Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (29 page)

Jeffrey’s asthma made him take deep breaths through a herb-filled cloth and Cress’s short legs forced her to travel in short bursts of speed, as Othello did.

‘Five minute break,’ Fletcher announced, his heart thundering in his chest, sweat trickling down his back. After a year in captivity with no more exercise than a few press-ups, he too was struggling. In fact, only Sylva seemed to be faring well.

They stopped and collapsed to the ground, pressing their backs against tree trunks on either side of the path. There were a few minutes that were filled only with the gulping of water and the chewing of fruit and root tubers. Then Sylva pointed back down the path and groaned.

‘Even at this pace, Isadora and the others could catch up with us by nightfall. We just can’t travel as fast as they can.’

‘Well, it’s worth trying,’ Othello groaned, laying his head on Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘We should reach the pyramid late tomorrow. If we can avoid them until then, all will be well.’

They continued to sit, and even though five minutes had passed, Fletcher let them rest a little longer. He had spent much of the previous night watching the other team through his crystal, hoping to hear their conversation. To his dismay, the Wendigo prowled the edges of their camp for most of the night, keeping Athena at a distance until he fell asleep.

Fear pulsed into Fletcher from both of his demons. Ignatius burst out of the jungle, and in the overlay of his scrying crystal he saw a disturbance on the path up ahead.

‘Get off the trail!’ Fletcher hissed, and then he and Sylva were scrambling into the jungle, while Othello, Cress and Jeffrey dived into the bushes on the other side of the path. Lysander and Sariel followed the others, pressing their bodies low to the ground and wriggling into the thicker vegetation. This was just as well, for it was not long before the new arrivals revealed themselves.

Three rhinos, long horns ploughing forward like the prows on a fleet of warships, emerged. Their skin was thick and leathery, the grey colour matching perfectly with that of the herculean giants that rode them.

Seven-foot bull orcs, matured to their greatest size, with three-inch tusks and bodies adorned with whorls of red and yellow war-paint. They carried great macana clubs, shaped like a flat wooden bat with rectangular shards of knapped obsidian embedded along the edges, sharper than even the finest blade. Fletcher imagined the damage those were capable of – they could probably decapitate a horse in one stroke. Baker’s journal had described them as both mace and sword, crumpling armour and quartering flesh in equal measures.

Behind the orcs, loincloth-clad goblins rode in rows of two, armed with stone-tipped spears and misshapen clubs carved from tree branches. They appeared much like the specimen Fletcher had seen at the great council – shorter than him by a head and scrawny to boot, with long noses and flapping ears.

Their steeds were cassowaries, great ostrich-like birds with black feathers so fine they almost appeared like fur. The long featherless necks on their flightless bodies were a bright blue colour, and red wattles dangled from their chins. Strangest of all, they had humped casques cresting their heads, not unlike a short, blunt horn embedded in their skulls. Fletcher shuddered as their raptor talons ripped up the ground beneath them, each one capable of disembowelling a man with a single kick.

He knew from the findings in Baker’s journal that cassowaries were only ever ridden by younger orcs, when they were small enough that the birds could bear their weight. With the arrival of the goblins, the orcs had found another use for them.

‘My god, there are so many of them,’ Sylva whispered. She was pressed tightly against Fletcher, their mad scramble leaving them practically on top of each other.

There were at least fifty goblins in the column, their frog-like eyes scanning the forest for movement. Trotting at the heels of the cavalcade were two spotted hyenas, their powerful, squat bodies ranging up and down the column, sniffing at the ground. For a moment a hyena paused by the trail, its keen snout snorting at the ground directly ahead of where they crouched, huddled in the bushes. They watched in silence as it moved closer. It began to growl, and Sylva grabbed Fletcher’s arm in alarm … but a guttural bark from one of the orcs sent it scampering back to the front of the war-party.

Fortunately for the team, they seemed to be following the scent they had left down the trail. It occurred to Fletcher that they might be smelling something else, not far away. Perhaps the Wendigo?

