Ignatius was already moving, spinning in the air as the first tentacles reached toward them. Fletcher’s world flipped again and again as Ignatius flitted to and fro. It was out of his hands now. All he could do was hold on, trying not to scream as the tentacles whipped by.
Already three Wyverns were gone, and another flew riderless toward the rim, its purpose forgotten. Six remained, swooping desperately to avoid the grasping Ceteans. Far away, the black dot of Khan’s Ahool hung in the air, watching half his air force disappear in a matter of seconds.
A jerk wracked Ignatius’s body, nearly throwing Fletcher from his perch. A tentacle had ensnared Ignatius’s midriff. The Drake roared in panic as they were dragged down, beating his wings desperately to slow the inexorable pull toward the massed monsters waiting below.
Fletcher turned and fired Gale’s second barrel into the tentacle, but it held fast, the octopus-like suckers rooted to Ignatius’s skin. He cursed and tugged free his khopesh, hacking desperately at the rubbery appendage. The wounds spurted a putrid white liquid with every strike, near blinding him. Still they fell, and Fletcher thought that any minute they would be torn apart by tooth-lined gullets.
Another tentacle lashed toward them, but a blast from the last of Ignatius’s fire breath sent it writhing away. Then the tentacle parted with a final chop from the khopesh, and Ignatius propelled them back into the sky.
The severed tip fell away, only to be fought over by the slavering monsters below. All around them, the corpses of the fallen Wyverns created similar battles for sustenance, and the frenzy gave Ignatius a brief respite. Fletcher looked back at their pursuers.
The Wyverns were fleeing—Fletcher could see six forms floating above the rim; five remaining Wyverns and the smaller Ahool. Khan watched from the relative safety of the deadlands, where only the longest tentacles could reach him.
Fletcher grinned and waved, knowing he had struck a blow for Hominum that would cripple the orcish air force. In one fell stroke, Fletcher had taken out half of the flying shamans’ primary demons. Far in the distance, he heard Khan’s bellow of rage, echoing faintly above the slobbering squeals of the monstrosities below.
But Fletcher was not safe yet. He could not return; the Wyverns would be waiting for him. Nor could he stay, for the Ceteans would soon turn their attention back to him.
It was time to test a theory that had been debated by Vocans’s scholars for hundreds of years. That Ceteans did not live beyond the borders of the ether. The theory had never been proven, as no summoner’s demon had ever made the attempt. But the distraction of the Wyverns had given Fletcher the chance to try.
So, Ignatius turned away and flew on, into the Abyss.
CHAPTER
17
HOURS HAD PASSED, at least ten, for Fletcher had been forced to eat two petals from his pockets. Ignatius’s wing beats slowed, until they were gliding. It was as if the whole universe had disappeared, for the black of night engulfed them from every side. All was darkness, but for the band of light from the ether, far, far away. And it was cold … a cold that Fletcher did not believe possible.
Fletcher would have long frozen to death were it not for the warmth of Ignatius’s back. Even so, as the minutes ticked by and the light in the distance grew gradually larger, he wondered if he had left it too late to turn back. His teeth chattered endlessly, and gouts of steam poured from his mouth.
The orcs would think him long dead, but in case they remained, he had taken Ignatius in a long curve that would take him around to the part of the Abyss near the lagoon, saving him time on their journey back.
His hunch had been right, the theory proven. There were no Ceteans this deep into the Abyss—for there was no food, nor light, nor warmth. The monsters always gathered around the edges of the ether’s disk, hoping for unwary demons to snatch from the cliff tops, hibernating and cannibalizing one another while they waited.
There was now one problem: crossing back into the ether. He had two things to his advantage. The first was the element of surprise; the Ceteans would never expect prey to come from behind—their eyes would be firmly focused on the cliff’s edge.
Second, the frenzy that he had witnessed might have attracted Ceteans from all around to join in the feast, pulling their numbers away from the border he was approaching. Wyverns were enormous demons; five of them at once would be more food than the rabid monstrosities had ever seen in the same place. If they were lucky, there would be no Ceteans near their crossing point at all.
