The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(92)

‘Organic material for pentacles,’ Sylva said, crouching down and examining it as more blood trickled out of the pipes to pool within the lines of the pentacle. ‘Just like our summoning leathers and Fletcher’s palm. There must be a pipe coming from the bottom of the altar.’

‘You don’t say,’ Othello said sarcastically, splashing his cheeks with water from his hip-flask. Fletcher couldn’t help but chuckle at the miserable dwarf.

The room felt different now: they had discovered so much, yet it had left many unanswered questions.

‘So what was that, some induction ceremony for orc novices?’ Sylva said, pacing around the pentacle. ‘Their first taste of the ether, perhaps?’

‘Probably,’ Othello sighed. ‘Well, now we know how the goblin eggs are made.’

‘Yes, some horrific spell that makes the orc blood mix with the gremlin eggs,’ Fletcher grunted.

He used his toe to test the first step into the pit, dizzied as he looked at the spiral around the platform’s pillar.

‘Speaking of which … let’s go and have a look at what we’re dealing with.’

The step felt firm enough, so he continued until his head was level with the platform.

‘Shouldn’t we be looking for the others before going down there?’ Othello suggested, eyeing the stairway with trepidation.

‘If there’s an entrance to the goblin caves, this is it. The others’ll be along soon enough, their sponsors will have seen that the coast is clear from Lysander’s scrying crystal, and will guide them to us with their demons.’

Fletcher trudged on, running his fingers along the coarse stone as if it might give him some purchase against the long drop to the ground below. The walls seemed to press in, and he was reminded of the stairwell Didric had taken him up on their way to the courthouse. Dread pervaded his skin, prickling him with cold sweat. They were vulnerable on the stairs, with nowhere to hide if an enemy appeared below … or above.

Only the comfort of Ignatius’s warm skin against the back of his neck strengthened his resolve, even as he descended deeper into the belly of the beast.

The trench around the bottom of the stairs was filled with eggs, as well as a slick coating of the clotted blood. Fletcher had no choice but to wade through them, groaning with disgust. His breeches were coated with the stuff by the time he clambered out on to the soil of the other side.

Sylva and Othello had the good sense to leap from the stairs above, their feet barely splashing the bank of the moat-like trench. Lysander glided down without any trouble, and Fletcher realised he could easily have hitched a ride. This time it was Othello’s turn to chuckle as Fletcher wiped away the foul jelly with the back of his sword.

‘It looks like they add a few hundred new eggs to their reserve every time they have the ceremony,’ Sylva said. ‘I wonder why we’re only encountering these goblins this year. They must have been secretly building an army.’

She removed her falx and speared the nearest egg through the middle. A gush of opaque fluid spilled from within, and the green ovum deflated to a withered sack. The stench was foul, like a putrid sewer.

‘Thanks for that,’ Othello said, giving the empty egg-sack a wide berth. ‘Now we have to wait here with that stink in the air.’

Sylva rolled her eyes.

‘Well how was I supposed to—’

A crossbow bolt thudded through Fletcher’s shoulder. He stared at it, the blue fletching protruding from him like some strange new appendage. Another took him in the thigh, and he fell to one knee. There was no pain, only the dull numbness of shock as his arm hung uselessly by his side. The khopesh slipped from his fingers.

Sylva roared and fired a bolt of lightning at the platform above, where the attack had come from. It shattered against the roof of the pyramid in a puff of dust and masonry.

Othello was already on Lysander’s back, the Griffin powering them upwards with berserk thrusts from his wings. The echo of fading footsteps told Fletcher it was useless. The assassin was already gone.

‘No, no no,’ Sylva whispered, catching Fletcher in her arms as he fell back.

The pain came then. It felt as if he were being torn apart. The downward trajectory of the first bolt had taken it through his back and into his upper chest. It hurt to breathe.

‘Take it out,’ Fletcher croaked. He could taste metallic blood on his lips and knew he had been lung-shot. ‘We need to heal …’

He gasped as Sylva snapped the steel tip from the shaft between her fingers and drew out the bolt in one fluid motion. Then he choked as his lung began to fill with blood.

The procedure was repeated on his thigh, with Sylva first pushing the shaft further through so she could grip the steel tip.

As Fletcher gurgled, Sylva etched the healing spell in the air, the white threads of light flickering around his wounds. Ignatius joined the effort, his tongue lapping at the wound as he desperately tried to staunch the flow of blood.

It was slow, too slow, and Fletcher’s thigh was gushing crimson into the earth. His artery had been hit.

He watched it all in grim silence. He didn’t want to die in this fetid pit, with the whole world watching. He would be a failure, and a symbol of the disunity of Hominum. A martyr to everything he hated.

Then he remembered. Electra’s potions, strapped to his chest.

Unable to speak, Fletcher tugged one from its slot and popped the cork with a flick of his thumb. He gulped it down, the taste as metallic as the blood that stained his teeth. For a moment he felt nothing but the life draining from his body. Then …