Fletcher knew that attempting to return home alone would be a death sentence. Around him, the others wore grim expressions. Even Tarquin and Isadora looked worried, the colour drained from their faces. They had been fighting on the front lines for over a year – and knew better than any what the teams would be up against.
‘As you all know, scrying crystals are to be distributed around Hominum,’ Rook said. ‘Soon, every tavern, village hall and public square will each have four crystals, one for each team, where the populace can watch the mission’s progress. You will not be given these yourselves, because if one team is captured, the orcs will be able to use them to track down the others.’
Rook snapped his fingers and the pyramid disappeared, leaving the room bathed in orange torchlight once again.
‘In order to allow you to fully focus on your mission, each team will require a demon to act as the conduit for these stones,’ Rook continued. ‘As such, we have asked for sponsors to volunteer their own demons. These sponsors will also provide your team with an expert guide, to help you find your way through the jungle. You will find out who your sponsors and guides are soon enough.’
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation.
‘Now, let’s all get into our respective groups. There are to be four teams of four, made up of three second-year students and one first-year volunteer. Volunteers, as soon as you set foot on this sand, there is no turning back …’
He allowed his voice to trail off as he watched the small group of first years across the arena.
‘The captains have already been selected,’ Rook continued, unravelling a long scroll. ‘They stand before you right now.’
Fletcher felt a flush of pride and nerves, the two emotions sitting uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He had been out of the game for so long, had barely spoken to anyone but Ignatius for an entire year … and that was a pretty one-sided conversation. Was he really ready to lead a team on a deadly mission?
Rook cleared his throat, and Fletcher turned with baited breath to hear who his teammates would be.
‘After careful consideration from the king’s council and the teachers at the school, the teams are as follows. Please come and join your chosen captains as each name is called out.’
He cleared his throat.
‘In Isadora’s team, we have Tarquin and Atlas. In Seraph’s team, Rory and Genevieve. In Malik’s team, Penelope and Rufus. In Fletcher’s team, Othello and Sylva.’
Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief as the students leaped down into the arena, joining their respective teammates. Sylva flashed him a smile as she stood beside him, and Othello gave him a light punch on the arm.
‘Trust them to put a human in charge,’ Othello whispered, but he winked to show he didn’t really mind. ‘Looks like they arranged us by friendships.’
‘Agreed,’ Fletcher said happily. ‘Isadora’s looking pleased. I bet when Tarquin lost the Tournament to me she was deemed the stronger of the two.’
As the rest of the students lined up, Fletcher saw four students left on the stands. Atilla, Cress and Didric, along with a dark-haired girl who Fletcher did not recognise. Rook swept his hand around the arena, pointing to each one.
‘You will now have the option to select a fourth member on to your teams from the first-year students who volunteered for the mission. Isadora, you have been randomly chosen to go first.’
‘Yeah right,’ Sylva murmured in Fletcher’s ear, and he suddenly became very aware of the soft touch of her hand on his waist. ‘Not that it matters. We both know who she’s going to pick.’
‘The valiant Didric Cavell,’ Isadora said, beckoning Didric over with a magnanimous hand. ‘After his brilliant performance in the Tournament, robbed of his victory by rotten luck.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ Cress called, ignoring Rook’s hiss of disapproval at her speaking out of turn.
Didric jumped down into the arena, staggering slightly with dizziness from what was probably a mild concussion. Tarquin shook his hand as Atlas and Isadora patted him on the back.
‘Now, Fletcher,’ Rook said, his eyes still on Cress, daring her to speak again.
Fletcher blanched. For some reason, he had expected to go last.
He paused, earning himself a glare from Atilla. It was obvious whose team the dwarf wished to join. Yet … Cress had just won the Tournament. She had requested, politely, to be part of his team. Then there was Atilla’s recent outburst against Cress’s choice of dress. Fletcher wanted his team to be a shining example to the world – of solidarity, friendship and acceptance.
Atilla had a good heart and was a capable warrior, but Fletcher would not choose him, not for this. Now, he only needed a reason that Atilla would understand.
‘I choose Cress,’ he said, but held up his hand as Atilla began to protest. ‘Othello and Atilla’s parents would never forgive me, if their sons were in the one team that didn’t make it, both killed in a single stroke of misfortune. Better to spread the risk. The king’s army do not allow brothers to serve in the same regiment for that very reason.’