16
It hung there, suspended in a greenish liquid that continued to slosh back and forth. It had been pickled to preserve the flesh, and a ragged hole could be seen in the centre of its scrawny chest.
‘What is it?’ Cerva asked, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and curiosity. ‘A demon of some sort?’
‘No,’ Harold said gravely. ‘Not a demon. It is an aberration, a monstrosity. A strange mix of orc and gremlin, created by some dark art unknown to us.’
Fletcher examined the creature. It looked somewhat like a gremlin, for it had the same droopy, triangular ears, elongated nose and bulbous eyes. The fingers were long and nimble like a gremlin’s too, with a similar, if less exaggerated, hunch. It even wore a loincloth of the same design.
Yet it was far too large, standing at a height somewhere between a dwarf and a man. Its mouth was filled with sharp, yellow teeth, and it sported thick canines in its lower jaw that reminded Fletcher of a juvenile orc’s tusks. Its build was on the skinny side, but the cords of muscle that wrapped its limbs left no doubt that the creature was an agile fighter. The corpse’s skin, grey like an orc’s or a gremlin’s, had shrivelled slightly in the liquid.
‘We call them goblins, and they are breeding them by the thou—’ the king began, but was interrupted by Uhtred.
‘Thousands?’ the dwarf cried. ‘We are barely able to hold off the orcs as it is. Numbers were our greatest advantage!’
‘What weapons do these goblins use?’ Sylva asked, leaping on to the table so she could examine the creature more closely.
‘The same ones as orcs, so far as we know,’ King Harold said gravely. ‘Clubs studded with volcanic glass, javelins, rawhide shields, stone-tipped spears, that kind of thing. As Uhtred said, it is their numbers that worry us. Even with the addition of dwarven and elven troops, they may already outnumber us.’
‘How did you find out about them?’ Fletcher asked, his face flushing. Yet Harold answered him readily enough.
‘The boy. Boy, what’s your name?’ Harold asked, snapping his fingers. Fletcher was momentarily taken aback by Harold’s rudeness, but then realised he was still acting.
‘Mason, sire,’ the boy mumbled.
‘Mason here brought that body with him. He took one when he escaped. Clever boy, aren’t you, Mason?’
‘If you say so, your majesty,’ Mason said, lowering his head respectfully.
‘Mason tells us that he saw them spawning from eggs of all things, deep within the orcs’ jungle caves. The one you see is full-grown, one of the first specimens. Sexless beneath those loincloths.’
‘How many of these early specimens are there?’ Uhtred asked, directing his question to Mason.
‘I can’t rightly say, beggin’ your pardon, mister. Maybe a few ’undred,’ Mason said, after a few moments’ thought. ‘They mostly stay ’idden underground, tendin’ the eggs and such. Them eggs ’ave been cookin’ for a long time, ’cos the goblins come out full-grown – I’ve never seen no babies runnin’ about. Some of the eggs must be years old, from the dust and muck on ’em. Once this batch ’atch, there might not be another for while.’
‘Well, at least that’s something,’ Uhtred said.
‘Indeed.’ Harold nodded gravely. ‘Which brings me to the next part of the meeting. These eggs must be destroyed. Lady Cavendish must be rescued. Our peoples must be unified and morale improved. The question is how?’
‘Leaving aside the morale problem, we cannot mount an all-out assault on the orcs,’ Cerva said as Sylva stepped down from the table. Fletcher followed Sylva’s example, glad to be away from the pickled corpse. Cerva did not wait for him to be seated before she spoke again.
‘You need open ground for your soldiers’ muskets and the orcs would be fighting in their own territory. It would be a slaughter.’
‘I agree,’ one of the generals said. ‘Lady Faversham, can’t your flying summoners mount an assault?’
Ophelia turned to the general and gave him a withering look.
‘Mason tells us he was kept deep in the jungle. He only escaped when he was swept away by a river, using the goblin’s corpse as a flotation device. Is that not so, boy?’ She barely waited for his nod before continuing.
‘That far in, the Celestial Corps might be spotted before we were even halfway there, and the shamans would fly their Wyverns out to meet us. Their airforce is stronger than ours, though we are faster. Even if we managed to reach the target, we would only be able to land at the site for a few minutes, then fly out again before the orc shamans mobilised their Wyverns and caught us up. But there would not be nearly enough time to search the caverns, destroy several thousand goblin eggs and break out a prisoner, especially with half of Orcdom alerted to our presence.’
