Sylva did not reply, curling into a ball with her arms over her head. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Ignatius, Athena! Where were they? Fletcher looked around desperately until he saw their inert bodies on the cold ground. Ignatius was still frozen on the floor – but to Fletcher’s relief his amber eyes were flicking back and forth, and he could sense no pain from the paralysed demon. Athena was faring better, though she had only managed to awkwardly roll over on her front.
Othello lurched to his feet and staggered over to Cress and Lysander, motioning at Fletcher to join him. Fletcher dragged himself across the room, still too dizzy to stand. A bag of the yellow petals got in his way, and he slapped it aside, spilling the contents across the floor.
Othello helped pull him the last few feet, and they pressed their backs against the Griffin’s side, the effort of sitting up too much for them.
‘Best to leave her in peace,’ Othello said in a hushed voice. ‘I’d be a wreck if I had lost Solomon.’
‘Yeah,’ Cress replied. ‘Don’t worry, she knows you did what you had to. She just needs to blame someone now, and you’re them.’
She prodded Tosk with her gauntlet. The creature was still completely frozen, like Ignatius and Athena. Only Solomon seemed capable of movement, tottering unsteadily around the room.
‘Solomon’s skin must have stopped the dart going in too far,’ Othello suggested, as Cress pulled the Raiju on to her lap. ‘Plus he’s bigger than the others.’
‘So’s Lysander, though,’ Fletcher mused, looking at the spread-eagled Griffin. He was as still as a corpse, the only sign of life the gentle stirring of dust where his breath disturbed it.
After a moment’s thought, Fletcher swiped his arm along Lysander’s side, knocking several darts to the floor. The tips were still slathered in a black residue.
‘Looks like he got a large dose, being first into the room and all,’ Fletcher said, lifting the incapacitated demon’s paw. He let go and it flopped to the floor. ‘I wonder if Captain Lovett can even hear us.’
The demon remained unresponsive. In fact, Fletcher could barely hear a pulse as he laid his head against the demon’s side. He hunted for more darts in the fur and feathers, but found nothing.
‘So what are we going to do about her?’ Othello murmured, floating his wyrdlight over to Lady Cavendish. She was still huddled in the corner, madly rocking back and forth. A corona of blood lay around her son’s body, and Fletcher shuddered at the sight.
‘I’m going to get her out of that corner,’ Fletcher said. He walked unsteadily, avoiding Rufus’s forlorn corpse. He lifted her from where she sat, and was surprised when the woman stopped rocking and placed her arms around his neck. He lay her beside Cress and collapsed back in his place.
‘You’re a state,’ Cress said, seeing Lady Cavendish’s filthy exterior for the first time. She sloshed some water from her hip flask on to her sleeve and dabbed at the woman’s face. Lady Cavendish closed her eyes, accepting the dwarf’s ministrations wordlessly.
‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’ Othello whispered, nodding at the exit. There was a rumble as the rocks shifted, and a goblin screeched in pain. Then a thud from the other side, and dust cascaded from the ceiling as the room shook. The orcs were blasting the rubble apart.
‘When they break through, we kill as many of them as we can,’ Fletcher said, closing his eyes. ‘We should have some more mana by then – I’ve already recovered enough for a few fireballs.’
‘Aye, and there’s the last vial of elixir. One gulp each,’ Othello said, flexing his numbed fingers. ‘Let’s hope the demons are recovered by then too.’
Fletcher nodded in agreement, too tired to answer. He let his fingertips trail through the dust on the ground. It was smooth to the touch, but a strange indent curved beneath the fine powder. He swept the area with his sleeve and created a wyrdlight to see.
They were sitting on the edge of a pentacle, just like on the platform in the centre of the corridor. It was smaller, barely larger than a carriage wheel, but serviceable nonetheless. The black residue of centuries-old blood remained within, and the orc keys were stamped on each corner of the star.
‘Would you look at that,’ Othello said, peering at it. He glanced up to see a short black pipe embedded in the ceiling above, and shuffled nervously aside.
‘If we were orcs, we could go into the ether,’ Fletcher said wistfully. ‘Not that it would be much better than here.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you wishing you were an orc,’ Othello chuckled. ‘But you have a point. Better than dying here, or being captured.’