The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(27)
King Harold’s smile faded slightly, and he gave Fletcher a worried glance.
Despair gripped Fletcher’s heart once again, tightening with every second, like a vice. He swayed on his knees, and only Othello’s steadying hand kept him from falling.
‘I have a proposal,’ Alfric said, tapping his chin and gazing up at the rafters. ‘Let us administer the sting. If the boy dies, well, he was never Raleigh’s son and deserved the death that the jury prescribed. If he survives … you have my permission to pardon him.’
Harold reddened at being spoken to in such a manner. After all, he was king, and a full-grown man. He did not need his father’s permission to do anything. For a moment Fletcher saw him struggle with a decision, then he slumped his shoulders and gave his father a curt nod. He could not openly defy his father, not in such a public setting. Not yet.
‘I must object,’ Captain Lovett said, still seated on her bench. ‘A Manticore’s sting is a terrible death. It could take hours, all the time in terrible agony.’
‘Then we shall give him a full dose!’ Alfric snarled. ‘That should kill him quickly enough.’
‘That is not what I meant …’ Lovett started, but was cut short by Alfric’s raised hand.
‘Fortunately, there is a summoner in this room who owns a Manticore. Is that not so, Charles?’ Alfric said, pointing at the dark-haired Inquisitor.
‘A gift from my mother, when I joined the Inquisition,’ Charles Faversham said, bowing his head. ‘I believe you, in turn, gave the demon to her.’
‘I did indeed give it to my cousin,’ old King Alfric said. ‘I cannot deny that I have missed Xerxes, he was a favourite of mine for a good few years. Why don’t you summon him? I bet he hasn’t had a chance to sting something for a while.’
‘Yes, my liege,’ Charles said, falling to one knee. He clicked his finger at one of the guards, who went behind the high table and brought him a long tube. With practised ease, Charles slid out a roll of leather from within and unravelled it on the floor.
He lay his hand on the pentacle embossed upon it and closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration. The pentacle hummed into life, glowing a dull blue that shone even in the well-lit interior of the courtroom. Threads of white light appeared, knitting and merging into a formless mass that slowly took shape. In moments, an enormous creature had materialised, and Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat.
Xerxes was as large as a thoroughbred horse, towering above Fletcher. His limbs and body had the musculature of a lion, covered in a thick pelt of dark, violet fur. His mane was black and shaggy, but interspersed between the hairs were vicious spines that rattled as the creature shook its leonine head. He had a short, wide-mouthed muzzle, but his eyes seemed almost human, the irises a soft blue that bore into Fletcher’s own with hungry curiosity.
But all this was nothing compared to the black, scorpion tail erupting from the base of its spine, waving hypnotically like a snake about to strike. A droplet beaded on the glistening sting, yellow as pus and twice as viscous.
‘Ahhh, there’s the little scamp,’ Alfric said, shuffling closer and caressing the Manticore’s tail. ‘A beautiful specimen. I am glad you have cared for him so well.’
‘Little scamp?’ Othello uttered. ‘It’s a monster!’
Alfric’s eyes snapped to Othello.
‘Guards, get the dwarf away and someone hold Master Wulf down. I want muskets on Captains Arcturus and Lovett. Their sentiments for the boy might make them do something they would regret.’
Fletcher heard the click of flints being pulled back as the guards raised their weapons. Othello swore as Jakov gripped him by the hair and dragged him away, the chains scraping along the floor. But Fletcher saw nothing but those strange, hypnotic eyes, as the Manticore took a step forward.
‘I suggest everyone watch closely,’ Charles said jovially. ‘It is not often you see Manticore venom in action, especially not a full dose. Although those of you with weaker stomachs might wish to leave the room.’
The sting swayed back, bending like a bow at full stretch. It froze, perfectly still, as Xerxes waited for instruction from his master. Charles held up his hand, ready to give the order.
The Manticore purred with excitement, then there was a grip on Fletcher’s arm and he heard Didric’s voice croak in his ear.
‘Hold still. We wouldn’t want him to miss now, would we?’
Another, larger hand reached over his shoulder and tore open his jerkin, ripping the threadbare fabric to leave his chest exposed.
‘Your sacrifice is in vain, Fletcher,’ Zacharias hissed, and Fletcher felt his hot breath on the back of his neck. ‘You have done nothing but delay the inevitable. The dwarves will be put in their proper place, one way or another. It is a shame that you will not be there to see it.’
The two nobles pulled Fletcher’s arms apart, until he thought his shoulders would pop out of their sockets. He kneeled there as the Manticore took a final, deliberate step forward.
‘The prisoner is ready, my liege!’ Charles cried, his voice high with excitement. ‘Shall we begin the test?’
‘Do it,’ Alfric said simply.
Charles’s arm swung down and the sting came with it, hissing through the air. There was a grisly pop as the point broke through the skin below Fletcher’s sternum, and he cried out, for it felt like he had been run through with a sword. Then the bulbous sting pulsated as it injected the venom.