“Dead,” Fletcher replied, his mind racing. “And she took many of your demons with her.”
It made sense too: that Fletcher was alone and had no mana to create a shield of his own.
“The Canid, yes?” Khan mused. “A shame, I was hoping…”
He paused, then asked.
“Which of you has the Salamander? Is it your friend?”
He motioned in the direction that Sylva had flown. His question was casual, but he was watching Fletcher too closely.
It was all Fletcher could do not to flick his eyes to the pool of lava. Ignatius was still pulsing with mana. It was hard to think, for the demon’s consciousness was growing so large that Fletcher thought his mind would burst.
“Well?” Khan asked.
Fletcher didn’t answer, simply meeting Khan’s gaze as confidently as he could.
“No matter, I shall find it soon enough,” the orc declared.
“Why do you care? You want another of them?” Fletcher asked.
This time it was Khan’s turn to look surprised.
“We saw you with it, in the central chamber. We were hidden in the beams above you.”
Khan wrinkled his nose with irritation.
“Salamanders are my property, by birthright,” Khan growled. “It is written on the walls of our temple.”
Fletcher eyed the crack. Another blow might allow Athena to break through fast enough. The hole would be sufficient for him to shoot Blaze through. He kept the pistol still by his side and went back on the offensive.
“I have seen these carvings,” Fletcher said, layering his voice with disdain. “From what I saw, a Salamander could belong to a freak like you or a human. Not that there’s anything special about Salamanders anyway. Powerful for a level-five demon, but a Wyvern would eat one for breakfast. Or a Canid for that matter.”
“Do not speak of things you do not understand,” Khan snarled. “It is not what a Salamander is, it is what it can become.”
“You’re talking out of your arse,” Fletcher said, shrugging. “The heathen beliefs of savages.”
Khan bellowed with anger.
“Do you know what a Drake is, boy? Or a Dragon?” Khan asked, his eyes wild. “A human might be allowed to dream of controlling a Drake, the first stage in a Salamander’s metamorphosis. But the next—a Dragon. No, only one of my kind, a ‘freak’ with my summoning level could do that. This is why the prophecy foretells a Salamander as the key to victory. And now I will take them both.”
Khan was babbling, the mask gone to leave only raw insanity behind his red eyes.
“I was born to destroy your kind. We will burn your cities to the ground and salt the earth behind us. Blood will run in the streets. None shall be spared, not the infants nor the elders. We will leave Hominum a wasteland. In a hundred years, nobody will remember your race even existed.”
Fletcher ignored him. Drakes? Dragons? He had never heard those words before. They were probably the orc’s ancient gods, or some such rubbish.
It was so hard to think. Ignatius’s consciousness was huge, as if the heat of the volcano had inflated the demon’s presence. Thankfully, it had stopped growing, having filled the constraints of Fletcher’s mind. Together, they had reached some milestone, but there was another one that Fletcher could feel Ignatius desiring, far beyond what he had already achieved. Fletcher felt like his mind would shatter if they continued on.
Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that he killed Khan. Perhaps if he tried to take mana from Ignatius again, or weakened the crack with his two shots from Gale first …
As Fletcher tried to grasp his connection with Ignatius, Khan stood and sighed, his angry tirade seeming to have exhausted him. Then he grinned slyly as Fletcher’s hand strayed to his holstered pistol.
“Perhaps you would like me to widen that crack for you, Fletcher,” the orc said.
Fletcher’s eyes flicked guiltily away from the shield’s fissure, and Khan’s smile broadened. A stream of white light flowed from his long fingers, spreading another layer over the shield, until the surface was clouded white with the thickness of the sphere.
Fletcher watched Khan lift his curled fingers and slowly clench his fist. To Fletcher’s horror, the shield began to shrink, constricting and thickening as the white walls moved closer and closer. He smashed Blaze against the side, but it was as much use as punching a brick wall.
Then, something stirred in the recesses of Fletcher’s mind. Ignatius had sensed Fletcher’s panic—Athena’s consciousness seemed to be screaming, pulsing signals down her own connection with the Salamander. Ignatius was coming.
