Epilogue
Fletcher thought Lovett had never looked more beautiful as Arcturus wheeled her down the ramp of Raleightown’s church. The townsfolk cheered as he lifted her from her chair and carried her to the horse-drawn carriage.
White suited her. Marriage … suited her.
Arcturus was beaming from ear to ear, his face red from the wine he had drunk at the reception. Fletcher threw another handful of rice over the pair, and Sacharissa sneezed as it fell around her. Her hair had been brushed and curled, and a bow had been tied around her, like a collar. She gazed darkly at the revellers, daring someone to stroke her. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin.
‘Wait, wait,’ Lovett said, stopping Arcturus in his tracks. He turned her around and she grabbed Fletcher’s face, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.
‘Thank you for organising this,’ she said, her face glowing with joy.
‘Think nothing of it – I owe the both of you a thousand times over,’ Fletcher said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the cheering crowds.
The entire town had attended, as well as most of the Vocans staff and servants, a score of battlemages and a few dozen dwarves. Even the grumpy Major Goodwin had attended, though he was now sleeping off a full jug of ale beneath the church altar. It had been a celebration to remember. Fletcher only wished his mother had been there, but she was still too ill to leave the hospital. And Berdon, who had been called away on urgent business in Corcillum.
The guests were gathered along the streets, waiting to cheer the couple as they made their way back to Corcillum, where Harold had prepared a room for them at the palace. Now that Alfric was dead, killed by an orc on the field of battle, the young King had full run of the place.
‘Fletcher, stop distracting them,’ Othello said, throwing an arm around Fletcher’s chest. ‘Or they’ll be late for their dinner with Harold.’
Fletcher winced. Even after a month, his ribs were still sore.
Sacharissa nudged Arcturus with her snout.
‘All right, all right,’ Arcturus laughed, allowing himself to be pushed forward. ‘We’ll come visit soon, Fletcher.’
‘You’d better!’ Fletcher called after them as Arcturus carried Lovett into the carriage.
Fletcher felt a delicate arm thread through his own as he waved the couple away, the crowds surging past him as they chased the carriage down the cobbled streets.
‘Didn’t they look happy,’ Sylva said, smiling. ‘Who would have thought it?’
‘I had some inkling,’ Fletcher said.
‘You liar,’ Othello butted in. He raised his voice. ‘Cress, Fletcher reckons he knew Arcturus and Lovett fancied each other.’
‘Liar,’ Cress called, eating a fistful of cake in the church’s doorway.
Fletcher grinned and began to walk Sylva down the street.
‘Come on, I haven’t shown you yet,’ he said, beckoning the dwarves to follow.
As they walked, Fletcher could see some gremlins lurking at the town’s borders, though few of them had summoned the courage to enter and take part in the festivities. Blue had set up a new colony beside Watford Bridge, where food was plentiful and the soil was stable enough to dig a new Warren. They traded their fish with the people of Raleightown, and a budding friendship had sprung up between the two peoples. Still, most of the gremlins were timid things, and watched the celebrations from the safety of the savannah.
The four trudged past the statue that Fletcher had erected over the old passage in front of the town hall. It had been installed that very morning, much to the admiration of his guests. A dwarf, a man and an elf, standing side by side. And beneath, a plaque, with the names of all who had died in defence of Raleighshire.
Names like Atilla, Rory, Dalia, Sir Caulder, Rotherham and more than a dozen others. Too many. Othello paused at the plaque, a hint of pain passing across his face.
‘They died, so that we could live,’ was all he said, tracing his finger along Atilla’s name.
‘Heroes, one and all,’ Fletcher replied solemnly. He stared up at the dwarf’s face, and Atilla’s own stared back at him.
‘I wish you’d put up a statue of Didric, maybe outside the latrines,’ Cress said, kicking a clod of earth. ‘With what he did underneath, so his cowardice lives on for ever.’
‘I think the King’s solution was far more eloquent,’ Othello said, a smile touching the edges of his lips.
Didric’s refusal to fight had not gone unnoticed by King Harold. In his new position as ruler, he had punished not only Didric, but the rest of the Triumvirate as well. Great fines had been levied against the three families, and the money used to rebuild what the orcs had destroyed.
