Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (27 page)

Athena grasped the newborn’s arms with her paws. He was so heavy, and the destination so far. But she had to try.

A hoarse cry came from outside, cutting through the screams and snarls emanating from the horrors of the battle below.

Sir Caulder, grizzled and bloodstained, staggered on to the lawn in front of the house. He could barely stand from the exhaustion, for he had run there in full mail. Even so, the first orc to charge him was cut down at the knees, then kerb-stomped with an armoured foot. As the next orc turned to face him, it was thrown back by an arrow in its skull. More soldiers stumbled out of the darkness, firing their bows.

But they were outnumbered – scores of orcs against a few dozen men. One by one, the exhausted soldiers were cut down by flying javelins or hurled axes, plucked away like puppets jerked from the stage. The closer men were battered to the ground by swinging clubs, as the grey giants ululated guttural battle-cries.

Sir Caulder fought on, even when a club shattered his arm. It hung limply by his side as he ducked and stabbed, making the orcs pay dearly for every step he took back. A blow from behind near severed his leg, the limb dangling at a sickening angle. He fell then, his eyes turned to the sky.

Athena launched into the night air, even as an explosion from below sent masonry hurtling across the lawn. The great building-stones were like a blast of buckshot, tearing through the massed orcs in clouds of red mist.

Edmund’s connection was gone, just as he was. Athena could already feel the pull of the ether, tugging at her very essence. But the baby beneath her was crying, his arms stretching painfully above his tiny body. The night air grew colder as Athena flew higher and higher.

Darkness. Wingbeat after wingbeat. Unmoving stars shining above, glinting city lights passing beneath. The call of the ether, growing steadily stronger.

Hours pass.

Snow-capped mountains, rising from the earth like jagged teeth.

Body fading. The ether’s wildness taking hold.

A village, far below.

No time.

No choice.

‘Fletcher, wake up!’

Othello’s green eyes looked down at him, matching the canopy above.

‘Malik’s team have left without us.’

Fletcher sat up, Athena’s memory still vivid in his mind.

‘Why?’ he mumbled.

‘They left a note, said they decided to make the most of the sunlight and leave early. They didn’t want to wake us.’

‘Fine with me,’ Sylva yawned, stretching her arms. ‘If there’s trouble ahead, they’ll run into it before we do.’

Seraph and his team were packing up. They had their demons out, and Fletcher was pleased to see that Rory now had a second Mite, smaller than Malachi, with a yellow shell.

Still, it was Atilla’s demon that most surprised him, a dove-white bird with long tail feathers, perched on the young dwarf’s shoulder. It was a Caladrius, a level seven demon with the ability to heal wounds by laying its feathers over them.

The demon was one of four rare, equally powerful avian cousins, including the fire-born Phoenix, the icy Polarion and the lightning-powered Halcyon, with red, blue and yellow plumage respectively. He had a sneaky suspicion that it was not just Arcturus who had received a gifted demon from King Harold. Fletcher bet it was an apology to the Thorsagers for what had happened to Othello. He wondered what demon Atilla had before, and if he still had it in his roster.

‘We should follow their example,’ Seraph called, distracting Fletcher from his thoughts. ‘We’re heading off in a minute, with or without you.’

Sacharissa was already nosing the ground, eager to lead her team in the direction of the river. She whined as Fletcher hesitated, indicating that Arcturus wanted them to stay together.

It did not take long for Fletcher’s team to get ready, the biggest delay being Cress, who did not take kindly to being woken at such an early hour.

‘Can’t you get Solomon to carry me, Othello?’ Cress groaned, heaving her heavy satchel on to her shoulders.

‘Carry you? Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ Fletcher laughed.

‘Actually, Fletcher, he probably could,’ Othello said, flushing with pride.

He pulled a roll of leather from the side pocket of his satchel and laid it on the ground. Then, with a touch of his fingers, the Golem materialised in a flash of violet light.

Solomon had grown. He was as tall as Othello himself now, but wider and thicker-limbed. As soon as he caught sight of Fletcher, the craggy face split into a smile. The Golem surged forward with his arms open wide, and Fletcher had to skip back to avoid the bone-crushing hug.

‘Solomon, no!’ Othello remonstrated, then rolled his eyes as the demon hung his head in shame. ‘He doesn’t know his own strength yet.’

‘So much has changed in a year. He’ll be my height soon enough,’ Fletcher marvelled.

‘Aye, that he will. But let’s not hang about, they’re off.’ Othello nodded at the forest behind Fletcher, where Seraph’s team was already on its way out of the swamp and into the thicker jungle.

‘We’ll look like the lazy ones if we’re not careful,’ Sylva said, tugging Othello forward.

She nodded at Lysander, who was tactfully looking up at the sky. ‘Remember, the world is watching. This is more than just a mission.’

Othello and Sylva hurried after the others, leaving Cress and Fletcher to trail behind them. Lysander walked sedately at their side, somehow managing to avoid the tangled undergrowth with feline grace. In contrast, Athena leaped from tree branch to tree branch above, showering Fletcher with leaves and dislodged insects. He did not mind, for he could sense the demon was missing the ether. After all, she had spent the past seventeen years there.

Fletcher’s thoughts turned to his parents. He had spent so many years searching faces in Pelt, wondering what they looked like. Now, after Athena’s vivid dream, he knew. He had his father’s thick black hair, and the man’s hazel eyes were just like his own. But he had the same pale skin and straight-edged nose as his mother.

He had been loved, once. He had felt it in that dream, so strongly that it made his heart clench with joy. But it had all been brutally torn away from him.

Soon the world turned dim as the canopy grew thicker, filtering the sun through its leaves into a darker shade of green.