At her mention of Wyvern riders, Fletcher’s mind flashed to one of the long, tedious demonology lessons with Major Goodwin, where he had learned about them for the first time. They were enormous, scaled creatures, sporting two powerful legs, batlike wings, a long, spiked tail and a horned, crocodilian head. At level fifteen, they were considered the most powerful demons in the orcs’ arsenal, an exception to the belief that orc shaman demons were generally weaker than Hominum’s. There were only a dozen or so of them, but even Hominum’s Alicorns, Hippogriffs, Perytons and Griffins were no match for the fearsome beasts.
For the first time, old King Alfric spoke. Fletcher steeled himself and tried not to glare at the man who had tried to kill him.
‘My dear cousin is right,’ he said, nodding at Ophelia. ‘If we lost the Celestial Corps we would lose our only air defence. Then the Wyvern riders could run rampant without the corps to harry them if they chose to raid Hominum.’
‘So, that’s not an option,’ Harold said, though his tone suggested that he had already known this. ‘But I have a solution. It is a risky plan, one that we would need a unanimous decision on. I propose we send in four teams of graduates from Vocans – to go behind enemy lines, rescue Lady Cavendish and destroy the goblin eggs. As battlemages, they will be powerful enough to defend themselves effectively, whilst also being in small enough numbers to pass through the jungle undetected. We cannot risk our experienced officers – the soldiers need their leadership on the front lines.’
Harold paused to see the council’s reactions, but this time the silence was one of surprise rather than disinterest. Fletcher’s mind raced, contemplating the plan. It could work, true – but it was so, so dangerous.
He already had an idea of who would be sent on this fateful mission – and a kick from Othello under the table told him he wasn’t the only one. He met Sylva’s eyes across the room. Her gaze was impassive, but he could see the muscles of her jaws were clenched.
‘They will each be given a guide to lead them,’ Harold continued blithely, ‘and once they have completed their mission and are out of the caves, the Celestial Corps will fly them out of there.’
Again, silence. Harold’s carefully rehearsed speech was not having the desired effect.
‘But that’s not all,’ the king said. ‘We can unite all three races behind a common purpose. Lord Forsyth. If you would be so kind.’
Zacharias stood and removed something from his pocket, holding it up to the flickering torchlight, so that all could see. It was a purple crystal, carefully polished and cut into a flat, round gemstone.
‘Corundum crystal. Scrying stones, fulfilmeters and charging stones are all made from it. Up until a few weeks ago, it was one of the most expensive and rare elements in Hominum. No longer.’
Zacharias tossed the crystal across the table, as if it was worthless.
‘The Triumvirate invested in mining operations to supplement Hominum’s limited supplies of sulphur, the key ingredient of gunpowder. We came across a large deposit of corundum instead. Enough to put scrying crystals in every barracks, tavern and village hall across the country, with more to spare.’
If he had expected a reaction from the table he was disappointed, receiving only blank stares.
‘Congratulations,’ Sylva said, with only a touch of sarcasm.
‘Don’t you understand what this means?’ Ophelia said, surprised by their lack of interest. ‘Every person in Hominum can use the scrying crystals to see what is happening on the front lines. It could be a huge morale boost.’
‘Yes, from the perspective of only one demon for each crystal,’ Othello said. ‘And they wouldn’t be able to hear a word – only the demon’s owner could do that.’
‘But they would see elven, dwarven and human troops fighting side by side,’ Uhtred said, warming to the idea.
‘But that only helps in the long run,’ Cerva interjected. ‘The elven and dwarven troops will arrive on the front lines within a few weeks. We need to solve these racial tensions before they arrive. If we don’t, there will be infighting between our soldiers, mark my words. One tavern brawl could spiral into an all-out race war.’
‘Well that is the second part of my plan,’ Harold said, jumping to his feet and addressing the entire table. ‘The mission takes place before these troops arrive, and it shall be transmitted to human, elf and dwarf alike through the Triumvirate’s scrying stones, generously provided by Lord Forsyth here. Most importantly, with dwarven and elven graduates, our peoples will see that we are all in this together, and that orcs are the true enemy.’
