What is the feeling amongst the elves?’ Othello asked, removing his boots and letting his socks dry by the crackling fire. Solomon dutifully picked them up and held them close to the flames.
‘Some understand it, saying that joining with humans to fight in the south is worth it if it keeps the orcs from our doorsteps. Others claim that the orcs would never raid so far north, even if the Hominum Empire fell,’ Sylva answered, wrinkling her nose at the cheesy smell of the dwarf’s feet. ‘But my father is an old chieftain. He remembers the stories his father told to him, of the days the orcs laid waste to our villages, slaughtering us for sport and gathering our warriors’ heads as trophies. The younger elves are barely aware that it was the orc marauders that made us make our homes in the great oaks of the north in the first place, thousands of years ago. Even when we did, that only slowed the orcs down. It was the first humans who allied with us, driving them back to their jungles and patrolling the borders. Our alliance existed since the first men crossed the Akhad Desert, yet over time and countless generations it fell into non-existence.’
‘We were allied with the elves?’ Fletcher asked, wide-eyed with incredulity.
‘I studied the history of our two peoples before coming here on my diplomatic mission. We elves can live for two hundred years, so our historians’ memories are longer than yours. King Corwin, the first King of Hominum, led a war against the orcs on our behalf. It was the elves who taught him and his ilk how to summon in exchange for his protection, creating the first noble houses of Hominum.’