Hominum, Hominum, Hom-in-uuuum.
Silence. It hung heavy in the air. The dwarves were grim-faced, their eyes almost defiant as they stared out into the surrounding crowds. It was a gesture that told the people of Corcillum that nobody could question their patriotism.
Then there was a single cheer. A young boy, sitting on his father’s shoulders a few feet from Fletcher, clapping and laughing at the performance. Then another, and another.
“Bravo,” shouted a woman in the crowd. The smattering of applause turned into a tumult, accompanied by whoops and yells from the spectators. Soon the entire square was cheering, no longer afraid of being the first to react.
Then the dwarves did something Fletcher never thought they would do. One after the other, they knelt facing the crowd. On bended knee, they placed their fists against their hearts and lowered their heads to the surrounding masses. It was an oath of loyalty … to them. The people.
Fletcher knew what to do then. He fell to his knees, dragging Othello and Sylva down with him.
“What are you doing?” Cress hissed, crouching beside them.
“Just trust me,” Fletcher said, praying he was right.
It was an old lady who joined them first. She smiled apologetically as she leaned on Fletcher’s shoulder to get herself down, kneeling beside him on dusty cobbles. A ruddy-faced man followed next, perhaps wishing more to be off his feet than to show respect to the dwarves. But more followed, most sitting, but many kneeling as the dwarves did. It was like a wave, as row after row of people settled on the ground.
It took all of thirty seconds—not one person beyond the cordon remained standing. The soldiers within stood with nervous expressions, unsure of whether they ought to follow suit.
Harold’s voice echoed through the square.
“Kneel,” he barked.
The men responded with alacrity, metal clanging as their weapons hit the ground. Harold took a deep breath.
“Do you swear to fight for king and country. Say aye.”
“Aye!” every man, woman and child in the square yelled out in unison, caught up in the patriotic fervor, but none so loudly as the dwarves.
“Do you swear to defend these lands with every fiber of your being and kill any that threaten its safety?”
“Aye!”
Harold’s smile beamed out across the crowd, but it was nothing compared to the glowering look of black hatred coming from old King Alfric.
King Harold spread his arms wide.
“Rise, soldiers of Hominum!”
CHAPTER
32
THERE WERE CELEBRATIONS THAT NIGHT. The Anvil Tavern had opened once again, the boards on the windows piled up and burned in the fireplace, and rickety tables brought from the basement and covered with food and beer.
Most of the guests were the dwarven recruits, having sneaked away from their camp outside of Corcillum. It was hard to tell how many had crammed themselves into the building, and Fletcher found himself huddled beside a low table of swarthy dwarven men, resisting the temptation to sample the jugs of beer they generously offered him every few minutes.
They all knew who he was, knew what he and his friends had done for the dwarves. He had more tankards of beer in front of him than he knew what to do with. Uhtred had spent most of the past few days in deep conversation with the recruits. It was he who was responsible for their performance that day—though it had been touch and go for a while.
Dwarven songs were being sung simultaneously on different sides of the room, with each group trying to drown out the others in a cacophony of deep voices. Sylva and Cress had been adopted by an opposite table, and their sweet voices trilled above it all, much to the encouragement of the men around them. A strange instrument that looked like a mix of a bagpipe and a trumpet was playing a tune that somehow managed to be the only one that nobody was singing to.
The entire Thorsager family was busy behind the bar, the happy reunion between Othello and the male members of his family swiftly superseded by the need to cater for their scores of hungry guests. Traditional dwarven food was being rushed out of the small kitchenette in the back at an impressive rate and disappearing down throats just as quickly.
Fletcher gave the hungry soldiers a run for their money though, reveling in the variety of the food and mouthwatering flavors. Soft, honeyed bread studded with nuts and fruit was hand-torn away in hunks, an appetizer to the piles of steaming dumplings stuffed with garlic and pork. Baskets of crispy root vegetables seemed the most popular—parsnips, yams and cassava that had been thin sliced and seasoned with rock salt, all of it still sizzling and golden fried.
It was only just beginning to dawn on Fletcher that his immediate troubles were over, and for the first time in a long while he found his mind wandering to Pelt, his old home. But Pelt was gone. Berdon—that was what home meant to him.
Worse of all, he had no way of knowing where his surrogate father and fellow villagers were. The journey from Pelt down to Raleighshire was a dangerous one, patrolled by brigands and con men.
He was already planning to fly out in the morning, scan the main roads for their passage. His own route had been in the back of a sheep cart, which as far as he knew could have taken many detours along its way down. That journey had taken two weeks, but theirs … well, they could arrive any time between that very minute and another month.
It was these thoughts that were swimming in his mind when the Anvil doors slammed open and the armored men marched in, their pikes crossed in a solid wall of wood and steel. Fletcher’s heart leaped, but he soon relaxed when he saw Harold following behind them, his hands held up and an apologetic smile on his face.
The mood dropped faster than a cannonball at his appearance, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly at the myriad of bearded faces that looked his way. The low buzz of murmuring began.
“Lads, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Harold said, his face becoming grim now that he had their attention. “But I must ask you to leave at once.”
The murmuring turned to silence. Then:
“Ah, come off it,” one of the more inebriated dwarves groaned. “Come join us for a wee drinkie.”
Harold gave the dwarf a forced smile, but very few of the other dwarves chuckled. Dwarves knew Harold was a friend to their people, but his intrusion on their night was unwelcome. Fletcher could tell he had misjudged the situation. In the back of his mind, he wondered if they would obey at all if he ordered them. Had they meant that oath they had sworn but a few hours ago?
“Uhtred,” Harold called, “Fletcher, Othello. Might I have a word? Carry on for now, lads.”
The three of them shouldered their way through the dwarves and ducked beneath the pikes. The spell was already broken—the music had stopped, and disgruntled muttering had begun to pervade the room.