The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(73)

Fletcher looked around.

‘Speaking of Cress, where is she?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Right here,’ came a voice from behind him.

Cress emerged from the jungle, Tosk perched on her shoulder. Her face was drenched with sweat and her crossbow hung limply in her hand.

‘I see you caught the orc,’ she said. ‘Well done. I tried to catch up with you but got los—’ She stopped as she caught the stunned expressions from the others.

‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, catching sight of the quarrel clutched in Othello’s fist.

‘You tell me,’ Sylva said, standing up and narrowing her eyes at the dwarf. ‘Someone just tried to kill Fletcher with it.’

Cress remained silent, her eyes still fixed on the bolt. Sylva motioned with her chin at the jungle behind the dwarf.

‘In there.’

‘I … I lost them,’ Cress stammered, looking over her shoulder. ‘Whoever it was must have taken them from my quiver back at camp, like I said earlier.’

‘That’s a convenient story,’ Sylva said, crossing her arms and studying Cress’s face.

‘Your arrows are missing too,’ Cress countered.

Something stung Fletcher’s neck and he slapped at it irritably.

‘It was Isadora’s team, I know it,’ he said, putting an arm around Cress’s shoulders. He suddenly felt very weak, and it was a relief to lean against her. ‘This is exactly what they want, for us to turn on each other. Now we know why they were following us.’

Sylva glared at him, then jumped up and slapped at her thigh.

‘Damned insects,’ she snarled, plucking something from her leg. But what she held between her fingers was not an insect at all. It was a tiny dart.

The projectile swam in Fletcher’s vision and suddenly he was on his knees. The ground rushed up to meet him.





32


Their prison was made of sturdy, interwoven branches – more a spherical basket than a cage. It swung pendulously from a bough above, lurching from side to side as the wind tugged it back and forth.

‘We are finished,’ Jeffrey whispered, peering through the gaps in the branches.

They had woken there an hour ago, their clothes covered in soil from being dragged through the woods.

All thoughts of escape had already left them, after their first attempt. Othello had forced his arm through the branches, attempting to rip a hole for them to climb through. A few moments later and he was snoring loudly, another dart in his hand.

Of course, there was always the option of a shield, but their mana reserves had been depleted by the battle and their weapons had been taken from them. Not to mention the fact that they would be falling a good distance to the ground if they did blast the cage apart.

‘What do you see?’ Fletcher asked. He was pressed uncomfortably between Sariel and Lysander, their heavy bodies crushing him. Athena had settled on Lysander’s neck, her tail curling lazily over his beak. Of all of them, she seemed to be the calmest, taking the opportunity to nap.

‘Still gremlins. No sign of orcs yet,’ Jeffrey murmured.

Fletcher twisted his body and squinted through the hole Othello had made.

They were suspended above a wide clearing in the deep jungle, the surrounding vegetation so thick it might take all day to cut through it. Deep burrows, not unlike enlarged foxholes, were cut into the earth all around. Gremlins patrolled the borders, carrying long blowpipes almost twice the length of their bodies.

‘They look like miniature goblins,’ Cress said, squeezing in beside him. ‘Longer noses and ears though.’

Fletcher grunted in agreement, barely listening. He was confused by these armed gremlins. Everything he had learned about them had told him that they were little more than slaves, cowering creatures that were obedient to a fault. But these ones seemed far more hostile and he could see many of them pointing at the cage, deep in discussion.

‘Mind if I have a better look?’ Cress said, wriggling closer. In the darkness, Sylva coughed loudly.

Cress placed her eye against the hole, and Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder how Sylva could possible think the dwarf was capable of trying to kill him. There was no way.

A cry like an eagle’s call rang out from below. The gremlins ceased their patrolling, and then, in unison, the blowpipes were aimed towards the cage.

‘Oh … balls,’ Cress whispered.

Darts peppered the cage, many bouncing off, only to be plucked from the ground and used again. It was not long before most of the team had been struck. Fletcher had just enough time to examine a dart before he succumbed to the poison. It was fletched with tiny yellow feathers, like that of a budgerigar, while the tip was a sharp thorn cut from a tree.

This time, he did not feel consciousness slip from him. Instead, a cold numbness spread from his thigh, where the dart had struck. It felt much like when Rubens had stung him in the cell, but the effect was less powerful. He could still move his hands and legs, albeit slowly. Another few doses would probably have left him completely paralysed, but the bodies of Lysander and Sariel had protected him from the brunt of them. He might even be capable of a spell, if he could raise his hand in time. Then again, it would do little to help the situation.

Ignatius had used a great deal of mana when burning the orc, but he found that Athena’s reserves, though smaller, had barely been touched. Fletcher’s mana levels had virtually doubled the moment he had summoned her. Enough for a strong shield that might keep them alive a little longer, if the gremlins chose to kill them.