Rook stood there, his chest heaving in and out with exertion. By the size of the conflagration that had blown Fletcher across the hall, the Inquisitor must have put everything into that attack—every last drop of mana he had. But somehow, Fletcher had come away practically unscathed.
A translucent ball of kinetic energy hit Rook in the chest, flinging him against the floor and pinning him there. Sylva strode across the room, a cold fury in her eyes.
“We should kill them both,” she said. Her finger was raised, a bolt of lightning crackling from the symbol fixed to its tip. Ignatius barked in agreement, his large chest turning it into more a roar of a lion than the baying of a dog. A jolt of anger from Athena’s consciousness confirmed her opinion on the matter. The two demons were shocked at how close their master had come to death.
Fletcher turned to the scrying staff, suddenly fearful that her words could be heard across Hominum, but it had been covered with the heavy cloth once again. It was then that he realized they had succeeded. Hominum had heard their story. Now all they could do was wait.
Rook was emitting a keening sound, wheezing from the blow to his chest. He had had the wind knocked out of him, and could barely move as Sylva leaned over him, the sizzling lightning poised over his face.
Fletcher stumbled toward them, and somehow the hatred that had bubbled inside him seemed diminished at the sight of the men’s prone bodies. Instead, his mind drifted to why he was alive at all. The fire should have killed him. How had he survived?
“No,” Fletcher coughed, his throat raw from the smoke. “If we kill them, Hominum will have no one left to blame, and Harold, nobody to imprison. We need the world to see them condemned.”
And for a moment he wondered if that was truly the reason. Or was it because he didn’t want to commit cold-blooded murder of the two helpless men? He wished he could say he was surprised that Sylva seemed capable of such an act—but the look in her eyes left Fletcher in no doubt.
Sylva used the ripped cloth from her dress to bind Zacharias’s and Rook’s hands and feet, with Ignatius keeping a watchful eye beside her. Rook’s mouth was stuffed and tied too, for he began to spit obscenities at the two as soon as he recovered his breath. Once they were trussed up like chickens for a roast, Fletcher and Sylva lifted the two onto Ignatius’s back and walked out through the main doors.
Fletcher took the liberty of purloining the unconscious Zacharias’s trousers, for his own has been reduced to a bunch of charred threads. He took grim satisfaction in how ridiculous the bear of a man looked in his underwear, his pale legs contrasting with the golden tan across his face and forearms.
“Come on,” Sylva said, once Fletcher had rolled up the bottoms of the trousers. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us outside.”
The corridors were deserted. Likewise, the stairs showed no sign of disturbance. It was as if their speech had never happened, and for a moment Fletcher’s heart began to pound with the worry that it had somehow not worked, that Sylva had done it wrong. But when they kicked open the doors to the banquet hall, the reason for the absence of pursuit became apparent.
The stench hit them in a wave, and the gorge rose in Fletcher’s throat. It was the acrid scent of vomit, so heavy he could taste it. Nobles, generals, guests and even a few servants lay splayed around the hall, groaning in discomfort. The occasional gurgle and splash of lumpy liquid told Fletcher exactly which form of distraction Othello and Cress had gone for.
There had been several plans: blocking the fireplaces so that the smoke would fill the rooms, breaking pipes to flood the floors with water, using spellcraft to make loud noises, even setting fire to the hedges outside. But this plan … it had been ruled out as too risky. Obviously Othello and Cress had changed their minds.
The pair had sabotaged the drinks, sneaking into the kitchens and tainting as much of it as possible with ground ayahuasca—a plant traditionally associated with orc shamans, who would drink it to induce vomiting and wild hallucinations. Signs of the latter were already visible, with some nobles reaching up at the bright candles above, stupid grins plastered across their vomit-stained faces. Fletcher took a perverse pleasure in seeing Bertie wandering the room in nothing but his underwear, giggling to himself.
Even Sylva could not help but laugh when they saw the Forsyth twins laid low, pawing deliriously at the bright chandeliers above, drool dribbling down their cheeks as they cooed and smiled inanely. Tarquin giggled and waved as their father was carried past them.
