The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(99)

It was when he was halfway across that he saw it. Mason. Taking careful aim with his crossbow, the point firmly centred at Fletcher’s head.

Fletcher stopped, dead in his tracks. He whipped up his hand to make a shield, but nothing came out. His blood chilled as realisation dawned on him – there was no mana left. Ignatius had taken it all.

Mason squinted down the stock of the crossbow, his tongue poking out between his lips. Fletcher could do nothing but stand there, waiting for the end. He would not jeopardise the mission by leaping aside, even if it meant his own death. How stupid he had been, to trust the boy. Once a Forsyth Fury, always a Forsyth Fury.

The dull thrum of the release hit his ears as the bolt whipped by him. Behind him, a thud and a squeal.

Fletcher turned in time to see a goblin collapse to the ground, the quarrel skewered through its neck. It spasmed and flapped at its throat, but the only sounds it made were quiet gurgles.

‘Get on with it,’ Mason hissed, waving him on. ‘Before another one wakes up!’





46


They reached the main cavern to the sounds of arguing. To Fletcher’s shock, Didric was standing over the tangle-haired slave, the tip of his blade drawing blood as it pressed against the boy’s heaving chest, the injured gremlin still clutched in his arms. The other teams stopped their destruction of the eggs to watch. Only half the room had been cleared.

‘There’s no room for you,’ Didric snarled.

His spider-like Arach scuttled between his legs, its cluster of eyes turning to Fletcher as he ran to the scene.

The Arach had bound the boy’s ankles with glowing gossamer, the white threads unspooling from a hole beneath its fearsome stinger. Fletcher wasted no time in slicing through them with his khopesh.

‘What are you doing?’ Fletcher demanded of Didric, pulling the slave upright. ‘They’re on our side!’

The gremlin in the slave’s arms chittered nervously, and the boy jiggled it as if he were silencing a baby.

‘You’ve done it now, Fletcher, you complete idiot,’ Didric exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘There are a dozen slaves here. How do you expect the Celestial Corps to fly all of us out now?’

Fletcher’s heart sank as understanding dawned on him. Didric could be right. The rescue party would be well on its way by now, and there would be no time for reinforcements.

Didric shoved the slave to the opposite tunnel, where Rufus was still cradling his mother. The others followed, cringing away as Didric aimed a kick at them.

‘There will be enough demons to carry them,’ Fletcher said, more hopeful than certain.

‘There will be three to a demon, if you’re wrong,’ Didric growled. ‘How are they supposed to outrun the Wyverns with all that weight on their backs? I can tell you now, I won’t be taking one of them on my ride.’

‘We’ll deal with that later, Didric,’ Malik ordered from across the room. ‘They land in five minutes. Get back to work.’

‘I’ll get back to work when I’m good and—’ Didric began, but stopped as his eye caught sight of something near to the entrance.

Fletcher turned to see a grey torso squirming out of an egg, clawing apart the translucent sack that coated it. Beside it, another egg fell on its side, then a grey fist punched through its outer layer and scrabbled at the ground.

The newborn goblin’s eyes turned to them, pale globes that swivelled back and forth. It opened its mouth and gave an ear-splitting shriek, the cry echoing around the cave and down the tunnel. Cress put an arrow through its skull.

More eggs began to shake and split, hundreds of them, scattered around the ground they stood on. An answering call came echoing down the tunnel – a tumult of screeches that set Fletcher’s teeth on edge. The slumbering goblins had woken.

‘Burn them. Burn them all!’ Othello bellowed. He unleashed a whirlwind of flame that billowed through the nearest pile of eggs. It tore through them like rice paper, shrivelling and charring them until they were no more than withered black sacks. The rest of the team followed suit. Lightning bolts crackled throughout the cavern, eggs exploding left and right, splattering the air with their mangled contents.

‘Sylva, your vial – I’m out of mana!’ Fletcher yelled, as the first goblin charged out of the tunnel, brandishing a war club. Sylva hurled the vial from across the room and Fletcher caught it by the tips of his fingers. In the same moment, he parried the goblin’s flailing club.

Athena swooped in and buried her claws in the goblin’s head. It spun away, squealing, giving Fletcher time to gulp down the bottle. It tasted sickly sweet, like honeyed lavender water.

The mana spilled from his core like a tide of white light, roiling through his veins and down his connection to Athena and Ignatius. Supercharged, Fletcher blasted a ball of fire through the goblin’s chest.

Almost immediately, the pulses of mana began to drain from Ignatius, but Fletcher had had enough of the disobedient Salamander.

‘That’s it! You’re getting out of there.’ He whipped a kinetic lasso into the lake and tugged the demon out, sending him tumbling through the air to land steaming at his feet.

Ignatius shook his head, as if to dislodge an unwanted thought. The demon seemed larger somehow, but there was no time for a thorough examination. More goblins erupted from the tunnel, screeching their war cries, and the bass roar of orcs echoed behind them.