Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (30 page)

Still the goblins pressed in, their gnarled clubs parrying Fletcher’s thinner blade to jar his arm up to the shoulder. A hurled spear sliced past Fletcher’s face. He felt a flash of pain as it caught his cheek, the trickle of hot blood mingled with the sweat pooling at the base of his neck. He shook his head and slashed a goblin across the face in return, sending it spinning away, clutching at its head.

A kick from a squawking cassowary hurled Cress back, but it failed to pierce her jacket. She responded with a bolt of lightning that took off its head in a spray of blood, and staggered back into the fight.

Flame flared from Ignatius, spiralling into the goblins as they surged forward once again, blinding them. Tosk added a jagged streak of electric blue, hurling the frontrunners into those behind in a tangle of limbs and clubs. In the brief respite, Fletcher took the opportunity to concentrate on his scrying crystal, the overlay showing him the full picture of the battlefield.

The two orcs were holding their own against the Wendigo, while Isadora’s team stayed hidden in the bushes, keeping the goblins at bay with the liberal use of spells. It depleted their mana reserves, but was a winning strategy; dozens of the convoy’s corpses littered the ground and the rest were huddled behind the bodies of the rhinos, which had already been dispatched. Of the fifty mounted goblins that had started, no more than a score remained. Even the hyenas were dead, their heavyset bodies splayed out in a macabre slumber.

That was when it all went wrong. One of the remaining orcs broke from the pack, bolting into the jungle. With Lysander out of the picture and Sariel locked in a life-and-death struggle out of sight, Fletcher had no choice but to leave his team.

‘No survivors,’ he yelled over his shoulder.

Then he was deep in the forest, following the sound of crashing branches as the orc tore its way through the undergrowth. The air was suddenly still and silent, disturbed only by a poorly aimed spell whiffling through the leaves above. He sensed Ignatius following behind but did not have time to wait for him. Instead, he instructed Athena to remain above the battle and watch for more runaways. From her vantage point, he could see that Solomon had taken his place in the line, using a small sapling as a club to batter the goblins and cassowaries aside.

In the new quiet, the adrenaline began to leave Fletcher, his cheek stinging with each pulse of his rapidly beating heart. He was bone tired and his lungs burned in his chest. Still he staggered on, ignoring the flies that buzzed around his head, hungry for the salt in the blood and sweat that coated him.

He followed the crash and snap of the retreating orc, wishing he had thought it all through. The two orcs had battled the Wendigo without difficulty. Now he would face one alone.

There was a rattle of disturbed vegetation, then a grey-skinned orc appeared just ahead, cleaving at a thick patch of thorny branches with his macana club. Up close it was enormous, towering over him. He thought it as broad and muscular as Berdon and Jakov put together.

Fletcher didn’t hesitate. He leaped with his khopesh in both hands, the point aimed squarely at the centre of the orc’s back. It missed the spine by a hand’s breadth, spitting the orc through its midriff, the resistance a fraction of what Fletcher had expected.

He yelled with triumph as the orc stiffened, a guttural bellow spraying heart-blood on the leaves ahead of it. Then Fletcher’s head exploded with pain and his mouth was filled with the taste of rotting leaves and blood. The orc had spun, backhanding him into the ground and tearing the khopesh from his hands, leaving it impaled in its chest.

A callused foot slammed into the earth beside him as he rolled away, just in time. He fired a kinetic pulse, blasting himself from the earth to stand once again. No sooner was he on his feet than he was diving aside, the macana chopping through the air in a great, swinging arc. He sprawled into the thorny bush that had blocked the orc, his jacket caught on the hooked barbs, arms spread like a crucified man.

Bloody froth bubbled from the orc’s mouth as it bellowed in triumph, lifeblood pumping from around the blade in its chest in dark gouts. It raised the macana, chuckling throatily as it lifted Fletcher’s chin with the flat of the club. The obsidian shards on the tip dug into the soft flesh of his throat as the orc leaned forward, almost gently. His would not be a slow death.

