“We can’t worry about that now. What about the rest of your messages?” Fletcher asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.
“Still flying,” he said. “And I sent Malachi on to help with the search for the king, a general, anyone who might help us. Most should get to the front lines within the hour, Genevieve’s included. But … my Mites can hear booming, see smoke and bright flashes over the horizon. Whatever battle we’re fighting, it’s nothing compared to what’s going on out there. Finding someone important to give a message to might be difficult.”
Fletcher gripped Rory by the shoulders.
“If we don’t get help soon, we’ll all be dead and thousands of goblins will attack the Hominum army from behind. That is, if they don’t sack Corcillum on their way first.”
Rory’s eyes widened with fear, and Fletcher released him with a sigh.
“Tell Genevieve, but no one else. You must get your message through. I’d send Ignatius, but he’s needed above. You’re our only hope now.”
The young officer scurried away, and Fletcher saw Genevieve’s face fall as he gave her the news. She caught Fletcher’s eye and gave him a determined nod.
“Right, lads, that’s enough cheering.” Sir Caulder’s voice cut through the jubilant shouting of the Foxes. “Dalia, Gallo, bring the water barrels from the wagon; fighting’s thirsty work. The rest of you, clean out the powder from your fouled barrels. Use the water, or piss down ’em if you have to.”
Spurred on by Sir Caulder’s orders, Fletcher’s mind turned to the battle ahead. With no rescue coming anytime soon, they would be likely to run out of ammunition before long. The poleaxes would be essential, one way or another.
“Logan, Kobe, go with them,” Fletcher ordered, returning to the wall and peering into the milling crowds. “I want the whetstone wheel brought back here and every poleaxe sharpened to a fine edge.”
The two lads groaned but went to do his bidding, leaving him alone with Mason. The boy had not joined in the celebrations with the others, though it was not surprising because he knew so few of them.
“You’ve done a brave thing, staying here,” Fletcher said.
“I’ve been fightin’ ’em me whole life,” Mason said. “Plus, me mum and sisters live in Corcillum. Wouldn’t be right, leavin’.”
“You got any advice for me?” Fletcher said, motioning at the gathering goblins with his chin.
“They’re cowards at heart, goblins,” Mason said. “You hurt ’em enough, they’ll turn and run. Problem is, they’ve been kicked about by orcs their entire short lives, so they’re more afraid of ’em than anythin’ else.”
Fletcher’s eyes turned to the pile of chopped manchineel wood, oozing white sap from where the poleaxes had bit it.
“We’ll see about that,” he said.
CHAPTER
55
THE POLEAXES WERE WHETTED, with Kobe sitting behind a spinning wheel of rough stone that he pedaled with his feet, and soldiers kneeling beside him to sharpen their blades against it in a screeching shower of sparks. Even Fletcher managed a turn with his khopesh, once he had finished reloading Gale and Blaze.
Guns were cleaned, inspected and cleaned again, while the wall was repaired and reinforced with a combination of mud, scavenged shields and spears. The gremlins had brought back grisly trophies from the battlefield, and Halfear proudly paraded around wearing a necklace of goblin ears threaded through a dirty string. Fletcher did not discourage them, even requesting that the gremlins display their trophies beside the bodies within the Cleft—a warning to any goblins that chose to venture through once again.
All the while, orcs barked and bellowed guttural commands, shoving goblins into position, just beyond rifle range. The hyenas had been unleashed into the forests, presumably to hunt down the goblins that had fled earlier and herd them back to the killing fields. What Fletcher knew for sure was that there would be a massive attack coming, and not much time to prepare for it.
The wagon had come with shovels, which they had used to churn the earth to make the mud mortar for their walls. But Fletcher came up with another use for them. The ground just before the Cleft had been torn up by the explosions of the bamboo bombs, and Fletcher sent a contingent of soldiers to extend it into a trench, as deep as their waists. When this was done, they embedded the stone points of the goblin spears at the bottom, covered it with the canvas of the Forsyth tents and camouflaged it with a thin layer of earth.
It was too narrow to prevent goblins from leaping over it, nor could they conceal their actions from the watching enemy, but Fletcher was sure that in the chaos of battle, at least a few goblins would fall in and cripple themselves on the spikes below.
As for the manchineel tree timber, Fletcher ordered it moved into the space beyond the wall, and had spare tent covers, spears and the bamboo that had been left over from the bomb making added to the pile. It was still a far smaller heap than Fletcher would have liked, but it would have to do.
“Rory, any news?” Fletcher asked, sidling up to the young officer. He and Genevieve were sitting apart from the others, their eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration. They had small fragments of scrying crystal in their hands, and Fletcher could see the rushing images of a war-torn landscape within them.
“We can only hear and see from Malachi and Azura, our primary demons,” Genevieve answered before Rory could speak. “Since they’re the ones connected to our scrying crystals.”
“Of course,” Fletcher said, biting his lip. Rory spoke, his eyes still closed.
“The others just have instructions, but we won’t hear who they’ve reached. We’ll only know that the message has been delivered and sense the emotions our Mites feel. If they’re happy, we can assume rescue is on its way.”
“Not rescue, reinforcements,” Genevieve rebuked him gently. It was only then that Fletcher saw the pair were holding hands. He smiled. It was about time.
“One message has been delivered,” Rory said suddenly, a smile breaking across his pale face. “Hang on … I think—”
“My lord, movement!” shouted Kobe. Rory’s eyes snapped open, and the pair scrambled back to their squads on either side of the wall, his words forgotten.
Fletcher refocused on his scrying crystal, and his heart filled with cold horror. It was the Phantaur. The enormous beast was advancing with its great flapping ears and arms extended wide. Behind it, a column of what could have been a hundred goblins followed, their rawhide shields raised as they took cover behind the demon’s bulk.
Already it was past the first row of stakes and was nearly in musket range. With every stomp, the chorus of death whistles and rattling slowly increased in volume, accompanied by the squalling of the many hundreds of goblins behind them.
Sir Caulder took a breath to order a volley, but Fletcher knew better.