Goblins clawed their way past one another, those at the front retreating, those at the back pushed on by fear of their masters. Then the first goblins fought back, fresh troops from the valley. They squinted through red-rimmed, streaming eyes and their breathing was choked, but the first of Fletcher’s men began to cry out—a spear through an elf’s shoulder, a boy’s elbow shattered by a club.
Still they fought, the battle becoming a bitter crush of bodies in the narrow confines between the Phantaur’s shoulders and the steep walls of the Cleft’s bottleneck.
Then, Ignatius landed on the Phantaur, his tail whipping down to impale goblins from above. He opened his mouth and roared, the earth-shattering noise blasting through the Cleft and into the canyon.
And with that, the goblins turned and ran.
CHAPTER
57
THE WORLD WAS FILLED with the dead and the dying. Fletcher did not look down as he staggered back to the safety of the wall, and tried to ignore the shrieks of the wounded as the gremlins went about their work, finishing off the survivors. His men followed, dazed by their victory. Some limped, others groaned from their wounds, but none were mortally injured.
In his scrying crystal, Fletcher could see the goblins were in full retreat, running past the orcs despite the cruel whips that beat at them. No more than a handful remained on the fields of battle, staring at the corpse-laden gap between the rock walls of the mountain.
And then Fletcher saw him, his eyes refocusing past the crystal. A still figure, sitting with his back pressed against the wall. Rory.
The boy was staring vacantly, a mild smile upon his face. His hands were clutched around his stomach, where blood had spread across the green cloth of his uniform.
“Rory,” Genevieve uttered, dropping her sword and running to his side. She shook him, tears streaming down her face. “No, no, no, no.”
She repeated the word, slapping his face, at first gently, then harder as she tried to bring him back to life. Fletcher knelt beside her and pulled her away, taking her hands in his.
“He’s gone,” Fletcher said, hugging her close. He was almost unable to believe his own words.
He had not seen Rory in the battle. His mind flashed back to the young officer, staggering ahead of him after the battle with the Phantaur.
Rory must have been injured in the fight. If he had known it, he could have healed him. But now it was too late.
Was this his fault?
“He … he didn’t tell me he was hurt,” Fletcher whispered, unable to look away from Rory’s face.
Sir Caulder crouched beside them and closed the boy’s eyes with a gentle hand.
“Come away now,” he said, pulling them both up. “Let’s leave him be.”
But Genevieve wouldn’t. She slid down the wall beside him and took his hand in hers once again.
“He’s still warm,” she said, stroking it.
Sir Caulder sniffed, and Fletcher saw a glimmer of a tear in his eye. The men gathered around, their heads bowed.
“He died fighting for his country,” Fletcher said, the words struggling to come past the lump in his throat. “And he was a braver man than I. Let’s make sure that he did not die in vain.”
As Genevieve’s sobs began, Fletcher turned away. It was only minutes later, when the troops had left them, that he allowed himself to cry.
*
Two hours ticked by. Half the orcs remained, along with a hundred goblins, scattered across the canyon. They used their shields to shade themselves from the sun above, waiting for their next orders.
The Foxes used the time to sharpen their blades once again, but other than that all they could do was rest and take turns watching the goblins, halfway up the watchtower’s pathway.
Ignatius was infused, as there was no mana left for him to self-heal and the javelin wounds were deep in the Drake’s haunches and back. Fletcher thanked him with a kiss upon the demon’s beak.
He took on the demon’s pain, as Ignatius disappeared within him.
As for Genevieve, she remained by Rory, her eyes blazing with anger as her Mites continued their search across what she told Fletcher was a frantic battle along the front lines, filled with gunfire and the screams of the dying.
So Fletcher waited at the wall, watching the proceedings through his scrying crystal. There was nothing else he could do but hope.
“Maybe they’ve run away,” Logan said, spitting over the wall. “Could’ve scared ’em off.”
“Not a chance,” Fletcher replied, taking a deep gulp of water from his hip flask. “The Phantaur saw how few of us there were before it died, which means the shaman knows it too. They won’t give up. Let’s just hope that Genevieve gets a message through. The Celestial Corps could be here in time, if we’re lucky.”
Even as he spoke, a noise echoed through the canyon—a horn being blown long and hard. It was deep and loud, reverberating against the walls that surrounded them. Fletcher felt a burst of fear pulsing through Athena in a frantic warning. He looked in the pink overlay of his scrying crystal.
Hundreds upon hundreds of goblins were emerging from the jungle’s edge. Hyenas prowled through their ranks, accompanied by their orc masters. The first wave of goblins had been herded back, and worse still, Fletcher could see red-eyed specimens smattered throughout the masses. The enemies they had just routed were coming back, caught up in the horde that had returned to the battlefield.
“What is it?” Mason called out. The Cleft was so choked with bodies, they could not see the gathering storm that was bearing down on them.
Fletcher would not lie to them. They had no ammunition. No more gunpowder, no more tricks. They could not survive this next onslaught. They would barely slow it down before the goblins flooded into Raleighshire.
He looked at his brave soldiers, who had fought a force that had outnumbered them a hundred to one. Who had faced down an army designed to bring all of Hominum to their knees, and beaten them back time and again.
And he saw Rory’s still face, and the line of tent-covered bodies beyond. He could not ask his men to die, not in a battle they could not win. They had already given him so much.
“They’re coming, and we’re leaving,” Fletcher said. “Logan, Kobe, bring the wagon up here. Throw out the food and put the bodies of our Foxes on there. Leave the Forsyth Furies; there’s no room for them now.”
The two soldiers snapped into action, running pell-mell down the canyon. Fletcher walked over to Rory and gently lifted him onto his shoulder. He called after the Foxes as they stumbled over the walls.
“I want the injured and the gremlins on the wagon too; we’ll be running for Watford Bridge.”