Ignatius barrelled out of the undergrowth, a sweeping tidal wave of flame heralding his arrival as he landed on the orc’s head. His tail struck like a scorpion’s, stabbing madly at the orc’s eyes, nose and mouth, while the flames flowed over its face in great pulsing waves. Fletcher tugged himself free, ripping the coat from the thorns’ embrace after a few moment’s struggle. It was just in time, for the orc chopped blindly at him, even managing to slice a button from Fletcher’s sleeve. Then it was finished, the orc falling to its knees and keeling over, the last spurts of blood from its chest turning into a trickle.

Ignatius sprung into Fletcher’s arms, mewling with sympathy and licking at the wounds in his throat. They stood like that for a while, basking in the glory of being alive. Fletcher’s neck stung as Ignatius lapped his tongue along the wounds, but soon the feeling was strangely soothing. He ran his fingers along his neck tentatively, only to find the wounds had gone.

‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed. He held Ignatius up to his face and the demon yapped happily, licking the tip of Fletcher’s nose.

‘You must have a healing symbol hidden in that tongue somewhere,’ Fletcher laughed, rubbing Ignatius’s head affectionately. ‘Even after all this time, you still manage to surprise me. Best not tell Jeffrey though, he’ll have that tongue out and on his operating table if we’re not careful.’

Ignatius wriggled in his grip and Fletcher set the Salamander on the ground. As he did so, he saw the orc’s face and winced. It had been burned away, leaving only a blackened skull beneath, while the leathery grey skin of its belly and legs was covered with blood. Red and yellow whorls and stripes of war-paint adorned its chest and what was left of its cheeks. Without it, the orc would be practically naked, were it not for the rough-spun skirt that protected its modesty.

Fletcher’s khopesh was stuck fast in the orc’s flesh. He grimaced at the grisly sight and bent to tug it out.

A crossbow bolt hissed over his head like a striking snake, thudding into a tree behind him. Fletcher fell to the ground and pulled the orc’s corpse on its side as a shield. Another bolt thrummed towards Fletcher a moment later, but it stuck into the orc’s shoulder, the force of it so strong that it broke through, the tip stopping an inch from Fletcher’s face. The accuracy and speed was astounding, that of a trained assassin.

Then, as Fletcher powered up his finger for a counterattack, the ambusher retreated, leaving the crash of broken branches in his wake. The grinning skull of the orc seemed to laugh at Fletcher as he shoved the corpse aside in disgust. He took a moment to catch his breath. If he hadn’t bent to pull out his khopesh from the orc, he would have been skewered through the chest.

He tugged the crossbow bolt from the trunk and held it up to the dim light of the jungle. Blue fletching. Just like Cress’s.

When Fletcher returned to the others, the battle was over. Solomon was busy digging a large grave, his great hands shovelling aside the dirt in a small clearing. It was good thinking; a pile of corpses would bring forth all sorts of carrion eaters and the clouds of vultures above would attract too much attention. Jeffrey was further up the trail, examining a goblin corpse and writing notes in a leather-bound journal. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, resulting in an uneven scrawl.

Othello had just healed Lysander, the last traces of white light dissolving from the bloodied feathers along the Griffin’s side. Cress was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where are Isadora’s team?’ Fletcher shouted, brandishing the bolts.

Sylva looked up from where she kneeled, in the middle of healing Sariel’s wounds.

‘They ran off,’ Sylva said, her voice dull with exhaustion. ‘Didn’t even thank us for our help.’

‘One of them tried to kill me,’ Fletcher announced, holding up the blue-fletched crossbow bolt. ‘With these.’

‘Aren’t those Cress’s?’

‘I don’t think she lost them after all. I think they stole them.’

‘You’re joking,’ Othello growled, unrolling his summoning leather for Solomon to stand on. He infused the demon in a burst of white light, for the poor Golem was staggering with exhaustion.

‘I wish I was,’ Fletcher said. He paused, realising the implications. The attackers could have used a spell, or an arrow of their own. Instead, they had chosen ammunition that only Cress could have used. They wanted to frame her for the attack.

