The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(106)

‘So?’ Cress asked, munching on another petal.

Othello gave her a disapproving stare.

‘What?’ she said, grinning. ‘I like the way it tingles.’

Another boom from the corridor, so loud it shook the very ground. Fletcher could hear the bass voice of orcs, shouting guttural orders. He raised his voice.

‘It means that this isn’t just some drug the orcs use to get drunk – if Cress’s reaction is anything to go by. Maybe it simply makes the user immune to the ether’s poison?’

Othello stared at him for a moment, his brow creasing as he mulled over Fletcher’s words. Then he whooped and seized his friend by the shoulders.

‘You bloody genius,’ he said, shaking Fletcher back and forth. ‘That’s got to be it!’

‘I think you’re right, Fletcher,’ Sylva said begrudgingly. She shuffled over to them and examined the pentacle.

‘Now we just need to fill the pentacle’s grooves with something organic, so we can use the damned thing. Any ideas? Because I don’t see any blue orcs waiting to be sacrificed around here.’

Fletcher scanned the room. For a moment he settled on the pool of Rufus’s blood, but shook his head, disgusted with himself. Not that. Never that.

‘Didn’t Khan press some kind of button?’ Cress said, sweeping the thick layer of dust with her hands.

She grinned and pointed at a small nub in the ground in front of her.

‘Good thing I didn’t step on this earlier, or Othello would have had another bloodbath.’

‘All right, everyone eat,’ Fletcher said, stuffing a handful of petals into his mouth. The taste was mildly bitter, but not completely unpleasant. It reminded him of sour whisky.

He watched as Cress gently coaxed the noblewoman to eat one. She was so hungry that she gulped it down like a half-starved animal, barely chewing before swallowing it.

‘Well done, Cress.’ Fletcher smiled.

A huge blast juddered through the room. Through the rubble of the back exit, a tiny chink of light could be seen from the goblin torches outside. The voices of the orcs could be heard distinctly now, their harsh monosyllabic speech so loud it was as if they were in the same room.

‘We’d better hurry,’ Fletcher said, shuffling with Othello away from the carving. ‘Go ahead, Cress.’

She pressed the button, hissing through her teeth with exertion until it sank into the floor. For a moment nothing happened. Then, as panic began to take hold, the first drop of blood dripped on to the pentacle.

The droplets became a trickle, red liquid so dark it looked almost black. It spread slowly, splitting and merging until the star and the keys along it were fully formed.

‘Pass me the mana vial, Othello,’ Fletcher said, holding out his hand. ‘Unless you want to do it?’

‘By all means,’ Othello said, handing it over. ‘Your paralysis is almost gone, thanks to that health potion. I don’t think Cress or I could do it, the state we’re in.’

Fletcher nodded and gulped down the sickly liquid. A moment later, he was revelling in the feeling of his body pulsing with mana once again.

‘Listen to me,’ Fletcher said, dipping his fingers into the blood. It was still warm, and he stifled an involuntary shudder. ‘Sylva, I need you to throw as many of these bags of petals through as you can – we don’t know how long the effects of the plant will last.’

Sylva closed her eyes and nodded.

‘Good. Now, Cress, I want you to gather the rest of the supplies, including my pistols, Rufus and Jeffrey’s packs and anything else of use; we’re going to need it all. Put it through the portal, then take Lady Cavendish through with you, she seems to trust you the most. Solomon will carry Lysander into the ether, while Othello takes Tosk, Ignatius and Athena.’

The noblewoman stirred, looking up.

‘Lady Cavendish?’ Fletcher asked, hopeful for another reaction.

She stared back blankly, and he sighed and continued.

‘I’ll have a few seconds from when my finger leaves the blood to jump into the portal before it closes, so I’ll be last. Go, now!’

With those words, Fletcher pumped mana into the pentacle, the liquid glowing with a fierce violet light. He gritted his teeth and strained as the first pinprick of a portal appeared, growing to the size of a grapefruit.

‘I can’t carry them all, but I think Athena’s almost recovered,’ Othello shouted.

‘Not now, Othello,’ Fletcher growled, blasting another pulse of mana into the pentacle. The portal grew and spun until it hung in the air like a miniature sun, filling the room with a dull roar.

‘Athena,’ Lady Cavendish repeated, so softly that Fletcher thought he had imagined it.

Sylva began to hurl the bags of petals into the portal, as the others struggled under the weight of their respective charges. The packs soon followed, Rufus’s spilling open as it spun through.

Solomon was the first to the portal, staggering under Lysander’s weight. He charged headlong into the light, disappearing in an instant.

Sylva staggered up next, more petal bags cradled in her arms.

‘I hope this works,’ she muttered, then jumped into the glowing sphere. She vanished just as another blast tore through the chamber. This time, a barrage of pebbles showered them, the pile of rubble beginning to crumble.