Harold paused again, allowing his words to sink in.
Fletcher considered the plan. It was risky, and it could hurt more than it helped. There were no guarantees that the different races would get along during the mission – he thought back to all the race rivalry that took place at Vocans. One slip-up and there could be rioting on the streets.
‘Our three races are branches of the same tree,’ Harold said, gazing earnestly at each person around the table. ‘This could be the beginning of a new era, where man, dwarf and elf can live in peace, side by side. Never before have we had an opportunity like this. Let us seize it, together!’
‘I have a question,’ Sylva said, raising her hand. ‘Who are these graduates you speak of? The only elven summoner is … me.’
‘Yes, well … that is part of the reason why I have gathered you all here.’ Harold coughed, his bravado replaced with a sudden awkwardness, the mask slipping for the briefest of moments. ‘We are in the infancy of the diversification of Vocans. You are the only elven graduate and Othello is the only dwarven graduate.’
‘I see,’ Sylva replied, her voice pensive as she considered him carefully.
‘We would need both you and Othello to undertake this mission,’ Harold said. ‘Lord Raleigh would be another candidate; his common roots and noble heritage would appeal to the people of Hominum. That would also make it fair – one from each of our respective councils. We will also allow one first-year volunteer to join each team. It is my hope that Atilla and Cress, the two dwarven first years, will do just that.’
Silence lay thick in the room. Then whispers began, as the dwarves leaned together and discussed the proposal. There was a shaking of heads. Across the table, Fletcher heard Cerva’s angry muttering.
‘If the mission failed, it would do more harm than good,’ she growled, clasping Sylva’s forearm. ‘It’s a risky mission as it is. Your father would never forgive us if his only daughter died.’
Fletcher looked to Harold. Sweat trickled down the king’s temple, plastering golden hair to his forehead in sodden curls. He flicked his eyes to Fletcher and gave the smallest of nods.
It was time to stand and speak. But was it the right move? All he knew was that the alliance was crumbling, and the hatred between their races was near boiling point. Sooner or later, it was going to spiral out of control. One more attack from the Anvils, one more argument gone bad, even a racially charged comment could set it all off. But sometimes, doing nothing was the greatest risk of all.
‘I will do it,’ a voice said, cutting through the hushed debate. It took a moment for Fletcher to realise it was his own. He gulped as all eyes turned to him once again.
‘I am not afraid,’ he continued, standing and knuckling his fists on the table. ‘Hominum will not back down from a fight.’
He was afraid, but he knew they were the right words as soon as they had left his mouth. Cerva bridled at the unspoken accusation.
‘The elves are not afraid either,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Sylva is the best of us. I cannot speak for her, but the clans will support her decision.’
Sylva stood to face Fletcher, looking at him with a cool, calculating expression that made it clear that she would not make this decision on the basis of their friendship. Fletcher stared right back, trying to convey a confidence he did not feel.
‘The dwarves will not let you down.’ Fletcher breathed with relief as Othello growled from his right. ‘If Hominum’s people wish to see a dwarf fight the orcs, I shall be glad to show them.’
Uhtred snatched at his son’s sleeve, but it was too late, the words had been spoken. Othello gave Fletcher a grim nod, and Fletcher clasped his wrist in gratitude.
‘Agreed,’ one of the white-bearded dwarven elders said, after a quick glance at the others.
Sylva looked unmoved, her eyes flicking from Zacharias Forsyth, to Ophelia Faversham and old King Alfric. It threw a shadow of doubt over Fletcher’s heart. Whose plan was it really? Something didn’t add up. Why would Lord Forsyth give away all those valuable crystals for free, when all he cared about was profit? He didn’t care about uniting the races: the dwarves were his main competitor in the weapons industry, and a war with the elves would mean continued demand for weapons on the northern front.
Stranger still, Ophelia seemed to be supporting the decision, despite the fact that she was just as invested in the weapons industry as Zacharias. Perhaps they finally understood just how dangerous a race war would be for the safety of Hominum.
Even as Fletcher tried to wrap his head around their bizarre behaviour, Sylva finally spoke.
‘So be it.’