Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (42 page)

‘Sylva, your vial – I’m out of mana!’ Fletcher yelled, as the first goblin charged out of the tunnel, brandishing a war club. Sylva hurled the vial from across the room and Fletcher caught it by the tips of his fingers. In the same moment, he parried the goblin’s flailing club.

Athena swooped in and buried her claws in the goblin’s head. It spun away, squealing, giving Fletcher time to gulp down the bottle. It tasted sickly sweet, like honeyed lavender water.

The mana spilled from his core like a tide of white light, roiling through his veins and down his connection to Athena and Ignatius. Supercharged, Fletcher blasted a ball of fire through the goblin’s chest.

Almost immediately, the pulses of mana began to drain from Ignatius, but Fletcher had had enough of the disobedient Salamander.

‘That’s it! You’re getting out of there.’ He whipped a kinetic lasso into the lake and tugged the demon out, sending him tumbling through the air to land steaming at his feet.

Ignatius shook his head, as if to dislodge an unwanted thought. The demon seemed larger somehow, but there was no time for a thorough examination. More goblins erupted from the tunnel, screeching their war cries, and the bass roar of orcs echoed behind them.

‘Back to the pyramid,’ Fletcher ordered, sending a crackle of lightning through the frontrunners. As he turned, a new-born goblin gripped his ankle, tripping him to the floor. Ignatius slashed its face to the bone with a swipe of his claws and it spun away, squealing.

Then they were up and running. As he neared the entrance, Fletcher saw the others were well ahead, with Othello and Sylva acting as rearguard.

A kinetic ball blurred over his shoulder, the yelp of the downed goblin behind dangerously close. Othello arced another over Fletcher’s head, the explosive force showering him with soil and screams. He glanced back to see the first wave of goblins in disarray, many of them screeching in agony as they burned in the lava they had been blasted into.

‘Come on,’ Sylva yelled as Fletcher sprinted by.

The three barrelled headlong down the tunnel, with Ignatius and Athena scampering behind. Ahead, Sariel and Solomon waited at the base of the pillar. The others were well on their way up the stairs, Jeffrey included.

‘Up, up!’ Fletcher yelled, and they sprinted up the steps. It would not take long for the goblins to regroup.

Solomon went first, for he was the slowest, his stumpy legs struggling to mount the steep steps. Fletcher and Sylva protected the rear, while Othello removed the blunderbuss from his holster and aimed it at the tunnel entrance.

‘What do you see, Fletcher?’ Sylva asked breathlessly, as they backed up the stairs. ‘Are we gonna have a welcoming committee at the top?’

Fletcher allowed his sight to align with the scrying crystal over his eye, still showing Ebony’s point of view.

‘The orcs aren’t entering the pyramid, and the shamans are too far away,’ Fletcher answered with relief. ‘Looks like Mason was right.’

‘Well, the goblins will have no such qualms,’ Sylva said, as the yowls of hatred echoed down the tunnel. ‘Watch out, here they come.’

The goblins stampeded out of the tunnel, brandishing javelins, spears and clubs. The first projectile whistled between Fletcher’s legs and he scrabbled to throw up a shield spell. It was just in time, for a dozen others clattered against it not a moment later.

The first handful of goblins mounted the steps, tripping over themselves in their bloodlust. There was a snarling veteran leading the charge, its shoulder scarred from an old bullet-wound. Ignatius took it down with a well-placed fireball, sending it tumbling into those behind in a tangle of limbs.

Forced to hold the shield in place with his left wrist, Fletcher fenced one-handed with his khopesh. Sylva backed him up with great sweeps of her falx, rending the goblins apart to send them tumbling back into the pit below.

‘Firing,’ Othello bellowed, and Fletcher ducked instinctively.

There was a thunderclap, followed by a gout of sulphurous smoke. The spray of buckshot scattered into the horde below, a furrow of dead hurled to the ground as if a giant invisible fist had slammed through them.

‘Loading,’ Othello yelled, as the ranks closed and more goblins lunged from the tunnel to take their places.

