Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (33 page)

Orcs. No more than a score of them … yet they were not as Fletcher had expected. Orc women combed out their hair with tortoiseshell combs, while others suckled their young on slings around their chests. Wizened elders puffed on long pipes, taking it in turns to pack tobacco and herbs in the bowls. Most were toothless, many with their tusks missing or broken off to stubs. There were but two males among these venerable members.

Meat was wrapped in banana leaves to steam by the fire. Those with teeth chewed for those without, spitting it in coconut bowls for the elders to slurp up with relish.

Far from being disgusted, Fletcher found himself smiling at the act. They cared for each other – something he had somehow never imagined of the orcs. It seemed a peaceful existence. Idyllic. Innocent.

Young orcs held hands and spun around the fire, their mouths opening and shutting in unison – they had to be singing! Fletcher wished he could hear them, so mesmeric were their stamping feet and rolling shoulders.

‘I lived in a village just like this,’ Mother whispered. ‘A few families, nothing more. Once we were all this way, thousands of years ago. Before they came.’

Something was wrong. One of the old orcs had seen something. He stood and yelled, waving his arms in a frenzy. The younger orcs scattered, while the women cowered, covering their heads with their hands.

Mother jerked her head, and Ra followed her movement. Rhinos thundered into the encampment, their thick double-horns tearing a passage through the bushes. Bull orcs rode on their backs, swinging weighted nets over their heads. Others whirled lassos, snatching the youngsters’ feet from under them and dragging them screaming in their wakes.

An old orc staggered from his hut, a simple club clutched in his fists. Before he could swing it, a javelin took him through the chest, flung almost casually by a nearby rider.

To Fletcher’s dismay, the remainder of the villagers were tangled in the nets or herded back to the fire, even the younger ones who had made it to the edge of the jungle. It took no more than a minute, so expertly was the attack orchestrated. The riders were well practised.

‘This family is what we were. These marauders are what we have become,’ Mother said, her voice a throaty growl.

The young boy orcs were separated out from the others, leaving the elders and females to wail and cry by the fire. Great poles were removed from the backs of the rhinos, with loops of rope at intervals along them. They tightened them around the orc boys’ necks. One was so young he had to stand on tiptoes to keep in line with the others. His tusks were little more than nubs, yet they manhandled him into position regardless. The poles were secured to the rumps of the rhinos. Then, with barely a word to the survivors, the riders marched their captives out of the village, disappearing into the gloom of the jungles.

‘Why?’ Sylva asked simply. She was unable to hide the tremor of sorrow from her voice.

‘Soldiers for their armies. They take the boys young. Beat them until their minds are broken. Fill them with hate, teach them to kill. That is their way.’ Mother’s speech was garbled now, her mouth full of saliva. She swallowed and continued. ‘They start with gremlins first. Make them hunt them down for sport. Slaughter most of them, enslave and breed the others. Then they force the boys to fight each other, weed out the weakest ones. By the end of it, those that remain only thirst for butchery and dominance. Their consciences are gone, their innocence lost.’

She lapsed into silence, the black nails of her crooked hands digging into her staff. Apophis buzzed mournfully to her cheek, wiping at the tear that trickled there with his forelegs. It stained the white of the skull beneath, a black fracture in the painted bone.

‘So … how do you fit in?’ Fletcher asked, twisting his hands awkwardly.

‘When they attacked our village, I followed them. No … I followed
him
. The boy I loved.’ She spoke in short bursts, as if she were on the verge of weeping in earnest. She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, it was not misery in her voice, but anger.

‘I served as a shaman’s servant girl in the hopes that he would lead me to the warriors someday. It was there that I learned to summon in secret, stealing one of my master’s scrolls. I hoped that a Mite would help me find my love.’

She stroked Apophis’s carapace, smiling in a toothy grimace.

‘When I did encounter him a year later, the boy I knew had gone. All that remained was a cruel brute. I embarrassed him, walking into that camp, trying to save him in front of his fellow warriors. He beat me near to death and left me for dead. The gremlins found me and brought me here.’

It was all beginning to make sense now. The orcs’ mindless savagery, their pitiless slaughter. Even Baker’s journal had not mentioned this strange enslavement of their own people.

