The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(53)
‘Place your bets, lads. Odds are five to one on all four of ’em. Pick blue, red, green or yellow, ’tis all the same. Last one standing gets to live.’
They ignored him, pushing their way to the front of the crowd, with Othello just tall enough to peer over the lip and see what lay below.
A large crate sat in the centre of a bloodied sandpit, twitching and rustling with movement from within. Around it, four smaller crates were lined up against the pit’s edge, each around the size of a small keg of beer and corresponding to the colours the bookie had named. All of them were connected to a rope that ran through a ring embedded in the awning above the pit, ready to lift them and release what was within. Animal bones were scattered among the sand like cheroots in an ashtray, while the ribcage of an animal, perhaps a large dog, lay mouldering in the corner.
All around, men were jeering, some spitting and hurling abuse at the unknown inhabitants of the four crates.
‘Last chance for bets – anyone, anyone?’ the gap-toothed man called out, but there were no takers. He leaped on to the barrier beside Fletcher and as the eyes of the crowd turned to him, Fletcher realised he was the organiser of the event.
‘Release the gremlins,’ he bellowed.
Slowly, the boxes were lifted, and out of the hinged flaps at the bottom fell scrawny, grey-skinned creatures, barely taller than a toddler and clad in ragged loincloths. They had long noses and ears, bulging eyes and nimble, pianist fingers that scrabbled at the boxes in their attempts to stay within. Each was daubed with a splash of paint across their backs, just as their containers had been.
Strangely, one stood out to Fletcher. While the others cringed and scampered into the corners, the blue gremlin stood proudly, triangular ears flattening along his back, eyes swivelling around, flicking from the large box in the centre to the crowd above. For a moment the gremlin’s eyes focused on Fletcher, then it snatched up a broken thighbone from the ground, one end sharp and jagged, the other a thick double-club of bone.
‘Looks like we have a fighter! Blue’s got a bit of spunk in him.’ The gap-toothed man laughed uproariously, slapping Fletcher’s back as if he were in on the joke. Then his voice turned ugly and he gave Fletcher a sadistic sneer.
‘They’re usually the first to go.’
Jeffrey pushed his way between the two of them, much to Fletcher’s relief. He handed a drink to both Othello and Fletcher, his eyes already glazed over with inebriation. Fletcher took one look at the foul-smelling liquid within his tankard and quietly handed it to the gap-toothed man, before Jeffrey could see.
The man winked with thanks and then, after a swig that spilled most of the drink down his shirt, roared, ‘Unleash the rats!’
The largest crate was raised, and out came a mass of seething, wriggling bodies, a grotesque mix of tails, incisors and black, matted fur. There must have been a hundred of them, and wherever they scampered, they left little claw prints of blood.
The man threw his arm around Fletcher’s shoulders, the drink buying his goodwill. ‘We don’t feed ’em for a while – gets ’em ravenous,’ the man croaked with a conspiratorial nudge. ‘Takes a while for ’em to resort to cannibalism, the sweet spot’s three days. Looks like these ones started a little early.’
His breath stank, fetid in Fletcher’s nostrils. He turned away in disgust, and his eyes fell on to the pit once more, unable to drag them away from the spectacle.
The rats had sensed movement now, though many were still extricating themselves from the pile. Blue, thighbone in hand, was chittering to his compatriots, giving them orders in a strange language, or so it seemed. But if he was, they ignored his pleas, instead hiding their heads between their legs, while one clawed at the pit’s dirt walls, trying to find purchase in the crumbling material.
The first rat leaped for Blue, but he batted it away with a desperate flail. Again, he called to his friends, to no avail. Now two rats leaped, and he had no choice but to dive aside with a frantic roll.
The green gremlin fell, surrounded by a squeaking swarm of red-eyed rats. Blue cried out in alarm, but the sound was nothing compared to the screams and gurgles of pain as the teeth gnashed at the emaciated creature beneath them.
More of the vermin found their footing and Blue shuffled away, until his back touched the festering ribcage, pieces of fur still hanging from the bones, rotting tendons holding the structure together. The yellow gremlin was next to go, disappearing under a mass of black rats, its pitiful screams hollow in Fletcher’s ears.
Of the others, only the red one remained, having somehow managed to scramble halfway up the pit. It hung there, suspended, unable to climb any further. Beneath it, the rats squealed and leaped, teeth snapping below the gremlin’s kicking ankles. In the corner, Blue slipped beneath the ribcage, then pushed the sharp end of his bone through the gap and began stabbing at any rat that came within reach.
Fletcher watched in horror as a man leaned out and prodded the red gremlin, which fell screaming into the baying pack. There were yells of anger from some of the men, but they were only complaining because they had bets on it. Like a pack of piranhas, the rats stripped the tiny corpse until it was nothing more than a skeleton.
‘Blue wins!’ the gap-toothed man cried, greeted by a cheer from the men who watched. ‘Now, who wants to bet on how long he will last? I’ve got two to one it’s a minute!’
There was a surge of men, silver sovereigns held high as they rushed to take his bet.