Fletcher heard Sylva gasp as, one by one, the adept orcs followed, vanishing into another plane of existence. The remaining shamans chanted in low voices as they pushed a constant stream of threaded blue light into the bloody channels of the pentacle.
In the darkness above, Fletcher watched incredulously as the minutes ticked by. They had been taught that the ether’s air was poisonous, causing paralysis and often death. Summoners had to enter it dressed in an airtight suit – Captain Lovett’s visor had barely cracked when she had gone in almost two years ago, yet the poison had left her paralysed.
The seconds ticked by excruciatingly slowly; the only change in the scene below was the thin sheen of sweat gradually forming on the shamans’ backs. The team above were forced to hide in silence, barely allowing themselves to breathe.
Fletcher watched as Sylva stifled a sneeze, her eyes watering as she clamped her fingers down on her nostrils. His heart somersaulted as she swallowed it down, her shoulders heaving at the effort.
Almost a full half-hour had passed when the white orc stepped out of the portal, his black Salamander riding high on his shoulders. The adepts emerged but a moment later, many tumbling out as if in a great hurry. The white orc laughed aloud as they scrambled behind their shaman masters.
As soon as the last adept was free, the shamans allowed the portal to close, casting the room in darkness. The only source of light came from Khan’s torch, which had survived the journey into the ether.
With one last barked order, Khan led the other orcs across the pentacle and through to the opposite passageway. Exhausted, the shamans stumbled after him, panting hoarsely with exertion.
Even when the room was pitch black, Fletcher and the others remained silent, for they could not be sure whether the orcs would return. It was only when a cheer from the crowd outside filtered through the stone that they knew it was safe to move.
‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Othello growled, shuffling over to Fletcher and Sylva. ‘Orcs are immune to the ether’s poison?’
‘It looks like it,’ Sylva whispered, tossing a wyrdlight into the empty space beneath them. ‘But we have their keys now. It was our team that did it – a dwarf, an elf and a human.’
She beamed with pride, and to Fletcher it felt as if that smile lit up the room more than a wyrdlight ever could. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to bask in the joy of their achievement. The orc keys were guarded jealously, so much so that the objective of discovering them had not even formed a part of this mission. His team had exceeded expectations a thousandfold.
In the minutes that followed, Lysander flew them down one by one, until they stood on the platform for the first time.
‘Get a good look at each key, Lysander,’ Fletcher said, pointing at the blood-filled symbols on the floor.
He peered over the lip and dropped a wyrdlight to the bottom of the pit. The eggs were still there, each one now swollen to the size of a keg of beer. They throbbed and pulsed like living things, the gelatinous shells slippery with mucus.
Othello crouched and examined the pentacle. Within the carving, a crusty black residue remained, still steaming from the mana that had coursed through it. Wrinkling his nose, he pushed himself upright using a nearby protrusion in the rock.
There was a sloshing from above the pentacle and Othello looked up, only to receive a splatter of blood from the pipes.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Othello wailed, stepping aside and frantically wiping at his face with a sleeve.
‘Organic material for pentacles,’ Sylva said, crouching down and examining it as more blood trickled out of the pipes to pool within the lines of the pentacle. ‘Just like our summoning leathers and Fletcher’s palm. There must be a pipe coming from the bottom of the altar.’
‘You don’t say,’ Othello said sarcastically, splashing his cheeks with water from his hip-flask. Fletcher couldn’t help but chuckle at the miserable dwarf.
The room felt different now: they had discovered so much, yet it had left many unanswered questions.
‘So what was that, some induction ceremony for orc novices?’ Sylva said, pacing around the pentacle. ‘Their first taste of the ether, perhaps?’
‘Probably,’ Othello sighed. ‘Well, now we know how the goblin eggs are made.’
‘Yes, some horrific spell that makes the orc blood mix with the gremlin eggs,’ Fletcher grunted.
He used his toe to test the first step into the pit, dizzied as he looked at the spiral around the platform’s pillar.
‘Speaking of which … let’s go and have a look at what we’re dealing with.’
The step felt firm enough, so he continued until his head was level with the platform.
‘Shouldn’t we be looking for the others before going down there?’ Othello suggested, eyeing the stairway with trepidation.