A blue crossbow bolt whipped into the goblins still on the stairwell, taking one through the shoulder. It plummeted down, wailing and flailing until it hit the baying masses below with a sickening thud. A second quarrel followed in its wake, plucking another goblin from its perch.

‘You’re almost there,’ Cress called from above. ‘I’ve got you covered.’

Fletcher took the brief respite to look up at their progress. Othello was frantically reloading his gun, his hands shaking as he poured the gunpowder down the barrel. Cress kneeled on the bridge just above them, firing her bolts with deadly accuracy. Lysander remained beside her, unable to join the fight. He was too large to avoid the javelins that still peppered them from below.

‘Watch out,’ Sylva yelled.

Fletcher turned just in time, sucking in his stomach to avoid a spear thrust that would have gutted him. He slammed it down with the flat of his blade and lashed out with his sword’s hilt. It caught the offending goblin squarely in the face, and the creature spun to teeter on the edge of the stairs. Athena swooped by with a screech of fury, tugging it into empty space.

A flare of pain across Fletcher’s abdomen told him the spear had left its mark. Emboldened, the goblins charged around the pillar once more, swinging their clubs over their heads.

‘Firing,’ Othello bellowed again. This time, he shot directly down the staircase, the acrid smoke billowing between Sylva and Fletcher’s faces. The devastation was concentrated into an expanding cone of shrapnel, leaving a charnel house in its wake. The blood-soaked remains sickened even Fletcher, and sent the survivors screaming back down the stairwell, fighting to get past the more eager goblins behind them.

In the lull that followed, the team staggered up the final steps and on to the platform, while Cress kept the immediate stairway clear with her crossbow.

‘Screw this,’ she said suddenly, slinging her weapon. She popped the cork of her mana vial and gulped it down. Shuddering as the mana flooded her body, she pointed her battle-gauntlet at the stairway. A wave of flame erupted out, spiralling down the stairs and sweeping them clear of the goblins arrayed along it. It was brutal to watch, like a tidal wave flushing the rats from a piece of flotsam. The inferno pooled at the bottom of the pit, seething and roiling like liquid fire. Those that did not throw themselves back down the tunnel were incinerated, their squeals of pain harsh in Fletcher’s ears.

Silence descended, broken only by the sizzle of the cooking corpses below.

‘I’m out of mana,’ Cress said, peering down and wincing at the sight. ‘But they don’t know that.’

‘Me too,’ Sylva said, scraping the blood from her falx against the edge of the platform. ‘Used it all up burning those eggs.’

Fletcher’s reserves were low, but he reabsorbed the shield back through his fingers to replenish them. Just enough for a few more spells.

‘I’ve saved my vial,’ Othello said, frantically reloading his blunderbuss. ‘And I’ve still got some mana left over. Solomon’s mana levels increased with his size.’

The Golem rumbled at hearing his name, his face splitting into a craggy smile.

Then, as the first goblins began to venture into the pit once more, a howl echoed around the room. It came from the passageway on the other side of the platform. Fletcher looked in his scrying crystal, to see Ebony was hovering above the pyramid. Below her, dozens of creatures streamed by the waiting orcs and into the front entrance.

‘Demons,’ Fletcher breathed, his eyes widening with horror.

They backed down the passageway as the roars of the demons grew louder and louder.

‘The rescue party are here,’ Fletcher said, looking in his crystal. ‘They’re waiting for us by the back entrance.’

He could see scores of orcs attacking the waiting Celestial Corps, though many of them lay dead in the land between the river and the pyramid. Arcturus and a few other riders were the only ones still fighting, with most of the rescuers already disappearing on the horizon with the other teams. Fletcher could see puffs of smoke and fireballs streaking across the overlay as they battled to hold their position. Even as he watched, Ebony turned away, following her mistress back to civilisation.

The team were halfway down the passage now, and the antechamber with the hieroglyphs lay directly ahead of them. The wail of goblins joined the uproar, and as Fletcher glanced back, he saw the first of them following down the tunnel.

