The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(64)

But they were outnumbered – scores of orcs against a few dozen men. One by one, the exhausted soldiers were cut down by flying javelins or hurled axes, plucked away like puppets jerked from the stage. The closer men were battered to the ground by swinging clubs, as the grey giants ululated guttural battle-cries.

Sir Caulder fought on, even when a club shattered his arm. It hung limply by his side as he ducked and stabbed, making the orcs pay dearly for every step he took back. A blow from behind near severed his leg, the limb dangling at a sickening angle. He fell then, his eyes turned to the sky.

Athena launched into the night air, even as an explosion from below sent masonry hurtling across the lawn. The great building-stones were like a blast of buckshot, tearing through the massed orcs in clouds of red mist.

Edmund’s connection was gone, just as he was. Athena could already feel the pull of the ether, tugging at her very essence. But the baby beneath her was crying, his arms stretching painfully above his tiny body. The night air grew colder as Athena flew higher and higher.



Darkness. Wingbeat after wingbeat. Unmoving stars shining above, glinting city lights passing beneath. The call of the ether, growing steadily stronger.



Hours pass.



Snow-capped mountains, rising from the earth like jagged teeth.



Body fading. The ether’s wildness taking hold.



A village, far below.



No time.



No choice.





28


‘Fletcher, wake up!’

Othello’s green eyes looked down at him, matching the canopy above.

‘Malik’s team have left without us.’

Fletcher sat up, Athena’s memory still vivid in his mind.

‘Why?’ he mumbled.

‘They left a note, said they decided to make the most of the sunlight and leave early. They didn’t want to wake us.’

‘Fine with me,’ Sylva yawned, stretching her arms. ‘If there’s trouble ahead, they’ll run into it before we do.’

Seraph and his team were packing up. They had their demons out, and Fletcher was pleased to see that Rory now had a second Mite, smaller than Malachi, with a yellow shell.

Still, it was Atilla’s demon that most surprised him, a dove-white bird with long tail feathers, perched on the young dwarf’s shoulder. It was a Caladrius, a level seven demon with the ability to heal wounds by laying its feathers over them.

The demon was one of four rare, equally powerful avian cousins, including the fire-born Phoenix, the icy Polarion and the lightning-powered Halcyon, with red, blue and yellow plumage respectively. He had a sneaky suspicion that it was not just Arcturus who had received a gifted demon from King Harold. Fletcher bet it was an apology to the Thorsagers for what had happened to Othello. He wondered what demon Atilla had before, and if he still had it in his roster.

‘We should follow their example,’ Seraph called, distracting Fletcher from his thoughts. ‘We’re heading off in a minute, with or without you.’

Sacharissa was already nosing the ground, eager to lead her team in the direction of the river. She whined as Fletcher hesitated, indicating that Arcturus wanted them to stay together.

It did not take long for Fletcher’s team to get ready, the biggest delay being Cress, who did not take kindly to being woken at such an early hour.

‘Can’t you get Solomon to carry me, Othello?’ Cress groaned, heaving her heavy satchel on to her shoulders.

‘Carry you? Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ Fletcher laughed.

‘Actually, Fletcher, he probably could,’ Othello said, flushing with pride.

He pulled a roll of leather from the side pocket of his satchel and laid it on the ground. Then, with a touch of his fingers, the Golem materialised in a flash of violet light.

Solomon had grown. He was as tall as Othello himself now, but wider and thicker-limbed. As soon as he caught sight of Fletcher, the craggy face split into a smile. The Golem surged forward with his arms open wide, and Fletcher had to skip back to avoid the bone-crushing hug.

‘Solomon, no!’ Othello remonstrated, then rolled his eyes as the demon hung his head in shame. ‘He doesn’t know his own strength yet.’

‘So much has changed in a year. He’ll be my height soon enough,’ Fletcher marvelled.

‘Aye, that he will. But let’s not hang about, they’re off.’ Othello nodded at the forest behind Fletcher, where Seraph’s team was already on its way out of the swamp and into the thicker jungle.

‘We’ll look like the lazy ones if we’re not careful,’ Sylva said, tugging Othello forward.

She nodded at Lysander, who was tactfully looking up at the sky. ‘Remember, the world is watching. This is more than just a mission.’

Othello and Sylva hurried after the others, leaving Cress and Fletcher to trail behind them. Lysander walked sedately at their side, somehow managing to avoid the tangled undergrowth with feline grace. In contrast, Athena leaped from tree branch to tree branch above, showering Fletcher with leaves and dislodged insects. He did not mind, for he could sense the demon was missing the ether. After all, she had spent the past seventeen years there.

Fletcher’s thoughts turned to his parents. He had spent so many years searching faces in Pelt, wondering what they looked like. Now, after Athena’s vivid dream, he knew. He had his father’s thick black hair, and the man’s hazel eyes were just like his own. But he had the same pale skin and straight-edged nose as his mother.