58
They ran. They ran until their chests burned with the dry air of the savannah, stumbling over the uneven ground towards Raleightown, the rattle of the wagon’s wheels ringing in their ears.
Fletcher had left Athena in the rocks above the Cleft, to let them know just how far the goblins were behind. He did his best not to look at the two forlorn figures waiting with their swords drawn below. Yet still the orcs waited, allowing their ranks to swell with the reinforcements that continued to emerge from the jungles. Soon there were so many that they had expanded beyond the first row of stakes in the ground, and were well on their way to the second. As many as three thousand goblins could be gathered there – an army that could raze Corcillum to the ground if given the chance.
Half an hour had passed when Fletcher and his soldiers stumbled through the empty, cobbled streets of Raleightown and on to the dirt path on the other side. But just as Fletcher felt a surge of relief that the settlement had been deserted, it happened. The goblins began their attack.
They had learned their lesson. The orcs sent a scouting party first, twenty odd goblins that walked with fearful steps into the corpse-laden Cleft.
‘Come on, you ugly runts!’ Athena heard Rotherham yell faintly, and Fletcher smiled bitterly.
He could not watch, but heard the goblins shriek as they discovered the two lone swordsmen waiting for them.
‘Got the blighter,’ Sir Caulder barked, as a hard fight began in the narrow confines of the Cleft.
Fletcher let his eyes stray from the crystal. The sun was ending its long journey down towards the horizon. Had that much time really gone by? Perhaps the battle had been lost, and thousands of orcs were streaming across Hominum. And where were Berdon and the rest of his colonists? Had they made it safely back to Corcillum – or had they left too late, and were only a few miles ahead of them?
Even as the cries of the goblins reverberated in his head, Fletcher’s heart dropped. Just behind a copse of trees, a great convoy of wagons could be seen. And it wasn’t moving.
‘What the hell are you still doing here!’ Fletcher yelled hoarsely, running ahead of his soldiers.
He could see Berdon there, his red hair flaming in the dusk light. The big man was crouched behind the back of the rearmost wagon, surrounded by a dozen colonists.
Fletcher’s father’s eyes widened as he took in Fletcher’s bloodied, soot-stained clothes. Then Fletcher was wrapped in a great bear hug, so tight that his ribs felt they would crack under the strain. He patted Berdon’s back frantically, until the affectionate bear of a man allowed his feet to return to the ground once more.
‘You’re alive,’ Berdon said, wiping a tear from his eye.
‘Not for long, if we don’t get a move on,’ Fletcher said, resisting the urge to cry himself. ‘You should be in Corcillum by now.’
The colonists around them muttered darkly under their breaths.
‘It’s the wagons,’ Berdon said, kicking the nearby carriage with a grunt of frustration. ‘Somebody came by last night and sawed most of the way through the axles. We were lucky to get this far at all before they started breaking. Yours is the only one unharmed, because we were loading it up that evening.’
‘Didric,’ Fletcher breathed. ‘He sabotaged us, to cripple our trade.’
‘Aye,’ Berdon said, leaning closer to Fletcher. ‘The spiteful little git. And now these fools won’t leave. Not without their belongings.’
Fletcher turned to the colonists. More had gathered round at the sight of the exhausted soldiers. Fletcher saw the children, and the elderly among them. Too many to fit on his wagon.
‘Listen to me,’ Fletcher said, his eyes boring into theirs as he swept his gaze through the gathered men and women. ‘In less than an hour, thousands of goblins will be spreading across the land. Sir Caulder and Rotherham have stayed behind to hold them off. Their sacrifice will give us mere minutes. I will not let them die while we waste their last gift to us arguing over your possessions. We are leaving. Anyone who wants to stay can do so. Hell, you’d be doing us a favour – killing you would slow them down.’
He knew his words were harsh, but the truth rang loud with every syllable.
‘Those that cannot keep up will join the wounded in our wagon – elders, children. The rest of you, leave everything but the clothes on your backs. Now come on!’
The soldiers had caught up by now, and the wagon barely stopped as the elderly and youngest children were loaded on, through the back. With the added weight, the boars strained at their traces, and the vehicle moved slowly along the ground, more slowly than Fletcher would have liked.
Already the gremlins were leaping out to lighten the load, scampering alongside easily enough, even with their short legs.
‘Swap out our boars with a fresh pair,’ he ordered Gallo as the wagon trundled on to the grass, the dirt road blocked by the crippled convoy. ‘And bring along as many as you can, and let the slowest ride them. We’ll need to swap them out with the wagon regularly if we want to reach Corcillum.’
The noise of battle was thick in his mind, and then Athena was swooping dizzily from the rocks above. Ten goblins were limping away from the channel, while Sir Caulder, bloodied but triumphant, held his sword aloft in salute to the Gryphowl. Rotherham leaned heavily on the Phantaur’s side, clutching a wound in his thigh, but grinning as he yelled over the demon’s bulk.
The horn sounded again, so loud that Fletcher winced as the noise reverberated around his skull. And then the hordes charged across the canyon, trampling over the retreating band of scouts they had sent before.
‘No,’ Fletcher breathed, as Athena circled above.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, but could not tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in the crystal at his eye.
Twice more the goblins charged, and again and again the enemy were hurled back by the veterans’ skill and courage. An invading army, stoppered in the bottleneck to an empire by two brave old men. Fletcher’s heart swelled with pride, even as tendrils of despair began to take hold. It couldn’t last.
Goblins were climbing over the Phantaur’s corpse, hurling javelins and spears, forcing the embattled men to retreat. The two men fought back to back, their swords flashing and jabbing, sending goblin after goblin to their deaths as the squealing masses pressed in. An orc shouldered his way through and lashed his whip at their feet, tugging Rotherham to his knees.
Sir Caulder hurled his sword, skewering the orc in its throat. Then he stiffened, a spear going deep into his back.
‘It’s time to leave, Athena,’ Fletcher whispered, ordering the Gryphowl away.
He caught one last glimpse of the two men, surrounded by the baying hordes. Sir Caulder on his knees, Rotherham beside him, his sword raised in defiance. A howl of victory from the goblins as they crowded in.
Then they were out of sight.
Fletcher felt the bitter tears stream down his face, even as Berdon silently put his arm around his shoulders.
‘They’re gone,’ Fletcher said.
His two friends had died fighting – and Raleighshire had fallen.