Athena’s wing was still on the mend, though well on its way to being usable again, so she perched on Ignatius’s rump and peered out over the landscapes. To the east, Fletcher could see the distant shape of Vocans, half-obscured by a haze of morning mist. For a moment he was tempted to fly by it, perhaps even catch a glimpse of students through the domed skylight on its roof. Only the safety of the convoy held him back.
At first Fletcher had wished for Pria’s heat vision, but he needn’t have worried—Athena’s sharp eyes missed nothing. So the rest of the day was spent gliding on the breeze, searching the plains surrounding the convoy for suspicious movements. But if there were any bandits, they did not show themselves. Only the occasional goatherd and his flock broke the stillness of the plains, that and the thin streams of chimney smoke from the rare sleepy hamlet that dotted the landscape.
As they journeyed on, the land became less and less populated. Fields of crops became rocky hills, and the remains of scattered homesteads long abandoned appeared as overgrown mounds of rubble and tile. Fletcher knew that the front lines lay just beyond the horizon, and the ground below them had been ravaged by endless conflict between orc and man: from the orc raids in the centuries before the war began to the bloody battles since. The entire area was devoid of human life, a buffer between civilization and savagery.
The road beneath branched, one path heading toward the southern front, the other curving west toward the Vesanian Sea. The convoy took the west road, and now the going became slower. Fletcher swooped for a closer look and saw that the route was poorly cared for. Weeds and wayward roots had invaded the dirt road, requiring Sir Caulder to occasionally call a halt and order the recruits to hack apart the debris. At other times muddy puddles blocked the way, and the passengers were forced to get off and walk around so that the heavy wagons weren’t bogged down as the wheels churned through the mires.
And so it went on. Afternoon turned to dusk, until the setting sun hung fat and yellow on the skyline. Still the road stretched into the horizon, and Fletcher was forced to send wyrdlights down to illuminate their way, great balls of raw mana that ate at his reserves but hung above the convoy like miniature blue moons.
It was around midnight when they reached the river. In the dark of night the water looked black, rushing silent beneath a wide stone bridge that looked as if it had stood there since the beginning of time. It was the marker for where Raleighshire began, the land behind them owned by the king, the land beyond … his.
As the convoy crossed over, he listened to the fearful snorts of the boars, skittish at the sound of the roiling water beneath them. His mind wandered to the history of this place. A great battle had been fought here once, named after the bridge itself—Watford Bridge.
They were in savannah country now—what had once been a sea of undulating green took on a yellow tinge, flat and interspersed with copses of trees and shrubs. The road was barely existent, overgrown with tall grasses and strewn with stray rocks and nascent plants. Faced with the wild growth of almost two decades, Fletcher’s recruits were forced to use their poleaxes to hack a path, working from the early morning hours to the first hint of dawn. Even the dwarves and villagers lent a hand, carrying the detritus aside as the soldiers cut them away.
And then, as the first rays of the morning sun spread across the sky, he saw it. Raleightown.
CHAPTER
38
IT WAS EARLY DAWN when the convoy arrived. The wyrdlights were snuffed out, having shrunk into nothingness overnight as their mana depleted. So, the town was cast with a dim glow of orange as the wagons rolled to a halt, and when Ignatius landed with a bone-juddering thud beside the lead wagon.
Nothing stirred. They had made it to the center of the ruined town, the wheels rattling on the still-cobbled streets, overgrown with the grasses that squeezed through the cracks in between. They were in a small square, a simple space that could just fit the wagons in if they crowded together.
The remains of decaying buildings shadowed them on all sides, their stone walls still standing after almost two decades of abandonment. The roofs had long fallen in with neglect, and the window spaces were nothing more than empty hollows. Everything was covered in a layer of green, from a coat of furry moss on the dew-damp stones to tangled vines that flowed down the dwellings and along the streets like an iridescent waterfall. All was cast in the golden blush of sunrise, warming the night-cold air.
Fletcher dismounted, taking in the sounds of his new home. There was a constant chirr of insects, broken by the warbles and trills of birdsong, welcoming in the morning. These were the noises of the wild lands that they had come to conquer. The music of his homeland.
Sir Caulder stomped down the sides of the wagons, cajoling the exhausted soldiers out of them and into ranks. Fletcher pitied the poor recruits, many of them swaying on their feet, their heads nodding as the warmth of the morning took hold. The passengers emerged behind them, yawning and stretching in the dawn light.
“Listen up for Lord Raleigh’s orders now,” Sir Caulder barked.
The old knight raised his eyebrows at Fletcher and signaled with his eyes. It was time for Fletcher to take control. Only—he hadn’t planned on giving any orders.
“I know it’s been a long night,” Fletcher began, cursing the quaver in his voice as he began to speak. “You’ve done me proud, getting our people here. Now we’ve one last task before we can rest and settle in to our new home.”
The recruits stood silently, sullen-faced. Only the elven woman, the one who had glowered at Fletcher so vehemently, showed any sign of vigor. She managed a surly kick at a pebble, but said nothing.
Her face was angular and fierce, with light brown hair braided tightly on the sides, and a thick plume arching up along the center and down her back. Most striking of all were her eyes, a deep amber that reminded Fletcher of a wildcat’s.
A polite cough from Sir Caulder brought Fletcher back to the task at hand: his first order. There were a thousand things to do. But if he knew anything about survival in the wilderness, it was that shelter was their first priority. At least, as long as the water barrels in the wagons lasted.
“These homes have been abandoned for nearly two decades. The wooden floors will be rotten, if there are any at all. All manner of animals could have made their homes in the buildings—snakes, hyenas, warthogs. I need two groups to scout and clear each building and find a suitable place that’s safe for us to camp in.”
He paused, contemplating who to choose. It would help if he knew more than one name.
“Kobe, take fifteen recruits with you and search the east side of the village,” Fletcher ordered, dividing the group into two with a motion of his arm. “If you find a likely spot, leave your men there to clear it out and return to make your report.”
Kobe grinned, clearly taking the responsibility as a compliment.
“As for the rest of you—what’s your name?” he asked, pointing at the surly elf.