Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (35 page)

‘We can’t be the only ones,’ Cress whispered.

Fletcher crouched low and scuttled towards the pyramid, Ignatius loping ahead with his nose to the ground and Athena keeping watch from above.

As they moved closer, Fletcher took in the enormous building. Despite the threat of the foreboding treeline on either side, he could not help but focus on Athena’s view of the structure.

It was larger than anything he had ever seen, even more so than Vocans itself. It was made from a series of square levels that narrowed as they neared the top. Athena’s night-vision showed that the stone slabs it was comprised of were a dull yellow in colour, and their outsides were coated in tangled vines and creepers.

Then they were in the shadow of the pyramid itself, and suddenly they were not alone.

‘Is that you, Fletcher?’ Seraph’s voice called from the entrance, accompanied by the click of a pistol’s flint being pulled back.

‘Put that thing away,’ Malik hissed, and there was a clatter as a gun was knocked to the floor.

The two leaders were crouched in the entrance. Both were soaking wet, their shaggy black hair plastered to their foreheads. They looked miserable, terrified and exhausted.

‘It’s us – no need to go shooting up the place,’ Othello said, picking up the gun and handing it to Seraph. ‘That thing wouldn’t have fired anyway, it looks like the powder’s wet.’

‘Well, that’s what half drowning yourself in the river will get you,’ Seraph groaned, wringing out his hair between his fingers. ‘The others are drying off in the entrance chamber. Don’t worry, you can’t see the fire from outside.’

‘There might be demons guarding the place in there,’ Cress remarked, peering into the entrance. It was a bare corridor that stretched into darkness, with a small chamber to the left. Fletcher could see the hint of the glow of flame from within it, but wasn’t unduly worried. Any guard demons would most likely be deeper inside, if there were any at all. Even so, Seraph shuddered and shuffled away from the entrance.

‘Why are you wet?’ Fletcher asked Malik, remembering the route his team was supposed to have taken.

‘We changed our minds,’ Malik muttered. ‘When Isadora’s team switched to your side of the river, we thought they knew something we didn’t and followed. We met up with Seraph’s team just before crossing.’

Fletcher froze. So, Malik’s team had been on their side of the river too. Was it possible it was one of them who had tried to kill him?

‘Speaking of which, have you seen Isadora’s team?’ Seraph interjected, breaking up Fletcher’s thoughts. ‘Our window for the raid closes in eight hours.’

‘Are they not here yet?’ Cress exclaimed. ‘We need them!’

‘What do we do now?’ Fletcher asked, his heart pounding. He had not really considered what they would do if another team were late.

‘I’d rather wait for Isadora’s team.’ Malik yawned. ‘If we attack now, their chances of rescue are much lower.’

Sylva snorted, as if Malik had made a joke.

‘Wouldn’t that be a shame,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘I say we hole up here and hope they make an appearance,’ Malik continued, already moving to the fire-lit chamber. ‘The orcs won’t be expecting anything.’

‘The Celestial Corps are on standby right now,’ Seraph warned, looking into the night sky. ‘Every minute we waste is a minute Hominum’s skies go undefended.’

‘Be that as it may, we’re all exhausted,’ Malik replied. ‘We might as well wait until morning.’

Fletcher was bone tired … but they only had eight hours to complete the mission. Who knew how long it would take for them to find their objective in the labyrinth of tunnels ahead?

‘Maybe we
should
attack now,’ Fletcher argued. ‘We’re about to bed down in the most sacred place in Orcdom, while Hominum’s only air defence waits for us on the ground. Does that not sound crazy to you?’

But support for Malik came from an unlikely source. Seraph had changed his mind.

‘Look, we’re a team down right now,’ Seraph sighed. ‘I know you have issues with Isadora’s lot – hell, I do too – but whether you like it or not, we have a better chance of success with them fighting alongside us. Malik’s team and mine expended a lot of mana crossing that river, we had to use the telekinesis spell to help propel ourselves through that current. We need to rest.’

Malik chimed in.

