“Rifles, cover him,” Rotherham shouted.
And then Fletcher was running, a twist of flame flaring on the end of his finger. Still the goblins came, a dozen of them breaching the gap in a mad dash toward him. He could smell the unwashed stench of their bodies as he sprinted forward, his blood pounding in his ears, feet drumming on the ground. Rifle shots snatched the closest goblins away, and a javelin fluttered past, splintering on the wall behind him.
A hundred of the enemy were through the Cleft now, slowing as they saw the lone man running toward them, but pushed inexorably on by the momentum of the screaming masses behind.
Fletcher skidded in a slide-tackle along the ground, a stone’s throw away from them. The fire spun from his finger in a strand of orange, heading for Fletcher’s target. Their surprise.
It was a row of a hundred, half-buried bamboo segments, each with a rudimentary fuse of gunpowder-coated cordage shoved in its back end. And in the center of them all sat the squat, rust-covered hulk of the Thorsager cannon, propped up by a hillock of shoveled dirt. All were filled to the brim with gunpowder and a charge of pebbles.
A spear buried itself beside him, slicing the edge of his jacket. The fuses sparked, Fletcher’s spell threading along the line. They burned down to their explosive charges with sizzling speed. Too fast.
“Run!” Rory yelled, seeing what was about to happen.
Fletcher ran.
It was a mad dash, and Fletcher beamed a shield over his shoulder in the nick of time, feeling the crackle of impacts as javelins and spears whistled overhead. A rattle of rifle fire echoed above, and then Genevieve screamed: “Get down!”
Fletcher dove—and the world flipped sideways.
Dust and smoke howled over him as the explosion roared through the ravine. In his crystal, Fletcher saw blood mist the air as a thousand projectiles ripped through the mass of goblins, hurling them back as if a giant invisible fist had punched through their ranks. The center received the brunt of the damage, the cannon concentrating the blast in a tight cone of spraying death that extended beyond the Cleft and into the crowds that still pressed in behind. For a moment, all that could be heard was the whistling of the wind, and the groans of the dying.
“Fire!” Fletcher yelled.
A pause, and then a flurry of musket balls whipped through the gap and into the stunned survivors.
“Again,” Sir Caulder barked, snatching a proffered musket from Blue’s hands.
The second volley smacked into the ranks, downing goblins left and right. The rifles fired a moment later, and this time the closest of the few dozen orcs that remained were killed—unmissable at such close range.
Far above, Ignatius roared in triumph, and an Ahool plummeted out of the sky, its leathery-winged body thudding among the goblin corpses.
And then, as one, the goblins turned and fled.
CHAPTER
54
THE TIDE HAD TURNED; the gray forms of the goblins rushing back to the jungle’s edge, leaving hundreds of dead in their wake. The remaining orcs bellowed orders, but even they had moved to a safe distance and could not prevent the goblins from hurrying back into the safety of the rain forest. Far above, Ignatius roared again, the enemy demons beating a hasty retreat. Clearly the Ahool had been the most powerful among them.
Despite it all, what horrified Fletcher most was that yet more goblins seemed to be appearing, shouldering their way past their fleeing companions as they left the trees and rallying around the immovable form of the Phantaur. Who knew how many more lurked within the foliage, just out of sight.
As he sat up, Fletcher realized his shield had protected him from the back draft of the explosion, though thankfully most of the bamboo tubes had held together, directing their contents out of their open ends. But some of the wooden tubes had shattered from the explosion, flinging projectiles in every direction, including at him. This damage combined with that of the javelins and spears meant the shredded shield was barely worth resorbing when he eased his battered body from the ground. He did so anyway—his reserves were nearly empty.
By the time he made it back to the Foxes, Blue and his gremlins had vaulted over the walls and were already hunting through the goblins for survivors, their shark-tooth daggers rising and falling. Fletcher tried to ignore the grisly gurgling noises and swung himself over the barricade, knocking a chunk away in his haste to return to safety.
He was shaking, though whether it was from adrenaline or fear he could not be sure.
“Craven bastards,” Logan shouted, his pockmarked face split wide in a grin. Through his crystal, Fletcher saw the orcs whipping the retreating goblins mercilessly, their hyenas unleashed to roam along the edges, snapping at those who ran by. It would not be long before the masters took control of them once again, or led a new assault with the fresh troops emerging from the jungles.
Even so, they would be more wary now. A good third of the orcs had been killed, and it was unlikely their leaders would venture into range again. But at some point, the goblins would make another charge for the Cleft, and there was no more gunpowder for another blast. He only had one more trick up his sleeve.
“Fletcher, a word,” Rory called.
He beckoned Fletcher away from the line of celebrating men. Fletcher saw the young boy’s cheek was stained with soot from firing his musket, and his blond hair was stained red from a cut at his hairline.
“We’ve got a problem,” Rory muttered as soon as Fletcher was out of the Foxes’ earshot. “I haven’t told anyone, not that there was time when the goblins appeared. But … it’s Didric. He’s not coming.”
If Fletcher had felt even a shred of relief earlier, now it was washed away by a cold rush of fear.
“He has to come,” Fletcher hissed, struggling to keep himself from shouting. “The future of the empire depends on it. Are you sure your note explained it all?”
Rory shook his head in disgust.
“It explained everything. He’s hightailing it to the north as we speak, back to his castle. His exact words were, ‘Why throw good men after bad?’ if you can believe that. He thinks the war is lost already.”
“The coward,” Fletcher spat.
“There’s something else,” Rory said, avoiding Fletcher’s eyes. “It’s the townsfolk. When Malachi left his message, they started arguing about whether they should leave. Berdon’s doing his best, but Malachi didn’t see any sign of them while waiting for Didric’s decision on the bridge. I don’t think they’ve left yet.”
“The fools,” Fletcher snapped, looking back down the canyon into the grasslands. In the distance, he could see the shapes of the town’s buildings. So close. Could they not hear the gunfire, the explosions?