“Now for your close combat problem,” Athol said, replacing the musket and browsing through the weapons. “If you need to block a cavalry charge, or a cassowary charge as the case may be, you’ll need a pole-arm, wouldn’t you say, Sir Caulder?”
“That’s right,” Sir Caulder said. “Something you can brace against the ground and let them run into. Plus, the extra length will help with orcs; they’ve twice the reach a man has.”
They followed Athol to where a mix of spears, pole-arms and other staff weapons were stacked vertically on a long wooden rack, from tallest to shortest.
“You’ll be wanting a spear tip for stabbing and slicing,” Athol said, “and an axe head for chopping when they get in too close and you shift your hands up the staff. So I reckon the best weapon for you is a poleaxe.”
Athol took a new pole-arm from the rack and held it up to the dim light of the oil lamp. It was a fearsome weapon, and Fletcher could hardly believe a combination of so many implements could exist. A sharp spear point extended from the tip, and beneath it a broad, curved axe blade. On the other side of the axe, he saw the square cube of a hammer, with a strange hooked spike emerging from its center.
Fletcher recognized the spike as a blade known as a crow’s beak, designed for both piercing as well as hooking riders from their mounts or fighters from their feet. The hammer acted as added weight to give the axe momentum in its swing and allowed the crow’s beak enough force to penetrate armor, or a thick orc skull.
Athol pointed to a metal bracing along the top third of the pole, covering the wood in a shaft of metal.
“You’ll not find a more versatile weapon,” he said. “See here, we’ve put a steel lancet along the haft, so that you can block with the handle without shattering the wood.”
Fletcher smiled and ran his fingers along the axe blade, then winced as he felt its razor sharpness.
“There’s even a spike on the other end to help ground the poleaxe in the soil, or backstab as the case may be,” Athol said, pointing to a short metal spike at the butt of the handle. “And there’s a rondel guard to stop a blade sliding down and taking off your fingers.”
He tapped a small disk of metal near the top of the pole, just beneath the lancet, which looked similar to a hilt.
“All right, don’t overegg the pudding,” Sir Caulder said, clapping Athol on the back. “Fletcher, I think it’s a fine weapon. If you want ’em, I’ll train the lads up to use ’em properly. I’m as good with the quarterstaff as I am with a sword.”
“We’ll take those too,” Fletcher said, amazed that they had found such an ideal weapon so quickly.
“Great!” Athol said, with a hint of relief in his voice. “I thought we’d be here all day otherwise. Now, for the big reveal. It’s a shame Briss couldn’t be here to show you it, but she’s too busy looking after all your guests.”
He began walking deeper into the room.
Fletcher could hardly resist jogging ahead of Athol, but he didn’t have to wait long; Athol stopped only a dozen paces away. He held the oil lamp up to reveal a mannequin, positioned as if it were standing to attention. It was clad with a brand-new uniform.
“It’s beautiful,” Fletcher breathed.
The uniform was made from dark-green cloth, with black buttons and calf-length boots of dark leather. The jacket was double-breasted and extended down to just above the knees, beneath which straight trousers were tucked into laced boot tops.
Athol’s handiwork had provided the most beautiful parts to the ensemble. The mannequin wore two armored bracers along the outer forearms, to deflect blows that would otherwise shatter or dismember, while around the neck there was a steel gorget, which protected the shoulders, upper chest and throat without constricting movement.
“We didn’t want to weigh them down with too much armor,” Athol said, shuffling his feet self-consciously. “So we had to compromise. It’s made of the same oil-rubbed wool that Briss used for your uniform in the mission, so it’s warm, but breathable and waterproof.”
“Bloody hell,” Sir Caulder said, stroking the fabric. “You’ve struck gold here, lad.”
“Yes.” Fletcher grinned. “That I have.”
CHAPTER
36
FROM THE HEIGHT OF THE SUN, it was already late in the morning when Fletcher woke. It was time to face the music.
Fletcher put on his new uniform—for he had little else in the way of clothing—then strapped on his pistols, sword, bow and quiver. His satchel from the mission went on his back, and then Fletcher realized that was it. All his worldly possessions were with him now.
For a moment he had the mad desire to avoid the responsibilities of nobility. To sneak out of the window, catch a boat to Swazulu and never come back. He shook the temptation from his thoughts with a rueful grin and headed for the door.
Downstairs, the bar area was packed to the rafters, with scores of men and women sitting on the right side, dwarves on the left. The room, once abuzz with conversation, fell silent as their faces turned toward him. Berdon was the only human seated among the dwarves, and he gave Fletcher an encouraging nod.
Fletcher cleared his throat.
“It is good to see you all,” he said. “To see so many familiar faces.”
Silence.
“Our new friends, the dwarves,” he said, motioning to his left, “have kindly organized our accommodation for the night, as well as transport to our destination. They have also provided tools, food, clothing, and building materials. Everything we need to begin our new lives. I am sure I am not alone in saying that we are grateful for everything they have done for us.”
His words elicited a smattering of applause from the right side of the room, and a twinge of relief ran through him. But only for a moment.
“And I am sure I’m not alone in asking, at what cost?” demanded a voice.
The speaker stood, and Fletcher recognized Janet, the leatherworker who had been the spokesperson for Pelt, back when they had been evicted by Didric’s men.
“What’s the catch?” she asked. “And why are they all gathered here? There’s something you’re not telling us, and I think I know what it is.”
“I am about to tell you,” Fletcher said, lacing his voice with what he hoped was authority. “If you’d be so kind as to sit down and listen.”
Janet sat down, but her crossed arms and glare told him he had done little to mollify her.
“In exchange for their help, I have agreed that fifty dwarves can join our colony. These are the people you see sitting here with you.” He waved to the dwarves, who looked nervously for a reaction from the humans.
Janet’s brow furrowed.
“So … we don’t owe them anything?” she asked. “They’re not here to collect payment?”
“No. Of course not,” Fletcher said, confused. “Is that what you thought?”
“Have you seen what’s out there?” Janet said, pointing at the tavern entrance. “There’s a score of wagons full of bales of cloth and canvas, fishing gear, axes, picks and spades, wax candles, cooking utensils, hunting muskets, goddamn seeds of every crop under the sun.”