48
Fletcher lay in the blackness, the back of his head sticky with blood. It was over. Already he could hear the goblins in the corridors, digging at the rubble and screeching at each other. They could break through in a few minutes, or a few days.
He wondered absently if dying of thirst was a better alternative to capture. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
Hours passed.
Othello was the first to move, forcing a tiny wyrdlight from his frozen fingertips. It moved determinedly around the room, flitting to each of them as the dwarf checked they were all in one piece.
A groan from Cress announced her own tentative recovery. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a numb-tongued garble. Silence resumed, as the team waited patiently for the paralysis to wear off.
Time went by and, slowly but surely, the others gradually regained their faculties. Othello was the first to speak, his words slow and deliberate.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances things could be a lot worse.’
‘A lot worse?’ Cress grumbled, slurring her words, but quickly warming to her theme. ‘We’re buried alive, surrounded by what looks like the entire orc and goblin army, a hundred miles deep in enemy territory and all of Hominum probably thinks we’re dead. We have about as much chance of getting out of this as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.’
Fletcher couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Then he heard a sob from Sylva.
‘Hey … are you OK?’ Fletcher asked, crawling over to her.
He shone wyrdlight from his finger, and saw her half-healed shoulder and upper chest still bore the marks from the Nanaue bite, a jagged half circle of scars. He lay his hand on her arm, but she jerked away.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed.
‘Sylva … I’m sorry about Sariel,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘You killed her,’ Sylva whispered, her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘I saved you and then you killed her. I felt the rocks come down, her spine snap. It took hours for her to die – did you know that, Fletcher? Body broken, barely any air to breath. Alone, in the dark.’
‘She gave her life so you could live,’ Fletcher said, though Sylva’s account sickened him to his stomach. ‘She knew it was the only way.’
‘It wasn’t your choice to make!’ Sylva yelled, shoving him away from her.
‘You’re right, Sylva. It was Sariel’s,’ Fletcher said simply.
Sylva did not reply, curling into a ball with her arms over her head. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Ignatius, Athena! Where were they? Fletcher looked around desperately until he saw their inert bodies on the cold ground. Ignatius was still frozen on the floor – but to Fletcher’s relief his amber eyes were flicking back and forth, and he could sense no pain from the paralysed demon. Athena was faring better, though she had only managed to awkwardly roll over on her front.
Othello lurched to his feet and staggered over to Cress and Lysander, motioning at Fletcher to join him. Fletcher dragged himself across the room, still too dizzy to stand. A bag of the yellow petals got in his way, and he slapped it aside, spilling the contents across the floor.
Othello helped pull him the last few feet, and they pressed their backs against the Griffin’s side, the effort of sitting up too much for them.
‘Best to leave her in peace,’ Othello said in a hushed voice. ‘I’d be a wreck if I had lost Solomon.’
‘Yeah,’ Cress replied. ‘Don’t worry, she knows you did what you had to. She just needs to blame someone now, and you’re them.’
She prodded Tosk with her gauntlet. The creature was still completely frozen, like Ignatius and Athena. Only Solomon seemed capable of movement, tottering unsteadily around the room.
‘Solomon’s skin must have stopped the dart going in too far,’ Othello suggested, as Cress pulled the Raiju on to her lap. ‘Plus he’s bigger than the others.’
‘So’s Lysander, though,’ Fletcher mused, looking at the spread-eagled Griffin. He was as still as a corpse, the only sign of life the gentle stirring of dust where his breath disturbed it.
After a moment’s thought, Fletcher swiped his arm along Lysander’s side, knocking several darts to the floor. The tips were still slathered in a black residue.
‘Looks like he got a large dose, being first into the room and all,’ Fletcher said, lifting the incapacitated demon’s paw. He let go and it flopped to the floor. ‘I wonder if Captain Lovett can even hear us.’
The demon remained unresponsive. In fact, Fletcher could barely hear a pulse as he laid his head against the demon’s side. He hunted for more darts in the fur and feathers, but found nothing.
‘So what are we going to do about her?’ Othello murmured, floating his wyrdlight over to Lady Cavendish. She was still huddled in the corner, madly rocking back and forth. A corona of blood lay around her son’s body, and Fletcher shuddered at the sight.
‘I’m going to get her out of that corner,’ Fletcher said. He walked unsteadily, avoiding Rufus’s forlorn corpse. He lifted her from where she sat, and was surprised when the woman stopped rocking and placed her arms around his neck. He lay her beside Cress and collapsed back in his place.
‘You’re a state,’ Cress said, seeing Lady Cavendish’s filthy exterior for the first time. She sloshed some water from her hip flask on to her sleeve and dabbed at the woman’s face. Lady Cavendish closed her eyes, accepting the dwarf’s ministrations wordlessly.
‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’ Othello whispered, nodding at the exit. There was a rumble as the rocks shifted, and a goblin screeched in pain. Then a thud from the other side, and dust cascaded from the ceiling as the room shook. The orcs were blasting the rubble apart.
‘When they break through, we kill as many of them as we can,’ Fletcher said, closing his eyes. ‘We should have some more mana by then – I’ve already recovered enough for a few fireballs.’
‘Aye, and there’s the last vial of elixir. One gulp each,’ Othello said, flexing his numbed fingers. ‘Let’s hope the demons are recovered by then too.’
Fletcher nodded in agreement, too tired to answer. He let his fingertips trail through the dust on the ground. It was smooth to the touch, but a strange indent curved beneath the fine powder. He swept the area with his sleeve and created a wyrdlight to see.
They were sitting on the edge of a pentacle, just like on the platform in the centre of the corridor. It was smaller, barely larger than a carriage wheel, but serviceable nonetheless. The black residue of centuries-old blood remained within, and the orc keys were stamped on each corner of the star.
‘Would you look at that,’ Othello said, peering at it. He glanced up to see a short black pipe embedded in the ceiling above, and shuffled nervously aside.
‘If we were orcs, we could go into the ether,’ Fletcher said wistfully. ‘Not that it would be much better than here.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you wishing you were an orc,’ Othello chuckled. ‘But you have a point. Better than dying here, or being captured.’
‘Maybe the air in their part of the ether isn’t poisonous,’ Cress suggested, looking up from her work. ‘Maybe they’re not immune after all.’
Lady Cavendish’s face was pretty beneath the dirt, though gaunt and malnourished. She looked about Arcturus’s age, in her mid-thirties, with the beginnings of crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes. How old was she supposed to be again? There was definitely something familiar about her, as if he had seen her not long ago. Were those Rufus’s eyes that stared back at him?
Cress clicked her fingers.
‘Hello? I said maybe their ether isn’t poisonous at all,’ she repeated.
‘You’re welcome to test it out,’ Othello said drily. ‘If you want to be our guinea pig, be my guest. Personally, I’d rather take a few orcs with me.’
Cress shrugged and turned back to Lady Cavendish, teasing the knots in her hair with a comb.
Another boom shook the cavern, and a loose boulder tumbled from the pile of rubble blocking the passageway.
‘They’re impatient,’ Fletcher said.
‘I wonder if they’ll tie us to that manchineel tree,’ Othello wondered morbidly. ‘Worse than burning, isn’t that what Jeffrey said?’
‘Who can trust what that traitor said,’ Sylva’s voice cut through the darkness.
Fletcher was glad to hear her voice. She was sitting up now, her face cold and furious. Sylva had turned her anger on the right person.
‘Maybe we can chew on some of these, to numb the pain,’ Cress said, picking up one of the scattered petals and brushing off the dust.
She popped it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
‘You know, it’s not too bad,’ she mumbled. ‘Makes my mouth tingle.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Othello asked, picking up a petal himself and giving it a sniff. He wrinkled his nose and tossed it away.
‘If I’m gonna die anyway,’ Cress said, shrugging. She paused and raised her eyebrows.
‘Hmmm,’ she mused, shaking her head slightly. ‘It’s doing something. No idea what, though.’
Fletcher frowned. He had heard someone say that before. Electra.
‘Wait,’ he said, looking at the petals. They were yellow, just like the vials Electra had shown him. In his mind, something clicked.
‘These petals are from the ether,’ Fletcher continued, holding a petal up to the light. ‘I bet you a hundred sovereigns this is what goes into those yellow vials Electra showed us. The ones which seemed to have no effect.’
‘So?’ Cress asked, munching on another petal.
Othello gave her a disapproving stare.
‘What?’ she said, grinning. ‘I like the way it tingles.’
Another boom from the corridor, so loud it shook the very ground. Fletcher could hear the bass voice of orcs, shouting guttural orders. He raised his voice.
‘It means that this isn’t just some drug the orcs use to get drunk – if Cress’s reaction is anything to go by. Maybe it simply makes the user immune to the ether’s poison?’
Othello stared at him for a moment, his brow creasing as he mulled over Fletcher’s words. Then he whooped and seized his friend by the shoulders.
‘You bloody genius,’ he said, shaking Fletcher back and forth. ‘That’s got to be it!’
‘I think you’re right, Fletcher,’ Sylva said begrudgingly. She shuffled over to them and examined the pentacle.
‘Now we just need to fill the pentacle’s grooves with something organic, so we can use the damned thing. Any ideas? Because I don’t see any blue orcs waiting to be sacrificed around here.’
Fletcher scanned the room. For a moment he settled on the pool of Rufus’s blood, but shook his head, disgusted with himself. Not that. Never that.
‘Didn’t Khan press some kind of button?’ Cress said, sweeping the thick layer of dust with her hands.
She grinned and pointed at a small nub in the ground in front of her.
