17
Hours had passed – at least ten, for Fletcher had been forced to eat two petals from his pockets. Ignatius’s wingbeats 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 bring 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 disc, hoping for unwary demons to snatch from the clifftops, hibernating or cannibalising each other 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 wingbeats. 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 monstrous 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 onwards. 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 mêlée, 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 towards 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 realised 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. He fell back, saw the flash of the reddened mouth gaping wide. Then something bowled out of the jungle, 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 towards him – Sylva, Othello, Cress. Their faces crowded in, but he ignored them, looking for Ignatius. He sighed with relief as the Drake crawled on to 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 dashed past him and 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.