‘Be off with you before I change my mind,’ Berdon said over the hiss of burning hoof.
The leather stall was not too far away, yet Fletcher’s heart fell as he noticed the jacket he wanted was no longer hanging there. He ran ahead of Rotherham down the street, hoping that it had been put away by accident. Janet looked up at him as she counted out the takings for the day; a hefty pile of silver shillings and gold sovereigns that she covered with her arms.
‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Fletcher, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I sold it about an hour ago. Don’t you worry, though. I know I’m guaranteed a sale so I’ll start working on another right away. It will be ready in a few weeks.’
Fletcher balled his fists in frustration but nodded in acceptance. He would have to be patient.
‘Come on, boy. I’ll buy you a drink. Tomorrow is another day.’ Rotherham patted him on the shoulder. Fletcher pushed away his disappointment and forced a smile.
‘Hunting season is almost over,’ he said, arguing away his dismay. ‘Wouldn’t get much use out of it this winter anyway, I’ll be in the hot forge prepping for my next trip to the elven front. They’re in dire need of weapons to fill their quotas.’
‘Not that we’ll ever use them,’ Rotherham laughed.
The tavern was loud and crowded as the locals and traders celebrated the close of business. Despite this, Fletcher and Rotherham jostled their way to the corner with a large flagon each, managing to somehow keep most of the ale inside and off the wooden floors, already sticky with spilled booze. They settled into an alcove with two stools and a rickety table, where it was quieter and they would be able to hear each other speak.
‘Do you mind me inquiring about the war, or is it a topic you would rather avoid?’ Fletcher asked, remembering the emotion the man had shown when he recounted the night he lost his comrades in the wood.
‘Not at all, Fletcher. It’s all I’ve known for the past few decades, I’ve probably little else to talk about,’ Rotherham said, fortifying himself with a deep gulp. The beer ran down his grizzled chin, and he smacked his lips and sighed.
‘We hear rumours that the war is not going well for us. That the orcs are growing bolder, more organised. Why is that?’ Fletcher kept his voice low. It was seen as unpatriotic to speak pessimistically of the war, perhaps even treasonous. This was one of the many reasons why news from the orcish front travelled so slowly to Pelt.
‘I can only answer with more rumour, but likely from better sources than yours.’ He leaned in close enough that Fletcher could smell the beer on his breath.
‘There is an orc that is uniting the tribes under one banner, leading them as their chieftain. We don’t know much about him, other than he was born an albino and is the largest orc ever known. The tribes believe he is some kind of messiah, sent to save them from us, so they follow him without question. There has only been one other like him that we know of, back in the First Orc War two thousand years ago. It is because of this albino that the orc shamans share their knowledge and power so that they can send wave after wave of demons at us, and hurl fireballs into the sky to bombard us in the night.’
Fletcher’s eyes widened as Rotherham spoke, his beer already forgotten. Things were even worse than he had thought. No wonder pardons were being exchanged for criminals’ enlistment.
‘Sometimes they break through the lines and send a raiding party deep into Hominum. Our patrols will get them eventually, but never fast enough. I’ve seen too many villages burned to the ground, nothing left but charred bone and ash.’ Rotherham was in full swing now, spitting as he slurped his beer.
‘I’m glad I live so far up north,’ Fletcher murmured, trying to shake the images from his mind.
‘They get rid of the old veterans like me, put a musket in the hands of a boy, and tell him he’s a soldier. You should see what happens when the orcs charge in all their glory. If they’re lucky, they fire one volley and then turn and run. It’s a goddamned disgrace!’ he shouted, slamming his flagon on the table. ‘Too many of our boys are dying, and it’s all the King’s fault. It was Hominum who turned the occasional raid into a full-fledged war. When King Harold was given the throne by his father, he started pushing into the jungles, sending his men to cut down the trees and mine the land.’
Rotherham paused and stared into the bottom of his flagon. He took a deep gulp, then spoke again.
