Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (36 page)

‘It’s brutal,’ Sylva whispered as an orc’s tusk was knocked from its mouth in a spray of crimson. The crowd jumped to their feet with a roar that reached even the confines of the chamber.

‘Nah,’ Mason said, pointing to the edge of the next pitch along. ‘There’re far worse things than the pitz. Look. The venatio.’

Ebony’s eyes turned to the next pitch, where the red on the sand far outweighed the blue and the watching crowds were much thicker. Three orcs were chained together by the ankles, surrounded by a pack of hyenas. A fourth was being savaged on the ground not too far away. Armed with nothing but spears, they stabbed and whirled at the baying animals.

In the corner of the field, a pile of blue bodies had been left for the vultures. Among them, the corpses of animals could be seen, including big cats such as jaguars, tigers and lions. Hyenas and wild dogs seemed to be the most common, with crocodiles and even baboons appearing here and there.

‘The pitz ’onours the wind god. The venatio ’onours the animal gods. And then there’s the skin-pull, for the god of fire and light.’ He pointed at the next pitch, and Ebony’s view swung once again.

There could have been a hundred blue orcs on the next pitch, though there was no blood on this one. Instead, a great pit of flames burned fiercely in the centre, dividing the grounds in half. A great rope of knotted animal skins was stretched above the fires, while two teams of orcs strained, slipped and staggered in the sands in a desperate tug of war.

‘Surely they wouldn’t …’ Jeffrey whispered as the front row of one side stumbled, their feet scrabbling frantically against the edge of the pit.

‘It’s for their gods,’ Mason said dully, averting his eyes. One after the other, the defeated orcs were dragged into the flames, falling away until all that came out of the other side was a blackened rope of skin.

More pitches stretched out into the distance, where other games were being played. The nearest was a pool filled with water, where orcs in canoes beat each other with oars. Stone weights were tied to their ankles, so that the losers would drown if they fell. If that was not bad enough, the black bodies of crocodiles were thick in the pool, and already the water was tinged red around the remains of an upturned canoe.

‘That’s called naumachia. It’s to honour the water god,’ Mason whispered.

‘Who needs to kill orcs?’ Sylva said, shaking her head with a mix of wonder and disgust. ‘They’re doing the job for us.’

A cheer filtered through the walls of the chamber and Ebony’s eyes flicked back to the pitz. A team had managed to score. The winning orcs fell to their knees in gratitude, chests heaving with exhaustion. Many embraced each other, while others simply lay on their backs, tears streaming from their faces. The losers were swiftly rounded up by the crowd and marched away from the pitch and into the plaza. Spectating orcs hounded them on their way with leashed hyenas, until the animals nearly choked themselves to death in their attempts to attack.

‘You’d think they’d just lost more than just a game, the way some of those boys are going on,’ Verity said, for the losing orcs were sobbing bitterly as they were pushed to the base of the stairs. ‘Not so tough after all.’

‘They
’ave
lost more,’ Mason murmured, shaking his head. ‘You’ll see. This is where we find out if there’re any adepts this year. Let’s ’ope that …’

He stopped. The shouts and drums had silenced. On the scrying stone, the crowds no longer milled to and fro. They began to part like a multicoloured curtain, as a parade entered the plaza from a ziggurat opposite the pyramid.

‘Here they come,’ Mason uttered.

A great litter was carried aloft by a herd of rhinos, their great heads tossing as they strained under the weight. It was like a carriage without wheels, and had been carved to look like an enormous orc skull. The outside was painted gold so that it shone fiercely beneath the blazing sun. It stood nearly as tall as the monolith Ebony was perched on, but it was impossible to see anything more than darkness from within.

An escort of orcs surrounded it, larger specimens than any Fletcher had seen before. Their skin was splashed with red war-paint, coupled with stripes of yellow along their chests and faces. Each was armed with a macana and wore a quiver of javelins on their backs. Jade stone-plating covered their chests, elbows and knees, ceremonial armour that shone bright green in the sunlight.

‘They must be the albino orc’s bodyguards,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘He has to be inside that carriage.’

