Walking back into the jungle felt like being enveloped in a busy spider’s web, the buzz and tingle of insects pervasive, the twigs, leaves and thorns tangling in Fletcher’s clothes and hair.
The path had obviously been carved out for gremlins and their mounts – not for anything bigger. Fletcher reached for his khopesh to cut his way through, but found his scabbard empty.
‘Hey, when do we get our weapons back?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard by the gremlin. Blue had not slowed down, and Fletcher would have lost him were it not for the fading stripe of blue paint on the gremlin’s back, bobbing up and down ahead.
‘They is waiting at the river.’ Blue’s singsong voice cut through the foliage. ‘Patience.’
They struggled on, with Fletcher getting the worst of it. Lysander and Athena leaped in the less crowded branches above, while Sariel slithered on her belly through the undergrowth with surprising ease. Ignatius and Tosk ran ahead, wary of ambushes. The two were working well together, coordinating a crisscrossed passage that scouted a wide area.
Then Fletcher had an idea. ‘Solomon, you take the lead,’ he called. The golem tore through the undergrowth behind Blue, his stony body unaffected by the thorns. He lumbered ahead of Fletcher, carving them a wide path with his bulky frame.
Despite Solomon’s efforts, when they finally broke through to the other side, Fletcher’s forearms were covered in thin red scratches. Ignatius lapped at them, sealing the wounds, but Fletcher barely noticed. He had caught sight of the waterway.
The creek was almost a river itself, as wide as the moat at Vocans. The waters moved so slowly and placidly that it appeared they didn’t move at all. Only the occasional leaf floating by told him otherwise.
A half a dozen gremlins were clambering out of the water. Silver-bellied fish had been threaded through the gills, which they carried over their shoulders in loops of cord. They were armed with simple spear-guns that shot harpoons attached to coils of tightly wound twine.
The guns were not unlike Cress’s crossbow, but made from a single pole, a basic trigger and an elasticated band that was pulled back by hand. Not as powerful as a bowstring, but they appeared hardier and were obviously useable underwater.
‘Blue, you must tell me more about these bands on your spear-guns,’ Jeffrey said, marvelling at the weapons as the troop of fisher-gremlins walked past, avoiding their eyes. ‘I assume they are made from the sap of the rubber tree – a fascinating material indeed.’
‘Blue?’ the gremlin turned his mara and crossed his arms.
‘Sorry … that’s what Fletcher called you earlier.’ Jeffrey shuffled with embarrassment.
‘What is your real name?’ Fletcher asked hurriedly.
Blue paused for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. Then, he tilted his head back and unleashed a tumult of warbles, clicks and fluting breaths. He grinned at them as they stared at him, dumbstruck.
‘I … I think I may have some trouble pronouncing that,’ Jeffrey stuttered.
Blue grinned and dismounted his mara.
‘Blue is being fine,’ the gremlin laughed. He slapped his mount on the rump and the mara hopped off into the trees. For a moment Blue stood there, taking in the sights, breathing the air deep into his lungs. Then, he opened his mouth and unleashed a long, wavering trill. It sounded like something between an eagle’s cry and a songbird’s morning prelude.
At the signal, a score of gremlins swung from the trees that hung over the creek, landing in crouches among Fletcher’s team. They were armed with a strange mix of spear-guns, blowpipes and knives, and he recognised them as the gremlins that had surrounded them before, their bodies painted to blend in with the foliage. Not even Sariel had sensed their presence.
‘We will go with you, to the pyramid,’ Blue said, motioning down the creek. ‘When you is attacking, we is raiding the orcs and freeing many gremlins.’
‘Wow,’ Fletcher said. ‘That’s very … generous of you.’
‘It is helping both our causes,’ Blue said simply. ‘When the alarm is being raised, we is knowing you is discovered. That is when we attack.’
Fletcher could not tell if it was blind opportunism or a friendly alliance. Either way, a small army of gremlins to guide them was an advantage he could not pass up.
‘Fine with me,’ Fletcher said. He extended a hand, and Blue took it. The gremlin’s fingers were coarse and thin, like clutching a bundle of dried twigs, but he gripped Fletcher’s hand warmly enough.
‘Take weapons.’
It was Half-ear – he had been one of the gremlins who landed among them. The braves flanking him threw two baskets to the ground. A clatter of metal revealed their contents, and Fletcher’s team wasted no time in arming themselves. Sylva picked up Cress’s crossbow, trying to get to her falx at the bottom of the basket. There was a tense moment as Cress held out her hand to take it. Then, reluctantly, Sylva passed it along.