He lay his hand on the pentacle embossed upon it and closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration. The pentacle hummed into life, glowing a dull blue that shone even in the well-lit interior of the courtroom. Threads of white light appeared, knitting and merging into a formless mass that slowly took shape. In moments, an enormous creature had materialised, and Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat.
Xerxes was as large as a thoroughbred horse, towering above Fletcher. His limbs and body had the musculature of a lion, covered in a thick pelt of dark, violet fur. His mane was black and shaggy, but interspersed between the hairs were vicious spines that rattled as the creature shook its leonine head. He had a short, wide-mouthed muzzle, but his eyes seemed almost human, the irises a soft blue that bore into Fletcher’s own with hungry curiosity.
But all this was nothing compared to the black, scorpion tail erupting from the base of its spine, waving hypnotically like a snake about to strike. A droplet beaded on the glistening sting, yellow as pus and twice as viscous.
‘Ahhh, there’s the little scamp,’ Alfric said, shuffling closer and caressing the Manticore’s tail. ‘A beautiful specimen. I am glad you have cared for him so well.’
‘Little scamp?’ Othello uttered. ‘It’s a monster!’
Alfric’s eyes snapped to Othello.
‘Guards, get the dwarf away and someone hold Master Wulf down. I want muskets on Captains Arcturus and Lovett. Their sentiments for the boy might make them do something they would regret.’
Fletcher heard the click of flints being pulled back as the guards raised their weapons. Othello swore as Jakov gripped him by the hair and dragged him away, the chains scraping along the floor. But Fletcher saw nothing but those strange, hypnotic eyes, as the Manticore took a step forward.
‘I suggest everyone watch closely,’ Charles said jovially. ‘It is not often you see Manticore venom in action, especially not a full dose. Although those of you with weaker stomachs might wish to leave the room.’
The sting swayed back, bending like a bow at full stretch. It froze, perfectly still, as Xerxes waited for instruction from his master. Charles held up his hand, ready to give the order.
The Manticore purred with excitement, then there was a grip on Fletcher’s arm and he heard Didric’s voice croak in his ear.
‘Hold still. We wouldn’t want him to miss now, would we?’
Another, larger hand reached over his shoulder and tore open his jerkin, ripping the threadbare fabric to leave his chest exposed.
‘Your sacrifice is in vain, Fletcher,’ Zacharias hissed, and Fletcher felt his hot breath on the back of his neck. ‘You have done nothing but delay the inevitable. The dwarves will be put in their proper place, one way or another. It is a shame that you will not be there to see it.’
The two nobles pulled Fletcher’s arms apart, until he thought his shoulders would pop out of their sockets. He kneeled there as the Manticore took a final, deliberate step forward.
‘The prisoner is ready, my liege!’ Charles cried, his voice high with excitement. ‘Shall we begin the test?’
‘Do it,’ Alfric said simply.
Charles’s arm swung down and the sting came with it, hissing through the air. There was a grisly pop as the point broke through the skin below Fletcher’s sternum, and he cried out, for it felt like he had been run through with a sword. Then the bulbous sting pulsated as it injected the venom.
He sagged to the floor, feeling the liquid seethe within him, like acid in the blood. The pain gripped Fletcher then, as if the flesh within him was being cooked from the inside. His nerves screamed with agony, and his muscles seized and spasmed, leaving him kicking and twitching on the cold floor of the courtroom.
He could feel a blackness approaching and welcomed it with open arms. Anything would be better than this suffering. Even death.
As the blessed relief of unconsciousness took hold, he heard Didric cackling, as if from a great distance away.
‘Goodbye, Fletcher Wulf!’
13
The pain was almost gone, just a dull throb in the darkness. It would be so easy to let go. To be infinite and nothing, all at the same time. To be free.
But something called to him, in the endless black. Another soul, lost, as he was. Ignatius.
There was love there. It kept Fletcher from falling, though he leaned out over the abyss. Ignatius was calling to him. He felt their bond, unravelling, weakening. But Ignatius would not let go. The final thread held strong, and it pulled him back from the brink. Fletcher opened his eyes.
The walls and ceiling of the room were made of smooth, raw wood, patterned with the whorls of the grain beneath. There was no door to speak of, simply an opening that led into a dark corridor. Strangest of all, the room was lit by jars of tiny, glowing balls of yellow light that flew randomly within, like wyrdlights.
He was lying in a bed of sorts. Thick, deer furs swaddled him like a baby, cocooning him in a chrysalis of warmth.
‘You’re awake.’ A soft, lilting voice spoke.