It was too far up to see their faces, but the monstrous creature standing watch beside them left no doubt as to who they were.
Isadora’s team were following them.
‘What are they doing here?’ Sylva hissed. ‘They’re supposed to be on the other side of the river!’
‘I don’t know, but they’re up to no good,’ Othello whispered. ‘Thing is, they can’t do anything with Lysander watching. Not unless they attack in the dark …’
They paused for a moment, contemplating his words.
‘Maybe they got lost, or decided against crossing the river,’ Cress suggested.
‘You don’t know them,’ Fletcher said. ‘They’re trying to sabotage us to prove that a team with dwarves and elves doesn’t work. They could take us out with spells in the darkness. It would look like orc shamans had ambushed us.’
‘That’s incentive enough for them to ambush us,’ Sylva said. ‘Not that they need a good reason. They hate us enough as it is.’
Fletcher sat up, looking out into the gloom around their camp.
‘We need to move at first light, put as much distance between us and them as possible. Athena will keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t know we’re so close.’
He looked at his team’s bright fire, then began etching the ice spell in the air. With a pulse of mana, a stream of frost crystals enveloped the wood, casting the camp in pitch darkness.
‘Get some rest,’ Fletcher sighed, settling down against Lysander’s soft underbelly. ‘It might be the last we have for a while.’
As the others pulled blankets from their packs, Othello wriggled in beside him.
‘Trust you to hog Lysander as a pillow,’ Othello whispered. ‘Move over.’
Fletcher shuffled to the side and Othello stretched out beside him. It was comforting to have the dwarf there.
‘Hey,’ Othello said suddenly. ‘What did you end up doing with that gremlin?’
‘I … Er … I let it go,’ Fletcher said.
Othello sighed. ‘I knew you would but … it makes me uneasy.’
Fletcher’s stomach twisted with unease at Othello’s words. He had almost forgotten about Blue, with everything else going on.
‘I’m pretty sure it won’t betray us. And anyway, it was the right thing to do,’ Fletcher replied, not knowing who he was trying to convince more – himself or Othello.
‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ Othello murmured, shifting on to his side. ‘For all our sakes.’
Fletcher took a deep breath, trying to push the doubt from his mind. He already had enough to deal with, without the gremlin to worry about too.
‘You’ve been brooding all day …’ Othello said under his breath, so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘Anything else on your mind?’
Fletcher paused. He knew they should be sleeping, but he was sure he would be up all night thinking of Athena’s infusion dream. Maybe it would help to talk about it.
‘I saw my parents die,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘You remember it?’ Othello asked.
‘No … I saw Athena’s memories. You know, from infusing her,’ Fletcher replied, as tears welled in his eyes. ‘They were so happy, and then … It was horrible.’
‘Oh …’ Othello whispered. He paused.
‘I’m sorry.’
Silence. Then Othello spoke, his voice throaty with emotion.
‘Did you know I had another sister?’
‘No,’ Fletcher said, creasing his brow. Had?
‘Essie was born when Atilla and I were three, two years before my mother became pregnant with Thaissa and the laws were relaxed. We had to keep her hidden – dwarves were only allowed one child back then, and what with Atilla and I being twins we had already got away with two on a technicality. We kept her underground, hid her under the floorboards when the Pinkertons did their inspections. But when Essie was one year old she got sick … really sick. So we took her to a doctor, a human.’
Othello stopped, and Fletcher saw his friend’s face was wet with tears.
‘He called the Pinkertons, Fletcher, and they took Essie away from us. We don’t know where. A few weeks later they told us she had died from the illness. Just like that – she was gone. They never even returned her body.’
Fletcher reached out and laid a hand on Othello’s shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry that happened to you, Othello. To your sister. To your family. I can’t imagine how that must feel.’
‘We never talk about it,’ Othello said, wiping his tears with his sleeve. ‘Thaissa doesn’t even know. But if I had the chance to know what really happened to her – to hear her laugh, to see that smile one more time – I’d do anything for it.’
Fletcher knew he was right. It had been a blessing – to see his parents, know their voices, their faces. What had happened to them was a tragedy, and the truth of their death was painful to know … but necessary.
Above him, Lysander turned his head and stared down at Fletcher’s tear-streaked face. Gently, he raised a talon and brushed Fletcher’s cheek, the movement too human for the demon to do alone. Then he laid a wing on top of them, like a blanket. Fletcher knew that Lovett was watching over them.
‘Thank you for sharing that with me, Othello,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘I’ll remember it.’
30
It was early morning, and the team were moving at a fast pace through the jungle. They were even more careful than before to cover their tracks, but fortunately the trail they were on was regularly used by the jungle animals, confusing the ground with dozens of different claw and hoof prints.
Most disconcertingly, they had found the flatfooted prints of orcs there too, not unlike a human’s but larger and with deep toe indents. It was difficult to say how long they had been there, but Fletcher was glad that Athena was watching from the canopy above, her view translating directly to the scrying crystal strapped to his head.
‘Can…we…slow…down…yet?’ Othello gasped, readjusting his pack with a bow-legged jump. Solomon had been infused within him, for the Golem was too slow to keep up and his weighty legs left deep impressions on the ground. Since then, the heavy satchels had once again been strapped to their backs, making the going even tougher.
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 veget
ation. 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.
31
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.
The Inquisition Page 21