57
The world was filled with the dead and the dying. Fletcher did not look down as he staggered back to the safety of the wall, and tried to ignore the shrieks of the wounded as the Gremlins went about their work, finishing off the survivors. His men followed, dazed by their victory. Some limped, others groaned from their wounds, but none were mortally injured.
In his scrying crystal, Fletcher could see the goblins were in full retreat, running past the orcs despite the cruel whips that beat at them. No more than a handful remained on the field of battle, staring at the corpse-laden gap between the rock walls of the mountain.
And then Fletcher saw him, his eyes refocusing past the crystal. A still figure, sitting with his back pressed against the wall. Rory.
The boy was staring vacantly, a mild smile upon his face. His hands were clutched around his stomach, where blood had spread across the green cloth of his uniform.
‘Rory,’ Genevieve uttered, dropping her sword and running to his side. She shook him, tears streaming down her face. ‘No, no, no, no.’
She repeated the word, slapping his face, at first gently, then harder as she tried to bring him back to life. Fletcher kneeled beside her and pulled her away, taking her hands in his.
‘He’s gone,’ Fletcher said, hugging her close. He was almost unable to believe his own words.
He had not seen Rory in this last battle. His mind flashed back to the young officer, staggering ahead of him after the battle with the Phantaur.
Rory must have been injured in the fight. If he had known it, he could have healed him. But now it was too late.
Was this his fault?
‘He … he didn’t tell me he was hurt,’ Fletcher whispered, unable to look away from Rory’s face.
Sir Caulder crouched beside them, and closed the boy’s eyes with a gentle hand.
‘Come away now,’ he said, pulling them both up. ‘Let’s leave him be.’
But Genevieve wouldn’t. She slid down the wall beside him, and took his hand in hers once again.
‘He’s still warm,’ she said, stroking it.
Sir Caulder sniffed, and Fletcher saw a glimmer of a tear in his eye. The Foxes gathered around, their heads bowed.
‘He died fighting for his country,’ Fletcher said, the words struggling to come past the lump in his throat. ‘And he was a braver man than I. Let’s make sure that he did not die in vain.’
As Genevieve’s sobs began, Fletcher turned away. It was only minutes later, when the troops had left them, that he allowed himself to cry.
Two hours ticked by. Half the orcs remained, along with a hundred goblins, scattered across the canyon. They used their shields to shade themselves from the sun above, waiting for their next orders.
The Foxes used the time to sharpen their blades once again, but other than that all they could do was rest and take turns watching the goblins, halfway up the watchtower’s pathway.
Ignatius was infused, as there was no mana left for him to self-heal and the javelin wounds were deep in the Drake’s haunches and back. Fletcher thanked him with a kiss upon the demon’s beak.
He took on the demon’s pain, as Ignatius disappeared within him.
As for Genevieve, she remained by Rory, her eyes blazing with anger as her Mites continued their search across what she told Fletcher was a frantic battle along the front lines, filled with gunfire and the screams of the dying.
So Fletcher waited at the wall, watching the proceedings through his scrying crystal. There was nothing else he could do, but hope.
‘Maybe the orcs’ve run away,’ Logan said, spitting over the wall. ‘Could’ve scared ’em off.’
‘Not a chance,’ Fletcher replied, taking a deep gulp of water from his hip flask. ‘The Phantaur saw how few of us there were before it died, which means the shaman knows it too. They won’t give up. Let’s just hope that Genevieve gets a message through. The Celestial Corps could be here in time, if we’re lucky.’
Even as he spoke, a noise echoed through the canyon – a horn, being blown long and hard. It was deep and loud, reverberating the walls that surrounded them. Fletcher felt a burst of fear pulsing through Athena in a frantic warning. He looked in the pink overlay of his scrying crystal.
Hundreds upon hundreds of goblins were emerging from the jungle’s edge. Hyenas prowled through their ranks, accompanied by their orc masters. The first wave of goblins had been herded back, and worse still, Fletcher could see red-eyed specimens smattered throughout the masses. The enemies they had just routed were coming back, caught up in the horde that had returned to the battlefield.
‘What is it?’ Mason called out. The Cleft was so choked with bodies, they could not see the gathering storm that was bearing down on them.