He fired a ball of flame, illuminating the long dark passage. It took the nearest goblin in the chest, blasting it head over heels. Those behind simply trampled it into the ground, screeching their battle-cries.

The team ran on, with Lysander barrelling into the room ahead as Solomon’s slow pace held them up. Moments later, they burst into the antechamber.

A flickering torch on the far wall was the only source of light, lit by Khan and his orcs on their way in. Rufus lay in the corner, clutching at his stomach, blood slowly spreading in a pool around his body. His Lutra lay beside him, its head half severed. Jeffrey was cradling the boy in his arms, while Lady Cavendish sat hunched in the corner, rocking back and forth.

‘Help me,’ Jeffrey begged, holding up his hands. They were bloodied to the elbow, where he had attempted to staunch the wound.

‘It’s too late,’ Othello said, kneeling beside the stricken boy. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him.’

Lysander groaned, then collapsed to the ground.

‘What the hell?’ Cress cried, rushing to the demon’s side. There were no wounds, yet he was completely unconscious, his beak gaping open like a chicken with its neck wrung.

‘Solomon, pick him up,’ Othello ordered, pointing at the inert demon. ‘I’ll get Lady Cavendish.’

‘Heads up, we have company,’ Sylva yelled, shooting an arrow down the passageway. The thunder of footsteps approached and the first goblins came barrelling out of the gloom.

‘Take Bess,’ Othello yelled, throwing the blunderbuss across the room.

Fletcher caught it and fired from the hip, the force of the blast staggering him as half a pound of shrapnel ricocheted down the corridor. The slaughter was instantaneous, cutting the goblins down like wheat before a reaper. Those that avoided the initial salvo scrabbled to return the way they had come.

But the goblins were not alone. Two Nanaues were racing past them, leaping from floor to wall to ceiling, their claws digging into the stone as easily as tree bark.

Fletcher resisted the mad urge to hit them with the last of his mana, knowing that spells were ineffective against demons. Instead, he drew his pistol, Blaze, the long single barrel trembling as he squinted down the sight. Even as he aimed at one, an arrow from Sylva pierced its shoulder, knocking it to the ground.

Fletcher switched targets and fired, seeing the musket ball hit the other Nanaue in the chest before the pall of smoke obscured his view. The creature skidded and tumbled along the ground in its momentum, knocking Fletcher’s shins with its body. Its wet black eyes gave him a thousand-yard stare of death, but there was no time to be sure.

The injured Nanaue behind tore the arrow from its shoulder, the great gaping mouth flapping open as it roared and continued its charge. Twenty feet. Ten feet.

Fletcher drew Gale, and fired both barrels in quick succession. The first musket ball took it through its knee and the Nanaue continued in a lopsided stampede. The second missed completely, no more than a puff of dust and broken masonry from the ceiling above.

Then Fletcher was knocked to the ground, the pistols clattering from his hands. He scrambled, punching left and right, hitting nothing but air. Sitting up, he saw Sylva wrestling with the demon, its rows of teeth buried across her chest. She screamed with pain, even as Solomon battered at the demon with his stony fists.

Fletcher looked around desperately for a weapon, only to find Cress lying on the ground beside him, her eyes staring blankly. Tosk lay beside her, his twitching tail the only sign of life.

Then Sariel was on the scene, clamping her claws on either side of the Nanaue’s maw and levering them open. Sylva wriggled free and Sariel hurled the creature back down the corridor, before following it into the darkness with a snarl of hatred.

As the two demons tore at each other in the passageway, Othello staggered beside Sylva, pulsing healing energy over her. The row of bloody bite wounds closed slowly, and Fletcher added his own healing spell, giving it all he had as Sylva gasped in pain.

‘She pushed you out of the way,’ Othello said in a tight voice.

The wounds were only half healed, but the dwarf’s healing spell flickered and died. His brow creased with confusion.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he muttered, his head lolling drunkenly against his chest. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped over.