The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(70)
‘No. Why are we here?’ Fletcher asked again.
They stared at him silently, as if confused by the question.
‘Our team is supposed to be a shining example to the world of cooperation between the races,’ Fletcher said. ‘We are to prove that dwarves and elves are worthy of humanity’s respect. Now I want them dead as much as you; I’d kill them myself if I had a chance. But how will it look if we abandon Isadora’s team, leaving them to be slaughtered?’
Othello and Sylva avoided his eyes, but they knew he spoke the truth.
‘They’re hunting us,’ Sylva whispered. ‘This is our chance.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Cress replied stubbornly. ‘They could just have changed their minds about their route.’
‘If they’re killed, that’s one team fewer to join the raid. Even if they manage to escape, the orcs will raise the alarm,’ Othello grudgingly admitted, lending Fletcher his support.
‘But it’s Didric, Tarquin, Isadora, even Grindle! They’ve all tried to kill every one of us. You’re naive, Cress – the world would be a better place without them,’ Sylva snarled, and Fletcher couldn’t fault her words. Was he really going to save the people who had plotted his execution? He hesitated, but then Cress spoke again.
‘What about Atlas? Does he deserve death just because we don’t like the company he keeps?’ she asked quietly. ‘If we let them die, we would be no better than they are, putting our own ends before the safety of Hominum.’
Sylva exhaled with frustration, then turned back the way they had come, unslinging her bow as she did so.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ she growled.
31
They shadowed the orc patrol for half an hour, using Athena’s vision to make sure they stayed just out of sight. Fortunately, the riders were upwind of them, so the snuffling hyenas could not smell their approach.
‘Wait,’ Fletcher hissed, holding up his fist. ‘They’ve stopped.’
From her vantage point above, Athena could see that the trio of rhinos at the front had come to a halt. Just ahead, the hyenas were yipping with a high-pitched cackle at the trees around them.
‘No guns,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘Bows only. Loose on my signal.’
They took up positions on either side of the trail, keeping to the bushes. It had been a long time since Fletcher had used his bow, but as soon as it was in his grip it all came back, the string gliding easily along his fingers as he nocked a blue-fletched arrow to it. Beside him, Cress grunted as she wound her crossbow, the metal lever on the side slipping in her sweaty fingers.
‘Jeffrey, stay back and cover our rear,’ Fletcher ordered, lining up his shot. ‘If another patrol comes I want to know about it.’
He did not pull back just yet, for he knew that he shot better in a single, fluid motion. Instead, he concentrated on the orcs, as the first dismounted and peered into the forest.
A fireball took the orc in the chest, blasting him into the jungle. More sizzled through the air like meteorites, throwing the column into disarray. Isadora’s team had prepared an ambush.
‘Now!’ Fletcher shouted, as the goblins at the back turned to flee. Two arrows and a bolt thrummed into the heaving creatures, plucking them from their mounts with deadly accuracy.
‘Again,’ Fletcher growled, and another volley followed the first, thumping into cassowary and goblin alike. At the head of the column, the Wendigo burst through the trees, slashing left and right at the two remaining orcs, while fireballs, lightning and kinetic blasts buzzed inaccurately through the air.
Miraculously, a goblin made it past their barrage of arrows, his cassowary hurtling them down the trail, away from the battle. Fletcher shouted a warning.
‘Don’t let him get aw—’ A hurlbat axe whirled through the air and took the cassowary’s right leg off, sending it head over heels. Then Othello erupted from the undergrowth, dispatching goblin and bird with two chops of his battle-axe.
Dozens of goblins shrieked with fury, and thundered towards the exposed dwarf. But a screech from above gave them pause. Lysander hurled himself out of the branches, bowling through the cassowary-riders in a whirlwind of wings and talons. But even as the goblins fell to the ground, the birds kicked and jabbed their beaks, and the Griffin roared with pain.
‘Close in!’ Fletcher ordered, and then he was running, khopesh drawn, heart pounding as hard as his feet did against the ground.
The first goblin swung his club, still dazed from being knocked off his mount. Fletcher parried and reposted, taking the goblin through the sternum and blasting it from the blade with a shot of kinetic energy. Cress’s torq knocked another goblin to the ground, while Sylva decapitated a flailing cassowary with a sweep of her falx. Othello’s hurlbat axes peppered the massed goblins from over Fletcher’s shoulders, thrumming dangerously close to his ears.
It gave Lysander enough time to throw himself back into the air, sprinkling the ground below with droplets of blood. There was no time to assess the Griffin’s injuries, for as the first row of goblins went down, another took its place, lunging at the trio with howls of anger.
‘Back,’ Fletcher gasped, as a club struck his left elbow, leaving his tattooed hand to hang limply by his side. Othello stepped in beside Sylva to protect the right of the trail, while Cress and Fletcher held the left.