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 did their best to heal 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 of 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 some day 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 towards 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 tear stains 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 something.’
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 towards 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 recognised 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.
Memorise 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 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!
‘And there’s more,’ Sylva went on. ‘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 said 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 than Lysander.’
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 on to 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.
Both dwarves were looking apprehensive.
‘I bloody hate flying,’ Cress groaned. ‘Especially on a demon that grew his wings only a few hours ago.’
She patted Ignatius’s neck apprehensively, and the Drake unleashed a deep bark of encouragement, making her flinch.
‘Let’s decide exactly where we’re going first,’ Othello said, giving Lysander and Ignatius a wide berth. ‘I’d rather not have a debate up there, where the Wyverns might spot us. Plus I’d rather spend as little time in the air as possible.’
‘Now we have an ample supply of petals, we need to find Hominum’s part of the ether,’ Fletcher said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘And hope to heavens we spot a portal when we do.’
‘Of course,’ Othello said, nodding grimly, ‘but there’s no way of knowing which direction we should go in, and even if we did, we could fly right over it and not know it.’
‘Well, we know that, unlike the orcish part of the ether, ours is near the ether’s edge, bordering the deadlands,’ Sylva mused. ‘There are volcanoes near ours too. I think our best bet is to go back towards where we found the petals. There were more volcanoes that way.’
‘Back towards the Wyverns?’ Cress groaned. ‘We just got away from them.’
‘Well, volcanoes are the only thing I can think of, unless anyone has any better ideas,’ Sylva replied.
‘We also know there isn’t an ocean near Hominum’s part of the ether,’ Fletcher added. ‘Another reason to go Sylva’s way.’
‘And it’s not like heading over the ocean is a good idea: we have no idea how large it is – it could go on for days,’ Sylva said, motioning towards the lagoon. There was a wide outlet where she was pointing, and Fletcher knew that it led out to the vast body of water they had seen before.
‘Well, it can’t be that big, what with the Shrikes,’ Othello said. ‘Not that we’d want to follow them anyway.’
‘Shrikes?’ Sylva asked.
‘Didn’t I mention it?’ Othello said, surprised. ‘We saw a bloody great big flock of Shrikes the day after you and Fletcher went looking for the Euryale petals. Luckily they flew right by us and headed over the ocean.’
‘I’d rather not follow in their footsteps, as it were – especially not on these deathtraps,’ Cress added, looking pointedly at Lysander and Ignatius.
Sylva narrowed her eyes.
‘Sorry, just a joke,’ Cress said, holding up her hands in apology.
‘No, it’s not that,’ Sylva said. ‘I’m thinking.’
She chewed on her lip, then closed her eyes completely.
‘How soon after the Tournament does the next year start at Vocans?’ Sylva asked, her head bowed with concentration.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Cress exclaimed.
‘There’s not much of a break really,’ Othello answered, ignoring Cress. ‘What with the war on, they time it so that the next year of teaching starts almost immediately. Maybe a week or two? Only, our Tournament was delayed this year because of the Anvil attacks, so Cress should technically have started her second year a few weeks ago.’
‘Even better. When Captain Lovett took us into the ether, we were just a few weeks into the academic year too, correct?’ Sylva said, holding up a finger. ‘We’d only had a few lessons with her.’
‘Right …’ Fletcher agreed, still unsure about the point she was trying to make.
‘And Valens was attacked by a Shrike. Didn’t we learn in our demonology lessons that Shrikes migrate across our part of the ether around that time? As in, the time of year we’re also in right now?’
It hit Fletcher like a ton of bricks. The Shrikes. They could be heading towards Hominum’s part of the ether.
‘Sylva, you’re a bloody genius,’ Fletcher yelled, grinning from ear to ear.
Because they were going home.