He was able to observe Verity’s third demon, prowling just beneath her hovering Damsel. He eased his nerves by examining it.
It was an Enfield, a distant cousin to the Vulpid. It was smaller, only the size of a large dog, but with the head of a fox, forelegs of an eagle, the narrow chest of a greyhound and the hindquarters of a wolf. Its front talons were dangerously sharp, with tawny brown feathers interspersed among the red fur of its front and the grey of its back. An elegant demon on all accounts – just like its owner, Fletcher mused.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a dull red-orange glow that reminded Fletcher of the cave beneath the Warren. Mason, walking just behind the demons, held up a clenched fist. The summoners halted the advance, and Mason paced towards the light in a low crouch.
He stayed there for a moment, then returned, wild-eyed.
‘We’ve ’it the motherlode,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody thousands of ’em, piled up willynilly.’
‘Any goblins?’ Tarquin asked.
‘Not a one,’ Mason replied with a grin. ‘We’ll ’ave a few minutes to ourselves before we’re disturbed. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.’
‘Let’s get this over with,’ Othello growled, hefting his battle-axe. ‘The rescuers will have taken off by now. Twenty minutes – in and out.’
With those words, the four teams charged towards the light.
44
They ran into an enormous cavern, larger even than the Atrium at Vocans. A pool of lava sat in the very centre, bubbling and seething like a boiling cauldron. Four rivers of molten rock, offshoots from the fiery lake, seeped away and into the walls, splitting the room into four quarters of solid rock. Each quarter had its own tunnel to other chambers, and the patches of solid ground were all connected by precarious bridges made of misshapen stones, crudely held together by crumbling mortar.
And there were eggs. Not just hundreds, but thousands and thousands of them, some piled so high they almost reached the ceiling. Many were covered in dust and cobwebs, while those closer to them appeared fresher. The dried-out husks of those that had already hatched littered the floors. There were almost as many of them as there were eggs.
‘There must be a legion of goblins hatched by now,’ Fletcher murmured, prodding a nearby husk with his khopesh. ‘We may already be too late.’
‘Last time I was in ’ere was three years ago,’ Mason said, his mouth flapping open like a fish on dry land. ‘There weren’t ’alf this many then.’
‘No time to worry about that now,’ Isadora said, burying her blade in an egg. ‘Leave the big piles – we’ll burn them last in case there’s too much smoke.’
Already her Felid, Tamil, was slashing apart the nearest eggs, hissing as the alluvium within coated his claws. The other demons followed suit, except for the Mites, who were too small to do much damage. Instead, they hovered by the three other entrances to the cavern, to watch for patrolling goblins.
‘Let’s get cracking,’ Fletcher said, raising his khopesh. In seconds the room was filled with the acrid smell of rotting meat, the stench so strong, Fletcher could taste it.
Then he felt a sudden sense of comfort and satisfaction that made him start. It took him a moment before realising it was coming from Ignatius.
The Salamander was swimming to the centre of the pool of lava, where the molten rock was white hot. The demon felt no pain, only a sense of yearning and purpose, and even … familiarity. Fletcher wondered if the place reminded the imp of his home in the ether, wherever that might be.
‘What the hell is Ignatius doing?’ Othello growled, kicking a pair of eggs into the lava. They sizzled and blackened, emitting a whiff of burning hair.
‘I have no idea,’ Fletcher said.
As the stubborn imp reached the core of the lake, Fletcher felt a sudden jolt of power. Something was changing.
The seconds ticked by and, despite the changes in his consciousness, Fletcher could do nothing but hack away at the eggs, keeping an eye on Ignatius as he swam circles around the heart of the lake. All the while, pulses of mana seeped from Ignatius’s body for no apparent reason. It was like a leaking tap, and Fletcher wished he had kept back a vial of mana for himself.
He was sure it was something to do with the lava. He tried to call Ignatius back, but his demonic control didn’t seem to work, almost as if the little Salamander wasn’t even aware of him. Fletcher could do nothing but hope that when it was time to leave, Ignatius would heed his call. He concentrated on destroying the eggs, ignoring the jolts of power that flooded from his demon.
Even with nonstop work, no more than a few hundred eggs had been destroyed once five minutes had passed. Some of the eggs even had half-grown goblins within, which had to be quickly dispatched as the poor deformed creatures were brought into the light.