‘It is used in the production of gunpowder. The best part is, only the Akhad Desert seems to have any significant quantities of it and we own all the land that is near enough to civilisation for mining to be viable. Every lead bullet fired and every barrel of gunpowder used is produced in a Pasha mine or factory.’
‘So why do the Forsyths care about any of this?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Don’t you know anything? Their biggest business is arms production. They are the chief supplier of swords, armour, helmets, even the uniforms. When the dwarves developed muskets . . . their business began to shrink. Dwarven weaponry is slowly becoming more popular, and when they’re fighting with muskets, soldiers don’t need to wear armour any more, as they can do battle from a distance. I don’t think the Forsyths know how to take us down just yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they are planning it.’
‘They mentioned something about an important event happening tonight, but they spoke about dealing with your father afterwards,’ Fletcher warned, trying to remember Tarquin’s exact words.
‘It’s too late to do anything about it, but my father is well protected. I wouldn’t worry too much. I was hoping Tarquin and Isadora wouldn’t know who I was, but I think I might have some idea of how they found out.’ Seraph smiled as he spoke, as if he had been waiting for an excuse to tell his secret.
‘First we lost a noble family called the Raleighs, then the Queensouths and the Forsyths united into one house. King Harold had suddenly lost two of his oldest noble families. He wanted to create new noble houses, taking the few second and third-born nobles who had also been born adepts and giving them their own titles. But the nobles hated this idea, since they usually married them to firstborns of other noble houses. So the King looked elsewhere. My father has a good relationship with the dwarves, owns plenty of land and is now almost as wealthy as a noble himself. But that is not enough. To become a noble, you must be an adept. Then one day the Inquisitors came by, to test me . . .’
‘. . . And they discovered you were an adept,’ Fletcher said, realisation dawning on him. ‘You can start a new line of nobility, since your firstborn children will be adepts too.’
‘Exactly. He will make the announcement publicly next year, but the nobles have already been told. I don’t think I am very popular with the twins right now, or even Malik for that matter.’
Fletcher sat in silence, trying to process everything he had just been told.
‘Goodnight, Fletcher,’ Seraph said, padding out of the room. ‘Remember . . . it’s our little secret.’
40
The war drums beat with a mad fervour, throbbing the night air with pulsing intensity. Row upon row of orcs clapped and stamped to the rhythm, punctuating the end of each cycle with a guttural ululation.
The Salamander curled around an orc shaman’s neck, watching the proceedings below. The raised platform they stood upon was the epicentre around which all the orcs were gathered, lit by roaring bonfires on each corner. Gremlin slaves scampered back and forth, dragging wood from the surrounding jungle to keep the fires stoked high.
Suddenly, the drumbeat stopped. The imp started at the abrupt silence and yawned noisily. The orc shaman hushed him and slipped a morsel of flesh into his mouth, stroking the Salamander’s head with affection.
A groan cut through the silence behind them. An elf was lashed to a crosspiece, his hands and feet cruelly bound to the wood. His face was swollen and covered in crusted blood, but his worst injury was a large square of raw flesh on his back, where a piece of skin had been removed. Behind him, another orc was scraping the skin with a serrated rock, removing any residual traces of fat, flesh and sinew.
The elf croaked desperately, but his throat was too parched to form words with any meaning. The orc shaman lashed out with a foot, kicking the elf in the stomach. He choked and hung against his restraints, gasping like a fish out of water.
A whispering began from the mass of orcs below. The crowds parted, revealing a procession entering the encampment. There were ten orcs; large, muscular specimens whose grey skin was painted with red and yellow ochres. Their weaponry was primitive yet fearsome; heavy war clubs that were studded with jagged rocks.
Yet they were not alone. Another orc walked behind the others, dwarfing them in size. His skin was a pale white and his eyes glowed red in the firelight. He walked with easy confidence, accepting the awed looks from the surrounding orcs as his due.
As the group approached the platform, the elf began to cry out, struggling against his bindings. This time, the orc shaman made no move to silence him. Instead, he kneeled, bowing his head deeply as the albino orc climbed the platform, leaving his bodyguard below.