The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(104)

Then he saw it. The glow of the Ifrit, pushing its way through the jockeying creatures. In the new light of its fiery flesh, Fletcher could see dozens of demons following, from common Mites to tentacled monstrosities. It was time.

He hurled the spell into the corridor’s ceiling, blasting the stone with every last trace of mana he had. The explosion threw him back, catapulting him head over heels. Stars burst across his vision as he cracked his head against the paving.

He lay there, choking as the dust-laden air filled his lungs. In the dim light, he saw the corridor was gone, replaced by a mass of broken rubble and masonry. The screams of buried demons echoed through the antechamber, and Fletcher smiled grimly. He’d taken most of them with him.

As he listened to the fading cries, he realised the gunfire outside had stopped. He checked his scrying crystal and saw it was blank – Verity had severed the connection.

His grim acceptance of their abandonment turned to despair as the torch spluttered in the dust from the explosion, then died. They were cast in total darkness.

Trapped.





48


Fletcher lay in the blackness, the back of his head sticky with blood. It was over. Already he could hear the goblins in the corridors, digging at the rubble and screeching at each other. They could break through in a few minutes, or a few days.

He wondered absently if dying of thirst was a better alternative to capture. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.



Hours passed.

Othello was the first to move, forcing a tiny wyrdlight from his frozen fingertips. It moved determinedly around the room, flitting to each of them as the dwarf checked they were all in one piece.

A groan from Cress announced her own tentative recovery. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a numb-tongued garble. Silence resumed, as the team waited patiently for the paralysis to wear off.

Time went by and, slowly but surely, the others gradually regained their faculties. Othello was the first to speak, his words slow and deliberate.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances things could be a lot worse.’

‘A lot worse?’ Cress grumbled, slurring her words, but quickly warming to her theme. ‘We’re buried alive, surrounded by what looks like the entire orc and goblin army, a hundred miles deep in enemy territory and all of Hominum probably thinks we’re dead. We have about as much chance of getting out of this as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.’

Fletcher couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Then he heard a sob from Sylva.

‘Hey … are you OK?’ Fletcher asked, crawling over to her.

He shone wyrdlight from his finger, and saw her half-healed shoulder and upper chest still bore the marks from the Nanaue bite, a jagged half circle of scars. He lay his hand on her arm, but she jerked away.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed.

‘Sylva … I’m sorry about Sariel,’ Fletcher murmured.

‘You killed her,’ Sylva whispered, her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘I saved you and then you killed her. I felt the rocks come down, her spine snap. It took hours for her to die – did you know that, Fletcher? Body broken, barely any air to breath. Alone, in the dark.’

‘She gave her life so you could live,’ Fletcher said, though Sylva’s account sickened him to his stomach. ‘She knew it was the only way.’

‘It wasn’t your choice to make!’ Sylva yelled, shoving him away from her.

‘You’re right, Sylva. It was Sariel’s,’ Fletcher said simply.

Sylva did not reply, curling into a ball with her arms over her head. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Ignatius, Athena! Where were they? Fletcher looked around desperately until he saw their inert bodies on the cold ground. Ignatius was still frozen on the floor – but to Fletcher’s relief his amber eyes were flicking back and forth, and he could sense no pain from the paralysed demon. Athena was faring better, though she had only managed to awkwardly roll over on her front.

Othello lurched to his feet and staggered over to Cress and Lysander, motioning at Fletcher to join him. Fletcher dragged himself across the room, still too dizzy to stand. A bag of the yellow petals got in his way, and he slapped it aside, spilling the contents across the floor.

Othello helped pull him the last few feet, and they pressed their backs against the Griffin’s side, the effort of sitting up too much for them.

‘Best to leave her in peace,’ Othello said in a hushed voice. ‘I’d be a wreck if I had lost Solomon.’

‘Yeah,’ Cress replied. ‘Don’t worry, she knows you did what you had to. She just needs to blame someone now, and you’re them.’

She prodded Tosk with her gauntlet. The creature was still completely frozen, like Ignatius and Athena. Only Solomon seemed capable of movement, tottering unsteadily around the room.

‘Solomon’s skin must have stopped the dart going in too far,’ Othello suggested, as Cress pulled the Raiju on to her lap. ‘Plus he’s bigger than the others.’

‘So’s Lysander, though,’ Fletcher mused, looking at the spread-eagled Griffin. He was as still as a corpse, the only sign of life the gentle stirring of dust where his breath disturbed it.

After a moment’s thought, Fletcher swiped his arm along Lysander’s side, knocking several darts to the floor. The tips were still slathered in a black residue.