The path was clear, for the thicker plants had been torn asunder by the Wendigo and then trampled underfoot by Malik’s team. For now, the going was easy, and they fell into a comfortable pace that ate up the ground.

As they walked, Fletcher tried to commit his parents’ faces to his memory, but he cursed himself as they blurred in his mind. It had all happened so fast.

‘So … is this the first time you’ve seen a dwarven girl?’ Cress asked, filling the awkward silence. ‘Properly, I mean.’

‘I saw Othello’s mother once,’ Fletcher replied.

He paused, unsure of what else to say. His mind was still on Athena’s memory.

‘Are we pretty?’ she asked, grinning as Fletcher reddened. She was teasing him.

‘As much as any other girl,’ he replied, and as he looked into her smiling face he realised it was true. In fact, now that he had spent more time with her, Cress was beginning to grow on him. She reminded him a little of Seraph – blunt, even a little coarse, but charming in her own way.

‘The dwarven boys tend to agree with you,’ Cress laughed, after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s not unknown for a young dwarven lad to run away with a human. I bet Atilla is worried I might do the same.’

She winked at him, and Fletcher couldn’t help but laugh at her forwardness. Her eyes twinkled with merriment and he felt the weight on his shoulders lift.

‘Would that be so bad?’ Fletcher asked. He realised he knew very little about romance between the races.

‘Well, it’s taboo, on both sides,’ Cress said, shaking her head. ‘Unseemly, so they say. It happens though, and it’s the kids that have it the worst. Some get away with being short humans for a while, but they are always found out, especially if they follow the dwarven customs. Shunned by both races, the families travel to the lands across the Akhad desert, or sail the Vesanian sea to Swazulu.’

‘I’ve heard of half-elves, but never half-dwarves,’ Fletcher murmured.

‘It’s even worse for the half-elves, though it’s rarer to come across one of them. The elves are very against mixing, even between the castes of high elves and wood elves. Half-elves’ ears aren’t as long as Sylva’s, but they stay pointy.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’ve never even thought about it before. I’m kind of ashamed of that, actually.’

‘Don’t be. I take a special interest in this stuff. My brother …’ she looked away for a moment. ‘He ran away from home to be with a human woman. I’m the only one in the community who will talk to him now.’

The pace ahead quickened as the morning turned to noon, and their conversation was cut short, replaced by heavy breathing as they jogged through the undergrowth. This time the silence was comfortable, even if the atmosphere wasn’t. At the swamp it had been hot, but bearable. Now, it was sweltering, despite the breathable fabric of their jackets.

Even the sounds had changed. Above the chorus of whining insects, the fluty mating calls of birds filtered down through the trees.

‘Shall we let our demons stretch their legs?’ Cress asked, slipping a satchel strap from her shoulder and clutching it to her chest. ‘It’ll give me a chance to test out the battle-gauntlet Athol made for me.’

‘Battle-gauntlet?’ Fletcher asked, intrigued.

She rummaged within the satchel as they walked and pulled out a leather glove. The back had been armoured with bands of steel, extending down to the wrist, but that was not what made it stand out. The palm and finger pads had been branded with the same marks that were tattooed on Fletcher’s hand.

‘I’m not a fan of needles, so no tattoo for me.’ She winked. ‘I’m surprised these haven’t come into fashion yet! Guess most summoners are stuck in their ways.’

Tugging on the glove, she pointed the pentacle at the ground ahead of her. To Fletcher’s amazement, there was a flash of violet and a demon tumbled into existence.

It appeared much like a cross between a raccoon and a squirrel, with dark blue fur speckled with jagged dashes of teal. The demon’s round, yellow eyes focused on Fletcher as soon as it materialised and the bushy tail whipped back and forth with excitement. Despite all of his studies, Fletcher had absolutely no idea what it was.

‘It’s a Raiju,’ Cress said, patting her shoulder. The demon had padded fingers and hooked nails for climbing, allowing it to scamper on to the proffered perch with two, languid leaps.

‘Almost as rare as your Salamander, or so I’m told,’ Cress said, laughing at Fletcher’s mesmerised expression. ‘Level five too. Tosk can blast lightning from his tail like a storm cloud, so mind you avoid touching it. It can give you quite a shock.’

‘That’s amazing! I don’t think I could have snuck that gauntlet into the Tournament though. How did you get such a rare demon?’ Fletcher asked, as the Raiju preened his whiskers at him, almost flirtatiously.

‘King Harold. He’s quite the collector, being such a high level and all. When he heard two more dwarves were heading to the academy, he offered his Caladrius and Raiju to us. He really is on our side.’

Before Fletcher could pry further, there was a cry of excitement from ahead of them, and the group came to a halt. The jungle had opened up, and from the sound of rushing water, Fletcher could tell why.

The waters from the swamp and a dozen other streams beyond had come together into a network of inlets that poured out over a waterfall. Far below, water crashed and exploded in a haze of white mist that extended for miles around, until a great, snaking river emerged in the distance, carving its way through twin valleys on either side. At the very edge of their site, a triangular hump of dull yellow revealed their destination. The pyramid.

‘So how are we going to get down?’ Othello wondered aloud.

There was a steep climb to the ground on either side of the fall, but Fletcher was glad that he did not have to cross the river at this point, for the streams that fed the waterfall were numerous, with thin patches of soggy land between them.

‘I guess Malik’s and Isadora’s teams have already crossed,’ Seraph said with a hint of disappointment. ‘I’d have liked to watch them wade through that mess.’

‘Well, let’s hope our crossing is as easy as theirs,’ Fletcher replied.

They surveyed the land before them and it was soon clear that there were two ways down. One was a rocky path beside the waterfall itself, while the other was a thin forest trail that curved towards a hilly region to the east.

‘Well,’ Fletcher announced, slapping Seraph on the back. ‘This is where we leave you.’