15
Just inside the entrance, two elves stood against the walls, barring the way with their swords, each as long as a spear.
Fletcher recognised them from his blacksmithing days as falx swords, made up of an unusually long handle that could be gripped with two hands and an even longer meandering blade, shaped like the end of a bow.
The curved edge gave them an axe-like quality, with the long handle giving the sword extra leverage for swinging and parrying. They were fearsome blades, and if he remembered correctly, they were the chosen weapons of the elven people.
‘It’s OK, let them through.’ Sylva’s voice came from the darkness beyond.
She stepped out of the shadows. Fletcher was surprised to see that she had her own falx strapped to her back, as well as a supple bow and loaded quiver. Her hair, usually loose and flowing, was now knotted into an oiled, single braid that fell over her shoulder and down to her navel, with a jade stone set on the end to weigh it down.
But what drew Fletcher’s eye most was not her weapons, but the lamellar armour she wore. It was made up of hundreds of rectangular pieces of leather, each one pierced in four corners and laced to those around it. It hugged her body closely, flexing and loosening with each step she took towards them. Her limbs were protected by thigh, shin, shoulder and wrist guards, and the entire ensemble had been lacquered to shine dark green.
‘Well, we are here for a war council.’ She blushed with a rueful smile, seeing Fletcher’s admiration.
Harold gave her a respectful nod and walked on, through the darkness of the passageway and into a room lit by flickering torches. Sylva followed behind without a backwards glance.
The room was as large as the dining hall at Vocans, with a domelike ceiling and walls completely bare but for the entrance they had walked through, and a few dozen torches. In the middle of the room was a large, round table of polished wood, with a strange, cloth-covered object as tall as a man in its centre. The table was surrounded by high-backed seats, each with a standard affixed above it. Most were occupied – some by men and women, others by elves and, closest to Fletcher, dwarves. They had all turned to look at the newcomers. Fletcher shrank under their gaze.
‘Fletcher, your seat is here,’ whispered a familiar voice. Othello’s face peeked out from behind one of the chairs, his clipped beard strange compared to the row of grizzled dwarves to his right. He grinned as Fletcher broke into a smile, but held a finger to his lips.
Fletcher looked at the seat beside Othello, to find the blue and silver insignia of the Raleighs on the standard above it. It was so strange to suddenly have a history, even a family crest. He knew he would never grow accustomed to it – not least because it had a Manticore emblazoned across the centre. He took a tentative seat as both Sylva and King Harold walked around to find their places.
Harold sat down to Fletcher’s left, in between Alfric, Zacharias and Lady Faversham, who were carefully avoiding Fletcher’s eyes. There were four generals with lamb-chop sideburns and thick moustaches sitting closest to the elves. They sat with ramrod backs and stared straight ahead.
A hawkish noblewoman Fletcher did not recognise nodded to him. She was thickset and sported red hair shot with silver. Beside her a dark-skinned nobleman completed the human contingent, though he only stared at Fletcher beneath hooded eyes. Fletcher found it hard to believe that he was now as highborn as these nobles were, and was considered their equal.
To think, just a few hours ago he had been thought a common murderer, condemned to a brutal death. He felt a shudder of horror pass through him, and within him, Ignatius’s consciousness squirmed at his discomfort.
Athena did not react at all. Perhaps his father had trained her not to allow her emotions to cloud his own.
To his right, Othello, Uhtred and five white-haired dwarves sat in stony silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. It seemed the father and son had been made elders in the past year, perhaps for their respective contributions to the alliance with Hominum, or the high standing they held among their peers.
There were ten elves, including Sylva, who must have been representing her clan chieftain father. All were high elves and all but three were female. Each of them wore the same heavy armour Sylva did, though the colouring varied to match the banners above their chairs.
‘Well, now that we are all here, let us begin,’ King Harold announced in a loud, clear voice, banging his fist on the table for attention.
Fletcher was stunned by the change in the man. His voice had taken on an edge and his authority suddenly weighed heavily on the room.
‘We have three problems to solve today. The first, and most pressing, is the morale problem – among dwarves, men and elves alike.’
He pointed at Sylva and softened his tone.
‘You elves delayed our alliance for almost a year, because you were angry at the injuries Sylva sustained in our end of year Tournament, and at the hands of a council member’s son, no less. This animosity remains, in both wood elf and high elf alike. Do I tell a lie?’ he asked.
‘No, you are quite right,’ Sylva said, standing and looking at the other chieftains. ‘Though I have done my best to explain that all the students were put at equal risk.’
‘Quite so,’ Harold said, waving his hand for her to retake her seat. Sylva narrowed her eyes as Zacharias and Alfric exchanged amused glances, but sat back down. Harold was an excellent actor.
‘As for the dwarves, the terror attacks by the Anvils have caused much hatred between our peoples. I tried to assuage dwarven anger by rescinding the population and property laws, but it has had little effect,’ the king continued.
‘What use is being allowed to own our own land if your nobles will not sell to us?’ one of the dwarven elders asked in a quavering voice.
