32
Their prison was made of sturdy, interwoven branches – more a spherical basket than a cage. It swung pendulously from a bough above, lurching from side to side as the wind tugged it back and forth.
‘We are finished,’ Jeffrey whispered, peering through the gaps in the branches.
They had woken there an hour ago, their clothes covered in soil from being dragged through the woods.
All thoughts of escape had already left them, after their first attempt. Othello had forced his arm through the branches, attempting to rip a hole for them to climb through. A few moments later and he was snoring loudly, another dart in his hand.
Of course, there was always the option of a shield, but their mana reserves had been depleted by the battle and their weapons had been taken from them. Not to mention the fact that they would be falling a good distance to the ground if they did blast the cage apart.
‘What do you see?’ Fletcher asked. He was pressed uncomfortably between Sariel and Lysander, their heavy bodies crushing him. Athena had settled on Lysander’s neck, her tail curling lazily over his beak. Of all of them, she seemed to be the calmest, taking the opportunity to nap.
‘Still gremlins. No sign of orcs yet,’ Jeffrey murmured.
Fletcher twisted his body and squinted through the hole Othello had made.
They were suspended above a wide clearing in the deep jungle, the surrounding vegetation so thick it might take all day to cut through it. Deep burrows, not unlike enlarged foxholes, were cut into the earth all around. Gremlins patrolled the borders, carrying long blowpipes almost twice the length of their bodies.
‘They look like miniature goblins,’ Cress said, squeezing in beside him. ‘Longer noses and ears though.’
Fletcher grunted in agreement, barely listening. He was confused by these armed gremlins. Everything he had learned about them had told him that they were little more than slaves, cowering creatures that were obedient to a fault. But these ones seemed far more hostile and he could see many of them pointing at the cage, deep in discussion.
‘Mind if I have a better look?’ Cress said, wriggling closer. In the darkness, Sylva coughed loudly.
Cress placed her eye against the hole, and Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder how Sylva could possible think the dwarf was capable of trying to kill him. There was no way.
A cry like an eagle’s call rang out from below. The gremlins ceased their patrolling, and then, in unison, the blowpipes were aimed towards the cage.
‘Oh … balls,’ Cress whispered.
Darts peppered the cage, many bouncing off, only to be plucked from the ground and used again. It was not long before most of the team had been struck. Fletcher had just enough time to examine a dart before he succumbed to the poison. It was fletched with tiny yellow feathers, like that of a budgerigar, while the tip was a sharp thorn cut from a tree.
This time, he did not feel consciousness slip from him. Instead, a cold numbness spread from his thigh, where the dart had struck. It felt much like when Rubens had stung him in the cell, but the effect was less powerful. He could still move his hands and legs, albeit slowly. Another few doses would probably have left him completely paralysed, but the bodies of Lysander and Sariel had protected him from the brunt of them. He might even be capable of a spell, if he could raise his hand in time. Then again, it would do little to help the situation.
Ignatius had used a great deal of mana when burning the orc, but he found that Athena’s reserves, though smaller, had barely been touched. Fletcher’s mana levels had virtually doubled the moment he had summoned her. Enough for a strong shield that might keep them alive a little longer, if the gremlins chose to kill them.
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 tail-spike 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.