“Wait!” Fletcher shouted, pounding the slippery shield with his fists. “I’ll tell you who owns the Salamander.”
The shield stopped, though Fletcher had to hunch to stop his head from scraping the top. He could sense Ignatius swimming toward the surface, powering through the lava with furious abandon. The demon would be on them in seconds.
“Tell me,” Khan growled, his baleful eyes shining ruby-red through the opaque surface. “And I’ll make your death a quick one.”
Fletcher leaned in close until his face was inches from the orc’s own.
“Me,” Fletcher whispered.
Ignatius breached the lava in a burst of molten orange. Fletcher saw a flash of burgundy as the shield was slashed apart, felt a sinuous neck slip under his legs and heave him onto broad shoulders.
He swiveled and fired Blaze, saw the white orc jerked back by the impact of the bullet.
Then he was over the edge of the caldera and falling into empty space.
CHAPTER
16
NO. NOT FALLING. FLYING.
There were wings on either side, gliding through the air, and he could see Ignatius’s amber eyes gazing back at him. But to Fletcher’s amazement, it was an Ignatius he no longer recognized.
The demon had grown to be as large as Lysander. He had the same turtle-like beak, four legs and spiked tail as before, but his neck was longer now and he had grown two short, back-facing horns on his head. Most striking of all were the huge, leathery wings erupting from his shoulders and down his back. He was a Salamander no longer.
In shock, Fletcher turned to see the albino orc standing on the edge of the volcano’s rim, clutching a wounded shoulder as his long hair streamed behind him. Khan bellowed with hatred and raised his arm, waving on the demons that followed. The Wyverns sailed above, their mouths gaping wide with anticipation of the meal to come.
“Get us out of here!” Fletcher yelled, sheathing Blaze and tugging Gale from his holster.
The world tilted as Ignatius angled his wings upward, beating the air to drive them higher into the sky. He was aiming for a bank of clouds above them, an insubstantial haze that might hide them from their pursuers. Far below, the rolling jungles seemed to shrink and merge into a smear of green, ringed by the red band of the deadlands beyond.
But they were slow. Fletcher could sense Ignatius’s exhaustion from the transformation, and the confusion at the changes that the volcano had wrought on his body. He was uncoordinated, unused to navigating the eddies of the wind that buffeted them.
The Wyverns were gaining, slowly but surely. Each was twice as large as Ignatius, with serrated claws and mouths full of fearsome teeth. There were eleven of them, but just one could easily tear them to shreds. Worse still, Fletcher could tell Ignatius was drained of mana—it had all been used up in his transformation. There was no more than a trickle left, barely enough for a weak shield from Fletcher or a single gout of Ignatius’s flame.
Even as that realization hit him, the first fireballs buzzed past, streaking the air with smoking trails. He turned as a javelin whistled above his head, disappearing into the cloud bank. The shamans were crouching on the backs of their Wyverns, balancing precariously while they hurled their spells and projectiles.
He pointed Gale at the nearest pursuer, but his aim was spoiled by the frantic beat of Ignatius’s wings. Then, bef
ore he could fire, they were in the mist, surrounded by a fog of white. Fletcher tentatively grasped his connection with Ignatius. It felt stronger than before. He used it to change Ignatius’s trajectory, to better lose their pursuers in the fog. Soon they were gliding through the white cloud, listening to the whistle of the breeze, the guttural barks of the shamans and the low roars of their Wyverns as they hunted through the mist.
The wind tore at Fletcher’s hair and coated his body with dew, drawing the heat away and leaving his exposed skin prickled with gooseflesh. He pressed himself against Ignatius, whose body was still piping hot from the pool of lava. The closeness helped steady Fletcher’s frazzled nerves, for his heart was hammering within his chest.
It was different from Lysander; Fletcher felt secure in the natural hollow of Ignatius’s back, the cloth of his breeches finding easy purchase against the burgundy skin beneath. He gripped the demon’s neck, reveling in the powerful muscles that flexed beneath. This had to be the Drake demon that Khan had spoken of.
Ignatius stretched his neck, and Fletcher could feel his exhilaration as Ignatius tested the limits of his new body. The demon lashed his tail, cutting a score through the cloud banks. His confusion was fading fast. Now … determination. Purpose.