‘If they own the land, it is not my decision who they sell or rent it to,’ Harold replied. ‘Most nobles are reluctant to part with their lands at the best of times. I am no tyrant, they can do as they wish.’
‘The population laws are little use when our menfolk are away training,’ Uhtred added. ‘Fewer dwarven children have been sired this year than any other.’
Harold sighed loudly, then moved on, ignoring him.
‘Humans have their own reasons to hate the elves, after the expensive war you forced us into. If this gets any worse, there will be infighting among our soldiers. Dwarves, men and elves, at each other’s throats. A disaster that could lose us the entire war. Do you agree that this is a serious problem?’
There were nods of assent from around the table.
‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ Harold said, easing himself back into his seat. ‘The next two problems can be explained better by another. Lord Forsyth, if you please.’
Zacharias stood and turned to the entrance.
‘Send in the boy!’ he shouted.
There was the rasp of blades being uncrossed, then a dark-haired young man stumbled into the room. He was skinny as a rake, so much so that his garments hung from him like a ship’s sails on a windless day. His eyes were sunken, and he was tanned a deep, dark brown, as if he had been working in the sun all his life.
‘Freshly escaped from an orc internment camp,’ Zacharias said, dragging the boy into the torchlight. ‘Fourteen when he joined up, fifteen when captured and sixteen now. For two years he’s been one of their slaves, carrying their firewood, catching their fish, building their monuments, making their weapons.’
The boy avoided the watchers’ eyes, instead looking at his feet.
‘Like a gremlin, but bigger, weren’t you?’ Zacharias barked, making the boy jump. ‘Go on, speak up.’
The boy opened his mouth, but all that came out was a nonsensical stammer. Zacharias slapped him on the back of his head, and the boy cringed.
‘To think you were once a Forsyth Fury. Snivelling wretch! Speak or I’ll beat it out of you!’
He raised his hand threateningly and the boy spoke, the words tripping over his tongue in his rush to get them out, his accent as thick and common as Fletcher had ever heard.
‘There were ten of us, doin’ the ’eavy liftin’ when the gremlins couldn’t manage it, sire. Me and nine other lads. But there was another. A woman. Noble, I reckoned. Older too. Ain’t never got a good look at ’er – the orcs kept us away from ’er cage mostly. ’Alf starved, she was. Never said a dicky, not even when I snuck ’er some food. Gone mad, bein’ alone so long. But ’er clothes. Officer’s uniform, from the old days. That’s ’ow I knew she was one of your lot.’
There were whispers from the nobles, then the red-haired noblewoman stood and spoke in a soft, lilting voice.
‘Elizabeth Cavendish. It must be her. She and her demon, a Peryton, went down behind enemy lines twelve years ago. Ophelia, could it be?’
Lady Faversham looked up, for she had been in deep thought.
‘You are right, Boudica. I never saw Elizabeth killed; it was the Peryton that was struck by the javelin. She could be alive, though she fell from a great height. I only wish I had been able to fly to her aid, but the Wyvern riders were in full pursuit. Perhaps they kept her. Tortured her. To discover our secrets.’
‘Rufus’s mother,’ Othello whispered.
Fletcher remembered the small, mousy-haired boy from Vocans who had followed Tarquin Forsyth around like a lost puppy. His mother, a noblewoman, was thought dead, while his father was a commoner.
‘We cannot allow her to remain in orc hands. It would be unseemly, to leave one of our own out there. She was popular among commoners and nobles alike, thanks to her marriage to that common servant.’ Disdain dripped from Ophelia Faversham’s words and she curled her lip. ‘It would do well for morale, and her two sons, if we were to rescue her.’
‘Exactly,’ Harold agreed. ‘Well said, Ophelia.’
An elven woman stood. She was powerfully built, with a strong jaw and hair so finely braided that the strands hung in dreadlocks around her head.
‘This noblewoman is no concern of ours. Save this for your own council meeting.’
Her voice was heavily accented, but clear enough.
‘Please, Chief Cerva,’ Harold implored. ‘A victory for Hominum is a victory for all. Are we not in this together?’
Cerva stared back, unimpressed.
‘We will not risk elven lives on a foolhardy rescue mission, if that is what you ask of us,’ she stated simply.
‘It is nothing like that, I assure you. Please, allow us to present our plan, and if afterwards you are dissatisfied, we shall assuage your doubts.’
Cerva returned to her seat, but kept her arms crossed.
Harold paused then, allowing silence to settle over the room.
‘Our next problem is perhaps the most shocking. Something new. Something that could spell doom for us all, allied or not. Lord Raleigh, would you be so kind as to remove the cloth from the container there?’
It took a few moments for Fletcher to realise Harold was speaking to him. Lord Raleigh. Was he ever going to get used to that? He stared at the object for a moment then, realising he had no other option, climbed on to the table.
The wood creaked underfoot and there was a mutter of annoyance from one of the elves, but he eventually reached the cloth-covered cylinder. He gripped the sheet and tugged it away, hearing the slosh of water from within as the cylinder rocked on its base. He did not know what he had expected to see, but the cries of disgust from the room echoed his own.
A creature lay within.