Even as the words left Didric's mouth, the imp came flying out of the shadows. It squealed as it dug its claws into his face, scrabbling and scratching. Didric gave a shriek and dropped the sword with a clatter, spinning around the room like a man possessed.
'Get it off, get it off!' he howled, blood streaming down his face. Jakov and Calista batted at the imp with their fists, wary of hurting Didric. With each punch, Fletcher felt a flare of dull pain on the edge of his consciousness, but the demon clung on doggedly, emitting barks of rage. Fletcher's anger continued to radiate from him like roaring fire, filling him with righteous fury. As it reached its zenith, he felt that moment of clarity once again; Didric's dark blood turning ruby red in his vision.
The imp silenced, then opened its mouth as wide as a snake's. Liquid fire burst from the creature's maw, flowing over the side of Didric's face and setting his hair alight. An unearthly, orange glow flared in the cavern as Didric collapsed, his choked scream cut short when his head cracked on to the marble floor. Jakov and Calista fell to their knees and beat at the flickering flames, yelling Didric's name. As the imp scampered into Fletcher's arms, he vaulted into the crypt and made for the exit, his heart fluttering beneath his ribs like a caged bird.
It was black as a sinner's soul down there, the air stale and ice cold. He ran on and on, stumbling deep into the bowels of the earth. Clutching the book under his arm, Fletcher's hand brushed along stacks of bones as he felt his way through the darkness, held together by rusting wire and centuries of dust. He knocked a skull from its alcove, his finger catching in its empty eye socket. It bounced down the corridor, then shattered into grisly fragments. They crunched underfoot as he lurched onwards, desperate to get out of there. The air was stifling, and Fletcher felt he was suffocating with each dust-laden breath. The demon was not helping matters, digging its claws into the fabric of his shirt and hissing in displeasure.
After what felt like an eternity, his shin cracked painfully into a stone ledge. He groped forwards and found another. Relief flooded through him as he realised he had found what must be the stairs to the chapel. He reached above and felt the flat surface of another stone tablet. With a colossal effort, he heaved it upwards and sideways, sending it to the floor with a crash.
The dim glow of the moon was glorious as it shone through the chapel's broken windows, bathing Fletcher in silver. He gulped down lungfuls of fresh air, grateful to be out of that deathtrap. Yet even as he began to relax, he remembered what had just happened. He needed to get back to Berdon as soon as possible. He would know what to do.
Fletcher ran through the dark, using the moonlight to guide him down the goat path. He was sure that the others would not be far behind, probably carrying Didric with them. He would have ten minutes at most before the word got out. If the guards heard that one of their own had been attacked, whatever the circumstances, it was unlikely Fletcher would live long enough to stand trial. Even if he did, with Caspar's connections he wouldn't get a fair hearing, and the only two witnesses would have no problem lying.
The village was silent as a shadow; everyone was asleep in their beds. As he jogged up to the main gates, he was overjoyed to see the gatehouse above lay empty. One of his attackers must have skipped their shift to hunt him down.
The forge was lit by the soft glow of coals, smoking gently as they burned themselves out. Berdon was asleep in the wicker chair, in the exact same position he had been in when Fletcher sneaked out.
There was no time to waste; he needed to escape. The thought of leaving Pelt cut him to the core, his heart clenching at the notion. For a moment he could see the life of a vagrant ahead of him, wandering from town to town, begging for scraps. He shook the thoughts from his head. One thing at a time.
With a heavy heart, Fletcher shook Berdon awake.
'What is it?' he slurred, slapping at Fletcher's hands. 'I'm sleeping. Wake me in the morning.' Fletcher shook him again, harder this time.
'Wake up! I need your help. There isn't much time,' Fletcher said. 'Come on!'
Berdon gazed up, then started as the curious imp dropped from Fletcher's shoulder on to his chest.
'What the hell is that?' he yelled, leaning as far away from it as possible. The demon squawked at the noise and gave a half-hearted swipe at Berdon's beard.
