43
‘Those are the men that kidnapped me,’ Sylva hissed, pointing at the armoured soldiers below.
‘I know. I would recognise the fat bald one anywhere,’ Fletcher replied, gripping the hilt of his khopesh. ‘His name is Grindle – he’s the one who was going to perform the execution. I thought you killed him. Guess he must have a thick skull.’
‘There’re too many of them,’ Sylva muttered, but Fletcher could see her tensing, as if she were preparing to jump into the fray. Behind them, Fletcher could hear a low growl as Sariel sensed the elf’s agitation.
‘Try to stay calm. We need to find out why they’re here,’ Fletcher forced his own anger away and leaned over the shadowed parapet to listen.
‘I don’t understand why we don’t just wait out here and ambush them when they come out,’ one of the men was complaining.
‘Because this is just one of five exits,’ Grindle replied, sitting down on a boulder. ‘Not to mention that three of them lead back to the tunnels under the Dwarven Quarter.’
As the other men gathered around, the light from their torches showed Grindle’s bandaged shoulder, still injured from Ignatius’s fireball.
‘I should have made sure he was dead,’ Sylva whispered through gritted teeth. Fletcher laid a calming hand on her shoulder. If it came down to a fight, he didn’t feel confident about their chances.
There were ten men, each clad in boiled leather armour. It would allow them fast movement whilst still protecting them from light sword strokes.
Fletcher eyed their muskets. His feeble shield spell wasn’t going to help him tonight.
‘What are we waiting for then?’ another man asked, peering into the dark depths of the cave.
‘Did you not pay any attention in the briefing?’ Grindle growled, reaching up and gripping the speaker by the front of his breastplate. He dragged the man down to his level.
‘There are several hundred of Lord Forsyth’s troops gathering at the other accessible exit,’ Grindle spat, spraying the speaker’s face with saliva. ‘We go in when they do, which will be when the horn sounds, around five minutes from now. Or did you think ten men against a hundred dwarves was the plan all along?’
Fletcher’s heart froze. This was what he had overheard Tarquin and Isadora talking about. It was not Seraph’s family that was in danger, but the dwarves!
‘Five minutes,’ Sylva breathed. ‘We have to do something.’
Fletcher assessed the options, his eyes darting from the men to the cave entrance. There was not enough time. Fighting Grindle’s soldiers would take too long. If they tried to get past, they would barely make it into the cave mouth before a musket ball burst through their shoulder blades. Even if by some miracle they made it, they would still need to convince the dwarven guards of what was happening.
‘If only Ignatius could talk,’ Sylva muttered, watching the dwarves on the scrying crystal. They were still there, milling around and discussing the decision amongst themselves.
‘He doesn’t have to,’ Fletcher said with sudden realisation. He needed the dwarves to know that they were under attack. So why not attack them?
He sent his orders to Ignatius and felt a flash of confusion and fear from the demon. As his intentions became clear, the fear was replaced with steely resolve.
‘Watch,’ he whispered to Sylva.
Ignatius crawled down the stalactite, wrapping his tail around the tip and digging the spiked tip into the soft stone. He hung there like a bat, stretching his neck to get as close to the dwarves as possible.
‘Now, Ignatius,’ Fletcher murmured, feeling his vision intensify as the mana flared inside them.
Ignatius unleashed a thick plume of fire, a roiling wave of orange flame that billowed just short of the elderly dwarves below. It singed their heads, filling the room with the acrid stench of burning hair. Then, with a chirr of excitement, Ignatius was back on the ceiling and scampering back to Fletcher.
‘We’re under attack!’ Hakon roared, as the room descended into panic. ‘Retreat to the caves! Protect the elders!’
The boar riders returned from their posts at the exits, herding the milling crowd of dwarves to a tunnel that led down into the earth.
‘It worked,’ Sylva whispered. ‘Fletcher, you genius!’
