He was here for a prophecy. For the Salamander that had been seen in the battle in the pyramid, the same one that was engraved on the walls of their most sacred place. He was here for Ignatius.
The Wyverns would arrive any minute. He slapped Lysander on the rump, and the Griffin leaped into the air like a started horse.
“Look after my mother,” he yelled.
“I’ll come back for you,” Sylva shouted, her words half-lost in the air.
Then they were gone.
CHAPTER
15
FLETCHER DIDN’T BOTHER HIDING. Instead, he moved farther from the lava, where the air was cooler and he could hear himself think. If he was lucky, the orcs would stop here, instead of following Sylva. She needed as much time as he could get her.
He could feel Athena struggling within him. She wanted to be summoned, to fight alongside him. He refused—better to keep the injured demon safe within him.
As for Ignatius, this time the Salamander was using up Fletcher’s mana as swiftly as the lava pit beneath the pyramid, but somehow gaining it even faster from some unknown source. It was as if the demon was converting the volcano’s heat into mana.
Fletcher loosened his khopesh in his scabbard and pulled his pistols from their holsters. Three shots—relatively useless against the armored skin of the Wyverns, but they might take out a shaman, if he aimed well. Perhaps even Khan himself.
He’d save Blaze for that one—the longer, rifled barrel would give him a more accurate shot. Then his death wouldn’t be for nothing.
At the thought of his death, Fletcher felt a tight knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. He fought to ignore it, even as it seemed to swell within him.
The first Wyverns swooped in on the other side of the lava pool, their dark shapes shimmering in the hot air. They must have been able to see him, yet none approached. Instead, the shamans dismounted and spread in a half circle across from the bubbling lake, giving Fletcher a wide berth. Too bad they were out of pistol range.
It did not take long for Khan to arrive. He had only been waiting for them to secure the perimeter. Fletcher watched him land, his pale form stark against the black volcanic soil.
To his dismay, a single Wyvern and what looked like the entire flock of Shrikes, Vesps and Strixs flew on overhead, high above him. They had spotted Sylva—he only hoped she had enough of a head start to lose them.
Fletcher tried to power up his shield spell, but the pull of mana from Ignatius was too strong, so much so that even Athena’s supply had already been drained. Spellcraft would not help Fletcher now.
He heard Khan bark an order, and saw something strange was happening across the lava. White light was streaming from the shamans, twisting across the earth and around the pit toward him. It was like a flood of opaque water, flowing a few inches above the ground. Shield spells.
Fletcher retreated, but in seconds it had reached him. For a moment he thought the wave was going to engulf his body, but then it reared up a few feet away and wrapped around him like a bubble, leaving him contained in a sphere of translucent light. He was trapped.
Athena would be able to break through it—the demonic energy that demons were composed of tore shields apart—but it would take a few seconds for a demon of her size to get through one so thick. He sheathed Gale, his double-barreled, shorter pistol, and curled his hand into a fist, so that his pentacle tattoo was hidden. It was the one card he had left to play.
It was only when the shield completely encompassed Fletcher that Khan began his approach, walking casually along the outer rim, his skirt fluttering in the hot air. He was holding the largest macana war club Fletcher had ever seen.
It was almost as tall as a man, but thinner than the broad clubs that orcs normally used, with a single handbreadth of width rather than two. Instead of the usual rectangular shards of obsidian embedded intermittently along the sides, this club’s shards were aligned to leave a single sharp edge all the way around. It was a deadly weapon, and the orc handled it with practiced ease, resting it on his shoulder as his long legs carried him onward.
Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced each one down in tight gulps of air. This was his enemy. His nemesis.
This was it.
The gun was slippery in his hand, though whether the sweat was from the heat or his nerves he could not tell. All he knew was that the shield that surrounded him was too thick to penetrate with a gunshot. He leaned his forehead against its wall, feeling the slippery cool of the spell on his skin.
All eight feet of the albino orc stopped beside the shield. He towered so high that Fletcher had to crane his neck to see his face. The red, baleful eyes stared down at him, with the twin tusks on either side of his mouth framing a cruel smile.
To Fletcher’s surprise, Khan dropped to one knee, so that the orc’s face was but a few inches from his own. Then, the orc spoke.
“Just a boy,” he growled, the words guttural in his mouth.
Fletcher gaped, and the orc unleashed a deep, throaty laugh at his captive’s expression.
“Yes, I speak your tongue,” Khan chuckled.
His speech was better than the matronly Mother’s had been; the smaller tusks he sported were less of an impediment.
“How?” Fletcher asked, the question leaving his mouth before he could bite it back.
“The woman you stole from us,” Khan said, pointing a finger accusingly at Fletcher. “A useful teacher,” the orc continued, scratching his chin. “She thought we had her baby, so I said I would kill it if she refused. That was enough. Of course, when she outlived her usefulness, I told her we had killed it anyway. I’m sure you’ve seen what that did to her.”
He laughed again, but Fletcher saw he never broke eye contact. The orc was goading him. The words cut Fletcher to his very soul, but he forced down the anger. He needed the orc to lose his temper, lower the shield. Just long enough for him to get off a shot.
“My name is Fletcher Raleigh, and I am that child,” Fletcher said defiantly. “I slaughtered your goblins and buried your shamans’ demons in the rubble of your most holy place. I copied your keys to the ether and stole your slaves. Me. Just a boy.”
It was his turn to laugh, though it felt fake and forced.
Khan’s face was expressionless, but Fletcher could see he had struck a nerve, for the orc’s hand had tightened on his macana. Fletcher pressed on.
“You brought all of your Wyverns to hunt me down. I bet our forces have been running rampant across your homeland, while we’ve led you on a merry chase across the face of another world. I bet—”
“Enough!” Khan slammed his fist into the side of the shield. It cracked ever so slightly. “Your mother was a dog that we fed on scraps,” he hissed through the shield, spittle spraying from his mouth. “She barked for us and slept in her own filth. We beat her for the joy of it until she lost her senses, then we beat her some more. I piss on her memory.”