‘How?’ Fletcher choked, watching Rubens crawl on to Didric’s chest. Didric wasn’t a summoner … was someone else controlling the Mite, to trick him?
‘It’s all thanks to you, Fletcher.’ Didric gave him a lopsided smile and flared a wyrdlight into existence, casting the room in electric blue light. ‘It is a phenomenon that has occurred only once before in recorded history, though legends of it have always pervaded the summoning world. A magical attack that brings the victim close to death will occasionally pass the gift on to them. Something about the way the demon’s mana interacts with the body. Your Salamander’s flames may have charred my vocal cords and ruined my face, but they imparted a priceless gift as well. For that, I thank you.’
‘There’s no way.’ Fletcher’s mind reeled from the implication.
‘It is true,’ Didric stated, stroking Rubens’s carapace. ‘It happened with another noble family, centuries ago, in a sibling argument gone wrong. Manticore venom, straight into the younger brother’s bloodstream. A lethal dose that should have killed him. Instead, he inherited the gift.’
Didric grinned at the horror on Fletcher’s face. He was enjoying this.
‘Come, it is time for your trial. Don’t worry, you’ll be back in your squalid hole soon enough. I can’t wait to lock you back in here and throw away the key.’
Fletcher staggered to his feet, swaying slightly as his muscles shivered and tensed from the venom. A trial … justice, finally? He felt the faintest glimmer of hope, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
He pointed his tattooed palm at the straw, where Ignatius was hiding. The pentacle on his skin burned violet, and the demon dissolved into threads of white light that glided into his hand. It was best to keep the demon infused within him, so nobody could separate them. He didn’t want to imagine being imprisoned without his little companion.
‘You first,’ Didric said, jerking the pistol towards the open doorway.
Fletcher stumbled out of the cell. For a moment he delighted in his newfound freedom, enjoying the feeling of walking more than a few paces in one direction. Then the cold tip of the pistol’s muzzle was pressed into the back of his neck.
‘Try not to make any sudden movements. I wouldn’t want to blow your head off before the fun begins,’ Didric snarled, as they walked down a long, stony corridor. Doors identical to Fletcher’s own cell were embedded in the walls. It was deathly quiet, the silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps.
Didric halted him at a staircase also built into the wall. On either side, the corridor stretched for hundreds of feet, before disappearing into gloomy darkness.
‘We keep the most dangerous prisoners here, people like you – rebels, murderers, rapists. The king pays us handsomely to keep them here, against the cost of a bucket of water and one meal a day. It’s a beautiful thing.’
Fletcher shuddered, imagining what it would be like being alone in the cell, with no Ignatius, books or spells to keep himself sane, and the knowledge that he would never leave there again. He felt a flash of pity for the lost souls trapped inside, horrendous though their crimes might be. Then he realised that he could very well be joining them soon, forever entombed in the deep bowels of the earth. Icy tendrils of fear gripped his heart.
‘Keep moving,’ Didric spat, prodding him up the stairs. They spiralled upwards as they did on the inside of a dwarven home, though at intervals there were barred doors, with a guard holding them open. On and on they went, until Fletcher’s knees ached under the strain. He had tried his best to exercise in the confines of the cell, but so many months without walking or enough food had left him weak and malnourished. He did not know if he could survive another year in such conditions, let alone a lifetime.
Didric pushed him through a large set of doors at the top of the staircase and into a crowded courtyard. Around them, guards formed up in rows, performing musket and bayonet drills. Their uniform was a wasp-like black and yellow, a mix of chainmail and light leather. There were enough of them to be Didric’s own private army.
Fletcher gulped in deep breaths of fresh air. He revelled in the light of the open sky once more, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his face. His head spun with vertigo at the expanse above him, but he opened his arms wide and felt the cool breeze on his skin. It was heavenly.
Didric shoved Fletcher ahead of him and they made their way through a large set of iron gates and on to the street. Fletcher was surprised to find that he knew where they were. He turned and took in the prison behind him, recognising some of the features built around it. It was Didric’s former mansion.
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ Fletcher said drily.