Fletcher allowed his sight to align with the scrying crystal over his eye, still showing Ebony’s point of view.
‘The orcs aren’t entering the pyramid, and the shamans are too far away,’ Fletcher answered with relief. ‘Looks like Mason was right.’
‘Well, the goblins will have no such qualms,’ Sylva said, as the yowls of hatred echoed down the tunnel. ‘Watch out, here they come.’
The goblins stampeded out of the tunnel, brandishing javelins, spears and clubs. The first projectile whistled between Fletcher’s legs and he scrabbled to throw up a shield spell. It was just in time, for a dozen others clattered against it not a moment later.
The first handful of goblins mounted the steps, tripping over themselves in their bloodlust. There was a snarling veteran leading the charge, its shoulder scarred from an old bullet-wound. Ignatius took it down with a well-placed fireball, sending it tumbling into those behind in a tangle of limbs.
Forced to hold the shield in place with his left wrist, Fletcher fenced one-handed with his khopesh. Sylva backed him up with great sweeps of her falx, rending the goblins apart to send them tumbling back into the pit below.
‘Firing,’ Othello bellowed, and Fletcher ducked instinctively.
There was a thunderclap, followed by a gout of sulphurous smoke. The spray of buckshot scattered into the horde below, a furrow of dead hurled to the ground as if a giant invisible fist had slammed through them.
‘Loading,’ Othello yelled, as the ranks closed and more goblins lunged from the tunnel to take their places.
A blue crossbow bolt whipped into the goblins still on the stairwell, taking one through the shoulder. It plummeted down, wailing and flailing until it hit the baying masses below with a sickening thud. A second quarrel followed in its wake, plucking another goblin from its perch.
‘You’re almost there,’ Cress called from above. ‘I’ve got you covered.’
Fletcher took the brief respite to look up at their progress. Othello was frantically reloading his gun, his hands shaking as he poured the gunpowder down the barrel. Cress kneeled on the bridge just above them, firing her bolts with deadly accuracy. Lysander remained beside her, unable to join the fight. He was too large to avoid the javelins that still peppered them from below.
‘Watch out,’ Sylva yelled.
Fletcher turned just in time, sucking in his stomach to avoid a spear thrust that would have gutted him. He slammed it down with the flat of his blade and lashed out with his sword’s hilt. It caught the offending goblin squarely in the face, and the creature spun to teeter on the edge of the stairs. Athena swooped by with a screech of fury, tugging it into empty space.
A flare of pain across Fletcher’s abdomen told him the spear had left its mark. Emboldened, the goblins charged around the pillar once more, swinging their clubs over their heads.
‘Firing,’ Othello bellowed again. This time, he shot directly down the staircase, the acrid smoke billowing between Sylva and Fletcher’s faces. The devastation was concentrated into an expanding cone of shrapnel, leaving a charnel house in its wake. The blood-soaked remains sickened even Fletcher, and sent the survivors screaming back down the stairwell, fighting to get past the more eager goblins behind them.
In the lull that followed, the team staggered up the final steps and on to the platform, while Cress kept the immediate stairway clear with her crossbow.
‘Screw this,’ she said suddenly, slinging her weapon. She popped the cork of her mana vial and gulped it down. Shuddering as the mana flooded her body, she pointed her battle-gauntlet at the stairway. A wave of flame erupted out, spiralling down the stairs and sweeping them clear of the goblins arrayed along it. It was brutal to watch, like a tidal wave flushing the rats from a piece of flotsam. The inferno pooled at the bottom of the pit, seething and roiling like liquid fire. Those that did not throw themselves back down the tunnel were incinerated, their squeals of pain harsh in Fletcher’s ears.
Silence descended, broken only by the sizzle of the cooking corpses below.
‘I’m out of mana,’ Cress said, peering down and wincing at the sight. ‘But they don’t know that.’
‘Me too,’ Sylva said, scraping the blood from her falx against the edge of the platform. ‘Used it all up burning those eggs.’
Fletcher’s reserves were low, but he reabsorbed the shield back through his fingers to replenish them. Just enough for a few more spells.
‘I’ve saved my vial,’ Othello said, frantically reloading his blunderbuss. ‘And I’ve still got some mana left over. Solomon’s mana levels increased with his size.’
The Golem rumbled at hearing his name, his face splitting into a craggy smile.