The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(52)
Beside them, Othello snored loudly, his mouth open, nostrils flaring with every breath. Peering through the shutters and seeing the sun high in the sky, Fletcher gave Othello a gentle kick. The dwarf snorted awake and groaned, pulling the covers over his face.
‘Looks like staying up all night to plot our route has meant we’ve wasted most of the day sleeping,’ Fletcher complained, looking through the window. ‘I told you we should have gone to bed.’
‘Well, we’ve done all the leg work now,’ Othello said, though he didn’t sound convinced. ‘We can spend the day shopping. Don’t you want to enjoy a day of freedom? You’ve been at it nonstop since you came out of that cell.’
Fletcher stretched and began to put on his boots, allowing Ignatius to slide off on to the floor. The imp remained on his back, legs akimbo, refusing to be roused despite a mental prod from his master.
‘Trust me, there’s nothing I would like more,’ Fletcher replied, ‘but last night Jeffrey suggested we go to the front lines, meet the soldiers. I’ve never been there – I want to see what it’s like, what they’re like.’
‘Are you sure?’ Othello asked, his apprehension obvious.
‘Yeah.’ Fletcher tiptoed past Jeffrey, who was still sleeping on the sofa across the room. ‘We’re about to go behind enemy lines and we don’t even know what our own soldiers look like. I’m going to see if the girls are awake.’
He left their bedroom and knocked gently on the adjacent door. There was no answer, so he knocked a little harder. As he raised his fist to knock a third time, there was a bang as something heavy was thrown against the door, then a voice rang out.
‘Bugger off !’ Cress shouted.
Fletcher grinned and retreated from the door.
‘Looks like it’s just us three,’ he said, prodding Jeffrey awake.
It was a long carriage ride to the front lines, so much so that the first orange tinge of dusk was already staining the sky when the driver knocked on the ceiling to let them know they had arrived. The journey had been a sombre affair, the realisation of the task the three would undertake the next day sinking in. Fletcher had even infused Ignatius halfway through their trip, as the demon had caught their despondency and his mournful growls did little to lighten the mood.
‘Come on,’ Fletcher said, leaping out as the other two looked at the carriage doors with trepidation. ‘Let’s explore.’
The carriage had stopped at the top of a low hill, allowing him a view of the front line, which stretched for miles on either side of him. It constituted a single, wide trench that came up to a man’s shoulders, with a wooden step built along the inside for the soldiers to stand on and aim their weapons over the top. Wooden bunkers with cannons emplaced within broke the line up at intervals, and Fletcher could hear the dull echoes of cannon-fire – an orc raid in the distance.
A few hundred yards away, beyond the trench, the green fronds of the jungle could be seen, with the ground between a barren wasteland, churned to mud after years of cannon-fire and pitched battles.
Fletcher had never seen the jungle before, and was fascinated by the intensity of colour and the thickness of the foliage, shrouding all but the edge of the jungle from view. Even as he peered closer, his stomach twisted. Soon he would be far beyond this border, cut off from the safety of Hominum’s lands.
Behind the trenches on their side, red-uniformed soldiers milled aimlessly, walking among a mess of campfires and large tents, smoking, eating and drinking. Somewhere, a violin creaked out a mournful tune, then an angry bellow cut it short, the musician’s efforts unappreciated.
‘Great, Fletcher,’ Othello grumbled, standing beside him. ‘This looks like a fun place. Well worth the four-hour journey.’
‘Give it a chance,’ Jeffrey said, eyeing the largest tent, from where shouts and laughter could be heard. ‘Let’s see what’s happening in there and have one drink, at least. We can sleep in the carriage on the way home.’
‘Agreed,’ Fletcher said, watching as a man was hurled from the entrance by two guards, landing in the mud with a spatter. Another staggered out behind him and retched violently, then collapsed on top of the steaming puddle he had left behind.
‘Although, let’s not stay too long,’ he added, then turned to the driver of the carriage. ‘Wait here for us and you’ll have a fare for your journey back.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ the driver replied with a wink.
They trudged down, trying not to get too much mud on their brand new moccasins. As they walked by, some soldiers stood up straighter, tugging their forelocks or saluting. Jeffrey’s walk turned into a swagger; the new uniforms they wore were clearly expensive, and identified them as officers of some sort. Even the two guards stepped smartly aside to allow them to pass, and soon they were within the confines of the tent.
It was devilishly hot within, the air steaming with the stench of unwashed bodies, pungent smoke and spilled beer. The place was full of men, swigging on tankards and puffing on cheroots, leaving a pall of smog to hang above their heads.
There was a bar to the right, which Jeffrey swiftly gravitated towards, joining a queue of men to secure a drink. Meanwhile, Fletcher and Othello saw a group crowded around what appeared to be a walled pit in the centre of the room. As they moved in to investigate, a gap-toothed man with a shaven head approached them, holding a grubby stack of papers in his hands.