'It's a long story, but I'll have to make it quick. You should know I'm going to have to skip town for a while,' Fletcher began, picking up the imp and laying it on his shoulder. It curled around his neck and emitted a soft purr.
He spoke as quickly as possible, skipping the details but making sure Berdon understood all the facts.
In the retelling, Fletcher realised what an idiot he had been to walk through the centre of the village, where anyone could have seen him. When he had finished, he stood there woodenly, hanging his head in shame as Berdon rushed around, lighting a torch and then packing things into a leather satchel. Berdon only had one question.
'Is he dead?' he asked, looking Fletcher in the eye.
'I . . . don't know. He hit his head pretty hard. Whatever happens, his face will be badly burned. They'll say I attacked him with a torch; lured him to the graveyard, then tried to kill him. I've let you down, Berdon. I've been a fool,' Fletcher cried. Tears welled in his eyes as Berdon handed him the deep satchel, the same one he had used to transport the swords to the elven front. He threw the book into the bottom with a sob, wishing it had never come into his possession. Despair seemed to be crushing his heart like a vice. The big man put his hands on Fletcher's shoulders and gripped them, sending the demon skittering to the floor.
'Fletcher, I know I've never told you this, but you are neither my apprentice nor a burden. You are my son, even if we do not share the same blood. I am proud of you; prouder than ever tonight. You stood up for yourself and you have nothing to be ashamed of.' He gripped Fletcher in a bear hug, and Fletcher buried his face in his shoulder, sobbing.
'I have some gifts for you,' Berdon said, brushing tears from his cheeks. He disappeared into his room and came back holding two large parcels. He shoved them down into Fletcher's satchel and gave him a forced smile.
'I was going to give these to you on your sixteenth birthday, but it's best I give them to you now. Open them when you're far away from here. Oh, and you're going to need protection. Take this.'
A rack of weapons lay against the far wall. Berdon selected a curved sword from the back, where the rarer items were kept. He held it up to the light.
It was a strange piece, one that Fletcher had never seen before. The first third of the blade was the same as any sword, a leather hilt followed by four inches of sharp steel. But next part of the sword curved in a crescent, like a sickle. At the end of the curve the sword continued on with a sharp point once again.
'You've no formal training, so if you end up in trouble . . . well . . . let's not think about that. This sickle sword is a wild card. They won't know how to parry it. You can trap their blade in the curve of the sickle, then move in past their guard and hit them with the back edge of it. The point is long enough for stabbing, so don't be afraid to use it in that way too.' Berdon demonstrated, swiping the sickle down and to the side, then bringing the back edge up at head height and stabbing violently.
'The outer edge of the sickle is curved like a good axe head. You can use it to split a shield or even chop down a tree if you need to, far better than any sword could. You can take a man's head from his shoulders with a good backswing.' He handed the blade to Fletcher, who strapped it to the back of his satchel with a leather belt.
'Keep it oiled and away from the damp. Because of its shape it won't fit in a conventional scabbard. You'll have to get one made when you get a chance. Tell the blacksmith it's a standard sized khopesh. They will know how to make one if they know their trade,' Berdon said.
'Thank you. I'll do that,' Fletcher said gratefully, stroking the leather pommel.
'As for that demon, keep it hidden,' Berdon instructed, peering into the imp's amber eyes. 'You'll never pass for a noble, nor should you try to. Even if someone hasn't heard about Didric, it's best to avoid attention.'
Fletcher gathered the demon into his arms and examined it, wondering how exactly he would keep the unruly creature out of sight.
Suddenly, the bells began to toll, their brassy knells reverberating in the streets outside. Even with the bells clamouring, Fletcher heard distant shouts down the road.
'Go! But not to the elven front, that's where they will expect you to run. Head south, to Corcillum. I'll bar the forge's door, make them think you're still in here. I will hold them off as long as I can,' Berdon said, shoving him out of the forge and into the cold night air.
'Goodbye, son.'
Fletcher caught one last glimpse of his friend, mentor and father, silhouetted in the doorway. Then the door slammed shut and he was alone in the world, but for the sleeping creature around his neck. A fugitive.
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