Fletcher stared at the carnage behind him. Frantic sergeants barked orders as soldiers dragged the wounded from the blackened, bloodstained ground and on to hastily prepared stretchers, made from spears and knotted jackets.
‘This is no miracle,’ Fletcher choked, for the air was thick with smoke, smaller fires spreading among the wreckage. Ignatius chittered fearfully and scampered on to Fletcher’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck for comfort.
‘We need to help them,’ Jeffrey gasped, stumbling towards the ruined tent, but Fletcher grasped him by the collar and tugged him back.
‘Othello, you shouldn’t be seen here,’ Fletcher said urgently, as angry voices mingled with the sounds of dying men. ‘An explosion … a dwarf nearby.’
Othello’s eyes widened in horror, then he was tugging Jeffrey up the hill with Fletcher, though the boy fought them every step of the way, demanding to be allowed to help the fallen soldiers.
It was not long before they reached the carriage, which by some miracle was still waiting for them.
‘What the hell happened?’ the carriage driver asked, his eyes widening as he took in the gremlin cradled in Fletcher’s arm.
Fletcher shoved a fistful of coins from his purse into the driver’s hands as Othello manhandled Jeffrey through the carriage doors.
‘Take us back to Corcillum,’ Fletcher growled. ‘And quickly.’
23
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Uhtred bellowed, slamming his fist on to the table.
They were in the cellar of the Anvil, getting the dressing-down of their lives. Uhtred had arrived a few minutes before and had dragged them down there as soon as he had heard their story, afraid that people would be watching the tavern for signs of movement after the Anvil attack.
‘What if you had been spotted?’ he growled, advancing on the three of them. ‘The only dwarven soldier for miles around and you just happen to be there when the bomb goes off. We’re in the Anvil Tavern, for pity’s sake. You just got off on a charge of treason. If word gets out, your mission will do more harm than good – people will think you’re traitors!’
‘I think it’s safe to say I was seen,’ Othello muttered. ‘But with my beard shaved, they might not have taken me for a dwarf, just a very short man. It was dark and crowded and everyone was drunk. Most of the people who saw me probably died in the explosion.’
‘It was my idea to go,’ Fletcher added, as Othello shrunk under his father’s gaze. ‘But how were we to know that there was going to be an attack? We just wanted a look at the front lines.’
Uhtred opened his mouth, then grimaced and closed it again.
‘Be that as it may, you three are on very thin ice,’ he said, though his expression had softened.
‘Can you keep it down?’ Jeffrey mumbled, clutching his head. ‘I’m dying here.’
‘Serves you right,’ Uhtred grumbled, though he handed the boy a flask of water from his hip. ‘Get this down you. We need you on top form for the mission tomorrow.’
Othello groaned aloud at the mention of the mission and Uhtred rounded on him again.
‘Forgot about that, had you? The future of Hominum depends on you, both to unify the nation and to destroy the goblin threat. I dread to think what King Harold would say if he knew what happened tonight.’
Fletcher hung his head in shame, but part of his mind was busy wondering how Uhtred would react if he knew that a sleeping gremlin was in the rucksack now hanging on the bannister to the cellar stairs. He had no idea what he was going to do with the little creature, and Othello hadn’t been much help. Jeffrey, on the other hand, was oblivious, having gone into a stupor immediately upon entering the carriage.
Uhtred glanced at Fletcher’s pistols and then sighed, removing one from its holster and sighting down it.
‘Did my son at least teach you how to load and fire these while you were out there?’ he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
‘Well … with the explosion and everything …’ Fletcher mumbled, avoiding Othello’s eyes.
‘You won’t be able to practise in the jungle, they’ll hear you miles off,’ Uhtred said, exasperated. ‘There won’t be time tomorrow either. This place is soundproof enough, though it might hurt our ears a bit. Nobody on the street will hear us.’
At the far end of the cellar, a pile of broken furniture had been unceremoniously stacked against the wall. In the centre, there was a red-cushioned chair facing outwards, an ideal target.
Without hesitation, Uhtred pulled the trigger and a long tongue of smoke erupted out from the gun’s end, the sound more a crack than a bang in the confines of the cellar. A smaller puff of smoke curled from where the flint had slammed into the gun, igniting the powder within.
The cushion simply vibrated slightly, but Fletcher could see a new hole in the threadbare fabric, just off the centre.
‘Not bad,’ Uhtred said, cocking the flint back again. ‘Now, watch closely.’