‘I’ll tell you something. If it wasn’t for the summoners, we would be in serious trouble. They’re poncey chaps and they think a bit too much of themselves, but we need them more than anything. Their demons keep an eye on the borders and let us know when an attack is coming, and a large demon is the only goddamned thing that can stop a war rhino other than a cannon or about a hundred muskets. When fireballs rain down on us, the battlemages raise a shield over the front lines. It lights up the sky like a dome of shining glass. The shield takes a battering and it cracks something fierce during the night, but the worst we get is a bad night’s sleep.’ Rotherham took another draught from his flagon, then raised it in a toast. ‘God bless those posh buggers.’
He slapped his knee and polished off his tankard of beer. As he stood up to go to the bar and purchase another, a heavy hand pushed him back into his seat. ‘Well, well. How very predictable that you two should become friends. They do say that snakes travel in pairs,’ said Didric, a sardonic smile on his face.
Jakov removed his hand from Rotherham’s shoulder and made a show of wiping it on his trousers, earning a titter from Didric. Both were now wearing their guard uniforms, heavy mail beneath an orange surcoat that matched the glow of the torches in the tavern.
‘I believe there was a purchase we previously arranged. Here are the four shillings, as we agreed. More than you deserve, but we must always be charitable to those less fortunate than ourselves. Is that not so, Jakov?’ Didric asked, dashing the coins on to the table.
Jakov chuckled and nodded his agreement. Fletcher snorted; Jakov was barely wealthier than Fletcher and was as low born as they came. His face was red from drink, and Fletcher suspected Didric had been plying him with beer all night to turn him to his cause. Not that Jakov had likely needed much persuasion; the man would sell his own mother for a few shillings.
Rotherham made no move to collect the coins, instead staring at Didric until the boy shifted with discomfort.
‘Come on now. A deal’s a deal. It’s not my fault you’re a fraud. You’re lucky you aren’t in chains and on your way to a desertion hearing,’ Didric said, as he stepped behind Jakov’s bulk. The reality of the situation began to dawn on Fletcher, and he gained new appreciation of Jakov. The guard was a large man, towering over Rotherham by at least a foot and built almost as heavily as Berdon. He had not been hired as a guardsman for his intelligence, that was for sure.
Even Didric was half a head taller than Fletcher, and his flabby body was twice the width of Fletcher’s wiry frame.
Rotherham continued to stare, unnerving Fletcher as his steel gaze bore into Didric’s pudgy face. The tension in the alcove racked up another couple of notches as Jakov’s hand wandered towards his sword hilt.
‘Check his satchel. It’s probably in there,’ Didric ordered, but his voice showed a hint of uncertainty. As Jakov moved for the bag, Rotherham stood abruptly, startling the pair into taking a step back. Fletcher rose with him, his fingers balled into fists. His pulse was racing and he could hear his heart juddering as the adrenaline took hold. He felt a twinge of satisfaction when Didric’s eyebrows shot up in alarm as he squared up to him.
‘If you’re gonna unsheathe that sword, you’d better know how to use it,’ Rotherham growled, his own hand resting on the hilt of the sword he had purchased from Fletcher.
Didric’s face paled at the sight of it. He had seen that the soldier carried no weapons in the market and had clearly not expected him to be armed now. H
is eyes darted furtively between Jakov and the old man. In a sword fight, the soldier would have the upper hand.
‘No weapons,’ he declared, unbuckling his sword and letting it fall to the floor. Jakov’s soon followed.
‘Aye, no weapons,’ Fletcher said, raising his fists. ‘I remember how worried you were about getting blood all over your uniform.’
Rotherham grunted in agreement and laid his scabbard on the table.
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an old-fashioned tavern brawl,’ he declared with relish, grasping Fletcher’s tankard and bringing it to his lips.
‘Fight dirty, and go for the face. Gentlemen’s rules are for gentlemen,’ Rotherham muttered out of the side of his mouth, and with that he spun and dashed beer into Jakov’s eyes, blinding him. Quick as a flash, he had his knee buried in the brute’s groin, and as Jakov doubled over, Rotherham head-butted him with a crack on the bridge of his nose.
