Even as he spoke, Fletcher felt his stomach twist with hunger. He would send Ignatius out to hunt—at least until they found a more sustainable way of finding food. But it worried him how little they had been able to forage so far. Then again, there had been no hunting parties sent out, so their success was yet to be seen.
“Well, I might have just the thing for you. Something new we’ve been working on. Have a look at these.”
He motioned Fletcher over to a nearby wagon. Within, nine guns lay on a cloth blanket.
“We call them rifles, thanks to the rifling inside the barrel. Remember your pistol, Blaze, how it has those grooves to make the bullets spin? Well, these are just like it.”
Fletcher picked one up. It was longer and heavier than the other muskets and even had a carved cheek rest on the stock of the gun for easier aiming.
“These prototypes have twice the range and accuracy of a musket,” Athol explained. “The bullets come prewrapped inside the cartridge with a scrap of leather to grip the rifling as the shot spins out of the chamber. Trouble is, those grooves make it hard to ram down the shot and powder with your ramrod, so it takes twice as long to reload as a smoothbore musket. Not much good for massed volleys, but I’m sure they’ll come in handy when hunting for game. Just be sure to use the ammunition sparingly; there’re only a hundred rounds or so.”
“We’ll be sure to make use of them,” Fletcher said, laying down the weapon. “It sure is nice to see you. Did you want a tour of the place before you head on back?”
“Not exactly,” Athol said hesitantly. He paused, embarrassed.
“We’ve heard about your ebony.”
“Yes, it’s been a blessing,” Fletcher said. “We’d never be able to rebuild without it.”
He pointed at one of the nearby houses, where the wooden structure of the roof was already visible above the stone shell.
“Well, we were hoping we could take some back with us,” Athol said. “The wood is resistant to mold and termites and is beautifully black and dense. It would be perfect for making gunstocks, hilts and hafts, especially for rich officers and nobles.”
So that was it.
“How much would you need?” Fletcher asked.
“One log would be enough to begin with. We’d give you a fair share of the profits from each sale, as agreed.”
Fletcher did not have to consider it for long. It was the first trade in what he hoped would be a long and fruitful relationship.
“Head over to the carpenters down the road and pick up one from there,” Fletcher said, shaking Athol’s hand. “Take some of the branches too.”
“Aye, that I will,” Athol said, smiling with relief. “Thank you, Fletcher. I’ll be seeing you soon. We’ll let you know how it goes.”
Fletcher couldn’t help but feel elated as he watched the dwarf nod respectfully to Berdon and stomp off down the road. Every village needed to produce something. Pelt had been known for its furs and leather working. Perhaps Raleighshire would be known for its ebony. Although, he had plans for the sheep that had arrived, waiting in the stables nearby.
“You know, you didn’t need to be so mysterious,” Fletcher said, turning to Berdon. “I saw Athol only a few days ago.”
“Actually, I wasn’t talking about him,” Berdon said, clapping a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and propelling him toward the southern exit of the square. “They must be with the soldiers.”
“Just tell me who it is,” Fletcher groaned, tired of the mystery. Then he saw them, standing where the town ended and the savannah began. They were looking out over the plains, where the soldiers could be seen exercising—so he couldn’t see their faces. But he would recognize that shock of blond hair and the red curls beside them anywhere. Rory and Genevieve had come to Raleighshire.
He broke into a run, amazed at the sight of them. Sir Caulder was standing between the pair, surveying the soldiers exercising in front of him.
“Hey!” Fletcher shouted.
They turned at the sound of his voice. It was then that Fletcher realized that it wasn’t Sir Caulder. It was a face he hadn’t seen in over two years. A man who had come and gone like a strong wind, and turned his life upside down in the process.
Rotherham.
CHAPTER
42
FLETCHER STOPPED DEAD in his tracks and stared at the old warrior.
“Well, well,” Rotherham said, hands on his hips. “Would you look who it is.”
“Hello, Fletcher,” Rory said, running a nervous hand through his hair.
“What are you guys doing here?” Fletcher asked incredulously.
“Well, a little bird told me you were hiring men,” Rotherham said, the hint of a smile playing across his grizzled face. “That little bird being our king, of course.”
“The king?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh, yeah, we’re thick as thieves, us two,” Rotherham said, scratching at his salt-and-pepper stubble. “Why do you reckon I wasn’t there during your murder trial? That king of ours is a sneaky bugger; as soon as the Triumvirate’s men started looking for me, he had me disappear, quiet-like. Knew I wouldn’t help your chances if I took the stand, me being such a colorful sort and a so-called deserter to boot. I’ve been bleedin’ coolin’ my heels on a farmstead ever since.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Fletcher said, smiling at the hoary old veteran. “We could use your experience, that’s for sure.”
“Aye, sir. Or lord. Bleeding heck, how things change, eh? Best and worse decision I ever made, giving you that book. From what I saw in those scrying crystals, we’d be up to our eyeballs in goblin dung by now if it weren’t for you and your little demon.”
“Well, he’s not so little anymore,” Fletcher said, clapping Rotherham on the back. “You’ll see.”
He turned to Rory and Genevieve, who had been standing silently in awkward embarrassment.
“And you two?”
“Well … we’d heard you needed soldiers, same as Rotter here,” Genevieve said. “And so … the army … well.”
“What Genevieve is trying to say is we didn’t like the army,” Rory said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They didn’t want us for our leadership, didn’t even want us to fight.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher asked. “We need every battlemage we can get on the front lines.”
“They wanted us for their charging stones,” Genevieve explained.
Understanding dawned on Fletcher, and his mind flashed back to his lessons with Rook in their first year. They were a grouping of smaller corundum crystals of the same color and were used to store mana for later use. He had only seen them used as an aid for novice summoners when first trying to open portals into the ether. But he knew they were essential on the front lines, the excess mana used to keep battlemages’ shields up over the trenches when orc shamans rained fireballs down upon them at night.
“Mites have low mana, but they recover it quicker than most demons. So every day we were ordered to drain our mana into them, then dismissed. We weren’t seen as important, because our summoning levels are so low,” Rory said, scuffing the ground with his boot.