46
THERE WERE SCORES OF THEM, at least sixty by Fletcher’s estimation, marching smartly down the road despite the rain. At their head, Fletcher could see the familiar, gorilla-like shape of Jakov lumbering along, and beside him stalked Didric. To Fletcher’s surprise, the young noble still wore the half mask from the ball. Clearly he liked the way it had made him look.
Berdon ducked through the forge’s double doors and walked over to Fletcher, squinting through the downpour at the approaching men.
“What do you think they’re doing here?” he asked. “Those are Didric’s wardens, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I don’t know,” Fletcher replied. “But I know it can’t be good.”
He could see a smirk on Didric’s face, which widened as their eyes met.
“Should we tell the men to level their muskets?” Berdon asked.
“No,” Fletcher replied. “If they were here to slaughter us they’d have kept the element of surprise. And the muskets wouldn’t fire in this rain either.”
He contemplated the situation. His men had their poleaxes and muskets, but the rifles were still inside.
“Sergeants, a moment!” he shouted.
Sir Caulder and Rotherham hurried up to him.
“Sergeant Rotherham, take the rifles up to the second-floor window and load them. Be ready to shoot in case of trouble.”
“Aye, sir,” Rotherham replied.
“Sir Caulder, put the men in a crescent formation at the entrance. I want them surrounded when they walk in.”
Sir Caulder nodded and began barking orders at the soldiers.
“Genevieve, Rory, take command of your troops. Don’t let them start something we can’t finish. This is going to get ugly.”
The pair ran to do his bidding, and as if on cue, the rain eased to a thin drizzle.
“Berdon, get inside,” Fletcher said.
“Not this time, son,” Berdon said, standing firmly beside him. He tugged a forging hammer from his belt and let it dangle from his fingers.
In his mind, Fletcher called to Ignatius and Athena to return. But they were miles away, having flown northwest to the farthest reaches of Raleighshire. It would take them a half hour to get back.
Then Didric’s soldiers were there, stopping just in front of the thin line of Fletcher’s troops. Behind them, Fletcher could see his townspeople had followed, another twenty adult men and women. It put them at almost even numbers.
“So this is where you all ran off to,” Didric announced, spreading his arms wide. Behind him, window shutters shivered open as other, more timid townsfolk watched from behind their curtains.
“Why are you here, Didric?” Fletcher demanded.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Didric continued. “I reckon you were better off in the hovels back in Pelt.”
Didric’s men sniggered at his words.
“Get to the point,” Fletcher snapped. “Or you’ll find yourself on the end of one.”
He loosened his khopesh in the scabbard at his side.
“I see you’ve joined with some other undesirables,” Didric said, ignoring Fletcher’s threat and looking pointedly at the dwarven recruits, then the elves. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Dalia spat derisively at his words. As she did so, Didric noticed Rabbit, sitting close by her feet. The little fox gave him a high-pitched snarl as he looked down at it, and Didric lashed out with his boot, sending the fox scampering away with a yelp.
“Don’t you touch him,” Dalia hissed, jabbing at him with her poleaxe.
“Nasty little rat,” Didric smirked, watching as the fox disappeared into the brush with his tail between his legs.
“I won’t ask you again. What are you doing here, Didric?” Fletcher snapped, his arms crossed.
“Why, we’re here to pick up Lord Forsyth’s men for him,” Didric replied, throwing a hand out at the mountains beyond the ruin behind Fletcher. “Unfortunately, this hellhole was on the way.”
“Doing Forsyth’s dirty work for him?”
“A favor for a friend,” Didric said. “He’s rather indisposed at the moment, thanks to your little stunt.”
“You call him a friend?” Fletcher replied, pointing to the remains of his parents’ old home. “See that. That’s what the treacherous snake does to his friends.”
“You call it treachery; I call it the cost of doing business.” Didric shrugged. “You must admit, it was a bold move. Your fool father never saw it coming.”
Each word felt like a slap across the face. Fletcher felt the blood rise in his cheeks.
“Say that again,” Fletcher snarled, drawing his blade.
Didric smiled and stepped back, allowing Jakov to speak for him.
“Stand aside,” Jakov said, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. “We’ve business to attend to.”
“Not on my land, you don’t,” Fletcher replied. “You are trespassing. Turn back and wait for your men at Watford Bridge. We will send them on.”
Jakov unsheathed his sword in a scrape of metal. Behind him, Didric’s soldiers did the same.
“I said, stand aside!” Jakov bellowed, lifting the blade.
Then a shot rang out. The sword clanged in a shower of sparks, tumbling from Jakov’s hands and into the grass.
“You want to fight, leave the blades on the ground,” Rotherham’s voice sung out from the barracks. “The next man to move gets a bullet in his skull. Or maybe I’ll start with Didric; I haven’t decided yet.”
Jakov spun around, his eyes searching the windows of the houses. He crouched and reached for his sword, his eyes still fixed above. Another shot whipped by, knocking the sword out of reach.
“I can do this all day,” Rotherham called.
“All right!” Didric shouted. He looked around him, seeing his predicament. With weapons, his men would have had the advantage. But with Raleightown’s citizens joining in the fistfight … not so much.
“Please, let’s drop the weapons,” Berdon rumbled from beside Fletcher. “I’ve unfinished business with that man over there.”
He cracked his neck and raised his fists. Jakov blanched as the big man took a step forward, standing only an inch lower than he was, but with the same broad shoulders. Jakov and his guards had beaten Berdon to unconsciousness and burned down his home on the night of Fletcher’s escape. Unfinished business indeed.
“Aye, let’s have ye,” Gallo shouted from behind Fletcher. “Ye’ll see how undesirable we are when ye’ve got a dwarven boot up ye arse.”
More soldiers joined in the shouting—elves, humans and dwarves alike.
“Back,” Didric ordered, tugging at Jakov. The black-and-yellow-uniformed men retreated, their backs against one another, swords raised in a porcupine of blades.
“Phalanx formation,” Fletcher ordered. His men jumped to obey, ordering themselves into three rows that bristled with poleaxes.