Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (39 page)

‘Take it out,’ Fletcher croaked. He could taste metallic blood on his lips and knew he had been lung-shot. ‘We need to heal …’

He gasped as Sylva snapped the steel tip from the shaft between her fingers and drew out the bolt in one fluid motion. Then he choked as his lung began to fill with blood.

The procedure was repeated on his thigh, with Sylva first pushing the shaft further through so she could grip the steel tip.

As Fletcher gurgled, Sylva etched the healing spell in the air, the white threads of light flickering around his wounds. Ignatius joined the effort, his tongue lapping at the wound as he desperately tried to staunch the flow of blood.

It was slow, too slow, and Fletcher’s thigh was gushing crimson into the earth. His artery had been hit.

He watched it all in grim silence. He didn’t want to die in this fetid pit, with the whole world watching. He would be a failure, and a symbol of the disunity of Hominum. A martyr to everything he hated.

Then he remembered. Electra’s potions, strapped to his chest.

Unable to speak, Fletcher tugged one from its slot and popped the cork with a flick of his thumb. He gulped it down, the taste as metallic as the blood that stained his teeth. For a moment he felt nothing but the life draining from his body. Then …

‘Woah,’ Sylva gasped, her healing spell flickering out of existence.

Fletcher felt a cold sensation rush over him. The pain was gone, almost instantly. He looked at his leg to find no more than a patch of bloodstained skin through the tear in his breeches. His chest was much the same.

Ignatius bounded on to his shoulder, wrapping himself around Fletcher’s neck. Beneath the Salamander’s skin, he could hear the hammering of the terrified demon’s heart.

‘Easy there, buddy,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Sylva whispered, pressing her forehead to his, gasping with emotion. For the briefest of moments, so quickly that Fletcher couldn’t even be sure it had happened, he felt her soft lips brush his own.

Then Othello landed beside them with a thud, and they were wrapped in a bear hug.

‘That was too close,’ Othello sobbed, squeezing them so hard Fletcher thought his ribs might crack. ‘Don’t you
ever
do that to me again.’

They hunkered down in the lee of the pit’s tunnel, out of the line of fire. Only Lysander remained, hiding among the beams once again in case the assassin returned.

‘Either Isadora’s team are here, or it’s Cress,’ Sylva argued, her arms crossed defiantly. ‘Isn’t it weird that she wasn’t here both times you were shot?’

‘No, I can’t believe it,’ Othello said, just as stubborn. ‘She wouldn’t do that to us. To Fletcher. Truth be told, I think she has a soft spot for him.’

Sylva reddened at his words, but set her jaw and stared Othello down.

‘She could be a fanatic. Maybe she wants a war, and the not wearing a veil thing is just for cover. She could be just like Atilla was.’ Sylva’s eyes were wild as she spoke. ‘I …
we
almost lost him!’

This was a different girl to the one he knew. She was still pressed close against him, and Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder if something had changed between them, in that fleeting moment together.

She had even summoned Sariel, who was watching the dark tunnel intently. Sylva absently ran her hands through the Canid’s fur, and the demon whined miserably.

‘Lysander saw me get shot,’ Fletcher whispered, his back propped up against the wall.

‘If Cress wasn’t in view of Caliban or Sacharissa when the attack happened … the whole of Hominum will think it was her,’ he continued. ‘The crossbow bolt has blue fletching.’

‘It probably was her!’ Sylva exclaimed, exasperated. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? We can’t trust her.’

‘Don’t you get it? I don’t care if it was or wasn’t,’ Fletcher said in a low voice. ‘All the goodwill we just earned by discovering the orc keys is gone.’

‘Lysander barely saw it,’ Othello said generously, ‘he and I shot off so fast. Plus, from his angle, they wouldn’t be able to see the colour of the fletching.’

‘Maybe …’ Fletcher muttered despondently. ‘But a dwarf trying to assassinate a human would cause an uproar all over Hominum.’

‘Not just a human, you’re a noble now.’ Othello sighed, then turned back to Sylva. ‘Anyway, it’s not as simple as that. Malik’s team were on our side of the river the entire time too. He could be harbouring a grudge after you defeated him in the Tournament. Verity is in his team: she could be working for the Triumvirate – her grandmother’s one of them after all.’

‘You really think it could be Verity?’ Fletcher asked, trying to picture those large eyes peeping out from behind a crossbow, levelled at him.

‘Why not? Just because she’s pretty?’ Sylva glared at him.

‘It could be Rory, or even Genevieve, still angry after you almost killed Malachi last year,’ Othello continued. ‘Don’t forget Seraph’s team were nearby too.’

Fletcher wondered how he had acquired so many enemies! It seemed like half of Vocans had a reason to kill him.

‘If you’re too blind to see it, I’m not going to argue with you,’ Sylva snapped, shaking her head. ‘I won’t say anything when she shows up. But I’ll be watching her.’

As an ill-tempered silence descended, there was a squawk from above. The team were instantly ready – Fletcher and Sylva with their bows drawn, Othello with a fire spell etched. They waited with bated breath, aiming at the platforms above.

Didric poked his head out.

‘I told you it smelled like dung in here,’ he said jovially. ‘Look Tarquin, I found the source.’

Othello whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘See?’

Sylva scowled but remained silent, her bow firmly centred on Didric’s face.

Tarquin’s head appeared, and he frowned at the sight of them.

‘Well well,’ he drawled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. ‘You made it after all. I guess we only have ourselves to blame, after we saved you from that patrol.’

