‘Yes, the old stomping ground. It was time for an upgrade, what with my new station in life. What do you think of our new quarters?’
Didric pointed upwards. The village of Pelt was built at the base of the Beartooth Mountains’ largest peak. It shadowed the village at sunset, towering over them like a vast monolith. Fletcher followed Didric’s finger and saw that the tip of the peak no longer existed. Instead, a castle had been built in its place, all crenellations, towers and arrow slits. Cannons lined the walls, the black holes of their barrels menacing the village, as if they might open fire at any moment. It was more a fortress than a home.
‘The safest place in Hominum, stocked with enough supplies to endure a siege of ten years. The elves could betray us, the orcs could invade Hominum – the prisoners could even take over the village, and it wouldn’t matter. The greatest army in the world couldn’t breach those walls, even if they could climb the sheer cliffs on either side.’
‘You sound paranoid, Didric,’ Fletcher replied, though Didric’s words had taken him off guard. ‘Like you have something to hide.’
‘Only our immense wealth, Fletcher. My father doesn’t trust the banks. He should know, he used to be a banker.’
‘A crooked moneylender does not a banker make,’ Fletcher replied. The boy stiffened but prodded him on, ignoring the jibe.
As they walked down the deserted streets, Fletcher saw poverty everywhere.
Many of the houses and shops were empty shells, while others had been converted into jails. Rough, dirty faces were pressed against the bars, silently watching Didric’s strutting figure with hatred in their eyes. The entire place stank of misery and desperation; it was a far throw from the industrious little village Fletcher had grown up in.
Didric’s father, Caspar Cavell, had become the richest man in the village by lending to the needy and the desperate, tricking them into signing ironclad contracts that would end up costing them far more than they borrowed. It looked as if the Cavells had called in all that was owed, taking their debtors’ savings and kicking most of the citizens of Pelt out of their homes in order to build the prison.
Disgusted, Fletcher slowed and flexed his fingers, fighting the temptation to punch Didric’s face in.
‘Move,’ Didric snarled, slapping Fletcher across the back of the head with his free hand.
Fletcher burned with anger, but his hands were still numb. The paralysis was dulling his reactions. Even if he were at his best, he doubted his chances at wrestling away the gun pressed into the small of his back. He would have to wait.
They reached the front gates which led out of the village, and Fletcher’s stomach lurched. Berdon’s hut was gone! But that was not the only thing unusual about the scene. The area around the front gates had been flattened, with racks of pikes, bayonets and swords replacing the houses. Stranger still, there seemed to be a queue of men lining up by the gates in front of a long, low table piled with red uniforms.
No. Not men.
‘Dwarves!’ Fletcher breathed.
Hundreds of them, even more than he had seen at the dwarven war council. They wore traditional dwarven garb – heavy leathers with canvas shirts. They seemed rougher than the dwarves Fletcher had encountered before, their braids loose and uneven, the clothing stained with mud, grime and sweat. Their faces were dark and brooding, and they talked among themselves with low, angry voices.
‘They’ve just marched over Beartooth to collect their new gear,’ Didric said, smiling, ‘after two years of keeping the northern front safe from the elves. It’s taken a long time for the elven war to end, though I wish it was longer. The peace talks were delayed when the elven clan leaders saw the state of that she-elf after the Tournament at Vocans. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’
Images of the broken and bruised figure of Sylva came unbidden to Fletcher’s mind, but he held his tongue. He knew that he couldn’t trust anything Didric told him about her.
‘My lord!’ a guard shouted, bringing Fletcher back to reality. ‘This reprobate tried to murder you. It isn’t safe. Let us escort him for you.’
‘Did I ask for your opinion, bootlicker?’ Didric spat, brandishing the pistol. ‘Do not presume to speak to me unless spoken to first. Get back to work.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ the man said, bowing low. Didric shoved him away with his boot, sending the man sprawling in the mud.
Fletcher was disgusted by the way his nemesis held himself, as if he were above them all. He turned on Didric as the final vestiges of paralysis left him.
‘You have the guards calling you lord?’ Fletcher said, layering his voice with contempt. ‘I bet they laugh at you behind your back. You’re nothing more than a jumped-up gaoler, you pompous arse.’