A shadow loomed beneath them. The rasp of orcish speech, louder this time. More dark forms, above and on either side; murky, but growing larger. The shamans knew they were close. In seconds the Wyverns would be upon them.
So they would do the unthinkable. Fletcher sent his orders, wrapping one arm around Ignatius’s neck and gripping the double-barreled pistol with his free hand. It was time to fight back.
Now.
Ignatius folded his wings, and Fletcher’s stomach somersaulted as they hurtled downward, then there was a bone-juddering thud as Ignatius crashed into the Wyvern beneath. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of whites and greens as the two demons grappled in the air, plummeting out of the clouds. A leathery wing slammed against Fletcher’s face, but Ignatius had caught the Wyvern from behind and the demon could not turn to slash with its claws. Blood sprayed from Ignatius’s beak as he snapped at the exposed neck, lacerating the scaly hide to expose the raw flesh beneath. The Wyvern’s roars of pain and fury were so loud that Fletcher’s eardrums throbbed, then popped as their altitude dropped at stomach-churning speeds.
A viselike grip took hold of Fletcher’s ankle, dragging him down. He fired blindly over his shoulder, felt the kick nearly pluck the gun from his hand, heard the grunt of pain before it was snatched away by the wind. The world flipped again, and the body of the shaman tumbled past, a blur of gray tinged with red and yellow war paint.
Green jungle came into focus beyond, rushing up to meet them.
“Break!” Fletcher screamed, and Ignatius released the Wyvern with a reluctant roar. His wings unfurled, and Fletcher was thrown forward with impetus, his head thudding into the burgundy back, half knocking him unconscious. A gut-churning swoop—so desperate and low that there was the crackle of the canopy as Ignatius’s claws tore through it—followed by the sickening thud of the Wyvern smashing into the earth below.
The nosedive had given them a boost of speed so that they streaked over the treetops, but Fletcher knew from his studies that they would actually cover far less ground at such a low altitude. He shook his head to gather his scrambled thoughts, cursing. There hadn’t been time to plan this far ahead.
He looked up and his breath caught in his throat. The other Wyverns were already diving toward them, claws outstretched and mouths yawning, revealing the pink maws within. They had one choice.
Fletcher closed his eyes, holstered his pistol and gripped Ignatius’s neck with both arms. He could feel Ignatius’s fear as the Drake sensed his intentions, but there was no other way. Fletcher lowered his head and gave the order.
His stomach flipped once more, and then leaves were slapping at his face. Gnarled trunks flashed by as Ignatius jinked left and right, flinging Fletcher about like a rag doll. Above, the Wyverns roared in frustration, their greater size preventing them from penetrating the maze of trees. Ignatius slowed, gliding through the jungle as Fletcher listened to the bellows above. The Wyverns were tracking him, soaring above their position and waiting for an opening.
A voice echoed down, tight with fury.
“This only ends one way, Fletcher Raleigh,” Khan bellowed.
So, the albino orc had caught up—there was still a chance to kill him. Fletcher almost wished that Ignatius had attacked instead of fleeing from the scene—but they would have had only seconds before the Wyverns were upon them.
Still, the orc was right. The tangle of branches and trees were all that protected him from the Wyverns above—a break in the canopy would permit the monsters to get at them.
“Why don’t you come down and face me with it, then?” Fletcher yelled, goading the wounded orc. “Your Ahool against my Drake.”
Silence. Then:
“When you’re dead, I will make him my own,” the orc barked. “My Ahool can smell your fear from here. She will track you to the ends of the ether.”
The ends of the ether. The shadow of an idea formed in Fletcher’s mind. Again, Ignatius’s mind filled with fear at Fletcher’s intent. Even Athena was against it. It would be like running through a hail of bullets and hoping they hit his pursuers instead.
“This way,” Fletcher murmured in Ignatius’s ear, coaxing him in a new direction. The loyal Drake turned without hesitation, trusting his master’s judgment. Fletcher only wished that he trusted himself as much as Ignatius did. It was madness—but it was the only idea he had.
