The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(54)

‘I thought the winner got to live,’ Fletcher growled.

‘The show’s never been this good before,’ the man whispered out of the side of his mouth. ‘I ain’t gonna let it go to waste.’

‘I feel sick,’ Jeffrey mumbled, gripping Fletcher’s arm. ‘I don’t think this beer agreed with me. Take me outside, please.’

Below, Blue valiantly struggled on, a rat squealing as it was hit in the eye, another battering the ribcage beside it.

‘Let’s go,’ Fletcher said, shoving his way through the crowd. The tent was suddenly too small, too hot. He needed to breathe again.

They burst through the entrance and Jeffrey staggered away, dragging Othello and Fletcher behind him. He began to vomit, and Othello rubbed his back, turning his head away in disgust. The darkness of night had fallen, the last vestiges of sun sinking behind the horizon.

‘I took one sip of that stuff and poured it away,’ Othello said. ‘Like piss, fresh from the horse. Though drinking’s no more than a coward’s way to courage anyway.’

Courage. That was what Fletcher had just seen, from a little gremlin, fighting against insurmountable odds. As he pictured the struggling creature, his heart filled with resolve. He set his jaw and began to pace back to the tent.

‘Fletcher, wait,’ Jeffrey mumbled, spittle dripping from his mouth.

But Fletcher was already through the doors and barging through the crowd. He vaulted over the pit’s parapet with a single leap, then blasted the rats aside with kinetic energy, sending their heavy bodies thudding into the earthen walls.

He summoned Ignatius with a pulse of mana and the demon came out fighting, slashing back and forth with his claws. A wave of flame from his mouth sent a dozen rats to their deaths, but the scent of cooking flesh was too much for the others – the remaining rats fell upon their burned compatriots with squeals of joy.

Blue was locked chest to chest with a monstrous rat that had wriggled inside the ribcage, stabbing it repeatedly in the side with his bone. Fletcher drew his khopesh and neatly spitted the rodent, using the sword and body to lift the cage away. Then, as the cries of excitement began to die, he sheathed his sword and gathered the little gremlin into his arms. Blue’s skinny chest heaved in and out with exhaustion.

The crowd stared down at Fletcher in shock, then the gap-toothed man yelled.

‘What the hell are y—’

But he never finished his sentence, for the world flipped upside down and an explosion tore through the tent, shrapnel ripping through the crowd of drunken men like a scythe through wheat.

Deep in the pit, the flare passed above Fletcher and Ignatius in a wave of roiling fire. His ears sang with pain from the thunderclap of sound and he was thrown to the ground by a shockwave that rippled through the earth.

Then he was clawing his way out of the pit and over the screaming bodies of injured soldiers, Blue still clutched protectively to his chest. He felt a hand grasp his ankle and he kicked it away, stretching and pulling forward like a drowning man heading for shore. Ignatius tugged at his sleeve, guiding him through the smoke. Then Othello’s strong hands dragged him out and over the mud, until they collapsed together at the base of the hill. The dwarf’s relieved face peered down at him.

‘You’re alive,’ he breathed. ‘It’s a damn miracle.’

Fletcher stared at the carnage behind him. Frantic sergeants barked orders as soldiers dragged the wounded from the blackened, bloodstained ground and on to hastily prepared stretchers, made from spears and knotted jackets.

‘This is no miracle,’ Fletcher choked, for the air was thick with smoke, smaller fires spreading among the wreckage. Ignatius chittered fearfully and scampered on to Fletcher’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck for comfort.

‘We need to help them,’ Jeffrey gasped, stumbling towards the ruined tent, but Fletcher grasped him by the collar and tugged him back.

‘Othello, you shouldn’t be seen here,’ Fletcher said urgently, as angry voices mingled with the sounds of dying men. ‘An explosion … a dwarf nearby.’

Othello’s eyes widened in horror, then he was tugging Jeffrey up the hill with Fletcher, though the boy fought them every step of the way, demanding to be allowed to help the fallen soldiers.

It was not long before they reached the carriage, which by some miracle was still waiting for them.

‘What the hell happened?’ the carriage driver asked, his eyes widening as he took in the gremlin cradled in Fletcher’s arm.

Fletcher shoved a fistful of coins from his purse into the driver’s hands as Othello manhandled Jeffrey through the carriage doors.

‘Take us back to Corcillum,’ Fletcher growled. ‘And quickly.’





23


‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Uhtred bellowed, slamming his fist on to the table.

They were in the cellar of the Anvil, getting the dressing-down of their lives. Uhtred had arrived a few minutes before and had dragged them down there as soon as he had heard their story, afraid that people would be watching the tavern for signs of movement after the Anvil attack.

‘What if you had been spotted?’ he growled, advancing on the three of them. ‘The only dwarven soldier for miles around and you just happen to be there when the bomb goes off. We’re in the Anvil Tavern, for pity’s sake. You just got off on a charge of treason. If word gets out, your mission will do more harm than good – people will think you’re traitors!’