Dragoons. The battlemage cavalry, dozens of blue-clad men and women riding powerful demons. Fast moving and deadly, their reputation was legendary. And a familiar, dark-haired figure was leading them, with Sacharissa padding by his side.
Arcturus was riding a Hippalectryon, and the beast was one of the most beautiful demons Fletcher had ever seen. Its front half was that of a horse, but its muzzle ended in a sharp yellow beak, and a red wattle replaced the mane along the back of its neck. Its hind legs were clawed like a rooster’s, with razor-sharp spurs that flexed with every pace. A flare of brightly colored tail feathers extended in a vibrant mix of reds and greens that matched the fur and plumage along the demon’s body. It had the sleek lines of a horse combined with the harsh beauty of a bird of prey—both graceful and deadly in equal measures.
“What happened to Bucephalus?” Cress wondered aloud.
“He’s Captain Lovett’s demon now,” Sylva said, a hint of guilt in her voice. “After she lost Lysander, he gave Buck to her so she could fly in the Celestial Corps again, and he could join the Dragoons. She told me when I offered to return Lysander to her, back when we were at Vocans.”
“She didn’t take you up on that?” Othello asked, surprised. “Lovett adored that Griffin.”
“I know. I am indebted to her,” Sylva said, the guilt in her voice deepening.
The parade of Dragoons neared, and Fletcher began to see the other demons that the battlemages rode. It became obvious that Hippalectryons were the most popular demons among the elite troops.
He could see Slepinirs, muscle-bound horses with six powerful legs that made them one of the fastest land demons in existence. Musimon, like enormous, bearded billy goats with two pairs of horns, the lower curled and thick, the other long and sharp like a bull’s.
There was even a rare Kirin, horselike in appearance but with a reptilian snout, a single antler on its forehead, shimmering green scales armoring its body and plumes of red hair that erupted from its mane, tail and legs.
It was clear to Fletcher that all of the demons were designed for speed and sudden violence, ideal for the crack troops of the empire.
Each battlemage wore an armored breastplate, a plumed helmet and was armed with a cavalry saber: a long, curved blade that could chop down with brutal efficiency. Accompanying the deadly weapons were shortened carbines, pairs holstered on either side of their hips. Fletcher watched them enviously: The guns were longer and more accurate than pistols but shorter and lighter than muskets. They were awesome weapons, but an impractical middle ground for a foot soldier like Fletcher.
“How could we lose with them on our side?” Fletcher said, watching as the fearsome cavalcade passed below them.
“Will the dwarves come through this way?” Sylva asked.
“No, they’ll march through the northern end of Corcillum, down toward Corwin Plaza,” Othello replied, the excitement of the passing Dragoons instantly wiped from his face at the reminder. “That’s where the parade ends. There will be some ceremony there, an oath of fealty to the king from all the new recruits, dwarves included.”
“Will they do it?” Fletcher asked.
Othello chewed his lip.
“They have to” was his only response.
“Can’t your father talk to them, tell them what might happen if they don’t?” Fletcher asked.
“If my father and the elders had that control over our men, then Alfric’s speech wouldn’t matter either,” Othello said, shaking his head dejectedly. “He’s gone out there and spoken with them, but they’re keeping tight-lipped about the whole thing. You don’t know what it’s like, Fletcher. Hundreds of years of subjugation. Pinkertons killing us with impunity; our lives ruled by the laws of our oppressors.”
“I’m sorry,” Fletcher murmured. “I didn’t think…”
“These young dwarven men put all of that aside for a chance to become free and equal citizens,” Othello explained. “They endured the misery of the elven front, endless drills, marching and barked orders from your officers. And now, when it’s finally at an end, to be told it was all for nothing? That the old laws are back in place? Then ordered to stand aside and watch our homes invaded by the Pinkertons.”
There was a knock on the door behind them, and Briss emerged onto the balcony.
“Athol just sent word. The dwarves have arrived,” she said. “They’re a mile out.”
Cress sighed and got to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “We should go to the square before it fills up.”
So they went, hurrying out of the tavern and pushing through the crowded streets. They kept their heads down and wore hoods despite the warm day, to prevent themselves from being recognized.
As they fought their way through the crowded streets, Fletcher was amazed at the number of vendors hawking their wares to the crowds. Men and women walked around with platters of food: The intermingled smells of their pickled whelks, jellied eels, meat pies and fried fish permeated the air. Others sold ginger ale and honeyed beer in paper cups, the remains of which already littered the streets, crumpled balls of white that were trampled underfoot.
Fortunately for Fletcher and the others, the crowds were gathered along the parade through the main roads, allowing them to cut through the side streets unmolested. Fletcher was amazed by how easily Othello navigated the warren of alleys, cutting left and right to avoid the thoroughfares, even scampering along the low roof of an abandoned building to get them to the square.
“Almost there,” Othello panted as they squeezed through a particularly narrow street, the space between the buildings so tight that Fletcher could stretch out his arms and put his hands through the windows on either side. Already they could hear the roar of the masses just beyond, singing the national anthem of Hominum in raucous unison.
They reached what appeared to be a bricked-up dead end, but Othello grinned at his friends’ confused faces and shifted aside a wooden slat leaning against the wall. Behind, a hole just large enough to squeeze through had been knocked into the brickwork.
“Get chased by enough Pinkertons, you’ll end up knowing all the shortcuts.” Othello winked. “Come on, before someone notices.”
And with that, they emerged into Corwin Plaza.
CHAPTER
31
THE NOISE HIT FLETCHER like a solid wall. The plaza was enormous, and thousands of people had gathered, surrounding a red-roped cordon where the soldiers were gathering in neat ranks. When he craned his neck, Fletcher could see three of the roads into the square were filled with crowds, leaving a single way in, through which battalions of soldiers continued to march.
“Come on, let’s find a good spot,” Sylva yelled, her voice barely audible over the singing of the assembled masses.