‘Good thing I didn’t step on this earlier, or Othello would have had another bloodbath.’
‘All right, everyone eat,’ Fletcher said, stuffing a handful of petals into his mouth. The taste was mildly bitter, but not completely unpleasant. It reminded him of sour whisky.
He watched as Cress gently coaxed the noblewoman to eat one. She was so hungry that she gulped it down like a half-starved animal, barely chewing before swallowing it.
‘Well done, Cress.’ Fletcher smiled.
A huge blast juddered through the room. Through the rubble of the back exit, a tiny chink of light could be seen from the goblin torches outside. The voices of the orcs could be heard distinctly now, their harsh monosyllabic speech so loud it was as if they were in the same room.
‘We’d better hurry,’ Fletcher said, shuffling with Othello away from the carving. ‘Go ahead, Cress.’
She pressed the button, hissing through her teeth with exertion until it sank into the floor. For a moment nothing happened. Then, as panic began to take hold, the first drop of blood dripped on to the pentacle.
The droplets became a trickle, red liquid so dark it looked almost black. It spread slowly, splitting and merging until the star and the keys along it were fully formed.
‘Pass me the mana vial, Othello,’ Fletcher said, holding out his hand. ‘Unless you want to do it?’
‘By all means,’ Othello said, handing it over. ‘Your paralysis is almost gone, thanks to that health potion. I don’t think Cress or I could do it, the state we’re in.’
Fletcher nodded and gulped down the sickly liquid. A moment later, he was revelling in the feeling of his body pulsing with mana once again.
‘Listen to me,’ Fletcher said, dipping his fingers into the blood. It was still warm, and he stifled an involuntary shudder. ‘Sylva, I need you to throw as many of these bags of petals through as you can – we don’t know how long the effects of the plant will last.’
Sylva closed her eyes and nodded.
‘Good. Now, Cress, I want you to gather the rest of the supplies, including my pistols, Rufus and Jeffrey’s packs and anything else of use; we’re going to need it all. Put it through the portal, then take Lady Cavendish through with you, she seems to trust you the most. Solomon will carry Lysander into the ether, while Othello takes Tosk, Ignatius and Athena.’
The noblewoman stirred, looking up.
‘Lady Cavendish?’ Fletcher asked, hopeful for another reaction.
She stared back blankly, and he sighed and continued.
‘I’ll have a few seconds from when my finger leaves the blood to jump into the portal before it closes, so I’ll be last. Go, now!’
With those words, Fletcher pumped mana into the pentacle, the liquid glowing with a fierce violet light. He gritted his teeth and strained as the first pinprick of a portal appeared, growing to the size of a grapefruit.
‘I can’t carry them all, but I think Athena’s almost recovered,’ Othello shouted.
‘Not now, Othello,’ Fletcher growled, blasting another pulse of mana into the pentacle. The portal grew and spun until it hung in the air like a miniature sun, filling the room with a dull roar.
‘Athena,’ Lady Cavendish repeated, so softly that Fletcher thought he had imagined it.
Sylva began to hurl the bags of petals into the portal, as the others struggled under the weight of their respective charges. The packs soon followed, Rufus’s spilling open as it spun through.
Solomon was the first to the portal, staggering under Lysander’s weight. He charged headlong into the light, disappearing in an instant.
Sylva staggered up next, more petal bags cradled in her arms.
‘I hope this works,’ she muttered, then jumped into the glowing sphere. She vanished just as another blast tore through the chamber. This time, a barrage of pebbles showered them, the pile of rubble beginning to crumble.
‘Othello, go!’ Fletcher yelled.
The dwarf sprinted into the portal, Tosk and Ignatius clutched to his chest. Athena flew in after him, her flight erratic under the paralysis. For the briefest moment, Lady Cavendish raised her hand, as if to touch the Gryphowl.
‘Cress, take Lady Cavendish, now!’ Fletcher shouted, as another explosion rocked the room. The first goblin appeared, jamming its head through a gap in the blockade. It screeched as it tried to push through, clawing at the rock.
Cress grabbed Lady Cavendish’s hand, but the noblewoman was suddenly responsive once again. She struggled with the dwarf, pulling away.
‘Athena,’ she yelled hoarsely. ‘Where’s Athena? My baby!’
In that moment, Fletcher knew. Her face was just like Lady Forsyth’s, when he had seen her at his trial. He had seen her younger self in his dream, standing over his crib.
‘Mother,’ Fletcher breathed, his heart pounding. ‘Alice Raleigh.’
At the sound of her name, the fight went out of her. She turned her eyes to Fletcher.
‘Follow Athena,’ Fletcher said, smiling through his tears. ‘Cress will take you to her.’
Then he was alone, Cress dragging his mother into the portal.
One more detonation blew the rubble apart, the shockwave rushing over him like a hailstorm. He took one last look at the world.
And threw himself into the ether.