The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(74)

Fletcher felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, then there was a bone shaking thud as the cage hit the ground. The group groaned with pain, their bodies thrown into each other. Bony hands gripped the branches, while saw-toothed knives hewed them apart. They were made from what looked like shark teeth embedded in wooden daggers, not unlike the macanas the orcs used.

It took but a moment for the cage to split in two like a cracked egg, leaving the occupants blinking in the new light.

Frog-like eyes peered at them from above blowpipes, the hollow ends as threatening as gun barrels. There was arguing behind the crowd, the same clicking language that Fletcher had heard from Blue in the fighting pit. Fletcher raised his hands slowly, then cursed himself under his breath. Now they knew he wasn’t paralysed.

‘Stilnow, stilnow,’ the nearest one chirred, kicking Fletcher in his chest with a webbed foot. It did not hurt, but he barely allowed himself to breathe. It was then that he realised that Ignatius had not been struck at all, his lithe body slotting easily between Fletcher and Cress. Was it time to make a move?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a gremlin pushed its way through the crowd. He was somewhat larger than the others, with half an ear missing and a look of suspicion in his eyes.

‘Waiyooheer?’ he fluted, kneeling down and pressing a dagger of his own to the raw skin on Fletcher’s neck. His voice, much like that of the other gremlin, reminded Fletcher of the way a bird might sound, if it could speak.

‘We kill orcs,’ Fletcher gasped, the cruel teeth digging into his throat. It was hard to speak, his tongue slow with the paralytic poison.

‘Human keel gremlin,’ Half-ear whispered, to the chittering agreement of the others around him. ‘Human keel gremlin moar than orc.’

In that moment, Fletcher realised it was true. When the military raided the jungles, the gremlins were often all they found. The poor creatures were slaughtered with impunity by the frustrated soldiers, eager to get a kill under their belts.

‘I saved a gremlin,’ Fletcher gulped, as the pressure of the knife increased. ‘I saved the blue gremlin.’

At these words there was a hush. That was when Ignatius chose to act, vaulting out of the paralysed bodies of the others and tumbling Half-ear into the grass. His tailspike hovered over the gremlin’s eye and then he barked, daring the gremlins to make a move.

Fletcher eased himself into a sitting position, using the hump of Lysander’s back as a prop. The clever Griffin had its eyes closed, or perhaps Captain Lovett was in control. If they were about to die, she wouldn’t want the world to watch.

There was a commotion from the gremlins that crowded around them, somewhere at the back. One of them was shoving his way through, until he stood above Ignatius, his skinny chest heaving with exertion.

This gremlin was limping ever so slightly and he held a barbed harpoon in his hand, but that was not what marked him out from the others. No, it was the colour that still dyed the gremlin’s back and shoulders – fading, but still very much there.

It was Blue.





33


Blue did not say a word to them. Instead, he knelt beside Half-ear and whispered in the larger gremlin’s remaining lug. They bickered back and forth for a while, yet Ignatius never wavered once, his eyes flicking between the gremlins surrounding them.

After what felt like an age, Half-ear appeared to admit defeat. He sighed deeply and snapped some orders at the surrounding warriors. They paused as if confused, until slowly but surely they lowered their blowpipes.

In response, Fletcher directed Ignatius to get off Half-ear’s chest, but to keep the tail poised above. They were still very much at the gremlins’ mercy and he did not want to give up the last card he had left to play just yet.

‘Thank you,’ Fletcher said, bowing his head to Blue.

Again Blue ignored them, pushing his way out of the crowd and into the jungle. Strangely, the other gremlins did the same, disappearing into the burrows. Only Half-ear remained, staring at them with hatred in his eyes.

Sweat trickled down Fletcher’s back as he waited, trying to ignore the gremlin’s gaze. He noticed the sun was near setting and wondered how long they had been unconscious. If it had been a few hours, it mattered less. But if they had been unconscious for more than a day, they might miss their rendezvous with the other teams.

‘So … what do we do now?’ Sylva mumbled from behind him, recovering first from the darts.

She shuffled closer and laid her head on his shoulder, though whether it was the paralysis, exhaustion or something more, he couldn’t tell. It mattered little to him why. He had not been so close to another person in a long time, and it felt right.

‘Nothing,’ Fletcher whispered.

He laid his own head on hers and they sat there, watching the setting sun filter through the leaves above. Despite their situation, his pounding heart stilled. Only Half-ear’s unwavering gaze tarnished a perfect moment.

‘You’re bleeding,’ Sylva said suddenly.

She lifted her head, and Fletcher saw a red stain on her temple.

‘Your cheek,’ she murmured, gently touching it with her fingers.

It was where the goblin spear had nicked him. The wound was deep, but somehow it did not hurt. A side-effect of the paralysis, perhaps.

‘Let me,’ she said, tracing a heart symbol on his face. It tingled strangely, as her mana merged with his skin. Then the cool, soothing pulse of healing energy began to seal his wound.