He could see the rim now, cliffs of red stone topped by the arid desert of the deadlands. Ignatius, tired though he was, increased the tempo of his wing beats. All Fletcher could do was stare into the depths below, hoping against hope that the Ceteans were feasting, far away.
He held his breath. Nothing. Still nothing.
Then warmth, the glow of the sky washing over him like a hot bath, wicking away the chill that had sunk into his very bones. Relief, and a chirr of joy from Ignatius. Red sand, sweeping beneath them. They were safe now.
It would be so easy to close his eyes. To sleep.
* * *
Green, rushing below him. Warm breeze. The heady scent of vegetation, like fresh-cut grass, thick in his nostrils.
He sat up, wincing as his stiff, bruised body ached. Somehow, he had fallen asleep. Or passed out. But it didn’t matter; all he knew was that the creatures were far behind, even if they would haunt his dreams for years to come.
Ignatius was flying low, just above the canopy, where the rays from the fading light above drenched them in warmth. The Drake, drained of the mana that helped heat his body, had suffered in the cold expanse of the Abyss as much as he had.
He leaned forward and patted Ignatius on the neck. The demon had saved him, risking life and limb in the process.
Fletcher could sense Ignatius’s exhaustion and knew that they could not keep it up for much longer. But the demon was also filled with anticipation, as if they were nearing something. Fletcher looked up.
The lagoon. It shone like a silver platter, sparkling as the gentle waves shivered to and fro. He was thirsty, covered in soot, soil and the effluent from the Ceteans. It would be heaven to dive in and take it all in. He could sense Ignatius had the same intention.
But something was wrong. Ignatius could hear something—already the demon was changing his path, beating his wings in a sudden urgency. A feeling of anger, of protectiveness. Then Fletcher heard it too. A roar, then a scream. Sylva?
“Come on!” Fletcher yelled, willing the exhausted demon onward. He was bone tired, out of ammunition and had barely a trickle of mana left. But he was going into battle once more.
He was angry now. They had not come this far for it to end like this, his friends slaughtered, his mother dead. He snarled through his teeth, tugging his khopesh from its scabbard. Already he could see fireballs streaking into the sky, the demons battling on a long stretch of white beach, sandwiched by jungle and azure water.
A lone Wyvern, slashing at Lysander, the Griffin staggering, his feathers slick with blood. The corpses of lesser demons inert on the sand, others flapping and tearing at three figures, fighting back-to-back. Another hunched in their midst. His mother.
The wind ripped at his hair as they shot headlong into the melee, roaring their hatred.
Ignatius struck the Wyvern with the speed of a runaway carriage, his beak ripping into the great beast. Fletcher was hurled through the air in the tumult of claws and wings. He landed in a tangle of limbs on the sand. He lay, motionless, his strength almost gone.
“Fletcher, watch out!” Sylva screamed, and he rolled instinctively aside. There was a thud as something thumped into the sand beside him.
He leaped to his feet and slashed blindly; he felt the jar of his blade striking, saw the shaman fall to his knees, the blade halfway through his neck. Fletcher kicked the corpse from his sword, the rage taking him running toward the Wyvern.
Pain pulsed in his mind. Ignatius flew through the air,
blood spraying the sand crimson as he landed in the shallows. He lay there, motionless.
Lysander limped forward as if to fight once more, but he collapsed after a few paces. A furrow of red had been clawed down his side.
The Wyvern turned, its eyes focused on Fletcher, and he suddenly realized how puny his sword was against the monstrosity before him. He backed away slowly. His knees trembled with exhaustion, barely able to bear his weight. He could hardly stand, let alone run.
The Wyvern took a step forward, winged forearms outstretched, blood dripping from its snout and a deep wound in its chest. The shaman’s control had gone, but the wild beast was in pain, confused and angry. They were vicious beasts by nature, and this one would still remember its master’s intentions.
Fletcher froze, hoping it would give up.
But it was no use. The Wyvern did not hesitate, leaping across the sand. Fletcher fell back, saw the flash of the reddened mouth gaping wide. Then something bowled out of the jungles, thudding into the Wyvern’s side to take it screeching into the water.