‘We can go in half-cocked now, or wait a few hours and do it properly. Remember, we only have one shot at this. Let’s make it count.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Rufus’s voice snarled from within the pyramid. ‘My mother might not last another night.’

Malik winced, but ignored the outburst and beckoned Fletcher’s team to follow him through the entrance.

‘They don’t use this place other than for rituals, right?’ Malik said over his shoulder. ‘Mason says only shamans are allowed in the pyramid. We’re safer hiding here than out in the jungle.’

As whispered greetings were made, Fletcher looked at his team through his scrying lens, Athena’s eyes cutting through the gloom. They were all damp and exhausted from the trip across the river and most had barely slept since the night they had encountered Isadora’s team – unless poison-induced unconsciousness counted. Othello and Atilla were already dozing, their arms around each other’s shoulders. It was true, a night’s rest would do them all good, but was this the right call? Hundreds, if not thousands, of people could die if the Wyverns attacked Hominum that night.

‘All right team, infuse your demons and get some shuteye,’ Fletcher said, slumping to the ground in defeat. ‘I have a feeling we’re going to need it.’

Fletcher woke to the sound of drums. They pounded with a deep, incessant throb, booming low and loud across the pyramid.

He was not the only one awake. Mason, the escaped slave, watched him through half-closed eyes. The boy remained silent, but nudged Malik with his foot until the young noble groaned. Moments later he was as awake as Fletcher was, the pulse of noise startling away the vestiges of sleep.

The room was a dim, bare cube, with sleeping bodies surrounding the remains of a fire now reduced to cold ashes. The light of dawn glowed from the corridor outside. They had slept through the night. He looked over and saw Malik was clutching a pocket watch. He peered at it. They had two hours left … was that enough time?

‘What the hell is that noise?’ Jeffrey mumbled from behind Fletcher.

Fletcher turned to see most of his team were awake too, as well as Lysander, Sacharissa and Caliban, who had stayed up all night on watch, in order to wake them in time and to let them know if Isadora’s team arrived. Evidently, they had not.

‘We need to find out what it is,’ Sylva said, peering out of the chamber furtively. She jerked her head back in immediately, her eyes wide with shock.

‘There are orcs out there,’ she whispered. ‘Fetching water from the river. We can’t risk going outside.’

‘That’s not the plan anyway,’ Malik said dismissively. ‘This is the safest place we could be. But yes – we need to find out what that sound is. It could be some sort of ceremony involving the pyramid.’

‘I don’t care what it is,’ Fletcher said. ‘We’ve waited long enough – the sponsors should have woken us earlier. We have to start the raid. Now.’

‘I know what it is.’ Mason spoke for the first time. His hands trembled ever so slightly, and his eyes were closed.

‘It’s the end of the orc trainin’,’ he continued, taking a deep, quavering breath. ‘Where they separate the weak from the strong. ’Appens every year. This is terrible timin’ – the area’ll be crawlin’ with orcs.’

‘Will they come into the pyramid?’ Fletcher asked.

‘They might,’ Mason replied, his eyes still closed. ‘The shamans’ll test the young ’uns for the ability to summon today, just as ’Ominum’s Inquisitors do. If there’re any adepts, they’ll be takin’ ’em into the pyramid. They come in through this back entrance and leave through the front. That’s all I know.’

‘And that’s all we’ll know, if we don’t go out and check.’

It was Verity who had spoken. She was sitting in the corner, watching her Mite crawl over her hand. It was black, and small for a Scarab, just as Apophis had been.

‘Nobody will notice Ebony here, if she flies out and takes a look.’

As she spoke, she rummaged in her satchel before tugging out a flat rectangle of crystal the size of a dinner mat. Its edges were reinforced with a steel band to prevent it from shattering, though one edge was already beginning to crack.

‘A gift from my grandmother,’ Verity said, holding it up for all to see. Ebony alighted on it, and Fletcher was amazed at the clarity of the image as the Mite’s view came into focus. Even the Oculus back at Vocans had not been so crisp and clear.

