Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (23 page)

Blue was locked chest to chest with a monstrous rat that had wriggled inside the ribcage, stabbing it repeatedly in the side with his bone. Fletcher drew his khopesh and neatly spitted the rodent, using the sword and body to lift the cage away. Then, as the cries of excitement began to die, he sheathed his sword and gathered the little gremlin into his arms. Blue’s skinny chest heaved in and out with exhaustion.

The crowd stared down at Fletcher in shock, then the gap-toothed man yelled.

‘What the hell are y—’

But he never finished his sentence, for the world flipped upside down and an explosion tore through the tent, shrapnel ripping through the crowd of drunken men like a scythe through wheat.

Deep in the pit, the flare passed above Fletcher and Ignatius in a wave of roiling fire. His ears sang with pain from the thunderclap of sound and he was thrown to the ground by a shockwave that rippled through the earth.

Then he was clawing his way out of the pit and over the screaming bodies of injured soldiers, Blue still clutched protectively to his chest. He felt a hand grasp his ankle and he kicked it away, stretching and pulling forward like a drowning man heading for shore. Ignatius tugged at his sleeve, guiding him through the smoke. Then Othello’s strong hands dragged him out and over the mud, until they collapsed together at the base of the hill. The dwarf’s relieved face peered down at him.

‘You’re alive,’ he breathed. ‘It’s a damn miracle.’

Fletcher stared at the carnage behind him. Frantic sergeants barked orders as soldiers dragged the wounded from the blackened, bloodstained ground and on to hastily prepared stretchers, made from spears and knotted jackets.

‘This is no miracle,’ Fletcher choked, for the air was thick with smoke, smaller fires spreading among the wreckage. Ignatius chittered fearfully and scampered on to Fletcher’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck for comfort.

‘We need to help them,’ Jeffrey gasped, stumbling towards the ruined tent, but Fletcher grasped him by the collar and tugged him back.

‘Othello, you shouldn’t be seen here,’ Fletcher said urgently, as angry voices mingled with the sounds of dying men. ‘An explosion … a dwarf nearby.’

Othello’s eyes widened in horror, then he was tugging Jeffrey up the hill with Fletcher, though the boy fought them every step of the way, demanding to be allowed to help the fallen soldiers.

It was not long before they reached the carriage, which by some miracle was still waiting for them.

‘What the hell happened?’ the carriage driver asked, his eyes widening as he took in the gremlin cradled in Fletcher’s arm.

Fletcher shoved a fistful of coins from his purse into the driver’s hands as Othello manhandled Jeffrey through the carriage doors.

‘Take us back to Corcillum,’ Fletcher growled. ‘And quickly.’

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Uhtred bellowed, slamming his fist on to the table.

They were in the cellar of the Anvil, getting the dressing-down of their lives. Uhtred had arrived a few minutes before and had dragged them down there as soon as he had heard their story, afraid that people would be watching the tavern for signs of movement after the Anvil attack.

‘What if you had been spotted?’ he growled, advancing on the three of them. ‘The only dwarven soldier for miles around and you just
happen
to be there when the bomb goes off. We’re in the
Anvil
Tavern, for pity’s sake. You just got off on a charge of
treason
. If word gets out, your mission will do more harm than good – people will think you’re traitors!’

‘I think it’s safe to say I was seen,’ Othello muttered. ‘But with my beard shaved, they might not have taken me for a dwarf, just a very short man. It was dark and crowded and everyone was drunk. Most of the people who saw me probably died in the explosion.’

‘It was my idea to go,’ Fletcher added, as Othello shrunk under his father’s gaze. ‘But how were we to know that there was going to be an attack? We just wanted a look at the front lines.’

Uhtred opened his mouth, then grimaced and closed it again.

‘Be that as it may, you three are on very thin ice,’ he said, though his expression had softened.

‘Can you keep it down?’ Jeffrey mumbled, clutching his head. ‘I’m dying here.’

‘Serves you right,’ Uhtred grumbled, though he handed the boy a flask of water from his hip. ‘Get this down you. We need you on top form for the mission tomorrow.’

Othello groaned aloud at the mention of the mission and Uhtred rounded on him again.

‘Forgot about that, had you? The future of Hominum depends on you, both to unify the nation and to destroy the goblin threat. I dread to think what King Harold would say if he knew what happened tonight.’

Fletcher hung his head in shame, but part of his mind was busy wondering how Uhtred would react if he knew that a sleeping gremlin was in the rucksack now hanging on the bannister to the cellar stairs. He had no idea what he was going to do with the little creature, and Othello hadn’t been much help. Jeffrey, on the other hand, was oblivious, having gone into a stupor immediately upon entering the carriage.

Uhtred glanced at Fletcher’s pistols and then sighed, removing one from its holster and sighting down it.

‘Did my son at least teach you how to load and fire these while you were out there?’ he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Well … with the explosion and everything …’ Fletcher mumbled, avoiding Othello’s eyes.

‘You won’t be able to practise in the jungle, they’ll hear you miles off,’ Uhtred said, exasperated. ‘There won’t be time tomorrow either. This place is soundproof enough, though it might hurt
our
ears a bit. Nobody on the street will hear us.’

At the far end of the cellar, a pile of broken furniture had been unceremoniously stacked against the wall. In the centre, there was a red-cushioned chair facing outwards, an ideal target.