Then Fletcher was in the thick of it, swinging at Didric’s round face. The target was an easy one and his first blow smashed into Didric’s nose, spraying red like an overripe tomato. Fletcher’s fist flared with pain, but he ignored it, using the momentum to take his shoulder into Didric’s chest and send him to the ground. That was a mistake. As they tussled on the sticky floor, Didric managed to use his weight to his advantage. He wrapped a beefy arm around Fletcher’s neck and applied pressure. Fletcher’s vision bruised black and consciousness slipped from him. In a last-ditch effort, he sank his teeth into the bare skin of Didric’s wrist, so hard that he could feel the bones grinding. A screech of pain resounded in his ear and the arm withdrew. The relief left him dizzy as he gasped like a beached fish. He slammed his elbow into Didric’s armoured midriff and then spun into a crouch.
Almost immediately, Didric was on him again, trying to flatten him on to the ground. This time Fletcher was ready, pulling in the same direction as Didric and using the fat boy’s momentum to roll on top of him. Then his fingers were around Didric’s throat, choking him with all the strength his hands could muster. Didric flapped at his neck, then his hand flew to his side.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Rotherham, and Fletcher jumped back just in time. A curved dagger sliced across his bright blue tunic and a streak of fire burned across his midriff. Beads of blood sprang up and stained the cloth red, yet Fletcher could feel it was just a scratch. Didric scrambled to his feet and swiped at him again, but Fletcher had backed away.
Then Rotherham was there, his sword held at the base of Didric’s Adam’s apple.
‘What happened to “a deal’s a deal”?’ Rotherham growled, pressing forward so that Didric had to stumble backwards over Jackov’s unconscious body. Fletcher realised that the whole tavern was watching them. The only sound was Didric’s shrill gasps as he tried to speak, yet no words left his mouth.
‘What do you say, Fletcher? Shall we do to him what he tried to do to you? Your guts would be spilled on the floor right now if I hadn’t seen him go for that dagger,’ Rotherham proclaimed, so all the crowd could hear. This time, the murmurs were firmly on the soldier’s side.
‘No. I don’t think so, Rotherham. We must always be charitable to those less fortunate than ourselves.’ Fletcher’s voice dripped with disdain as he pushed Rotherham’s sword down. Before the words had even left his mouth, Didric scurried to the door, both Jakov and his sword left forgotten on the floor.
The men in the tavern raised their voices in scorn as the door slammed behind him in his haste to leave. Laughter soon followed and the merrymaking began once again.
‘Come on,’ Fletcher said to Rotherham, his mind reeling with relief. ‘I’ll make you a bed in our forge. You won’t be safe anywhere else tonight.’
8
Fletcher opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light that cut through his open window was glaringly bright. He sat up, shivering, and stumbled to close it, his breath pluming in the chill air. He must have left the window open in his drunken state.
He blinked in the dark room, but could not see the soldier, only the pile of furs he had given him stacked in the corner. With a growing fear, Fletcher pushed his way outside and saw that Rotherham’s mule was gone; there was no sign of him anywhere.
‘Finally awake, are you?’ asked Berdon from behind him, his voice tinged with disapproval. He was standing by the forge with his arms crossed and a bemused look upon his face.
Fletcher nodded, unable to speak as he felt the first wave of nausea hit him. He was never going to drink again.
‘The soldier filled me in on last night’s events before he left. I can’t say I approve of fighting, nor the rather too literal close shave you had. But I’m glad you gave that little upstart a seeing to,’ Berdon said with a rueful smile. He tousled Fletcher’s hair in rough affection, making his head shake dizzily. Fletcher retched and sprinted outside, before emptying the contents of his stomach on the cobbles.
‘Serves you right! Let that be a lesson to you,’ Berdon called, chuckling at Fletcher’s misfortune. ‘Just wait until you try hard liquor. You’ll wish you feel the way you do now the morning after that experience.’
