44
Atilla was unconscious by the time they arrived at Vocans, but he was still breathing. The dwarf’s leg was stiff with clotted blood, but in the darkness Fletcher could not see the extent of the damage. He wrapped the wound as tightly as he could with a strip of cloth from Atilla’s shirt, then followed Valens over the drawbridge.
‘Where do we go now?’ Fletcher whispered to the hovering demon above him.
The Mite buzzed encouragingly and stopped halfway up the eastern staircase. Fletcher eyed the steep steps with apprehension.
‘I don’t know if I can do it!’ he groaned, hefting Atilla’s body. Sensing Fletcher’s mood, Ignatius leaped to the ground.
‘Thanks, buddy, that’s much lighter,’ Fletcher murmured half-heartedly, rubbing the demon under its chin.
Valens led him up the stairs, the thrum of his wings guiding Fletcher in the darkness. He did not risk a wyrdlight. If Rook caught him with Atilla, it would be reported to old King Alfric.
They stopped on the top floor, then continued up to the northeastern tower. By this time, Fletcher’s knees were close to buckling, but he continued on doggedly. Somehow, Valens had a plan.
Finally, they reached a set of heavy wooden doors at the very top of the tower, and Fletcher realised they were at the infirmary. Before he had a chance to knock, the doors swung open and a frantic Sylva appeared.
‘You’re OK! We thought you had died,’ Sylva sobbed, burying her face in Fletcher’s chest. Othello stared at him, his face pale and streaked with tears. The dwarf rushed to Fletcher’s side and took Atilla into his arms.
Fletcher patted Sylva’s head awkwardly and looked around the room. There were several rows of beds, their frames rusting and covered in dust. Three newer beds lay close by the door, with Sariel resting beneath them. As Othello laid Atilla on one of them, Fletcher noticed that they were not all empty.
Lovett lay motionless on the nearest bed. She was so still that she might have been a corpse, were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. She was dressed in a nightgown, with her long black hair falling about her head like a halo. The others had lit the torches and candles on either side of her bed, which cast the room in a dull, orange light.
‘Valens led you here too?’ Fletcher asked, as the Mite landed on Lovett’s chest.
‘He found us about an hour ago, then flew straight out of the window as soon as we got to this room,’ Sylva said, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘He must have sensed you were in trouble.’
‘I don’t think it’s just Valens we need to thank,’ Fletcher said, stroking the beetle demon’s carapace.
‘What do you mean?’ Sylva asked.
‘Arcturus told me that some summoners can learn how to see and hear through their demon, effectively using their own mind as a scrying stone. I doubt a Mite could have done what Valens did tonight without someone guiding him. Were you with him, Captain Lovett?’ Fletcher looked at her immobile face.
The demon buzzed and spun in a circle.
‘Not possible!’ Sylva gasped.
‘How did she know?’ Fletcher asked, his eyes widening in wonder.
‘She must have been watching out for us. Probably since Rook showed up,’ Sylva said, smoothing Lovett’s hair out on the pillow. ‘We’re lucky. We could be dead if it wasn’t for her.’
‘If you’re all done being amazed, I need help over here,’ Othello said in a cracked voice. Fletcher’s eyes widened when he saw Atilla’s leg.
Othello had cut through the cloth around it to reveal a jagged hole that streamed with blood. Fletcher had never seen a bullet wound before, and the damage looked far worse than the tiny puncture he had imagined.
‘We are lucky, the bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. The bone is definitely broken though, so we can’t attempt a healing spell. Last time I saw a wound like this, a Pinkerton had shot a young dwarf for not paying them protection,’ Othello said, cutting a long strip from the bed sheet using Atilla’s tomahawk. ‘The best we can do is dress the wound to stop the bleeding. Lift his leg for me.’
They helped Othello wrap the wound, until Atilla’s leg was swathed in a thick band of white bandage. Tenderly, Othello wiped the crusted blood away.
‘I know Atilla seems as racist to humans as many humans are to the dwarves, but he has a good heart. He just has a hot head to match,’ Othello murmured, propping a pillow under the sleeping dwarf’s head.
They stood in silence whilst Othello dabbed at his brother’s forehead.
‘I think we need to discuss what happened tonight,’ Sylva spoke up.
‘I agree,’ Fletcher said. ‘But we need to get Seraph first. He deserves to know what kind of danger his family might be in.’