‘
You
saved
us
?’ Othello growled, incredulous. ‘If we hadn’t come back for you, you’d be a brown stain at the bottom of an orc latrine by now!’

‘Oh pish posh, what utter drivel,’ Isadora’s voice echoed down. ‘Grindle darling, be a dear and carry Atlas down for us. He looks positively ghastly.’

A shadow passed over them, then Fletcher saw the Wendigo, Hannibal, lead the way down the stairs, his great gangly frame navigating the narrow steps with difficulty. Grindle appeared behind him, with Atlas slung over his shoulder. He grinned at the others, and was followed by a daintily skipping Isadora. Somehow, her black uniform appeared as clean as the day they had arrived in the jungles.

Fletcher and the others were forced to lower their weapons as the Wendigo made his way down, his black eyes fixing on them intently.

Tarquin and Didric were not far behind. When they reached the bottom, they followed Grindle in leaping over the moat as Othello and Sylva had done, while the Wendigo waded into the trench and lifted Isadora over the water. Fletcher rolled his eyes. A true gentleman …

‘What happened to Atlas?’ Fletcher said, eyeing the near-unconscious boy.

‘He ate some berry or other that didn’t agree with him yesterday, after we crossed the river,’ Isadora said, examining her fingernails. ‘The fat lump scoffed everything in sight. I doubt he’s going to make it. Pointless bringing him with us – he’s slowed us down the entire way. But Tarquin seemed to think it would look bad if we left him behind.’

Fletcher knelt beside the stricken boy. He had a bloodless pallor, and his breathing was shallow and erratic.

‘How long have you been here?’ Fletcher asked, tugging another health vial from the slot on his shoulder strap. ‘We waited for you by the back entrance.’

‘We just arrived,’ Didric croaked in his burned-out voice, prodding an egg absently with his rapier. ‘It took us forever, we had to carry this idiot most of the way. We were lucky most of the orcs are on the other side of the pyramid.’

‘We waited for you, you know,’ Othello growled. ‘A thank you would be nice.’

‘Nobody asked you to,’ Tarquin said, shrugging.

Fletcher ignored them and considered the vial. He only had two left and the last one had saved his life. Could he really sacrifice it to save this treacherous boy’s life? It was only a remonstrative look from Lysander that swung his decision. The world was watching.

He popped the cork and trickled some of the liquid into Atlas’s mouth. The boy licked his dry lips and swallowed it down.

‘You’re wasting your time with him – we tried the healing spell. He’s a goner for sure,’ Grindle said. He turned to Sylva and winked. ‘Nice to see the she-elf made it. Would be a shame to let an orc deny me the pleasure of killing her myself.’

Sylva’s knuckles tightened on her falx, so firmly that it wavered in the air by her side. Despite this, she replied with a cool, level stare.

‘Please, try. The pleasure would be all mine.’

As the last of the elixir drained from the vial, Atlas’s colour began to return. He coughed and sat up, looking blearily around him.

‘The healing spell did nothing,’ Isadora said, incredulous. ‘We wasted a huge amount of mana trying it.’

‘Looks like the elixir’s an anti-venom too,’ Fletcher said, checking his shoulder strap. He had only one red health vial left, but there were still three of the blue mana ones. They should come in useful when it came to destroying the eggs.

Atlas eyed Fletcher, a look of confusion on his face. He began to speak, then hesitated as Tarquin cleared his throat. Atlas turned at the noise, and after a brief pause, hoisted himself up and walked resignedly over to the others.

‘You’re welcome,’ Fletcher said sarcastically.

Another squawk from Lysander echoed down, announcing the arrival of the others. Fletcher’s eyes landed on Cress and he briefly considered whether Sylva’s suspicions could be right. But one look at her smiling face convinced him that she was innocent. Fletcher shook the suspicion from his mind and looked down the dark passageway. Hot, fetid air seemed to waft in and out, like the breath of a slumbering giant. This was it. All that they had risked, everything that they had gone through, had led to this moment. They had reached the goblin caves with half an hour to spare, and the raid was about to begin.

The teams kneeled at the entry of the passageway, examining the crude map that Mason had mocked up of the cavern. Their demons crowded the tunnel ahead, watching for movement.

‘I have no idea ’ow this tunnel links to the caves, but I’ll know it pretty well when we get inside,’ Mason said, using his sword to point at a large central chamber in the middle. ‘This is the main cavern. I’ve only been in there once, but I know it’s where they store the goblin eggs. It’s a magma chamber, so it keeps ’em warm. From what I’ve seen, the oldest batch ’atches right around the time a new one is brought in, so we need to be careful.’

He looked warily over his shoulder down the tunnel, then down at the swollen eggs in the moat.

‘Some goblins could be comin’ to collect ’em at some point, so we’d better move soon.’

‘What about the prisoners?’ Cress asked, hunkering down beside him. ‘Where are they kept?’

As she spoke, Sylva watched her face intently, her hand on the handle of her falx.

Mason pointed to a chamber connected to the main cavern by a long, thin tunnel, with another branching off it to the surface above.

‘That’s where they kept the prisoners sometimes. I dunno if my mates’ll be in there at this time of day.’

‘Is that where my mother is?’ Rufus asked, his eyes wide.

‘Yeah. She was kept in a cage. They never let ’er out, or let us speak to ’er,’ Mason said, shaking his head. ‘We weren’t even able to speak to each other in there – there were goblins in the room all the bloody time, it’s where most of ’em sleep, especially when there’s a celebration time, like today. They’ll have drunk themselves into a stupor by now, but we’ll still ’ave an ’ell of a time gettin’ ’er out without bein’ spotted.’