The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(60)
Fletcher felt strange, being so close to Isadora. Her father had worked hard to have him and Othello executed, not to mention the fact that she and Tarquin had planned Sylva’s murder. Yet here they were, working together against the orcs.
‘Fletcher,’ Seraph said, nudging him. Fletcher glanced up and saw the other team leaders looking at him expectantly.
‘I agree the banks of the river will be more populated,’ he said, remembering the route he and the others had decided on. ‘We’ll do the same but on this side. We’ll cross at night like Seraph but before that we will stay away from the river’s edge.’
‘Nobles on one side, commoners on the other,’ Isadora smirked, nodding to herself with satisfaction. ‘We’ll see who gets there first.’
Seraph scowled at her words but rolled up the map.
‘It’s good we’re splitting up,’ Malik said, ignoring Isadora. ‘If one team is caught, there will be three others to complete the mission. But there’s a disadvantage too.’
‘What’s that?’ Fletcher asked.
‘It will be hard to arrive at the pyramid at the same time, like Rook said. If we don’t, the first team to arrive will have to go in all alone and the other teams will be vulnerable when the alarm is raised. Then the Celestial Corps will have a hell of a time locating all four teams in the window before the Wyvern riders arrive.’
‘He’s right,’ Isadora agreed, though begrudgingly. ‘We’ll just have to do our best. If one team arrives early, wait inside the pyramid. Mason tells me it’s sacred ground that’s used only for ceremonies, so we’ll be safe inside. If you’re late … you make your own way home.’
‘That works for me,’ Fletcher said, as Malik and Seraph nodded.
‘We’ll head through the swamp to where it joins the mouth of the river,’ Malik said, standing up. ‘Then we go our separate ways and reunite at the pyramid.’
As the team leaders returned to their respective groups, Fletcher was increasingly aware of the rustling gremlin in his rucksack. The little creature could obviously smell that he was back in the jungle and was making an attempt to break free. Fletcher needed a distraction.
‘I have an idea,’ he announced to the four groups, wary of raising his voice too much, in case it carried through the jungle. ‘Each of our guides has expertise that the others don’t. For example, Jeffrey has access to a new set of spells that have only recently been discovered and a knowledge of the local plant-life, all of which I am willing to share with you. Seraph’s guide, Sergeant Musher, will know about avoiding detection and navigating in the forest. Yours …’
He looked over at Malik’s guide, Mason, who was busy eating his way through a pile of jungle fruit.
‘Well, we’ll all have something to contribute I’m sure.’
‘What about me?’ growled a voice from among Isadora’s team. ‘Will I be of use?’
With all the excitement and the milling around, Fletcher had not had a chance to see who Tarquin’s guide was. Yet, when the bulky frame revealed itself, Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat. Grindle.
He was an ugly man, with the squashed face of a bulldog and a thick padding of fat all over his body, more even than Atlas, who stood beside him. He wore the black uniform of the Forsyth Furies, as did all of Isadora’s team.
‘I served as Lord Forsyth’s man for many years,’ he said, lumbering towards Fletcher. ‘You know, getting my hands bloody, so Zacharias wouldn’t have to. Couldn’t let his kids go into the jungle without my watchful eye over them.’
Grindle winked at Sylva, whose face had gone ashen white. Almost two years ago, this man had put her head on a block and had raised the very same knobbled club that he now wore on his back, intending to kill her. Had it not been for Othello and Fletcher’s intervention, she would now be dead, and Hominum would be in the midst of war with the elves.
Sylva nocked an arrow to her bow, but Othello tugged it from the bowstring before she could raise it.
‘The world is watching,’ he hissed, pointing at the Wendigo, whose black eyes were fixed on them with keen interest.
‘You want to help them?’ Sylva snapped, turning her anger on Fletcher.
‘Maybe we’ll just share with Seraph’s team,’ Fletcher said, his voice taut with the same fury. ‘You seem like you have all the help you need.’
‘What help would a filthy servant boy with ideas above his station and a soldier stupid enough to get himself lost in the jungle give us?’ Tarquin said, inspecting his nails. ‘Run along and share all you like. We’ll be on our way now.’
Isadora grinned nastily at them, then hissed an order at the Wendigo. It knuckled its way through the underbrush, its claws spreading wide to tear a path ahead.
‘Catch you later, Fletcher,’ Didric called, tapping the rapier at his side. ‘We’ll be seeing you very soon.’
Then the Forsyth team walked nonchalantly into the jungle, their backs receding until all that remained was the distant snap of branches.
‘Well, I don’t want to know what that was about,’ Verity said brightly, stepping forward. ‘But we would be very willing to share. Mason can show you how to read the ground and leave no trail, a lesson that those idiots could have benefited from.’ She pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the path of broken stems and disturbed ground the Forsyths had left behind. ‘What do you say?’