Fletcher groaned and tried to cough the bitter taste of acid from the back of his throat, then tottered back into the forge. He gathered up the furs that had constituted Rotherham’s makeshift bed and slumped on to the cot in his room.
‘I think it’s all out now,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Aye, you’ve left a nice meal for the rats outside,’ Berdon called from the forge. ‘I’ll fry you up some pork sausages and collect some ice-cold water from the well.’
Fletcher felt ill at the thought of food, but decided it would do him some good. He rolled over to go back to sleep and lay in the comforting warmth of the fresh furs for a while. The sizzle of frying sausages began and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.
There was something under him, digging into his side. He reached down and pulled it up to where he could see it.
A sack had been left amongst Rotherham’s furs, with a piece of parchment affixed to the outside. Fletcher tore it from its purchase and squinted at the near illegible scrawl.
The soldier had not been lying when he said he didn’t know his letters, but Fletcher understood it well enough. The wily old man had slipped away in the morning, but had left Fletcher a gift in lieu of a farewell. Fletcher didn’t mind. He was sure he would see Rotherham soon, although he was not exactly sure what he would do with a gremlin’s loincloth, if that was what he had been left with.
He pulled the drawstring of the sack open and his hand felt something hard and oblong. It couldn’t be . . . could it? He shook the contents of the sack out and gasped with disbelief, clutching the object with both hands. It was the summoner’s book!
He stroked the soft brown leather, tracing his fingers along the pentacle etched on the front. Strange symbols dotted the corners of the star, each one more alien than the last. He flicked through the pages, finding every inch filled with finely scribbled handwriting, broken intermittently with sketches of symbols and strange creatures that Fletcher could not recognise. The book was as thick as an iron ingot and weighed about the same as well. It would take months to go through it all.
The sound of Berdon plating up the food reached his ears, and he rushed to hide the book under the furs.
Berdon brought the sausages in and laid them on the bed with exaggerated care. Fletcher could see they were perfectly browned on all sides and seasoned with rock salt and ground peppercorns.
‘Get this down you. You’ll feel better soon.’ Berdon gave him a sympathetic smile and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Despite the delicious smell that filled the room, Fletcher ignored the food and uncovered the book once again.
A single page slid out from the very back of the volume, the paper
made from a strange, leathery fabric, different from the rest. Fletcher opened it at the place where it came from and read the words inscribed in the book there.
The last few words were an untidy scrawl, as if the writer had been in a hurry. It was clearly a diary of some sort. Fletcher flicked to the front to see if there was a name and indeed there was; inscribed in golden letters were the words The Journal of James Baker.
Fletcher recognised the common surname. The man must have been one of the few commoners who had the ability to summon, an occurrence discovered purely by chance when a nosy stable boy had read something he was not supposed to and summoned a demon by accident. With that revelation, most boys and girls of around Fletcher’s age from the big cities were now tested for the tiny trace of summoning ability required to control a demon. But Pelt was too small and secluded to warrant a visit from the Inquisition.
He inspected the loose sheet, pulling a face as he realised what the material was made from. Barbaric runes scarred it, with the summoner’s neat handwriting below spelling out their pronunciation phonetically.
Fletcher grinned and began to eat his sausages, savouring every slice. It was hard to keep his eyes from straying back to the grisly page. He knew what he was going to be trying his hand at tonight . . .
9
Fletcher was not sure why he had bothered sneaking to the graveyard. It was not like anything was going to happen, after all. For one thing, he knew that most commoners found to be adepts exhibited small signs of special abilities even before they were discovered, like the ability to move small objects or even generate a spark. He was pretty sure that the closest to a special ability he had was a talent for rolling his tongue.
It was exciting nonetheless and perhaps, once he had read the incantation, he would be able to sell it on his next trip to the elven front, with no regrets at not having tried it. He would find Rotherham and split the profits with him, of course. After all, it had been a generous gift and, if anything, it had been Fletcher who was in his debt and not the other way around.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 4