‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed. He held Ignatius up to his face and the demon yapped happily, licking the tip of Fletcher’s nose.
‘You must have a healing symbol hidden in that tongue somewhere,’ Fletcher laughed, rubbing Ignatius’s head affectionately. ‘Even after all this time, you still manage to surprise me. Best not tell Jeffrey though, he’ll have that tongue out and on his operating table if we’re not careful.’
Ignatius wriggled in his grip and Fletcher set the Salamander on the ground. As he did so, he saw the orc’s face and winced. It had been burned away, leaving only a blackened skull beneath, while the leathery grey skin of its belly and legs was covered with blood. Red and yellow whorls and stripes of war-paint adorned its chest and what was left of its cheeks. Without it, the orc would be practically naked, were it not for the rough-spun skirt that protected its modesty.
Fletcher’s khopesh was stuck fast in the orc’s flesh. He grimaced at the grisly sight and bent to tug it out.
A crossbow bolt hissed over his head like a striking snake, thudding into a tree behind him. Fletcher fell to the ground and pulled the orc’s corpse on its side as a shield. Another bolt thrummed towards Fletcher a moment later, but it stuck into the orc’s shoulder, the force of it so strong that it broke through, the tip stopping an inch from Fletcher’s face. The accuracy and speed was astounding, that of a trained assassin.
Then, as Fletcher powered up his finger for a counterattack, the ambusher retreated, leaving the crash of broken branches in his wake. The grinning skull of the orc seemed to laugh at Fletcher as he shoved the corpse aside in disgust. He took a moment to catch his breath. If he hadn’t bent to pull out his khopesh from the orc, he would have been skewered through the chest.
He tugged the crossbow bolt from the trunk and held it up to the dim light of the jungle. Blue fletching. Just like Cress’s.
When Fletcher returned to the others, the battle was over. Solomon was busy digging a large grave, his great hands shovelling aside the dirt in a small clearing. It was good thinking; a pile of corpses would bring forth all sorts of carrion eaters and the clouds of vultures above would attract too much attention. Jeffrey was further up the trail, examining a goblin corpse and writing notes in a leather-bound journal. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, resulting in an uneven scrawl.
Othello had just healed Lysander, the last traces of white light dissolving from the bloodied feathers along the Griffin’s side. Cress was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where are Isadora’s team?’ Fletcher shouted, brandishing the bolts.
Sylva looked up from where she kneeled, in the middle of healing Sariel’s wounds.
‘They ran off,’ Sylva said, her voice dull with exhaustion. ‘Didn’t even thank us for our help.’
‘One of them tried to kill me,’ Fletcher announced, holding up the blue-fletched crossbow bolt. ‘With these.’
‘Aren’t those Cress’s?’
‘I don’t think she lost them after all. I think they stole them.’
‘You’re joking,’ Othello growled, unrolling his summoning leather for Solomon to stand on. He infused the demon in a burst of white light, for the poor Golem was staggering with exhaustion.
‘I wish I was,’ Fletcher said. He paused, realising the implications. The attackers could have used a spell, or an arrow of their own. Instead, they had chosen ammunition that only Cress could have used. They wanted to frame her for the attack.
Othello had clearly been thinking along the same lines.
‘If we had come across your body with that stuck in you, the whole of Hominum would think Cress had killed you,’ the dwarf said, snatching the offending projectile from Fletcher’s hand. ‘They might even think Cress was working with the Anvils.’
‘I don’t know …’ Sylva said, examining the bolt. ‘We’re jumping to conclusions. We barely know her. Maybe she is working for the Anvils.’
‘Yeah, and I’m a goblin in disguise,’ Othello scoffed. ‘If she was a traitor, I’d know about it. The dwarven community is a small one; there are barely a few thousand of us left. I know who the troublemakers are.’
Fletcher looked around.
‘Speaking of Cress, where is she?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Right here,’ came a voice from behind him.
Cress emerged from the jungle, Tosk perched on her shoulder. Her face was drenched with sweat and her crossbow hung limply in her hand.
‘I see you caught the orc,’ she said. ‘Well done. I tried to catch up with you but got los—’ She stopped as she caught the stunned expressions from the others.
‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, catching sight of the quarrel clutched in Othello’s fist.
‘You tell me,’ Sylva said, standing up and narrowing her eyes at the dwarf. ‘Someone just tried to kill Fletcher with it.’
Cress remained silent, her eyes still fixed on the bolt. Sylva motioned with her chin at the jungle behind the dwarf.