The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(66)
Before Fletcher could pry further, there was a cry of excitement from ahead of them, and the group came to a halt. The jungle had opened up, and from the sound of rushing water, Fletcher could tell why.
The waters from the swamp and a dozen other streams beyond had come together into a network of inlets that poured out over a waterfall. Far below, water crashed and exploded in a haze of white mist that extended for miles around, until a great, snaking river emerged in the distance, carving its way through twin valleys on either side. At the very edge of their site, a triangular hump of dull yellow revealed their destination. The pyramid.
‘So how are we going to get down?’ Othello wondered aloud.
There was a steep climb to the ground on either side of the fall, but Fletcher was glad that he did not have to cross the river at this point, for the streams that fed the waterfall were numerous, with thin patches of soggy land between them.
‘I guess Malik’s and Isadora’s teams have already crossed,’ Seraph said with a hint of disappointment. ‘I’d have liked to watch them wade through that mess.’
‘Well, let’s hope our crossing is as easy as theirs,’ Fletcher replied.
They surveyed the land before them and it was soon clear that there were two ways down. One was a rocky path beside the waterfall itself, while the other was a thin forest trail that curved towards a hilly region to the east.
‘Well,’ Fletcher announced, slapping Seraph on the back. ‘This is where we leave you.’
29
Fletcher shielded his eyes, gazing at the setting sun as its last light filtered through the tangled branches. He was glad they had chosen to make camp before it grew dark, for the moon was barely more than a slit in the sky and wyrdlights would attract too much attention.
Dusk’s arrival was heralded by the gruff bellows of howler monkeys, echoing through the forest in the canopy above. The team settled down for their first night alone in enemy territory, choosing a clearing a safe distance from the forest trail.
As Ignatius scampered on to his neck and began to doze, Fletcher reflected on their journey so far. The natural trail had diverged towards the river on several occasions, but they made sure to head uphill, curving away from the water. Despite the incline, they had made good progress, and Fletcher felt confident they would reach their rendezvous at the pyramid in two days’ time.
Sariel and Lysander had acted as rearguard the entire day’s journey, watching for an ambush. Athena worked the canopy, occasionally fluttering above the treeline so Fletcher could make sure they were on course, using his scrying crystal. Meanwhile, Ignatius and Tosk protected their flanks, slipping through the thicker undergrowth with barely more than a rustle. It was Solomon who was left out, for he was too slow and clumsy. Instead, he became their pack mule, carrying their supplies on his stony shoulders when the weight became too much for them.
‘Now that it’s just the four of us summoners, it feels more real,’ Sylva said, prodding their unlit campfire with a stick. ‘I felt like we could take on an army when we were all together. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘I don’t know,’ Fletcher said, tugging Ignatius from his neck. ‘I think we’re a pretty formidable team. We have two Tournament winners, and two runners up. If we encounter an orc patrol, I reckon we could take them.’
Ignatius mewled with annoyance at being woken and, after some mental cajoling, reluctantly spat a ball of fire at the pile of wood.
‘It’s not beating them that I’m worried about,’ Sylva said, shielding her face as the sticks burst into flames. ‘It’s one of them getting away during the battle that scares me. If they raise the alarm, then the mission is over.’
‘Well, Sariel and Lysander can chase them down,’ Othello said, groaning as he removed his boots and socks. ‘Because this great lump isn’t going to be catching anyone any time soon.’
He rubbed Solomon affectionately on the head, and the demon rumbled with happiness. Just as he had back in the shed outside of Corcillum, the Golem dutifully held Othello’s socks up to the flames. For the first time in what seemed like years, Fletcher felt contented.
‘So how’s everybody feeling?’ he asked, opening his pack and removing a wrap of dried venison. He spitted a piece on to a nearby twig and held it to the flames.
‘About as good as I smell.’ Othello grimaced. ‘Which isn’t great. This heat doesn’t agree with me, or you lot for that matter.’
‘You can say that again,’ Cress laughed, holding her nose. ‘The orcs can probably smell us from miles around.’
She rummaged around her pack for her own food, then paused.
‘Hey! I’m missing some bolts from my crossbow.’
Cress frowned and showed them the quiver strapped to her satchel. It was no longer full, leaving the quarrels to rattle loosely within.
‘Same here,’ Sylva said, brandishing her own quiver. The fletching on her arrows, as well as Fletcher’s and Cress’s bolts, had been dyed blue, the team’s colour. They were beautifully made and the points were slimmer and sharper than Fletcher’s own, better than even his best efforts when he had fletched his own arrows in Pelt.
‘Maybe they fell out?’ Fletcher suggested.
He ran his fingers over his own quiver, but all the arrows seemed to be there.