“Hold your fire!” Fletcher yelled to the Foxes. “Its skin is too thick.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Dalia snapped, sighting down her musket regardless. “Let them come in and finish us off? As soon as we’re in close combat the rest of them will charge.”
“No,” Fletcher said. His mind raced, and then he turned to the riflemen in the stone ring of the old watchtower.
“Can you hit its eyes?” Fletcher asked.
“We’re low on ammunition, but it’s worth a shot, if you’ll pardon the pun, milord,” Rotherham’s voice called back.
“Do it then,” Fletcher ordered.
The Phantaur was in musket range now, and Fletcher could see the goblins behind it through the gaps in its great, tree-trunk legs. Should he order his musketeers to fire?
But even the riflemen were failing. The first shot glanced off the demon’s cheek, then as more gunfire whipped down, the great beast did nothing more than flap its ears inward over its face, slowing its pace as it stomped ever closer to the Cleft. It extended its arms, walking blindly.
Fletcher looked to Sir Caulder, hoping for a solution, but the old man simply stared at the approaching beast, his knuckles tightening white against the pommel of his sword.
He needed to solve this himself.
Fletcher’s mind flashed back to his lessons at Vocans. He’d read dusty journals from battlemages long dead that spoke of trunk tips that were like a thumb and forefinger, with equal sensitivity and dexterity. He had learned that their skin was so thick that only a speeding lance might penetrate it, and that Phantaurs used the clusters of nerves in their footpads to sense tremors of potential mates from as far as a mile away.
And that was when Fletcher knew what he had to do. It would take a bit of luck, and a big roll of the dice. But he would be damned if he was going to go down without a fight.
“Rory, I need your squad,” Fletcher said, jumping over the wall once again. “Poleaxes only.”
Rory’s mouth flapped open. For a moment Fletcher thought he would ask something, but then he nodded grimly and gave the order. Fletcher looked to the platform above.
“Rotherham, I want a rolling fire on those ears; keep him blinded.”
“Aye, sir,” Rotherham said, punctuating his answer with a shot from his rifle.
By now Rory and his fifteen soldiers had leaped the wall, with a brief moment of awkward confusion as the three dwarves in the group struggled over the top. Gallo and Dalia were among his squad, and to Fletcher’s surprise, Halfear, Blue and a handful of gremlins had clambered over the wall to join them.
“We come too,” Halfear sneered, licking a wicked-looking dagger malevolently.
Fletcher grinned and waved the soldiers on. If all went to plan, there would only be a few moments of fighting. If it didn’t … well … a few more warriors wouldn’t hurt.
“There’s a hundred goblins and a Phantaur about to come through there,” Mason said, less concerned with propriety than the soldiers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Just cover us,” Fletcher replied, his voice loud for the benefit of Genevieve’s squad. Then, without looking back, he drew his sword and ran toward the Cleft.
CHAPTER
56
THE CLAMOR FROM THE GOBLINS was near deafening as they approached the Cleft entrance, where Fletcher and his soldiers waited. They had crouched beside the pile of wood and bamboo to protect them from the occasional projectile that the goblins hurled from behind the Phantaur. Luckily, the demon’s bulk was as good a barrier to the javelins as it was for the Foxes’ musket balls, and most of the javelins went wide.
“We should charge them at the Cleft, where the gap’s narrow,” Rory whispered, hunkering down beside Fletcher. “Leap the trench, go for the Phantaur’s legs. Numbers won’t matter so much then.”
“No, we wait,” Fletcher said, watching as the great beast continued its ponderous journey. It was almost at the Cleft now, its enormous body shrouded by the mountain’s shadow.
“Fletcher, if we don’t move now, it’ll be too late!” Rory hissed.
“I said no, Rory,” Fletcher replied, willing the Phantaur on. It lifted an ear for a brief second, then let it drop as a shot glanced off a serrated tusk. Fletcher could see the pockmarks where the bullets had struck, gouging the skin, some even drawing blood. But none going deep enough to cause any real damage.
“Come on,” Fletcher whispered.
The Phantaur was through the Cleft now, and the ground shook with each stomp from its round-bottomed feet. The goblins crowded in behind it, gathering the nerve to charge.
One foot lifted, and thudded down on the other side of the trench. Damn. Then the next one began to swing … too far.
Fletcher drew and fired Gale in one fluid motion, emptying both barrels. One shot glanced off the Phantaur’s belly in a puff of dust—but the other struck its sensitive trunk tip. It squealed in pain and stepped back. Right into the trench.
“Now, Foxes!” Fletcher yelled, charging toward the enemy.
The air was filled with their battle cries, but they were instantly drowned out by the scream of agony from the Phantaur as its sensitive footpad was impaled by the spear tips. It wheeled its arms and fell, crushing a dozen goblins behind it in a crackle of breaking bones and squeals of terror.
There was a roar from Ignatius as he swooped from far above, called by Fletcher’s consciousness. And then they were in among the goblins, swinging their weapons. A scar-faced specimen stabbed at Fletcher’s belly, but he parried it with the crook of his blade and head butted it with a satisfying crunch. Then it was on to the enemy behind as Rory skewered the reeling goblin with his rapier, and Fletcher slashed the next one’s shoulder to the bone. He kicked it off the blade, and it collapsed to the ground, where Halfear was waiting with his dagger.
“Drive them back!” Fletcher bellowed, ducking as the Phantaur’s trunk swung down, grasping for enemies. “Protect Ignatius!”
The rifles were firing in earnest now, and the bullets ricocheted dangerously from the giant demon’s unprotected face and into the milling goblins behind. The ears flapped back into place, and the rifles switched their aim to the goblins themselves, the shots whizzing uncomfortably close to Fletcher’s ears. Even a few muskets were firing, their shots aimed at the enemies who charged around the small band of Foxes’ flanks.
“The rest of them are coming,” Fletcher heard Rotherham holler, and his gaze flicked to his crystal eyeglass; the gathered crowds of the enemy army were rushing toward the Cleft, hundreds upon hundreds of screaming, mindless savages. He had less than a minute.