Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (43 page)

‘Solomon, I need you,’ Fletcher cried, dragging Sylva upright. ‘Get them out of here.’

The Golem wailed at the clumsiness of his rough hands, as he struggled to pick Cress up from the ground. Ignatius and Athena were dragging Othello by the arms.

‘Jeffrey, move!’ Fletcher yelled, but all the alchemist could do was cower in the corner with Lady Cavendish.

Sylva pointed down the corridor with a gasp. Behind Sariel, scores of demons were bearing down upon them, their shadowed forms illuminated by the fire elemental in their midst – an Ifrit, a humanoid fire-demon that burned with roaring flames.

Sariel looked into their eyes. Her opponent was dead, though the brave Canid had paid dearly for it. There was blood dripping from a horrific wound in her hind leg, torn to the bone. She inclined her head and gave a gruff woof, her soft eyes wet with tears. Ignatius lapped at her wounds, but the Canid gently pushed the Salamander aside.

‘No, Sariel,’ Sylva sobbed, sensing her demon’s intent.

The Canid turned and limped into the darkness, howling a challenge to the approaching demons. She was buying them time.

Fletcher raised his hand as Sariel slammed into the ranks of the demons, slashing left and right with her claws. As the Ifrit took Sariel by the throat and hurled her aside, Fletcher roared, unleashing a huge kinetic blast into the ceiling of the corridor. Dust billowed out and the stone imploded, scattering razor shards. An avalanche of rubble followed, burying the corridor and its inhabitants with a rumbling crash.

Then he sensed it. Ignatius and Athena, filled with fear. He turned to see their bodies spread-eagled on the floor, unable to move. A dart was buried in each of their backs, injecting paralytics through their veins. Sylva yelped as she was struck, her head flopping as the poison took hold.

As Fletcher searched wildly for the perpetrator, a sharp stab of pain emanated from his shoulder, and he tugged out another dart. Instantly, he felt the cold spread of paralysis disseminate through his body, leaving his arm hanging uselessly by his side. He had just enough time to snatch the red vial from his belt before his other arm numbed, but he did not have time to bring it to Sylva’s lips. The crash of Solomon’s body as it hit the floor told Fletcher the Golem had fallen too. He lay there, his eyes flicking around the room for their hidden enemy. He did not have to wait long.

‘I can’t even begin to tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this,’ Jeffrey chuckled, walking out of the shadows. He checked that Lysander’s eyes were closed, then squatted beside Fletcher and twiddled a blowpipe in front of his face.

‘Very useful, these poisons,’ he said. ‘From the curare plant, if you didn’t know. Got the blowpipe and darts from Blue, bless his heart. Far too trusting, the both of you.’

‘Why?’ Fletcher managed to gasp. It was becoming hard to breathe, the poison spreading across his chest.

‘I’m a patriot, Fletcher,’ Jeffrey said, ‘pure and simple. I love my country and my race – more than life itself. But look at what is happening to Hominum. Dwarves and elves mixing with humans, tainting our bloodline with half-breeds. The king elevating them to our equals, allowing them to join our exalted military. It makes me sick to my stomach.’

He spat at Othello’s frozen body, the mask of the scared servant boy gone. The face of a mad fanatic was all that remained.

‘As soon as you befriended that dwarf, I knew you were trouble. Such a shame, we did hit it off so well. Didn’t you ever wonder why I was avoiding you? Or did you forget me so quickly?’

In truth, Fletcher had barely given Jeffrey a moment’s thought since that first week at Vocans, what with everything else that had been going on. He had barely seen the boy for the rest of the year.

He glanced at Sylva and was relieved to see her wounds were almost gone. She would live, for now. Jeffrey gripped his face, turning it back to him.

‘I have to say, it hasn’t been easy. Joining the Anvils, rubbing shoulders with dwarf-lovers, gaining their trust, drinking their disgusting beer. I wouldn’t have managed it without the Forsyths – it was their idea after all. We’ve been working together for years, ever since I told them what I’d overheard about the dwarven war council. Didn’t you ever wonder how they knew where and when it would take place?’

