Although he and the colonists were contented, there were divisions within Fletcher’s army. This was nowhere more apparent than at dinner. The dwarves preferred to sit at their own tables, led by a dour-faced dwarf named Gallo, whose beard was so long that he had to tuck it into his belt. Fletcher knew from Thaissa that he and the other dwarven recruits spoke dwarfish between themselves even when the humans were present, earning the ire of many of their fellow soldiers.
Kobe and his ex-slaves had bonded with the convicts, who were loud and brash but good-natured enough. Unfortunately, the most popular among them was the pockmarked boy who went by the name of Logan, a born troublemaker. He and his allies could often be seen sniggering away, usually at a joke made at dwarven or elven expense.
Then there were the standoffish elves, with Dalia as their ringleader. She had warmed to Fletcher in the past months, and her manner was civil, if a little terse. However, Fletcher could not be sure if he had truly earned her respect or whether it was the arrival of an unlikely mascot for his army that had prompted her improved mood: a fennec fox, as small as a puppy, with gold-white fur and the overly large, bat-like ears that were synonymous with their species.
It had taken to following them on their forays into the savannah; begging for scraps of meat and reveling in the belly rubs that the soldiers would give him. Dalia had immediately adopted the little creature, and the fox had become her constant companion, trotting at her heels during the day and sleeping beside her at night. Though the fox was ostensibly hers, the entire company of soldiers considered the fox a good omen, and had named him Rabbit on account of his ears. He was spoiled rotten by each and every one of them, and did a good job of bringing the occasional smile to Dalia’s usually stern face.
They were two months into their training when the trouble began, on an evening much like any other. Almost all of the colonists had left for bed already, as training had run late and most had already eaten by the time the soldiers arrived in the church. Hunting had been sparse that day—their meal consisted of a stew made from the leftovers of the day before, and the mood was more somber because of it.
Fletcher was sitting at the head table with Rory, Genevieve, Sir Caulder and Rotherham when he noticed it. Logan had taken a half loaf of bread and held it up to his chin as if it were a beard, waggling his tongue at the dwarves. Perhaps it had been meant as a joke, but the dwarves were not smiling; much the opposite in fact, and the way they glowered at Logan made Fletcher think it was not the first time that he had teased them in that way.
“If I got to my knees, ye couldn’t tell the difference,” Logan announced, earning himself an appreciative chuckle from the boys sitting around him. “Then again, the dwarves have been doin’ a lot of kneelin’ lately too, ain’t that right, boys?”
The jibe prompted one dwarf to get to his feet, but he was pulled down by Gallo, who whispered furtively in his ear.
Disappointed by the lack of reaction, Logan turned his attention to the elves. He tore the bread in two and held a piece to each side of his face, imitating their ears.
“What do you reckon, ladies?” he called to the female elves. “Close enough for ye? It’ll all look the same in the dark anyway, eh, lads?”
Dalia closed the distance between them in one agile leap and gripped Logan on the scruff of his neck. A stiletto blade flashed up as if from nowhere, and she hissed.
“You want to look like an elf? Let me sharpen your ears for you.”
Suddenly knives that had been used for eating were grasped and stowed under tables. Convicts jumped to their feet, and Logan bellowed in a combination of fear and outrage.
“Stop, right now!” Fletcher yelled. His heart hammered in his chest, shocked at the speed at which his soldiers had gone from companions to enemies. But before he could say another word, the stiletto disappeared, and Dalia was backing away with a predatory smile.
“What’s the problem, Logan?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “Can’t take a joke?”
He spluttered in response. The room held its breath—then Logan overturned his bowl with a snarl and stalked off, ducking through the door to disappear into the night air. The tension eased by a few notches. Knives were replaced on tables, and a low buzz of conversation returned to the room.
Fletcher sunk into his seat, breathing out in a slow sigh. It was over for now, but even as the first hint of relief slowed his heart, his mind turned to the rest of the night.
“I want all four of you sleeping in the barracks tonight,” Fletcher said to Rory, Genevieve, Sir Caulder and Rotherham, thinking of the confined space that the soldiers were lodged in. “Make sure this doesn’t turn into something ugly.”
“You’ve got a point, lad,” Sir Caulder said with a sigh, “but this won’t go away overnight. It’s been brewing for some time now.”
“I know,” Fletcher said, watching as the dwarves exited the room, their eyes fixed on the convicts with open aggression. Gallo turned and drew a finger across his neck, the meaning as subtle as a brick through a window.
Fletcher hissed a tight breath through his teeth, frustration seething inside him. He had allowed it to grow and fester, choosing to turn a blind eye with every day that the divide deepened. Now the damage had been done.
And it was up to him to fix it.
CHAPTER
45
THE DRUMMING OF FALLING raindrops accompanied the tramp of soldiers’ feet as they lined up in Raleightown Square. It was warm rain, fat and heavy, that drenched Fletcher’s hair and ran into his eyes as he surveyed the army before him. The morning training had been canceled, and now they would face the music.
Somewhere in the distance, the soft rumble of thunder echoed through the loud patter of the droplets. In his mind, Fletcher sensed Ignatius and Athena were above the storm, enjoying the rushing winds that allowed them to glide high without a single flap of their wings. Fletcher had sent them to fly out without him, not wishing to punish them for his own failure.
The soldiers stood there, sullen and brooding. Not one of them would meet his gaze as he waited, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He watched them, waiting for the green of their uniforms to darken in the wet, and their hair to plaster against their heads. The message was clear. This was punishment.
“I am ashamed,” he shouted, tempering the frustration in his voice, turning it into controlled fury. “You were supposed to be the best, an army to be proud of. Now look at you. Squabbling like spoiled children.”
He stopped, examining their faces. Was that shame there? Or just the frustration at being kept out in the rain?
“I blame myself,” Fletcher snarled. “I let it go on for far too long. So I’m going to let you have your chance. Get it all over and done with.”
Now they looked at him.
“Logan, Dalia, Gallo, get up here,” he ordered.