It took no more than a minute for them to pass by, but it felt like an age before Fletcher gathered the nerve to step out on the path once more. As he did so, Athena swooped down and alighted on his shoulder, while Ignatius leaped into his arms and buried his head in Fletcher’s chest. It had been a close call.

‘Right, I say we get off this trail,’ Fletcher announced, his voice trembling with nervous energy.

‘Agreed,’ Othello said, emerging from the forest with the others. ‘When the trail runs cold, they’ll come back this way.’

‘Those birds looked like demons,’ Cress said, staring after them. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them before.’

‘Trust me, they’re a real animal,’ Jeffrey lectured. ‘They’re fast as hell and kick like a mule. You should see their eggs – giant green things, you’d take one look at them and think they could be a goblins’ eggs. Try having one of those for breakfast—’

‘You realise they’re heading right for Isadora and the others?’ Cress interrupted, looking in the direction of the column.

‘That’s perfect,’ Sylva said. ‘Maybe they’ll take each other out.’

But Fletcher looked to Lysander, who was watching the retreating army with a concerned expression. Lord Forsyth would have one of Lysander’s scrying crystals with him, so Hannibal would be able to relay a warning to Tarquin and the others. But he knew that with the Wendigo’s size and stench, they would find it difficult to avoid the prowling hyenas. It was tempting. The thought of Didric or the twins being ambushed by orcs was an image he had pictured on many a lonely night in his cell, but then he felt a twinge of rebuke from Athena’s consciousness. Fletcher sighed. She was right. He turned to his friends.

‘Why are we here?’ Fletcher asked, looking them all in the eye.

‘To destroy a few thousand goblin eggs and rescue Rufus’s mother, Lady Cavendish,’ Sylva said, already swinging her pack on to her shoulders.

‘No. Why are
we
here?’ Fletcher asked again.

They stared at him silently, as if confused by the question.

‘Our team is supposed to be a shining example to the world of cooperation between the races,’ Fletcher said. ‘We are to prove that dwarves and elves are worthy of humanity’s respect. Now I want them dead as much as you; I’d kill them myself if I had a chance. But how will it look if we abandon Isadora’s team, leaving them to be slaughtered?’

Othello and Sylva avoided his eyes, but they knew he spoke the truth.

‘They’re hunting us,’ Sylva whispered. ‘This is our chance.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Cress replied stubbornly. ‘They could just have changed their minds about their route.’

‘If they’re killed, that’s one team fewer to join the raid. Even if they manage to escape, the orcs will raise the alarm,’ Othello grudgingly admitted, lending Fletcher his support.

‘But it’s Didric, Tarquin, Isadora, even Grindle! They’ve all tried to kill every one of us. You’re naive, Cress – the world would be a better place without them,’ Sylva snarled, and Fletcher couldn’t fault her words. Was he really going to save the people who had plotted his execution? He hesitated, but then Cress spoke again.

‘What about Atlas? Does he deserve death just because we don’t like the company he keeps?’ she asked quietly. ‘If we let them die, we would be no better than they are, putting our own ends before the safety of Hominum.’

Sylva exhaled with frustration, then turned back the way they had come, unslinging her bow as she did so.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ she growled.

They shadowed the orc patrol for half an hour, using Athena’s vision to make sure they stayed just out of sight. Fortunately, the riders were upwind of them, so the snuffling hyenas could not smell their approach.

‘Wait,’ Fletcher hissed, holding up his fist. ‘They’ve stopped.’

From her vantage point above, Athena could see that the trio of rhinos at the front had come to a halt. Just ahead, the hyenas were yipping with a high-pitched cackle at the trees around them.

‘No guns,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘Bows only. Loose on my signal.’

They took up positions on either side of the trail, keeping to the bushes. It had been a long time since Fletcher had used his bow, but as soon as it was in his grip it all came back, the string gliding easily along his fingers as he nocked a blue-fletched arrow to it. Beside him, Cress grunted as she wound her crossbow, the metal lever on the side slipping in her sweaty fingers.

