The imp silenced, then opened its mouth as wide as a snake’s. Liquid fire burst from the creature’s maw, flowing over the side of Didric’s face and setting his hair alight. An unearthly, orange glow flared in the cavern as Didric collapsed, his choked scream cut short when his head cracked on to the marble floor. Jakov and Calista fell to their knees and beat at the flickering flames, yelling Didric’s name. As the imp scampered into Fletcher’s arms, he vaulted into the crypt and made for the exit, his heart fluttering beneath his ribs like a caged bird.
It was black as a sinner’s soul down there, the air stale and ice cold. He ran on and on, stumbling deep into the bowels of the earth. Clutching the book under his arm, Fletcher’s hand brushed along stacks of bones as he felt his way through the darkness, held together by rusting wire and centuries of dust. He knocked a skull from its alcove, his finger catching in its empty eye socket. It bounced down the corridor, then shattered into grisly fragments. They crunched underfoot as he lurched onwards, desperate to get out of there. The air was stifling, and Fletcher felt he was suffocating with each dust-laden breath. The demon was not helping matters, digging its claws into the fabric of his shirt and hissing in displeasure.
After what felt like an eternity, his shin cracked painfully into a stone ledge. He groped forwards and found another. Relief flooded through him as he realised he had found what must be the stairs to the chapel. He reached above and felt the flat surface of another stone tablet. With a colossal effort, he heaved it upwards and sideways, sending it to the floor with a crash.
The dim glow of the moon was glorious as it shone through the chapel’s broken windows, bathing Fletcher in silver. He gulped down lungfuls of fresh air, grateful to be out of that deathtrap. Yet even as he began to relax, he remembered what had just happened. He needed to get back to Berdon as soon as possible. He would know what to do.
Fletcher ran through the dark, using the moonlight to guide him down the goat path. He was sure that the others would not be far behind, probably carrying Didric with them. He would have ten minutes at most before the word got out. If the guards heard that one of their own had been attacked, whatever the circumstances, it was unlikely Fletcher would live long enough to stand trial. Even if he did, with Caspar’s connections he wouldn’t get a fair hearing, and the only two witnesses would have no problem lying.
The village was silent as a shadow; everyone was asleep in their beds. As he jogged up to the main gates, he was overjoyed to see the gatehouse above lay empty. One of his attackers must have skipped their shift to hunt him down.
The forge was lit by the soft glow of coals, smoking gently as they burned themselves out. Berdon was asleep in the wicker chair, in the exact same position he had been in when Fletcher sneaked out.
There was no time to waste; he needed to escape. The thought of leaving Pelt cut him to the core, his heart clenching at the notion. For a moment he could see the life of a vagrant ahead of him, wandering from town to town, begging for scraps. He shook the thoughts from his head. One thing at a time.
With a heavy heart, Fletcher shook Berdon awake.
‘What is it?’ he slurred, slapping at Fletcher’s hands. ‘I’m sleeping. Wake me in the morning.’ Fletcher shook him again, harder this time.
‘Wake up! I need your help. There isn’t much time,’ Fletcher said. ‘Come on!’
Berdon gazed up, then started as the curious imp dropped from Fletcher’s shoulder on to his chest.
‘What the hell is that?’ he yelled, leaning as far away from it as possible. The demon squawked at the noise and gave a half-hearted swipe at Berdon’s beard.
‘It’s a long story, but I’ll have to make it quick. You should know I’m going to have to skip town for a while,’ Fletcher began, picking up the imp and laying it on his shoulder. It curled around his neck and emitted a soft purr.
He spoke as quickly as possible, skipping the details but making sure Berdon understood all the facts.
In the retelling, Fletcher realised what an idiot he had been to walk through the centre of the village, where anyone could have seen him. When he had finished, he stood there woodenly, hanging his head in shame as Berdon rushed around, lighting a torch and then packing things into a leather satchel. Berdon only had one question.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked, looking Fletcher in the eye.
‘I . . . don’t know. He hit his head pretty hard. Whatever happens, his face will be badly burned. They’ll say I attacked him with a torch; lured him to the graveyard, then tried to kill him. I’ve let you down, Berdon. I’ve been a fool,’ Fletcher cried. Tears welled in his eyes as Berdon handed him the deep satchel, the same one he had used to transport the swords to the elven front. He threw the book into the bottom with a sob, wishing it had never come into his possession. Despair seemed to be crushing his heart like a vice. The big man put his hands on Fletcher’s shoulders and gripped them, sending the demon skittering to the floor.