Suddenly, a hurlbat axe came flying from the crowd, embedding itself just a few inches from Ignatius.
‘A demon from Vocans! Treachery!’ It was Atilla, still standing on the podium with Othello. ‘Who did you tell about this meeting?’
‘Nobody, I swear it,’ Othello shouted back, his face filled with confusion as he recognised Ignatius. ‘I know this demon. Its owner is a friend to the dwarves!’
‘Then he won’t mind me killing it for him!’ Atilla howled, snatching another throwing-axe from his belt.
He jumped from the podium and began to sprint towards Ignatius, who had frozen in fear.
‘No, Atilla, stay with the others!’ Othello shouted, running after him.
Ignatius screeched and scrambled down the tunnel, narrowly avoiding Atilla’s next throw.
‘Stop him, Fletcher – you’ll lead them to Grindle,’ Sylva whispered, tugging on his sleeve.
But it was too late. The dwarf twins were running directly beneath Ignatius now.
‘Get ready,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘We’re going to have to fight.’
Sylva nodded, drawing her stiletto from a scabbard at her thigh. Sariel sensed her mood and crouched, ready to leap on the men below. They waited with baited breath as the seconds ticked by.
‘Footsteps!’ Grindle said hoarsely, pointing at the tunnel entrance. Fletcher could hear them now too, echoing down the cave as Atilla and Othello ran on.
‘Two rows; front rank kneeling, second rank standing. Fire on my command!’ Grindle ordered, drawing his sword and lifting it high above his head.
The steps were getting closer now. Fletcher could hear the clatter of another axe as it missed Ignatius once again.
‘I’ll shield the entrance. You flash them with wyrdlight to throw off their aim; I don’t know if my shield will be strong enough,’ Sylva said. She was already drawing the shield symbol in the air. Moments later and she was flowing opaque light on to the ground in front of her, pooling it as if it were molten amber.
‘Ready,’ Grindle growled.
The men raised their muskets, pointing them down the cave. Fletcher pulled mana from Ignatius. It was harder with the distance between them, but soon his body buzzed with power. In his mana-filled vision, the torchlight glowed a deep orange.
‘Aim,’ Grindle uttered, lowering his sword by a foot.
The footsteps no longer echoed, they were that close. Any second now and the two dwarves would come into view. Grindle’s sword fell.
‘Fi—’
‘Now!’ Sylva shouted, sending a glistening square of white shield below.
Fletcher fired a blast of blue light into the gunmen’s eyes, blinding them as the muskets crackled, belching black smoke into a haze in front of them.
Then Sariel burst through the ranks, scattering them like ninepins. She leaped on to the nearest man’s chest and began to savage his throat.
Fletcher jumped from the cliff with a yell, stabbing down with his khopesh. It took a fallen man through the stomach, then it was on to the next dazed opponent, cutting him down at the neck. He could hear Sylva screaming behind him, then the gurgle of a man with his throat cut.
Ignatius dropped on to Fletcher’s shoulder from above and blew flames at a man who was charging at him, sword raised.
‘My eyes!’ the man screamed, falling to his knees. Sylva darted past and stabbed him through the skull.
Sariel bounded back to them, the fur around her snout a grisly mess of blood and pulp. Sylva grabbed her by the neck fur and dragged her back to the cave mouth to stand beside Fletcher. There were five men left, including Grindle. They had regrouped, spreading in a wide fan that kept their enemies trapped in the cave.
Othello and Atilla arrived, gasping as they tried to catch their breath. The shield must have worked.
‘It’s an ambush, Atilla. Fletcher and Sylva are on our team,’ Othello muttered. Solomon rumbled in agreement.
‘I’d rather kill five men than one boy.’ Atilla grasped a sword from one of the fallen men. ‘I’ll fight beside you . . . for now.’
He handed Othello a tomahawk from his waist.
‘You were always better with it than me. Show these humans what a true dwarf can do.’
Then Grindle threw a torch into the cave, illuminating their faces. He spat in disgust.
