39
The ruins of the old mansion were more broken than the rest of the town. Building stones from the explosion during his parents’ last battle were strewn across what was once the lawn, now wild with shrubs and tangled weeds. Half of the front of the mansion was missing, revealing the stone flooring of the second storey.
‘I saw this place once,’ Fletcher said as they picked their way to the gaping hole. ‘An infusion dream from Athena’s memory.’
Sir Caulder said nothing, instead sitting heavily on the ragged edge of the entrance. He stared blankly at the wreckage around them, his eyes seeming to settle on the remains of a staircase that wound halfway to the second floor.
‘How did you survive it?’ Fletcher asked, sitting beside him. ‘They say all the bodies were taken by the orcs and …’ He trailed off, remembering the fate that had awaited his father’s body.
‘An orc saved me,’ Sir Caulder said, then caught Fletcher’s expression and shook his head. ‘Its body, anyway. He was a big bugger, covered me completely. When the Celestial Corps arrived a few hours later, they found me there, flew me out before the orcs came back. Too late for my arm and leg, but they saved my life.’
Sir Caulder sighed and stared into the distance.
‘I wish I’d had a chance to see your mother, Fletcher,’ Sir Caulder murmured, so quiet Fletcher had to strain to hear. ‘I need to apologise to her. I didn’t stop them. Didn’t save Edmund.’
Fletcher shook his head and patted the old man on the shoulder.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for. They were betrayed, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.’
At the mention of his father, Fletcher tried to picture the dark-haired man he had seen so briefly in that dream. Then he realised he didn’t have to remember. There was a painting, still hanging above an ancient fireplace on the left side of the room.
He hurried over to it, amazed at its condition. There was his father, Edmund, stubble-chinned and tousle-haired, his swarthy arms wrapped around Alice. She was smiling with joy, clutching a newborn baby in her arms. Himself.
‘My god. How is this still here?’ Sir Caulder breathed. ‘They commissioned it on the day of your birth.’
Fletcher reached out to touch the baby’s forehead. The faintest hint of a slippery barrier met his finger before it touched the canvas. Then he noticed. Corundum crystals, embedded around the edge of the painting. All these years, they had powered a weak barrier spell that had kept it safe from the ravages of time, wind, heat and rain. The expense would have been immense. This must have been his parents’ most prized possession.
It hit him then. The loss of it all. To have grown up without the love of his parents. Without the knowledge of this beautiful, wild land. What would life have been like if Lord Forysth had not betrayed them? His thoughts turned to his mother, an empty shell of the woman she once was. She looked so happy in the painting.
He felt his eyes water, and fought the tears.
‘It looks just like you,’ came a voice from behind them. Berdon.
Berdon was staring at the painting, his face filled with sadness.
‘Exactly like you. I remember when I held you for the first time … how happy I was,’ he said. ‘To think … that you had just lost your family. I’m so sorry, son.’
‘I lost a family,’ Fletcher said, smiling through his tears and hugging the bluff blacksmith close. ‘But I gained a new one, thanks to you. You have nothing to apologise for. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.’
For a moment they held each other, and Sir Caulder wandered off, wiping at his eyes when he thought they weren’t looking.
Finally, Berdon released him.
‘The soldiers are back,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’ve found somewhere to camp.’
It was a church. The stained-glass windows were gone, but the ceiling and roofs were made from arched stone, standing the test of time to leave a stable covering over their heads. The benches had remained dry and out of the brunt of the wind, so they remained serviceable. Other than some wayward weeds and the detritus of dead leaves that had blown in through the windows, it was as good a shelter as any for the colonists to make camp in.
Sir Caulder had showed them an old well as they walked back, which would be useable once it was cleared of the animal remains and rotting vegetation that had made their way in over the years.
Their main concern was food – what had seemed like plenty to Fletcher was barely enough to last them a few more meals at most, for one hundred and thirty-five people easily consumed the two barrels of salt pork and venison that the dwarves had brought with them.
For now, though, Fletcher’s main priority was setting up the shelter and solving more pressing concerns. He ordered spare sheets of canvas to be placed over the window holes. The dust was removed with old brooms found in nearby houses, and pillows and bedding were laid out for the sleepy colonists.
The boars and goats were tied up in the stables, for the surrounding countryside would be too full of predators to allow them to roam free – hyenas, jackals and big cats had been spotted nearby. Villagers were sent to cut fodder from the long grasses around the camp, while nuts and roots were gathered and tugged from the ground for the hungry boars. The chickens were left in their cages and fed with the sparse handfuls of seeds that could be gathered from local wheatgrass.
A meal had to be cooked, with three cauldrons boiling a simple broth of salt meat and chopped tubers to stave off the hunger. Sentries were organised to watch for predators, and poleaxes were cleaned and oiled after the night’s work. Sleeping spaces were divided, introductions hastily made and forgotten just as quickly.
Endless questions were asked, nearly all of which Fletcher had no answer for. Only the stern support of Sir Caulder and Berdon’s calming presence kept him from losing his patience.
It was late afternoon by the time the wagons had been emptied and organised, and all the crucial tasks were completed.
And then, as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, the colonists finally slept.