The Wyverns were fleeing—Fletcher could see six forms floating above the rim; five remaining Wyverns and the smaller Ahool. Khan watched from the relative safety of the deadlands, where only the longest tentacles could reach him.
Fletcher grinned and waved, knowing he had struck a blow for Hominum that would cripple the orcish air force. In one fell stroke, Fletcher had taken out half of the flying shamans’ primary demons. Far in the distance, he heard Khan’s bellow of rage, echoing faintly above the slobbering squeals of the monstrosities below.
But Fletcher was not safe yet. He could not return; the Wyverns would be waiting for him. Nor could he stay, for the Ceteans would soon turn their attention back to him.
It was time to test a theory that had been debated by Vocans’s scholars for hundreds of years. That Ceteans did not live beyond the borders of the ether. The theory had never been proven, as no summoner’s demon had ever made the attempt. But the distraction of the Wyverns had given Fletcher the chance to try.
So, Ignatius turned away and flew on, into the Abyss.
CHAPTER
17
HOURS HAD PASSED, at least ten, for Fletcher had been forced to eat two petals from his pockets. Ignatius’s wing beats slowed, until they were gliding. It was as if the whole universe had disappeared, for the black of night engulfed them from every side. All was darkness, but for the band of light from the ether, far, far away. And it was cold … a cold that Fletcher did not believe possible.
Fletcher would have long frozen to death were it not for the warmth of Ignatius’s back. Even so, as the minutes ticked by and the light in the distance grew gradually larger, he wondered if he had left it too late to turn back. His teeth chattered endlessly, and gouts of steam poured from his mouth.
The orcs would think him long dead, but in case they remained, he had taken Ignatius in a long curve that would take him around to the part of the Abyss near the lagoon, saving him time on their journey back.
His hunch had been right, the theory proven. There were no Ceteans this deep into the Abyss—for there was no food, nor light, nor warmth. The monsters always gathered around the edges of the ether’s disk, hoping for unwary demons to snatch from the cliff tops, hibernating and cannibalizing one another while they waited.
There was now one problem: crossing back into the ether. He had two things to his advantage. The first was the element of surprise; the Ceteans would never expect prey to come from behind—their eyes would be firmly focused on the cliff’s edge.
Second, the frenzy that he had witnessed might have attracted Ceteans from all around to join in the feast, pulling their numbers away from the border he was approaching. Wyverns were enormous demons; five of them at once would be more food than the rabid monstrosities had ever seen in the same place. If they were lucky, there would be no Ceteans near their crossing point at all.
He could see the rim now, cliffs of red stone topped by the arid desert of the deadlands. Ignatius, tired though he was, increased the tempo of his wing beats. All Fletcher could do was stare into the depths below, hoping against hope that the Ceteans were feasting, far away.
He held his breath. Nothing. Still nothing.
Then warmth, the glow of the sky washing over him like a hot bath, wicking away the chill that had sunk into his very bones. Relief, and a chirr of joy from Ignatius. Red sand, sweeping beneath them. They were safe now.
It would be so easy to close his eyes. To sleep.
*
Green, rushing below him. Warm breeze. The heady scent of vegetation, like fresh-cut grass, thick in his nostrils.
He sat up, wincing as his stiff, bruised body ached. Somehow, he had fallen asleep. Or passed out. But it didn’t matter; all he knew was that the creatures were far behind, even if they would haunt his dreams for years to come.
Ignatius was flying low, just above the canopy, where the rays from the fading light above drenched them in warmth. The Drake, drained of the mana that helped heat his body, had suffered in the cold expanse of the Abyss as much as he had.
He leaned forward and patted Ignatius on the neck. The demon had saved him, risking life and limb in the process.
Fletcher could sense Ignatius’s exhaustion and knew that they could not keep it up for much longer. But the demon was also filled with anticipation, as if they were nearing something. Fletcher looked up.
The lagoon. It shone like a silver platter, sparkling as the gentle waves shivered to and fro. He was thirsty, covered in soot, soil and the effluent from the Ceteans. It would be heaven to dive in and take it all in. He could sense Ignatius had the same intention.
But something was wrong. Ignatius could hear something—already the demon was changing his path, beating his wings in a sudden urgency. A feeling of anger, of protectiveness. Then Fletcher heard it too. A roar, then a scream. Sylva?
“Come on!” Fletcher yelled, willing the exhausted demon onward. He was bone tired, out of ammunition and had barely a trickle of mana left. But he was going into battle once more.
He was angry now. They had not come this far for it to end like this, his friends slaughtered, his mother dead. He snarled through his teeth, tugging his khopesh from its scabbard. Already he could see fireballs streaking into the sky, the demons battling on a long stretch of white beach, sandwiched by jungle and azure water.
A lone Wyvern, slashing at Lysander, the Griffin staggering, his feathers slick with blood. The corpses of lesser demons inert on the sand, others flapping and tearing at three figures, fighting back-to-back. Another hunched in their midst. His mother.
The wind ripped at his hair as they shot headlong into the melee, roaring their hatred.
Ignatius struck the Wyvern with the speed of a runaway carriage, his beak ripping into the great beast. Fletcher was hurled through the air in the tumult of claws and wings. He landed in a tangle of limbs on the sand. He lay, motionless, his strength almost gone.
“Fletcher, watch out!” Sylva screamed, and he rolled instinctively aside. There was a thud as something thumped into the sand beside him.
He leaped to his feet and slashed blindly; he felt the jar of his blade striking, saw the shaman fall to his knees, the blade halfway through his neck. Fletcher kicked the corpse from his sword, the rage taking him running toward the Wyvern.
Pain pulsed in his mind. Ignatius flew through the air, blood spraying the sand crimson as he landed in the shallows. He lay there, motionless.
Lysander limped forward as if to fight once more, but he collapsed after a few paces. A furrow of red had been clawed down his side.