Fletcher tugged off Sylva’s blindfold, then plucked at the knots with fingers made clumsy by the cold. The ropes were swollen from the wet, but they loosened as he tugged at them. All the time the crowd watched on, as if he were an actor on a stage and they the theatregoers.
‘Get them off, get them off!’ Sylva screamed. Her eyes were rolled back in her head. How on earth had she got herself into this situation? The last time he saw her she was with Isadora, back at Vocans.
Then the side of Fletcher’s head erupted in pain and he was on his back, the white of the canvas above filling his vision. Grindle’s gross bald head swam into focus, his club raised once more. It was an ugly, misshapen thing, all knotted and pitted like a roughly-hewn tree branch.
‘Race traitor,’ Grindle hissed. His shoulder was a mess of blackened cloth and burned flesh.
He clutched Ignatius by the neck as if he were holding a chicken, the demon’s tailspike stuck in his flabby arm. Fletcher’s heart filled with hope as Ignatius’s chest expanded, but nothing left the demon’s nostrils but a thin trickle of smoke. The fat man laid his foot across Fletcher’s neck to hold him still, then centred the club at his head. Fletcher closed his eyes and prayed it would be a quick death.
He heard a scream and then a thud. A weight fell across him, crushing his chest and knocking the wind out of him. He opened his eyes to see Sylva, holding a bloody cudgel in her hands. The fat man gurgled in Fletcher’s ear.
He struggled to lift the body, but it felt like he was trying to shift a tree.
‘I can’t breathe,’ Fletcher gasped with the last of the air in his lungs. Sylva crouched and pushed with all her might, but the body barely budged. Fletcher’s heartbeat pounded in his eardrums, the pulse erratic and frantic. The edges of his vision began to darken as he wheezed, snatching tiny mouthfuls of air.
Then Othello was there, staggering on to the scene with blood running down the side of his face. The elf and the dwarf heaved at the body until Fletcher could breathe once again, deep sobbing gasps that tasted sweeter than honey.
‘You monsters!’ Sylva cried, spitting at the silent onlookers.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Othello said, looking at the crowd in disgust.
They lifted Fletcher to his feet then staggered down the steps like three drunks, almost unable to stand. This time, the rabble parted to give them a wide berth.
They lurched down the deserted streets, rain beating down on them in waves as the wind blew and ebbed. Othello seemed to know the way, leading them down tight alleyways and backstreets until they arrived at the main road that had brought them into Corcillum. They had no idea if they were being followed. Sundown would arrive at any minute, yet with Sylva in tow there was no way they could stay overnight in a tavern.
The trio walked for two hours without seeing a single cart or wagon. Sylva was dressed in nothing more than a silken gown, and she had somehow lost her shoes in her capture. She was shivering so violently that she could barely get her arms through Fletcher’s jacket when he offered it to her.
‘We need to stop and rest!’ Fletcher shouted over the roar of the wind and rain. Othello nodded, too tired to even look up from the road. His face was ashen white, and red-tinged rivulets of water trickled down the side of his face. The head wound was too wet to close up of its own accord.
There were green cornfields on either side of them, but Fletcher could see a wooden roof peeking out over the top, a few hundred yards to their right.
‘This way!’ he yelled, pulling them off the road. They brushed through the heavy stalks, snapping their brittle stems underfoot. Solomon led the way, desperate to get his master to safety.
It was nothing more than a glorified shed, long since abandoned. Fletcher’s heart dropped for a moment when he saw the outside had been locked up with a rusted chain, but Solomon snapped it with a blow from his stone fist.
The inside was damp and musty, filled with old barrels of flour that had succumbed to rot. Yet to be out of the torrent that pelted down on them was bliss.
Sylva and Othello collapsed to the floor, huddling together to keep warm. Fletcher slammed the door behind him and slumped down to the ground too. This was not how he had imagined his trip to Corcillum would go.
‘Don’t worry, guys, I’m going to warm you up. Ignatius, come down.’ The imp scampered down his arm and looked at him miserably. The little creature’s neck was bruised a dark red from Grindle’s grip. He took a deep breath and let out a thin plume of flame, but in the damp air it did nothing but illuminate their near pitch-black surroundings. The only light came from cracks in the walls, which also let in chilling draughts of wind. There had to be another way. If Fletcher didn’t do something, they would likely catch their death.