The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(36)
‘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.