Summoner: : The Battlemage: Book 3 by Taran Matharu

Author:Taran Matharu [Matharu, Taran]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781444924275
Publisher: Hachette Children's Group
Published: 2017-05-03T18:30:00+00:00

31

The noise hit Fletcher like a solid wall. The plaza was enormous, and thousands of people had gathered, surrounding a red-roped cordon where the soldiers were gathering in neat ranks. When he craned his neck, Fletcher could see that three of the roads into the square were filled with crowds, leaving a single way in, through which battalions of soldiers continued to march.

‘Come on, let’s find a good spot,’ Sylva yelled, her voice barely audible over the singing of the assembled masses.

She grasped Fletcher’s hand and dragged him through a gap in the crowds. He had just enough time to snatch Cress’s sleeve before they were pushing their way to the front. Soon Fletcher’s world was full of elbows, squashed toes and angry cursing as they fought past the heaving bodies.

Then somehow they were through, their stomachs pressed against the rope as the spectators surged back and forth. Now that their view was clear, Fletcher saw that a platform covered with an ornate canvas roof had been raised within the centre of the plaza, with a thin line of royal guards surrounding the base. Upon it were two familiar figures, seated on extravagant thrones.

Alfric stared icily at the uniform rows beneath him, while on the larger throne beside him was King Harold, a benevolent smile on his face. He looked far too calm for Fletcher’s liking. Had he forgotten what a dwarven rebellion could mean for Hominum? Was he not thinking of the thousands of lives that would be lost on both sides, or the vulnerability of the empire while the army was divided, fighting a war on two fronts?

‘He’s a good actor, isn’t he?’ Sylva half-yelled into Fletcher’s ear, as if she could read his mind.

Fletcher hoped that was the case. He had met the King on no more than three brief occasions, and now the future of the dwarves’ race seemed to rest in this man’s ability to manage his despot father. Fletcher only hoped that his trust was not unfounded. Who knew what game Harold might be playing?

Only some of the troops before them were the fresh-faced boys they had seen from the balcony earlier. The others’ appearance was more slovenly, most with untucked shirts and scraggly beards. While the boys stood to attention, these men slumped and spat on the ground, some even swigging from hip flasks.

Fletcher thought they might be veterans from the front lines, but their uniforms were brand new. He suspected these were the conscripted convicts from Didric’s prisons – muggers, burglars, conmen and all the rest of the undesirables who had been offered freedom in exchange for their enlistment.

A fresh cheer drew his attention back to the entrance, and for a moment he felt a flash of hope that it was the dwarves. But no, it was the Dragoons, riding straight-backed into the plaza, their right hands touching their foreheads in a salute to their King. Once they reached their places, even the demons themselves kneeled, one foreleg bent, the other extended in a gesture of subservience.

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