‘Elf filth. I should have killed you as soon as I had the chance. If Lord Forsyth hadn’t made us do it publicly, you’d be rotting in the ground right now.’
Fletcher froze at the mention of the Forsyth name, realising who had been behind Sylva’s kidnapping. It was no coincidence that the Forsyth twins were with her when she was taken. He shook the revelation from his thoughts, focussing on the task at hand.
‘I’m going to disembowel you,’ Grindle snarled, jabbing his sword at her stomach. ‘I always wondered if elves have the same insides.’
‘That shoulder looks painful,’ Fletcher jeered. ‘How would you like it today? Medium rare, or well done?’
Grindle ignored his comment and smirked.
‘Reload your muskets, boys. It’ll be like shooting rats in a barrel.’
‘Not so fast!’ Atilla said. ‘First one to reach for their musket gets an axe through their face.’
He took the last hurlbat axe from his belt and twirled it in his fingers. The remaining men looked from Grindle to their muskets on the ground. They didn’t move.
‘It’s seven of us against five of you; and three of ours are demons. Do yourself a favour and go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.’
Grindle smirked and pointed his sword at the cave behind them. In the distance, Fletcher could hear the sound of a horn, the sign for Forsyth’s men to attack.
‘If I keep you here long enough, reinforcements are going to arrive. They’ll cut you down like dogs.’
‘If . . .’ Fletcher said, taking a step forward. But he realised Grindle had a point. The distant shouts from Forsyth’s soldiers echoed in the tunnel behind him. When Grindle didn’t charge in with them, they would come and investigate. Fletcher needed to get out of there right now. Fighting could take far too long.
Fletcher flared a ball of wyrdlight into existence, feeding it mana until it was the size of a man’s head. It throbbed with a dull pulse, glaring in the gloom of the cave’s entrance. He propelled it at Grindle, who edged away from it.
‘Have you ever seen what a mana burn looks like, Grindle? You think real fire was bad . . . wait until you feel your flesh peel from your bones when the raw mana touches your skin. I hear the pain is unimaginable,’ Fletcher bluffed. He knew full well that a wyrdlight would dissipate as soon as it touched anything solid, with no ill effects. Grindle didn’t know that though.
Sylva and Othello followed suit, sending smaller balls of wyrdlight zooming around Grindle’s head. He ducked, batting at them with his sword.
‘Run home, Grindle,’ Fletcher laughed. ‘You’re out of your league. Count yourself lucky that we let you live.’
Grindle howled his frustration, bawling at the sky. Finally, he stepped aside, then motioned for his men to do the same.
Fletcher bowed low with exaggerated theatricality, then led the others past them. He kept his wyrdlight floating above Grindle’s head. It was important to keep up the appearance of being in confident control.
‘Well done, Fletcher,’ Othello whispered. ‘That was great acting.’
‘I learned from the best,’ Fletcher whispered back, remembering their encounter with the Pinkertons.
They walked as quickly as possible, aware of Grindle’s malevolent stare boring into their backs.
‘What’s all that racket, Grindle? The men said they heard gunshots!’ a booming voice shouted from the cave. The entrance was lit with torches as armoured figures streamed out of it.
‘Run!’ Fletcher shouted.
A musket ball plucked at his sleeve and shattered on a boulder ahead of them. More shots followed, buzzing overhead like angry wasps.
It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. All Fletcher could hear was their ragged breathing as they stumbled in the darkness. Wyrdlights were out of the question. The cover of night was all that protected them from the volleys of fire that crashed in the distance behind them.
A bullet whistled close by and then there was a thud as a body fell in front of him. Fletcher tripped in a tangle of limbs, sprawling in the mud with whoever had fallen.
‘It’s my leg,’ Atilla groaned. ‘I’ve been hit!’
They were alone. Sylva and Othello must have lost them in the mad rush to escape.
