He cackled as if he had just scored a victory over Fletcher, but soon stopped when he saw Fletcher’s expression of fascination. The wood elves were experienced trackers by trade and would make a fine addition to his little band of soldiers.
His only qualm was the attitude of the waiting elves, their faces scowling, arms crossed at the sight of him. One she-elf in particular seemed downright hostile, glaring at Fletcher beneath furrowed brows.
“We’ll have to take them,” Sir Caulder said, less excited than Fletcher was about the prospect of training a group of elves.
“Aye, that you will,” Murray said, irritated by Fletcher’s lack of disappointment. “Now, be on your way; they’re your responsibility now.”
Fletcher hesitated, looking at the thirty-odd faces that stared back expectantly at him. Sir Caulder caught Fletcher’s expression and stepped forward with a bemused shrug.
“All right, you layabouts, step lively, you’re in the army now! Form up, form up! Three files, sharpish now.”
His voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard, forcing the recruits to hurry into a makeshift parade line.
“Come on, we haven’t got all day. You there, straighten up, you’re a soldier, not an elbow.” Fletcher couldn’t help but smile as the old veteran hounded them into what might pass for a parade line.
“Now, left foot first, eyes front. Quick march!”
Their column was a shambles, out of step and too close together, but it got the recruits out into the street in short order. But before they could begin the task of turning the men in the direction of the tavern, Athol appeared jogging toward them, his face puffy and red.
For a moment Fletcher’s heart skipped a beat at the sign of the flustered dwarf, his mind flashing to some terrible emergency, but Athol smiled apologetically as he bent over and caught his breath.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he panted, pointing farther down the street. “Don’t go to the tavern. We’ve got to get your men set up.”
He caught sight of the elves.
“Er, and ladies.”
“Hold it,” Sir Caulder barked, bringing the recruits to a standstill. Athol took a few more breaths, then straightened and pointed at a shop front farther down the street. Fletcher could see the sword and shield banner hanging above it, and the glint of weapons in the window. A weapons shop of some kind.
“Follow me,” Athol said, leading the way.
“Left turn … march!” Sir Caulder barked, kicking one of the men into position when he turned the other way.
Outside the shop, the recruits were ordered to stand to attention, and Sir Caulder instructed Kobe and the other escaped slaves to keep an eye on the convicts, in case of desertion while they went inside.
“We’ll have no trouble when we’re in Raleighshire, miles from the nearest town, but we’d best be careful of ’em for now,” Sir Caulder muttered as they followed Athol into the shop.
The blacksmith in Fletcher was amazed at the array of weapons arranged on the shelves. Each of them was displayed in a velvet case, with the light from high windows at the front of the shop artfully arranged to fall upon the glittering metal.
Above and on the left, there was every type of sword imaginable, from wide-bladed falchions to dual-wielded claymores that were as long as a man was tall. Beneath were the axes, kept lower down for dwarven patrons, whose preference for the weapons was well known.
On the right side, firearms were kept in glass cabinets, for their value was many times that of a bladed weapon. Engraved pistols with inlaid gold and silver were the most popular, designed for wealthy officers who were allowed to carry sidearms.
“You won’t be wanting any of these,” Athol said, catching Fletcher’s expression. “Far too pretty for your lot; they’d probably sell one of these at the first opportunity from the looks of them. Come on, follow me down to surplus.”
Athol led them through a door behind the counter at the end of the shop and into another room. This one was far less glamorous, but the number of weapons was astounding—hundreds of blades, guns and armors stacked like kindling on shelves and in racks along the walls. Strangely, there were bales of cloth alongside them, and mannequins interspersed among the weaponry. Athol lit an oil lamp and lifted it high, casting flickering shadows about the room.
“We share our storage with a tailor,” Athol explained as Fletcher examined one of the wooden models. “Speaking of which, Briss has already sorted out your uniforms; poor dear spent half the night getting your prototype ready. But for now, let’s get started on arming your men first, eh.”
“I can choose anything?” Fletcher asked, resisting the urge to ask more about Briss’s surprise.
“Aye,” Athol grinned. “We’ll be wanting to keep the new colony protected—it’s in our interest.”
Fletcher resisted the temptation to hug the swarthy dwarf and instead turned to Sir Caulder.
“What do you think?” Fletcher asked.
Sir Caulder paused and considered the question.
“The common soldier is supplied with a standard musket and bayonet to stick on the end of it,” he mused, picking up a sword and hefting it for balance. “Personally, I always hated bayonets. It’s just a stabbing blade: no versatility, no finesse. Cheap and easy enough to sharpen, that’s why they’re used.”
“He’s got a point there,” Athol agreed, pointing to a barrel full of the simple weapons. “If you’ll pardon the pun. They’re a last resort, and the musket gets damaged half the time, especially when you’re using them to parry a war club.”
He paused, scanning the multitude of blades.
“I guess the question is, what kind of fighters do you want your company of soldiers to be?” he asked.
“More than just people who can load a gun and pull a trigger,” Fletcher said. “I want soldiers who can counter cassowary riders and cut a charging orc’s knees from under him. Soldiers who can hold their own in close combat, be it against macana, spear or club, wielded by orc or goblin.”
Athol took a deep breath and grinned.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“We’ll want muskets too,” Fletcher said. “Nothing fancy, just solid, reliable weapons that won’t rust at the first drop of rain.”
“Well, that’s more like it,” Athol said, walking a few steps to a gun rack and lifting one of the guns from its slot. It looked much like any other musket in Fletcher’s eyes, with a long, single barrel, a carved wooden stock, a trigger and a flintlock.
“These are lighter than your average musket, just as sturdy but more weatherproof and less dense. Both the steel and the wood itself have been treated with linseed oil to keep it from rust and rot.”
“We’ll take them.” Fletcher grinned, wresting the gun from Athol’s hands and feeling the weight of it. It was barely heavier than his own sword.