Fletcher concentrated on breathing, his tongue too numb to reply. He attempted a spell, but his mana would not respond. The poison did more than affect the muscles. Only his feet and sword-hand seemed to have any semblance of control – he was still able to feel the smoothness of the vial against his fingers. It gave him an idea … He just had to be patient.

‘I do like framing the dwarves,’ Jeffrey said, smiling at the memory. ‘It’s so easy, everyone hates them already. People just need an excuse, which I was happy to provide. You’d be shocked at how easy it is to make a bomb, and nobody suspects a barrel left on the side of the road. Kidnapping the Anvil leadership was easy too, with some help from the Inquisition, of course. They even planted the bomb at that dwarf boy’s trial – King Alfric and the Triumvirate see eye to eye when it comes to the lesser races.’

It had been Jeffrey who had suggested they go to the front lines, even the gambling tent itself. It had been Jeffrey who had pushed for Electra to bribe his way into the team. Jeffrey who had hung back during the ambush, waiting for an opportunity to strike. How had he not seen it?

Then Jeffrey’s face fell, and he turned on Fletcher with a curled lip.

‘You did almost ruin it though, running back into the tent after I set the fuse, even with me spilling my guts outside. You weren’t meant to die yet, my little sacrificial lamb. Not before the whole world saw your corpse with Cress’s crossbow bolt in its belly. Or Sylva’s arrow. Maybe even Atilla’s tomahawk in Seraph’s back, if you had turned down Electra’s offer.’

He laughed aloud as Fletcher choked and spluttered with anger.

‘I was so sure I got you that second time. If only Electra hadn’t given you those vials. Such a gullible woman. Still, I’ll settle for this: the three-race team, dying pitifully at the last hurdle. Shows the world that we should each keep to our own.’

Fletcher attempted to spit at Jeffrey, but he only managed a weak dribble down the side of his mouth. Jeffrey dabbed at it with his sleeve, cooing at Fletcher sarcastically, as if he was a baby.

‘You were so concerned for poor, sickly Jeffrey. It’s not hard to shoot a crossbow, Fletcher, or conceal one in a satchel,’ he continued. ‘I can’t believe you thought it was Isadora’s team. They would never take such a risk, with so many watching. No, I shouldered that responsibility.’

The alchemist glanced at Rufus’s dead body and shook his head sadly.

‘It’s a shame I had to kill the boy, but I needed
something
to distract you. There’s an older brother to carry on his line, so no harm done.’

As Jeffrey turned, Fletcher opened the vial with his thumb, wincing as the cork rolled along the ground. Jeffrey didn’t seem to notice.

‘I really should be going,’ Jeffrey said, looking over his shoulder as the
pop pop
of gunfire from the back passage intensified. ‘They won’t wait for much longer.’

His face dropped with mock fear, and he hunched his shoulders.

‘It was a terrible accident, Arcturus!’ he cried mockingly. ‘There was a cave-in! They’re all dead – we need to get out of here!’

He laughed again and slapped Fletcher across the face, just because he could.

‘I’ll let the orcs finish what I started.’

Jeffrey turned and began to jog to the exit. It was now or never. With a colossal effort, Fletcher raised the vial and spilled it across his lips. A thin trickle made it into his mouth, and he gulped it down as fast as he could.

It was not enough. The paralysis dulled somewhat, but he could barely twitch the fingers of his tattooed hand. He lapped desperately at the spillage on his face, spooning it with his tongue.

The paralysis faded with every second, until he could flex the fingers again. Gritting his teeth, Fletcher growled and lifted his hand, pointing it at the boy’s retreating back. He didn’t hesitate. Jeffrey deserved a traitor’s death.

A lightning bolt speared Jeffrey’s spine, hurling him down the corridor to slam into the wall. The boy lay broken on the ground, his eyes staring blankly, mouth gaping in a macabre parody of shock. Death did not become him.

