62
The atrium swam in front of Fletcher’s eyes. There was so much pain, crushing his skull like a vice. Ignatius. He had to find Ignatius.
The leathery surface beneath him had tempered his fall: a broken wing, splayed across the length of the cavernous hall. He staggered to his feet, stumbling along the uneven ridges of the shattered appendage.
The Dragon was dead.
Its neck was twisted back on itself at a grotesque right angle, its beak half open, tongue lolling. And near the base of its shoulders, Fletcher saw a limp, burgundy shape.
‘Ignatius,’ Fletcher cried, stumbling towards him. Above, the soft echoes of the battle outside drifted down.
The Drake lifted his head as Fletcher approached. He mewled, and tried to get up. Then he collapsed, the pain too much for him. The agony in Fletcher’s mind redoubled its intensity, and Fletcher fell to his knees. Shards of glass had embedded themselves in the Drake’s neck and sides, each one as wide and deep as any sword. Curled up against the demon’s chest, Fletcher saw the unconscious form of Sylva. The brave creature had protected her with his body as they fell through the dome above.
‘You’re going to be OK,’ Fletcher whispered, laying a hand on the demon’s side. ‘Sylva will wake up and heal you.’
He shook the elf, but she remained still and lifeless; the only sign of vitality was the slow rise and fall of her chest. He could see a bruise, spreading along her forehead. And Ignatius’s blood, dripping on the marble floor. The demon had no mana to heal himself. He was dying.
‘I was wrong.’ A voice spoke.
Fletcher’s heart filled with horror.
Slowly, a pale figure emerged out of the darkness.
Khan.
He strode into the light of the broken dome above, his long, white hair shining like silver in the dim glow of the evening sky. He was clad in nothing more than a simple loincloth, its colouring as pale as its wearer’s skin.
The orc raised his macana sword, and pointed it at Fletcher.
‘My Salamander was not the one prophesied. It was yours.’
Fletcher’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for a weapon. His khopesh was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere in the depths of the atrium. Then he saw a gleam behind the enormous orc. It was Sylva’s falx, buried deep in the Dragon’s eye. He had to get to it.
‘You’ve lost, Khan,’ Fletcher said, trying to edge around his opponent. ‘The prophecy was a lie.’
The orc smiled through his tusks and cut him off with a languid step to the side. Fletcher could hardly believe how big the orc truly was. He towered above him at eight feet, and his sword was almost as tall as Fletcher himself.
‘The prophecy is true,’ Khan said, shaking his head. ‘He who holds the Salamander will win the war.’
Fletcher was distracted. Athena. He could sense her, hiding among the rafters that held up the great room’s ceiling. He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on Khan, ignoring her gliding form as she descended to the floor above them, hiding behind the metal railings.
‘If that’s true, then I’ve already won,’ Fletcher said.
‘No,’ the orc snarled. ‘Not if I take it from you.’
Fletcher raised his tattooed hand, and Khan flinched at the sight of it.
‘Your Dragon is dead,’ Fletcher bluffed. ‘You have no mana. I could kill you in a second.’
As the orc’s eyes focused on his fingers, Fletcher edged around again, managing to put himself a few feet closer to the sword.
‘Show me,’ Khan said suddenly.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Fletcher countered, uncurling the finger with the lightning tattoo. He took a few steps closer to the sword.
‘I said, show me!’ Khan bellowed, lunging towards Fletcher.
Fletcher dived forward, and felt the macana graze past his head as the orc slashed down at him. Then he was rolling across the stone floor, and the falx sword was in his grasp.
He jerked it from the Dragon’s eye with a sickening squelch, and held it in front of him.
Khan laughed.
‘So, the puppy wants to play,’ he mocked, twirling the macana in his hand. ‘I like that.’
The long-handled blade was heavy and unfamiliar in Fletcher’s hands. He had never held a falx before.
‘Come, let us begin,’ Khan said, swiping the macana at Fletcher.
Their swords met, and Fletcher’s arms shuddered at the power behind the orc’s blow, nearly jarring the weapon from his hands. He leaped back, slipping on the smooth marble.
‘That was but a touch,’ Khan sneered.
The blow had shaven away a chip of obsidian from the long, black-edged club, which skittered along the ground and into the shadows. Fletcher knew the volcanic glass was brittle, but still sharper than the most fine-edged scalpel, and could quarter flesh with far more ease. He could not meet the orc head on. It would be suicide.
Khan sliced the macana again, his blow whistling over Fletcher’s head as he ducked. A back-slash followed blazingly fast, and Fletcher had to roll to avoid the crushing blow. If he had tried to parry, the macana would have blown right through his guard.
‘Dance, little boy,’ Khan laughed.
Rotherham had taught him to go for the knees.
Fletcher lashed out with his blade as he got to his feet, an awkward thrust that Khan slapped down with the flat of the wooden club. A foot swung forward and took Fletcher in the ribs, knocking him spinning across the atrium. The sword nearly flew from his grip, the blade clanging on the stone floor. Agony flared along his side.
‘Enough games,’ Khan snarled, as Fletcher lurched to his feet. ‘I have an empire to burn.’
‘You’ve … already … lost,’ Fletcher gasped.
He could barely lift the falx – something was broken inside. It hurt to breathe.
Athena could sense his pain. She crouched above Khan, her eyes boring into the white orc’s exposed back. It was now or never. Now.
Fletcher sprinted towards the orc with a primal yell, fighting against the pain that tore through him. Athena dived, her claws outstretched. Khan swung his blade as the Gryphowl struck, clawing deep into his eyes. Blinded, his blow missed Fletcher’s face by a hairsbreadth, slicing his ear instead.
