The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(101)

Silence descended, broken only by the sizzle of the cooking corpses below.

‘I’m out of mana,’ Cress said, peering down and wincing at the sight. ‘But they don’t know that.’

‘Me too,’ Sylva said, scraping the blood from her falx against the edge of the platform. ‘Used it all up burning those eggs.’

Fletcher’s reserves were low, but he reabsorbed the shield back through his fingers to replenish them. Just enough for a few more spells.

‘I’ve saved my vial,’ Othello said, frantically reloading his blunderbuss. ‘And I’ve still got some mana left over. Solomon’s mana levels increased with his size.’

The Golem rumbled at hearing his name, his face splitting into a craggy smile.

Then, as the first goblins began to venture into the pit once more, a howl echoed around the room. It came from the passageway on the other side of the platform. Fletcher looked in his scrying crystal, to see Ebony was hovering above the pyramid. Below her, dozens of creatures streamed by the waiting orcs and into the front entrance.

‘Demons,’ Fletcher breathed, his eyes widening with horror.





47


They backed down the passageway as the roars of the demons grew louder and louder.

‘The rescue party are here,’ Fletcher said, looking in his crystal. ‘They’re waiting for us by the back entrance.’

He could see scores of orcs attacking the waiting Celestial Corps, though many of them lay dead in the land between the river and the pyramid. Arcturus and a few other riders were the only ones still fighting, with most of the rescuers already disappearing on the horizon with the other teams. Fletcher could see puffs of smoke and fireballs streaking across the overlay as they battled to hold their position. Even as he watched, Ebony turned away, following her mistress back to civilisation.

The team were halfway down the passage now, and the antechamber with the hieroglyphs lay directly ahead of them. The wail of goblins joined the uproar, and as Fletcher glanced back, he saw the first of them following down the tunnel.

He fired a ball of flame, illuminating the long dark passage. It took the nearest goblin in the chest, blasting it head over heels. Those behind simply trampled it into the ground, screeching their battle-cries.

The team ran on, with Lysander barrelling into the room ahead as Solomon’s slow pace held them up. Moments later, they burst into the antechamber.

A flickering torch on the far wall was the only source of light, lit by Khan and his orcs on their way in. Rufus lay in the corner, clutching at his stomach, blood slowly spreading in a pool around his body. His Lutra lay beside him, its head half severed. Jeffrey was cradling the boy in his arms, while Lady Cavendish sat hunched in the corner, rocking back and forth.

‘Help me,’ Jeffrey begged, holding up his hands. They were bloodied to the elbow, where he had attempted to staunch the wound.

‘It’s too late,’ Othello said, kneeling beside the stricken boy. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him.’

Lysander groaned, then collapsed to the ground.

‘What the hell?’ Cress cried, rushing to the demon’s side. There were no wounds, yet he was completely unconscious, his beak gaping open like a chicken with its neck wrung.

‘Solomon, pick him up,’ Othello ordered, pointing at the inert demon. ‘I’ll get Lady Cavendish.’

‘Heads up, we have company,’ Sylva yelled, shooting an arrow down the passageway. The thunder of footsteps approached and the first goblins came barrelling out of the gloom.

‘Take Bess,’ Othello yelled, throwing the blunderbuss across the room.

Fletcher caught it and fired from the hip, the force of the blast staggering him as half a pound of shrapnel ricocheted down the corridor. The slaughter was instantaneous, cutting the goblins down like wheat before a reaper. Those that avoided the initial salvo scrabbled to return the way they had come.

But the goblins were not alone. Two Nanaues were racing past them, leaping from floor to wall to ceiling, their claws digging into the stone as easily as tree bark.

Fletcher resisted the mad urge to hit them with the last of his mana, knowing that spells were ineffective against demons. Instead, he drew his pistol, Blaze, the long single barrel trembling as he squinted down the sight. Even as he aimed at one, an arrow from Sylva pierced its shoulder, knocking it to the ground.

Fletcher switched targets and fired, seeing the musket ball hit the other Nanaue in the chest before the pall of smoke obscured his view. The creature skidded and tumbled along the ground in its momentum, knocking Fletcher’s shins with its body. Its wet black eyes gave him a thousand-yard stare of death, but there was no time to be sure.

The injured Nanaue behind tore the arrow from its shoulder, the great gaping mouth flapping open as it roared and continued its charge. Twenty feet. Ten feet.

Fletcher drew Gale, and fired both barrels in quick succession. The first musket ball took it through its knee and the Nanaue continued in a lopsided stampede. The second missed completely, no more than a puff of dust and broken masonry from the ceiling above.

Then Fletcher was knocked to the ground, the pistols clattering from his hands. He scrambled, punching left and right, hitting nothing but air. Sitting up, he saw Sylva wrestling with the demon, its rows of teeth buried across her chest. She screamed with pain, even as Solomon battered at the demon with his stony fists.