She grasped Fletcher’s hand and dragged him through a gap in the crowds. He had just enough time to snatch Cress’s sleeve before they were pushing their way to the front. Soon Fletcher’s world was full of elbows, squashed toes and angry cursing as they fought through the heaving bodies.
Then somehow they were through, their stomachs pressed against the rope as the spectators surged back and forth. Now that their view was clear, Fletcher saw that a platform covered with an ornate canvas roof had been raised within the center of the plaza, with a thin line of royal guards surrounding the base. Upon it were two familiar figures, seated on extravagant thrones.
Alfric stared icily at the uniform rows beneath him, while on the larger throne beside him was King Harold, a benevolent smile on his face. He looked far too calm for Fletcher’s liking. Had he forgotten what a dwarven rebellion could mean for Hominum? Was he not thinking of the thousands of lives lost on both sides, or the vulnerability of the empire while the army was divided, fighting a war on two fronts?
“He’s a good actor, isn’t he?” Sylva half yelled into Fletcher’s ear, as if she could read his mind.
Fletcher hoped that was the case. He had met the king on no more than three brief occasions, and now the future of the dwarves’ race seemed to rest in this man’s ability to manage his despot father. Fletcher only hoped that his trust was not unfounded. Who knew what game Harold might be playing?
Only some of the troops before them were the fresh-faced boys they had seen from the balcony earlier. The others’ appearance was more slovenly, most with untucked shirts and scraggly beards. While the boys stood to attention, these men slumped and spat on the ground, some even swigging from hip flasks.
Fletcher thought they might be veterans from the front lines, but their uniforms were brand new. He suspected these were the conscripted convicts from Didric’s prisons—muggers, burglars, con men and all the rest of the undesirables who had been offered freedom in exchange for their enlistment.
A fresh cheer drew his attention back to the entrance, and for a moment he felt a flash of hope that it was the dwarves. But no, it was the Dragoons, riding straight backed into the plaza, their right hands touching their foreheads in a salute to their king. Once they reached their places, even the demons themselves knelt, one foreleg bent, the other extended in a gesture of subservience. The effect of their disciplined lines was only slightly marred by the lesser demons that accompanied their masters at random alongside their neat rows; mostly a smattering of Canids, Felids and Vulpids. Sacharissa was among them, her great pink tongue lolling out as she panted beneath the warmth of the bright, cloudless sky above. There was space in the plaza for only one more regiment.
Then, as if they had received some signal, the crowd fell into silence. Because beyond the Dragoons, shimmering in the heat haze, the dwarves were marching.
Even in the distance, Fletcher could see their uniforms and weaponry were different. The glint of metal shone from rounded helms and the heads of back-slung battle-axes. They carried muskets too, though theirs were somewhat shorter to match their height and lacked the fixed bayonets of the human soldiers. Strangest of all was their hodgepodge of clothing—only the red jackets they wore over their shirts were the same; the rest was traditional dwarves’ garb of heavy leathers and canvas cloth.
The silence drew on as the marching dwarves neared. The spectators on either side did nothing but watch, occasionally leaning in to whisper in one another’s ears. Now Fletcher could see the sweat on the dwarven brows, the exhaustion on their faces. These men had marched from one end of Hominum to the other, for king and country. Would they kneel, after all that had happened? They had joined before the Anvil attacks had happened, before the hatred had become commonplace. It was a neat trick of Alfric’s to force them to kneel.
Fletcher looked at the faces around him. Many were expressionless; others, solemn. A man squinted. Was that anger in his eyes … or just the sun?
Still they came. Now he could hear the tramp of their feet, the jingle of metal. Othello’s breath came thick and fast beside him. The quiet was deafening. Was the crowd’s apathy enough for Alfric to make his speech?
Fletcher looked up—the old king had the staff in his hand, the black carapace of the Mite stark on the tip. It was uncovered, facing the approaching dwarves. The whole of Hominum would be watching through its eyes.
The dwarves reached the square. Still, no reaction from the watching crowds, except for the gentle susurration of whispers that Fletcher could not make out. Then they were there, standing in place before the platform, eyes staring straight ahead. Harold stood.
“People of Corcillum,” he began. His voice was loud, unnaturally so. The amplify spell was being used. “We are gathered here to pay our respects to the men and women who protect our empire from the savage hordes gathering just beyond the horizon.”
His words echoed around the square, the noise broken only by the flutter of tarpaulin above him and the gentle soughing of the breeze.
“In honor of their sacrifice, we will sing the national anthem. Bandsmen, if you please!”
At his command, the drummer boys began a slow, deliberate beat that signaled the beginnings of the age-old song. Sergeants brandished their bugles, usually used to signal orders to their men in the heat of battle. In unison, they added their brassy fanfare to the melody.
It was a tune as old as Hominum itself, sung by Hominum’s first ruler, King Corwin and his men as they marched into battle and drove the orcs back into the jungles. It was more of a short chant than anything else, but every girl and boy in Hominum knew it by heart.
A chill ran through Fletcher as he looked at the stage. Alfric was grinning, glee plastered across his face. It was a song full of history, tainted with the reminder of when the dwarves lost their homeland to the human invaders.
Alfric didn’t think the dwarves would sing. Didn’t think they would even know the words. This was all part of his plan, and Harold had been forced to go along with it.
But Alfric was wrong.
Hear us all ye foes, o’er land or sea,
Our lads’ll march to hell an’ back,
To take the fight to thee.
The dwarves sang in a deep baritone, their bass voices raised above the scattered recitation of the crowd.
Ye’ll ne’er see us falter, nor spurn duty’s call,
Not one of ye can break our lines,
Nor watch our banners fall.
Even the sound of thousands of people chanting was lost in the depth of the dwarven choir, so much so that many of their voices were beginning to fade, put to shame by their lack of fervor.
Bring all yer soldiers, o’er sea or land,
Our folk’ll fight till our last breath,
Under our king’s command.
The dwarves powered into their final stanza, heads thrown back, voices soaring with the rising tide of trumpets and drums. Not even the gruff soldiers could match the rich timbre of their song.