‘If Lovett sent Lysander to take him out …’ Cress said, gripping Fletcher’s arm.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Mason muttered. ‘If the legions of orcs around us won’t put you off, look behind ’em.’

There was another group of orcs at the rearguard of the parade, wearing enormous headdresses of gaudy feathers. They were clad in nothing but bone jewellery, just a belt of human skulls protecting their modesty. Most had ritualistic scarification on their bodies and face, while others had thick plugs through their noses and ears. Despite their fearsome appearance, it was not this that marked them out from the rest.

‘They’re shamans,’ Sylva breathed.

Demons walked beside the orcs, monstrous creatures of every kind. Some Fletcher had no trouble recognising: Felids, Lycans and even a Minotaur. But others he only knew from his lessons at Vocans or the illustrations in Baker’s journal.

The two Nanaues were the most fearsome. Like Felids, they shambled along with the posture of a jungle ape, but that was where the similarity ended. Their species were as close to sharks as Minotaurs were to bulls, with great gaping mouths filled with razor teeth, a large fin cresting each of their spines and swishing, rudder-like tails.

‘Level nine,’ Jeffrey whispered, his finger brushing along their outline. ‘I wouldn’t mind dissecting one of those.’

Three Onis lumbered beside the shamans, matching them in size and form. Fletcher might have confused them with orcs, were it not for the giant horns erupting from their foreheads and their hunched-over gait. Their skin was a stark crimson red, and they snapped bestially at the crowds, with overdeveloped fangs. Though they looked humanoid, Fletcher knew them to be less intelligent than an average Mite.

The largest of all was a Phantaur, an enormous, two-legged elephant standing at nine feet tall, with great flapping ears, a grasping trunk and serrated tusks as long as its heavily muscled arms. Smaller demons scampered and buzzed around its feet, but the distance was too great to identify them.

‘Nobody has ever captured a Phantaur before to know what level they are, but I reckon that big bugger must be a level twenty at least,’ Jeffrey theorised.

‘So much for orc demons being weaker.’ Rory shuddered, holding Malachi close so that the Mite could see. ‘They must keep their strong demons back, only send their low-level specimens against us. Just think, half of Hominum is watching this. No one’s going to volunteer for the military after seeing them!’

‘Speakin’ of, we need to get the ’ell outta here, before they come in,’ Mason hissed, crawling to the doorway and poking his head outside. ‘The coast’s clear, for now.’

‘Move Ebony further back before she’s recognised by a shaman,’ Malik ordered Verity, grabbing his pack. ‘We must find somewhere to hide, deeper in the pyramid. The jungles aren’t safe and neither is this room.’

‘Agreed,’ Fletcher said, prodding Othello and Atilla awake. ‘But leave Ebony outside. We need eyes on what’s happening.’

Othello stretched and yawned, then froze as he caught sight of Verity’s tablet, the parade emblazoned across its front.

‘What did I miss?’ he groaned.

They descended into the gloom as soon as they were packed, their footsteps echoing softly around them. The slim rectangle of light from the back entrance shrunk as they walked deeper into the bowels of the pyramid, until it was little more than a glimmer of light. Ignatius and Tosk led the way, while Athena rode on Fletcher’s shoulders, giving him the sight he needed through the darkness. Meanwhile, Caliban, Lysander and Sacharissa followed at the rear, watching the back entrance for movement.

There was a thud and a groan from ahead.

‘Ow,’ Seraph said, and Fletcher could see he had collapsed on the ground in front of him. ‘There’s a wall here.’

Ignatius licked Seraph’s face in sympathy, eliciting another groan.

‘Screw it.’ Verity flared a wyrdlight into existence. ‘If there are demons guarding this place, they’re going to hear us, light or no light. At least this way we can see them coming.’

More wyrdlights erupted, until the walls were lit with ethereal blue light. As the gloom rushed away, Fletcher saw that Seraph had walked into the wall at the end of the corridor. Two identical paths diverged on either side, narrower and more dusty.

‘We need to split up,’ Malik stated, sending a pair of wyrdlights down both passageways. The path curved back towards the centre of the pyramid, out of sight.