“Serves them right,” Sylva said, stepping delicately over Isadora’s outstretched arm. “What I wouldn’t give to see their faces in the morning. This has been a long time coming.”
“You and me both.” Fletcher grinned.
There was no sign of any dwarves—the serving girls had obviously run away for fear of repercussions, and Othello and Cress with them.
Scanning the room, Fletcher noticed that many of the more important nobles were no longer there, including Alfric and Harold. They had obviously been rushed to safety by the guards. In fact, even with Ignatius and their captives in tow, they were able to walk the full length of the hall and down the stairs with barely more than a second glance. Even the servants were too busy tending to the sick.
The whole situation seemed unbelievable to Fletcher as they walked out into the fresh air, gravel crunching beneath their feet, the moonlight streaming down upon them. They looked a complete state—Fletcher in his half-burned clothing and rolled-up trousers, Sylva with her ripped dress, not to mention the bare-legged Zacharias on the back of their hitherto unnoticed Drake.
Yet somehow, they were outside, with no pursuers, nor even a raised alarm.
“We made it,” he breathed.
“That we did,” Sylva said quietly. “But what happens now?”
Fletcher did not know. Only Harold had thought this far ahead—once again they were pawns in a far greater game. But he knew where they needed to go.
“Ignatius, do you reckon you could carry all four of us into the Dwarven Quarter?” Fletcher asked, pressing his head against the Drake’s own. “It’s not far.”
The demon purred and nudged him in assent. Fletcher and Sylva pulled themselves onto his shoulders, sitting astride the backs of their captives, grinning as Rook growled through his gag.
Ignatius roared in triumph, rearing up and throwing himself into the air.
And then they were gone, into the night.
CHAPTER
29
THEY LANDED BESIDE OTHELLO’S HOME under cover of darkness, waiting for a cloud to obscure the moon before making their descent. They had seen the watch fires from the Pinkertons around the edges of the Dwarven Quarter and knew that their presence would set off too many alarms if noticed.
Once inside the enormous tent, they were reunited with Cress, Othello and his mother, Briss, who greeted them with applause. Then they were told that Athol, Atilla, Thaissa and Uhtred were away in the caves beneath the Dwarven Quarter, preparing for the worst.
The group’s celebration of a successful mission was short-lived, however—the three dwarves immediately began fretting at the presence of the two nobles in their home. The kidnapping had never been part of the plan. Now all they could do was send word to Harold via a Mite the King had left in Briss’s care, in the hopes that he would know what to do. So they waited in nervous silence, with Ignatius’s claws resting on their prisoners’ throats, in case of any sudden movements.
Harold and his men came for them within the hour, marching through the Dwarven Quarter and into Othello’s home like an invading army. These were not Pinkertons or Inquisitors, but royal guardsmen, wearing the traditional garb of breastplates, feathered helms and pikes. It was only Harold’s presence that prevented weapons from being drawn as the ten men burst in.
“What is the meaning of this?” Othello snapped as the armored soldiers crowded into their tent, scattering cushions beneath their feet.
“These are my bodyguards,” Harold said, holding
up his hands and smiling disarmingly. “Don’t worry, I trust them with my life.”
“I don’t care if we can trust them, why are they here?” Othello demanded.
“They’re only here because most dwarves do not know I am their ally. Given the current tensions, I couldn’t just go for a stroll through the ghetto without adequate protection. I am technically king of Hominum, after all.”
“All right, but let’s make this quick.” Othello stepped back, smoothing his beard.
At the sight of Harold, Zacharias began yelling incoherently from behind his gag. Rook remained silent, glowering with black eyes.
Harold stared at the pair for a moment, then strolled over and hunkered down beside them. He lowered his face until it was mere inches from Zacharias’s own, as close as a lover.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “After all these years, your treachery will be justly rewarded.”