‘Glad it will be of use,’ Verity continued, tossing her hair. ‘I’ve been lugging it about this whole trip without using it once. I’d rather have one like yours, Fletcher.’

She turned her big brown eyes on him, and Fletcher smiled at the compliment. Sylva rolled her eyes.

Ebony swooped past his head, flicking a spindly leg against the lens strapped to his face. The overlay of Ebony’s view appeared, and he felt dizzied as the Mite zoomed around the room. Athena’s view was a lot more stable and less prone to sharp turns.

‘Any objections?’ Verity asked.

‘None,’ Malik said, admiring Verity’s scrying stone.

He turned to Fletcher, since Seraph was still sleeping beside Othello and Atilla on the floor, his own snores adding to the bass chorus. All the others were awake now.

‘Let them sleep,’ Malik said, grinning. ‘Fletcher, what say you?’

Fletcher paused, listening to the ominous throb of the drumbeats.

‘We need to know when the coast is clear, so we can find somewhere better to hide in the pyramid,’ Fletcher said, tapping his chin. ‘We’re sitting ducks in here. It can’t hurt to do a bit of investigating.’

Before he had even finished speaking, Ebony had buzzed out of the chamber and into the light, the image blurring as the demon jinked left and right. Higher and higher she flew, Fletcher’s overlay filled with clear blue sky and the glare of the blazing sun. Then, just as the others began to grow restless, Ebony turned and looked to the ground.

Beyond the pyramid, a teeming metropolis spread out below. These were not the grass huts that Fletcher had envisioned, but squat, heavy buildings of carved sandstone, with small ziggurats and monoliths surrounding a central plaza. It was all built around the great pyramid, except for a thin strip of beach between the pyramid’s back entrance and the river – where they had travelled last night.

‘Holy hell,’ Cress whispered. ‘There’re so many of them.’

Thousands of orcs milled in the square, waving pennants and banners of stretched cloth, bird feathers and animal-skin. Brightly coloured body paint separated the crowd into a patchwork quilt of different tribes. Even their hairstyles were different, a strange mix of shaven patches, topknots and bowl-shaped mops.

But they were not alone. Smaller orcs cringed beside each group, wearing heavy wooden yokes around their necks, like oxen. They had been daubed with blue ochre from head to toe, and the stone floor was stained by their footprints.

‘The weaklings, chosen from among the captives after a year of indoctrinashun’,’ Mason said, tapping the scrying tablet where the blue patches were. ‘They’ll take part in the games for a place among the warrior elite.’

There was a great stairway on the side of the pyramid, leading down into the plaza, and Fletcher could see that the balustrades that lined it were carved in the likeness of interwoven snakes. A squat, rectangular block sat at the flat zenith, with a shallow basin hewn into the stone and a dark hole in the centre.

Mason leaned in and squinted at the tablet.

‘There,’ he said, prodding to the right. ‘Go there.’

The image magnified as Ebony flew closer, shaking as the wind buffeted the demon. In the end, the Mite settled at the top of a tall obelisk to watch the proceedings below.

‘The pitz ball game,’ Jeffrey murmured. ‘I’ve heard about this.’

As had Fletcher, for Baker’s journal had waxed lyrical on the subject.

In between two sloping stone bleachers filled with cheering spectators, two teams of blue orcs leaped and dived across a long field of sand. On either end, a stone hoop was embedded in a wall, almost twelve feet off the ground. The hoop was turned sideways like a perfectly round ear, and Fletcher knew that the aim of each team was to get the ball through the opposing team’s to win the game.

He had seen many sketches of these pitches from Baker’s study of orc villages, but had never imagined how the game itself was played, nor that there would be more than fifty players battling up and down the pitch.

Most fascinating was the ball itself: a heavy sphere of rubber, the same material the gremlins used for their harpoon guns. It was bounced from orc to orc as they batted it around with wooden clubs, which they also used to batter aside their opponents. Blue dye and red blood spattered the sand, the two colours blending together as they did on the neck of a cassowary bird.