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Authors: Taran Matharu
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dwarves.”
Othello glanced at the potatoes. They were in pitiful condition; half of them were already sprouting and they were caked in fresh manure. They stank worse than the night soil carts that emptied the public privies.
“You have my word,” Othello said, shaking his head.
The man grumbled and shifted over, allowing Othello enough room to perch on the side. Grumbling, he cracked his whip, and the mule whinnied and began to trot down the cobbled streets. It was not long before they made their way out of Corcillum’s outskirts and onto the road to the front lines—and Vocans.
Privately, Othello both rejoiced and lamented. He had never spent more than a few hours away from his family. Now, it could be weeks.
He distracted himself by trying to picture what kind of demon he might be given. His experience was fairly limited. He had seen demons with their summoners before, usually battlemages, the graduated officers of Vocans.
Buzzing beetles with gaudy carapaces and fearsome stings. Dogs the size of horses, with four eyes, fearsome claws and bushy manes along their spines. Bipedal felines with saber-like fangs. He could not picture himself with any of them.
“So, let’s say I believe ye,” the driver said, interrupting Othello’s thoughts. “Are ye the only dwarven summoner?”
“Aye,” Othello whispered.
But it wasn’t true, technically. His twin brother, Atilla, also had the ability to summon. He remembered the yellow-faced inquisitor—Rook, that was his name.
How he had laid his hands on theirs, and had sensed the power within them.
How Atilla had stormed out when they were told. What Atilla had called Othello, when he accepted his place at Vocans and Atilla did not.
Traitor.
His guts twisted with guilt. He turned his thoughts to his mother. His sister. His father.
It was his love for his family and his people that made leaving home so hard. Yet it was for them that he left at all. The dwarves were second-class citizens. Well, that was not true, they were not even considered citizens at all. Yet … the new king, Harold, offered some hope. He was different.
He had invited the dwarves to fight and earn their citizenship. To become recruits in his army, and join his war against the orcs of the southern jungles. Othello would be the first dwarven summoner and officer. He would have real power, and would rub shoulders with the most powerful leaders in the land. And ultimately, he would earn their respect … and freedom for his people.
There were no lights on the road they traveled, and the moon did little to illuminate their way. Instead, the driver had lit a grubby lantern containing a sputtering candle, which allowed Othello to see the swaying stalks of corn on either side of them.
It was so dark that it was a surprise to Othello when they suddenly turned onto a wooden drawbridge and the castle reared above him, a silhouetted monolith in the shadowed sky.
“Yer here,” the driver snarled. “Be off with ye.”
Othello jumped down, with a helpful shove from the driver. He winced as the blood rushed to his legs, and he staggered away from the foul-smelling cart.
Moments later he was alone, the courtyard silent but for the rattle of the retreating cart’s wheels.
“So…,” Othello muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. He could barely see it. “A fine welcome this is.”
He edged forward, until his feet met a small ledge of stone. It was the beginning of a staircase. Then, as he took his first tentative step, a square of light appeared ahead as a pair of huge wooden doors were thrown open.
“Is that Othello?” a woman shouted.
A ball of blue light flickered into existence, floating toward him. It spun, a glowing orb hanging in the air just ahead of his face. Somehow, Othello thought it would give off heat like a flame, but when he reached out a hand, he felt nothing but the chill bite of the air around him.
“Come on up,” the woman said.
Othello stumbled up the stairs,
Othello glanced at the potatoes. They were in pitiful condition; half of them were already sprouting and they were caked in fresh manure. They stank worse than the night soil carts that emptied the public privies.
“You have my word,” Othello said, shaking his head.
The man grumbled and shifted over, allowing Othello enough room to perch on the side. Grumbling, he cracked his whip, and the mule whinnied and began to trot down the cobbled streets. It was not long before they made their way out of Corcillum’s outskirts and onto the road to the front lines—and Vocans.
Privately, Othello both rejoiced and lamented. He had never spent more than a few hours away from his family. Now, it could be weeks.
He distracted himself by trying to picture what kind of demon he might be given. His experience was fairly limited. He had seen demons with their summoners before, usually battlemages, the graduated officers of Vocans.
Buzzing beetles with gaudy carapaces and fearsome stings. Dogs the size of horses, with four eyes, fearsome claws and bushy manes along their spines. Bipedal felines with saber-like fangs. He could not picture himself with any of them.
“So, let’s say I believe ye,” the driver said, interrupting Othello’s thoughts. “Are ye the only dwarven summoner?”
“Aye,” Othello whispered.
But it wasn’t true, technically. His twin brother, Atilla, also had the ability to summon. He remembered the yellow-faced inquisitor—Rook, that was his name.
How he had laid his hands on theirs, and had sensed the power within them.
How Atilla had stormed out when they were told. What Atilla had called Othello, when he accepted his place at Vocans and Atilla did not.
Traitor.
His guts twisted with guilt. He turned his thoughts to his mother. His sister. His father.
It was his love for his family and his people that made leaving home so hard. Yet it was for them that he left at all. The dwarves were second-class citizens. Well, that was not true, they were not even considered citizens at all. Yet … the new king, Harold, offered some hope. He was different.
He had invited the dwarves to fight and earn their citizenship. To become recruits in his army, and join his war against the orcs of the southern jungles. Othello would be the first dwarven summoner and officer. He would have real power, and would rub shoulders with the most powerful leaders in the land. And ultimately, he would earn their respect … and freedom for his people.
There were no lights on the road they traveled, and the moon did little to illuminate their way. Instead, the driver had lit a grubby lantern containing a sputtering candle, which allowed Othello to see the swaying stalks of corn on either side of them.
It was so dark that it was a surprise to Othello when they suddenly turned onto a wooden drawbridge and the castle reared above him, a silhouetted monolith in the shadowed sky.
“Yer here,” the driver snarled. “Be off with ye.”
Othello jumped down, with a helpful shove from the driver. He winced as the blood rushed to his legs, and he staggered away from the foul-smelling cart.
Moments later he was alone, the courtyard silent but for the rattle of the retreating cart’s wheels.
“So…,” Othello muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. He could barely see it. “A fine welcome this is.”
He edged forward, until his feet met a small ledge of stone. It was the beginning of a staircase. Then, as he took his first tentative step, a square of light appeared ahead as a pair of huge wooden doors were thrown open.
“Is that Othello?” a woman shouted.
A ball of blue light flickered into existence, floating toward him. It spun, a glowing orb hanging in the air just ahead of his face. Somehow, Othello thought it would give off heat like a flame, but when he reached out a hand, he felt nothing but the chill bite of the air around him.
“Come on up,” the woman said.
Othello stumbled up the stairs,
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