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.