It was a great exodus of gray, the orcs leading the pack in a mad bid to escape any pursuers. Weapons were discarded, and the slow were trampled underfoot as the wave of enemies pulled away.
Soon only the injured remained, limping as fast as they could while the dwarves finished off the remains of their front lines.
They had won. Fletcher collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as they released the khopesh. He felt Berdon’s arms wrap around him, and he buried his face in his father’s chest, gasping with relief.
“Onward!” a dwarf bellowed. “Chase them back to the jungles.”
The ground shook nearby as the boars galloped in pursuit.
“Infantry, with me,” he heard Cress order. “Kill the survivors.”
Fletcher pulled away, and Berdon lifted him to his feet. They stood there, too exhausted to join the slaughter of the goblins, many of whom lay wounded and dying among the messy row of corpses that stretched along their line of battle. Fletcher could see the corpse-laden swath they had cut behind him, a path of gray bodies and bloodstained grass. And there were green uniforms among them. He looked away; not wanting to see their faces. He couldn’t bear it. Not yet.
The gremlins and dwarves did not share his qualms, and Fletcher had to avert his eyes as they went about their bloody business. He was sick of all the death, all the killing. Already the vultures were circling above, waiting to feast. There was no glory here.
Then he heard a scream of anguish from Cress. Something was wrong. She was kneeling among the bodies, her head bowed. And there was a limp, bearded figure clutched in her arms.
A face he recognized.
“Othello,” Fletcher sobbed, staggering through the broken bodies. “No. No, no, no.”
He repeated the words over and over as he reached Cress, falling to his knees beside the dwarf.
“He’s gone,” Cress wept, brushing a curl of red hair from the young dwarf’s bloodstained forehead. “I couldn’t heal him.”
CHAPTER
60
FLETCHER TOOK THE DWARF’S hands in his, unable to believe it. He felt sick, the world spinning around him.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “He’s not dead. He’s not.”
In the distance, Fletcher saw Solomon’s craggy figure lumbering in pursuit of the goblins, oblivious to it all.
No, it couldn’t be. The Golem would know.
Then a bird screeched above. A Caladrius, flying high as it cried out in misery. And that was when Fletcher realized, the knowledge like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t Othello. It was Atilla.
His twin.
*
It was over. Humans, dwarves and elves alike wandered through the battlefield, dumbstruck by their victory. There were so many bodies. More even than at the Cleft.
“You saved us,” Fletcher said to Cress, wiping his eyes. “We didn’t think you were coming.”
They sat beside Atilla’s body, unable to leave him alone among the corpses. There were no more tears to be shed.
“It was Atilla who saved all of us,” Cress sniffed. “He ran right into their midst with our last mana vial and detonated the spell right there. These wounds … he knew he wasn’t coming back.”
Fletcher looked at his friend, who had given so much so that others could live. The dwarf looked almost peaceful, his face upturned to the still-warm skies.
“How did you find us?” Fletcher asked, trying to quell the tremor of emotion in his voice.
“It was Malachi,” Cress replied, staring out over the landscape, her knees hugged to her chest. “He found us. But the generals wouldn’t let us leave.”
She clenched her hands at the memory.
“Heaven knows we wanted to, but the front lines were being overrun. Thousands of orcs, charging out of the jungles. No warning, no preparation. The first hour was a slaughter.”
Cress looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness.
“And the demons. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The orcs were sending them to die, only to summon new ones with scrolls that they have been saving. They’ve been planning this for years.”
“What happened?” Fletcher asked, looking to the east, as if he could somehow see what was happening all those miles away.
“We fell back again and again. So many died. Tens of thousands. We’re losing ground, but it’s not over. At least, it wasn’t when I left.”
Silence. Fletcher could hardly believe it. They were losing.
“The king is hoping the elves will arrive in time to aid us,” Cress muttered. “He says their army left their lands a few days ago. They’re our last hope.”
“So, why did you come here?” Fletcher asked, horrified. “Hominum could fall, if it hasn’t already. You’re needed.”
“The king ordered it,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Malachi got to him too. Though I’m surprised the little Mite managed it—he was acting strangely when he left us. Like all the fight had gone out of him.”
Fletcher’s heart twisted at her words. The brave Mite had continued its mission even when its master had died. He didn’t have the strength to tell her what had happened to Rory.
“But it wasn’t to stop the goblins,” Cress continued, oblivious to the pain in Fletcher’s eyes. “Just the warning was enough for our generals to plan against a surprise attack from the rear. Nor was it to save Raleighshire. It was to save you, Fletcher.”
“Me?” Fletcher asked dumbly.
“There’s a reason we’re losing,” Cress said, speaking quickly now, as if she had remembered why she was there. “It’s Khan. His demon … it’s … it’s like a giant version of Ignatius. Only it’s armored, like a Wyvern.”
“A Dragon,” Fletcher breathed, his mind flashing back to the volcano, all those months ago.
“Our Celestial Corps tried to kill it … but … the fire. It’s killing everything. Every time we think we have the upper hand, it swoops in and turns everything to ash. Nobody can even get close. Except…”
She trailed off.
“Except me,” Fletcher said, the realization leaving him numb.
He was immune to fire, and so was Ignatius. His fight was not over.… It was just beginning.
*
Fletcher wanted to wait for Othello to return from routing the goblins. To be there for him when he saw his fallen brother. But there was no time.
Fletcher gave a last farewell to his friends and soldiers, most unable to stand from injury or exhaustion.
“You come back, you hear?” Berdon choked as Fletcher hugged him good-bye.
“Depend on it,” Fletcher whispered.
A final embrace from Cress, all too brief as she took command of the scattered dwarves.
Then he was on Ignatius and limping into the sky.