‘I’ll go,’ Othello said. ‘I need to get a spare uniform from my room anyway. We will need it if we are to sneak Atilla out tomorrow.’
He stomped away, followed by a dejected looking Solomon. Fletcher knew that Othello was probably holding the whole world on his shoulders at that moment.
He sat on the side of Lovett’s bed, groaning with satisfaction as he relieved his tired feet. He stroked Sariel’s head absentmindedly and she responded with a rumble of appreciation. Grinning, he scratched her beneath the chin the way Ignatius liked. She rubbed back and yipped with pleasure.
‘Um, Fletcher,’ Sylva stuttered.
Fletcher looked up and saw that she was blushing, her face and neck flushing with scarlet.
‘Sorry . . . didn’t think,’ he blurted, pulling his hand away.
She stood for a moment, then sighed and sat down on the bed next to him.
‘I never thanked you,’ she muttered, twisting her hands together.
‘For what?’ Fletcher asked, confused.
‘For following me. If you hadn’t . . . Grindle might have caught me again.’
‘I don’t know; I think Grindle might have been in for a bit of a surprise. You said Sariel was worth ten men, that makes it an even fight. If it hadn’t been for you, we could be in the middle of a civil war right now. You made the right call.’
Valens buzzed excitedly and nudged Fletcher’s hand.
‘I think Captain Lovett wants to know what’s going on. Tell her what happened in Valentius Square and I’ll let her know what went down tonight.’
The story took some telling; Othello and Seraph arrived by the time they had finished it. Seraph was still in his pyjamas and squinted in the light.
‘Othello filled me in on the way,’ Seraph said, staring at Atilla and Lovett’s unconscious bodies. ‘I just have one question. Why would the Forsyths hire Grindle to kill you that night in Corcillum, but also want to be your friend?’
Sylva stood and chewed on her lip.
‘I always thought they wanted my friendship so that they could supply the elves with weapons should an alliance be on the cards,’ she said, pacing around the room. ‘But what makes me their enemy? Why would they want me dead?’
‘I think the real question is, why would they want you executed publicly,’ Othello said matter of factly. ‘They could have killed you at any time. Why make such a statement?’
‘To incite a war between the elves and Hominum,’ Seraph suggested. ‘A real one. That would increase the demand for weapons and keep their business afloat, even with the dwarves competing with them.’
Fletcher felt a wave of disgust. Starting a war, for profit?
‘So they want the best of both worlds . . .’ he muttered. ‘If the elves ally with Hominum, the Forsyths plan to secure a weapons contract through their fake friendship with Sylva. But they would prefer a war because it would make them more money. They didn’t abandon you at the market, Sylva, they led you right into Grindle’s arms!’
‘Don’t say I told you so . . .’ Sylva stared at her feet.
The room went silent, only broken by Valens’s angry buzzing as he flitted to and fro.
‘Those evil little prigs!’ Seraph growled. ‘I knew they were up to something but this . . . this is treason!’
‘We can’t prove anything!’ Fletcher cursed, clenching his fists together. ‘In fact, if we tell the King the whole story, he is more likely to think it was the dwarves committing treason, what with the war council and all.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sylva announced. ‘Their plan is ruined now. I will write to my father tonight and tell him that the Forsyths are not to be trusted. The plot to start a civil war with the dwarves has been foiled and I am relatively safe at Vocans. There is nothing they can do to harm us now.’
‘Yes, there is,’ Seraph cautioned. ‘The tournament. If one of the Forsyths wins, they will become high-ranking officers and gain a seat on the King’s council. That’s an extra vote for Zacharias and another voice speaking out against my family, not to mention the elves and the dwarves.’
Othello nodded, then scratched his beard contemplatively. ‘Let’s not forget that the most powerful people in Hominum will be watching it; the nobles and the generals,’ he said, pacing back and forth. ‘They will be deciding if the elves and the dwarves are worthy allies, then reporting back to the King. We can be sure the Forsyths will be doing everything they can to discredit and embarrass us during the tournament too.’
‘Then we beat them!’ Fletcher jumped to his feet. ‘Who says we can’t win the tournament ourselves? We have a Golem, a Barkling, a Canid and a Salamander!’
Seraph shook his head.
‘We aren’t as powerful as them. Even the second year commoners will have an advantage over us. How are we supposed to win?’
Fletcher took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye.
‘We train.’