34
Blue did not reply. Instead, he unleashed a tirade of orders, all clicks and whistles.
In an instant, gremlins surrounded them once again, appearing as if from nowhere. Many had daubed their skin with green and brown ochres to blend in with the foliage. Others rode their own maras, their blowpipes firmly centred on Fletcher and the others. These were even more warlike, with bone-carved harpoons strapped to their backs and more of the deadly knives that had almost slit Fletcher’s throat.
‘We is taking you into the Warren, to meet leader,’ Blue trilled, as the closest gremlins marched into the burrows. ‘I warn you, we darts can make you sleeping, or freezing or dying. When we shoot this time, we use the dying ones. Do not make gremlins nervous. They eager to kill you, they is hating you as much as this one.’
Half-ear grunted and stood up as Blue prodded him with his blowpipe. The maimed gremlin’s hateful glare never left Fletcher’s face, but he backed away with his hands spread wide and empty. Fletcher did not blame him. After the cruelty he had seen in that tent just three nights ago, he would feel the same way.
Othello was still asleep, so they reluctantly left him with Solomon, as well as Athena – who kept watch in the trees above. Lysander continued to keep his eyes closed, so he remained too, while Sariel was too large to fit into one of the burrows.
Blue descended into the burrow he had come from, the largest of them all. Its mouth yawned dark and ominous but, far within, Fletcher could see the same glowing mushrooms that grew in the Great Forest.
Despite the burrow’s greater size, Fletcher and the others had to crawl on their hands and knees to fit, with Ignatius and Tosk scampering ahead, ever wary of an ambush within. It was with great relief that the tunnel opened up into a large chamber, big enough to fit them all, if they stooped and pressed together. The luminous lichen was even thicker here, and they were all lit by an eerie green glow.
‘Are we sure this is a good idea?’ Sylva whispered.
‘If they wanted us dead, we would already be in the ground,’ Cress replied. She glanced at the earth above her and laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘The dwarf is speaking truth. We will not be harming you if you do not give reason,’ Blue said, nudging his mara into a tunnel that sloped even deeper. ‘This way. Mother is being waiting below.’
They pressed on, their already filthy clothing stained further by the dark, moist soil. The temperature seemed to increase as they crawled deeper. They passed chambers on either side of the path they followed. Within them, furry mounds of mara pups suckled on their mothers’ bellies, so young that they were yet to open their eyes. Piles of fruit, tubers and freshly cut grasses sat beside them, and the adult mara grazed on them as they passed.
The next room contained spherical green eggs, tended by gremlin matrons who splayed themselves over the grapefruit-sized objects protectively when they saw the intruders. They hissed as Fletcher peered in, and he hurriedly crawled on, whispering to Sylva, ‘Gremlin eggs’.
Deeper still, Fletcher looked into another chamber, the rustle of insects distracting him from their path. A maelstrom of crickets, locusts and mealworms swarmed the walls, bouncing around the cavity with a mad energy. Fruit skins and husks were stacked in the centre of the room, while gremlins carefully plucked the largest insect specimens with their nimble fingers, putting them into tightly woven baskets at their hips. It was only when a gremlin popped one into its mouth and crunched down that Fletcher realised the room’s purpose. He shuddered and moved on, though Ignatius licked his chops and had to be pulled away.
‘They live as rabbits do, in a warren of sorts,’ Jeffrey whispered from behind. ‘Their eggs are kept safe from predators underground, and they farm insects to feed themselves. They have even developed a symbiotic relationship with the mara. See how their loincloths are made from mara fur and they ride them as we do horses, but the animals are protected and well fed by the fruit and grasses that are brought to them.’
Fletcher was fascinated, but he could not help but feel constricted in the tight confines of the tunnel. It put him in mind of his prison cell, and he shuddered at the memory. Ignatius mewled in sympathy and slowed, so that he could rub his back against Fletcher’s arm.
‘Thanks, little guy,’ Fletcher whispered.
On and on they went, until the side chambers ran out and the tunnel pitched forward so sharply it became more of a slide than a crawl. The earth seemed to become hotter still, and the sweat ran down his face and into his eyes. Even the frilled lichen became scarcer, until Fletcher felt like he was being swallowed down a black throat and into the belly of an enormous beast.
Finally, a glow of orange light told Fletcher that they had reached the end of their journey. Blue waited inside the entrance to the glowing chamber and tugged them out, one after the other, like newborns freshly birthed. ‘Mother is here,’ he said, reverently, when they were all through. ‘You all meet Mother.’
Fletcher blinked in the glare, the heat so fierce his skin almost hurt with the force of it. A glowing stream of molten liquid flowed ahead, coloured the orange of heated metal. The lava trickled from a rent in the cave wall, wending along a deep channel and into a tunnel that stretched endlessly into the distance. Bubbles broke along the surface, spattering red-hot droplets with gloopy plops. He sensed a longing from Ignatius to approach the lava, but quelled it with a thought – now was not the time for curiosity.
Stalactites and stalagmites studded the floors and ceilings like snaggled teeth, while columns of those that had joined together held up the ceiling. They reminded Fletcher of the pillars of a great cathedral.
‘The wild gremlins built their Warren here because of the lava.’ A voice echoed from deep within the cavern, where the light of the magma did not reach. ‘It kept the soil warm for them.’
It was a garbled voice, as if spoken through a mouth full of marbles. It sounded feminine somehow, despite the guttural intonation. The speaker had to be old too, for their speech quavered and cracked in their throat. Fletcher knew one thing for certain. It was not a gremlin.
‘They need heat for their eggs, you see,’ the voice continued, growing louder, ‘the same way the goblins do. That is what you call them, is it not? Goblins? My spies have heard you call them such.’
There was the gentle tap of a cane on the ground and a presence appeared on the edge of the gloom. Fletcher squinted, but could see no more than a shrouded figure.
‘Show yourself,’ Sylva demanded, stepping beside Fletcher.
‘Give me your word that you will keep the peace,’ the shadow said. ‘I do not wish to see any more death tonight.’
‘I swear it,’ Sylva said, looking around at the others for their nods of agreement. ‘As do my friends.’
‘Very well.’
The figure stepped out of the shadows, a long, blackthorn staff clutched in her gnarled hands. She was hunched like a vulture, the burden of her obvious age weighing heavy on her shoulders. Tangled black hair tumbled over her shoulders down to her waist, covering her nakedness, for all she wore was a feathered skirt and a broad necklace made from the small bones of a dozen unfortunate animals.
Her face and body were painted as if overlaid by a skeleton, the outline of a skull leaving her eyes as black holes, stark against the chalky whiteness. But one thing stood out more than anything else, jutting from her lower lips like the jagged stalagmites she stood among. Tusks.
Mother was an orc.