He removed a small cartridge from his back pocket, a cylinder of yellow paper that was twisted shut at one end. He gripped the twist with his teeth and tore the top open, revealing a fine black powder piled inside it.
‘You pour it into the square trough where the flint meets the steel of the pistol when it snaps down, known as the pan,’ Uhtred said, trickling a small amount of the powder in. ‘Hence the phrase flash in the pan.’
Fletcher watched with avid eyes as Uhtred pushed the remainder of the cartridge into the end of the pistol.
‘Then, you put the whole thing into the barrel, and use the ramrod to shove it down to the base.’
Uhtred pulled a slender stick of metal that poked out from the wooden stock of the pistol, just beneath the barrel. He rammed it down the end a few times, making sure that the cartridge was wedged tightly inside the gun. He replaced the ramrod in its holder, then pointed the barrel at the cushion once again. The whole process had taken less than fifteen seconds.
‘Now, you have a go at firing. Remember, it has a bit of a kick!’
Uhtred handed the weapon to Fletcher. The gun was heavy in his hands, and his arm wavered as he raised it, sighting down the barrel. It was different to the bow, the point of focus too far ahead, the weight unbalanced, all of it on his one arm.
He fired, closing his eyes as the puff from the firing pan burst out, the clap of noise as loud as the Anvil attack had been. He could not see if he had hit anything, for there was too much smoke, but as his ears stopped ringing and the smog cleared, the cushion appeared as it had before.
‘Where did it go?’ Fletcher asked.
Slowly, a chair leg in the top right corner of the room wobbled, then broke away with a splintering sound, a bullet wedged in the joint. Othello chortled as it fell to the ground, far away from where Fletcher had been aiming.
‘Well. Maybe aim for the chest instead of the head,’ Uhtred laughed, slapping Fletcher on the back. Fletcher sighed and pushed the pistol back in its holster.
‘Right, clothes off,’ Uhtred snapped, clicking his fingers.
‘What?’ Fletcher asked. What was Uhtred talking about?
Then he looked down at his uniform. The front of his brand new jacket and trousers were splattered with soot, mud and splashes of blood from the massacre. Even Othello’s uniform was stained with the same, from when he had dragged Fletcher to his feet. In contrast, Jeffrey’s was fine, despite his bout of vomiting.
Fletcher shrugged and slowly took off his weapons and clothing, until he and Othello were shivering in the cold air of the dusty cellar, wearing nothing but their underwear. Uhtred chuckled at their miserable faces.
‘You’re lucky that my wife is the best seamstress around. She’ll replace what can’t be cleaned and have these ready for you tomorrow.’
Before Fletcher could apologise for ruining his new clothes, there was a creak from upstairs. Then, before anyone could move, the door to the cellar burst open and a crossbow was aimed down the stairwell.
‘Who’s down there?’ Sylva yelled, rolling out with her bow drawn, as Cress squinted at them over her weapon.
‘It’s just us,’ Fletcher admitted sheepishly. Uhtred stomped up the stairs and pushed Cress’s crossbow down.
‘Get some rest,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’
For a moment the two girls stared at the half-naked boys, their faces marked with soot from the explosion, Jeffrey splayed drunkenly on the floor.
They burst out laughing, much to Fletcher’s horror.
‘Well, well,’ Cress said, her eyes sparkling with merriment. ‘Looks like we missed the party.’
24
The four teams stood on an expansive wooden platform, overlooking a sea of red-uniformed men, just beyond the trenches of the front lines. The soldiers stared back grimly, and the world was silent but for a whistling wind that left their jackets flapping in the air.
Fletcher felt a rustle in the rucksack on his back and froze. Blue had been sleeping, or at least pretending to, all night. The plan had been to keep him there and release him into the wild when they landed. Unfortunately, the gremlin’s slumber seemed to be over.
As Fletcher prayed that Blue would go back to sleep, Provost Scipio climbed slowly up the stairs on the side of the stage, resplendent in the full uniform of a general. He nodded to each team, then turned to the crowd of soldiers.
‘You all know me,’ Scipio said, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘The Hero of Watford Bridge. Provost of Vocans Academy. I have fought in this war for a decade and defended the borders long before that. Many of you know me personally. So when I tell you that what you are about to hear is the truth, I expect you to trust me.’