On they flew. A herd of Indrik gazed at them as they passed by, great giraffe-like creatures with mottled gray fur, thick elephantine legs and heads more akin to horses. A pack of mangy Canids prowled in their wake, waiting for a youngster to separate from the herd. The jungle was alive with sounds: the buzzing of lesser Mites close by, and in the distance, the deep lowing of a Gunni—a strange creature that Fletcher knew to appear much like a bear-sized wombat with antlers.
But Fletcher could barely take it in, for he had to thread Ignatius through the thicker parts of the forest, where the Wyverns would struggle to follow. He felt a pang of guilt at his good fortune in one respect—the shaman’s smaller demons had followed Sylva. Only the Ahool could make a proper pursuit, but Fletcher knew that Khan was too smart for that. Even so, he drew Gale out of its holster in case he was wrong.
Ignatius saw it before he did, jolting a warning through Fletcher’s mind. A flash of red sand ahead, where the trees began to thin. The deadlands.
Now.
Ignatius picked up speed, hurling himself through the air with haste born of desperation. They shot out of the jungle like a musket ball, half-blinded by the bright desert sky as they left the shadowy confines of the trees.
The Wyverns roared, but Fletcher knew he had caught them by surprise—they had not thought he would leave the safety of the undergrowth. They had a slim head start. A chance.
The red dust of the deadlands hung in the air above the dry landscape, coating Fletcher’s cloud-wetted skin in a fine layer of red. He squinted through the haze as Ignatius soared over the rust-colored sands. The ground below was littered with boulders, funneling the wind into whirling cyclones of dust that stretched into the sky, trundling across the barren terrain.
Behind, a fireball sizzled the air, slamming into Ignatius’s side. His haunch shook like a horse shooing a fly—the fire would do little damage to a Drake. Fletcher was not so lucky, the next singeing his hair and baking his face as it crackled past his left ear.
He turned and saw the nearest Wyvern was so close it was snapping at Ignatius’s lashing tail, its teeth gnashing dangerously close. The shaman stood with a javelin poised, but Fletcher leveled his pistol and the Wyvern veered away to protect its master. It thudded into the Wyvern behind and the two tangled in the air, buying Fletcher and Ignatius precious seconds.
“Faster,” Fletcher cried,
pressing himself down to make a smaller target. Ignatius’s wings thrummed the air in the final stretch toward their destination. The Abyss.
It yawned before them, endless darkness beyond the sheer cliffs that made up the disk’s edge. They shot into the depths. This was where he would find out if his bet had paid off.
The orc territory was several days’ flight from the ether’s edge and separated by a mountain range. He had guessed that the orcs rarely roamed here; their knowledge of the creatures that lurked in the Abyss would be limited.
Behind, the Wyverns balked. Fletcher knew that the demons would be filled with fear yet unable to communicate why to their masters. He could see the shamans urging their demons on, until the first five swooped into the veiled recesses over the cliff line.
Ignatius flew deeper still, for the Wyverns hesitated, circling where the light still reached them. Fletcher raised his sword in fake triumph, as if he was escaping into the gloom. He tried to ignore the yawning darkness beneath him, and the extreme danger he had put himself in.
Even as Khan hung back, his Ahool refusing to go over the edge, his bellows urged the remainder on, until the entire squadron of ten was soaring over the bottomless expanse beneath, leaving their leader behind.
The sky above was dark as pitch, and Fletcher could see the Wyverns silhouetted against the ring of light from the rim beyond. Ignatius slowed and turned to face them, even as the inky depths stirred beneath. This was it.
A tentacle whipped out of the void, snatching a Wyvern from the air and dragging it screaming into the Abyss. More followed, flailing at the panicked Wyverns. Fireballs streaked at random as the demons scattered in panic.
The first Ceteans rose from the gloom. Fletcher froze in terror as he saw the clustered eyes that blinked at random and gaping maws filled with serrated teeth. A mess of pincers and tentacles grew from their tortured bodies—none looked exactly alike but all were a nightmarish mishmash of organs and limbs. He could hear the monsters’ high-pitched squeals of agony all around him and felt a strange mix of pity and horror.
The Battlemage Page 9