Sheldon.
The Zaratan had the Wyvern by the throat, his beak clamped on either side of its scaled neck as he dragged it into the shallows and beyond. Together, the two demons disappeared into the lagoon, dark shapes beneath the surface. Blood clouded the water red, then frothed white as the demons struggled below.
Fletcher turned, just in time to see Tosk blast the last of their assailants from the sky with a streak of lightning—a bee-striped Vesp that landed with a splash in the shallows.
He collapsed to his knees as the others rushed toward him—Sylva, Othello, Cress. Their faces crowded in, but he ignored them, looking for Ignatius. He sighed with relief as the Drake crawled onto the beach and used his tongue to lather healing saliva on a nasty gash in the burgundy flesh of his side.
“Lysander. Look after Lysander,” Fletcher managed, waving the others on to the injured demon behind him. There was a flash of white as the trio blasted the healing spell. He let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it in for a long time. The Griffin would live.
And so would his friends.
CHAPTER
18
SHELDON WAS DYING. THE Zaratan had surfaced from the bloodied water a few minutes later, beside the drowned corpse of the Wyvern. But the battle had taken a terrible toll on the poor demon.
He was wounded horrifically, for the savage beast had slashed frantically at his head, neck and limbs while he held it beneath the surface. They watched helplessly as he dragged himself up the beach and collapsed in the crimson sand, breathing shallowly in the dim dusk light.
The team healed him with the last of their mana, but to no avail. The Zaratan had lost too much blood, something the healing spell could do nothing about.
Cress took it the hardest, lying beside him and stroking his head through the night. Sylva stayed with her in silent solidarity, reading Jeffrey’s journal by firelight.
As they waited for the inevitable, Fletcher spoke into the growing darkness, telling them of his conversation with Khan, Ignatius’s transformation and his escape from the Wyverns. In turn, Sylva told of the desperate chase she had endured across the ether, how she had thought she had lost them, only to be ambushed on the beach but a few hours after finding the others, just before Fletcher had arrived.
Then, as the night began to wane, Othello explained how Sheldon had left them on the land and disappeared soon after Fletcher and Sylva had left, and his surprise that the Zaratan had returned.
And finally, as the pink light of dawn began to tinge the sky, sleep took hold of them.
* * *
Fletcher woke to find that Sheldon had passed while he slept. Cress, heartbroken, was sobbing into Sylva’s shoulder, the pair clutching each other like sailors in a storm. Othello sat dejectedly nearby, his hand pressed against Sheldon’s shell.
Feeling empty, Fletcher went to sit beside the demon’s body, searching for words that would not come. The Zaratan had saved them a thousand times over and given his life in the process. He had no loyalty to them, no connection like a summoner and his demon might have. That he was not harnessed as other demons were, and had protected them regardless, was testament to Sheldon’s great intelligence and compassion. They mourned him as they would a friend.
“I thought he might make it,” Sylva sniffed, her usual composure gone.
“He didn’t seem to be in pain,” Fletcher said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Cress was dry-eyed, her tears used up through the night.
“I hope he found a nice lady friend while he was away.” She glared at the others as if daring them to laugh.
“No, you’re right,” Othello said gently, hugging Cress around her shoulders. “It’s why he came here. I bet he did. I bet there will be little Sheldons running around someday soon.”
“Aye,” Cress said, giving the demon another stroke on his head.
They were silent for a time, listening to the gentle swash of the lagoon’s shoreline.
“We should leave soon,” Fletcher said, hating himself for hurrying them. “There’s a chance that one of the remaining shamans had a scrying crystal and watched the battle through a lesser demon. They might know we’re somewhere by the lagoon; they could be heading this way.”
He nodded toward the pile of demon corpses, a mix of dead Shrikes, Strixs and Vesps.
“You’re right,” Cress said, standing up and nodding firmly. She wiped the tearstains from her cheeks and began to gather their things. Othello trudged behind her.
Sylva stood beside Fletcher for a moment longer.
