47
They buried Rabbit under the training ground, laying the broken body six feet beneath the earth and leaving Jakov’s sword beside him. No words were spoken, but tears were shed, even by the gruffest dwarves.
The little fox’s death had been an act of meaningless cruelty, and it had taken all of Fletcher’s reasoning to prevent the soldiers from going after Didric’s men. But the enemy had the numbers, and would be waiting for them. That, and the fact that Fletcher could not justify a costly battle for the sake of a single animal’s life, beloved pet or not.
Still, the fox’s death had united them in grief. Dwarves, humans and elves mourned together, commiserating and telling stories about their lost friend. Ignatius returned with an impala clutched in his claws, and they roasted it over a fire and supped on jackalberry beer. That night, drunk and full of food, the soldiers sang songs of sorrow from their respective lands. All the while, Fletcher watched from the barracks with his officers and sergeants. They could not partake – it wouldn’t be right.
‘Let them bond,’ Rotherham had said. ‘They don’t need an officer ruining their night.’
So instead, Fletcher began preparations for the next day.
Training was over. Didric’s men would be expecting Forsyth’s troops; Athena had followed them back to their camp beside Watford Bridge, where they waited behind a hastily constructed barricade.
If Fletcher’s trade convoys were to make it to Corcillum, Didric’s men would need to leave, and that meant fetching Lord Forsyth’s soldiers.
They would need to go to the pass, and soon. But they needed supplies. So Fletcher and his officers secured a wagon from their small fleet. Berdon was tasked with reinforcing the wheels to handle the bumpy terrain, and in the meantime they organised everything they might need.
Barrels of salted antelope meat and water were taken from the stores, along with canvas tents, cooking utensils, oilcloths to keep weapons from rusting and whetstones to keep them sharp. They secured a spare barrel of gunpowder that Seraph had sent them, with cartridge paper, musket-ball moulds and bars of lead from Berdon, all for the production of their own ammunition.
They took two goats for milk, and four of their clutch of chickens were put in makeshift wooden cages to provide a regular supply of eggs. Bushels of fruit were added, and not just jackalberries, but the other fruit that the townsfolk had begun to cultivate; horned cucumbers – spiky yellow on the outside, but inside a sweet dark-green pulp that tasted of lime, papaya and banana all at once; giant breadfruit that grew like hairy, pimpled melons as large as an orc’s head. There were even a few baskets of durian fruit that stunk like death but tasted unexpectedly sweet – the fruit had, unsurprisingly, not sold well in Corcillum, so Fletcher took their entire supply.
And there was one other, more secret task that Fletcher gave Thaissa, one she would need to work through the night to complete in time. But it would be worth it.
The next morning, the troops were paraded out on the training ground, and watched by the townsfolk, who had gathered to wish them goodbye. They were packed and ready to go, leather satchels and weapons strapped to their backs, uniforms cleaned and brushed. Each and every one of them looked lean and eager, like hunting dogs straining at the leash.
Rory and Genevieve stood proudly at the heads of their squads, with Rotherham and his small band of riflemen at the back, and Sir Caulder at the front, ready to act as drillmaster. An immense gratitude swelled in Fletcher’s chest – to have the honour of leading such men.
He took a deep breath, for the words that he had so carefully prepared over the long night seemed to waver in his head. Last night he had berated them. Now, he would need to unify them.
‘I am proud of what we have achieved here,’ Fletcher said, standing in front of them with his hands behind his back. ‘You are now the elite, soldiers I would be proud to lead into the heart of orcdom itself. For that, I thank you.’
The troops stood silent, their chests puffed, eyes straight ahead. A scatter of applause began from the townsfolk, but Fletcher was not finished.
‘Today, we shall head to our new encampment, on the border between the orc jungles and the place we have come to call home. There, we shall prepare for our long vigil to keep not only Raleighshire safe, but the entirety of Hominum. For we defend the gateway to an empire.’
Fletcher turned and pointed into the distance.
‘Out there beyond the horizon, no more than a day’s ride away, lies Corcillum. Thousands of innocents, going about their daily lives. You are the thin line that keeps them safe from the savage hordes on our southern border. I can think of none better to fight in that endeavour.’
Smiles now, even the hint of one from Dalia herself. He knew he was being dramatic, but he meant every word of it.
‘But what are we to call ourselves?’ Fletcher asked, pointing at his uniform. ‘We go to collect a contingent of Forsyth Furies. Yesterday we were accosted by the men Didric calls his wardens. So, who are we?’
Even as he spoke, Thaissa was hurrying towards him from up the street. He saw the furrowing of brows from the men, even the hesitant twitch of their lips as they bit back a response to his question.
Thaissa handed him a roll of cloth, attached to a pole. She curtsied and backed away, whispering,
‘I did the best with what I had, only we didn’t have green left.’
‘I’m sure it’s great, Thaissa, thank you,’ Fletcher whispered back.
With a flourish, he unravelled the cloth with a sweep from the pole, allowing a flag to unfurl and flutter in the breeze.
‘People of Raleightown, I give you … the Foxes!’ Fletcher announced, and was relieved to hear a roar of approval from both soldiers and townsfolk as they saw Thaissa’s handiwork.
It was the first time he had seen the flag, and the result astounded him. Stitched on a cloth of rich burgundy, was the golden outline of a fennec fox, a single paw lifted, nose pointing straight as an arrow. It rippled in the wind, glorious in its detail and colour.
‘Foxes, are you ready to fight?’ Fletcher yelled, cutting short the cheers.
‘Sir, yes, sir!’ came the reply, shouted in perfect unison.
‘Sir Caulder, give the order,’ Fletcher said, forcing back a grin.
‘About turn,’ Sir Caulder barked.
Forty-two pairs of feet spun on their heels. Forty-two more stamped down.
‘Forward … march!’
And Fletcher’s heart sang with excitement.
Because Fletcher’s Foxes were on the move.