42
Fletcher stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the old warrior.
‘Well, well,’ Rotherham said, hands on his hips. ‘Would you look who it is?’
‘Hello, Fletcher,’ Rory said, running a nervous hand through his hair.
‘What are you guys doing here?’ Fletcher asked incredulously.
‘Well, a little bird told me you were hiring men,’ Rotherham said, the hint of a smile playing across his grizzled face. ‘That little bird being our King, of course.’
‘The King?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Oh yeah, we’re thick as thieves, us two,’ Rotherham said, scratching at his salt and pepper stubble. ‘Why do you reckon I wasn’t there during your murder trial? That King of ours is a sneaky bugger – as soon as the Triumvirate’s men started looking for me, he had me disappear, quiet like. Knew I wouldn’t help your chances if I took the stand, me being such a colourful sort and a so-called deserter to boot. I’ve been bleedin’ coolin’ my heels on a farmstead ever since.’
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ Fletcher said, smiling at the hoary old veteran. ‘We could use your experience, that’s for sure.’
‘Aye, sir. Or lord. Bleeding heck, how things change, eh? Best and worst decision I ever made, giving you that book. From what I saw in those scrying crystals, we’d be up to our eyeballs in goblin dung by now if it weren’t for you and your little demon.’
‘Well, he’s not so little any more,’ Fletcher said, clapping Rotherham on the back. ‘You’ll see.’
He turned to Rory and Genevieve, who had been standing silently in awkward embarrassment.
‘And you two?’
‘Well … we’d heard you needed soldiers, same as Rotter here,’ Genevieve said. ‘And, so … the army … well.’
‘What Genevieve is trying to say is we didn’t like the army,’ Rory said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘They didn’t want us for our leadership, didn’t even want us to fight.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher asked. ‘We need every battlemage we can get on the front lines.’
‘They wanted us for their charging stones,’ Genevieve explained.
Understanding dawned on Fletcher, and his mind flashed back to his lessons with Rook in their first year. Charging stones were a grouping of smaller corundum crystals of the same colour, and were used to store mana for later use. He had only seen them used as an aide for novice summoners when first trying to open portals into the ether. But he knew they were essential on the front lines, the excess mana used to keep battlemages’ shields up over the trenches when orc shamans rained fireballs down upon them at night.
‘Mites have low mana, but they recover it quicker than most demons. So every day we were ordered to drain our mana into them, then we were dismissed. We weren’t seen as important, because our summoning levels are so low,’ Rory said, scuffing the ground with his boot.
‘So, we petitioned the King for a transfer, and he granted it, on the condition that you accept us,’ Genevieve said. She looked at him with pleading in her eyes.
Inwardly, Fletcher was rejoicing. Low-level though they were, having the pair on hand would be a huge advantage in battle. Not to mention the fact that they would both have had training in military strategy and command.
‘You’ll be second lieutenants,’ Fletcher said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. ‘But you’ll be given command of a squad each. If you’d be willing to accept those terms, I’ll be honoured to have you.’
‘We would!’ Genevieve laughed, and then Fletcher found himself with a mouthful of red hair as the young battlemage gave him a tight hug.
‘Thank you,’ Rory said, holding out his hand.
Fletcher extricated an arm from Genevieve’s hug and shook the proffered hand warmly. For the first time, he felt as if Rory and Genevieve had truly forgiven him for almost killing Malachi in the Tournament. He hadn’t realised how heavily that guilt had weighed on his conscience until that very moment.
‘If I may be so bold,’ Rotherham said, as Genevieve released Fletcher and wiped a tear from her eye, ‘you’ll be needing a sergeant or two to whip these troops into shape. Show them the ropes, as it were. I’m an old hand, been fighting since I was a nipper. Would it be presumptuous of me to recommend myself to the position?’
The grizzled veteran seemed to squirm under his gaze as Fletcher considered him. He owed him, certainly, and he needed a sergeant to relay Rory and Genevieve’s orders. And he was an experienced fighter. He’d know every trick and short cut the troops would take. Why not …
‘All right then, sergeant it is,’ Fletcher said, clapping Rotherham on the shoulder and walking out into the savannah. ‘Just know that Sir Caulder will be our Sergeant Major, and you’ll be taking orders from him. That goes for you too, Rory and Genevieve: Sir Caulder outranks the both of you.’
Fletcher resisted the urge to turn and catch the look on Rotherham’s face. The old man must have been passed over for promotion a thousand times in the military. Only a choke of surprise gave him a clue to the man’s reaction.
‘Now let’s have a look at our troops,’ Fletcher called, striding through the tall grasses to where the soldiers were training.
They had been spread into a circle, and Sir Caulder had paired two off to fence against each other. The fighters battled not with their poleaxes but instead with weighted quarterstaffs, simple wooden poles that had a heavy lump of wood affixed to the end, to imitate the poleaxes’ weight, length and balance.
‘Good lad, Kobe,’ Sir Caulder was shouting, for the young soldier had just swept his opponent’s feet from under him with the pole and now held the wooden block to his throat. ‘Use every part of the weapon. The haft and butt are as useful as the tip.’
Kobe smiled a brilliant smile, his teeth bright against his dark skin, and held out a hand to help his opponent up. Fletcher recognised the downed fighter as one of the convicts: a skinny, bucktoothed lad with acne scars on both cheeks. The boy ignored the proffered hand and scrambled to his feet. He spat at Kobe’s feet and stalked off.
Kobe shrugged and saluted Sir Caulder instead, before joining the circle.
‘At ease, lads,’ Sir Caulder called, spotting Fletcher approaching. ‘Take a breather.’
The troops gratefully collapsed to the ground, many gulping at water flasks. Their faces were coated with sweat from the day’s exertions, and Fletcher suspected Sir Caulder had been training them since early morning.
‘Bless my soul and damn my eyes, is that Rotter?’ Sir Caulder cried, limping over to the foursome.
‘Wait, you know each other?’ Fletcher asked. Then he realised. The gasp of breath from Rotherham had been at recognising Sir Caulder’s name, not his promotion.
‘Too right I bleeding know him,’ Rotherham said, laughing with delight. ‘We’ve been thick as thieves since we were nought but little lads. Served in the same regiment for a time too, before the old git got airs and graces and became Lord Raleigh’s bodyguard.’
‘Less of the old git,’ Sir Caulder said, prodding Rotherham with his hooked hand. ‘I’m only a few years older than you.’
‘What are the chances!’ Genevieve laughed.
‘You know what they say,’ Rotherham said, embracing his long-lost friend. ‘There’s old soldiers and bold soldiers, but no old bold soldiers. I reckon we’re the two exceptions.’
‘Hah, maybe one of us is,’ Sir Caulder said. He turned to the two new officers and winked at them.
‘Rory, Genevieve – nice of you to join us. I hope you’ve not forgotten my training.’
‘No, sir,’ Rory said, tapping a rapier at his belt. ‘We’re ready to get in the thick of it.’
‘Well, you won’t be just yet – we’ve a few weeks to go before we take our position in that mountain pass up there.’ Sir Caulder pointed at the sierra of peaks beyond the ruins of the Raleigh mansion.
Fletcher peered at the mountains, trying to spy where the pass might be. There seemed to be a point where the peaks curved inwards on each side in the shape of a U, with a dip in the very bottom. Now that he looked at them, the mountains seemed very near. He shuddered at the thought of how close they were to the orc jungles. He needed his men to be ready sooner rather than later.
Who knew when Lord Forsyth’s troops would abandon their posts?