The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(34)

‘Rufus’s mother,’ Othello whispered.

Fletcher remembered the small, mousy-haired boy from Vocans who had followed Tarquin Forsyth around like a lost puppy. His mother, a noblewoman, was thought dead, while his father was a commoner.

‘We cannot allow her to remain in orc hands. It would be unseemly, to leave one of our own out there. She was popular among commoners and nobles alike, thanks to her marriage to that common servant.’ Disdain dripped from Ophelia Faversham’s words and she curled her lip. ‘It would do well for morale, and her two sons, if we were to rescue her.’

‘Exactly,’ Harold agreed. ‘Well said, Ophelia.’

An elven woman stood. She was powerfully built, with a strong jaw and hair so finely braided that the strands hung in dreadlocks around her head.

‘This noblewoman is no concern of ours. Save this for your own council meeting.’

Her voice was heavily accented, but clear enough.

‘Please, Chief Cerva,’ Harold implored. ‘A victory for Hominum is a victory for all. Are we not in this together?’

Cerva stared back, unimpressed.

‘We will not risk elven lives on a foolhardy rescue mission, if that is what you ask of us,’ she stated simply.

‘It is nothing like that, I assure you. Please, allow us to present our plan, and if afterwards you are dissatisfied, we shall assuage your doubts.’

Cerva returned to her seat, but kept her arms crossed.

Harold paused then, allowing silence to settle over the room.

‘Our next problem is perhaps the most shocking. Something new. Something that could spell doom for us all, allied or not. Lord Raleigh, would you be so kind as to remove the cloth from the container there?’

It took a few moments for Fletcher to realise Harold was speaking to him. Lord Raleigh. Was he ever going to get used to that? He stared at the object for a moment then, realising he had no other option, climbed on to the table.

The wood creaked underfoot and there was a mutter of annoyance from one of the elves, but he eventually reached the cloth-covered cylinder. He gripped the sheet and tugged it away, hearing the slosh of water from within as the cylinder rocked on its base. He did not know what he had expected to see, but the cries of disgust from the room echoed his own.

A creature lay within.





16


It hung there, suspended in a greenish liquid that continued to slosh back and forth. It had been pickled to preserve the flesh, and a ragged hole could be seen in the centre of its scrawny chest.

‘What is it?’ Cerva asked, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and curiosity. ‘A demon of some sort?’

‘No,’ Harold said gravely. ‘Not a demon. It is an aberration, a monstrosity. A strange mix of orc and gremlin, created by some dark art unknown to us.’

Fletcher examined the creature. It looked somewhat like a gremlin, for it had the same droopy, triangular ears, elongated nose and bulbous eyes. The fingers were long and nimble like a gremlin’s too, with a similar, if less exaggerated, hunch. It even wore a loincloth of the same design.

Yet it was far too large, standing at a height somewhere between a dwarf and a man. Its mouth was filled with sharp, yellow teeth, and it sported thick canines in its lower jaw that reminded Fletcher of a juvenile orc’s tusks. Its build was on the skinny side, but the cords of muscle that wrapped its limbs left no doubt that the creature was an agile fighter. The corpse’s skin, grey like an orc’s or a gremlin’s, had shrivelled slightly in the liquid.

‘We call them goblins, and they are breeding them by the thou—’ the king began, but was interrupted by Uhtred.

‘Thousands?’ the dwarf cried. ‘We are barely able to hold off the orcs as it is. Numbers were our greatest advantage!’

‘What weapons do these goblins use?’ Sylva asked, leaping on to the table so she could examine the creature more closely.

‘The same ones as orcs, so far as we know,’ King Harold said gravely. ‘Clubs studded with volcanic glass, javelins, rawhide shields, stone-tipped spears, that kind of thing. As Uhtred said, it is their numbers that worry us. Even with the addition of dwarven and elven troops, they may already outnumber us.’

‘How did you find out about them?’ Fletcher asked, his face flushing. Yet Harold answered him readily enough.

‘The boy. Boy, what’s your name?’ Harold asked, snapping his fingers. Fletcher was momentarily taken aback by Harold’s rudeness, but then realised he was still acting.

‘Mason, sire,’ the boy mumbled.

‘Mason here brought that body with him. He took one when he escaped. Clever boy, aren’t you, Mason?’

‘If you say so, your majesty,’ Mason said, lowering his head respectfully.

‘Mason tells us that he saw them spawning from eggs of all things, deep within the orcs’ jungle caves. The one you see is full-grown, one of the first specimens. Sexless beneath those loincloths.’

‘How many of these early specimens are there?’ Uhtred asked, directing his question to Mason.

‘I can’t rightly say, beggin’ your pardon, mister. Maybe a few ’undred,’ Mason said, after a few moments’ thought. ‘They mostly stay ’idden underground, tendin’ the eggs and such. Them eggs ’ave been cookin’ for a long time, ’cos the goblins come out full-grown – I’ve never seen no babies runnin’ about. Some of the eggs must be years old, from the dust and muck on ’em. Once this batch ’atch, there might not be another for while.’