Without hesitation, Uhtred pulled the trigger and a long tongue of smoke erupted out from the gun’s end, the sound more a crack than a bang in the confines of the cellar. A smaller puff of smoke curled from where the flint had slammed into the gun, igniting the powder within.

The cushion simply vibrated slightly, but Fletcher could see a new hole in the threadbare fabric, just off the centre.

‘Not bad,’ Uhtred said, cocking the flint back again. ‘Now, watch closely.’

He removed a small cartridge from his back pocket, a cylinder of yellow paper that was twisted shut at one end. He gripped the twist with his teeth and tore the top open, revealing a fine black powder piled inside it.

‘You pour it into the square trough where the flint meets the steel of the pistol when it snaps down, known as the pan,’ Uhtred said, trickling a small amount of the powder in. ‘Hence the phrase
flash in the pan
.’

Fletcher watched with avid eyes as Uhtred pushed the remainder of the cartridge into the end of the pistol.

‘Then, you put the whole thing into the barrel, and use the ramrod to shove it down to the base.’

Uhtred pulled a slender stick of metal that poked out from the wooden stock of the pistol, just beneath the barrel. He rammed it down the end a few times, making sure that the cartridge was wedged tightly inside the gun. He replaced the ramrod in its holder, then pointed the barrel at the cushion once again. The whole process had taken less than fifteen seconds.

‘Now, you have a go at firing. Remember, it has a bit of a kick!’

Uhtred handed the weapon to Fletcher. The gun was heavy in his hands, and his arm wavered as he raised it, sighting down the barrel. It was different to the bow, the point of focus too far ahead, the weight unbalanced, all of it on his one arm.

He fired, closing his eyes as the puff from the firing pan burst out, the clap of noise as loud as the Anvil attack had been. He could not see if he had hit anything, for there was too much smoke, but as his ears stopped ringing and the smog cleared, the cushion appeared as it had before.

‘Where did it go?’ Fletcher asked.

Slowly, a chair leg in the top right corner of the room wobbled, then broke away with a splintering sound, a bullet wedged in the joint. Othello chortled as it fell to the ground, far away from where Fletcher had been aiming.

‘Well. Maybe aim for the chest instead of the head,’ Uhtred laughed, slapping Fletcher on the back. Fletcher sighed and pushed the pistol back in its holster.

‘Right, clothes off,’ Uhtred snapped, clicking his fingers.

‘What?’ Fletcher asked. What was Uhtred talking about?

Then he looked down at his uniform. The front of his brand new jacket and trousers were splattered with soot, mud and splashes of blood from the massacre. Even Othello’s uniform was stained with the same, from when he had dragged Fletcher to his feet. In contrast, Jeffrey’s was fine, despite his bout of vomiting.

Fletcher shrugged and slowly took off his weapons and clothing, until he and Othello were shivering in the cold air of the dusty cellar, wearing nothing but their underwear. Uhtred chuckled at their miserable faces.

‘You’re lucky that my wife is the best seamstress around. She’ll replace what can’t be cleaned and have these ready for you tomorrow.’

Before Fletcher could apologise for ruining his new clothes, there was a creak from upstairs. Then, before anyone could move, the door to the cellar burst open and a crossbow was aimed down the stairwell.

‘Who’s down there?’ Sylva yelled, rolling out with her bow drawn, as Cress squinted at them over her weapon.

‘It’s just us,’ Fletcher admitted sheepishly. Uhtred stomped up the stairs and pushed Cress’s crossbow down.

‘Get some rest,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’

For a moment the two girls stared at the half-naked boys, their faces marked with soot from the explosion, Jeffrey splayed drunkenly on the floor.

They burst out laughing, much to Fletcher’s horror.

‘Well, well,’ Cress said, her eyes sparkling with merriment. ‘Looks like we missed the party.’

The four teams stood on an expansive wooden platform, overlooking a sea of red-uniformed men, just beyond the trenches of the front lines. The soldiers stared back grimly, and the world was silent but for a whistling wind that left their jackets flapping in the air.

Fletcher felt a rustle in the rucksack on his back and froze. Blue had been sleeping, or at least pretending to, all night. The plan had been to keep him there and release him into the wild when they landed. Unfortunately, the gremlin’s slumber seemed to be over.

As Fletcher prayed that Blue would go back to sleep, Provost Scipio climbed slowly up the stairs on the side of the stage, resplendent in the full uniform of a general. He nodded to each team, then turned to the crowd of soldiers.

‘You all know me,’ Scipio said, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘The Hero of Watford Bridge. Provost of Vocans Academy. I have fought in this war for a decade and defended the borders long before that. Many of you know me personally. So when I tell you that what you are about to hear is the truth, I expect you to trust me.’

There were nods from the watching soldiers, tensed shoulders relaxing, even some smiles.

‘You have heard about Lady Cavendish, suffering in captivity for all these years. You know of the goblins, and the thousands of eggs that are waiting to hatch. These four teams will be leading an expedition, deep behind enemy lines, to eliminate these threats. It is as dangerous a mission as I have ever signed off on. Each and every one of these young warriors is risking their lives to keep our country safe. I want you to keep that in mind when the dwarven and elven recruits arrive on the front lines.’

He paused, and Fletcher’s eyes flicked to the blackened earth beyond the crowd, where the aftermath of the recent explosion was still visible.

‘We lost forty-three good men last night, in a senseless, brutal attack. The men who did it are just that:
men
. The dwarven elders have condemned the attacks over and over again, pronouncing that these atrocities are not done in their name. I want you to remember that too.’