Fletcher cut with all the force he could muster. Felt the sword bite into Khan’s leg, jarring against bone. Heard the clatter of the macana falling to the ground.
But his attack had lacked force, his broken ribs hampering his swing. Athena screeched as a huge hand swatted her away. Fletcher felt fingers encircle his neck, and lift him off the ground.
Khan roared into his face, bringing him as close as a lover.
‘Die!’ the orc snarled through his tusks.
Fletcher kicked out at his stomach. It was like hitting rock. The grip tightened as Khan brought him closer still.
‘Look me in the eyes,’ the orc hissed, the red orbs of his own narrowing as he squeezed. ‘I want to see the light go out of you.’
The world swam in and out of focus. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision. He could see Athena dragging herself along the ground, felt the pain of her broken bones mirror his own. Ignatius. He could barely feel Ignatius.
He was dying. Fletcher closed his eyes, and waited for the end.
And then the pressure released. He fell to the ground, gasping for air. Blood puddled on the floor beside him, trickling down the white trunks of the orc’s legs.
He looked up, and saw the blade of his khopesh buried in Khan’s side. Saw the giant spin, slamming his attacker to the ground with an outstretched fist.
Sylva.
‘Elf-filth,’ Khan snarled, kicking her body over the floor and pressing a foot against her neck. She lay there, struggling weakly as he leaned forward. Her hands clutched at her throat.
‘No,’ Fletcher gasped. Her mana. She had to use her mana.
But she was oblivious, her hands clawing at the foot on her neck.
A wave of nausea overtook him as he grasped for the falx. His hand met a handle. The macana.
He could hear Sylva’s gurgles, and the throaty laughter of the albino orc as he choked the life from her.
Then he felt it. A slim, trickle of mana, coming from the twin consciousness within him. Athena and Ignatius. They were giving him everything they had, even when they needed it most. Enough for one last, desperate bid.
He raised a hand, pain tearing through his side. Lifted a finger, pointed it at the inside of Khan’s knee. And pulsed out the last of his mana in a kinetic blast.
The orc’s leg jerked forward, and Khan fell to his knee, bellowing with anger. And, with the final vestiges of his strength, Fletcher reared up, swinging and yelling with all his might.
Time seemed to slow as the great club slewed through the air. A moment of doubt, as the obsidian blade met pale flesh. Then it was through the orc’s neck, sending the great head tumbling to the ground. Khan’s body keeled over, slapping the ground like a haunch of meat.
But there was no time for relief, even in victory. He had to heal Ignatius.
Sylva turned her head, gasping like a beached fish.
‘I came as soon as I could,’ she whispered.
Her eyes were unfocused, and the bruise on her head had spread in an ugly stain across her temple.
Fletcher felt a wave of dizziness grip him as he struggled to his feet. With every breath, his strength was returning. Enough to stumble to Sylva and drag her along the marble floor, even as the pain of his ribs flared like red-hot pokers, skewering his chest. He heaved and slipped on Khan’s blood, cursing his weakness.
The Drake’s eyes were closed; blood pooled around him in a halo of red. Fletcher searched his consciousness. There was still the faintest glimmer of life. Fading fast.
Sylva’s head lolled, her eyes flickering on the edge of unconsciousness.
‘Wake up,’ Fletcher yelled, shaking Sylva. ‘You need to heal Ignatius.’
She opened her eyes, and stretched out a limp hand. A finger swirled in the air, the heart symbol sketched in blue thread. White light pulsed out, flowing over the shards of glass.
Slowly, the wounds sealed – long crystal fragments pushing out and tinkling on the floor. The spark of consciousness burned again, at first a small light in Fletcher’s mind, then flared fierce as the demon stood, and gasped in a deep breath.
Fletcher sobbed and threw himself around the demon’s neck. Relief flooded through him like a drug, softening the pain in his side.
He felt a downy body slip beneath his arm, nuzzling his injury – Athena had returned to him. She was battered and bruised, but alive as well. He broke from his embrace and clutched the Gryphowl to his chest.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, kissing the demon on her forehead.
And then he noticed. The silence. No gunfire. No screams, nor clash of weapons.
‘Did we win?’ Sylva whispered. She held out her arm, and Fletcher lifted the elf to her feet. They leaned against each other like drunken sailors.
Despite the silence, Fletcher felt no fear. It was out of his hands now. He had done all he could.
‘Let’s go and find out,’ Fletcher murmured.
Ignatius lowered himself to the ground, and Fletcher winced as they eased on to his back. Sylva sat in front of him so he could hold her in place if she fell unconscious again. She rested her head on Fletcher’s shoulder.
‘You sure you’re strong enough for this, buddy?’ Fletcher asked, stroking Ignatius’s side. ‘You lost a lot of blood.’
The demon barked, and with a slow leap they were flying through the air, spiralling upwards to the broken dome. Fletcher shuddered as they passed through the jagged hole, emerging into the empty skies and gliding on the wind.
He gripped Sylva tightly as they saw the result of the battle below, obscured by gunsmoke, blood and mud. The screaming of the injured drifted on the wind, and he felt Athena’s body shudder against his chest.
Death and devastation had turned the battlefield into a mess of scorched earth and corpses. Men moved like sleepwalkers through the fields of dead, putting the orcs that remained out of their misery.
In the distance, elks and their riders rode out over the plains. And, just beyond them, a horde of orcs, retreating into the red-stained horizon.
‘We won, Sylva,’ Fletcher whispered, hugging Sylva to his chest. Her hands covered his, and they gazed at the horrors beneath them.
There was no triumph in this victory. Only sorrow. Only loss.
‘We won.’