‘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.