Zacharias’s face reddened, and his muffled grunts were accompanied by spittle as he struggled against his bonds. Harold stood and etched a webbed symbol in the air. Moments later, glowing threads not unlike that of an Arach whipped around the pair’s hands and feet, even wrapping around their fingers in a tight ball to prevent their use of spellcraft.
“I think it’s best you let us take these two criminals off your hands before their imprisonment here is discovered and misinterpreted as dwarven aggression.”
“Thank goodness,” Briss said, flapping at her veiled face with her hands.
Harold nodded at his men, and the soldiers marched over and threaded pikes between the nobles’ arms and legs. They lifted them like hunters carrying a deer on a pole, leaving the pair helplessly swinging in the air.
“Here, use this to cover them,” Thaissa said, pointing at one of the large rugs in the corner of the tent. “They won’t be recognizable with that draped over them.”
“Do it, then take them outside,” Harold ordered. The men rushed to obey. Moments later, they were alone in the tent, and the tension dropped several notches.
“What happened to you?” Harold asked Fletcher, his brow furrowing at the charred remains of Fletcher’s clothing.
“Rook hit me with a fire spell,” Fletcher replied, finding his words hard to believe even as he said them. “It was bad. But … it didn’t hurt me.”
Harold raised his eyebrows, then a slow grin spread across his face.
“Immune to Manticore venom and fire,” he laughed. “You’re a veritable trove of surprises, Fletcher Raleigh. That Drake of yours must have given you some protection.”
“That’s why?” Sylva asked. “I thought Fletcher had healed himself.”
“Of course not,” Harold said, shaking his head in astonishment. “He’d never be able to heal himself fast enough. Think about it—a summoner with an Arach or Mite becomes immune to their own individual demon’s venom. Fletcher’s immunity to fire must be an extension of this phenomenon. You’re a lucky young man, Fletcher Raleigh.”
Fletcher turned to Ignatius and smiled to see that the lazy demon had fallen asleep beside the hot metal chimney that extended through the spiral staircase in the center of the room and into the roof of the tent. He was lucky indeed.
“So what happens now?” Cress asked, disinterested in Fletcher’s immunity. “Did it work? Did the people hear us?”
The future of her race was at stake, and she wanted answers.
“Most of the guests have recovered from your … how shall I put it … flavoring of the drinks.” Harold said. “Fortunately, the more important nobles were spirited away by their bodyguards before they could suffer too much embarrassment. I must admit, I still feel a little queasy. You could have warned me!”
He winked at Cress and Othello to show there were no hard feelings.
“News of your proclamations has already spread throughout the land: Even the guests at the banquet now know every word of Sylva’s speech. We won’t know if you’re believed or not until tomorrow.”
“So it might all have been for nothing?” Cress asked.
“All I know is that Fletcher and Sylva have forced my hand when they captured those two traitors,” Harold said, motioning over his shoulder. “I told my father I sent the orders for their arrest myself—hence their disappearance. He wasn’t too happy with that, but the evidence was so damning that he accepted it readily enough. Anything to prevent himself being implicated in this sordid state of affairs.”
“Well, that’s good, right?” Cress persisted. “We’ve won?”
“Not quite.” Harold sighed, running his hand over his face. “Look. Alfric has ordered half the army into the city. Originally it was in preparation for the announcement where he rescinds all dwarven rights, so they could crush the dwarven recruits and the rest of your people as soon as they began to riot. But now he can’t make that announcement—it’s too much of a risk for him. Instead, he’s declared a national holiday and organized a last-minute military parade, to celebrate the success of your mission and the rescue of Lady Raleigh.”
“Great, so what’s the problem?” Fletcher asked.
“If the people of Hominum believed what Sylva said, they will welcome the dwarven recruits with open arms. ‘All is forgiven, we were wrong,’ so to speak. Alfric knows that if he made the announcement then, the whole thing would backfire—the people will be even more sympathetic to the dwarves. Even if the dwarves rioted, the soldiers certainly wouldn’t view it as a revolution and start slaughtering them.”
“Exactly, that was the plan all along,” Fletcher agreed.