‘Leave me. I will cover your retreat,’ Atilla choked, pushing Fletcher away from him.
‘Not a chance. I’m going to get you out of here, even if I have to carry you,’ Fletcher replied stubbornly, trying to pull Atilla to his feet.
‘I said leave me! I will die fighting, like a true dwarf.’ Atilla growled, shaking Fletcher off.
‘Is that how a true dwarf dies? Shot in the mud like a dog? I thought you dwarves were tougher than that,’ Fletcher said, layering his voice with contempt. Anger seemed to be what drove this dwarf, and he would use that to his advantage.
‘You little prig. Let me die in peace!’ Atilla roared, shoving Fletcher back into the mud.
‘If you want to die, then fine! But not tonight. If they capture you, they can use you as proof of a secret meeting here. Don’t do this to your people. Don’t give the Forsyths the satisfaction.’
Atilla snarled with frustration, then took a deep breath.
‘We’ll do it your way. But if they catch up with us, there will be no surrender. We fight to the death.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Fletcher replied, hauling the dwarf to his feet.
It was hard going, as their height difference didn’t allow Fletcher to put the dwarf’s arm around his shoulders. Worse still, the shouts of their pursuers were getting louder and louder. Unlike Fletcher and Atilla, they had torches to light their way.
They carried on for what seemed like hours, then Atilla stumbled and fell to the ground.
‘You’re just going to have to carry me. It will be faster that way,’ Atilla gasped. The injury was taking its toll, and Fletcher could feel that the dwarf’s britches were soaking wet with blood. He knew that the dwarf would have had to swallow a lot of pride to make such a request.
‘Come on. Jump up on my back,’ Fletcher murmured. He grunted as Atilla’s weight settled, then trudged on, breathing through gritted teeth. Ignatius chittered encouragement at his new riding companion, lapping at the dwarf’s face.
Without warning, the area was lit by a glow of dim blue light. A globe of wyrdlight had appeared in the sky, hundreds of feet above. It hung there like a second moon, spinning above the clouds.
‘Was that you?’ Atilla asked.
‘No. It wouldn’t be Othello or Sylva either. The Forsyth men must have a battlemage with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Zacharias himself; that wyrdlight is huge!’ Fletcher replied.
He looked around them and his heart dropped. The surrounding landscape looked almost identical, and he realised that he was hopelessly lost. But if he didn’t make it back to safety soon, Atilla would not last the night.
The shouts were in the distance now, but they were by no means safe. If the enemy battlemage had a flying demon, it might spot them.
‘Stop right there!’ a voice shouted. A man stepped out from the shadows, pointing a musket at them. Again, Fletcher cursed his inability to perform a shield spell.
‘No surrender . . .’ Atilla muttered in his ear. But the dwarf’s voice was slurred and faint. Fletcher doubted Atilla could take more than a few steps before collapsing.
Ignatius jumped from Fletcher’s neck and hissed. The man ignored him and continued to point the musket directly at Fletcher’s face.
‘Keep that thing away from me, or I fire,’ he said, jerking the muzzle threateningly.
Fletcher lifted his hand and flared a ball of wyrdlight into existence.
‘I can whip this into your skull faster than any bullet. Drop the weapon and there will be no trouble.’
‘I’m a soldier, you idiot. I know what a wyrdlight is. Drop the dwarf on the ground and— agh!’ The man yelped and clapped his free hand to his neck.
A dull brown Mite buzzed above him and then flew in a circle around Fletcher’s head.
‘Valens,’ Fletcher breathed. Somehow, the little demon had found them. The man fell over sideways, his musket still raised. It was as if he had been frozen.
‘Major Goodwin wasn’t kidding about a Scarab’s sting,’ Fletcher marvelled. Valens emitted a loud buzz and then flew back and forth in the air.
Fletcher watched him for a moment, then realised that the little demon wanted him to follow.
‘Just a little longer, Atilla,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘We’re going to make it.’