The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(4)
‘Keep moving,’ Didric spat, prodding him up the stairs. They spiralled upwards as they did on the inside of a dwarven home, though at intervals there were barred doors, with a guard holding them open. On and on they went, until Fletcher’s knees ached under the strain. He had tried his best to exercise in the confines of the cell, but so many months without walking or enough food had left him weak and malnourished. He did not know if he could survive another year in such conditions, let alone a lifetime.
Didric pushed him through a large set of doors at the top of the staircase and into a crowded courtyard. Around them, guards formed up in rows, performing musket and bayonet drills. Their uniform was a wasp-like black and yellow, a mix of chainmail and light leather. There were enough of them to be Didric’s own private army.
Fletcher gulped in deep breaths of fresh air. He revelled in the light of the open sky once more, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his face. His head spun with vertigo at the expanse above him, but he opened his arms wide and felt the cool breeze on his skin. It was heavenly.
Didric shoved Fletcher ahead of him and they made their way through a large set of iron gates and on to the street. Fletcher was surprised to find that he knew where they were. He turned and took in the prison behind him, recognising some of the features built around it. It was Didric’s former mansion.
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ Fletcher said drily.
‘Yes, the old stomping ground. It was time for an upgrade, what with my new station in life. What do you think of our new quarters?’
Didric pointed upwards. The village of Pelt was built at the base of the Beartooth Mountains’ largest peak. It shadowed the village at sunset, towering over them like a vast monolith. Fletcher followed Didric’s finger and saw that the tip of the peak no longer existed. Instead, a castle had been built in its place, all crenellations, towers and arrow slits. Cannons lined the walls, the black holes of their barrels menacing the village, as if they might open fire at any moment. It was more a fortress than a home.
‘The safest place in Hominum, stocked with enough supplies to endure a siege of ten years. The elves could betray us, the orcs could invade Hominum – the prisoners could even take over the village, and it wouldn’t matter. The greatest army in the world couldn’t breach those walls, even if they could climb the sheer cliffs on either side.’
‘You sound paranoid, Didric,’ Fletcher replied, though Didric’s words had taken him off guard. ‘Like you have something to hide.’
‘Only our immense wealth, Fletcher. My father doesn’t trust the banks. He should know, he used to be a banker.’
‘A crooked moneylender does not a banker make,’ Fletcher replied. The boy stiffened but prodded him on, ignoring the jibe.
As they walked down the deserted streets, Fletcher saw poverty everywhere.
Many of the houses and shops were empty shells, while others had been converted into jails. Rough, dirty faces were pressed against the bars, silently watching Didric’s strutting figure with hatred in their eyes. The entire place stank of misery and desperation; it was a far throw from the industrious little village Fletcher had grown up in.
Didric’s father, Caspar Cavell, had become the richest man in the village by lending to the needy and the desperate, tricking them into signing ironclad contracts that would end up costing them far more than they borrowed. It looked as if the Cavells had called in all that was owed, taking their debtors’ savings and kicking most of the citizens of Pelt out of their homes in order to build the prison.
Disgusted, Fletcher slowed and flexed his fingers, fighting the temptation to punch Didric’s face in.
‘Move,’ Didric snarled, slapping Fletcher across the back of the head with his free hand.
Fletcher burned with anger, but his hands were still numb. The paralysis was dulling his reactions. Even if he were at his best, he doubted his chances at wrestling away the gun pressed into the small of his back. He would have to wait.
They reached the front gates which led out of the village, and Fletcher’s stomach lurched. Berdon’s hut was gone! But that was not the only thing unusual about the scene. The area around the front gates had been flattened, with racks of pikes, bayonets and swords replacing the houses. Stranger still, there seemed to be a queue of men lining up by the gates in front of a long, low table piled with red uniforms.
No. Not men.
‘Dwarves!’ Fletcher breathed.
Hundreds of them, even more than he had seen at the dwarven war council. They wore traditional dwarven garb – heavy leathers with canvas shirts. They seemed rougher than the dwarves Fletcher had encountered before, their braids loose and uneven, the clothing stained with mud, grime and sweat. Their faces were dark and brooding, and they talked among themselves with low, angry voices.
‘They’ve just marched over Beartooth to collect their new gear,’ Didric said, smiling, ‘after two years of keeping the northern front safe from the elves. It’s taken a long time for the elven war to end, though I wish it was longer. The peace talks were delayed when the elven clan leaders saw the state of that she-elf after the Tournament at Vocans. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’
Images of the broken and bruised figure of Sylva came unbidden to Fletcher’s mind, but he held his tongue. He knew that he couldn’t trust anything Didric told him about her.
‘My lord!’ a guard shouted, bringing Fletcher back to reality. ‘This reprobate tried to murder you. It isn’t safe. Let us escort him for you.’