She took a breath.
“I saw chests full of soaps and medicines, inks and papers, linens and bloody pillows, hell, they’ve got half a dozen goats at the back somewhere. You’re saying we can just have it? No debt, no nothing?”
“It’s for all of us,” Fletcher said, motioning to the entire room. “Dwarf, man, whoever. We are in this together now.”
Janet broke into a smile.
“Well, I think that’s bloody marvelous!”
Already some of the villagers were grinning, some even raising their glasses to the dwarves from across the room. But Fletcher could see not all of the villagers were happy with the situation—a few were glowering into their mugs, some even muttering under their breaths. He held up a hand for their attention.
“We will be leaving soon, so I want you all to gather your belongings and join the dwarves on the wagons immediately. But first, I want to make something clear. If any of you are unhappy with the living arrangements, you can leave right now. There are a thousand opportunities in this city, especially for skilled workers such as yourselves. So if you don’t think you can stomach living with dwarves, there’s the door.”
Fletcher allowed his eyes to linger on each of the most unhappy-looking villagers. He knew them all by name, knew their personalities. Pelt was a small village.
“I’m out,” someone announced, standing up and heading for the door. He was a big bruiser of a man, formerly of the town guard. His name was Clint, and he had been a rival of Didric’s long ago. Fletcher suspected that was why he had not been offered a position in Pelt’s new prison guard.
“I’ll take my chances with my fellow man,” he continued, ignoring the dark glances from his fellow villagers. “I hear the Pinkertons are hiring.”
More villagers followed him, some shamefaced, others standing proudly and slapping Clint on the back.
“Tell Sergeants Murphy and Turner I said hello,” Fletcher called after Clint as he and the others strolled out.
The door slammed shut behind them, but with their departure a weight seemed to lift from the room. All in all, a dozen men and women had departed, leaving roughly a hundred dwarves and humans in the tavern.
“Right,” Fletcher said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get moving.”
CHAPTER
37
THE GOOD-BYES WERE ALL too swift. Othello, Cress and Atilla had received their marching orders from the king that very morning, commissioning all three as officers in the dwarven battalion. Cress had sniffled as she bade Fletcher farewell, and both Fletcher and Othello had to surreptitiously wipe at their eyes after a gruff hug. The three dwarves departed before the convoy had even left, eager to take command of their men. He had not envied them—while he only had to manage thirty-two soldiers, theirs would number in the hundreds.
Sylva flew to meet the elven army on their way down from the north, and her soft parting kiss on Fletcher’s cheek lingered long after she and Lysander disappeared into the sky. Fletcher caught her backward glance as she took off. It was a bittersweet reminder of what he knew could never be.
In the rush to prepare for the expedition, he had almost forgotten that he would be parting ways with his dearest friends, and he felt their loss even before they were out of sight. Worst of all would be his mother, who he had not had time to visit. It was only thanks to the knowledge that he could fly back on Ignatius and visit her that he could bring himself to leave at all. Until then, Harold had promised she would receive the best care that the doctors of Corcillum could provide.
One happy surprise came with the discovery that Thaissa would be joining the colonists. She shyly introduced her husband before embarking on their wagon, a young dwarven blacksmith named Millo who had apprenticed beneath Uhtred before opening his own workshop.
There was a brief scramble as Uhtred held up the morning traffic of carriages so their convoy could leave, and then they were off in a rumble of wheels and clopping trotters on the cobbled streets. Dwarves waved handkerchiefs as they went by, others running up and handing them last-minute gifts of food as the wagons rolled past. Within the hour they were outside of the city and trundling along the dusty road south, surrounded by the rolling hills of crops and minor hamlets.
At first, Fletcher rode at the front with Sir Caulder and Berdon, but soon the pair’s eyes grew heavy, for the two were exhausted from their long journey down south. So as they slept, he climbed out onto the roof plate, sitting beside the dwarven wagon master and discussing the route ahead. But the old dwarf seemed fearful, constantly looking over his shoulder. Fletcher asked what he was afraid of.
“Bandits,” the wagon master replied curtly, staring out across the empty landscape.
It was only then that Fletcher realized how valuable their convoy actually was. Leaving aside his share of the prize money stashed in his satchel, the contents of the wagons could be sold for a great deal on the black market. They were a prime target for any one of the roving bands of highwaymen that ranged across Hominum, and his little band of soldiers were far from prepared to defend it.
Someone needed to scout the surrounding area. So, he jumped from the wagon and walked into a nearby cornfield. He watched as the convoy rolled past and was pleased to see that Sir Caulder had placed his soldiers on three wagons in the front, middle and back, preparing the convoy for attack from any direction. There were twenty vehicles in all, and each was hitched to a pair of boars, enormous animals as large as donkeys and twice as wide. He watched the strange beasts as he waited for them to pass by, fascinated by the marmalade coloring of their bristly fur and the short tusks that curved from their lower jaws.
Then, when the wagons were out of sight, he summoned Ignatius and Athena, and took off. It was as exhilarating as it had been the first time, to shoot into the sky and watch the road turn into a thin brown line along the patchwork yellow-green quilt of the surrounding fields. But this time it was better—there were no demons to fear, no orcs to escape. The sky was all but empty, filled only with wisps of cloud and far in the distance, a skein of geese flying in formation.