He saw the fear in their eyes then, even glanced at the Cleft behind them, as if searching for an avenue of escape.
“You’ve done me proud today. We were ambushed by ten score of their riders and won, on open ground, no less. Now we’re ready for them. Let’s show them what we can really do.”
Some nodded in fierce agreement, but still, there were a few who muttered among themselves—Logan and a few of his cronies.
“I am asking you to trust me,” Fletcher said, striding in front of Logan and forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “You know who I am. I have fought the goblin hordes in the heart of orcdom itself, and lived. I have battled the shamans and their Wyverns alone in an alien abyss, yet here I stand. It can be done.”
He swept his eyes across his troops, letting them see his conviction.
“I am friend to both dwarf and elf. I am a summoner and a trained battlemage. A noble-born with the upbringing of a commoner and the record of a criminal.”
His words echoed across the pass, accompanied by the soft rustle of the grass in the wind.
“I am all these things, yet none of them compare to what we will become tonight. This is where we make our name. This is where we take the fight to the enemy.”
Fletcher paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“I want you to know that across the mountains, a battle the like of which has never been seen is raging. Thousands are dying as we speak, and the outcome is yet to be determined. But if we don’t stop the enemy right here, they will march through Raleighshire and destroy everything we hold dear. There’s nobody else but us. We will hold the line, until help arrives.”
The soldiers stared back at him now, and he saw their resolve shift, jaws setting, eyes hardening. It was enough. It had to be.
“Rotherham, take ten men and have them salvage what ammunition, swords and muskets they can from the corpses,” Fletcher ordered, motioning at the forlorn forms of the dead Forsyth soldiers. “Kobe, Gallo, cut the manchineel tree into pieces and bring it to me. Careful of the sap, and don’t touch it with your bare hands.”
“The tree, sir?” Kobe asked hesitantly.
“We have less than an hour until the enemy arrives. Just do it!” Fletcher’s voice cracked like a whip.
The men rushed to do his bidding.
“I want the riflemen up in the watchtower, ready and loaded. The rest of you, head to the jungle and cut an armful of bamboo, then meet me at the Cleft. Hurry now.”
There was no delay, and soon Fletcher was left alone with the dead bodies of his soldiers. He stared at them ashamedly, burning the image into his memory. There was no time to bury them, nor the bodies of Forsyth’s men. A poor fate for brave men and women.
Then someone cleared his throat behind him.
Mason. Fletcher had almost forgotten the young lad, for he had looked almost like a corpse himself, lying spread-eagled among the bodies. The boy was gulping down water from a borrowed flask.
“Thanks for fixin’ me wounds, milord,” Mason said, touching his forelock. “I was ’alfway dead.”
“Tell me what happened,” Fletcher asked, cutting to the chase.
“The Forsyths promoted me, after bein’ such an ’elp in the mission an’ all. Sent me ’ere, told me it would be a cushy job.”
“I’m guessing they were wrong,” Fletcher said.
“Only problem, our captain was a right pillock, if you’ll pardon my language,” Mason said, shaking his head in disgust. “Camped on the wrong side, cos ’e wanted a tan, the bleedin’ idiot. We was caught with our pants down, so to speak.”
“And the tree? Why you?”
“Well, I killed a fair few of ’em, it was revenge I reckon. They wanted me to die, slow-like. So they left me as bait for any newcomers. Although, another hour an’ I would’ve been a goner anyway.”
“I wouldn’t speak so soon,” Fletcher said, lifting a musket from the ground and placing it in Mason’s hands. “We’ll need every man we can get to hold the line. That means you too.”
“I’ll fight for ye,” Mason said, giving him a level look, “I’ll be fetchin’ me falchion then, and some bamboo, was it? What do ye need that for?”
“Never you mind,” Fletcher said mysteriously. “Now hop to it. There isn’t a moment to lose.”
CHAPTER
52
THEY CROUCHED BEHIND the low stone wall, watching the swaying trees through the Cleft. The past hour had been frantic, but they were as ready as they could be. The dead soldiers had been moved into the mountain pass, and covered with their tents out of respect.
The wall was a fragile thing, constructed from the loose boulders left over from the watchtower and a clay mortar mixture of drinking water and the powdery earth beneath their feet. It curved in a U-shape, so that the enemy would receive fire from all sides as they came into the space beyond the Cleft. Fletcher’s soldiers were spread around it in a single row, their muskets loaded and aimed at the jungles. There were thirty extra muskets gathered from the Forsyths—not all of them had carried guns—but it allowed most of the men a spare to fire before they had to reload.
Blue and his fellow gremlins stood nearby, unable to see over the top, but ready with ramrods to load the spare muskets once they had been fired. Halfear scowled, still angry that their mounts had been sent on with the refugees: They would be little use in the tight confines of the mountain pass.
“Do you see anything?” Sir Caulder asked, his knees creaking as he peered over the parapet.
“Nothing yet,” Fletcher replied.
He was wearing his scrying crystal, strapped like an eye patch across his face. Far above, Athena had found a crevice to shelter in and was watching the jungles with a keen eye. But despite the clarity of the image, the foliage obscured the contents of the forest. The army could be waiting just a few feet beyond the tree line and Fletcher wouldn’t know.
As for Ignatius, Fletcher had learned his lesson after their battle. The Drake had no armor like a Wyvern, but was still a large target that would be vulnerable to javelins and spears in prolonged combat. So Ignatius had instead been sent into the sky above, to intercept any scouting demons that might be flying ahead of the goblin army, and serve as their reinforcements should the tide of battle turn. Occasionally his shadow flitted over them, as the Drake wheeled and swooped, eager for the fight.
“How are we coming with the ammunition?” Fletcher called over his shoulder.
“We’ve a few extra hundred rounds,” came the reply from Gallo, holding up a misshapen cartridge. “They’re not pretty though.”