‘Jeffrey, stay back and cover our rear,’ Fletcher ordered, lining up his shot. ‘If another patrol comes I want to know about it.’

He did not pull back just yet, for he knew that he shot better in a single, fluid motion. Instead, he concentrated on the orcs, as the first dismounted and peered into the forest.

A fireball took the orc in the chest, blasting him into the jungle. More sizzled through the air like meteorites, throwing the column into disarray. Isadora’s team had prepared an ambush.

‘Now!’ Fletcher shouted, as the goblins at the back turned to flee. Two arrows and a bolt thrummed into the heaving creatures, plucking them from their mounts with deadly accuracy.

‘Again,’ Fletcher growled, and another volley followed the first, thumping into cassowary and goblin alike. At the head of the column, the Wendigo burst through the trees, slashing left and right at the two remaining orcs, while fireballs, lightning and kinetic blasts buzzed inaccurately through the air.

Miraculously, a goblin made it past their barrage of arrows, his cassowary hurtling them down the trail, away from the battle. Fletcher shouted a warning.

‘Don’t let him get aw—’ A hurlbat axe whirled through the air and took the cassowary’s right leg off, sending it head over heels. Then Othello erupted from the undergrowth, dispatching goblin and bird with two chops of his battle-axe.

Dozens of goblins shrieked with fury, and thundered towards the exposed dwarf. But a screech from above gave them pause. Lysander hurled himself out of the branches, bowling through the cassowary-riders in a whirlwind of wings and talons. But even as the goblins fell to the ground, the birds kicked and jabbed their beaks, and the Griffin roared with pain.

‘Close in!’ Fletcher ordered, and then he was running, khopesh drawn, heart pounding as hard as his feet did against the ground.

The first goblin swung his club, still dazed from being knocked off his mount. Fletcher parried and reposted, taking the goblin through the sternum and blasting it from the blade with a shot of kinetic energy. Cress’s torq knocked another goblin to the ground, while Sylva decapitated a flailing cassowary with a sweep of her falx. Othello’s hurlbat axes peppered the massed goblins from over Fletcher’s shoulders, thrumming dangerously close to his ears.

It gave Lysander enough time to throw himself back into the air, sprinkling the ground below with droplets of blood. There was no time to assess the Griffin’s injuries, for as the first row of goblins went down, another took its place, lunging at the trio with howls of anger.

‘Back,’ Fletcher gasped, as a club struck his left elbow, leaving his tattooed hand to hang limply by his side. Othello stepped in beside Sylva to protect the right of the trail, while Cress and Fletcher held the left.

Goblins and cassowaries crowded towards the thin line of summoners, spreading out into the jungle in an attempt to flank them. A gout of flame from the undergrowth sent a group of goblins scrambling back, one spinning away and screeching, as Ignatius scrabbled at its face. After one last slash, the Salamander dived back into the bushes, daring the goblins to leave the trail once again.

On the other side, lightning crackled into the massed creatures, downing several and leaving them twitching on the ground. Cress’s demon, Tosk, had joined the battle.

‘Where’s Sariel?’ Fletcher shouted, sweeping his khopesh in a wide arc, and a goblin skittered back with a deep gash along its ribcage. ‘Solomon?’

There was a splintering sound from behind, and half of Fletcher’s question was answered. Tree branches arced overhead, slamming into the snarling goblins, and the guttural roar from behind told Fletcher that Solomon was making use of his great strength.

Then Sariel erupted from the bushes, snatching a cassowary by the legs and dragging it into the greenery. Sylva gasped with pain as the two creatures tore into each other, the crackle of broken branches accompanied by snarls and screeches.

‘Battle-spells,’ Fletcher ordered as the feeling returned to his arm once more. ‘But conserve your mana.’

Sylva’s etching was so fast that he had barely finished his sentence before her fireball buzzed into the nearest goblin, blasting it down to twist and wail on the ground, scrabbling at its chest. More followed from Cress and Othello, while Fletcher whipped a tongue of kinetic energy into the air, sending the few remaining riders tumbling.