Fletcher wondered what she was doing, hiding in the bowels of the earth? And who were these gremlins, that lived apart from the orcs? She answered him before he could ask.

‘These are the wild gremlins, those that were never enslaved but still live in fear of the orcs. There are other warrens, littered around the jungle, but this is the largest of them. It is my hope to free all gremlins from their masters, and one day end the vicious cycle of hatred my people follow.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Cress murmured under her breath.

‘What’s that?’ Mother asked, her hearing razor sharp.

‘What’s the point in all this? The soldiers, the armies? Why do you want to destroy Hominum?’ Cress blurted.

‘
I
don’t want to destroy anything. They follow a prophecy, written on the walls of the ancient pyramid. That a white orc will lead them to conquer the known world. That one comes every thousand years. I know little else. Only the shamans know what is written, for only they can enter the pyramid itself.’

‘And goblins,’ Sylva added, raising her eyebrows. ‘They seem to be allowed in there too, since they and their eggs reside in the cave network beneath it.’

‘The goblins are something I know little about,’ Mother sighed, lifting a fingertip and allowing Apophis to land there. ‘In truth, I dare not send my Mites to look within the pyramid, for it is said that it is protected by demons. They might recognise my Mites for what they are.’

‘Well, we’ll find out when we get there,’ Jeffrey said, then paused and looked at his lap. ‘
If
we get there.’

‘I heard of your mission through Apophis, and I will help you. The noblewoman showed a great kindness to my friend here, as did one of you,’ Mother pointed at Blue, who bowed his head solemnly. ‘This gremlin, in turn, taught me the rudiments of your language, and the rest I learned as my Mites watched your troops in the front lines. This knowledge has saved many gremlin lives and for that I am thankful.’

‘And the goblins?’ Sylva asked. ‘What of them?’

‘An abomination, to be wiped from the face of our world,’ Mother snarled.

She coughed suddenly, hacking and wheezing until she had to sit down, her back hunched and bowed. The orc was smaller than she had first appeared, shrunken and shrivelled by age. The paint hid the deep wrinkles in her face, but now that she was level with Fletcher, she appeared fragile and insubstantial.

‘I grow tired,’ Mother breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Just remember what I have told you … we are not all monsters. Go with my blessing. My gremlins will guide you from here. You have only a few hours left.’

When they emerged from the Warren, Fletcher could not help but collapse to the ground and look up at the sky, revelling in the fresh air and dawn light. Already, the sun was setting, casting the clearing in a warm orange glow. He had no idea where they were, or how far the pyramid was. They needed to leave soon, but he could barely find the energy to sit up.

The gremlins remained within their Warren, except for Blue, who watched them warily from the main entrance. Others peered out curiously, their bulging eyes just visible over the lip of their respective holes.

Even the baby gremlins were present. One took a step out to get a better view, and was dragged back inside by its scolding mother. The yelps of protest within told Fletcher it was getting a sound spanking.

Fletcher let his head flop to the side and saw that Othello was still passed out on the floor, his nostril flaring with each snore. The dwarf smacked his lips and rolled over, clutching at Lysander’s claw like a stuffed toy.

‘Right, that’s it,’ Cress growled, brushing soil and slime from her uniform. ‘Nap time’s over.’

She straddled Othello’s chest and tugged on his moustaches.

‘Blargh,’ he spluttered, slapping at her hands.

‘That’s right, wakey wakey,’ Cress grinned. ‘You’ve had enough beauty sleep.’

Othello shoved her off and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

‘I feel like I’ve been smashed over the head with a rock,’ he groaned. He caught sight of their surroundings and froze.

‘Ummm … what’s going on?’

He looked around, taking in the gremlin eyes that watched them.

‘Come on,’ Cress said, dragging him to his feet. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

‘On the way?’ Fletcher mumbled. The soil was cool on his back, and he had no desire to get up just yet.

‘Looks like we’re heading out,’ Sylva said, tapping him on the forehead and pointing at Blue’s receding back. The gremlin and his mara were walking into the jungle, following a thin, barely discernible trail.

‘Gather your packs,’ Fletcher groaned, getting to his feet. ‘Blue’s on the move.’

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.