“Fletcher, before we go, I need to talk to you. After yesterday … if something happens to me, I want you to know.”
Fletcher’s heart leaped, but the grim look on Sylva’s face told him it was not about her feelings for him. She sat and patted the sand beside her. He joined her and was surprised to find she was leafing through Jeffrey’s journal again.
“I’ve been reading this,” she said, flicking to the final pages. “I hadn’t got to the end until last night. Look.”
The pages toward the back of the journal were filled with numbers and dates. Strangest of all, there was a letter, slotted in among the pages. The seal was broken, but Fletcher recognized the Forsyth Crest embossed in the red wax—the three intertwined heads of a Hydra.
“Read it,” she said, handing it to him.
Jeffrey,
You have struck a blow for the safety of humanity that will be felt through the ages. It will be remembered in the years to come by the unsullied children of our descendants. Know that what you do is righteous and good. The blood of the innocent is a necessary sacrifice to protect the purity of our race.
The next blow must be struck in three days hence. Rook will have placed the barrel in the storage cupboard with the cards in a sealed envelope on top. Scatter them on your way out.
Memorize and burn this letter once you have read it.
Be well,
Zacharias
Of course, Fletcher had known that the Forsyths and their allies were involved in the supposed Anvil bombings; Jeffrey had confessed it.
The bombs that had been killing humans around Corcillum had all been planted by the Triumvirate to frame the dwarves and their supporters for the attacks, to turn the people of Hominum against them.
But this was different. It was evidence!
“There’re records of payments Zacharias made to him, dates of the exact places and times the bombings took place, fuse length and blast radius calculations. He was keeping all this for some reason, to protect himself, to extort money from the Forsyths … or something.”
“We have them now,” Fletcher said with triumph. Finally, something was going their way.
“No,” Sylva said, shaking her head. “We don’t.”
“Why not?” Fletcher asked.
“Don’t you remember what Jeffrey said?” Sylva’s voice was taut with frustration. “Back in the pyramid, Jeffrey s
aid that even King Alfric is involved in this. Read the letter; it mentions Rook, an Inquisitor.”
“So?” Fletcher asked, but his heart was already sinking.
“Who do we take it to? The Pinkertons? They’re in Alfric’s pocket. The inquisition? Not likely. They’d get rid of it as soon as we handed it in, or claim it’s a forgery, or kill us there and then. We can’t take it to the authorities … they are the authorities!”
“So we take it to King Harold!” Fletcher exclaimed. “He’ll know what to do with it.”
“I hope you’re right, Fletcher,” Sylva said, biting her lip. “Anyway, I’ll keep it safe. I just wanted you to know it exists.”
Fletcher sighed and rubbed his eyes. The few hours of sleep had done little to help with his exhaustion.
“Sorry, it’s just that I thought we had something for a minute there. Thank you, I mean it.”
He squeezed her on the shoulder and stood up, just as Othello and Cress arrived, their weapons secure and bags packed.
“I’ll ride with Othello,” Sylva said, taking the rolled-up Catoblepas pelt from Cress. “You should carry your mother and Cress; I reckon Ignatius is a bit bigger.”
She paused and stared at the Drake, and a gentle smile played across her lips.
“Who’d have thought,” she murmured, looking the demon up and down from beak to tail. “He’ll be the envy of all at Vocans.”
Shaking her head, she slung the pelt over Lysander’s back, folding it so that it made a secure and comfortable seat on his spine. Fletcher grinned jealously at her ingenuity, glad that they would be taking the fur with them. He had earned it.
“Come on,” Cress murmured, coaxing Alice onto Ignatius’s back. “I know he looks a bit different, but he’s the same old Ignatius, don’t you worry.”
The Salamander flattened himself on the sand to make it easier for the frail lady to mount him and purred with pleasure when she did so, glad that she trusted him. Fletcher sat in the front and Cress squeezed behind Alice, so as to be sure that the older woman did not fall. Fletcher smiled as Alice instinctively put her arms around his waist. Her first hug? Well, not really, but he’d take it.
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