‘Fletcher, wake up!’
Othello’s green eyes looked down at him, matching the canopy above.
‘Malik’s team have left without us.’
Fletcher sat up, Athena’s memory still vivid in his mind.
‘Why?’ he mumbled.
‘They left a note, said they decided to make the most of the sunlight and leave early. They didn’t want to wake us.’
‘Fine with me,’ Sylva yawned, stretching her arms. ‘If there’s trouble ahead, they’ll run into it before we do.’
Seraph and his team were packing up. They had their demons out, and Fletcher was pleased to see that Rory now had a second Mite, smaller than Malachi, with a yellow shell.
Still, it was Atilla’s demon that most surprised him, a dove-white bird with long tail feathers, perched on the young dwarf’s shoulder. It was a Caladrius, a level seven demon with the ability to heal wounds by laying its feathers over them.
The demon was one of four rare, equally powerful avian cousins, including the fire-born Phoenix, the icy Polarion and the lightning-powered Halcyon, with red, blue and yellow plumage respectively. He had a sneaky suspicion that it was not just Arcturus who had received a gifted demon from King Harold. Fletcher bet it was an apology to the Thorsagers for what had happened to Othello. He wondered what demon Atilla had before, and if he still had it in his roster.
‘We should follow their example,’ Seraph called, distracting Fletcher from his thoughts. ‘We’re heading off in a minute, with or without you.’
Sacharissa was already nosing the ground, eager to lead her team in the direction of the river. She whined as Fletcher hesitated, indicating that Arcturus wanted them to stay together.
It did not take long for Fletcher’s team to get ready, the biggest delay being Cress, who did not take kindly to being woken at such an early hour.
‘Can’t you get Solomon to carry me, Othello?’ Cress groaned, heaving her heavy satchel on to her shoulders.
‘Carry you? Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ Fletcher laughed.
‘Actually, Fletcher, he probably could,’ Othello said, flushing with pride.
He pulled a roll of leather from the side pocket of his satchel and laid it on the ground. Then, with a touch of his fingers, the Golem materialised in a flash of violet light.
Solomon had grown. He was as tall as Othello himself now, but wider and thicker-limbed. As soon as he caught sight of Fletcher, the craggy face split into a smile. The Golem surged forward with his arms open wide, and Fletcher had to skip back to avoid the bone-crushing hug.
‘Solomon, no!’ Othello remonstrated, then rolled his eyes as the demon hung his head in shame. ‘He doesn’t know his own strength yet.’
‘So much has changed in a year. He’ll be my height soon enough,’ Fletcher marvelled.
‘Aye, that he will. But let’s not hang about, they’re off.’ Othello nodded at the forest behind Fletcher, where Seraph’s team was already on its way out of the swamp and into the thicker jungle.
‘We’ll look like the lazy ones if we’re not careful,’ Sylva said, tugging Othello forward.
She nodded at Lysander, who was tactfully looking up at the sky. ‘Remember, the world is watching. This is more than just a mission.’
Othello and Sylva hurried after the others, leaving Cress and Fletcher to trail behind them. Lysander walked sedately at their side, somehow managing to avoid the tangled undergrowth with feline grace. In contrast, Athena leaped from tree branch to tree branch above, showering Fletcher with leaves and dislodged insects. He did not mind, for he could sense the demon was missing the ether. After all, she had spent the past seventeen years there.
Fletcher’s thoughts turned to his parents. He had spent so many years searching faces in Pelt, wondering what they looked like. Now, after Athena’s vivid dream, he knew. He had his father’s thick black hair, and the man’s hazel eyes were just like his own. But he had the same pale skin and straight-edged nose as his mother.
He had been loved, once. He had felt it in that dream, so strongly that it made his heart clench with joy. But it had all been brutally torn away from him.
Soon the world turned dim as the canopy grew thicker, filtering the sun through its leaves into a darker shade of green.
The path was clear, for the thicker plants had been torn asunder by the Wendigo and then trampled underfoot by Malik’s team. For now, the going was easy, and they fell into a comfortable pace that ate up the ground.
As they walked, Fletcher tried to commit his parents’ faces to his memory, but he cursed himself as they blurred in his mind. It had all happened so fast.
‘So … is this the first time you’ve seen a dwarven girl?’ Cress asked, filling the awkward silence. ‘Properly, I mean.’
‘I saw Othello’s mother once,’ Fletcher replied.
He paused, unsure of what else to say. His mind was still on Athena’s memory.