‘What happens then? The news of our assault will reach the generals in the north in a matter of days, carried by flying demons. The northern generals will slaughter our young warriors without hesitation. Even if we planned it with them, what then? Will a thousand untrained dwarves try and take over the entire northern front? Even without muskets, the battlemages would tear our warriors apart in minutes. The King himself is one of the most powerful summoners to have ever walked the earth, yet you presume to take him hostage! We wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘So what? I’d rather die fighting against them than alongside them. I bet they think you’re a joke, wandering around with that little demon of yours,’ Atilla said.
‘That is what I thought too, when I first arrived at Vocans. But I was wrong. There are good people there. Hell, the first day I arrived one of them showed me an Anvil card,’ Othello replied.
‘The Anvils? They are just humans who pity us, nothing more. It is but a hobby to them. The elders didn’t trust them enough to even bring them to this meeting,’ Atilla retorted.
‘Neither would I, not if we are going to discuss open war against their people. We are slowly gaining allies; first the Pashas and now the Anvils are starting a movement in our support. Even the King has said he is willing to revisit the laws and rein in the Pinkertons, once we prove that we can be trusted. But what do we do? We do the very thing that would prevent him from ever supporting us – discuss rebellion.’ Othello spat on Atilla’s boots in fury.
‘You are no true dwarf! You don’t deserve the dwarven sigil that is stamped upon your back. I am ashamed to call you brother!’ Atilla shouted.
He tore Othello’s shirt away, to reveal the tattoo on his back. With a roar, Othello grabbed Atilla by the throat and they spun around the stage, throttling one another. Solomon moved to help, but then stopped, as if Othello had commanded him to freeze.
Uhtred burst on to the platform, ripping the brawling twins apart. Behind him, a procession of white-haired dwarves mounted the stage. They were old and venerable, with long, chalky beards that were tucked into their belts.
‘They must be the Dwarven Council,’ Sylva breathed in Fletcher’s ear. Fletcher nodded and urged Ignatius to listen closely, for these dwarves did not seem like the type to shout and scream.
The room was in a deep, respectful silence. Even Atilla had calmed himself, bowing his head in reverence. The oldest of the elders stepped forward and opened his arms wide.
‘Do we not all want freedom for our children? If we cannot stand united in the face of adversity, then we have already lost.’
The dwarves began to seat themselves, many looking at their feet in shame.
‘We have heard all we need to hear. There are many hot heads here tonight, but the decision we are about to make will not be taken lightly. I ask you this . . . what good will it do, to die bravely in pursuit of freedom? Fourteen times the dwarves have rebelled, and fourteen times we have been brought to the brink of extinction. You young dwarves do not remember the slaughter we faced in the last uprising. Every time we lose, more freedoms are taken from us, more dwarven blood is shed.’
There were nods of agreement from the crowd.
‘I see two paths before us. One is well trodden, yet every time we have taken it, we end up back where we started: defeated and bloodied. But there is a second path. I do not know where it leads, or what dangers there are along the way, but I know in my heart that it is better to take the path of uncertain fate, than the one of glorious, yet certain defeat. There will be no war, my friends. We will honour our agreement with the King.’
Fletcher was flooded with relief. Othello had snuck out to argue against rebellion, not support it. Not only that, but he had managed to win over the elders. He did not want to think what Othello would have done if the decision had gone the other way, but it was not worth thinking about. Everything was going to be OK.
‘Fletcher, what was that?’ Sylva gasped, jerking Fletcher’s arm.
There were torches ahead of them, moving through the trees at speed. They ducked behind the cliff and watched, their hearts in their mouths.
There were ten men, each one armed with a musket and a sword. Their leader was wheezing with effort; even in the darkness, Fletcher could tell that he was an abnormally fat man.
‘Are you certain this is the right cave?’ one of the men asked, holding his torch high to illuminate the area. Fletcher was hit by a wash of cold as the light revealed their faces.
‘I’m dead certain,’ Grindle said.
43
‘Those are the men that kidnapped me,’ Sylva hissed, pointing at the armoured soldiers below.
‘I know. I would recognise the fat bald one anywhere,’ Fletcher replied, gripping the hilt of his khopesh. ‘His name is Grindle – he’s the one who was going to perform the execution. I thought you killed him. Guess he must have a thick skull.’
‘There’re too many of them,’ Sylva muttered, but Fletcher could see her tensing, as if she were preparing to jump into the fray. Behind them, Fletcher could hear a low growl as Sariel sensed the elf’s agitation.
‘Try to stay calm. We need to find out why they’re here,’ Fletcher forced his own anger away and leaned over the shadowed parapet to listen.