But Harold wasn’t finished.
“On the other hand, if the dwarven recruits arrive and the people and soldiers give them a cold welcome, my father will know that their hatred runs so deep that they’ll ignore the truth. If that happens, he’ll make the announcement there and then. The Pinkertons invade dwarven homes, the dwarves riot and the soldiers are told to march into the Dwarven Quarter and put down the ‘rebellion.’ Violently.”
“So even after everything we’ve done, the future of my species rests on how welcoming everyone is tomorrow?” Othello asked, his face dark with anger.
“I’m afraid so,” Harold said.
CHAPTER
30
IT WAS STRANGE TO SEE A SKY so bright and cheerful in the midst of such tension. Spring had come early, and the day was unnaturally hot. They were in the Anvil Tavern, sitting on the balcony and watching the people mill below. Othello and Cress were long past caring if they were seen, and Fletcher and Sylva had joined them there after some cajoling from the two dwarves.
In truth, few people looked up at them as the soldiers marched by in all their finery, bayonets glinting in the sunlight, red coats fluttering in the warm breeze. All along the pavements, the citizens of Corcillum cheered, waving flags and pennants and joining in as the men sang ribald marching songs. The beat was rattled out by the drummer boys, young lads of no more than thirteen who marched proudly in uniform beside the soldiers.
Even Othello found himself humming along to the jaunty tunes, and had to catch himself. The mood was gay and joyful, which boded well for the dwarven recruits’ arrival. Yet at the same time, there was none of the anger that Fletcher had expected, given the revelation that one of Hominum’s nobles had been bombing their own people. Either way, there would be no guarantees that day.
“They’re all so young, aren’t they?” Cress said, leaning out to get a better view of the soldiers.
“That’s because they’re all from the recruitment camps on the elven border,” Sylva said. “They arrived a few days ahead of the dwarves, so they’re pretty raw. I doubt any of them have seen action yet.”
“Does that make them more, or less, likely to welcome the dwarves?” Fletcher asked, half to himself.
Othello considered it for a moment. “Well, they’ve been training beside the dwarven recruits for more than a year now, but since the Anvil attacks tensions between them have been high: a few heated discussions here and there, even a bra
wl or two. Alfric probably couldn’t risk bringing the veterans up from the front lines, so he’s marched this lot down. It’s good news, I think. These men have never killed before—I doubt they’d have the stomach to slaughter women and children. He probably reckons they’re more likely to take orders though, being green and all. We’ll see.”
But Fletcher was barely listening. There was a commotion down the road, and for a moment he thought it was the dwarves. But then the new arrivals came into view, and Fletcher couldn’t help but grin and lean out for a better look.
Dragoons. The battlemage cavalry, dozens of blue-clad men and women riding powerful demons. Fast moving and deadly, their reputation was legendary. And a familiar, dark-haired figure was leading them, with Sacharissa padding by his side.
Arcturus was riding a Hippalectryon, and the beast was one of the most beautiful demons Fletcher had ever seen. Its front half was that of a horse, but its muzzle ended in a sharp yellow beak, and a red wattle replaced the mane along the back of its neck. Its hind legs were clawed like a rooster’s, with razor-sharp spurs that flexed with every pace. A flare of brightly colored tail feathers extended in a vibrant mix of reds and greens that matched the fur and plumage along the demon’s body. It had the sleek lines of a horse combined with the harsh beauty of a bird of prey—both graceful and deadly in equal measures.
“What happened to Bucephalus?” Cress wondered aloud.
“He’s Captain Lovett’s demon now,” Sylva said, a hint of guilt in her voice. “After she lost Lysander, he gave Buck to her so she could fly in the Celestial Corps again, and he could join the Dragoons. She told me when I offered to return Lysander to her, back when we were at Vocans.”
“She didn’t take you up on that?” Othello asked, surprised. “Lovett adored that Griffin.”
“I know. I am indebted to her,” Sylva said, the guilt in her voice deepening.
The Battlemage Page 17