The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(72)
Bloody froth bubbled from the orc’s mouth as it bellowed in triumph, lifeblood pumping from around the blade in its chest in dark gouts. It raised the macana, chuckling throatily as it lifted Fletcher’s chin with the flat of the club. The obsidian shards on the tip dug into the soft flesh of his throat as the orc leaned forward, almost gently. His would not be a slow death.
Ignatius barrelled out of the undergrowth, a sweeping tidal wave of flame heralding his arrival as he landed on the orc’s head. His tail struck like a scorpion’s, stabbing madly at the orc’s eyes, nose and mouth, while the flames flowed over its face in great pulsing waves. Fletcher tugged himself free, ripping the coat from the thorns’ embrace after a few moment’s struggle. It was just in time, for the orc chopped blindly at him, even managing to slice a button from Fletcher’s sleeve. Then it was finished, the orc falling to its knees and keeling over, the last spurts of blood from its chest turning into a trickle.
Ignatius sprung into Fletcher’s arms, mewling with sympathy and licking at the wounds in his throat. They stood like that for a while, basking in the glory of being alive. Fletcher’s neck stung as Ignatius lapped his tongue along the wounds, but soon the feeling was strangely soothing. He ran his fingers along his neck tentatively, only to find the wounds had gone.
‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed. He held Ignatius up to his face and the demon yapped happily, licking the tip of Fletcher’s nose.
‘You must have a healing symbol hidden in that tongue somewhere,’ Fletcher laughed, rubbing Ignatius’s head affectionately. ‘Even after all this time, you still manage to surprise me. Best not tell Jeffrey though, he’ll have that tongue out and on his operating table if we’re not careful.’
Ignatius wriggled in his grip and Fletcher set the Salamander on the ground. As he did so, he saw the orc’s face and winced. It had been burned away, leaving only a blackened skull beneath, while the leathery grey skin of its belly and legs was covered with blood. Red and yellow whorls and stripes of war-paint adorned its chest and what was left of its cheeks. Without it, the orc would be practically naked, were it not for the rough-spun skirt that protected its modesty.
Fletcher’s khopesh was stuck fast in the orc’s flesh. He grimaced at the grisly sight and bent to tug it out.
A crossbow bolt hissed over his head like a striking snake, thudding into a tree behind him. Fletcher fell to the ground and pulled the orc’s corpse on its side as a shield. Another bolt thrummed towards Fletcher a moment later, but it stuck into the orc’s shoulder, the force of it so strong that it broke through, the tip stopping an inch from Fletcher’s face. The accuracy and speed was astounding, that of a trained assassin.
Then, as Fletcher powered up his finger for a counterattack, the ambusher retreated, leaving the crash of broken branches in his wake. The grinning skull of the orc seemed to laugh at Fletcher as he shoved the corpse aside in disgust. He took a moment to catch his breath. If he hadn’t bent to pull out his khopesh from the orc, he would have been skewered through the chest.
He tugged the crossbow bolt from the trunk and held it up to the dim light of the jungle. Blue fletching. Just like Cress’s.
When Fletcher returned to the others, the battle was over. Solomon was busy digging a large grave, his great hands shovelling aside the dirt in a small clearing. It was good thinking; a pile of corpses would bring forth all sorts of carrion eaters and the clouds of vultures above would attract too much attention. Jeffrey was further up the trail, examining a goblin corpse and writing notes in a leather-bound journal. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, resulting in an uneven scrawl.
Othello had just healed Lysander, the last traces of white light dissolving from the bloodied feathers along the Griffin’s side. Cress was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where are Isadora’s team?’ Fletcher shouted, brandishing the bolts.
Sylva looked up from where she kneeled, in the middle of healing Sariel’s wounds.
‘They ran off,’ Sylva said, her voice dull with exhaustion. ‘Didn’t even thank us for our help.’
‘One of them tried to kill me,’ Fletcher announced, holding up the blue-fletched crossbow bolt. ‘With these.’
‘Aren’t those Cress’s?’
‘I don’t think she lost them after all. I think they stole them.’
‘You’re joking,’ Othello growled, unrolling his summoning leather for Solomon to stand on. He infused the demon in a burst of white light, for the poor Golem was staggering with exhaustion.
‘I wish I was,’ Fletcher said. He paused, realising the implications. The attackers could have used a spell, or an arrow of their own. Instead, they had chosen ammunition that only Cress could have used. They wanted to frame her for the attack.
Othello had clearly been thinking along the same lines.
‘If we had come across your body with that stuck in you, the whole of Hominum would think Cress had killed you,’ the dwarf said, snatching the offending projectile from Fletcher’s hand. ‘They might even think Cress was working with the Anvils.’
‘I don’t know …’ Sylva said, examining the bolt. ‘We’re jumping to conclusions. We barely know her. Maybe she is working for the Anvils.’
‘Yeah, and I’m a goblin in disguise,’ Othello scoffed. ‘If she was a traitor, I’d know about it. The dwarven community is a small one; there are barely a few thousand of us left. I know who the troublemakers are.’