Fletcher forced himself to sit upright, looking at the frozen bodies of those around him. They were so close. Arcturus and his team were just out of sight, around the bend of the corridor.

He staggered to his knees and began to crawl. The seconds ticked by as he dragged himself towards the room’s exit, his legs still incapable of carrying his weight. But it was slow. Too slow.

He snarled through his teeth and managed to stagger a few steps, before collapsing to the ground once more. The corridor was just ahead … if he could just reach the back entrance, Arcturus would help carry the others out.

But then the howls began again. The demons had found another way through the pyramid. Even as he watched, the first rounded the corner. It was an Oni, its red skin gleaming in the flickering recesses of the torchlight. It grasped Jeffrey’s head as easily as a grapefruit, lifting his body like a carcass hung out to dry.

Another demon skidded in behind it, a leopard-spotted Felid. There was no way Fletcher could fight his way past them. He had one choice open to him.

Gathering the last of his mana, Fletcher cradled a ball of seething kinetic energy, hiding it behind his back. He waited as more demons spilled out into the corridor. They took their time, knowing he was trapped. Still they hesitated, remembering their buried comrades in the other tunnel.

‘Come on!’ Fletcher yelled, beckoning them closer.

A Kamaitachi hissed and clattered towards him – a fanged, weasel-like demon with serrated bone-blades replacing its paws. Two piebald Canids jostled to be first into the antechamber, snapping and snarling at each other. Sweat stung Fletcher’s eyes. Not yet. Not just yet.

Then he saw it. The glow of the Ifrit, pushing its way through the jockeying creatures. In the new light of its fiery flesh, Fletcher could see dozens of demons following, from common Mites to tentacled monstrosities. It was time.

He hurled the spell into the corridor’s ceiling, blasting the stone with every last trace of mana he had. The explosion threw him back, catapulting him head over heels. Stars burst across his vision as he cracked his head against the paving.

He lay there, choking as the dust-laden air filled his lungs. In the dim light, he saw the corridor was gone, replaced by a mass of broken rubble and masonry. The screams of buried demons echoed through the antechamber, and Fletcher smiled grimly. He’d taken most of them with him.

As he listened to the fading cries, he realised the gunfire outside had stopped. He checked his scrying crystal and saw it was blank – Verity had severed the connection.

His grim acceptance of their abandonment turned to despair as the torch spluttered in the dust from the explosion, then died. They were cast in total darkness.

Trapped.

Fletcher lay in the blackness, the back of his head sticky with blood. It was over. Already he could hear the goblins in the corridors, digging at the rubble and screeching at each other. They could break through in a few minutes, or a few days.

He wondered absently if dying of thirst was a better alternative to capture. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

Hours passed.

Othello was the first to move, forcing a tiny wyrdlight from his frozen fingertips. It moved determinedly around the room, flitting to each of them as the dwarf checked they were all in one piece.

A groan from Cress announced her own tentative recovery. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a numb-tongued garble. Silence resumed, as the team waited patiently for the paralysis to wear off.

Time went by and, slowly but surely, the others gradually regained their faculties. Othello was the first to speak, his words slow and deliberate.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances things could be a lot worse.’

‘A lot worse?’ Cress grumbled, slurring her words, but quickly warming to her theme. ‘We’re buried alive, surrounded by what looks like the entire orc and goblin army, a hundred miles deep in enemy territory and all of Hominum probably thinks we’re dead. We have about as much chance of getting out of this as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.’

Fletcher couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Then he heard a sob from Sylva.

‘Hey … are you OK?’ Fletcher asked, crawling over to her.

He shone wyrdlight from his finger, and saw her half-healed shoulder and upper chest still bore the marks from the Nanaue bite, a jagged half circle of scars. He lay his hand on her arm, but she jerked away.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed.

‘Sylva … I’m sorry about Sariel,’ Fletcher murmured.

‘You killed her,’ Sylva whispered, her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘I saved you and then you killed her. I felt the rocks come down, her spine snap. It took hours for her to die – did you know that, Fletcher? Body broken, barely any air to breath. Alone, in the dark.’