Othello had clearly been thinking along the same lines.

‘If we had come across your body with that stuck in you, the whole of Hominum would think Cress had killed you,’ the dwarf said, snatching the offending projectile from Fletcher’s hand. ‘They might even think Cress was working with the Anvils.’

‘I don’t know …’ Sylva said, examining the bolt. ‘We’re jumping to conclusions. We barely know her. Maybe she
is
working for the Anvils.’

‘Yeah, and I’m a goblin in disguise,’ Othello scoffed. ‘If she was a traitor, I’d know about it. The dwarven community is a small one; there are barely a few thousand of us left. I know who the trouble-makers are.’

Fletcher looked around.

‘Speaking of Cress, where is she?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Right here,’ came a voice from behind him.

Cress emerged from the jungle, Tosk perched on her shoulder. Her face was drenched with sweat and her crossbow hung limply in her hand.

‘I see you caught the orc,’ she said. ‘Well done. I tried to catch up with you but got los—’ She stopped as she caught the stunned expressions from the others.

‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, catching sight of the quarrel clutched in Othello’s fist.

‘You tell me,’ Sylva said, standing up and narrowing her eyes at the dwarf. ‘Someone just tried to kill Fletcher with it.’

Cress remained silent, her eyes still fixed on the bolt. Sylva motioned with her chin at the jungle behind the dwarf.

‘In there.’

‘I … I lost them,’ Cress stammered, looking over her shoulder. ‘Whoever it was must have taken them from my quiver back at camp, like I said earlier.’

‘That’s a convenient story,’ Sylva said, crossing her arms and studying Cress’s face.

‘Your arrows are missing too,’ Cress countered.

Something stung Fletcher’s neck and he slapped at it irritably.

‘It was Isadora’s team, I know it,’ he said, putting an arm around Cress’s shoulders. He suddenly felt very weak, and it was a relief to lean against her. ‘This is exactly what they want, for us to turn on each other. Now we know why they were following us.’

Sylva glared at him, then jumped up and slapped at her thigh.

‘Damned insects,’ she snarled, plucking something from her leg. But what she held between her fingers was not an insect at all. It was a tiny dart.

The projectile swam in Fletcher’s vision and suddenly he was on his knees. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Their prison was made of sturdy, interwoven branches – more a spherical basket than a cage. It swung pendulously from a bough above, lurching from side to side as the wind tugged it back and forth.

‘We are finished,’ Jeffrey whispered, peering through the gaps in the branches.

They had woken there an hour ago, their clothes covered in soil from being dragged through the woods.

All thoughts of escape had already left them, after their first attempt. Othello had forced his arm through the branches, attempting to rip a hole for them to climb through. A few moments later and he was snoring loudly, another dart in his hand.

Of course, there was always the option of a shield, but their mana reserves had been depleted by the battle and their weapons had been taken from them. Not to mention the fact that they would be falling a good distance to the ground if they did blast the cage apart.

‘What do you see?’ Fletcher asked. He was pressed uncomfortably between Sariel and Lysander, their heavy bodies crushing him. Athena had settled on Lysander’s neck, her tail curling lazily over his beak. Of all of them, she seemed to be the calmest, taking the opportunity to nap.

‘Still gremlins. No sign of orcs yet,’ Jeffrey murmured.

Fletcher twisted his body and squinted through the hole Othello had made.

They were suspended above a wide clearing in the deep jungle, the surrounding vegetation so thick it might take all day to cut through it. Deep burrows, not unlike enlarged foxholes, were cut into the earth all around. Gremlins patrolled the borders, carrying long blowpipes almost twice the length of their bodies.

‘They look like miniature goblins,’ Cress said, squeezing in beside him. ‘Longer noses and ears though.’

Fletcher grunted in agreement, barely listening. He was confused by these armed gremlins. Everything he had learned about them had told him that they were little more than slaves, cowering creatures that were obedient to a fault. But these ones seemed far more hostile and he could see many of them pointing at the cage, deep in discussion.