From what Fletcher had heard, the Cavells were left penniless, and had last been seen on a ship to Swazulu, carrying nothing more than the clothes on their backs.
Better still, the Beartooth Mountains, which covered half of Lord Faversham’s lands and all of Didric’s, had been gifted to the dwarves as compensation for the Triumvirate’s crimes against them. Already, dwarven colonies were springing up along its peaks, with new homes carved deep into the rock.
As for Lord Forsyth and Inquisitor Rook, both were imprisoned in Corcillum’s dungeons, to live out the rest of their lives in captivity. Fletcher considered it a fitting end for the pair, though far better than they deserved.
Othello’s smile turned into a grin, and he put an arm around Fletcher’s shoulders as they walked towards the Foxes’ old training ground.
But something was different now, emerging from the landscape beyond it. The ruin of the Raleigh mansion had been transformed, rebuilt by the townsfolk of Raleighshire while Fletcher had recovered from his wounds. Even the lawns had been cleared of debris.
‘Bloody hell, nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Othello?’ Cress joked.
‘I haven’t actually been in there yet,’ Fletcher said.
‘Why not?’ Sylva asked.
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘He’s mad,’ Cress said. ‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it.’
‘As his best mate, I get first rights to it,’ Othello joked.
‘Bugger that,’ Cress said. ‘I’m gonna go choose my room.’
Fletcher grinned as Othello and Cress raced towards the old mansion.
‘You’d better hurry, before all the good ones are gone,’ Fletcher joked, turning to Sylva.
She smiled faintly, her eyes on the horizon.
‘You know, I should get going,’ she said, unrolling a summoning scroll from a pocket in her dress. ‘My father needs me on the southern border. The elves are holding it while Hominum rebuilds its army.’
‘So soon?’ Fletcher asked, his heart sinking. ‘The whole orc army fled when they saw Khan’s Dragon fall. They don’t believe in the prophecy any more.’
‘They’ve started raiding again,’ Sylva replied, shaking her head regretfully. ‘There’s an army of leaderless orcs across the frontier. They don’t know anything else – they’ve been raised to fight. This war isn’t over.’
She caught Fletcher’s crestfallen expression, and paused. She leaned in, and kissed him on the lips.
Fletcher was so surprised, he didn’t even have time to react. Not before Lysander materialised, and she had jumped astride the Griffin with an agile leap.
‘I’ll come visit you,’ she said softly.
Then she was gone, disappearing into the sky.
Fletcher watched her ruefully, not allowing himself to hope, yet grinning all the same. She was unreadable, but time would tell. For now, he was just happy to be alive. To be free of the weight of Hominum’s future.
A horse neighed. Fletcher turned and saw a carriage wheeling its way on to the lawn, leaving deep tracks in the neatly trimmed grass.
‘That’s going to leave a mark,’ Fletcher groaned.
He jogged up to it.
‘You’re too late,’ Fletcher called to the driver on the coach box. ‘If you’re quick you might catch them on their way to Corcillum.’
He pointed down the street as the carriage door swung open. Berdon stepped out, a bashful grin on his face.
‘Sorry, son,’ Berdon said, giving him a friendly hug. ‘Forgot they’d done up the place.’
‘I don’t care about the lawn; I care that you’ve missed the whole thing,’ Fletcher said. ‘You know, whatever business you had could’ve waited. There’s not even any cake left – Cress ate it all.’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Berdon said, smiling down at him. ‘It couldn’t wait, actually. There’s someone who wants to meet you.’
But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Because a woman had stepped out of the carriage.
Alice. His mother.
He stared, not understanding. Her eyes. It was as if she was looking straight at him. He took a hesitant step forward.
‘Fletcher?’ she said, hesitantly.
‘Go on, son,’ Berdon said, giving him a gentle push.
Then tears were running down Fletcher’s face, and she was there, hugging him to her chest. It was as if a dam had burst within him, flooding him with joy. After all these years, everything he had been through … he had his mother back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Fletcher pulled away and looked at her. He touched her cheek, hardly able to believe she was real.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’m here now. You’re here now.’
She smiled through her tears.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking him by the hand.
They walked towards the mansion, Berdon waving him on with a booming laugh that filled the air.
Fletcher had never been so happy.
Because, finally, he was home.