“There’s nothing to apologize for. They were betrayed, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.”
At the mention of his father, Fletcher tried to picture the dark-haired man he had seen so briefly in that dream. Then he realized he didn’t have to remember. There was a painting, still hanging above an ancient fireplace on the left side of the room.
He hurried over to it, amazed at its condition. There was his father, Edmund, stubble-chinned and tousle-haired, his swarthy arms wrapped around Alice. She was smiling with joy, clutching a newborn baby in her arms. Himself.
“My god. How is this still here?” Sir Caulder breathed. “They commissioned it on the day of your birth.”
Fletcher reached out to touch the baby’s forehead. The faintest hint of a slippery barrier met his finger before it met the canvas. Then he noticed. Corundum crystals, embedded around the edge of the painting. All these years, they had powered a weak barrier spell that had kept it safe from the ravages of time, the wind, heat and rain. The expense would have been immense. This must have been his parents’ most prized possession.
It hit him then. The loss of it all. To have grown up without the love of his parents. Without the knowledge of this beautiful, wild land. What would life have been like if Lord Forsyth had not betrayed them? His thoughts turned to his mother, an empty shell of the woman she once was. She looked so happy in the painting.
He felt his eyes water and fought the tears.
“It looks just like you,” came a voice from behind them. Berdon.
He stared at the painting, his face filled with sadness.
“Exactly like you. I remember when I held you for the first time … how happy I was,” he said. “To think … that you had just lost your family. I’m so sorry, son.”
“I lost a family,” Fletcher said, smiling through his tears and hugging the bluff blacksmith close. “But I gained a new one, thanks to you. You have nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.”
For a moment they held each other, and Sir Caulder wandered off, wiping at his eyes when he thought they weren’t looking.
Finally, Berdon released him.
“The soldiers are back,” he said gruffly. “We’ve found somewhere to camp.”
*
It was a church. The stained-glass windows were gone, but the ceiling and roofs were made from arched stone, standing the test of time to leave a stable covering over their heads. The benches had remained dry and out from the brunt of the wind, so they remained serviceable. Other than some wayward weeds and the detritus of dead leaves that had blown in through the windows, it was as good a shelter as any for the colonists to make camp in.
Sir Caulder had shown them an old well as they walked back, which would be usable once it was cleared of the animal remains and rotting vegetation that had made their way in over the years.
Their main concern was food—what had seemed like plenty to Fletcher was barely enough to last them a few more meals at most, for 135 people easily consumed the two barrels of salt pork and venison that the dwarves had brought with them.
For now, though, Fletcher’s main priority was setting up the shelter and solving more pressing concerns. He ordered spare sheets of canvas to be placed over the window holes. The dust was removed with old brooms found in nearby houses, and pillows and bedding were laid out for the sleepy colonists.
The boars and goats were tied up in the stables, for the surrounding countryside would be too full of predators to allow them to roam free range—hyenas, jackals and big cats had been spotted nearby on their way in. Villagers were sent to cut fodder from the long grasses around the camp, while nuts and roots were gathered and tugged from the ground for the hungry boars. The chickens were left in their cages and fed with the sparse handfuls of seeds that could be gathered from local wheatgrass.
A meal had to be cooked, with three cauldrons boiling a simple broth of salt meat and chopped tubers to stave the hunger away. Sentries were organized to watch for predators, and poleaxes were cleaned and oiled after the night’s work. Sleeping spaces were divided, introductions hastily made and forgotten just as quickly.
Endless questions were asked, nearly all of which Fletcher had no answer for. Only the stern support of Sir Caulder and Berdon’s calming presence kept him from losing his patience.
It was late afternoon by the time the wagons had been emptied and organized, and all the crucial tasks were completed. As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the colonists finally slept.
CHAPTER
40
THE MAIN PROBLEM WAS WOOD. Weeds could be pulled, vegetation cut, debris cleared away. But many roofs were gone or rotten to the brink of collapse, and the wooden floors between the stories were worse.
Then there was food. Many houses had the remains of vegetable gardens, now overgrown and interspersed with brambles and vines. They salvaged what they could to supplement their supplies, but the meat was half-gone after breakfast. Unless they wanted to subsist on handfuls of roots, vegetables, fruit and berries, they would need to hunt, and soon.
There were three carpenters from Pelt, a husband, wife and their son who had made furniture and boarding from the local pinewood in the mountains. Four dwarves, two male and two female, also had some woodworking skills, though theirs was limited to carving gun stocks and bows. Still, it was more than enough to begin restoring the houses nearby, and teach unskilled colonists the rudiments. They just needed the raw materials.
When midday approached, Fletcher finally finished dividing the tasks, having separated the colonists into groups that would focus on minding the animals, sanitizing the well, replanting the gardens and the hard work of removing the weeds and debris from the town. Berdon and Millo were sent to salvage what tools they could from the carpenters and blacksmiths, scrubbing the tools free of rust with the help of juice from wild limes and steel wool from their supplies.
Fletcher gathered his army the next day, now well fed and rested, and led them into the green-yellow savannah of tall grasses, shrubs and tree copses. This far south the weather was warm, even in early spring, so the sun was high and hot as they waded through the grasses and onto the Raleighshire plains. They walked fully armed, with bandoliers of musket cartridges strung across their chests and their muskets and poleaxes slung crosswise on their backs.
“I want your muskets at the ready,” Fletcher ordered. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything for our cooking pot tonight.”
Sir Caulder sidled up to him.
“Their muskets aren’t loaded yet,” he whispered. “They don’t know how.”
“So teach them,” Fletcher said.
“I’m an old warrior,” Sir Caulder replied, looking over his shoulder at the waiting soldiers. “The guns came after my time.”
“Kobe,” Fletcher called. The boy jogged over, wiping his brow.