‘Verity, Mason and I shall go to the left with you, Fletcher,’ Malik murmured, stepping into the east corridor. ‘Penelope and Rufus, go with Seraph’s team on the right.’

‘Who said you make the rules?’ Atilla growled, throwing his arm around Othello’s shoulders. ‘I’d rather stick together.’

‘Realistically, we’re not going to find a hiding place for all of us in one spot,’ Malik replied, raising his palms in peace. ‘Splitting up is inevitable.’

‘Malik’s right,’ Fletcher said. ‘The map says there’s a passage to the caves somewhere in here – right, Mason? Do you know where?’

‘It’s just what I ’eard,’ Mason said, scratching his head. ‘Never been allowed in ’ere, just the caves. Only ever seen a passage from the caves to the pyramid, but dunno where it comes out.’

‘We have a better chance of finding it if we spread out,’ Seraph said, propelling Atilla down the passage on the right. ‘Remember, the pyramid isn’t the target. The caves beneath it are.’

‘We’ll see you on the other side,’ Genevieve said, tossing Azura into the air to scout ahead. ‘Come on, Rory.’

Sacharissa whined and nudged Fletcher’s arm, forced to go with Seraph’s group. ‘We made it, Arcturus,’ Fletcher whispered. The Canid gave Fletcher a playful headbutt to the chest, then pattered after her team.

Rufus paused beside Fletcher as he followed Penelope down the other passageway.

‘Fletcher,’ the noble said, gripping Fletcher’s wrist. ‘If you reach the caves before us, save my mother first. Please.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Fletcher replied, though he avoided Rufus’s eyes. His heart went out to Lady Cavendish, but in Fletcher’s mind the goblin eggs were the real threat. Every one destroyed was one fewer goblin sent against Hominum.

‘Thank you,’ Rufus whispered. ‘I would be forever in your debt.’

Then he was gone, jogging after the others.

Just as he began to move, Fletcher was slammed against the wall. Caliban had barged him aside, stooping so that his horns didn’t scrape the ceiling.

‘Looks like Rook isn’t missing you.’ Othello winked, following.

The next passageway was as long as the last corridor had been, but it ended far less abruptly. After a few minutes of walking, the passage opened up, revealing an antechamber as large as the summoning room at Vocans.

Stranger still, the place was full of sacks, some of which had burst, scattering freshly picked yellow flower petals haphazardly throughout the room. The petals lay upon a thick layer of dust which coated the floor of the room, disturbed only around the edges, where whoever had brought the sacks had walked by.

‘What is this place?’ Othello asked. The dwarf sent wyrdlights skimming around the room, darting into the corners until the entire chamber was lit. They revealed hieroglyphs and etched scenes on the walls, all of which were painted in fading dyes.

‘Can you read these?’ Fletcher asked Jeffrey, who was already busy copying them into his notebook.

‘No,’ he murmured, his fingers tracing along the symbols. ‘I don’t think even the orcs could. This is ancient stuff here. A culture pre-dating theirs by millennia.’

‘You’re saying orcs didn’t build this place?’ Verity said, not looking up from her tablet.

‘I have no idea,’ Jeffrey said, his pencil scribbling back and forth across the pages. ‘There are pictures of orcs on the walls, so I would think they did. But these hieroglyphs are in an entirely different language. Whichever civilisation built this place, they died out a long time ago. That would explain the difference in size and architecture of the ziggurats that surround the pyramid. No wonder it’s so important to the orcs, I bet they think this place was built by their ancestor-gods.’

Fletcher examined the hieroglyphs closest to him. The symbols depicted the jungle’s animals and plants, a sort of alphabet based on the natural world. They bore no resemblance to the orc runes that he had seen on Ignatius’s summoning scroll, which were formed from jagged lines and dots.

It was impossible to decipher their meaning, so he turned his attention to the sacks of petals by his feet. After Jeffrey’s warnings of the jungle plants he avoided touching them, but a deep sniff revealed them to smell similar to tobacco, with an alcoholic tinge. What the petals of a plant like that were doing within the pyramid was a mystery.