The Wyvern turned, its eyes focused on Fletcher, and he suddenly realized how puny his sword was against the monstrosity before him. He backed away slowly. His knees trembled with exhaustion, barely able to bear his weight. He could hardly stand, let alone run.
The Wyvern took a step forward, winged forearms outstretched, blood dripping from its snout and a deep wound in its chest. The shaman’s control had gone, but the wild beast was in pain, confused and angry. They were vicious beasts by nature, and this one would still remember its master’s intentions.
Fletcher froze, hoping it would give up.
But it was no use. The Wyvern did not hesitate, leaping across the sand. Fletcher fell back, saw the flash of the reddened mouth gaping wide. Then something bowled out of the jungles, thudding into the Wyvern’s side to take it screeching into the water.
Sheldon.
The Zaratan had the Wyvern by the throat, his beak clamped on either side of its scaled neck as he dragged it into the shallows and beyond. Together, the two demons disappeared into the lagoon, dark shapes beneath the surface. Blood clouded the water red, then frothed white as the demons struggled below.
Fletcher turned, just in time to see Tosk blast the last of their assailants from the sky with a streak of lightning—a bee-striped Vesp that landed with a splash in the shallows.
He collapsed to his knees as the others rushed toward him—Sylva, Othello, Cress. Their faces crowded in, but he ignored them, looking for Ignatius. He sighed with relief as the Drake crawled onto the beach and used his tongue to lather healing saliva on a nasty gash in the burgundy flesh of his side.
“Lysander. Look after Lysander,” Fletcher managed, waving the others on to the injured demon behind him. There was a flash of white as the trio blasted the healing spell. He let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it in for a long time. The Griffin would live.
And so would his friends.
CHAPTER
18
SHELDON WAS DYING. THE Zaratan had surfaced from the bloodied water a few minutes later, beside the drowned corpse of the Wyvern. But the battle had taken a terrible toll on the poor demon.
He was wounded horrifically, for the savage beast had slashed frantically at his head, neck and limbs while he held it beneath the surface. They watched helplessly as he dragged himself up the beach and collapsed in the crimson sand, breathing shallowly in the dim dusk light.
The team healed him with the last of their mana, but to no avail. The Zaratan had lost too much blood, something the healing spell could do nothing about.
Cress took it the hardest, lying beside him and stroking his head through the night. Sylva stayed with her in silent solidarity, reading Jeffrey’s journal by firelight.
As they waited for the inevitable, Fletcher spoke into the growing darkness, telling them of his conversation with Khan, Ignatius’s transformation and his escape from the Wyverns. In turn, Sylva told of the desperate chase she had endured across the ether, how she had thought she had lost them, only to be ambushed on the beach but a few hours after finding the others, just before Fletcher had arrived.
Then, as the night began to wane, Othello explained how Sheldon had left them on the land and disappeared soon after Fletcher and Sylva had left, and his surprise that the Zaratan had returned.
And finally, as the pink light of dawn began to tinge the sky, sleep took hold of them.
*
Fletcher woke to find that Sheldon had passed while he slept. Cress, heartbroken, was sobbing into Sylva’s shoulder, the pair clutching each other like sailors in a storm. Othello sat dejectedly nearby, his hand pressed against Sheldon’s shell.
Feeling empty, Fletcher went to sit beside the demon’s body, searching for words that would not come. The Zaratan had saved them a thousand times over and given his life in the process. He had no loyalty to them, no connection like a summoner and his demon might have. That he was not harnessed as other demons were, and had protected them regardless, was testament to Sheldon’s great intelligence and compassion. They mourned him as they would a friend.
“I thought he might make it,” Sylva sniffed, her usual composure gone.
“He didn’t seem to be in pain,” Fletcher said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Cress was dry-eyed, her tears used up through the night.
“I hope he found a nice lady friend while he was away.” She glared at the others as if daring them to laugh.
“No, you’re right,” Othello said gently, hugging Cress around her shoulders. “It’s why he came here. I bet he did. I bet there will be little Sheldons running around someday soon.”
“Aye,” Cress said, giving the demon another stroke on his head.
They were silent for a time, listening to the gentle swash of the lagoon’s shoreline.
“We should leave soon,” Fletcher said, hating himself for hurrying them. “There’s a chance that one of the remaining shamans had a scrying crystal and watched the battle through a lesser demon. They might know we’re somewhere by the lagoon; they could be heading this way.”
He nodded toward the pile of demon corpses, a mix of dead Shrikes, Strixs and Vesps.
“You’re right,” Cress said, standing up and nodding firmly. She wiped the tearstains from her cheeks and began to gather their things. Othello trudged behind her.
Sylva stood beside Fletcher for a moment longer.
“Fletcher, before we go, I need to talk to you. After yesterday … if something happens to me, I want you to know.”
Fletcher’s heart leaped, but the grim look on Sylva’s face told him it was not about her feelings for him. She sat and patted the sand beside her. He joined her and was surprised to find she was leafing through Jeffrey’s journal again.
“I’ve been reading this,” she said, flicking to the final pages. “I hadn’t got to the end until last night. Look.”
The pages toward the back of the journal were filled with numbers and dates. Strangest of all, there was a letter, slotted in among the pages. The seal was broken, but Fletcher recognized the Forsyth Crest embossed in the red wax—the three intertwined heads of a Hydra.
“Read it,” she said, handing it to him.
Jeffrey,
You have struck a blow for the safety of humanity that will be felt through the ages. It will be remembered in the years to come by the unsullied children of our descendants. Know that what you do is righteous and good. The blood of the innocent is a necessary sacrifice to protect the purity of our race.
The next blow must be struck in three days hence. Rook will have placed the barrel in the storage cupboard with the cards in a sealed envelope on top. Scatter them on your way out.
Memorize and burn this letter once you have read it.
Be well,
Zacharias
Of course, Fletcher had known that the Forsyths and their allies were involved in the supposed Anvil bombings; Jeffrey had confessed it.
The bombs that had been killing humans around Corcillum had all been planted by the Triumvirate to frame the dwarves and their supporters for the attacks, to turn the people of Hominum against them.