Fletcher would not lie to them. They had no ammunition. No more gunpowder, no more tricks. They could not survive this next onslaught. They would barely slow it down, before the goblins flooded into Raleighshire.
He looked at his brave soldiers, who had fought a force that had outnumbered them a hundred to one. Who had faced down an army designed to bring all of Hominum to their knees, and beaten them back time and again.
And he saw Rory’s still face, and the line of tent-covered bodies beyond. He could not ask his men to die, not in a battle they could not win. They had already given him so much.
‘They’re coming, and we’re leaving,’ Fletcher said. ‘Logan, Kobe – bring the wagon up here. Throw out the food and put the bodies of our Foxes on there. Leave the Forsyth Furies, there’s no room for them now.’
The two soldiers snapped into action, running pell-mell down the canyon. Fletcher walked over to Rory and gently lifted him on to his shoulder. He called after the Foxes as they stumbled over the walls.
‘I want the injured and the gremlins on the wagon too, we’ll be running for Watford Bridge.’
In the crystal, Fletcher could see the goblins gathering for the attack. The orcs were in no rush, waiting as more and more goblins streamed through the jungles, hyenas snapping at their heels. He counted the seconds, knowing that every moment was another few steps ahead of the oncoming horde. Would they make it? The wagon was a blessing and a curse, able to transport those unable to walk, but likely slower than they could run. It would be a mad, two-hour sprint to Watford Bridge, if they stuck to the roads.
As he considered their predicament their transport arrived, Logan snapping the reins at the two boars at its head. Fletcher allowed Genevieve to take Rory’s body to the wagon, unable to refuse her grief-stricken gaze as she held out her arms for it.
‘You’ve done more than anyone could ask,’ Sir Caulder said, wrapping his good arm around Fletcher’s shoulders. ‘Your parents would be proud of the man you’ve become.’
Fletcher watched as the last of Rotherham’s men made their way down from the platform. It was time.
‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference,’ Fletcher said, kicking at the dirt with his feet. ‘We’ll be lucky if they don’t catch up with us. You’d better get on the wagon. With your leg …’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Sir Caulder said, giving Fletcher a grim smile. ‘I’m not going.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher asked, half listening as he watched the wounded and the gremlins clamber into the back of the wagon.
‘I’ve got a score to settle,’ Sir Caulder said, hefting his blade.
‘Sir Caul—’
‘No,’ the old soldier said, cutting him off. ‘This is where I belong. I failed Raleighshire once. Never again. I’ll hold them off, give my lads a chance to escape.’
‘You’ll never hold them off alone, you silly bag o’ bones,’ came Rotherham’s voice from behind him. ‘There’s two ways in past that corpse.’
Sir Caulder growled.
‘Listen Rotter, this isn’t the time for—’
‘So I guess I’d better stay with you,’ the grizzled sergeant interrupted, drawing his sword. He looked at it and smiled fondly.
‘You sold me this sword, Fletcher. Funny that, eh? How things change.’
‘Listen, there’s no time for this madness,’ Fletcher snapped.
‘Then you’d better get goin’ then,’ Rotherham said, ‘because we won’t be changin’ our minds. Go on, or it’ll all be for nought.’
Fletcher opened his mouth to yell at them, but then he saw the stubborn look in the old men’s eyes. It was useless arguing with them.
‘I … don’t know what to say,’ he managed.
Sir Caulder stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. His body felt so frail beneath the cloth of his uniform.
‘Look after the place when I’m gone, eh lad?’ he said, rubbing a knuckle against Fletcher’s cheek. ‘You’re your father’s son. It’s been an honour.’
Then he stomped away, his sword thrumming the air.
‘See you on the other side, kid,’ Rotherham said. ‘One last battle for me and that grumpy bugger. We’ll make it one for the books.’
‘I won’t let anyone forget it,’ Fletcher said, smiling through his tears.
‘See that you don’t,’ Rotherham growled, giving him an encouraging wink.
Then he too was gone, whistling a jaunty tune.
Fletcher watched the pair for a moment, striding resolutely towards their final stand. Then he turned away.
‘Right, Foxes,’ Fletcher said, wiping his face dry. ‘Let’s get out of here!’